#considering how frequently she's pushing doors open and stepping through

[izar-tarazed]

What tarot card are you?

The Moon

(for Izar) You avoid corners and doorways - do you know why? Have you looked inwards recently? Do you understand what is happening there? Your mind is muddled and dusty, a mirror you haven’t been able to clean properly. Smudging the nervousness just leaves streaks on the glass, which makes your face harder to see, which makes you nervous. What are you nervous of, darling? What keeps you up at night? Why haven’t you confronted it? Do you know what it is? Can you answer my questions? Are they making you nervous? Am I frightening you?

The Hermit

(for Ensha)

It’s a skill, to look inside yourself, one you have mastered. The endless corridors and shifting thoughts are mapped to very carefully. This all takes time, of course. And those twisting hallways are so very difficult to map. It would be so easy to get lost. You know this space so well. Wouldn’t it be a lovely place to stay? So well-known and comforting. Why go back? How nice, how easy, to dissolve, to hide from the rest of the world and all the people in it. Why bother, when you are so good at looking inside yourself. Like enlightenment, the self. Retreating this far inwards is like retreating just as far out, into the vast ether. So comforting. The thing that was you looks at the thing that was the old woman. There is no you anymore. Goodbye.

Tagged by @rotten-pest (thank you!) Tagging whoever wants to do this!

[redroses07]

Meeting His Family//Georgie Cooper

Georgie Cooper x Fem!reader

Summary: Reader and Georgie are dating and she is meeting his family for the first time! this takes place some time around season five.

Content warning: literally nothing...a little spice at the end ig? Use of the word Y/N.

Word count: 1.6k

A/N: Okay...so I know this is different from my usual content but there are no good Georgie fics! So, naturally, I had to change that. As always, there's lots of fluff. Hope y'all enjoy, and happy Thanksgiving!! Lots of love 💖

You stared intently at your dresser drawer, it was overflowing with clothes, and yet you still had nothing to wear. Meeting your boyfriend's family was stressful enough, and making a good first impression was mandatory. Should you dress casually? It was just dinner at their home after all, but you didn't want to seem careless.

You looked at the clock, it read 5:10. Your boyfriend, Georgie, was supposed to pick you up at 5:30 so you had to decide quickly.

You sighed and reached for a navy blue flowered sundress with buttons down the front. After changing into the dress you brushed your, and applied natural makeup. You heard your doorbell ring and assumed that your boyfriend had arrived.

You took one last look in the mirror, fixing a few strands of your hair. You slipped your feet into your black converse, and rushed down the stairs.

you quickly opened the door, finding your Georgie leaning against the frame with a smug smile on his face. He was wearing a dark red sweatshirt and baggy jeans. His hair was pushed back and styled perfectly, as always.

"You ready to go sweetheart?" He said with his thick southern accent. He gestured for you to take his hand, and you obliged. He pulled you down the porch steps and led you to his green mustang, his car that he loved almost as much as you. He stopped to open the car door for you.

"Ladies first." Georgie said, winking at you. You felt your cheeks turn red, and butterflies came alive in your stomach.

You jumped in the car and strapped yourself in, Gerogie hopping in the driver's seat a few moments later.

"My god I'm nervous." you say, fidgeting with your hands. Gerogie reached over and intertwined one of his hands with yours, and left the other on the steering wheel.

"Don't worry, they're gonna love you." He assured you, rubbing his thumb across your palm. His hands were warm, a strong contrast to yours which were always freezing cold. They were also rough and calloused, due to the frequent car repairs he did.

"Also...just to give you a heads up my brother Sheldon is a little well...you'll see." Georgie explained.

"Ummm...Okay?" you replied, slightly confused.

Georgie turned onto the street where he lived. You recognized it because you had been to the coopers before, considering Gerogie lived in their garage, but you had always managed to avoid his family. It wasn't until last night when Georgie finally gave in to his parents' demands and let you meet them.

He pulled into the driveway and parked the car. You unfastened your seat belt and exited the car, you were even more nervous than when you left your house.

Georgie took notice of your anxious behavior and turned to face you, taking both of your hands in his.

"Darlin' how many times do I have to tell you there is nothing to be nervous about." he exclaimed.

You smiled at him and looked down at the pavement. He wrapped his arms around you tightly, giving you a quick hug. You pressed your face against his chest and inhaled the scent of freshly chopped wood and cheap cologne.

He squeezed your hand lightly before opening the door to his home.

"We're here y'all." Georgie shouted. It was a small, but cute home with floral wallpaper and a cozy living space. The smell of spaghetti, which is what you assumed they were making for dinner, wafted through the house, and was that hot dogs?

A woman wearing a pale pink dress with a warm smile appeared around the corner. You assumed this was Georgie's mom.

"Well hi, you must be Y/N" She said happily. She had the same accent as Georgie.

"It's nice to meet you Mrs. Cooper." You smiled, trying your best to seem polite.

"No need to be so formal, call me Mary." She exclaimed before turning to face Georgie, whose hand was still holding yours.

"Why don't you two go sit over on the couch while I finish making supper." Mary suggested. gesturing towards the living room.

"Fine by me." Georgie said, pulling you away from his mom.

You sat next to Georgie on the couch, and he draped an arm over your shoulders.

"See, not as bad as you thought, is it?" Georgie said softly.

"No," you replied, blushing.

A boy about thirteen years of age entered the room, giving you a look of disgust. He was wearing dress pants, and a button down shirt, and he looked like he wanted to attack you.

"Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?" He said, glaring harshly.

"Hey, I'm-" You began, but Georgie cut you off.

"Don't be rude Sheldon, leave us alone." He snapped, and the boy rolled his eyes before grumpily walking into the kitchen.

"Sorry about him," Georgie said. You laughed, understanding how annoying little siblings can be.

The two of you continued to chat quietly, while waiting for dinner to finish. You rested your head on Georgie's shoulder while he twirled strands of your hair between his fingers.

You were nowhere near as nervous as you had been upon arrival. You hadn't been in Georgie's home long, but there was something oddly welcoming about it.

"Dinner's ready!" You heard Mary call from the kitchen.

You stood up quickly, smoothing your dress as you did so. When you entered the dining room you noticed seven chairs placed around the table. Mary sat next to a younger girl who had to be Gerogie's little sister Missy. Next to Mary, at the head of the table, was Gerogie's father.

If you were being honest, he was the one you were the most nervous about meeting. Of course you had seen him around school before, since he was the football coach, but you had never spoken to him personally. Across from him was an older woman with vibrant painted nails and a fancy hairdo. Sheldon sat on the opposite side of the table, was he wearing mittens?

After everyone was seated, the family joined hands and said grace. Everyone then served themselves a plate full of spaghetti with hot dogs. It was definitely an odd choice of a meal, but you were willing to give it a try.

You sat in the empty chair next to Georgie, and across from Missy. You smiled at her as she eyed you suspiciously.

"I'm Missy, nice to meet you" She greeted.

"Hi-" you began before she interrupted.

"Oh, I know who you are, in fact I know a lot about you, Georgie talks about you a lot." Missy said with a sly smile.

You turned to look at Georgie, whose cheeks had turned a bright shade of scarlet.

"Do you now?" you giggled, looking him up and down.

You saw Missy snickering out of the corner of your eye, which made the situation even funny.

"Now Missy, why don't we let Georgie keep his dignity." Said the older woman.

"I'm Connie, Georgie's grandmother" she said, as she turned to face you.

You proceeded to introduce yourself and continued to talk with Connie, who you had decided was your favorite member of the cooper family. Well, other than Georgie of course.

"Connie, are you going to give me a chance to talk to the girl?" Georgie's father exclaimed.

"She's all yours George." Connie replied, shooting me a look of annoyance.

You turned to the man, who held a half empty beer in his left hand. The two of you introduced yourselves awkwardly and failed to hold a conversation, creating an uncomfortably long silence.

Other than that, dinner went relatively smoothly. The family was extremely kind and genuine, well except for Sheldon. But you were sure you would get used to him.

After eating, you offered to help Mrs, Cooper clean up dinner, but she insisted that she didn't need it.

"Well, this has been nice, but I think we're going to head out to the garage now." Georgie announced.

You made sure to thank everyone before heading out the door, taking a breath of relief as you did.

"So, what do you think?" Georgie said laughing lightly.

He shut the garage door and turned to face you, a small smile spread across his lips.

"They're actually really great...I could get used to being around here more often." you exclaimed.

Georgie stared at you intently, his misty blue eyes pouring into yours.

"What?" you asked, blushing intensely. You felt your heartbeat increase rapidly, it always did when he gave you that look.

Georgie began slowly walking towards you, stopping only when there was less than an inch of space between the two of you. He placed his index finger under your chin and lifted it.

"Nothing, I was just thinking about how lucky I am to be in love with you." He whispered as he cupped your cheek, and leaned in to close the gap between the two of you.

He kissed you roughly, like he had been waiting all night for this moment. Come to think of it, he probably had.

Georgie let out several soft moans as the kiss continued. He began to move forward, slowly backing you up to the bed. Once you reached it, you happily flopped down on the mattress. Georgie relocated his lips to your collarbone, giving you a moment to catch your breath.

He slid his right hand under you, clutching your waist. His left hand still cupped your cheek, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your skin. His touch was ghostly, your skin tingling everywhere he went.

Georgie hovered above you, those beautiful blue eyes admiring you once more.

"Maybe...you should...stay the night." He said between breaths.

Your heart skipped a beat, this was new, but you weren't about to turn the offer down.

"I think...maybe you're right." you replied, before grabbing his face and pulling him into another kiss.

[dalsofile]

trust?

Nayeon discovers that her girlfriend, Y/N, has been hiding a serious illness, leading to a painful confrontation that threatens to break their relationship apart.

tags :: angst, illness, arguments

wc :: 1,571

cast :: nayeon, y/n

song :: waiting room - pheobe bridgers

Nayeon stands in the kitchen, her hands moving with practiced ease as she prepares dinner. The familiar sounds of sizzling vegetables and the rhythmic chop of the knife do little to calm the growing unease in her chest. You’re late—again. It’s been happening more frequently, and Nayeon can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.

She glances at the clock, her worry deepening. Over an hour has passed since you were supposed to be home. Her phone sits silent on the counter, no response to the texts she’s sent. Anxiety gnaws at her, and she tries to push it down, telling herself that you’re just caught up at work, as usual. But a part of her knows that’s not the full truth.

Something has been off for months. She’s noticed it in the way you’ve been distant, the way your laughter doesn’t quite reach your eyes anymore. You’ve been coming home late, your face pale and tired, the dark circles under your eyes growing more prominent. Every time she tries to ask, you brush it off, claiming it’s just stress. But Nayeon knows you better than that.

The front door creaks open, and she feels a mix of relief and dread. She turns off the stove and moves to the entrance, forcing a smile as you step inside. You look exhausted, your shoulders slumped and your skin pale, as if all the life has been drained out of you.

“Hey, you’re home,” Nayeon says, trying to keep her voice light, though it trembles with worry. “I was starting to get worried.”

You offer a weak smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Sorry, got held up at work.”

Nayeon studies your face, her heart aching at how tired you look. She steps closer, reaching out to touch your cheek, hoping to offer some comfort, but you flinch away before she can make contact. The small movement stabs at her heart, a confirmation of the distance that’s grown between you.

“What’s going on?” Nayeon asks softly, her voice filled with concern.

“Nothing,” you reply quickly, too quickly, as you move past her towards the bedroom. “I just need to change.”

She follows you, her worry growing with every step. “You’ve been acting strange for weeks. You’re always tired, you’re late, and you never tell me where you’ve been. I’m worried about you.”

You pause in the doorway of the bedroom, your back to her. “I told you, I’m just stressed. Work’s been a lot.”

Nayeon hears the fatigue in your voice, but it doesn’t explain everything. “I know work is hard, but this feels different,” she says, her voice trembling. “I feel like you’re hiding something from me.”

You don’t respond, and the silence is deafening. Nayeon’s heart pounds in her chest as she waits, hoping for some kind of reassurance. But when you don’t say anything, the fear she’s been trying to suppress bubbles to the surface.

“Please, don’t shut me out,” she whispers, taking a step closer, her voice pleading.

Your shoulders tense, and for a moment, Nayeon thinks you might finally open up. But then you sigh, shaking your head.

“I’m not hiding anything,” you say, your voice flat. “I’m just tired, Nayeon. Can we drop it?”

Her heart sinks at your words. She wants to believe you, but the emptiness in your eyes tells her something else entirely. She nods slowly, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“Okay,” she murmurs, though it feels like a lie. “I’ll go finish dinner.”

You don’t say anything as you walk into the bedroom, closing the door behind you. Nayeon stands there for a moment, staring at the closed door, feeling the weight of everything unsaid between you.

As she turns to head back to the kitchen, something catches her eye. Your bag is lying on the floor, half-open, with a small bottle of pills peeking out. Nayeon hesitates, guilt pricking at her conscience as she considers going through your things. But the worry in her chest pushes her forward.

She kneels down and gently pulls the bag open, her breath catching when she sees the bottle of pills. Her hands tremble as she picks it up, turning it over to read the label. It’s a prescription she’s never seen before, and the name of the medication sends a chill down her spine.

She’s not a doctor, but she recognizes the name. The drug is used to treat a serious, chronic illness—something much more than just stress or fatigue. Her heart races as she tries to process what she’s seeing. You’ve been taking these pills, hiding them from her, hiding your illness.

“Y/N?” Nayeon calls out, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and anger.

The bedroom door opens, and you step out, your face going pale as you see the bottle in her hand.

“Nayeon, I can explain—”

“Explain?” Her voice shakes, tears welling up in her eyes. “Explain what? That you’ve been sick this whole time and didn’t tell me? That you’ve been hiding it from me?”

Your face crumples, guilt and regret etched in every line. “I didn’t want you to worry,” you say, your voice breaking. “I didn’t want to burden you with—”

“Burden me?” Nayeon’s voice rises, the anger taking over as she steps closer to you, her grip tightening on the pill bottle. “How could you think that? We’re supposed to be in this together. You don’t get to decide what I can or can’t handle. You don’t get to shut me out like this.”

Tears begin to stream down your face as you shake your head, looking more broken than she’s ever seen you. “I didn’t want you to see me like this. I didn’t want you to feel trapped, like you had to take care of me. I thought I could handle it on my own.”

“Well, you can’t!” The words burst out of her, her voice cracking under the weight of her emotions. “You’re not handling it, Y/N. You’re falling apart, and I’m watching you slip away from me, and I don’t even know why!”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice so small, so full of pain. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t enough, Y/N.” Nayeon’s voice shakes, the hurt and betrayal cutting deep. “You lied to me. You made me feel like I was going crazy, like I was imagining things. And now... now I don’t even know if I can trust you.”

The room falls into a heavy silence, the air thick with the weight of her words. You look at her, your face crumpling as the reality of what you’ve done sinks in.

“Nayeon, please,” you beg, reaching out to her, desperate to bridge the gap between you. But she takes a step back, shaking her head, her heart breaking at the sight of you so vulnerable, so lost.

“No,” she says, her voice firm even as tears blur her vision. “You don’t get to ask me to forgive you right now. You don’t get to make this okay. Not after what you’ve done.”

Your hand falls back to your side, and you swallow hard, tears streaming down your face. “I... I didn’t know what else to do. I was scared.”

“We could have been scared together,” she whispers, her voice barely holding together. “But now... now I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, and you almost collapse under the weight of them. The room is suffocating, filled with nothing but the sound of your ragged breaths and the unbearable tension hanging between you.

“I think you should go,” Nayeon finally says, her voice hollow, devoid of the love that once filled it. The words feel foreign on her tongue, but she can’t see another way out of the spiral you’re both trapped in.

Your breath hitches, your eyes widening with a fresh wave of panic. “Nayeon, please...”

“Just go,” she repeats, turning her back on you, unable to bear the sight of your shattered expression. “I need some time to think.”

You don’t move at first, as if frozen in place by the realization that you’ve truly hurt her, that you might have lost her. But then you take a shaky breath, forcing your legs to carry you toward the door. Each step is heavy, filled with regret and sorrow that you both know will linger long after tonight.

You reach the door, your hand grasping the handle as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright. You turn back one last time, hoping—praying—that she’ll stop you, that she’ll say something, anything, to make this right. But Nayeon stands with her back to you, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

With a sob of your own, you open the door and step out into the cold night. The door closes behind you, the sound echoing in your heart like the finality of something precious slipping away.

You walk away, the cool night air biting at your skin as tears stream down your face. You thought you were protecting her, sparing her the pain of knowing, but all you’ve done is push her away. The love of your life, the one person you thought you could protect by keeping your illness a secret, is now out of reach.

As you wander aimlessly, your thoughts a whirlwind of regret and anguish, you can’t help but wonder if you’ve lost

[house-of-lovin]

protect her

Tara Carpenter x Detective!Reader

masterlist

Preview: "Tara wants to go to college, study, party, make mistakes, and maybe even find love – glancing back at you with that thought. She wanted to be a normal 20-year-old, doing 20-year-old things with her older… girlfriend? Tara didn’t know if she could call you that, but you shared enough sweet soft moments with her to consider you, hers. But she couldn’t do that if she had to look over her shoulder at every creak with a startle."

Warnings: suggestive themes, mentions of violence and mature language. slight scream vi spoilers. read at your own risk.

Note: Reader is around Sam's age, so like 25 or 26. Tara being a words of affirmation girlie. Thought this dynamic would be fun to write about. I'm incapable of writing shorter oneshots ig, so enjoy 6k+ words of whatever this is lol.

Word Count: 6.1k+

The honking of horns blowing through the cool night air was muffled when you pushed the glass door of the diner open. The chimes of the overhead bell rang alerting the room of your presence but barely anyone turned their heads – save for Sam Carpenter who smiled at you.

You shuddered away remnants of the chill air off your shoulders, stepping closer to the bartop; claiming your seat in the far corner pressed up against the wall. A mug is placed on the counter before you even finish hanging your jacket on the back of the chair.

You slide into the high-top seat as the brunette pours coffee into the mug with a carafe. “Still hot, wow, I must be special.” 

“Yeah okay, hotshot. You just happened to make it in time for a new pot.” She rolls her eyes, and you hide your smirk behind the mug; taking a sip – ignoring the fact that you usually come in at this time.

“You on the clock?” She asks, leaning on her elbows atop the counter. She glances back briefly, making sure her snitch of a coworker wasn’t around to scold her for not doing her job.

It was still too early for the influx of drunk regulars and one-timers to come by, so really the only kinds of people in here were the ones who were getting off work too late to make dinner at home.

“Just got off, 16 hours. But got a new lead on a case that went cold a couple of months ago so I guess I’m doing a double. Just reviewing some notes now.” You sigh heavily, gesturing to the files and folders sprawled out on the table. 

She chuckles, shaking her head. “You work too much. You need to take a break and focus on something else outside of work. When was the last time you did something just for you?”

You roll your eyes at her mocking tone, shooting back, “Oh yeah? You learn that from therapy?”

It was her turn to glower when you remind her of the doctor visits. 

“Yeah, that’s usually the advice therapists love to give me before I actually open up – you know like they tell me to and suddenly they’re running for the hills, one by one.” 

You snort, all too familiar with the tales of her doctor visits. It took a while for Sam to open up to you; trust came sparsely these days for the Carpenter. It wasn’t until one of your frequent visits turned into you having to step in and kick a rowdy group of drunkards who were harassing Sam of something along the lines of ‘Woodsboro’ and ‘Ghostface’. It was only when you threatened the group with jail time did they relent.

Sam knew she could trust you after you sent her an acknowledging nod when the group left and went back to minding your own business. The next time you visited, she opened up; about her past, her father, her hallucinations, the attacks and the trauma that came afterward. And, how she managed to land herself in the big city, which sprouted an overzealous rant about her strained relationship with her sister.

You knew how to read people well, it was a significant part of your job to be able to. So, you knew from the moment you laid eyes on her that there was a fire behind those dark eyes that she desperately tried to douse – you had interrogated and dealt with enough people to know what the glint meant.

You were honest to Sam that you had an inkling of suspicion about the darkness in her mind – you still accepted her despite knowing her dirty secret; that a part of her doesn’t feel bad for killing Richie and Amber, if anything it felt kinda good. Sam was confused as to why you, a cop, weren't locking her behind bars at the confession. 

But, having dealt with the scum of the Earth, you can tell she was nothing like them.

It isn’t always easy to differentiate people between just good and bad, you told her when she asked.

A friendship blossomed between you two after that, bonding over similar traumas. Sam invited you to her apartment to meet her friends and sister – who all interrogated you, Mindy, most especially to make sure you weren’t secretly Ghostface. The girl had some skills in that department, you'll admit.

Coming to learn of your career and how surprisingly well Sam trusted you, the group lowered their walls bit by bit. They would never say it out loud but they felt way safer having you around.

“That’s why I don’t go to therapy.” You shrug, taking a sip of the steaming coffee; letting the heat warm your bones.

She snorts, pretending to be wiping the countertop when her coworker peeks her head out to look at you two. “You probably need it more than anyone else in this place.”

“You’re not wrong about that.” You mumble, as you flip through the evidence photos of a homicide you investigated five months ago. The pictures were gruesome, but it was just another day on the job for you. Maybe that’s why you and Sam got along more than expected.

Sam’s phone vibrates from her back pocket and she fishes it out, reading the text.

‘We got into some trouble, some help?’ it was Anika, no doubt being appointed to text Sam because the others didn't want to do it themselves.

“Dammit.” Sam sighs, already taking off her apron to leave.

“What’s up?” You raise a brow at her panicked expression.

“My sister and her friends got into some trouble. I need to get them. Crap! They’re all the way in the East Village.” She says reading the other incoming texts on her phone. “This is what I get for letting her go out.”

“Come on, I’ll drive you.” You say, already standing when Sam mentioned Tara. The thought of the brunette in trouble makes your heart stop for a moment.

“No, I can’t ask you to do that. You’re working.” She shakes her head in protest.

“Carpenter, it’s a 30-minute drive just to get to the East Village, get your ass permission to leave then meet me at my car. Acting like Danny wouldn’t have my ass if I just left you like this.” You mutter, acting indifferent – but it was true, her boyfriend would have your head on a stick if you ever left Sam high and dry, not that you would ever.

She nods, knowing she won’t win this one with you. You throw a $20 tip, slip on your jacket, and make your way back out into the cool fall air.

You lit a cigarette to pass time as you wait for Sam – leaning against your car, trying to ease the nervousness raging in you as you think of what kind of trouble Tara found herself in.

You and Tara are... complicated. You two haven't exactly slapped a label on it, all you know is you care about her more than you probably should.

Because of your close connection with Sam, and how much everyone secretly trusted you. You and Tara found yourselves growing closer to each other with each visit to their apartment.

Tara was weary about you at first introduction, ignoring that you were ridiculously attractive. She can still remember Mindy asking you to your face 'Where did Sam find you?' in a flirtatious tone. You just chuckled and explained how you met her sister, and Tara knew it was kind of wrong, but she couldn't help but be intrigued…

Then Sam started leaving you two alone in the apartment to run some errands. With not much to do, Tara decided to pop a horror movie in to watch with you – finding out you’ve never seen ‘Se7en’ after inquiring if your job was just like the movies.

A connection between you and Tara blossomed from those moments in that tiny NYC living room.

Suddenly she wasn't just your friend's little sister and man, is she magnetic.

She educates you on the joys of horror movies and you watch every single one, listening to her analysis of each scene; simply enjoying the serenity she brings out in you.

Tara is secretly glad you are older than her because sometimes it meant you’re so different, but that just means she can expose you to her interests, and vice versa. You never turned her down – no matter what it was.

On the slim chance you got off work early enough, you visited the diner to keep Sam company and do some work.

Sometimes though, when Sam would end mid-morning, you two would continue your talks at her apartment – sometimes with Danny, over whatever leftover diner food she would steal from her work for you three to munch on over beers and conversation. 

Those would be the nights where you would pass out on their couch from drinking and Tara would finally come out of her room when Sam and Danny leave. She would tuck a blanket over your sleeping figure, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, taking the time to scan your features for any injuries. And in the mornings, when you were gathering your bearings from a night of drinks and bad choices, Tara would force you to sit down at their dining table and have breakfast with her. Scolding you for your irresponsible choices, but being grateful you were in front of her, nonetheless.

She worries for you with your job and all.

And as you find yourself giving into her request for morning coffee, stolen kisses, and conversation – you push away thoughts of being late to work as you find yourself grateful for similar musings the longer you stare at the pretty girl across from you.

“Wow, if people couldn’t tell you're a narc. They sure could now.” Sam takes the time to poke fun at you – pulling you out of your daydream. You look down at your figure; sporting a button-down shirt, trousers with your leather jacket on top and trusty leather boots on your feet.

You roll your eyes in realization and flick away the cigarette bud, yanking the car door open.

“It’s the work dress cod– just get in the damn car, Carpenter.”

– – 

The usual thirty-minute drive instead took fifteen minutes as you pounded on the accelerator, flipped the sirens on, and dashed past other cars on the road as they cleared the way for you.

You arrive at the corner of a lower Manhattan intersection, the East Village was known for its bustling nightlife; you can see a mix of all ages of people wandering the street as they continue their bar crawl.

It was further down the road, where you can see six sullen-looking figures sitting on the curb of the sidewalk – a police officer standing above them. 

Sam dashes out of the car before you can even finish parking. You see her run down the street and talk to the officer, getting in his face and the six others look at her panicked. You sigh, and make your way out of the car, strapping your badge to your belt – you’d need to use it soon, you’re sure.

Tara’s eyes immediately connect to you as soon as you climb out of the car. Before she can think about it, she’s standing up to meet you. “Ah ah, I said sit down! You better listen or I’ll throw you all in jail for the night.”

“You can’t do that!” Sam shouts, stepping closer to the police officer. You decided enough was enough when you saw the police officer resting his hand on his holster.

“All right, that’s enough.” You grasp Sam’s elbow, yanking her away from the police officer. The older Carpenter is slightly startled by the rough tug, but you push her behind you getting in between her and the policeman.

“I think we’re all good here officer, thank you.” You say with finality. You weren’t asking, you were telling and Tara’s inebriated mind is all hot and bothered. 

“Like hell we are, these six were caught sneaking into a club underage, and this one.” He points to Sam, “is getting on my nerves. Now, it seems like I can add you to the list, ‘cause who the hell you think you are, buddy?”

You briefly glance a stern side-eye to Tara at ‘club and underage’, she immediately looks away.

“Detective Y/L/N from the 99th precinct.” You slide your jacket aside to flash him the badge on your waist.

”And, you must be… Officer Leroy. From 6th, huh.” Reading his name tag and badge.

“Think that’s supposed to mean something?” You see his eyes on your badge before glowering to meet your eyes. “I’ll arrest you too.”

The group breaks out into loud protests.

You chuckle knowingly, “How long you been in the force buddy?” You ask, not unaware of all of the eyes on you as you and the officer have a stare-off.

“Four months.” He answers confidently, pushing his shoulders up and back to appear taller.

“Hmm… see I had a feeling. ‘Cause, my buddy Rivers just got promoted to Captain six months ago over on the 6th precinct, which means he’s most likely your superior. I wonder what you’ll tell him as to what charge you picked us up for. ‘Cause well, he will see me.” You shrug, offering up that thought for him to think about. 

“Oh better yet, I’d just love to see what you write down on that case report, Officer. Leroy.” Your tone was harsh now as you stepped in his face, intimidating him.

He was forced to take a step back as you got in his space, his features paling, it took a few seconds before he conceded. “Fine! Just get the hell out of here, and don’t let me see you again!”

Everyone let out a relieved sigh as you smirked at his submission; everyone immediately takes the chance to leave and Sam tries to tug on your arm but you were still staring the cop down. He put this hand on his fucking gun when Sam got in his face and anger was quickly rising in your veins – you were unmovable, even by rough force.

“Y/N it’s over, let’s go.” Sam tries again but she can feel your arm harden as your knuckles tighten into a fist. “Y/N, seriously.”

Tara sobered up by the time police charges was being thrown around and her worry about your protectiveness was increasing. Sam couldn’t even pull you away. Chad steps in when Sam asks for help to convince you to move. He puts a hand on your shoulder, whispering calming words, no doubt. 

But nothing was working as you stood there, still unmovable. She wouldn’t be surprised if Chad threw you over his shoulder and dragged you away, even though you weren’t that much smaller than him. In your boots, you were nearly at his height and Tara had to strain her neck to try and meet your eyes. 

It was only when Tara pulled away from Quinn and Mindy’s hold and stepped in front of you, putting a hand just above your chest that you blinked, glancing down at her. “Y/N, let’s go… please.”

When you tried to glance back up at the other officer, whose partner had seen the commotion and tried his own efforts in calming him; his patience thinning by the second – was when Tara’s grasp on your shirt firmed, making you look back at her own stern eyes.

"Let's. Go." Her tone left no room for argument. Warning you from doing something stupid and you clench your jaw, looking away from the uniformed officers.

“Fine…"

Everyone slowly releases a breath when your rigid posture relaxes. “I’m driving you home, let’s go.” You exclaim to the rest but look directly at Tara, “Especially you, Carpenter.”

You place a hand on the sliver of her back and Tara shivers not used to being this close to you in a while. Your hand keeps its place even as you both turn and Sam is immediately on her ass about sneaking into a club. You guide the bickering sisters to walk to the car, zoning out the familiar sounds of their argument.

“–ou’re lucky Y/N was at the diner, who knows what that creep would’ve done if we didn’t drive out here in time.” Your hand tightens, subtly bringing her closer to your side at Sam’s words, Tara glances over when you do.

“It was fine until you got there and started overreacting, Sam.” Tara rolls her eyes, way past just ‘over’ Sam’s overprotectiveness. The younger girl loved her sister, she did, but she didn’t want to live her life constantly looking over her shoulder.

Tara wants to go to college, study, party, make mistakes, and maybe even find love – glancing back at you with that thought. She wanted to be a normal 20-year-old, doing 20-year-old things with her older… girlfriend? Tara didn’t know if she could call you that, but you shared enough sweet soft moments with her to consider you, hers. But she couldn’t do that if she had to look over her shoulder at every creak with a startle.

Sam scoffed offended, “Are you kidding me right now?” And you sigh because you can feel a bigger fight brewing and you can hear the slurring in Tara’s words, not a good mix. 

“Let’s get you all home first before we do this, okay?” You cut in when you see the car come closer into view. Fishing for your keys, you throw them at Sam making her catch them. 

“Walk ahead and start the car for me, please?” You ask with a raised brow; tilting your head to gesture to Tara saying a wordless ‘i got her’. Sam relents, tightly gripping the keys and walked ahead.

Tara leans her head against your shoulder, grateful for the brief moment of seclusion as everyone else walks up ahead.

“Are you mad at me?” You glance down at her frown, before looking away. 

“No. I’m not.”

“That wasn’t very convincing. If you’re mad you can tell me… cause then I can fix it.” You feel her run her hand up and down your back, under your jacket. It made a shiver run up your spine as she continued rubbing lines on the fabric of your shirt.

“I swear, I’m not mad. A little disappointed but no, not mad.”

Tara huffs, sliding her arm off your back when you reach the car; the talk cut short. You open the car door sitting Tara inside, it was a tight squeeze but she was small. You’d sit her on your lap if her sister wasn't here. Anika did sit on Mindy’s lap though with poor Chad in the middle seat and then Tara. 

She squeezes your hand just before you shut the door.

Apparently, Ethan and Quinn elected not to go home and continue on with their night.

Sam is already sitting in the passenger seat by the time you closed Tara’s door. With a sigh, you pull your door open, sit behind the wheel and drive off to the Carpenter’s apartment.

– –

Sam hurriedly rushes everyone into the living room as soon she opens the door; making sure to quadruple lock it, twist the handle to make sure it's locked and look out the peephole. It was Sam’s routine whenever she got into their place.

“Come on, let’s go, sit down.” Sam waves at you all, walking to the kitchen to grab water for everyone.

You help Tara onto the far edge of the couch, sitting her beside Mindy, who sat beside Anika. Chad decided to choose a record to listen to get rid of the tense air.

You felt Tara pulling you down with her, “Let me sit on your lap.” She mutters only to you.

“We can’t,” You whisper in her ear, slightly shaking your head. You hear her huff when you refuse her and see the pout on her lips when you pulled back, slightly smiling at her adorableness.

You force yourself to walk away from the younger Carpenter; heart tugging firmly, wanting nothing more than to wrap her in your arms, especially after not knowing what kind of trouble she was in.

Instead, you make your way into the kitchen to help Sam with the water bottles and bread.

“Is this necessary, Sam?” You ask the brunette, who was frantically searching through the fridge on her knees.

“You kidding? Chad is literally just staring holes at the record player.” She rebuttals and you glance back at the younger boy in amusement.

With a chuckle, you say, “He’s just high as shit. He’ll come down soon, plus he’s here now, they all are. Just relax and take a deep breath, man.” You remind her in a serious tone, holding out a hand to hold all the water bottles she was passing off to you.

“I know, I know. I was just worried.” She follows your advice taking calming, deep breaths as you follow along with her. 

“Your therapist would be so proud, Samantha.” You tease smugly as she scoffs, hitting your leg from her position on the floor – you kick her back.

“Can you make sure Tara drinks and eats something, and that she’s okay before going to bed?” Sam asks you in a hushed tone, although she didn’t need to. The other four were all too engrossed either in the music or the TV in the back. 

“Why me?”

“She’s not ready to talk to me and I’m not either... and I just wanna sleep right now.” She admits with a plead behind her eyes and you nod with no hesitation. 

“I'll make sure all of them make it to bed, don’t worry.” She nods appreciatively, then stands so you can both get back to the other four in the living room – tossing them some bread.

“Finish that whole bottle before going to sleep, I don’t care if you piss your pants while you do ‘em.” You say in a stern tone while throwing the bottles, then sitting on the armchair to Tara’s left.

Sam shares a look with you as she slips out of the room, wordlessly, leaving you with the other four. They watched TV for the next 20 minutes, glancing around as each of them got progressively tired the more time ticked on. 

“Alright. I think it’s time to call it a night.” You call it.

The twins and Anika slowly got up, muttering goodbyes and promises of texting Tara once they’d made it home. You offered to drive them to their dorm but felt the silent conversation between the friends – as Tara got them to turn you down to get you to stay here with her. 

You lean against the front door, watching as the trio made their way down the stairs until they were out of sight. As soon as you shut the door closed, you felt arms wrap around your midsection – making you turn around.

“I missed you,” Tara mutters against your chest making you chuckle when it slightly tickled. 

You cup her jaw, making her look into your eyes. “I missed you too, baby.”

Tara melts at the term of endearment, grabbing your neck to pull you down for a long searing kiss. Lips slotted over one another as they found the familiar grooves of each other’s mouths. Only breaking apart when Tara confessed with a bated breath, “You looked so hot confronting that other cop.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm…” She mutters connecting her mouth to your neck, peppering wet kisses there. She can hear you sigh in satisfaction and it makes her hold on you tighten even more. But with great reluctance, you pulled away from Tara; who whimpered in protest.

“We can’t, babe.” You remind her, pointing with your head to Sam’s room.

She frowns, “then come to my room.” Problem solved. She smirked devilishly, tugging you toward her room; you refused.

“We still can’t. You’re drunk and I’m not taking advantage.” You whisper, only stepping close to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She groans letting her head drop to your shoulder as your hand played with her hair.

“I hate that you’re a goodie two shoes.” She mutters making you laugh.

You tilt her head up with the hand already in her hair – gaze intense as you whisper, “I can assure you, I am far from a goodie two shoes.”

And Tara thought she melted at the way your voice dropped an octave when you said that but she knew she melted when you leaned down, tugging her by the hair, to connect your lips.

It was barely a peck, all tender and fleeting.

When you pulled away, she smirked knowingly watching as your eyes traced a path from her lips to her eyes – your gaze all dark, lustful. When your eyes connect you dive into her with a hair-raising kiss; all hungry and pining.

The feeling of your tongue clashing against hers and sounds of soft moans sends time stopping like only you and her exist in this apartment together. But Tara knows it doesn’t really stop and she has to eventually pull away before she takes you in the hallway – right then and there.

“God, you drive me crazy,” Tara whispers against your lips.

“So do you… cause sneaking into a club, really?” You ask unimpressed and Tara immediately pulls back, groaning.

Snickering as you follow closely behind when she walks into her room, trying to get away from you.

“You’re a mood-killer.” She mutters sitting on her bed, arms crossed over her chest; sulking.

“And you’re gonna give me and Sam a heart attack soon.” You joke but it was true. Tara loved to prove her sister wrong; not like being told what to do. It grew a defiant attitude in her that loved to stir shit up just for the hell of it, and that landed her in some hot waters with her friends sometimes. She definitely made your blood pressure sky-rocket, sometimes too.

“Why?” Tara probes. You were always so elusive and mysterious – it came with your job and allure. She can barely get you to open up about your feelings most of the time, saying you prefer to show her than tell her. You definitely did, so this admission from you was new. It has Tara yearning to hear more words of affirmation from you.

“Do I have to spell it out for you? I care about you, dummy. I nearly caused multiple accidents just to get to you. I was going like 80 mph the whole time,” You admitted, scratching the back of your neck a little ashamed.

“You were really that worried?” She asks, looking up at you with a hopeful stare like she was surprised.

“Of course, I was Tara. I even used the siren lights.” You shake your head at the fact that she’s even asking. 

She was smiling goofily as you walked closer to stand between her legs, taking both her hands in yours. “I worry for all of you. But you, well, I always worry for you 'cause I’m thinking about you all the time.” You confessed in a whisper in her dark room. 

Tara bites her lip, staring up at you with an indecipherable look. “You’re the worst.” Was the words that left her mouth.

“What, why?” You ask laughing.

She lets go of your hands to fiddle with your shirt buttons, muttering, “‘Cause you’re standing here looking all good and saying all the right things, and you still won’t fuck me.”

“Oookay…” You chuckle, grabbing at her fingers trying to unbutton your shirt, “That’s enough from you tonight. Let’s get you to bed before you say anything else you might regret tomorrow.”

She huffed but allowed you to grab her some new clothes to help her change; still not fucking her, Tara complains. Your eyes never even strayed from hers, not even when she took her bra off to change shirts and batted her eyes seductively. When she was all ready, you helped her to bed; tucking her in.

“Stay with me?” She asks grabbing onto your shirt, then gripping tighter. “Please.”

“What about Sam?” You ask softly, pushing away some hair from her face.

“She’s probably already sleeping, if not, she’s gonna be in her room all night.” Tara reasons, fully tugging you on top of her. 

You give in like you always do.

Work for you and classes for Tara have been a lot right now, not being able to find time alone. You were practically living at the police station with the crime surge in the city, working late nights and long hours. With Sam’s overprotectiveness, Tara can say goodbye to dates so she only really sees you when you come over with her sister. You take your jacket off, place it on the chair in the corner of her room and tug your boots off. Remembering you had a change of clothes here from when Tara ransacked your closet; you picked out a shirt and shorts before getting into bed beside the younger Carpenter.

She was on you in an instant, swinging a leg over your waist, shoving her face in your neck. You feel her exhale a calming breath, once she’d settled into a comfortable position on you. You reciprocate by wrapping a strong grip around her waist, cherishing the way her skin warmed yours and how the weight of her body felt perfect.

“Just stay with me until I fall asleep?” She asks you with such a vulnerable gaze that you would never dream of ever telling her no.

You nod, pressing a kiss to her lips, then forehead. “Of course, pretty girl. Goodnight.”

She smiles against your lips, whispering her own, “goodnight.”

As you hold Tara Carpenter in your arms, you find yourself fending off sleep, only ever being this relaxed around the girl. You squeeze her slightly, feeling grateful to be with her at this moment with all the craziness in your two’s lives. No worries of outside-world problems could break the cozy bubble you and Tara created. Without ever standing a chance, you lose the fight to sleep and easily fall off the precipice with her in your embrace.

– –

“Tara, do you have my nail polish – Oh this is cute.”

You spring up, the voice startling you from the most relaxed sleep you’ve ever had; the type that makes your entire body heavy and head foggy when you wake up. You were the lightest of sleepers, a pin drop could probably startle you awake, but never when you fell asleep beside Tara.

“What the fuck?” Tara grumbles against your side, peaking her head up to see Quinn watching you two in bed.

It took you a few seconds to realize where you were and instantly pale when you realize you never left the Carpenter Sister’s apartment, you never even made it out of Tara’s bed. You can feel the stream of sunlight coming in from Tara’s window and just know you had majorly fucked up.

“I just needed my nail polish but this is quite a sight, definitely a pleasant surprise.” She waves a hand toward you two, and you roll your eyes.

“Shit babe, Sam.” Tara places a hand on your arm. You check the watch strapped on your wrist for the time, 10:32 AM – making you leap out of her, oh so warm bed.

“Screw Sam, my Captain is gonna be on my ass until next year if I don’t get to work now. I was late about two hours ago.” Grumbling, you yanked Tara’s closet open and grabbed the spare trousers and button-down, you stowed in there.

"Can't say I blame your Captain." Quinn retorts, heavily eyeing you as you change your shorts into trousers.

Tara groans at the mess this morning has already been, flopping onto her back.

“Screw Sam, huh?” She appears, leaning on the threshold just behind Quinn, crossing her arms over her chest.

Your hands stall on the tie you were tying as you hear your friend’s voice, making you turn around.

“I guess that’s a no on the nail polish?” Tara glares at her roommate. 

Quinn shrugs, still ogling as you changed before turning to leave the room. “Not a wasted trip though, nice catch Tara.” She winks at the brunette – holding a thumbs up.

The redhead just laughs, moving out of the way when Tara attempts to throw a pillow at her.

“Sam… I’d love to explain but I am so late for work right now.” You plead at the older sister.

Tara sat on her bed wordlessly, unsure of what Sam’s reaction is going to be – but ready to defend her relationship with you, regardless.

Sam chuckles shrugging lightly, “I already knew. Or well, I had a feeling, but this just confirms it.”

You and Tara look at each other at her confession, unsure if Sam’s words hold positive or negative connotations. Sam sees the eye-contact and laughs.

“I’m not mad, I promise. I was a little hurt that you didn’t tell me…” She pauses, “okay. I was really hurt when you guys didn’t tell me. But I realize I haven’t given Tara reason to trust me with anything about her life lately.”

That makes Tara’s head perk up at her sister’s admission. All she’s ever wanted was for Sam to trust her a little because trust went both ways in every type of relationship.

“And well, I guess I can’t think of anyone better to be with my sister than my cop friend. Especially after you came through for her last night. You were driving so fast, I thought I was gonna die.” Sam laughs a little but you’re still unconvinced.

When Sam realizes no one was still talking she chuckles again. “Guys, I’m serious!”

You cough clearing your throat, “Sorry Sam, it’s just that... I–uh,” 

Tara decided to cut off your stammering, “We’re just surprised, Sam. We thought you'd be more upset. And that we were more subtle.” She admits, shooting you a look.

“You weren't. But, I thought a lot about what to say until I realized it was just you guys and I care about you two so much. You don’t think I noticed Tara being a lot happier than usual and you actually looking somewhat at peace?” She asks rhetorically, reading you and Tara to filth – your cheeks reddening, not being used to being at the other end of the ‘questioning’.

“I see how you look at each other. I know you’ll protect her.” That last sentence she says looking at you and it means the world to get her approval – something that you didn’t even know you wanted, you nod at her appreciatively.

Sam pushes herself off the doorframe, tapping on it. “Now come on, there’s breakfast in the kitchen, don't let it get cold. And Y/N, I don’t think you’re gonna make it to work today.” She winks, leaving you and Tara alone in the room.

You didn’t say anything for a few seconds, unable to find words to describe what just transpired in the span of a few minutes. Then you hear a scoff bring you out of your reverie.

“What the hell was that,” Tara commented, getting up from the bed and closing the door before approaching you. 

“I’m… not really sure. I can’t tell if I’m still asleep.” You mumble, grabbing at her cheeks to make sure you weren't in a dream. Tara whines against the pinching, swatting your hands away.

You laughed at her frown before leaning down to kiss her slightly chapped lips, all soft and slow. Tara pulls you closer by the neck, sighing against pressed mouths. A sweet moan escapes her mouth when you suck down hard on her lip, releasing it with a loud pop. 

“You think I should call in sick today?” You whisper, running a gentle thumb to soothe her swollen lip.

Tara nods, eyes half-open still a little dazed from your kiss. When she gathers her bearings, she runs a hand down your half-done tie, tugging you closer. “Definitely.”

"You can tell me more about how worried you were and how fast you were driving too," She whispers against your mouth, using your tie as a leash.

"Are you turned on right now?"

"Kinda... can I drive with the sirens on?" She slides the question in like it was nothing.

"No."

"Buzzkill." She teases but pulls you on top when her back hits the mattress. “I’ll make you change your mind.”

You definitely forgot to make that phone call.

The rest of that morning was spent in between Tara’s sheets, you two hidden away from the world; ignoring the flurry of texts and calls from your work phone. Only leaving her room to grab some food and water, but getting caught in the crossfire of teasings from Tara's friends when they see the hickeys on your neck.

Tara merely strides past you, dressed in nothing but your button-down, stopping for a peck on the lips and grabbing the water from your hands before hiding back in her room to ignore her friends. You don’t miss the cheeky wink she tosses you and the grimace Sam lets out as she watches. Instead, you keep your head down and follow the smaller girl like a lost puppy, ignoring the other's whistles as you do.

And, when you make your way to your desk the next day, a mountain pile of shitty cases for the next month is stacked high as punishment.

You still find it hard to feel any remorse for the no-show.

It was definitely worth it.

– –

:)

[eldritchelfwriter]

What might have happened for Shadowheart & Florwyn after Reaching For You?

Massive spoiler zone for Reaching For You, the Dark Justiciar redemption one shot over on AO3, so don't read if you haven't read that!

Originally I was just going to type up some thoughts about things that might have happened next but instead I've ended up stream of consciousness writing the whole plot of a sequel story that I strenuously advise that I will never write. Don't consider this 'canon', it's just thoughts that flowed out, have your own head canons for sure.

Apologies that there are a couple of REDACTED's where there's something that hasn't been revealed in Shadowheart Begins yet that I don't want to spoil, but I think it would be relevant here.

There are 3,000 words coming so grab a cup of tea.

* * *

Florwyn and Shadowheart have finally reunited, but they have a long way to go, to find their new way as a couple and as individuals.

Florwyn is mindful of not wanting to push too hard and fast after everything Shadowheart’s been through, and they are both a little awkward with each other at first. Shadowheart has her own room in the castle and space to rest. She sleeps a lot, in the first couple of weeks after her ordeal in the Harper safehouse.

Shadowheart is privately a little afraid to be alone, but doesn’t tell Florwyn. Fortunately, Cirrus the dog, of his own accord has taken to sleeping at the end of Shadowheart’s bed, rather than Florwyn’s.

She has a lot of nightmares about Shar, and every day she wakes up wondering if being here, with Florwyn, is real, or if she’s dreaming. Then, a soft knock on the door each day at the same time reminds her it’s all real, and she sees Florwyn bringing her tea in bed with that patient and loving look in her eyes … every day, tea and a chaste kiss while Shadowheart recovers and starts to make the first steps toward being a person without Shar. They are very polite with one another, still trying to find their way. And for Shadowheart, receiving any kind of kindness at all feels overwhelming. Frequently she is secretly in tears when Florwyn leaves, just to be cared for.

One day, Florwyn pulls open the curtains in Shadowheart’s room and the light that pours in doesn’t scare Shadowheart any more. She greets Shadowheart, gives her her morning tea and leans in for her kiss, but this time, Shadowheart asks her to wait a moment. Placing the cup of tea on the bedside table, with nervous hands, Shadowheart pulls Florwyn in for a kiss that is anything but chaste and leaves them both dazed.

“I love you,” Shadowheart whispers. It’s the first time she’s said it since that moment in the Harper safehouse.

And Florwyn can see, there’s new life, and new spark in Shadowheart’s eyes.

“I love you, too,” Florwyn whispers back, heartened.

It’s a new day in every way, and this time, Shadowheart and Florwyn spend the whole day together, as Florwyn shows her properly around both the castle, and some of the grounds, Cirrus gambolling along at their sides.

That night, they resume their old habit, of reading together with a drink, but this time it is in front of a fire in the lounge – a room that is covered in books from wall to wall, save for the fireplace. Their eyes wander over the top of their books at each other frequently.

As much as Florwyn is mindful of Shadowheart’s recovery and the big personal journey she has ahead of her, Shadowheart is also mindful of how much she hurt Florwyn all those years ago. Florwyn’s heart is still tender both from that hurt, and the loss of her wife. She doesn’t want to push too far and crush the fragile thing they have between them, any more than Florwyn does. Just holding each other and a few kisses feels like a great deal as it is, given how affection-starved Shadowheart (and Florwyn) have been for a long time.

Night time reading and drinks continues for a while, the space between them growing ever more electric, and then Florwyn leaning herself comfortably against Shadowheart turns into a fierce desire in Shadowheart to kiss her that she cannot and does not ignore. The stories they had been reading soon topple to the floor as they kiss and slowly, almost gingerly allow their hands to roam and relearn the feel of each other. And then they are holding each other for so long, that they fall asleep on the sofa and wake up in each other’s arms to Cirrus licking both of their faces, wondering where his breakfast is.

The next night, it’s even more electric and neither can read at all. They once again end up making out but suddenly stopping when things are about to get frisky. And Florwyn asks, “can I ask, why you stopped?” and basically, Shadowheart is like “I was stopping for you because seemed like you wanted to take things slow,” and Florwyn is like “oh I was being extra respectful of you” and they both realise they absolutely want to fuck each others pants off and there is no reason not to, so they do just that right there and then in front of the fire, and all is wonderful in the world as they both realise just how much they still love each other, after the intensity of the time with the Harpers and then the sudden change to being just alone together.

They move into the same room together and wake up beside each other every day now, because there’s no need to hold back from the fact that they’re both utterly besotted with each other.

There are good days and bad days for Shadowheart. Sometimes she is so filled with grief and regret she cannot get out of bed. On others, she finds Florwyn on the castle rooftop experimenting with sorcery, or takes Cirrus on rambles through the countryside, or tries her hand at baking and other little domestic thing, trying to take care of Florwyn and be as thoughtful of her as much as Florwyn has been of Shadowheart.

Florwyn can see that this life here is a little lonely for Shadowheart, but they have to be pretty careful about going out given Shadowheart has a lot of enemies and did essentially just abandon the Sharran church which has now indeed been decreed illegal. Florwyn sends out letters to Karlach and Astarion who each visit separately. (Karlach incidentally, did not have her heart fixed as per Shadowheart Begins, because Shadowheart never met Yrre. She went to Avernus with Wyll and they eventually found a cure there).

Things are a little frosty at first with Karlach, Shadowheart still feeling hurt by her sense of rejection in the aftermath of her decision at the Gauntlet. But Karlach is nothing if not forgiving and loving and also just incredibly proud of her for finally choosing the light, and it’s hard to stay mad at Karlach, so things melt between them fairly quickly. It feels even easier with Astarion, because he is a person who made a fair few questionable choices in life, so she feels like she isn’t being judged by him, for all that she is facing up to the enormity of the consequences and loss her decisions have brought about.

Eventually though, it becomes clear that Shadowheart needs a life of her own, not just being inserted into Florwyn’s. She feels useless without her power, and her religion, and is still trying to build up her sense of self. She needs something of her own, to fill the gap where her old life use to be.

Jaheira comes to stay and while her and Florwyn are catching up, Shadowheart goes on a walk on the rocky shore by the castle, just thinking about stuff. And there she finds an osprey with a broken wing. It breaks her heart that she cannot heal any more. And something in her needs to see that osprey fly again. She gathers it up, paying no mind to its slashing claws leaving deep cuts in her arms as the frightened bird is taken to the castle, to Jaheira.

Florwyn is immediately freaked out to see how badly Shadowheart’s arms are bleeding, but Shadowheart is only interested in whether Jaheira can heal the bird – not her. She isn’t even bothered by the pain, what is pain to an ex-Sharran, anyway? Jaheira seems to understand what is going through Shadowheart’s mind better than Florwyn. She heals the bird first, and Shadowheart’s arms second.

The bird picks himself up, and Shadowheart watches him fly off, until she can’t make him out any more, feeling teary. She had needed to see that broken things could be healed. She is a broken thing that needs healing herself. And she wants to be able heal again, somehow. That was the only thing that had felt good, under Shar. Perhaps in healing others, she can start to heal all of her own wounds. People have burned her time and time again … but animals don’t judge. Perhaps she could start there. Only … she isn’t a cleric any more, and she’s not in any shape to commit to any gods right now.

Jaheira doesn’t seem surprised, when Shadowheart asks her if she can teach her druidcraft. And when she learns to talk to animals it’s as though a whole new world opens to her. The osprey becomes her friend, as well as other creatures that roam near the castle. Every time Jaheira visits, there is more to learn, and she spends the time in between working hard to master what Jaheira has taught her, with Florwyn’s proud encouragement.

As she works, she begins to come to terms more and more with the darkness she was not only involved in, but actually helped propagate. She wonders what became of the cloister, and who is in charge now. She has a feeling will be XYZ, her former ruthless deputy. And as she works through the things she ordered and was part of as the head of the Baldur’s Gate church, eventually, everything comes back to where it all really started – the decision that changed everything, killing the Nightsong, Selune’s daughter. No apologies she makes can ever take back everything she’s done, everything she’s part of, but she needs to start somewhere.

On a moonlit night, by herself, she tearfully apologises to Selune. And she feels a sense of a mother’s grieving heart understanding the grief she herself feels for her own, fucked up life and everything she’s done. And she feels forgiveness. “Why? How could you? After what I did? What I’ve done?” She asks, weeping. Selune shows her the true memory of what happened the night she was taken which kind of breaks her, but now she knows the truth, and Selune tells her that it is remarkable that she has been able to turn to the light after all that was taken from her, all the brainwashing she was subjected to. Selune, too, is sorry for what happened to her as a child and what she was subjected to since. Selune tells her to find her own path and as a result of the meeting, she is a circle of the moon druid multiclassed with life domain cleric.

There comes a time though, when the sporadic lessons with Jaheira aren’t enough, when Shadowheart needs more. She needs to find what she is capable of, and who she is, and to do that, she will need to go out into the world and leave Florwyn behind for a while, not just slot into Florwyn’s life. It will be a risk to be out in the world, when there will be Sharrans with a grudge, but staying safe and isolated isn’t going to help her grow.

Their farewell lovemaking is desperate, their parting heartwrenching, and Shadowheart leaves the castle and joins Jaheira and the Harpers, so that she can learn “on the job” with Jaheira. It feels good to do some good in the world – she wants to do some good in the world, after all the darkness she once spread. It feels like she’s starting to pay off a debt by putting some good into the world.

But she can’t be known as Shadowheart, out in the world where there are angry Sharrans. Jaheira asks her to pick a new name and she shrugs and says the first name that comes to mind.

“Call me Jenevelle.”

She doesn’t even know where she’s heard the name before, but it has a familiar ring to it.

Gradually she rises through the ranks of the Harpers, gaining respect. She doesn’t see Jaheira as often as time goes by, but when they do there is a fair bit of banter and jokes that she had better not piss off her “mother-in-law.”

For a few years Shadowheart and Florwyn’s relationship is long distance, seeing each other for odd weekends or weeks here and there where their reunions are desperate and intense and buoyant until the inevitable crushing moment of departure. They send each other regular, heartfelt letters, each savouring the arrival of a new letter, and treasuring the letters and rereading them often.

Meanwhile, Shadowheart realises the strange patterns she is seeing in the work the Harpers are undertaking follows a plan that had been devised by her deputy in the cloister that she had shelved. She knows who took over at the cloister after her now.

While she and the Harpers are working to take down the (now illegal) Sharran organisation, Florwyn is reflecting on what she wants in life too. She had been living a life of almost complete solitude for so long, something that Zeera couldn’t handle (hence frequent travels to visit friends), and it obviously isn’t suitable for Shadowheart either. She realises she has become what she has always despised – she’s become a bit like a wizard in an ivory tower but a castle instead. REDACTED.

The castle and its everchanging weather is brilliant for a storm sorcerer, surrounded as she is by an ever-chorus of wind that never leaves her feeling alone, but it’s gloomy and lonely for anyone else. Perfect if she wants to be alone all of her life. But she doesn’t want that, she loves Shadowheart too much. They’ll need to come up with a new dream for life together, if this is going to work.

The letters continue, and Shadowheart is becoming more confident. She can’t change her past, but the future is in her hands, and she’s shaping it herself now.

Shadowheart and the Harpers manage to fight and disband the Sharran organisation, and Shadowheart can only pity her old deputy. She can’t believe she used to be part of all that.

Then one day, Shadowheart receives a letter from Florwyn telling her that Cirrus has died. And something in Shadowheart knows that she is done here now, and it is time to move forward with something new. She and Jaheira, whom she is quite close to by now, talk long into the night.

Florwyn runs out to greet her when she returns home, flinging their arms around each other as Florwyn weeps, Shadowheart feeling rather weepy too, but not just because of the dog. Because Florwyn’s arms are where she belongs now. She feels worthy of Florwyn, and like she can be an equal partner to her now.

Florwn exclaims over Shadowheart’s new hair cut and style, which felt like an important step for Shadowheart in defining the new her, and for a few days they are caught up in the excitement of being together again, of kissing, and holding and making love and all the wonderful little things about each other. It feels like their love has only deepened through their time apart.

Florwyn is of course expecting Shadowheart to leave again soon. But she can see how much more confident, and happy Shadowheart is. She likes these changes in her, she can see that this time she has had has been good for. But it also makes her heart hurt to think that perhaps she is too unexciting for Shadowheart, because she feels deep in her heart that this visit is the end of something, though she doesn’t know what yet.

Then Shadowheart gets up the courage to tell Florwyn that Jaheira has given her a job offer, something different to what she was doing before. Something she would enjoy, and would enable her to keep doing good. But it would mean moving closer to the city … would … is there any chance … would Florwyn come with her?

Florwyn’s tears make Shadowheart think the worst until Florwyn flings her arms around her and says of course my love, anywhere you are is my home. And Florwyn explains she had been thinking much the same sort of thing, and that she’d like to dream anew with Shadowheart, something for both of them. And so they leave the castle behind.

To the small farming community nearby, they know they can go to ‘Jenevelle the healer’ any time – whether for themselves or their livestock. But to Harper trainees, the little wildlife rehabilitation centre she and Florwyn run is a secret training centre for twelve weeks of the year. Here they learn about subterfuge, and spying and all the things that Shadowheart learned as a Sharran that were intended for dark deeds but which she teaches both for good, and so that the Harper trainees can understand the enemies they are up against. Here, also, Shadowheart trains animals as messengers for the Harpers.

Here also the arcanists among the Harpers learn to spot arcane traps and the like from Florwyn. REDACTED.

They go into the city sometimes, to purchase more books of course, but also to visit Alfira’s school. Alfira doesn’t say anything, but she has suspicions about who Florwyn’s druid/healer partner ‘Jenevelle’ might really be.

One day when there are no Harper trainees, and Shadowheart is outside planting vegetables, while her dogs and other animals play around her, a voice calls out in greeting.

It’s a surprise visit from Jaheira, who has become as much a mother to Shadowheart, as she has to Florwyn. For the first time Jaheira doesn’t just seem old, she seems frail. But she is pleased to see Shadowheart. She is ushered excitedly in by both Florwyn and Shadowheart, and eventually, after the initial catch ups, Jaheira gives them her news. She is retiring from the Harpers – for good this time.

She is proud, so proud of them both. Her stay with them is short, but somehow, it feels like she is saying goodbye without saying goodbye, as she hints that there is only one last great adventure for her now, and it’s nearly time.

They are both try not to weep and cling to her when she leaves, but she puts up with them. But she seems excited for a new adventure again, something completely different. It is clear from the way she talks that she is looking forward to being reunited with Khalid.

Things would have gone very different for both of them, if not for Jaheira. Two orphans who were lucky enough to have someone take them under their wing and give them a guiding hand and a bit of love. Is that something they would want to do for others one day, too? Something to think about …

Holly, their silly Irish setter bunts her head into them, wanting a pat, breaking the moment. And then Shadowheart takes Florwyn’s hand, and says, “come on, love. Let’s go inside.”

They are both home. Because home will always be with each other. But perhaps, there could be room for more, in the home of love they’ve built.

Once again it is the end of something. But perhaps, it could be a start to something else, too.

* * * * * *

For the record I felt very teary when it came to saying that Florwyn and Shadowheart were having time apart, and I straight up started crying at the Jaheira bit at the end.

If you have guessed the parts that are redacted, I'd appreciate if you could keep them to yourself and out of the comments for the moment so that it will hopefully be a surprise for readers of Shadowheart Begins when the reveal comes. :) (I have no intention of revealing or confirming in advance what it is).

[mickey-gomez]

Chapter 9 of Fade Into You

Warnings: Word crimes, thesaurus crimes, soft smut, fluff.

Pairing: Rita/Reader

A/N: Picks up directly after chapter 8. It's a little long sorry. I tried to write it the best way I could to describe what it feels like when you're hopelessly in lust with someone. But it's a little muddled. It wouldn't let me put a chapter title/header in, so idk, I guess it's untitled? Also I strongly dislike the series title, so if anyone has an idea for a new title please let me know.

I have most of this series written in dribs and drabs on a big working doc, but I don't really have a structure, so therefore I don't know how to connect it all yet. Also I don't think I'm very good at writing smut, and it sort of intimidates me. So it's hard to update more frequently because I overthink it and constantly rewrite.

The two of you performed a delicate dance throughout the week, hidden glimpses as you passed one another in the halls, fleeting and restrained touches as you slipped past each other in doorways, lingering looks shared in an office wide meeting.

You caught her gaze once more as you walked past her out of the meeting, walking in the opposite direction, rounding the corner of a dimly lit hallway, the soft glow of the wall sconces illuminating your path, casting shadows as they danced across your features. 

You leant against the wall, nearing the exit, as you waited. And for a brief moment, you considered giving up, with the thought that she hadn’t followed you, or had gotten caught up in conversation, then you saw her out of the corner of your eye. 

You ran your eyes over her as she approached you, her long, warm and rich brown hair cascading down her back, her tailored suit that clung to her in all the right places, and the faint smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. 

“Hi” she said in a low, husky voice, as she stood in front of you. 

“Hi” you replied, your voice a little breathless. 

You both stood there for a moment, your eyes locked in a silent exchange that spoke volumes. You felt a rush of heat spread through your body as you watched her gaze flicker down and then back up again. The attraction between the two of you was undeniable, and it hung in the air like a tangible force. 

“Are you free on Friday evening?” Rita asked, breaking the silence, though her voice still held that seductive tone. 

You nodded, or at least you thought you had, your words momentarily escaping you, before realising you hadn’t actually spoken or given her an answer. “Maybe, why?” you eventually answered.

“Rafa, against my many protests, has organised farewell drinks with some of the other staff at Whiskey Tavern.” 

“That place is so not your scene.” You were right about that part, but you knew Rafael had most likely organised drinks there because it was a block away from the office, it was cheap and a pretty popular bar amongst the young District Attorney’s office staff. Exactly the sort of place that Rita would never be caught dead in.

“I know, but at least they have halfway decent scotch.” She took a step closer, closing some of the distance between you, her fingers brushing against your arm, the touch sending shivers down your spine.

“Plus you can’t really call yourself a New Yorker unless you’ve made out in their photo booth.” your eyes shone as you said it, and her gaze dropped down to your lips once more. She leaned in, just slightly, as if she was testing the waters. “I’ll see you on Friday” you whispered next to her ear as your cheeks brushed together, and you slid out from between her and the hallway. 

You pushed open the heavy wooden door, the soft ambient hum of conversation greeted you. Warm, dim lights bathed the room, revealing a mess of weathered wooden tables, each one crowded with company, and littered with peanut shells. 

“Got stuck at the precinct, sorry I’m late.” you said brightly as you approached the table.

“Hey!” Rafael’s eyes widened as he greeted you excitedly, standing from the table to embrace you in a friendly, but hasty hug. “Sorry I haven’t had a chance to say hello at the office yet.” 

“Don’t be sorry” you touched his arm and smiled sincerely “So, will we see you at Thanksgiving again this year? You know, to protect Rita from the wolves?” you teased and he grinned, from a mix of liquor and playful amusement. 

“I think my mom would probably beat me senseless, if I missed another year.” 

Across the table, Rita sat relaxed in her chair, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. Her hair was pinned back with her natural waves flowing down over her shoulders, and her hazel eyes framed by dark lashes, locked onto you with an intensity that made her almost impossible to ignore. 

Your eyes finally met, and a jolt of electricity seemed to pass between you both. The air thickened with anticipation as your gaze held for a moment too long. Rita’s lips curled into a knowing smile, as your heart raced just a little faster. 

You tore your eyes away before it became apparent to everyone at the table that there was palpable tension between you both, saying a quick hello to people you didn’t quite recognise or remember, before offering to buy a round for the table, pointing at everyone one at a time as you memorised their order. 

You settled into the open chair next to Rita’s after you dropped the tray of drinks into the middle of the table, leaving everyone to reach for them, while you and Rita exchanged false pleasantries. Rafael introduced you to the group as you sat, and Rita’s hand moved to your thigh, out of sight, something reserved for the two of you.

The hours melted away as her peers continued to share stories and amusing secrets, while the two of you shared stolen glances, your connection growing stronger with each passing moment. The bar’s dim lights cast shadows on your faces, enhancing the intrigue of the situation. 

And when the conversations seemed to pair off and you found yourself speaking directly to her, your conversation danced on the edge of intimacy as you exchanged stories, lingering touches, and smouldering glances. The playful banter masked your desires, but every word and gesture secretly revealed the simmering passion that threatened to consume both of you.

“Alright” you stood from your seat at the table, “Does anyone have a silver dollar?” you asked, holding your hand out flat and waving your fingers. One of them handed you the dollar out of their pocket, and after a thank you, you turned to Rita and tilted your head towards the opposite end of the bar. “You can’t leave the DA’s office without a memento.” you said with a glimmer in your eye, she knew almost immediately what you were alluding to, and so without hesitation, she followed you with intrigue.

As you both stepped inside the booth, the heavy curtain fell behind you, cocooning you in a private world of dimmed, flickering light. The soft hum of the booth’s machinery enveloped you, drowning out the noise of the crowded bar. 

The camera counted down - three, two, one. The flash illuminated your faces, capturing a moment of shared vulnerability. And as it started to count down once more you both turned your heads, gazes heavy as they fell over one another’s lips, three, two, one. The flash went off and in that moment, you crashed together. 

Your lips were greedy and you could taste the sugar that coated her tongue, a low moan escaped you and your arms wrapped around her shoulders, your fingers threading through her hair as you consumed one another. 

Three, two, one. You both moved together, as the flash went off once more, your hands now scrambling for the others’ body, desperate to feel the touch of skin on skin. 

“Do you want to get out of here?” she whispered against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. You swallowed, hard, and nodded in response. With that, you both knew the night had just begun, and the tension that had been building between the two of you was about to ignite into a fiery passion that neither of you wanted to resist, finally feeling free after all these years. 

Rita reached for your hips and you swung your leg over, your knees brushing against the sheets before they met the skin of her thighs, your fingers gripping onto her shoulders as you held yourself upright. She ran her hand along your cheek delicately, and her thumb traced along your lower lip, and as your swollen lips parted, you drew the digit in, encasing it and running your tongue over it. She was powerless not to moan at the sight, and ever so quick in arching her shoulders and craning her neck, exchanging her thumb’s place with her own tongue. 

Rita reached down in between your bodies, her fingers moving through you, and into the pool of desire that awaited her, grinning at the wetness she found. Her thumb curled up to rub with intent over your clit, and you moaned into her mouth.

Your hands joined at the base of the toy, as you both lined it up with your entrance and you slowly sunk down, both of your gazes fixated on the sight of it, and you let out a shallow breath you’d been holding in your throat.  

She felt the exact moment you relaxed and for a moment you were both still, your hips flush, eyes locked on one another. Until Rita gripped your hips and you rose up on your knees, as she drove a little further, a little harder, into you. Your eyes fell closed, and your mouth flew open and you went slack jawed. She shifted her hips slightly, allowing herself to feel the friction at the base of the strap, and the movement caused a loud moan to spill from your throat. 

“Right there” you gasped, your nails raked down her back and she moaned in response, before reaching a hand around to deliver a sharp spank. The feeling of her hands on your skin, the soft contact, your chests pressed together, and breaths and moans fanning over skin, it all promised to overwhelm. 

“Do that again.” you groaned, and instead of acting on your demand, she pinched you suddenly, and roughly on your inner thigh. You let out a high pitched whine and before you could even think to question her, you realised why she had done it. “Do that again, please.” You said slowly and deliberately, and you knew she was smirking, even with your eyes firmly closed. 

You moved your hands, one down to your clit and the other alternated across your chest, pinching and twisting. Her gaze followed your movements and she moaned as she watched you, feeling herself falling closer to the edge. She watched when your breathing started to become more erratic and frantic, and pulled your hand away from your clit, and you let out a loud whine, your eyes flying open, gazing down at her through hooded lids.

“Not yet” she said breathily, and you leaned back down to kiss her, your hands weaving around her neck. The kiss was a mess of teeth with little control or coordination, but it didn’t seem to bother either of you as you chased your peaks together.

She moved two of her fingers down to rub your clit, “Be a good girl and come for me”, and the combination of her words and her movements pushed you over the edge. When you came, your knees tightened against her hips and your back arched, right at the moment you heard her let out an almost feral sound. 

Your tongues slid together lazily as you both came down from your highs, floating back. The room was filled with a serene stillness, a stark contrast to the frenzied passion that had just consumed you both. 

Your hearts continued to race in tandem, gradually slowing down as you basked in the shared intimacy of the moment. You traced your fingertips gently along the curves of her body, your touch mirroring the depth of your own emotions, and everything left unsaid.

She raised her head up to look at you, her eyes filled with a soft, affectionate gaze. But it was fleeting, you noticed the moment she trapped her vulnerability from spilling further, and when the light in her eyes changed.

“Well that was a spectacular farewell.” she smirked and raised her eyebrows, and giggles erupted from both of you. 

“You should quit every day.” and you both laughed

“You wanna go again?” 

“Knees” you said, a mix of sighs and laughter.

Rita understood, and so she gently gripped your hips and shifted you both until you were on your back, with her on top of you, the heels of your feet resting against her back. She pulled all the way out and you groaned a little at the loss, and just as you went to ask for her to come back, she slid back in, with more force this time, and at a more intense pace.

The room was cast in a tranquil hush, the remnants of your night still lingered distantly in the air, the warm sheets and her arms enveloped you. Then the shrill and incessant ringing of your phone shattered the fragile peace, jarring you from your shared cocoon of intimacy. 

You blindly reached for it, feeling around the nightstand until it was in your hand, holding it up to your ear as you whispered in conversation with the detective on the other end. Your voice still carried the remnants of sleep, and their words, a blend of apologies and urgency, rudely awakened you to a new day. Rita kissed your shoulder, as you hung up the phone, and you turned in her embrace to drop a chaste kiss against her lips. 

“I have to go get a warrant” you whispered as you pulled back, and she let out a drowsy sigh in response, nestling into the pillow beneath her head, you smiled as you drank her in. Her tousled hair that spilled across the pillow like a dark river, and her eyelashes that cast delicate shadows on her cheeks. You traced your fingers along the contours of her face, marvelling at the peaceful expression that adorned her lips. 

Reality, however, began to nudge at the edges of your cocoon of affection. Responsibilities beckoned, and the detectives in the world outside were awaiting your arrival. 

“I can feel you staring”, she murmured, stirring as her eyes fluttered open, and a sleepy smile met yours. 

“Can I borrow some clothes?” you hummed, the urgency of time bore down on you, as you tried to savour this precious moment, etching it into your memory. 

“Only if you come back with breakfast” she teased, another smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she fought to repress a yawn, “Bagels.”

You knocked softly on the car window, handing over the warrant to Fin as he wound down the window. “Brought you this as well” you smiled as you extended the coffee tray, he plucked one of the paper cups out with a thank you, as he stepped out of the car, and the two of you leaned against the doors, waiting on the other detectives and officers. 

You looked off into the distance, taking in the city around you as it unveiled its quieter side. The occasional taxi hummed past, its yellow hue a vivid contrast to the still muted palette of dawn. A lone jogger, headphones in place, raced past you both, his feet pounding against the pavement, as if the sound was the slow heartbeat of the city, still in transition from the night’s revelry and the day’s responsibilities. Your mind cast back over the night, and you couldn’t help the involuntary smile that graced your features at the flashes of memories.

“You’re in a good mood.” Fin commented as he watched you, “You get laid last night?” and when you didn’t give him a verbal response, instead glancing down, a soft breath of laughter leaving you and your smile growing wider. He let out a low laugh, “Good for you.”, he commented with genuine candour. “Is it serious?”

“It’s all still relatively new, but it doesn’t feel new.” you reflected “It feels like we were always going to end up here. I don’t quite know how to describe it.” 

“The two of you friends?” he asked, and you nodded softly. 

“I don’t know if we were ever just friends though.” you murmured in thought, losing yourself in the threads of the past. “Sorry, I’m oversharing.” you shook your head, pulling yourself out of your own introspection.

“It’s cool.” he said without hesitation, and with authentic sincerity. “My old partner, back in Narcotics, was a woman. So, you can talk to me, if you want.” he tipped his head over to look at you “You’re part of the squad, we like you, you know? Stabler just has a hard way of showing it.”.

He was trying his hardest, and persisting through his stammering, to form a deeper connection with you. One that extended beyond the surface level of professionality that you all operated with. 

“Thanks. I appreciate that.” You smiled at him, and put your hand on his shoulder for a brief minute, before the moment you were sharing was interrupted with the arrival of squad cars, and that same earlier responsibility beckoned. 

You returned back to Rita’s, letting yourself in with her keys as you juggled the brown paper bags cradled in your arms. You carefully set everything down on the counter, and bent down to remove your shoes. 

Quietly walking down the hall, you ran your hands over the bedroom door, gently prying it open. You watched her for a fleeting moment, the soft rise and fall of her chest, and the peaceful expression on her face as she slept soundly. You hesitated on whether or not to wake her, but before you could make your mind up, she stirred amongst the sheets. 

You walked over to her side of the bed and gently brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, planting a soft kiss there. “Good morning” you whispered, keeping your voice as soft and gentle as the morning light streaming in through the curtains. “Breakfast is on the counter.”

“Where’d you go?” her eyes flickered open, and she rubbed at them, trying to remove the traces of sleep.

“Well first I went Russ & Daughters for the bagels and appetizers, then to Ray’s for beignets, and then I dropped by the newsstand on the corner to get you the paper.”

“Mm thank you” she murmured with a suppressed yawn, she sat up, the sheets pooling around her, as she ran her hands through her dishevelled hair. “Which Judge did you wake up?” 

“Ridenour” 

“I bet he was mad.” her eyes widened just slightly for a moment, and she held back her laughter. 

“That’s… putting it politely.” 

“Judge Taten lives about ten blocks from here, and isn’t as cranky, for future reference. She even puts on coffee, and sometimes she’ll give you pastries.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me that four hours ago? I went all the way uptown!” you hit her arm as your face contorted in irritation, and you looked at her with your mouth agape. 

“I was asleep.” she shrugged, but the brief glimpse of a smile gave her away, revealing it was far more likely she had deliberately withheld that information. Presumably for her own amusement at the thought of you uncaffeinated, with a throbbing headache after a night of drinking and sex, being shouted at and scolded while she slept soundly. 

She climbed out of bed, stretching out her arms and rolling the muscles in her neck as she suppressed a yawn. When she walked into her wardrobe, your eyes were glued to the back of her. 

“Follow me” she tied the belt of her robe tighter around her waist, and beckoned you with one finger. 

You did as she commanded and followed her down the hall and into what you presumed was her office, glancing around the room briefly as she unlocked her desk drawer and pulled out a worn leather notebook.

“This is my black book” she closed the drawer and turned back to you, holding the item in both hands, looking at you expectantly. 

“Okay..?” you looked back at her confused, your eyes narrowing and your expression motionless. 

“Let me rephrase.” she smiled as she looked away for a moment, then back to you. “This is a notebook with every sitting judge’s name, phone number, address. As well as the names and phone numbers of their clerks and assistants. There’s also notes under each Judge, their kid’s names, pets, hobbies, political affiliations, and so on.” She raised an eyebrow as she took in your reaction. 

“How did you get this?” your eyes went wide and your mouth opened, almost in disbelief. It was a secret roadmap, one that would help you not only pick and choose which judge to grant you a warrant, but also how to pander to them in court and build up rapport with them; she was giving you the keys to winning. 

“I didn’t ‘get’ it, I made it.” she scoffed “It took me a couple of years which is why-” 

“Gimme” you reached for it, snatching, almost childlike, and she pulled it back, staring at you with a stern but amused expression. 

“-Which is why, I have never ever shared its contents.” 

“But… you’re now going to share it?... With me?” you spoke slowly, tilting your head to the side, trying to ascertain her intentions. 

“You may borrow it for one week, to copy it and to make your own. But you are not to share it with anyone else, and I expect it back this Friday.” She slowly extended it, and right as you reached for it she pulled it back, and you looked back to her. “And you now owe me.” She smirked, knowing you had no choice but to agree to that term. 

“I hardly think that’s fair considering I just brought you breakfast.” you rolled your eyes, and she went to put it back into her desk drawer until you snatched it. “Fine! Fine. I owe you.” 

“And?” she looked at you expectantly. 

“Thank you” you leaned in and kissed her, backing her into the desk. Your hands blindly reached for the tie on her robe, fingers gracelessly undoing the knot. “So this is how you always win.” you teased, whispering against her neck and you heard her scoff loudly before she smacked you. 

“I always win because I’m the best.” she mumbled, her breath catching in her throat as your fingers swept over her stomach, tickling her. 

“Yes, yes you are.” you murmured as you sunk down onto your knees, winking at her as you pulled her leg onto your shoulder. 

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[seiya-starsniper]

On a dark and stormy night

Little non-explicit Sandflower prompt for my @monsterfucktoberbingobingo square - faerie

tagging @nualaofthefaerie cause you gotta 💖💖💖

AO3 Link Here, or read below:

-----------

It has been raining in the Dreaming nonstop for days.

Nuala sighs as another gust of wind rattles the windows of her bedroom, and another crack of thunder shakes the very foundations of the walls. She cannot sleep. She hasn’t slept well ever since Dream had ended his affair with Thessaly, the immortal witch. 

Or rather, the witch had ended the affair with him. Hence, the endless bouts of rain. 

Nuala tosses the covers off her body and lights the lantern next to her bed, having given up on sleep for now. Perhaps she could take a walk around the castle instead. Calm her nerves. Maybe even pour herself a glass of wine to help her sleep.

The castle halls are dark and dreary as Nuala walks through them, trying her best not to get lost. Still, she knows the halls and the stairways change frequently according to its monarch’s whims, and tonight seems to be no different. There are steps and turns she’s never seen before, and before she knows it, Nuala finds herself in front of a large wooden door with no other path forward. She considers turning around and heading back to bed, but something about the door calls to her, and so eventually, she pushes it open, surprised at how easily it gives underneath her hand.

She finds herself inside a small room with a roaring fire, sparsely decorated with only a single chair with a high back sat directly in front of the flames. Nuala smiles to herself as she moves towards the chair. This would be a fine place to escape the storm, the fire feels warm, and there are no windows inside the room so it seems to be a true escape from unpredictable weather raging just outside. 

She jumps in surprise when she reaches the chair and finds it occupied instead of empty, as she expected. 

“My lord!” Nuala cries out, when she realizes precisely who is seated in the chair. “My apologies, I didn’t notice you were there.”

Dream is curled in upon himself on the chair, his bare feet resting on the edges while his knees are tucked underneath his arms. His head is resting absently on a shoulder, and the dream king seems lost in thought for sometime before his eyes finally flit to meet Nuala’s. She doesn’t flinch underneath the intensity of the Endless’s gaze, but it’s a near thing. 

“...Nuala,” Dream finally grunts, lifting a hand and gesturing to her to move closer. “Join me.”

“Yes!” Nuala squeaks, moving hurriedly to close the distance between herself and the small piece of furniture where the dreamlord has draped himself. As she approaches, the chair extends in length to accommodate her, effectively transforming into a small sofa. Dream rearranges himself to leave open a small space where Nuala can sit—sprawl, even, if she wanted to. She chooses instead to sit up straight, not wanting to look unseemly in front of Dream.

“My lord—” Nuala begins after some silence has passed between them. “Are you…are you quite all right?” she asks, already knowing the answer. Dream grunts and sits up slightly, shaking his head as he does so. 

“I have been better,” Dream replies, before coughing into his fist, almost awkwardly. “But I suppose you already knew that.” 

Nuala clenches her fists and nods, not knowing what else to do. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asks, blushing as she realizes too late how suggestive her words sound. Dream lets out a small huff of laughter before he turns to face her, leveling the faerie with an intense gaze.

“You say you wish to help…” he says, his eyes trailing downwards from her face to her neck. Nuala flushes as he continues to stare but does not say anything more. His eyes are practically blackened, and Nuala cannot help but wonder what about her he’s so focused on.  Surely he can’t be thinking—? No, he’s only just ended another relationship, there’s no way he would think of her like that. Nuala pushes aside her lurid thoughts and only nods firmly, meeting his gaze head on.

“I do,” she answers, proud that her voice does not waver. “If there is anything you need, I would be—”

“And yet,” Dream interrupts her, and oh. When had he come so close? One moment he was on the other side of the sofa and now his face is directly in front of hers. His expression is now contorted in displeasure as he stares down at her, and Nuala does her best not to shrink and curl up in shame.

“You wear a reminder of her around your neck,” he finishes, right before he forcefully tugs the pendant Thessaly gave her from underneath her nightdress causing Nuala to shriek in surprise. Dream has never touched her so familiarly before, and the residual warmth of his fingers seems to burn where he touched her to get at the necklace.

Dream hums as he turns the pendant over in his fingers, considering. Nuala wonders if he means to destroy it. She wouldn’t be surprised if he wished to, and if he asked, she would hand it over, although she’d be sad to lose it. It really was so pretty…

“How long have you had this?” Dream asks, no, demands, his eyes darkening once more as he waits for her answer.

“N-n-not long, my lord, I swear!” Nuala yelps. “She uhm, I mean Thess—”

Dream growls and Nuala shrinks back, chastised. She remembered now how her lord had commanded no one speak her name in his presence. Another awkward silence falls between them before Dream sighs and releases his hold on the necklace, letting it drop back down to Nuala’s chest.

“My apologies,” Dream says, his eyes returning back to their normal color. “I know you were close with…her,” he finishes, nodding at the faerie to gauge her understanding of how to refer to his ex-lover. Nuala nods her assent and starts fiddling with the pendant herself, focusing on it instead of meeting her lord in the eyes.

“She was nice to me,” the faerie says. “The necklace was…a parting gift,” she admits, wondering if it’s a mistake to do so. She really liked Thessaly, she was always telling her stories and making Nuala laugh, even if the faerie really didn’t care for her complaints about Dream. And there were so many, it seemed. No matter what her lord seemed to do, it was never enough for Thessaly to be happy. 

“A parting gift,” Dream spits out the last word as if it were poison. Nuala flinches, but only so slightly. It was clear their breakup was still a sensitive subject. 

“I suppose she thought she could bribe you to leave me with pretty trinkets,” Dream continues, sniffing disdainfully as his gaze returns to the pendant once more. “I imagine she thought you would choose to leave with her if she gave you enough shiny things.”

“I—no, I would never!” Nuala insists, dropping the pendant from her hands immediately. She’s horrified that Dream would ever think such a thing. Thessaly was nice, but the Dreaming was her home, and her loyalties did not switch so easily. 

“No—you are still here after all,” Dream murmurs. “Still, I don’t like this,” he says, right before he grabs the pendant once more and snaps the chain clean off her neck.

“Lord Morpheus!” Nuala cries unhappily. So he was going to destroy the pendant after all.

“Peace, little one,” Dream replies, holding up the pendant, undamaged, though the chain it sat upon is irreparably broken. Nuala silently mourns its loss but she supposes it’s better than the whole thing being destroyed. “I will return this to you,” he adds.

Nuala feels a surge of warmth as she reaches to take the pendant back, but Dream holds it just out of reach and shakes his head.

“Before that,” Dream says, “I would like for you to tell me a story.”

“A story, my lord?” Nuala asks, unable to hide her surprise.  

“Yes,” Dream says, waving the pendant back and forth. “In exchange for your secrecy, you will give me a story, and I will let you keep this trinket now that I know it poses no threat.”

Oh. Of course that’s what he wanted to inspect the thing for. Of course.

“Are we in agreement?” Dream asks her, and Nuala nods eagerly. 

“Yes, my lord,” she answers, and then she begins to think of a story that would be worthy of telling to the Dream King. She’s so lost in her thoughts and what to talk about that she does not notice Dream shifting his position until a weight makes itself known on her thighs. Nuala squeaks when she realizes Dream has lain his head down on her lap.

“My lord?!” Nuala asks, her whole body feeling as if it were on fire. Could one self-combust in the Dreaming? She certainly felt like she was. Oh gods, how was she supposed to concentrate on telling a story now?

“Hmm?” Dream hums as if there were absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. As if this was something he did all the time. When Nuala looks down at him, she notices his eyes are closed and thank goodness for that. 

“I—are you comfortable, my lord?” Nuala asks, hoping Dream cannot hear her how fast her pulse is jackrabbiting.

“I am,” Dream answers. “You may begin.”

[nyxwordsmithwrites]

Chemically Imbalanced Finale

Trigger Warnings: Anxiety, court, smoking

It had been almost a year. One full blissful year without hearing from Todd. The anxiety each time his phone rang had slowly begun to ebb. Even in public, he was less vigilant, of course, there were still bad days but they were far less frequent. 

During this year Roman enjoyed the quiet from his phone and Todd. Even if his family was still in court it was easier to deal with one thing at a time. Thankfully Roman’s time in court had come to an end and at this point, the lawyers were just presenting arguments to decide custody for Carla. He still went every day to listen, there was no way he could be out of the loop and allow Natalie custody of his sibling. 

Outside of court, his family had grown much larger than it had once been. Paula had been hesitant to meet Jose not wanting to intrude on the familial bond between father and son. However, Roman was insistent that he needed his two parents to meet. Some part of him hoped that if Jose could see how good of a mother Paula was some of his guilt for not being there for his son would subside. 

Four months earlier

Paula was trying to assist Patton in the kitchen to prepare dinner. However, it seemed like every time she tried to assist she dropped something. Eventually, Logan came in and shooed her out of the kitchen so that Patton could finish. Paula offered Logan a sheepish smile as she walked out and found Roman. 

She was so focused she missed the grateful look that Patton gave when he finally had the kitchen to himself. Paula found Roman pacing a hole in the floor in the living room, “Ro.” She said softly, giggling a little when the teen jumped as she interrupted his thoughts. 

“Vi won’t share a smoke with me so this is the best I got.” Roman offered teasingly with a huff. 

Virgil chuckled from the back deck, “Damn right I won’t.”

Roman wrung his hands nervously until he felt his mom’s hands on his, “Mom.” 

A small smile spread across her face, “It is going to be fine. I know it.”

“But what---what if?” Roman whispered, sounding much younger than he was.

Paula moved closer, “Roman, sweetheart.” She said gently, letting him take his time to meet her gaze, “I am never going to make you choose between me and your dad.” She assured, “If we don’t get along it’s okay.”

Green eyes went wide as he listened to his mom, “Yeah?” He asked hesitantly, wanting to believe her. 

“I promise,” Paula assured, hearing the doorbell and going to it quickly. She took a calming breath then opened the door and held her breath. In front of her stood almost an exact copy of Roman just older. Even Roman’s little brother could have been his twin. 

Paula stepped out of the way smiling at the pair, “Come in.” She offered, blushing when she realized she was treating the house as her own. 

“Thank you,” Jose said with a smile, Remus walking in behind him, “My name is Jose.” He offered to the room, seeing a new face peer through the kitchen doorway. 

Logan offered a cordial smile, “Thank you for coming to our house, Jose. I know this means a lot to Roman.”

The teen walked behind Logan and poked him hard in the ribs, “Stop telling all my secrets, teach” Roman complained. 

Jose smirked, “I know it means a lot and I want to see who took care of my son when I couldn’t.”

Dinner had gone fairly well all things considered. They ate and made the uncomfortable small talk that was deemed normal, all in all, it was relatively quiet. 

At one point Roman noticed that Paula and Jose had started talking quietly to each other. He had thought nothing of it until he heard Paula genuinely laugh. It had been so long since he'd seen his mom laugh and look so relaxed, he couldn't help but smile. 

After dinner, Roman noticed Virgil step out back for a smoke and followed him. He pushed him back against the side of the house and kissed him deeply. 

Virgil squeaked as his hands found Roman's chest, kneading it slowly as they kissed, "Nervous energy?" He teased into the kiss. 

"It finally feels like I can breathe again," Roman whispered as he rested his head against Virgil's, "I didn't realize how worried I was that mom and da--Jose wouldn't get along," he explained softly, feeling his boyfriend's arms wrap around him. 

Virgil smiled as he looked up at Roman, "I bet it would make him very happy to hear you call him dad." 

Roman blushed deeply and his mouth suddenly went dry, "But what.. what if he." He couldn't even finish his concern before Virgil's lips were on his. After their first kiss and everything since Virgil had quickly learned that kissing Roman made his head stop reeling for long enough to let the logical side take over. 

The kiss broke shortly after it began. It wasn't the fiery passionate kind this time. It was full of love and understanding, "You don't have to," Virgil assured, "But I'm sure he wouldn't mind." 

________________________

That dinner had started something that Roman couldn't have ever thought would be possible. Two months after the dinner his mom had texted him to meet her for dinner at a particular restaurant. 

Roman blinked a little when he arrived with Virgil. This was not a restaurant his mom would have ever considered. It was way out of budget. He felt Virgil squeeze his hand as they walked in, seeing Paula in a smart white three-piece suit. 

"Our table is just this way," Paula assured, recognizing Roman's anxiety, "No one is dying, and don't be worried about the money," she whispered softly as they walked to the table. 

The table had candles and a bouquet in the middle, crisp white linen napkins, and a tablecloth to match. Roman almost missed that his dad was also at the table, "Dad?" He said in confusion, as Jose got up and pulled out the chair for Paula. 

Once everyone was seated Jose looked around the table from Paula to Virgil then finally to Roman, "Roo I can never thank you enough for allowing me back into your life." He took a deep breath, then continued,  "You've created a whole new chapter that I didn't even know was possible." Jose paused for a moment and looked at Paula, his green eyes warm and loving as took her in, "Paula and I have been talking ever since you introduced us…and Roman I've fallen for your mom," he admitted, still looking at Paula, "So with you here I want to ask if you'd be okay if I asked her to marry me." 

Roman's brain came screeching to a halt. This was something that only happened in books and romantic comedies. There was no way that his long-lost father had fallen in love with his adoptive mother. 

Paula giggled a little as she watched Roman's mind work, "We aren't joking," she assured, "I know we haven't known each other long. But we both instantly felt this connection that made it feel like we have known each other forever." 

Jose nodded in agreement, taking Paula's hand, " We aren't rushing into this," he promised. 

The brunette shook his head in disbelief, getting up from his chair and wrapping both his parents in a hug, "I'm just so happy," he whispered. There was nothing more he wanted than for them to get along and be able to see them in the same room together. But them wanting to get married and blend the families, hadn't even crossed Roman's mind as a possibility. 

[ohwynne]

TIMING: A few weeks ago PARTIES: Regan @kadavernagh & Wynne @ohwynne LOCATION: Office of the medical examiner SUMMARY: Wynne brings a dead bird to Regan, because this is how you bond with people. The two talk about their own backgrounds in vague ways, leaving to continued (mis)understanding. CONTENT WARNINGS: References to past abuse (within a cult).

Wynne wasn’t entirely sure how you were supposed to make friends, but it seemed that repeated interaction and gifts were two components to building up relationships with others. Ever since meeting Dr Kavanagh and her dead rabbit, there had been a nagging in their mind to see her again. While they liked and loved the people that had become constants in their life, none of them seemed quite in tune with what Wynne considered normal. This Regan, however, who spoke so wisely and with such insight about death and had handled that dead critter in a way Wynne had appreciated, felt a little bit like the people back home.

A bird had flown against the window at work, landing on its back in the soft soil where flowers grew in front of the shop. Wynne had put it in a box that had held coffee beans after watching it die. The box had been pushed to the back of the changing room and had been taken with them when their shift was over. Now here they were, standing in the lobby of the mortician’s office with the box in their hands and their wide eyes trying not to look too much at a woman called Marcy. 

Maybe this was a little strange, but they had never been very good at estimating when something was or wasn’t. It was as if all their standards for strangeness had been warped in the two decades they’d spent with the commune. They still felt a little awkward standing there, though, fingers digging in the cardboard as they rocked back and forth on their feet, only halting when the doctor appeared. “Hi!” Wynne smiled. “I hope it’s alright I stepped by. I found another … well, another dead little thing. I think my work might be a place where a lot of animal accidents happen.” One of their fingers tapped the box. “I thought you might want to see it.”

“You got another weird one here for you,” Marcy texted, “Looks kind of Midsommar? Has a box with something dead in it. You’re into that, right?”

Regan’s curiosity was piqued. It wasn’t often that she had people come to the morgue without an appointment, and even less frequently did they come bearing gifts. Who had brought her something? Was it Elias? No, he had little interest in scooping up remains outside of the confines of the medical examiner’s office. Kaden? Her chest tightened. Unlikely. Anita? They seemed to understand each other…

As Regan rounded the corner, she immediately saw just who was looking for her. And it felt like the most obvious answer in the world. “Wynne, hello.” Regan approached slowly, giving the child a curious glance. Even more interesting was the box in their arms, and the pulsating death that squeezed out of it from every side. Could Wynne feel it? No… surely not. But even before Regan’s abilities had been activated, death had its hooks in her. She knew they had something special. Maybe Wynne was the same, drawn to it even without understanding why. “Yes, it’s alright that you’re here. This is one of the few unexpected occurrences I truly do not mind. What do you have there?” She asked, preemptively pulling out her nitrile gloves and stretching them over her hands. “Better yet, why don’t you come with me? I’ll show you to my office. You may enjoy seeing it.” She gave Marcy a wave and carded herself and Wynne through the door, then down the winding hallway to her office. Familiar shelves full of skulls and a terrarium full of dermestid beetles greeted her. She gestured at the office space. “You can look around. Just don’t open any drawers or cabinets. So… how did you find this one? Does that happen a lot?” 

They were relieved when the doctor finally showed, starting to feel more and more uneasy while standing in that foyer with Marcy offering them occasional glances. Wynne didn’t much like being noticed — they’d had their fill of that, back home. The anonymity they’d found in the outside world was sometimes suffocating, but it was a good alternative. Holding a cardboard box with a dead bird in it, however, drew some attention.

“I’m glad it’s alright.” There were plenty of moments where they seemed to do things that weren’t alright without understanding why that was. But even from the few times they’d interacted with Dr Kavanagh, Wynne felt maybe the social conventions outsiders were so keen on didn’t occupy her mind much, either. They liked that about her. “Alright.”

As they followed her into her office, their eyes were wide with observant stares. They had never been in a building like this, though the sheer existence of a mortician’s office was so very interesting. The bodies at home were simply burned and then scattered, except for those in senior positions who were given a burial by lake. In the office itself, their eyes kept getting stuck on the skulls. It was somewhat like home, except more sterile and modern — but still somewhat familiar. Wynne put the box on Dr Kavanagh’s desk. “You have a lot of bones,” they said, genuinely impressed. They didn’t have that many, and certainly not in display — but they had been keeping their rabbit phalange under their pillow again. “It hit the window of my workplace and died moments later from impact. I was going to bury it but then I remembered you.” They frowned. “I suppose birds fly against windows more often than necessary, so yes, a lot.”

Wynne’s wonderment was palpable, and she let the child soak in their surroundings. Regan knew little of children other than their cruelty, but she knew that when she was Wynne’s age, this would have been a standout day, to be able to explore a medical examiner’s office. But was Wynne like her? She still didn’t know. Everything pointed to yes other than the sheer rarity of duine caillte.

“It was kind of you to think of me.” Regan said, looking at the box that was now sitting on her desk. She wanted to open it, but didn’t want to distract Wynne from their train of thought. And potentially speaking more about how frequently this happens.

“I mean, do you often find yourself finding remains?” Her eyes hovered over the shelves, all of those empty eye orbitals staring back at her with their dark sockets. She could feel their presences and pulls, tugging at her skin. Could Wynne feel it too? “What do you think of them?” She asked, wanting to prompt something revealing from Wynne. Perhaps she needed to give more to get something back. A fishing expedition seemed worth it. “Before I was – I mean, when I was a child, I would find dead animals. And dead humans, occasionally.” That Augusta’s PD was familiar with a 10 year old child due to her propensity for finding bodies was something that appalled her father. “It took many years for me to understand why and perfect my natural talent. But it was always there.” She gave Wynne a softening look, and picked an otter skull from the shelf. She offered it to the child, inviting it to be held and understood. “So tell me. What do you feel?”

It was hard not to think about the fact that burned in their mind: they had told Dr Kavanagh that the place they’d come from had sacrificed people. Murder was frowned upon in the outside world, especially premeditated it seemed, and Wynne found themself agreeing with that kind of attitude towards taking a life. The doctor hadn’t called any authorities though, as far as they knew (nor did they realize that maybe she was an authority), but had apologized. People seemed to do that a lot when they learned of their past. 

Maybe that was why they gravitated here now, wanting to offer something in return for the mild kinship they had felt and the comfort offered to through the internet. They stared at all the dead creatures. There had been some of those in their bedroom at home. “I don’t know many others who would appreciate it.”

The questions were odd, but everything was odd to Wynne. They shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I am observant in a way where I might see them, but I’m not really sure what’s ordinary in this case.”  There had been so many animal carcasses back home, from the animals they slaughtered at the altar, to the hunted deer that were skinned and eaten during feasts. There had been birds like these too, found by the kids in the woods. Skulls brought back and placed in small palms. “Humans?,” they repeated, looking at Dr Kavanagh with a look of interest and confusion. Wynne wasn’t fond of dead bodies, admittedly. There was something the other was implying, but they didn’t quite get what it was yet. “I’m glad you realized it.” That was just said to be polite, but in a sense they did mean it. There were many things Wynne still hoped to realize about themself. 

They took the skull, looking at it and then at Regan, who looked at them with a look that made them feel somewhat warm. It had been a while like someone had looked at them like this: like someone with potential. They didn’t want to disappoint. “I don’t know how to describe it. I guess I mostly feel some kind of reverence?” Wynne felt like there was a right answer, but they didn’t know it. They let their fingers slide over the bone. “Like even in dead this holds some kind of value and power, at least.”

“Humans, yes.” Regan nodded, supposing it was fair for that to strike Wynne as unsettling or unusual. “I found bodies. Homicides, mostly, that were dumped outside. I’d be walking to school with my brothers and find myself standing over human remains in an alley. The police knew me.” She hesitated. “It still happens.” Was any of that resonating with Wynne? She wasn’t sure. But the gentle way they handled the skull made her wonder if it actually mattered… even if Wynne was not like her, they were similar in so many ways. Cliodhna would always say humans lacked the capacity to connect with death, and though that seemed to be true the majority of the time, Wynne planted a small seed of doubt in her mind. 

“Your reverence for the dead is a special thing. A gift, some might say. Though it is a gift with a great burden.” If Wynne was indeed duine caillte. She didn’t want to have Wynne leave today without getting closer to the truth. Regan approached the box and gently lifted the bird from it, giving it an affectionate look. It was an ordinary swallow-like bird, maybe a purple martin, but its feathers seemed to glisten with hundreds of colors. She stroked its wing, which she noticed was bent at an unnatural angle, probably a byproduct of the window strike that took its life away.

She looked up from the bird, trying to keep her expression soft as she addressed Wynne. That was a hard thing for her to do, a rare look on her face. “Wynne, I am very curious about your background. I have wondered, at times, if we have more in common than you know. And if we do…” Then what? Regan wasn’t entirely sure. She wanted to keep Wynne safe. Wanted to see that they would never experience a dúiseacht. “Then we should discuss how you wish to proceed with the rest of your life.”

That was a strange thing for the other to have experienced, to still experience. Wynne listened quietly, trying to imagine it. Being young and finding random dead bodies. They might have been exposed to death at a young age, but it had always been anticipated — something about death at home had been planned and orchestrated. Not stumbled upon. “That must have been very strange. More than coincidence, right?” Such things didn’t just happen to most people, that was something they understood by now. Maybe Regan also came from a place different than here.

Their lips pushed together in response to that statement. “Gifts are so often burdens.” As was duty. As was life. As was this second chance they’d forced upon themself. “But I don’t know who I’d be without it.” So many people here were disconnected from mortality, weren’t they? Death was something that happened in their movies and television shows, that was shared about on social media but it was never treated the way it had been at home. With rituals and preparation. With reverence. With acceptance before the denial, the anger, the depression. 

When they looked at Dr Kavanagh she looked at them with a softness that invited Wynne in. Her question was probing, too close for comfort, especially considering all that they had already said. They were quiet, letting the words hang in the air — rest of their life, what did that mean? This already felt like the rest of it, every day lived in spite of it all a bonus day. “If you want to ask me questions I could try to answer them, but I’m not sure what you want to know now. But if we could have things in common, maybe it’d be good to know?” They swallowed. “You’re not going to tell anyone about what I told you before, right?” Because from what they’d gathered, the other did sometimes work with police. 

“No, I won’t tell anyone. It was long in the past, and any investigation would have ended. You aren’t bringing anything new to light and were not directly involved.” Though something tugged at Regan’s uncertainty. Was there more, something Wynne intentionally neglected to mention? Was there another reason why they might be fearful of authorities investigating? She kept her concerns close for now, and tilted her head in thought. “I have secrets, too. Ones that I believe you might share, even if you don’t know it.” 

She had never told a human this. She had doubts that Wynne was human, but she couldn’t say with 100% confidence, and thus, this was taking a bigger risk than she’d ever allowed before. Sure, there were some in town who knew of her true nature – Conor she told, and Metzli had somehow intuited it through knowing another – but it was not information she shared freely. “My family is unusual, too. Not all of it.” The part that matters, she thought, but struck down that ugly notion immediately. They were Cliodhna’s words, not her own. “What I’m about to tell you will probably make it seem as though I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. But I could prove it.” Which was not to say she would. Her stomach sank like a stone when she thought of someone looking at her like she was a monster, what that might be like. Regan set down the dead bird gently, like she was prepared to kiss it goodnight, and firmed up her decision to proceed. “I sense death. I feel it all around me, ever-present here.” She glanced around at the shelves of bones. “It draws me toward it, calls me. I wonder if it does the same to you.”

Regan paced a semi-circle around the room, the bones looking down at her. Each small presence sang against her skin. Everything she had explained so far had been the easy part, the parts she could retract and lie through her teeth that she had been speaking figuratively, and they could part ways and Wynne would think this was none other than a strange interaction with a kooky doctor. But she couldn’t stop at the easy stuff.

“My grandmother has a word, a name, for that – for things like me.” Several, actually. Leanbh. Child. Whelp. Hopeless. Beyond repair. “An instrument of death and diviner of fate.” Regan frowned, looking into Wynne’s eyes. “I don’t suppose you know what that name is.”

The authorities hadn’t been their largest concern since running away, but they had been one of them. There had been some laws broken by Wynne, with them sleeping in places where they weren’t supposed to and stealing food from time to time. And then, of course, their knowledge of ritualistic murders that happened every decade or so, that they were forbidden to speak of with outsiders. Despite their complicated feelings about the people they abandoned, they didn’t want police to come sniffing. “Okay,” they said, visibly relieved. “I appreciate it.” 

There was something about the doctor that seemed so wise, so knowledgeable, so calm. Wynne longed for adults like this in their lives, ones that felt steady, ones that listened and told them what to think while also asking them what they thought. All their life had been guided by strong, capable and cruel hands and now there were none but the ones they sought out. Dr Kavanagh had gentle hands, they thought. Ones that knew death the same way Wynne did. They listened to her speak, not thinking that she had lost her mind at all. Family structures other than their own didn’t make sense to them anyway, and there were none they had ever come across that were like theirs. But Dr Kavanagh didn’t speak of odd rituals, but rather something that seemed supernatural. Why not? Nothing here, in this town, seemed to subscribe to any rules. Nothing had subscribed to any rules at home either, besides the ones enforced by the elders.

Did it do the same to Wynne though? They had felt a pull towards death for years, if only because of its imminent and constant presence. Jac had died on the altar and they’d watched, quiet and young. After him, there had been the lambs and the chickens, the rabbits and piglets. Wynne had silenced a rooster with the flick of a blade, performing the act that would be performed on them. Death had pulled at them, yes. But they had ran from it all the same. “I think so. I just … I don’t always answer it. I think I’m afraid of it. The way it …” Eyes looked away. “Calls for me.” Them, specifically. Their body. They shouldn’t be alive but were.

As Dr Kavanagh paced, Wynne stood frozen as if glued to the floor. Were there others out there like them? Other communities like the one they dwelled from? Or was there something more at play here? But if the doctor was an instrument of death, maybe she was more like Siors. Knife-wielder, killer, determinator. He had pointed at Wynne. He had cupped their head and placed a crown of flowers and bones on there and thanked them for their devotion to duty. “Henuriad. Or, maybe, dewisedig?” Who was the instrument, the one bleeding or the one who made bleed? The elder who decided or the youth who folded? They shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.” It felt like a test. 

“Are those your words for it?” Regan tilted her head. That didn’t sound like Irish. It was an unfamiliar language, but that didn’t mean Wynne was incorrect. Regan had half a mind to reject the word banshee herself, viewing it as a label the others were insistent on, but not a truth. Whether she was a human inflicted with some unknown syndrome or something else entirely, she could not say, but banshee was no diagnosis. However, the part of her that hesitated before was pulling back more strongly now. Wynne looked confused, trying to pick meaning out of their past, but their eyes weren’t alight with realization like Regan thought they might be. She needed to learn more before she said something she could not take back.

“I might be incorrect,” Regan breathed, and she wasn’t sure if it was more relief or wistfulness, “I thought… before I truly realized my potential, I was confused. I didn’t understand why I was so different. Why my closest friend was an articulated coyote skeleton and why my peers would turn their noses up at the way I smelled.” She turned away from the shelves and paced back toward Wynne. “Perhaps it’s nothing. But I want you to do something for me, Wynne.” She waited until Wynne’s eyes were fixed on her. “Try to stay out of danger. Away from situations where someone around you may die. I know it’s difficult in this town, but you must try your best. Can you do that?”

“It’s Welsh. For elder. And the other one means chosen. We used them back home, to describe certain people.” Words to describe the roles enforced on people at home. Just people, living in servitude of a demon — and Wynne wasn’t sure whether the other was just human herself. “I don’t know what you’re trying to get at. And I –” Well, it wasn’t like they wanted to speak of all the things they’d abandoned just yet. They also didn’t want to disappoint Dr Kavanagh, who had seemed so invested in them, looking at them with a look Wynne hadn’t been able to place. Teeth buried in their bottom lip, watching her pace around and still remaining standing rather still. 

Arms lifted, wrapping themselves around their body. “I was different too, growing up. They all told me I was different, that I was special.” They wanted to understand. Or no, maybe they wanted to be understood. “Not because of things like you. But I think my people, we’re all very different. We all gravitated towards skeletons too. You know? Sew bones in our sheets and shirts. Wear them. But that might mean nothing to you. I don’t … I don’t know.” They looked at her, wide-eyed. “Of course I’ll try that. I don’t want anyone to die, let alone around me.” It sounded selfish. “But that seems … unnecessary to say, unless there’s another reason you’re telling me?”

“Elder… chosen…” Regan frowned. It was the heavy kind that sank on her lips, as her doubts grew weightier. They weren’t familiar words, or ones that made a particular kind of sense, and that concerned her. “It doesn’t matter.” Regan said, though it mattered a great deal, and her stomach twisted in mutiny. 

She cocked her head at the curious way Wynne seemed to hug themself. Were they uncomfortable here? Or was it the subject matter? She considered tip-toeing away from it, but her determination to know more about Wynne’s history was greater than her desire not to cause some discomfort. “Wynne?” She asked, to check on them all the same. The memories they were recalling were clearly… difficult, in some way. It was hard to piece together every fragment of information she’d received from Wynne and not assume they were a banshee – the death they’d witnessed, the insularity, the bones – was it possible? “I don’t know either,” Regan said, looking down at the skunk mandible on her desk, “but I’ve known some who do that kind of thing. Perhaps it means nothing, perhaps everything.”

“There is another reason,” Regan said hesitantly, “but I don’t know if you being aware of it will be beneficial. Not at your age. You are too old, despite being a child. I was too old. It’s best to avert it entirely and not let it take everything from you.” She could hear something in her tone she didn’t like, something behind her voice that should have been long dead, and she reeled herself in before her lungs decided to respond. Regan wanted an answer, needed an answer, and it hadn’t carved itself out of Wynne’s responses yet. More prompting was needed, and it needed to be clever. Both overt and easy to deny if Wynne turned out to be nothing but an ordinary human after all. An idea occurred to her. 

Regan approached her desk and unlocked the bottom drawer. Inside, she pulled out the fungus field guide that Leah had sold her, the one that had detailed just how to reverse the effects of death’s chariot. The section on that particular mushroom was dog-eared. “Here,” Regan said, offering to them, “I know it’s a strange gift, but take this home, see if anything in there stands out to you. And… don’t show it to any animal control officers.”

When Dr Kavanagh spoke their name, Wynne became aware of the way they were folding in on themself. They had been better at keeping their composure at home, but it seemed like all the things they had been taught and expected to do had fallen away. What was left, now that they were no longer someone who lived for a destiny? With pride? There was shame and fear and this woman, who made them more confused when they’d hoped that she might understand. “I’m fine.” 

What she seemed to be suggesting was that there was more at play. To figure out if that was true, there was an obvious thing Wynne had to do: offer up all that was at play, speak of their history not just in vague flashes of detail. Because this was only proving to be disorienting, right? With the doctor alluding to things out of Wynne’s reach and them failing to mention the demonic entity they had once worshiped and later betrayed.

“It was already going to take everything from me. I mean, my it. I think, maybe …” They trailed off, fingers tightening their grip on their t-shirt. “I don’t know if we’re talking about the same thing. I was supposed to die.” Was that what Dr Kavanagh meant, too? Because if so, Wynne had been aware of it since they were ten years old. Their voice was wavering, their thoughts jumbled. “I don’t know what else there is or was to be aware of. I am too old, because I’m not dead. Is that what you mean? Is this what you meant with death being a beginning?” Could there have been more, after their sacrifice? 

They unraveled when the other revealed a book on fungi. Strange, indeed. They had never done much with mushrooms back at home besides put them in their food and enjoy their taste. “O..okay. I’ll read it. And I don’t know any animal control officers, so that shouldn’t be an issue.”

Wynne seemed to be someplace else, withdrawn. What were they thinking, remembering? Regan held her breath as she waited. Would this be it? The definitive piece of information that provided her with an answer once and for all? She stared, trying not to unnerve the child, but too curious to look away for even a second. As with everything else Wynne had told her, this information provoked more questions than it provided answers. She couldn’t help but feel like she was missing something. That this wasn’t as opaque as it seemed. So much of it made sense, and yet, it was off.

“Yes,” She said, slowly, some kind of picture coming into focus. Maybe Wynne meant metaphorically. “You are supposed to die. That is a necessary part of what must be done.” The banshees viewed life as a part of death, rather than the other way around. And the An chéad scread was an end just as much as it was a beginning. Both were to be celebrated. She thought, her mouth flattening into a straight line. This was peculiar. Wynne knew more than Regan thought they did. She had assumed Wynne didn’t understand their nature, why they were drawn to such beautiful remains, but they seemed to know exactly what they evaded for so many years.

Regan decided she needed more information. Still. “How did you escape it? They track you down. I know they do… I’m certain they’re looking for me.” She flicked her eyes over to the door, like someone could have followed them down here. 

They frowned at the other now, somehow more confused. Slowly, they shook their head. “No, I’m not supposed to any more. It’s too late now.” Sure, Wynne was going to die one day, but for now hadn’t they outran their fate? Hadn’t they been successful? Hadn’t this been nine months of extra time they had bought themself, through grit teeth and bravery? They swallowed. 

They thought of that woman in the coffee shop, how strange her responses had been. And now the doctor was speaking of whether they were being tracked down and their panic flared up. “I ran. I —” They frowned, failing to remember all they had done when running. “I got some of my things and I went, I got the bus after I ran all night and then I just kept going. And now I’m here.” They were wondering now if they could stay. There were people here, who wanted to protect them. Emilio. Maybe even the Leviathan. Teddy. Zack. But could they ask it of them? 

Gulping in a breath of air they looked at Dr Kavanagh. “Did you run too?” Wynne’s eyes had somehow grown even more in size. “My people, they don’t tend to leave. Not this far out. And —” They had no idea in what kind of state they had left the commune, after refusing to fold to the demon’s demands. “Maybe they’ll find me. I don’t want to —” They bit their lip. “I don’t want that. Not for you either, if that’s what could happen.”

So Wynne had run. Just left and took the bus. It couldn’t be that simple, not ever, and Regan knew there had to be something else – hounds on Wynne’s heels or something left behind. Regan had left something behind, too, something that had died there. 

Had she run? Kind of. From the place, the people, her grandmother. She had run from their visions of duty, their praise and platitudes, their comfort and cruelty. But she had replaced them with her own, and while Cliodhna’s words could scald and scar, Regan’s worst failures were self-conferred. She thumbed over the harsh lines and circles across her palm and finally responded. “My kind is not supposed to run, but I suppose that’s what I did. Or what it amounts to, anyway. I thought… I was chasing something, the idea that the grass is always greener, but I don’t think that’s true.” She eyed Wynne. “Is it?”

She paced to the door. The room suddenly felt smaller. Claustrophobic. She sensed that she could extend some trust to Wynne – a small but not negligible amount – and within that trust she’d found that they were both tréigtheoirí. It was more of an answer than she’d ever sought, more revealing than what she had been probing for. Being in the same room with Wynne took on a new air of traitorousness, like the two of them had planned this together. Regan wanted to wash her hands clean of that feeling. To be alone again. 

Regan turned to Wynne. The child probably knew the answer already. “If they find me, they will not stop until I go back with them. They will remove all obstacles. They will ensure I have no reason to stay.” Fortunately, she could count her reasons on one hand. There was Reilly, first and foremost. Then her work. If she could protect those two things, then she was covered. Everything else, everyone else, could fall away. Right? But as she looked at the child, doubt clouded her mind. Were there more things to count? The thought made her lungs squeeze with distaste. No. She refused it.  “I think we must be careful; both of us.” Regan pushed the door open a crack, an invitation to exit.  “Be safe, Wynne.”

“Nor is mine.” The people who left the commune were left with nothing. Disinherited. Cut off. Refused entry back in. Protherians weren’t violent inherently, but they could be. Those who considered leaving had been chastised, isolated, watched. At the end of the day, there had been nothing keeping Wynne from running, no invisible border or demonic claw pulling them back — but they had believed it. That they were all stuck there, under a contract, a shared agreement with something so much older and wiser than them. 

All Wynne had taken had been the clothes on their back, the duffel bag they’d packed and that one piece of paper that proved they were real. They lifted their shoulders at the doctor’s question. “I don’t know. People here are ignorant and hard to understand. But … there are many things better here.” The sheer fact that they were alive, for one. 

Suddenly, the other became more human. Less impressive adult who spoke with a wisdom and mystique that made Wynne think of her as some higher being, but someone who had something in common with them. Fear, maybe. Or at least a place and a past she was hiding from. They wanted to ask so much more now. “Then I hope they do not find you. Or me.” What would their family do? Would Wynne even fight them? Zack and Emilio, they had both vowed to protect them, but would they want that — would they not run into their father’s arms, as they had as a child? Did part of them not long, perhaps, for some kind of retribution. They had never been strong in the face of them and their expectant faces. Their bravery only existed in their absence. 

The door cracked open and with it, all questions died. Despite the humanity they had gleamed from the other and the questions they were still burning with, Regan was still someone they thought more authoritative than them. “You too, Dr Kavanagh,” they said, clutching the book to their chest and moving to the door. They cast a glance over their shoulder and gave a small nod. “Afternoon.”

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Skin & Scale (Part 11)

Over on Ao3 I decided to bump up the rating on this one because the chapter ended up being much more graphic than I anticipated. Like, a lot more. If you aren't familiar with my works, I don't shy away from gore so I definitely advise reader discretion for this one and to skip the chapter if you need to. I'll give a less graphic summary of this chapter in the next one for people who might have decided to skip.

Azula takes a shuddering breath, that’s when it really hurts–when she breathes. She folds in on herself and grits her teeth. She hopes that Katara, Sokka, one of the servants, anyone at all would come and check on her. Right now she can’t stand up to seek out help–she can’t even half sit up. 

Her head pounds so furiously that it is nearly blinding.

With any luck Aang and Zuzu will be back with the dragons soon. But they have only just left. 

She tries for a second time to sit herself upright. All that does is send ripples of pain rocketing through her body, flowing from the core out. 

And her hands. She grips her head between them. Her dragon skin is rough on her cheeks and temples and if she grips too tightly then her claws stab viciously into her scalp. Her body jerks, suddenly, violently. The twitch sends her claws dragging down the side of her head and she winces at the sharp burst. She closes her eyes and takes a shaky breath. She can already feel a warm wetness and she isn’t sure if she wants to assess the damage. Very slowly, she grazes her fingers over the gash, it is fairly deep. She swallows and makes a third attempt to get up. Her entire body protests, her mind and soul protest. Her entire essence screams for her to lay back down. Her entire essence save for her throbbing, pounding, blood slicked neck. From just behind her ear down to the middle of her neck the gash urges her to have it attended to.

And so she pulls herself out of bed despite the violent stitches and pangs of her muscles, despite how all of her bones seem to snap and her joints seem to crack. 

She leans heavily against the bedpost, her breaths ragged with pain and strain. Beads of sweat trickle down a face flushed and burning red. As best as Azula can manage, she takes her first few steps away from the bed. It is more of a stumble than a series of steps. Her vision sways almost as much as her lopsided, uneven gait. It feels as though one leg is significantly shorter than the other. Her progression to the door is a dizzy hobble. Everything feels so out of alignment. Her bones are misplaced and rearranged and the side of her head and neck are weeping. She wants to cry with them but tears will do her no good. Her vision is blurry and unclear as it is. 

She leans against the doorway for a moment and audibly winces a soft little hum of pain. She might fall over. At least if she topples here there is a chance that someone will come down the hallway and realize that it isn’t typical of their princess to lay on the floor, robes and hair disheveled. 

She pushes herself away from the doorframe taking one more step before her body jolts again and sends her crashing to the floor. Her head hits the carpet hard and she cries out. Her low lip quivers. The spasms happen more frequently by the hour. At this rate she predicts that she will be seizing within perhaps five hours, maybe sooner. 

Her elbows throb as furiously as her neck, explosions of stabbing static crawl down her forearms to her hands. She is tingly and achy and considering once again that she won’t survive this return to what should have been her natural form. That this body can’t handle her true body. That, after so many years, it is rejecting its nature.

Azula bunches herself up and shivers. 

She feels sick.

“Azula?”

Her stomach tickles with relief. The voice is still distant but the footsteps are coming closer. She opens her mouth to speak but instead of a tumble of mumbled words comes a lava flow of burning blood. Her own blood burns the inside of her mouth. She wonders if it is blistering the skin on her neck. It is only then that she realizes that two plumes of smoke rise from her nostrils. She supposes that this isn’t the first time that she has breathed exhaled fire without realizing it, let alone meaning to.

At this point she thinks that it might be a stress response. 

She feels hands. They roll her onto her back and she stares at the ceiling. It has been a while since she has actually looked at the hallway ceilings. They are plain in comparison to the flaming motifs and reliefs in the throne room. But they are still quite nice, a deep red in color and adorned with geometric gold vaults. Maybe if she lives she can have some sort of mural painted on her bedroom ceiling. Something elegant and bold, maybe comets with blue tails in a night sky, maybe some dragons if she can stand the sight of them after this. 

She is sure that the person very cautiously lifting her from the floor is talking to her. But the sound is muffled. She is losing feeling. She might be more concerned about the implications of that if she weren’t so relieved to see the pain show itself out. 

.oOo.

“Is she going to be okay?” Sokka asks. “Can you heal her?”

“I’m trying!” Katara does mean to shout but Azula’s body seems to be breaking faster than she can piece it together. She isn’t sure exactly how literally she means that. Sure the girl is in one piece–for now, the thought comes before she can stop it–but the way her leg is bent is quite awful to look at. 

The princess has gone horribly still. 

“Is she…?” Sokka starts. 

Katara holds a hand to her chest. Azula’s heart is racing beneath Katara’s touch. But she is so, so still.

“I don’t know what to do, Sokka.” She rubs her hands over her face. At the very least she can patch up that bleeding gash. 

“I should have told Aang and Zuko to find the dragons sooner.”

“What would they have done, Sokka? She would…transform?...whether the dragons are here or not.”

“But they might have known how to make it easier.” He slaps his own forehead. “I’m so stupid.”

“If you are then all of us are because none of us thought that it would be a good idea to let the dragons know that we found their…child.” It is so strange to call Azula a child. She had always seemed so…so mature. And yet she can never quite forget that look in her eyes, that fear on the day of the comet. Can never forget how much worse that look was when she had been attacked by those spirits. Now she is seeing it for a third time and there is nothing grown up about it. It is complete and total dread, the sort that a person call for their mother or father. But Azula does neither because even in the throes of this transformation she knows that her mother is distant and that her father is more terrifying than even this. Or maybe she thinks that neither would care. But she does ask for Zuko and somehow that rattles Katara more than it would have if she had just asked where her mom was. 

“He’s getting the dragons, remember?” Katara asks. She isn’t sure if Azula is even listening to her. She isn’t sure how much of Azula is still here and how much of her is lost to the delirium of pain and fear. 

“Tell him to come back. Tell Zuzu to…” She breaks off into a scream and her back arches. That scream ends in a sob and Azula’s body crashes back to the floor. She rolls onto her side and Katara can see the protrusion of her vertebrates and those small little bumps and knobs where tiny spines begin to poke through. 

She hasn’t heard Azula cry like this since the comet. 

She hadn’t even wept like that when the spirits had done their work. 

Next to Katara, Sokka visibly flinches. He turns away, “Katara, I think I’m…” The first spine breaks through and Sokka, covers his hand with his mouth. He rushes to one of those decorative vases. She can’t blame him, the contortions alone are making her squamish. Those sickly snaps and pops. Each one ending with a whimper and cry from Azula. 

Azula whose little claws etch scratches into the floor. Azula who opens her eyes to reveal one that is familiar and human and one that is serpentine. Both eyes are tortured and pleading. Both implore her to do something, but this is far beyond what her waterbending can fix. She feels as helpless as she had the day she watched her mother die. 

She couldn’t do anything then and she can’t do anything now. 

She doesn’t want to see another person die.

She realizes that, in spite of everything, she doesn’t want to see Azula die.

And yet she can’t turn away. She wonders if it would be ruder to observe her, for a second time, in such a helpless and vulnerable state or to turn away and leave her to face this thing alone.

Almost certain that Azula would prefer to have some privacy, she begins to turn away, but Azula reaches out for her. “Don’t go.” She requests quietly.

“I won’t.” Katara replies. “And Sokka is hear too. Right, Sokka?”

“Huh? Yeah, sure?” He practically looks green in the face but he shambles on over and, more brazenly than she could ever be, takes Azula’s outstretched hand. 

Azula squeezes it. 

And Katara knows that Azula thinks that she is dying.

.oOo.

She can’t remember the last time a physical ailment has coaxed her to beg for it to stop. She doesn’t think that one has ever reduced her to bawling like she is now. But then she has never had a physical ailment that has stretched, elongated, and reshaped her body like this one. 

She can no longer tell what’s what, which limb is hurting and how it is hurting. It is just a shapeless jumble of agony, nerves firing off here and there. 

There is an eruption on her back–perhaps over her shoulder blades–and a snap of her jaw. There is blood. There is so much blood but Sokka still holds her hand even though he looks like he is going to throw up, even though there is blood on his hand. Katara is bloodied too. 

“Maybe we should take her to the springs.” Katara suggests. “It could help to have water all around her…”

“But…?” Sokka prompts.

“I’m afraid to move her and if she’s thrashing like this then she could drown.” Katara clenches her teeth. “She also isn’t really comfortable with that kind of healing session on a good day…”

“Just make it stop.” She utters. “Just…I need it to stop.” 

Katara grimaces. 

“Maybe we should take her. It sounds like she’d rather deal with the waterbending than…”

Than her whole body being bent every which way. 

“What’s happening to me?” She mumbles. Generally speaking she is well aware of what is happening, she is becoming a full dragon. But she wants to know the details, what is broken and twisted, where all of the blood is coming from, if there is anything even remotely human about her or if she is just this grotesque amalgamation caught somewhere between human and dragon. She has a feeling that this is the case. 

“Can we even lift her?” She hears Katara ask. “She’s getting bigger.” 

At least she has some hint as to what she might look like…until she realizes that this could either mean that she is a bigger human or that she is, in fact, more dragonlike than human now. She stares down the length of her arm, but it is no help, her arm had already been mostly dragon. Both of them. And her arms are indeed longer. 

But she doesn’t know what her face looks like, she doesn’t know what her back and torso look like. Azula doesn’t think that she wants to know, but all the same she can’t stand not knowing. Her head hurts so badly. Her jaw is cracking, her gums are bleeding. The entirety of her chin is coated in blood, the product of fully formed dragon teeth that don’t fit in a mouth that must be human. Her face is probably still human. 

She reaches up to touch her forehead. Where those knots had been are full on horns. No wonder she can’t lift her head. They are so, so heavy on her head. 

“You’re going to be alright, Azula.” Sokka promises, his hand strokes her cheek. She doesn’t believe him but at least she won’t die alone. She always thought that she would and she supposes that it is, for once, comforting to be wrong. 

“I don’t want to die.” She says weakly. Her voice doesn’t sound like her anymore. There is a rasp to it, a lower rumble. Once again she finds it hard to fathom why the water siblings haven’t fled. She can’t imagine that this is a beautiful sight. 

Her belly is hot. 

Searing. 

What was once her fire chakra is now a simmering lava pit that feels as though it will burn a hole through her thickening abdomen. Perhaps it is thickening to keep the fire inside. Dragon fire. There is a striking difference between human flames and dragon flames and her human skin is too delicate to keep dragon’s fire inside. The skin around her throat will need to thicken too if she is going to breath a dragon’s fire. 

She realizes that she is still, indeed, smoking. That coils of smoke are still billowing from her nostrils and mouth. Sometimes there is a burst of ash accompanied by a soft glow on her belly. She has heard that sometimes, when their fire is potent enough, a dragon’s belly glows. She had always imagined an orange glow.

Hers is blue.

She isn’t sure why she had thought it wouldn’t be. 

Sokka puts a hand on her slick forehead and pushes her hair back. She closes her eyes. Katara mutters over and over again that it is going to be alright. But she doesn’t think that it will be. Her stomach is swelling, it feels like it is going to rupture either with size or the fire trapped within it. Her face feels like it will crunch and split. Her eyes are burning, tears are streaming down her face. She can’t tolerate it anymore and her body and mind know it. She thinks that, in these situations, you are supposed to stay awake because falling asleep could be a permanent thing. But she can’t stand it anymore, she just can’t. She can feel her skin splitting and searing. The absence that unconsciousness promises is becoming too enticing to pass up.

In her dreams she had seen fire, viscera, and violence. Ravaged cities and temples. She hadn’t realized that the temple had been her body. That the city was her mind.

Azula wonders if anyone will actually miss her. Had they actually grown fond enough of her to care. Sokka’s hand stroking her cheek and Katara holding her claw gives her the impression that, in the end, she did have friends. That–even if she didn’t realize or comprehend it all that well–people had cared about her. 

She wonders what Zuzu will say when he gets home. 

Wonders if there will be a grand nation wide ceremony like grandfather’s or if it will be a privet one.

She hopes that they will cast her body into a volcano for one last spectacular display.

The pain seems to taper off as she slips into the velvety blanket of nothingness. It wraps her up and spares her the pain of wings fully unfurling, of an elongated snout, of the last of her human skin being shed among other terrible unpleasantries. 

.oOo. 

What surrounds Azula can only be compared to a battle ground. It has the same look as the wake of their battle with the spirits. But instead of a tiny princess curled up in a pool of blood next to an equally ravaged prince, there is a dragon. 

Had Sokka not seen it happen before him, he would think that this dragon had clawed Azula apart. In a sense, he supposes that is what had happened. Except that Azula is both Azula and the dragon that had torn her up. 

Next to him Katara is crying and shaking. 

They have seen a lot but there was a brutality today, the sort that only nature and supernature could achieve. 

And it is beyond what Katara can process. Beyond what he can process and maybe that is why he has gone numb. Numb and cold. 

He pulls Katara into a hug. One that she breaks abruptly. “I’m going to go clean up.” He doesn’t blame her, he is eager to…to wash Azula off of him. 

“I’ll probably do the same.” But he has to wait because someone has to explain this mess to the guards and servants. The ones that hadn’t already rushed to the scene. Most of them seem to have fainted or fled and he can’t say that he blames a single one of them. It isn’t like they could have done something, anyhow.

He also has to check…

He waits for Katara to leave before approaching the dragon. She has to be alive, her belly still sears blue and puffs of smoke still puff from her nostrils. Teeny little Azula who he used to be able to (much to her discontent) pluck right off the ground is now huge. And she is just a baby. 

A small baby dragon that takes up a good portion of the room, her tail had knocked over several vases and the first involuntary flex of her wings had put cracks in the pillars. 

His shaking hand hovers above a spot on her belly but he retracts it immediately at the heat rippling off of it. Instead he rests his palm against a part of her neck. Her breathing is beginning to level out and he releases his own breath. 

She is still alive.

[syddsatyrn]

Violets for V-day

☆Pairing: - Vi x Fem!Reader

☆Warnings: Smut, fluff, oral sex, swearing, 18+

☆Words: 2k

☆Summary: Vi wants to spoil you for Valentines day. The day takes a surprising turn when you find out Vi has a soft side. ☆Notes: Happy Valentines day, my lovely followers. <3 Enjoy a short One-shot with a subby Vi.

Master list

Daylight seeped through the blinds and you can hear the faint sound of cars in the distance. A large white comforter is covering your body, shielding you from the world of the living. You groan and stir a little. You’re not ready to leave the comfort of your bed. You're not even sure what time it is, either way it's too early.

Vi fumbles with her keys at your front door. Trying her hardest not to wake you. She opens the door and shuts it softly. Your bedroom door is closed, Vi sighs in relief while setting the bag on the counter.

She places a bouquet of red roses in a vase you frequently leave on the counter. She added a little water to the vase and set a heart shaped box of chocolates next to the delicate flowers. She slipped something in her back pocket and pulled out a few grocery items to make breakfast.

Vi begins mixing pancake batter and places strips of bacon on a pan. Vi loves to cook, it's something she's enjoyed since she was a kid. The misfit grew up taking care of siblings so she had to learn some cooking skills. But she mostly liked cooking for you and making you smile.

You rolled over and figured it was time to get up considering you're having trouble falling back asleep. You decide to get up and take a shower. You lazily roll out of bed and remove your sleep clothes right outside the bathroom connected to your room.

I'm your sleepy state, you had no idea Vi was on the other side of the apartment making breakfast. Your foggy brain wasn't paying much attention to anything else except waking up. Once you get into the shower and feel the warm water against your skin, you feel just a little more alert.

Vi hears the shower kick on and thinks to herself, this is my chance! She opens the door to your room and snags your robe and a clean towel to place into the dryer. She quickly walked back into the kitchen to turn off the burners and plate the food.

You massage your scalp with shampoo and rinse, you inhale the sweet scent of cherry blossoms. But another savory scent interrupts the flowery soap. Do I smell bacon? You finish up and push the shower curtain to one side. To your surprise, you see your pink haired misfit standing in the doorway. She's holding your robe and a towel, with a signature smirk.

"Hey, hot stuff." she says and looks you up and down. You step out of the shower, a pink tint forming in your face.

"H-hey! What are you doing here so early?" You ask, happy to see your girlfriend. She wraps the warm towel around you and kisses your forehead.

"I couldn't wait to spend Valentine's day with my favorite person." She says sweetly. You dry yourself off the rest of the way and smile as she helps you into the warm, cotton robe.

"You're so sweet." You compliment and wrap your arms around her neck. Vi leans forward and lovingly kisses your lips. You return the kiss and her hands wander down to your hips.

She breaks away and scatters kisses all over your face. "I made you breakfast." She whispers in your ear.

"God, can I just marry you already?" You tease. Vi chuckles and leads you to the kitchen. The first thing you see is the beautiful red flowers and sweets she laid out for you.

"Oh, Vi…" You say softly. She turns around to gauge your reaction and she notices tears in the corners of your eyes.

"Wha- don't cry!" Vi frantically asks while enveloping you in her strong arms.

"Nothing! These are happy tears. You are so thoughtful. I just adore you." You say into her shoulder and squeeze her. “Only the best for my Y/n.” She says and kisses the top of your head. Vi leads you to the couch and retrieves your plate and a cup of coffee. The pancakes are fluffy and everything tastes exactly how you like it. Vi had already eaten most of her breakfast while cooking, something she frequently does. “Good?” She asks and you nod in response. She takes your plate to the kitchen and sets it in the sink.

You take another sip of your coffee and admire your caring girlfriend's face. The freckles scattered across her cheeks, the tattoo under her eye, her nose ring. You think to yourself how lucky you are to have such an affectionate and attractive partner.

Vi walks back over to the couch and gets on her knees in front of you. You meet her gaze and she smiles. “Close your eyes.” She says and you comply. She pulls out a small, flat box from her back pocket and removes the top. “Okay, you can open ‘em.” She says proudly. Inside the box was a red, oval, gemstone necklace with a silver chain. The facets were silver as well. You place your hands over your mouth and your eyes widen. Vi grins at your reaction, she put a lot of thought into this. You finally remove your hands and look back into her eyes. “This is gorgeous, Vi. You really didn’t hav-” You begin to say but Vi cuts you off. “I wanted to. Because you’re the most important person to me, and I want to show you that.” She says while placing one hand on your knee. “I love it so much, thank you darling.” You say while leading forward to wrap your arms around her neck. “You are the most important person in my life as well.” You reply with a kiss to her forehead, Vi’s face turns a little red. You run your fingers through her soft pink hair and she leans into your hand. “Can I put it on for you?” She asks. You nod and move all your hair to one side, exposing the back of your neck. Vi stands up and removes the necklace from its display box. She unclasps it and leans forward, towering over you. She gently fastens the chain around your neck. The way she smells is intoxicating, like cedarwood and myrrh. Your biggest weakness is the ongoing smirk she wears often. “I knew this would look nice on you.” The pink haired woman said softly. You take Vi’s hand and slowly stand up. You lead her into your room and face the standing mirror leaning against the wall. You adjust the silver chain and stand in awe of how well it compliments your skin. You turn and place your hands on her chest and connect your lips with hers. Vi wraps her arms around your waist as she raises her eyebrows. She hums into your mouth when she realizes the direction you're going. You both break away just a moment for air. “You’ve done so much, maybe I could help you relax a little?” You say, just loud enough for her to hear. You kiss her cheek and trail kisses down her neck. “I like where this is going…” Vi manages to say, almost speechless. As your lips meet once more, your hands start to wander down her abdomen. You locate her belt and eagerly unfasten it along with the button on her pants. Vi licks your bottom lip and you allow her access to explore your mouth. Vi crosses her arms and removes her shirt and sports bra. Before you know it, your robe is on the floor with Vi’s pants and boxers. You push Vi back onto the bed, straddle her and place open mouthed kisses down her jaw line. After placing one leg between hers, you add some pressure with your thigh and her breath hitched. Your hand gropes her chest as your kisses and soft bites progress lower and lower down her chest. Your lips wrap around her nipple and she groans while grabbing a handful of your hair. You give the other nipple the same attention. Grazing your teeth against the sensitive area, then flicking her nipple with your tongue. You watch as Vi unravels before you and you haven't even started. You begin grinding your thigh, feeling her juices leak onto your skin. “Mmm...You're so turned on.” You coo and giggle. Vi’s face turns an even darker shade of pink. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.” You say coyly in her ear and you can see Vi nervously swallow. You lift yourself off of her and kneel between her legs on the floor. You’ve become somewhat impatient, the noises she makes fuel your actions. While scattering open mouthed kisses and small bites on the inside of her thighs, she throws her head back. “P-please!” Vi pleads and you smirk and cock your head. “Please what? Tell me what you want, baby.” Vi hesitates because you've managed to somehow gain dominance and she's not used to this side of you yet. Her body is trembling and Vi cant take it anymore. “Please Fuck me, Y/n.” She says with her hands clutching the sheets. “You are so cute when you're worked up.” You say

with a giggle. You insert one finger gently, then a second one inside her. The pink haired woman gasps and her back arches. You start out slow, gently sliding your fingers in and out. Her body was begging for more while a small moan escaped her mouth. You take pity on her and slip your tongue between her folds. She moans your name and you can visually see her lose control. You alternate between flicking your tongue and massaging her clit. You're having the time of your life watching her chest heave and her body squirm. Your fingers pump in and out a little faster, feeling her walls start to clench around them.

With your free hand your reach for her clenching fist full of bed sheets. She releases the fabric and laces her fingers with yours. She gives you a squeeze when you add more pressure with your tongue. You could tell she is close, her desperate moans give it away. “Fuck, Fuck, Fuck.” Vi utters between breaths. You flatten your tongue and send her over the edge. “Ah! Y/N.” She moans once more and her walls grip your fingers. Her back arches once more. Pleased with her reactions, you help her ride out the high. When she begins to shake and her legs close round your head, you know Vi has become too sensitive and can't bear it anymore. You reluctantly remove your fingers and wipe your face on your forearm. You let go of her hand and crawl back on top of the bed, resting on your side. You lean in close, kiss her cheek and whisper, “ You did such a good job for me.” You brush pink strands of hair away from her flushed face. “Happy Valentine's day, cutie.” You say with a cocky grin. Vi smiles and pulls you in for a quick kiss and nestles her face in the crook of your neck. You run your fingers through her hair and trace your fingertips down her neck and shoulder. She holds you close, still shaking. Violet seems to be feeling needy and you are happy to oblige. You lay there with her for a little, caressing her skin, giving her time to come back down to earth. “Do you wanna watch a movie and cuddle with me in bed?” You finally ask. She nods, her face still hidden in your shoulder. Seeing this soft side of Vi was something else. You had no idea she could be like this. You both clean up and put on some comfy clothes. Vi throws on her shirt and boxers, then crawls under your duvet. You smile, get into bed and get situated. Vi’s head pops out from under the covers and she slips an arm around you. She rests her head on your chest and you wrap an arm around her shoulders. Maybe Valentine’s day isn't so bad when you're spending it with someone important to you. There’s nothing more you’d rather do than have a lazy day in her arms.

[xbonecandyx]

Cleanup Duty - Dom Celia x GN Sub Reader

((A/N: Finally wrote content again for the first time in MONTHS, and it's something completely self-indulgent 😂 This is just a quick fic for Celia from The Price of Flesh. Trigger warnings include violence, mommy kink (not ageplay though, just the honorific), dubcon/noncon, cucking, and degradation! Also brief mentions of knife play. Reader is never referred to by pronouns and their anatomy is never referenced either!))

It was hard to tell how long you’d been here. The basement was dark, and since Celia sometimes didn’t come down to visit for days at a time, it was hard to tell how much time was passing. All you could do was stare at the walls, nap, and fiddle hopelessly with the lock on your cage. Ever since you’d fainted outside the little office Celia kept you in, you’d been locked up in this cramped little dog kennel, released only when Celia came around seeking company. Sometimes she just wanted to sit and relax with you sitting at her feet, but other times she wanted you to serve her in other ways. It was a good day if all she did was mess with you sexually… frequently she would take her anger out on you, cutting into soft skin and bruising you with deep, sore welts. As she flung open the basement door and clacked down the stairs in her heels, it was hard to tell exactly which mood she was in now. 

    Celia came to a stop in front of your cage, pausing to look down at you through the bars. She seemed like she was considering something, and the sly smile that crept onto her painted lips gave you the feeling you wouldn’t like the decision she had come to. She stooped down to unlatch your cage with a key kept securely on a necklace around her neck, swinging the bars open so she could look at you without barriers. “You’re going to make yourself useful today, little mouse. Come on, crawl out of there.” She stepped back from the kennel, tapping her heel impatiently. From the angle you knelt at, you could see thin black lace between her legs, and you looked down toward your hands as you crawled out of the cage. 

    A sharp laugh bubbled from Celia’s chest as she stepped hard on your head, pushing it down to the floor so your face smushed into the dirty cement. “What a dirty little rat, staring up my skirt at my panties. Do you want a better view, rat?” She kicked your side sharply with the pointed toe of her heel, jabbing you in the ribs and urging you to roll over. You conceded to her demands with a moan of pain, the breath knocked out of your lungs momentarily as you rolled onto your back, laying face-up on the filthy cement of the basement floor. Celia just stood above you for a moment, looking down at you and enjoying the power she held over you. “How pathetic. A sniveling little rat, laying on the floor waiting to serve mommy like a good little whore.” 

    The cruel smile on her lips and the gleam in her eyes scared you in some visceral way, the instinctive fear of prey in the presence of a predator. You felt like a deer in headlights, staring up at her with fear in your expression. Celia just laughed, kicking you in the side again for good measure. “Tell mommy how bad you want to please her. Beg for me, and maybe I’ll go easy on you this time.” It was clear she got off on the control she had over you, frankly. So many things felt beyond her control in life, from her spouse to her position in the world to the expectations placed on her at work. But here? Here she was basically God. 

    Pride had gone out the window the first time Celia sliced into your skin with her knife, carving lines of blood like paint strokes into your flesh. Now all that was left was self-preservation, and even without the threat of a weapon, you couldn’t forget what she was capable of. You would beg like a snively little bitch if that’s what she wanted, because the other option was too terrifying to consider. “Please- Please mommy, I want to please you, I want to make you proud of me.” You felt whiny and pathetic as you pleaded with her, humiliation making your face feel hot as you looked into her predator’s eyes. “Please let me serve you, mommy…” 

    For what felt like forever, Celia looked down at you with a strange combination of delight and disdain, savoring how pathetic you looked. Then she swung a leg over your head, lowering herself so that the full weight of her ass came down on your face, smothering you beneath sticky panties and soft thighs. She shifted a bit to situate herself on top of your face, spreading her legs just enough to look down at you between the gap, your eyes welling up with tears at the jolt of pain that came with having her weight land on your face. Her lips curled in amusement, and she laughed a little as she rocked her hips, grinding her clothed pussy against your mouth and cheek, smearing juices over your face. “You’re going to do something special for me today, rat, and I expect you to do a good job of it.” Cruel delight made her eyes sparkle even in the dim light of the basement as she sat atop your face, smothering your mouth and nose against her panties. 

    Celia spoke again as she pushed her tight pencil skirt up her hips to expose the panties and garter belt beneath, toying with the hem of her panties teasingly. “See, I’ve had to spend a long, exhausting day doing favors for my boss and some friends of his, all just to get a promotion so I can come back here and play with you more often. You’re grateful I’m making time for you, aren’t you little mouse?” Her voice sounded almost sickly sweet, mockingly affectionate when she called you her little mouse. 

    She clearly expected you to respond, even as smothered as you were, and your voice came out muffled, buzzing against her pussy as you tried to speak with her crotch against your mouth. “Yes mommy, I’m grateful.” 

    Celia seemed satisfied with your response, because she nodded, reaching down to run a hand through your hair, then snagging a handful and knotting her hand in it painfully tight. “Good. You’re gonna show me just how grateful you are, and I’ll tell you exactly how you’re gonna do that!” She sent you a bright smile, the sort of expression that could only mean something horrible was coming. She shifted her weight off your face for a moment, and you took the opportunity to gasp desperately for breath as she pulled aside the black lace of her panties. 

    With the fabric out of the way, the source of the sticky feeling was much more clear, and your eyes widened in horror and humiliation when you saw the thick white substance still lingering on the outside of her hole. Celia laughed, giving your hair a yank as she hovered above your mouth. “You’re gonna thank me for my hard work today by licking up allllll the cum my boss and his friends left behind, got it? I expect you to clean my pussy spotless, so if I find a drop left over, I’ll be punishing you.” 

    The idea of licking someone else’s cum from her pussy was a mortifying prospect, something you could hardly imagine doing, but you clearly had no other choice. You didn’t want to know what sort of punishment she would have in mind for disobedience, especially after spending all day with men she no doubt found repulsive. 

    Celia was pleased by the fear in your eyes, and she used her free hand to shove two fingers into your mouth, prying your jaw open wider so that your mouth gaped open beneath her. “Alright little rat, keep that mouth open wide and stick your tongue out nice and far for me.” 

    You hesitated, but the flash of irritation on her face when you didn’t immediately obey was more than enough for you to open your mouth wider, sticking your tongue out of your mouth so that it pressed against your chin. Celia released her grip on your jaw with a laugh, smacking your cheek lightly. “Good rat. I like a pet that knows its place.” She lowered her hips closer to your mouth, hovering just an inch or two from your wide mouth, and you watched in horror and humiliation as she pushed some of the thick cum out of her hole, letting it drip into your open mouth slowly. The taste was salty and strange, the cum still warm from her body heat, and she looked down at you with a sadistic smile, settling down onto your face so that her cum-filled pussy pressed right onto your tongue. 

    “Get licking, rat. I’m not planning on climbing off your face till you’ve gotten me spotless, so you might want to start now.” However much repulsive fumbling Celia had to put up with earlier in the day, she clearly got her fulfillment now, degrading you to a position so low you were licking other peoples’ cum from her hole. Your tongue lapped against her warm hole, licking up leftover cum. The taste blended in your mouth with the flavor of her juices, your lips slick with her wetness as you cleaned away the mess of who knows how many men. Celia moaned as your tongue slid against her, grinding down against your face with an expression of eager, cruel delight. “There you go, rat, clean it up like a good little bitch. Does it taste good?” 

    She didn’t seem to expect a response this time- she just wanted to humiliate you further, let you know exactly how low you were in her eyes. Your tears spilled over, a sight that seemed to spur her on and drive her all the more quickly toward climax as your tongue dipped into her hole, licking and sucking, cleaning the last of the mess from her pussy as she humped against your face, leaving you slick with her wetness as she rocked carelessly against you, not even bothering to control her pace or angle anymore, just rubbing against you at a jerky, desperate pace. 

    All at once, she shuddered to a stop, letting out a breathy groan of pleasure as a flood of wetness spills over your tongue and face. She remained on top of you for a few moments, catching her breath, her grip on your hair loosening as she rode the high of orgasm. Then, slowly, she rose from her perch on your face, pulling her panties up and looking down at the mess she’d made of your face. 

    “I could let you clean up… but I think a filthy little rat like you deserves to stay covered in my pussy.” Celia laughed as she straightened her skirt, smoothing her hands over the fabric. She took a few moments to rearrange herself, then cast a disdainful look toward you. “Why are you still laying on the floor like a lump? Get your ass back in the cage.” She nudged you with her foot- though noticeably she didn’t kick you full force like she usually would. You pried yourself up from the floor, still sore and humiliated, the taste of cum and pussy lingering in your mouth as you crawled into the cramped dog kennel. 

    Celia leaned down to latch the cage, on eye level with you for a brief moment. She sent you a cruel little smile, blowing a kiss that left a dark lipstick imprint on her fingers as she teased you. “Don’t worry, little mouse. Mommy will be back to see you again soon, and I’ll bring you plenty more treats.” 

[jasontoddiefor]

A gift for @thenegoteator :D

It took a Temple to raise a child, and Mace Windu was very much aware of this. However, it did not explain what Ahsoka Tano was doing at his door in the middle of the night. Ahsoka had deep bags under her eyes, which wasn’t too much of a surprise considering the current living arrangements of her lineage. While little Luke and Leia were relatively well-behaved newborns, they were still only a few weeks old. If their human caretakers didn’t wake up at every single little whimper, then the togruta with the superior hearing certainly would.

“Do you want to come inside?” Mace asked, not letting his confusion show. He was used to people coming to his door at the oddest hours.

“If—if I can?” Ahsoka replied as if only now becoming aware of her actions. In this, she reminded Mace of her Grandmaster and the many nights Mace had found Obi-Wan coming to his doorstep during the first months of Anakin’s stay at the Temple.

“My door is always open, Padawan,” Mace said – and watched her wince.

Ah.

So there was the problem.

“Caleb is currently sleeping in my bed as Depa is away,” Mace explained. “So please keep your voice down. I don’t want to wake him unnecessarily.”

The boy had already had a hellish enough month behind him, he needed all the rest he could get. Even though the war was officially over, enough planets refused to surrender, drawing out the battles until they had nothing but children left to sacrifice. It weighed on Mace’s shoulders, making him wonder whether he wasn’t too old to carry such burdens still.

Ahsoka nodded and followed Mace inside. He couldn’t recall whether Ahsoka had been in his room before, but from the way she eagerly looked around his quarters, taking in the sight of old instruments, books, and holos, he guessed she hadn’t. Well, at one point in their life, every Jedi had set a foot inside Mace’s quarters, so this was bound to happen sooner or later.

“Do you want a cup of tea?”

Ahsoka tore herself away from the sight and looked at him with surprise. “I—yes? That would be nice.”

“Then I will make a cup. Do you have any preferences? I believe I even have Obi-Wan’s favorite blend here.”

Mace had no idea whether he had bought it or if Obi-Wan had just left it here from himself when he came over. Knowing the other man, it was likely that the latter was the case. For a man claiming to be so very polite, Obi-Wan could be a right brat.

Mace’s kitchen was small, with only a few cabinets and one shelf, two cooking tiles, and an oven. He wasn’t much of a cook himself and preferred to eat in the cafeteria with everyone, frequently taste-tasting what the Initiates had prepared. He selected two uneven cups Depa had made for him when she’d been young from the shelf. Why she had decided to pick up pottery of all hobbies was beside him, but he supposed that she found the motion soothing. Devan did enjoy parkouring through the lower levels and Echuu was quite content playing the guitar to calm himself.

Perhaps Mace should focus less on why all three of his Padawans had decided they wouldn’t follow him into theatre so they could continue to make fun of him. Setting the water to boil, Mace searched through his cabinets until he found Obi-Wan’s favorite blend. The fruity tea was far from the blend he preferred, but Mace prided himself on being a good host. While he waited for the tea to finish steeping, Mace enjoyed the quiet of the night. For all that there were few sounds as dear to him as that of people walking, or in the case of some younglings and few selected Knights, running, down their large hallways, Mace could appreciate the quiet when the world came to rest.

With two finished cups in hand, he returned to the living room, where he found Ahsoka curled up on the sofa, no longer studying his quarters for any hidden secrets.

“Thank you,” she said when she accepted the cup from him. She held it in her hands as if to warm them, letting the steam hit her face. She breathed in once, twice, finding her rhythm again. Mace waited until she’d calmed enough to speak up.

“What brings you to my door, Padawan Tano?”

Ahsoka flinched and appeared to make herself even smaller as if attempting to vanish. When it became apparent that it didn’t work, that silence hadn’t been what she had sought him out for, she let out a sigh. “You keep calling that.”

“Calling you what?” Mace asked, his brow raised, playing oblivious.

“… Padawan.”

“Are you not? I was under the impression that you had returned to the Temple.”

“I did, but I still left,” Ahsoka replied. “I left and I was convinced that I had to leave and that it was good that I did. I still think I had to leave the Temple behind.”

“Then why are you torn?”

Ahsoka’s hold on her cup tightened and so, perhaps in wise anticipation, she set it on the table and buried her hands in her robes instead, hiding their twitching from view. Mace could trace all her mannerisms to her teachers and couldn’t imagine what it must be like to purposefully rip all those pieces from yourself when they had become so ingrained in your very being. Even Dooku, who’d fallen so far from their beliefs, had been unable to fully rid himself of Yoda’s lessons. Maybe it was for the best. Hope had become a scarce commodity during the war, yet Mace considered the possibility that in a decade, they wouldn’t be imprisoning a Sith anymore.

“But am I still a Padawan? A member of this Order?” Ahsoka asked. Her voice was barely above a whisper, and she shook like the leaves on the trees in the courtyard.

“Has your Master told you anything different?”

Ahsoka paused. “…. No.”

Seeing that realization was settling within her, Mace nodded. “Then you should not doubt him. You are a Jedi, Ahsoka Tano, and you will remain one as long as you live by our tenets.”

That teased a startled laugh from her. “Compassion for all except people who cheat at push-n-pull?”

As if transported back ten years, hearing Anakin say the same, Mace snorted. “The similarities between you and your Master astonish me every time. Yes, Padawan Tano, compassion for all.”

This seemed to calm the youth as she reached for her cup again and emptied it slowly. “It’s good.”

Mace smiled into his own cup. “I’d be insulted if it wasn’t. Obi-Wan forced me to memorize all the steps for making it.”

The then young Knight had been frazzled, and Mace honestly couldn’t tell what it had been about and had forced Mace to learn how to make this tea until he’d more or less collapsed on Mace’s sofa, completely knocked out until morning when Anakin had picked him up.

“He does do that,” Ahsoka agreed. “I think this is the only thing anyone can make reliably now.”

“Sleep-deprived much?” Mace inquired.

Ahsoka rolled her eyes. “Like you wouldn’t believe. I love Luke and Leia dearly, but they are demanding and need a lot of attention.”

That was honestly kinder than Mace would have described newborns at her age.

“There is a reason why we usually don’t have children this young in the Temple,” Mace said. “They are very handful. Do you get enlisted to help very often?”

Ahsoka shook her head. “No, Obi-Wan, Skyguy, and Padmé got it covered, and I’m mostly just helping out somewhere else.”

She trailed off a little. This, perhaps, was another issue, but one that could be equally easily dealt with.

“Thank you then for going where you are needed,” Mace told her.

Ahsoka blinked. “Huh?”

“You will grow into a specific role someday, Ahsoka, and that needs time. Do not feel as if you need to earn back your place in the Temple. You don’t need to earn yourself a home you have always had. For now, trust me when I say that everyone you’ve helped is glad that you were there. It is an admirable quality to have a sense of where you are needed. Do not see it as being the odd one out.”

This was the hardest lesson to teach and learn, the fact that there was a path out there for you, but that it took time to see where it would lead. Too many of their Padawans now felt utterly lost without the structure the war had provided them with.

“Oh. I guess if you say so.”

“Yes, I do say so,” Mace agreed. Then, eyeing Ahsoka’s empty cup, he added on, “do you want another?”

“No.” Ahsoka yawned. “I think I might best head back.”

“You can also sleep here if you want, and don’t mind Caleb hogging the blanket. I won’t go to bed tonight anyway.”

Ahsoka squinted at him as if attempting to discern whether he was lying. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Really—”

“Ahsoka, go to bed.”

Clearly feeling better already, she saluted and, after Mace showed her his bedroom, made herself comfortable in it. She took off her shoes and tossed her robe over a chair before climbing into the bed. Ahsoka had barely laid down when Caleb already turned around to curl around her, clinging like a little monkey. After a moment’s apprehension, she relaxed and was fast asleep. Stealing one last glance at the two Padawan, Mace returned to his living room, looking through the incoming reports.

Hectic as the aftermath of the war was, as much effort as caring for their children was, Mace wouldn’t trade it for a single thing in the world.

[mrsalwayswrite]

The Arrangement (Ivar x reader x Hvitserk)

Oh boy, so I don’t normally write smut but this idea came to me and would not let me write anything else. So here we are, friends. (I’m honestly so nervous to post this.)

A huge shout out to @geekandbooknerd for beta-reading this for me and listening to my ranting. You are the best, you beautiful person!

Warnings: SMUT, some feels, Ivar being Ivar 

Words: 5200

Tag List: @youbloodymadgenius​

 The fierce, blue eyes of Kattegat's king surveyed the Great Hall, full of people as they ate the evening meal.  Jovial conversations, yells for more ale, the pop and crackle of the large fire, even the fist fight that broke out…. none of it attracted his attention. No, instead his clever mind wrestled with one simple problem. Something he was certain no other man ever had to worry about. This problem had lately been at the forefront of his mind, slithering through his thoughts like vipers, distracting him from his duties. Weeks now he mentally wrestled with seeking a solution. Wracking his brain as what to do. He even considered going to the Seer, but quickly rejected that idea. The Seer only ever spoke in riddles and it would only further muddle his already troubled mind. He cursed the gods with his lack of a solution, for putting him in this predicament. 

 But this morning as he lay in bed, willing the pain in his legs to diminish, a solution came to mind. It was so simple, something he should have considered long ago…. but one that required trust. Something which admittedly was not his strongest suit. But for this solution to work, to gain what he yearned for, he must trust. There was no other way. It was like the gods came to him, spoke into his mind during his slumber, explaining what he must do. Though he trusted no one completely, there was one who he could trust with this solution. And the rewards…. oh, the rewards would be well worth it. 

 Besides, it could be fun. 

He observed where his brother sat at a nearby table, talking and laughing with some of their warriors. A broad grin lit up his face as he freely drank and shared stories. Although Hvitserk seemed to be fully invested in the conversation around him, from where Ivar reclined on his throne, he could see the way his brother's gaze darted frequently to another table nearby. Quick looks, never lingering, almost indiscernible from how his gaze shifted to his companions around him. But Ivar could see it. Many times he had witnessed his brother's secret looks. Now was the time to test it. 

 With a sharp order, Ivar sent a nearby thrall to summon the other Ragnarsson. Hvitserk glanced at Ivar with a confused expression before giving a single nod. As he rose from his spot at the tables, Ivar had a nearby thrall fill up his ale horn, eyes shifting from his brother to the one who continued to unknowingly entice the elder Ragnarsson. When Hvitserk stood at the bottom of the dais, leading up to the thrones, Ivar waved his hand, signaling for his brother to sit on the throne next to him. The Queen's throne. Your throne. 

 Surprise flashed across the face of the flaxen-haired Ragnarsson, eyes darting between the two thrones for a moment in surprise. Ivar wondered if thoughts of their beautiful mother crossed his brother's mind as he saw the throne as often as they did his own. After a second, Hvitserk shrugged and seated himself on the other throne. Silence persisted as they nursed their ales. 

 Looking over the crowd, Ivar returned his gaze to the one person who, beside his mother, he was most devoted to. You were smiling in a way that made his heart clench and his lips twitch, wanting to mirror your joy. He never understood your need to mingle with others during meals instead of remaining on your throne. At times, jealousy reared its head in his mind, but you always returned to his side, to his bed, sharing the latest gossip you heard or a particularly funny story. He would grumble but never admit how he enjoyed listening to you, or how he used that gossip to his benefit. 

 Now you sat with a few women he recognized as wives to wealthy traders in Kattegat. A baby lay in your arms as you spoke with enthusiasm to one of the women. With the light from the flames dancing across your face and the joy radiating from you as you cooed at the baby in your arms, Ivar knew there was no one as beautiful as you. Even more so than his mother. Every day he still found himself in awe that you chose him, you agreed to be his wife, that you loved him. It was enough to make him feel invincible. To conquer the world and lay it at your feet as an offering. 

 Without moving his head, Ivar peeked over at his brother, unsurprised to see him staring in the same direction. The horn of ale at his lips helped mask where his lingering gaze lay, but Ivar could see. He knew. 

 "I see how you look at her." Ivar said nonchalantly. 

 "Who?" Hvitserk questioned, eyes pretending to roam over the Great Hall. 

 Ivar smirked, fingers lightly tapping on the armrest of his throne. "My queen…. y/n."

 "She is a beautiful woman. Is it wrong now to admire someone so clearly blessed by Freyja?"

 "Ah, but I see your mind. You want to do more than admire, dear brother."

 Hvitserk shifted uncomfortably, head snapping to the side to eye his younger brother warily. "What is this, Ivar?"

 The young king leaned back, smirk still in place. After a tense moment of watching Hvitserk squirm, he dropped his voice so he knew only his brother could hear him. "I have a proposition for you."

 "What?"

 "I need your help with a…. sensitive matter."

 The flaxen-haired Ragnarsson scoffed. "Is this Ivar the Boneless actually asking for help?" 

 "Will you help me or not?" He sharply retorted, trying to force down the rising anger that bubbled under his skin. 

 "Of course." He said with a sigh. "What is it?"

 Ivar pushed off his throne, tossing back the rest of his ale and handing his horn off to a nearby thrall. "Come. We will discuss this in my bedroom." 

 He did not wait for his brother, already leaning on his crutch as he walked down the steps and down the corridor to the royal rooms. He hoped his plan worked. He needed it to work. Even if it meant trusting his brother with what was most precious to him. 

 *****

 Your steps were sure as you left the Great Hall and walked down the corridor to your bedroom. You had seen Ivar and Hvitserk leave the evening meal some time ago, but assumed they went to discuss important matters somewhere quiet. So, you stayed to talk with your friends, something you cherished. It was important to you that even though you were their queen, they could be comfortable in your presence and feel free to speak to you. Plus, you enjoyed the juicy gossip passed around. 

 One of the guards opened the bedroom door for you. You nodded a brief thanks and walked in…. only for your feet to stutter to a stop after you entered. Surprise flooded you to see your husband and his older brother both in your bedroom. Ivar reclined on his favorite, wide chair near the lit fireplace but what was most perplexing was how Hvitserk sat on the end of your bed, elbows on his knees with a guarded expression. 

 "My wife will not be needing your assistance tonight." Ivar stated to the thrall who had followed you into the room. "You may leave us….and inform the guards we do not wish to be disturbed for any reason."

 The thrall glanced over to you, since she was yours. The routine of helping you undress and prepare for bed, a regular occurrence most nights. At your murmured acceptance, she nodded her head and left, closing the door behind her. 

 "Is everything alright, Ivar? Have you heard something from your spies?" You quickly asked once the three of you were alone. Worry gnawed in your stomach. He had confessed to you late one night that there was a nearby earl he thought might try to attack and overtake Kattegat. 

 "Come here, my love." He held his leather-clad hand out for you to take, something you did without question. He guided you to stand between his open, brace-covered legs. With his other hand, he tapped his lips, a cheeky glint in his eyes. You giggled but obliged, pressing a sweet and tender kiss to his mouth in response to his wordless demand.

 His hands on your hips, he looked up at you with devotion in those piercing blue eyes. A sight that made your heart melt every time without him even having to say a word. 

 "What is going on?"

 "You know I love you, yes?" He softly questioned, still staring up at you like you were the moon and stars. 

 You cupped his cheek, his sideburns tickling your fingers. "Of course. And I love you."

 "Mmmm…. the gods have given me wisdom as how to solve our problem."

 "Our problem?" Your brows furrowed, confused by what he was talking about. 

 He pointedly looked at your belly then back up at you. 

 Then it hit you, and your heart broke a little at the heartache in his gaze. "Oh, Ivar, I told you…."

 "It's been a year, y/n." He interrupted, the grief slipping into his voice, even as he struggled to hide it. "We've been trying for a year and there is nothing to show for it. I never thought I could pleasure a woman until you came along and I hoped…. I hoped I could give you a child. Our child. But it seems the gods still will not grant me that ability. I need an heir, and I want to see you grow round with a child. I want a family with you. Something I never dreamed of before."

 Realization dawned on you as to why Hvitserk was in your bedroom. Eyes wide, you peeked over your shoulder at the other Ragnarsson, who was staring at the ground between his feet, then looked back at your husband. 

 "Ivar…."

 "Hvitty has agreed. He will be my cock and plant a baby in you in my name."

 This time you fully turned around to stare at the flaxen-haired brother. "Hvitserk, are you sure you want to do this?" 

 Gods, this sounded like something your husband would force his brother to do. Actually, you were beyond astounded that Ivar would even let another man touch you. Before your thoughts could follow that trail, Ivar's voice brought you back. 

 He chuckled darkly, an edge to his tone like he was confessing someone else's secret. "My brother can barely keep his eyes off you whenever you are around….and when I told him my idea, he agreed without hesitation."

 You witnessed an adorable blush rise to Hvitserk's cheeks as he rubbed the back of his neck and mumbled under his breath. For a moment he looked like a young boy again, caught staring at his latest crush. It was so innocent and precious. Yet with the rumors you heard from some of the women of Kattegat, you knew he was far from innocent. There had been a handful of times you secretly noticed the Ragnarsson's heated gaze on you, but your mind played it off, thinking he must have truly been looking at someone else or he was just admiring your dress. Now your mind flipped through those memories with a different lens. 

 After giving your husband's hands a quick squeeze, you stepped out of his embrace. Heart hammering away in your chest, you watched the elder brother with a new understanding as you approached. This time you did not miss the way his eyes raked over your form or how he licked his lips almost in anticipation. The shiver that rolled down your spine startled you, but not unpleasantly so. 

 Almost in a mirror image, you stood between Hvitserk's legs, his hands automatically landing on your hips, just like how you stood with Ivar; but the way his hands felt unbound by leather and almost hesitant to touch you, was a reminder this was not your husband. After a moment, you cupped his face, his beautiful brown eyes meeting yours with such naked want in them, heat coursed through you.  

 "Are you sure, Hvitty?" You whispered.   

 "I'd be lying if I said I haven't thought about laying with you." He confessed, a naughty smirk teasing his lips. His voice stayed low as you two traded secrets. "Are you alright with this…. arrangement? I know you love my brother, and I don't want to ruin that. Not for either one of you."

 You continued to stroke his cheek as you pondered his question. There was no doubt that you loved Ivar with all your heart. He was the love of your life and you knew you were his. Hvitserk easily was the brother you always wished for. You enjoyed his flirtatious teasing, especially when it made the jealous side of your husband come out because the sex after that was always mind-blowing. The blond was someone you trusted wholeheartedly. Your life was perfect, you were happier than you ever thought you would be. But there was one thing you always imagined, one thing you silently yearned for. So it was with that in mind, your answer, your decision was an easy one to make. 

 "I want a baby."

 His smirk grew, "I'll try my best to help with that."

 You laughed. "Oh, so gracious of you."

 He winked cheekily, taking one of your hands to kiss your palm slowly. 

 You shifted to meet your husband's cool gaze, with Hvitserk's hands gently kneading your hips. "Ivar, you are certain this is what you want? This won't cause jealousy between you and your brother?"

 Ivar scoffed. "Why would it?"

 "You threatened last month to gouge a trader's eyes out for staring at y/n too long." Hvitserk deadpanned. In the next second, he leaned over to lay a kiss on your hip meanwhile, his hand shifted to grab a handful of your ass cheek. You squeaked, surprised by the bold move in front of Ivar. As you tried to wriggle away, he only chuckled and pulled you to sit directly on his lap. It should not surprise you anymore how strong Hvitserk was, but somehow it always managed to catch you off guard. Though your mind certainly took notice of the bulge in his pants underneath you. 

 "He was talking only to her breasts. He is lucky I did not take at least one eye for his disrespect." Ivar leaned back in his seat. "You agree to this, my love?"

 "I do." You answered. 

 "Excellent. Come here for a moment." He beckoned you to him once again. 

 Hvitserk released you, not before palming your ass as you stood up. You swatted at his hands, but the smile on your lips let him know you were not truly upset. 

 That smile only grew as you glided over to your husband. For all of his anger and wrath, none of it ever touched you. Instead he treated you delicately, reverently. As if you were a dream and with one wrong move, you would vanish. Or a goddess he vowed to continuously worship. You thrived under his tender touches, drawing you further and further into the ocean of his profound love. 

 He guided you to stand between his legs again and for a brief moment you felt like a ball the brothers were taking turns passing back and forth. You dashed the thought away before it made you giggle. 

 "I have one condition for our arrangement." Ivar said, intently watching your face. His finger traced the edges of your lips, as if to memorize them. "Only I own your mouth. I was your first kiss. So as I live and breathe, only I get the pleasure of your kisses. Hvitserk can kiss and touch you anywhere else but there. Agreed?"

 You nodded mutely. The growing desire in his eyes caused your womb to clench and fire to begin warming your veins. 

 "Brother?"

 "Agreed." Hvitserk said from his perch on the bed behind you, his voice sounding a bit gruffer than a minute ago. 

 Ivar turned those piercing, passionate eyes back to you. "My love…." He placed a kiss to the valley between your breasts, allowing his face to linger there a moment. You carded your fingers through his loosened hair, feeling his hands gently holding your hips. When he looked up, gone was the sweet, loving devotion in his eyes, replaced with something wicked. "Shall we teach Hvitty what you like first?"

 "What do you have in mind?"

 "Take off your dress."

 "I need help with the laces." You reminded him as he was the one to demand your thrall leave earlier. 

 "Ah, you are right. Go to Hvitserk, he will help."

 Obediently, you walked the few steps back to the elder Ragnarsson wondering what game your husband was playing, but you could not deny the excitement thrumming in your veins. Without a word, you turned around to allow him access to the lacing on the back of your dress. You thought he would hesitate or his fingers would tremble knowing your husband was watching on. Instead they deftly plucked and tugged at the laces like he had done this many times. Once your back was exposed, his hand traced down your spine, causing you to shiver under the sensual touch. 

 Holding the front of the dress to your chest, you made your way back over to Ivar. Standing in front of him, his hands claimed your fingers from holding your dress to entwine with his own. Immediately, your dress slipped down your body to pool at your feet, leaving you completely bare before the two Ragnarssons. 

 Ivar's hands landed on your hips but instead of pulling you to straddle him, like you expected, he slowly spun you around and had you sit on his lap, facing his brother. What met your gaze was the wolfish look of Hvitserk, staring at you like you were something he wanted to devour. Ivar's hands slide up from your hips to cup your breasts as if offering them to his brother. 

 "Look at you, my goddess, my wife." Ivar whispered against your skin as he left hot, open-mouth kisses along the column of your throat. You could not help but whimper, your body so in tune with his. He barely had to touch you before your body begged for him to fill you. A dampness already coated your core. Without taking his eyes off of you, his hands fondling you in the way that made you breathless, he addressed his brother. "Is she not perfect, Hvitty? A goddess begging to be worshiped."

 "Gods, yes. Perfect."

 Normally you would be embarrassed by the praises. Now though, you felt like a lamb being toyed with by two wolves. Trapped by the lustful gaze of one and the feverish touches of the other. 

 Ivar's hands continued to fondle and pluck at your nipples, causing your head to fall back onto his shoulder. "That's right, you love these perfect breasts being played with, don't you?"

 "Ivar…." His name was a needy whine coming off your tongue.

 "Yes, my love. So sensitive. Just imagine it's Hvitty's mouth on them." 

 An unexpected, wanton moan escaped you at the thought. Your hips started rolling against your husband's lap, desperate for friction. 

 "Open your eyes." Ivar whispered into your ear. "Look at Hvitty."

 You obeyed even though your body demanded to close your eyes and wallow in the pleasure Ivar could induce in you. As your gaze locked with the elder Ragnarsson, you felt one of Ivar's hands skim down your stomach to part your legs, exposing your core. 

 Instinctively, you started to close your legs only for Ivar to tsk and bite the junction of your neck and shoulder. "Don't be shy. Let him see that sweet pussy." 

 Your legs fell back open, allowing his hand free reign to touch you where you most needed it. Your body automatically arched into his hand, silently begging for more. Sweat already began to dampen you as the heat burned hotter under your skin. 

 "I swear Valhalla is between her legs, brother."

 Hvitserk spoke up, his voice coming out rough and husky. "Touch her, Ivar."

 "You hear that, y/n?" Your husband teased, licking a stripe up the column of your throat. "Should I touch you?"

 "Please." You begged, too far along to care how needy you sounded. 

 He chuckled darkly, his hand dipped to your core, cupping and teasing you. You tensed as his skilled fingers played with your folds and clit but never entering you. He could tease you for hours, leave you on the brink as you begged for relief. It was a favorite game of his. You started to grind against him, your blood boiling with desire and the need for relief. 

 Somehow, he always knew when you were close, as if it was a sixth sense. 

 "She is close, Hvitty. Her pussy is weeping to be filled." He squeezed your breast, causing you to loudly moan.

"Do you want my fingers or my cock, my queen?"

 "I want you, beloved." You answered in a breathy sigh. 

 His teasing ceased, almost making you whine. Gently, he cupped your chin, turning your head to gaze lovingly into your eyes. It always seemed to astound him that you desired him, not just physically but as a person, as a friend, as a lover and a soul mate. He pressed a sweet kiss to your lips, pouring in all of his devotion in a way you understood since words always failed him. 

 Slowly you rose to your feet but instead of walking away, you turned to face him. This was a dance the two of you had done before. Knowing what he wanted, you straddled his lap without fear of the wide chair breaking under your combined weight. This was not the first time you had made love on this particular chair by the fire. 

 Still gazing at you in awe and adoration, Ivar cupped your breasts. His thumbs teased your nipples. A low moan fell from your lips as your head tipped back. His mouth then descended on your chest, first leaving small kisses before taking one of your peaked nipples into his mouth. 

 "Ivar…." You groaned. "Yes, yes."

 In an action well practiced, you were already reaching between your bodies to fumble with the laces of his pants. Without hesitation, you sank down onto him, being filled in the best way possible. Your lips sought out his, drawing pleasure from his mouth just as much as his cock. Your tongues swirled as your hips rolled. It was delirium. This pleasure he could bring out of you. It was all-consuming. No matter how much he teased, he was always gentle and reverent when it came to worshipping you. A slow, sweet burn that sunk into every fiber of your body, called forth your very soul to dance with his, just as much as your bodies writhed together. 

 You unlocked your mouth, throwing your head back with a loud moan as your pace increased, riding his cock, seeking your peak. His growls and words of praise only spurred you on. 

 Finally it came, crashing over you, eliciting a cry of Ivar's name loud enough the guards outside the door probably heard. Three more quick thrusts and you could feel Ivar spill his empty seed inside you. His head dropped onto your chest, both of you panting and sweaty. 

 "You're mine." He murmured against your skin as if reminding himself or branding the words into your naked skin. "You're my goddess, my queen, mine."

 "Always." You whispered back. 

 After both of you came down from your erotic high, Ivar leaned up, pressing a toe-curling kiss to your already swollen lips. 

 "She's ready for you, brother." He loudly announced. 

 It was then you remembered Hvitserk in the room. So caught up in making love with your husband, you had momentarily forgotten what was to happen. You stared down at your husband, silently asking him if he was sure. 

 Ivar rolled his eyes but caressed your cheek with his calloused fingers. "It's alright. Besides, if you don't go take care of him, he'll probably blow his load in his pants soon."

 You smiled, kissing him once more before carefully rising off his lap. As you turned to look at the flaxen-haired warrior, never before had you felt the seductress until now. With your husband's seed spilling down your thigh, you slowly walked the few paces to stand in front Hvitserk. With each step closer, his ravenous gaze devoured your nakedness; a predatory look that made your thighs clench and put a quiver in your belly. 

 "How do you want me?" You softly asked, standing before him. 

 He swallowed thickly, fists clenching and releasing before he cleared his throat and answered hoarsely. "Lie down on your back."

 Embracing the inner seductress in you, you crawled across your bed, giving your husband and his brother a spectacular view of your ass. Nerves aflutter, you laid down on your large marital bed. Yet you could feel the longing ache between your legs growing the more you thought about what was to come. 

 Soon, Hvitserk hovered above you, completely naked. Although you loved your husband and his body, the sight of Hvitserk in all his glory made your mouth water and core clench in anticipation.  

 "You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." He confessed, barely above a whisper. "Gods…." His mouth landed on your neck, lavishing his affections using both teeth and tongue. Sweeping downward, his ministrations continued, drawing soft cries from you as he equally used his mouth and hands to caress all the curves of your body. Each touch, each caress, each bite and lick, all felt like he was trying to get himself drunk on the feel of your soft skin, your scent and the sounds of pleasure coming from you. 

 It did not take long for you to begin writhing underneath him, clawing at his back, utterly at his mercy. This desire he invoked in you was molten and drugging. Your eyelids fluttered closed as you fought to remember to breathe. 

 Pulling back slightly, he lined himself up. Then instead of gradually easing into you, he slammed into you until he was fully sheathed in your womanhood. A cry left your mouth at the same time as he groaned. You expected pain but instead your body readily welcomed the intrusion, hot and wet, waiting for him. 

 He pressed his forehead to yours, remaining frozen, giving you both time to adjust. "Gods…. this is Valhalla." He whispered with a touch of awe in his voice. 

 You rolled your hips; your body begging for more, for release, for him to bring you to new heights. "Hvitty…."

 "Say my name." He grunted, a slow thrust accompanying it. 

 "Hvitserk." 

 "Again." This thrust was a little faster and harder. 

 "Hvitserk."

 "Say it." 

 His name rolled off your tongue in a gasp as he slammed into you, stars appearing in your vision. "Hvitserk."

 As a key unlocking, your fervid gasp seemed to unleash him. In the next moment, he began thrusting with abandon, almost animalistic in his pleasurable fury. He grabbed your hips, lifting them off the bed to begin pounding into you like a man possessed. 

 Never before had Ivar done anything like this and to your surprise…. you liked it. A lot. 

 Your hands clawed at the bed, desperate for something to hold onto. Cries of pleasure flowed freely from you. An inferno lived inside of you, threatening to burn you with ecstasy. Sluggishly you opened your eyes to be met with the sight of Hvitserk cradled between your thighs, sweat glistening on his flushed skin as he rocked into you, sending jolts of electricity each time. Those brown eyes stared down at you like he wanted to own your body and soul.

 With a silent scream, your peak overwhelmed you. Your eyes slammed shut as your back arched, delicious waves of pleasure making your mind cease to function. 

 Hvitserk followed quickly, a growl splitting the air between you as his thrusts stuttered to an end and his seed filled your womb. He all but collapsed on top of you after, both for you sweaty and sated. 

 "Did I hurt you?" He asked, his voice raspy and content. His head laid on your chest, his body seeming to be the only thing to keep you from floating away on waves of bliss. 

 "No." You mumbled languishly, too pleasure-drunk to say more. 

 He tipped his head to look at you, a lazy smirk on his face. "I really want to kiss you."

 "You know the one rule." You reminded him, brushing a hand over his frazzled braids. 

 He hummed, then with a mischievous glint in his eyes, he leaned forward and licked your lips. At first you just stared as he grinned at you, but giggles soon fell from your mouth. 

 "Hvitserk! What did I say?" Ivar demanded, walking over to sit on the opposite side of the bed. 

 Hvitserk rolled his head to look at his brother, but kept it on your naked chest. "I didn't kiss her. You never said anything about not licking her lips."

 Ivar rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, as he unstrapped his braces and flopped onto the bed. His hand reached out for you, possessively tugging you out from underneath his brother and into his side. Not that you minded. You immediately curled against him, your eyelids straining to stay open. 

 "I'm alright." You answered the question you could see lingering in his eyes. "Just sleepy now."

 He smiled fondly down at you, leaving a gentle kiss on your forehead. Sleep called to you as you lay in your husband's arms. So wonderfully relaxed, your muscles were loose and your womanhood ached in the best way from the lasting effects of your pleasure. 

 The sound of movement made you tip your head to the side, only to see Hvitserk getting off the bed and reaching for his clothes. 

 "Where are you going?" You asked, your voice lethargic as if already infused by sleep. 

 Those brown eyes jumped from you to your husband and back. "I figured Ivar would want me to leave now so you two can go to sleep."

 "Stay, Hvitty. The hour is late." Ivar replied, running a hand up and down your bare back. "Besides I plan on this arrangement until y/n is with child. You can stay with us."

 With a tilt of his head, the brothers regarded each other for a long moment before Hvitserk chuckled, tossing his tunic back to the ground and crawling into bed in just his pants. 

 "Thank the gods. This bed is ridiculously comfortable."

 You smiled, rolling over so your back was pressed to Ivar's chest, snuggling closer to him. His arm settled around your waist comfortably as he placed a kiss on the back of your neck. Snaking a hand over the covers, you reach over and entwine the elder brother's fingers with yours. Hvitserk startled initially but quickly brought your hand to his lips, a brief kiss on your knuckles, then laid it back on the bed, keeping your fingers entangled. 

 Sleep found you within minutes, tucked between the two Ragnarssons, one being your husband and the other who would give you a child. 

 Your last thought was wondering if Fate would allow this arrangement to work….and maybe continue. 

[cowboycakes]

Do You Get My Letters

✥ Pairing: Levi x fem!Reader, somewhat Reiner x fem!Reader

✥ Themes: Fluff, angst, sadness, big ass plot twist

✥ Warnings: Female bodied reader (she/her pronouns,) Pregnancy and birth (nothing gory.) Mentions of death, violence, and threats. Manipulation.

✥ Synopsis: You are carrying Reiner's baby when he betrays Paradis. Levi decides to step in.

✥ Word Count: 2.2k

(there is a part two up to this fic, but i've decided i'm going to rewrite the ending at some point.)

Anon's Request: Hi! I saw your requests are open so here I want to give my little scenario a try! 🕳🤸🏽‍♀️ I thought abt this last night, I’m currently rewatching AOT after 6 yrs and yet to finish season 4, so sorry if I’m wrong abt timelines/the plot? My request is the reader was with child with Reiner, but b4 reader told him, he betrayed and exposed his mission. Levi stepped in to help reader. And btw, I just finished watching ep 3 of season 4, so maybe Eren telling reiner abt his child and he regrets leaving the reader? And reiner jealous at the fact Levi is most likely considered his child’s father at that point. I can’t come up with an ending, so I’ll leave it up to you if you do take in my request. If this isn’t your type of writing I totally understand!

Note: This story is canon divergent. It is set in season 4, but in a universe where Reiner is not revealed as a traitor/the armored titan until a few months before season 4 takes place, as the reader was having relations with him until then and did not know his secret. I’m sorry if that change bothers you, I just wanted to write this as sort of its own story. This story contains season 4 spoilers! It also has nothing to do with the canon ending of AOT.

---

Dear Reiner,

I hope this letter somehow gets to you, I don’t quite know where to start.

In a perfect world, I would be so happy to tell you this. You’d be ecstatic too, I think. And before you try to second guess me: I’m sure by now, don’t worry.

I’m pregnant.

I guess we weren’t careful enough before you left. I feel like an idiot. And lost. But I’m not hopeless. I know myself, I can make it work somehow. With or without you.

I’m still in shock about you. How could someone so close hide so much? You’re a talented spy I suppose, a great asset to Marley. You made me trust you with my entire life. You made me love every false thing about you. And this is the rude awakening I get in return.

I’ll raise our child to value honesty and kindness, all in spite of you.

Sincerely,

Reader

---

The paper was damp with tears after you lifted your pen for a final time. You wished you could just keep the whole thing a secret: go make a quiet life for yourself somewhere else. It wouldn’t be right. Not after all of the dishonesty that man had spewed to you over the past few years. You had to tell him.

The door to the office room you’d settled in to write the letter creaks open. It’s Levi. He looks at your puffy eyes somberly, sympathetic. He was the first person you had told about the entire situation. Not because you were close, just because you needed help.

You fold your letter and stick it into a sturdy envelope. Levi takes it in his hand.

“That piece of shit doesn’t deserve a thing from you. Not a letter. Certainly not tears,” Levi says, using a clean handkerchief to wipe a stray drop from your cheek, “but I am proud of you.”

You take the handkerchief from him, feeling more tears stream down your face.

“Proud? I’m a fucking idiot,” you say through your sobs.

“Don’t even try to pull that self pity shit with me. Things happen sometimes. And you’re strong enough to commit to getting through it,” he responds.

You stand up, pushing your chair out. You look at him as you dry your face off again.

“I’m alone. How the hell am I supposed to do this shit alone?”

“You are not alone,” Levi replies. You’re shocked when he pulls you into a hug. “I’m going to help.”

You had never seen this side of him before. You look at him as you pull away slowly, tears still welled in your eyes.

“Are you sure? That's a big burden, Levi. None of this has to involve you.”

“Not the biggest burden I’ve ever taken on,” he shrugs. “There’s a lot of death around here, Y/N. Everyone is going to be happy about the little bit of life you’re giving us.”

You chuckle. He’s cynical, but he’s right.

He licks the envelope as he walks toward the door.

“Want me to run you a hot bath or something? Is that the type of shit pregnant people need?” he asks.

You laugh, a little harder than normal. It felt so relieving to laugh.

“Sure, Captain,” you respond softly.

---

Dear Reader,

I received your letter before the battle in Marley. I actually got to hand it to Reiner myself. He knows everything now. He broke down in front of me after reading it, going on about how much he regrets everything. How he wishes he could change things and be there for you. He begged me to kill him right there.

The world will eventually not have suffering like what you are going through now.

Eren Jaeger

---

Your jaw had dropped reading it. He begged me to kill him.

You hand the letter Levi had just delivered back to him. He reads it with a furrowed brow.

“Do you think…” you begin, your voice shaky, “do you think I could send another letter?”

Levi purses his lips, “Possibly. I can ask Jaeger. But right now, you need to bring your blood pressure back down.”

You were over seven months along now. You had found out about your pregnancy late, after being in denial for four whole months. Hange insisted on checking you out after you’d thrown up every morning for a week.

Levi had since gone on a parenting book reading spree; he made you read several of them too. He knew just about everything you needed to do to make a healthy baby: what to eat, what not to eat, how to exercise, when to go to the doctor, etc. It was really sweet how much he cared. You knew it gave him hope, something to fight for, something to come home to.

You were terrified when he left for Marley. You kissed him for the first time when he returned. Just about everyone you knew had to fight. You wished you could be out there fighting with them like you were supposed to. Maybe you could have made a difference.

Levi takes your hand, squeezing it to bring you out of your thoughts.

“What can I do?” he asks.

“Get me a glass of wine,” you grumble.

“Absolutely not.”

---

Dear Reiner,

Reader does not know I’m sending this. So keep it that way, or I’ll kill your sorry ass. Or maybe not, you’d probably enjoy that. In that case I’ll get creative.

How does it feel? Being a fucking deadbeat? Is it everything you’d thought it’d be and more? Fucking her and leaving her with nothing, like she belongs in a whorehouse. Reminds me of what happened to my mother. Pieces of shit like you came in and sent her to her death, leaving her kid behind to starve.

I wasn’t about to let her suffer like my mother did. But you were. I’m glad your choices haunt you, Reiner. You fucking deserve it.

I’ll be there for the both of them from now on, doing everything you were never capable of. She’s due any day now, I’m sure she’ll try to write to you.

Levi

---

You feel your first contraction while napping on the couch with Levi. You were settled in between his legs, your back leaning up against his chest. He had his hands on your stomach; he loved to feel the baby kick and tell them some of the happier stories in his memories.

The two of you had grown so close over the past few months. You slept together every night now. You didn’t want to leave each other’s sides if you didn’t have to. Levi would cuddle and massage you any time your pregnant body was ailing you.

You had fantasized with him about life after the war. He wanted to be a husband, a father, to live peacefully in the countryside. And he wanted more than anything for you to join him.

The first contraction wasn’t painful enough for you to make much more than a grunting noise, but Levi woke up the second he felt your stomach contort a bit. He was on very high alert these days.

“Holy… shit…is that what I think it is?” Levi whispers, “Don’t answer. I’m getting Hange.”

He crawls out from behind you and sprints out of the room.

The pain worsens and becomes much more frequent while he’s out looking for Hange. You stand up eventually after getting the urge to walk around - and your water breaks. You start panicking, unsure of how dilated you were and how much time you had left before pushing. You really wished you’d done more than just skimmed through those birthing books right about now.

Levi and Hange eventually come sprinting back into the room with a wheelchair and cold rags to find you whimpering in pain on the couch, trying your best to control your breathing.

You’re rushed down the halls to the Scout’s infirmary, where Levi had made sure the perfect room was set up for you - and it had been that way for two months.

The next hour goes by in a blur. Hange knew the biology of how to deliver the baby, and Levi knew how to coach you. He helped you hold your legs back when you pushed, and helped you count out your breathing. Hange attended to everything that might have made Levi faint, like checking your dilation and making sure the baby was coming out at the right angle. You got lucky having these two by your side.

Through all of your efforts, you finally hear a cry. You look up to see Levi holding your tiny new baby as Hange wiped them clean. He was smiling, way bigger than you’d ever seen him smile before, with tears in his eyes.

“Here,” he says softly, handing her to you.

You cradle her on your bare skin. “She’s so perfect, Levi! Look how sweet she is!” you coo.

“What are you going to call her?” he asks, stroking your hair as you gleam down at your baby.

“I was thinking,” you smile, “Kuchel.”

Levi lets out small gasp. Tears start streaming down his face, his efforts to stifle them failing.

“Really? I think that’s,” he wipes his eyes, “a wonderful name.”

—-

Dear Reiner,

She’s finally here! Oh my god, she’s precious. Levi and Hange helped to deliver her. Labor went smoothly. Levi started to cry when he saw her for the first time. She really is just that perfect. We are calling her Kuchel, after Levi’s mother. He cried when I told him that, too (don’t tell him I’m sharing those crying details.) I've decided to give her Levi’s last name as well.

Levi set up the perfect nursery for us.

If you really did feel guilty for leaving - don’t be. I’m happy.

She has your eyes.

Sincerely,

Reader

—-

Dear Reiner,

Kuchel said her first word today. Of course it wasn’t mama, she’s such a daddy’s girl. She started crawling awhile ago, we are now working on standing up on our own. She has all of this blonde curly hair, too. She’s growing up so fast.

Reader

—-

Dear Reiner,

Levi proposed a few days ago. It was so perfect. We found a nice house with room for a farm that will be perfect for a family.

I can only wonder how you’re doing, now that the war is over.

Are you even alive?

Reader

—-

Dear Reiner,

I’m expecting again. Levi is beyond excited. I am too, of course. Kuchel started school this year. She is such a smart kid.

I still wonder about you. After all these years.

Reader

—-

Message after message, word after word. No response. You had decided he must be dead. The devastation after the war would argue that he was.

That is, until you found yourself rummaging through one of Levi’s desk drawers, looking for baby Isabel’s lost pacifier.

You felt the bottom of the drawer shift. A false bottom?

You pry at it until it comes open.

Letters.

Dozens of opened letters. With Marleyan postage stamps.

You pull out the first bundle you see. They’re all from you. Unopened. Unsent. You set them aside, your jaw quivering.

You pull out the second bundle and gasp.

—-

Dear Reader,

Eren showed me your letter. I am terribly sorry. Let me fix this, somehow. You can come to live with me in Marley. I will take care of you. Please.

I’m not just a traitor, a liar, a farce. Everything between us was real. I can explain everything. Just trust me.

Love,

Reiner

—

Dear Reader,

Do you get my letters?

I’ve only heard rumors about our new baby girl. I wish I could see her. Just once. For a second. Do you have a camera? I know they’re hard to come by in Paradis. I can send one.

I’d do anything to change this. You know I would.

Love,

Reiner

—-

To Levi,

You son of a bitch. I know exactly what you’re doing. You think this is protecting her, but it’s not. Just let her talk to me. She would listen, she would understand. You said yourself that she writes. You manipulative, sick bastard. That is MY child. She will never be yours. No matter what you brainwash her to believe, your dirty Ackerman blood does not run through her veins. She deserves to know. You are the farce, Levi.

Reiner

—-

There were dozens more. All opened. All from Reiner.

You sink down to the floor, tears spilling from your eyes.

You are the farce, Levi.

But, why? He was just protecting you, right?

The office door opens. You jump, shoving the letters back into the drawer.

“Mommy, why are you crying?” Kuchel asks.

You take a deep breath, staring down at the letters, thinking about everything that could have been.

“Are you happy here, Kuchel?”

“Yes!” she chirps, “Every day!”

“Then it’s nothing, baby. Mommy just got hurt. She’s better now.”

Your daughter giggles and skips out of the room, leaving you to hide away the rest of the letters.

༺♥༻

I REALLY HOPE I understood your request, Anon! I actually had a lot of fun writing this. It isn't something I would normally think to write, but I'm so glad you shared this idea! Sorry for the sad ending, I love playing w people's emotions ;)

༺♥༻

[thinkingoutlouddblog]

Only For You - h.s.

Summary: H is usually pretty in tune with his body, but he’s apparently not very good at picking up when he’s getting sick. 

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: mentions of covid, plus me taking a guess at how covid testing in the US and at events works so sorry for any potential inaccuracies, I mostly used my knowledge of Aus but honestly its described all very generally

A/N: this took longer than I thought it was going to because I started and then got sick a couple days in :/ I’m still sick but she is done! If you have any requests pls send them my way!

Masterlist  ///  Send me an ask!

Harry is never sick.

He was so strict in his fitness and health, his immune system was better than almost anyone’s you knew. You were pretty sure someone could cough directly into his mouth and it would somehow boost his immune system by giving it a chance to exercise. There had to be fifty times over the course of your relationship so far you were sure you were going to pass on whatever illness you had acquired at the time. You always waited patiently for the other shoe to drop, for him to exhibit your exact symptoms and to be awash with guilt at his sickly state, but it never did.

It is such a rare occurrence, in fact, that he can tell you exactly the last time he came down with something. It was August 2019, he was in LA, and he had ended up missing two Fine Line album release related meetings. He remembered it because you had been in New York, tied up in projects of your own. You had pushed your flight up as a surprise to get home and take care of him, but by the time you touched down he had already been on the mend, and was sat in a rescheduled meeting when you opened the door to your shared home.

He could not recall, however, the earliest warning signs of a flu coming on, having experienced them so infrequently.

He dismissed the heavy tired feeling that had settled upon him, certain it was simply the aftereffects of intensive Grammy rehearsals. True to his perfectionist tendencies, he had been tireless in his efforts to make this one of his best performances and had been spending hours practicing a song you were pretty sure he could nail in his sleep. You said nothing of the fact that you thought he perhaps was spending more time than strictly necessary on this, of course, never wanting to undermine his process or invalidate his feelings of being under intense pressure. You just assured him you thought he was amazing and provided opinions and input whenever he asked it of you. He was overworking himself, but he was not deterred until the lights went down after his extremely successful (and extremely sexy, if you did say so yourself) performance.

Two days later, he was sure his hangover had extended over into a second day as he become aware of a dull ache in his head while awaking from his slumber. He groaned, rubbing his face as he rolled towards you, pulling you against his chest. He breathed deeply, cursing himself for drinking so much and sleeping so little only momentarily before thinking, hey, how many times do you win a Grammy? You stirred at his movement, eyes fluttering open only slightly before you shut them again and snuggled deeper into his chest. You sighed in contentment, loving nothing more than the comfortable feeling you can only get waking up in the morning, still on the edge of sleep. It had always been one of your favourite things, and it was only ever made better by waking up in Harry’s arms.

“I hate getting old,” he mutters into your hair, pressing a kiss where his lips had tickled your forehead.

“What?” You laughed at his unsolicited statement.

“Two-day hangovers are supposed to be reserved for after you hit thirty. But clearly, I’m older than I think I am because they have come for me and I am not enjoying it.”

You wriggled up in his embrace, so that you were face to face, giggling at him as you did say. “Oh god, do you think we should start thinking about retiring?”

“You’re supposed to tell me I’m not old!” He tightened his grip on you as he exclaimed in indignation.

“I mean what can I possibly say, H? Two-day hangover? You’ve basically got a foot in the grave,” you jested, but leaned in to peck his cheek at his faux sour expression.

In response, he released his grip on you and rolled away until he was at the very opposite edge of the bed in a big huff. You only laughed harder at his antics. You followed him to his side of the bed, wrapping your arms around him from behind and placing gentle kisses to the side of his neck.

“Darling, have you considered, maybe, just maybe, this two day hangover has nothing to do with the fact that you are getting older and more to do with the fact that you were working yourself to the bone for a month and then partied like the world was ending?” You pressed another lingering kiss to his neck. “Or perhaps like someone who had just won a Grammy?” A smile broke over your face at the memory, a fresh wave of pride washing through you, somehow still managing to leave you buzzing.

“Nope, I refuse to hear that. My youthful body is supposed to be stronger than any party, even an I-just-won-a-Grammy party.” You snorted in his ear, completely unsurprised by his steadfast stubbornness.

“Alright then old man,” you rolled away from him and hopped out of bed.

“Hey,” he called out, both at the jab and your exit from bed.

“Since my big shot Grammy winning, senior citizen boyfriend is still feeling a bit dusty I suppose I’ll bring him a coffee in bed,” you sing out over your shoulder as you make your way to the kitchen, craving the caffeine yourself.

He knew you were making fun of him to highlight how melodramatic you thought he was being. Each comment about him being old was really made to tell him just how young he was and how little you thought he had to worry about.

He sighed, wanting nothing more than to remain motionless in the warm comfy bed but having no choice to get up and make his way to the bathroom before he could enjoy his coffee in bed. (And maybe some lazy morning sex, he was sure that would help relieve some symptoms). His whole body felt heavy as he rolled out of bed, his limbs and shoulders feeling almost as though they were made of lead.

His brow scrunched as he slowly made his way to the toilet to relieve himself. This really was some day two hangover, he thought. I don’t care what y/n thinks, I’m pretty sure this is one of those moments where you realise your prime is coming to an end.

He flinched as the sunlight pouring in through the frosted glass of the bathroom window hit his face, instantly doubling the force of his headache. He grumbled and scrunched his eyes until they were nearly shut, attempting to minimise the light infiltrating his vision. He did his business as quickly as his protesting body would allow.

By the time he had returned to bed and bundled himself back under the covers the kettle had boiled and you were on your way back to your room. You shuffled along slowly, pausing every two steps to stop your nearly full mugs from spilling over the edge. Harry loved to point out the coffee drips that you left along the floor in your shared home so frequently. They were spread far and wide, and in fairness to you, most of the time you didn’t realise you had done it, else you would have wiped it up immediately.

“H?” you called softly, as you looked up from the mugs to see only a Harry sized lump under the doona as evidence that he was even there.

When you received only an, “Mmm?” in response you continued your slow spillage-avoiding pace up to his bed side table, placing the cup down gently.

“Are you feeling okay baby?” you kneeled down beside him, stroking his hair back from his face.

“Jus’ tired,” he muttered, not opening his eyes.

This shocked you somewhat. He’s always been a morning person, and never tended to sleep in two days in a row. The two of you had spent the morning in bed yesterday, having only crawled in in the (not even that) early hours of the morning and spent the rest of the day lazing about the apartment, nursing respective hangovers. Even with complaints of his hangover extending over into a second day, you had expected him to be itching to throw himself back into his routine, not curled up in bed still feeling shitty.

“You can back to sleep,” you assured, even though he seemed to already be halfway there. “Your coffee’s there if you want some.”

You pressed a kiss to his forehead before leaving him to it, closing the door softly on your way out.

Two hours later, Harry stirs once more from his sleep. His throat is dry as a bone, and his once dull headache is now pounding. He lifts his heavy head off the pillow and his eyes fall to his now cold coffee. He reaches over and takes a gulp, hoping to ease the feeling in his throat. Is not uncommon for him to awaken with a dryness to his throat, he often finds a hot coffee is enough to solve the problem, but alas, he is desperate enough to settle for the cold one before him for now. Instead of the relief he is craving, a burst of pain shoots through his throat each time he swallows a mouthful. He coughs as he places the mug back down, unwilling to have another sip.

And oh Jesus, it finally hits him. He’s sick.

All the signs he had shrugged off now became blaringly obvious to him in retrospect. And oh fuck.

Alarm bells go off in his brain as he registers the risk of what exactly this could be. He scrambles for his phone on his bedside table.

Harry: Don’t come upstairs.

You glance down at your phone as you feel the buzz of the notification. You had spent the morning pottering around the house, catching up on little chores the two of you had neglected over the past few days in the Grammy busy-ness and subsequent hangover. Happy with your efforts, you had settled back into having a lazy morning and were watching television on the couch quietly.

“Harry?” you call out in confusion as you read his text, already pausing the TV and standing up, intending to do the exact opposite of following his advice.

You can’t have made it three steps before he’s calling you. The wave of confusion is soon followed by one of extreme worry as you pick up the phone.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Don’t come up I’m sick,” he spoke hoarsely.

“What do you mean?”

“Darling, it could be covid you can’t come up here,” he was cursing himself on the other end of the line. He should have been paying more attention to what his body was trying to tell him. Shouldn’t have been risking you like this. If he had it, he was sure he had already infected you too and guilt gnawed away at him.

This stops you in your tracks. You hesitate, you do. But ultimately, you know if he has covid, you’re probably already infected. If he does have it, which you are praying he doesn’t because young as he is, healthy as he is, there is always a risk. The worst running through your mind. If the worst were to happen, you would curse yourself until the day you died for not going to him right now.

“It’s not covid,” you tell him firmly.

“Baby-“

“Your tests from before the Grammy’s were negative, and we should be getting more test results back any minute that will be clean too,” you’re on the move again, absolute in your resolution. The both of you, along with all the other attendees of the ceremony, had been tested both before and after. They were meant to text each of you with your results any minute (or call, if they were positive, but that was a possibility you were trying to put aside).

“Even so, we can’t risk it until we get the results.” At the sound of your footsteps on the stairs he spoke your name sternly, halting your steps again.

“Harry,” you countered, matching his tone.

“Please don’t fight me on this. If you’re so sure that the result is going to be negative, and that they’re going to come in any second,” he pauses to cough, lungs and throat protesting with each word he speaks, “then a little while in bed by myself won’t kill me.”

“But-“

“Darling, please. If it is covid, I’ll never forgive myself for not doing everything in my power to try and keep you from getting it too,” the quiet desperation in his voice is the only thing that could break your resolve.

With a long exhale, you turned back down the stairs but kept the phone to your ear.

“Fine,” you huffed, “but only because I was always taught to respect my elders.”

“See that’s the good news,” he half laughed, half coughed at the exhalation of breath, “I’m not an old man with a two-day hangover, just a young man with an unspecified illness.”

“Do you still have your smell and taste?” you asked worriedly.

“I could definitely taste the cold ass coffee I just drank,” he rasped. He paused for a beat, hearing only the rustling of sheets. “And our bed still smells like you,” you heard the smile behind the comment, appreciating his sweet reference to the love he often professes he has for the way you smell.

“Sometimes I feel like it’s nothing you’re putting on, and sometimes I think it’s everything you’re putting on plus just, you. There’s no other smell like it and I wish I could just bottle it up and have it forever. Bloody aphrodisiac,” he had once told you.

“And you’re not running a fever?” You chewed the inside of your lip as you fired questions at him, a bad habit that reared its head when you were worried, stressed or concentrating hard.

On his end of the line, he felt his forehead for warmth. “Umm,” he considered it, “I’m not sure. Probably not.” He was actually pretty sure he had the beginning of one, but he could tell you were freaking out and he didn’t want to worry you any further until he heard for sure.

“I’m going to grab you a thermometer and some cold and flu tablets,” Harry immediately started to protest but you didn’t let him start. “I’ll put a mask on and just leave them outside the door. I’ll grab you some water and something to eat too. I’m not just leaving you sick up there with nothing.”

He sighed into the phone. “I’m not going to win this argument, am I?”

You scoffed. “Of course not, I let you win the last one not more than five minutes ago.”

He sighed once more, and you rolled your eyes at your overdramatic boyfriend. “Fine, but you have to be in and out.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you leaned the phone between your ear and your shoulder as you grabbed what you needed for him.

“I’m not joking, y/n. You have to be quick.”

You bit your tongue, refraining from snapping back. Did he seriously think you were stupid? You knew he didn’t, he was just sick and stressed about the situation, but that didn’t stop the flare of annoyance that burst through your chest. You shook it off, knowing it was misplaced.

“Okay I’m going to put the phone down so I can pop a mask on and run up,” luckily, you had a million masks around the house ready to go.

“Kay,” he muttered, eyes feeling droopy all over again.

You pull your mask on, and with arms full of supplies dashed up the stairs. Once you arrived at the door, you placed down the cold medication, water and thermometer as well as the banana you had snatched off the kitchen counter before turning and running back down the stairs.

As soon as you’re back down the stairs, you’re pulling your mask off and putting the phone back to your ear. You faintly hear the close of your bedroom door, deducing Harry had grabbed everything.

“I’m back,” you acknowledged your presence on the phone.

“Thank you for that, my love.”

Your phone dinged in your ear, indicating a new text message. You pulled it away from your ear to examine the contents of the text.

You breathed a small sigh of relief.

“They just texted me my covid test results, they’re negative.” Everyone had been tested upon their exit of the Grammy afterparty.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. You silently prayed that pause wasn’t caused by him examining another incoming call, suggesting his results were positive and required an actual conversation.

“Mine are negative too,” he exhaled, you could hear the relief in his voice.

“Oh, thank god,” you said, already turning to go back up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“I thought you were confident I didn’t have it,” he teased.

“Sorry somebody had to put on a brave face for Mr Worry Wart,” you teased right back. You hung up the phone as you reached the top step. Turning to the left and opening the door to your room.

You stride over to the bed wordlessly and climb in on your side, instantly wrapping both arms around him. He relished the embrace. You loved to poke fun at him, but sometimes the humour was just a way for you to mask how you were really feeling about things and deflect. Harry usually doesn’t point it out but he’s always aware of it.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice still croaky.

“I love you, too,” you pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.

You stayed like that for a moment longer before you swung into action, full nurturing mother bear mode activated.

“Now, have you taken your temperature? Taken some of the cold and flu tablets?”

At the shake of his head you frowned at him. “Come on then. You do that while I go make you a nice hot tea to soothe your throat. And a box of tissues,” you added at the sight of him sneezing practically hard enough to shake the room.

So back down to the kitchen you went for the third time that day, grabbing him both the tea, the tissues and a nice hearty bowl of porridge, figuring it would be gentle on his throat. “Temperature?” you asked as soon as you crossed the threshold of your doorway.

“No fever,” he punctuated with a cough.

You frowned as you watched it happen, his eyes were rimmed red, his nose beginning to run. He sat up in bed as you handed him the bowl of porridge. You placed the tea down so you could also hand him the box of tissues that had been tucked up under your arm.

“Thank you so much for all this, angel. But you don’t have to wait on me hand and foot, I’ve got a cold, I’m not bed bound,” he grabbed my hand and traced the outside of my hand as he spoke.

“I know I don’t have to do it, but I want to do it. My baby’s feeling crappy I just want to do whatever I can to make him feel less so.” Even after all this time of being together, your cheeks flushed slightly at your sappy words. You meant them, of course, but intimacy was still not one of your strong suits. The way you were raised lacked those kinds of affirmations and endearments, and was never modelled practically in your parent’s relationship. It left you both craving it, and feeling uncomfortable when it actually occurred. With both experience and Harry’s help you had gotten better at it, but you still weren’t 100% there yet. He knew one day you would be, though, and he was so proud to see how much progress you had made. Even if you couldn’t always see it.

Hearing those words from you, was just one more indication at how far you’ve come, and it warmed not only his heart, but his whole chest. With his grip on your hand, he gave you a slight tug, encouraging you to lean forward. Just as you had five minutes earlier, he presses a kiss to your cheek, craving your lips but knowing he can’t have them right now.

“You’re too good to me,” he praised as you pulled away reluctantly, giving him space to enjoy his breakfast while it was still warm.

He expected a joking, I know, in response but instead he receives a serious, “There is no such thing as good too to you. You deserve the world.” You don’t break eye contact with him, even as he is too shocked at your response to form one of his own. “But all I got you was this bowl of porridge sorry babe,” you broke the tension, pulling your hand from his.

“Where are you going now?” He pouts at you as you grab the half empty coffee mug and make your way out of the room.

“I’ll be right back, I promise,” you assure him, already planning how else you are going to fuss over him. He has to be well to go to London to start filming his new movie soon, you reason with yourself. But really, you know he could have nothing coming up and you could be the busiest you’ve ever been, and you would still play nurse for him.

By ‘right back’ he assumed you meant in half an hour, because his mug and bowl are both empty by the time you return, and he is nearly drifting back off to sleep. He is still somewhat upright, but slumped back into his pillow, head lolling to the side slightly, directed towards the door almost as though is watching and waiting for you. While still conscious, his blinks are becoming slower and slower, reminiscent of a baby. You coo at his adorable sleepy state, the moment tugs at your chest so strongly it is almost physically painful. Sometimes, the magnitude of your love for him nearly sweeps you off your feet. You just feel so damn lucky to have these wonderfully domestic moments with him. To see him like this, to be his person that gets to take care of him. While he is a rockstar and you get to do all sorts of crazy things with him that most people dream of (like for instance, watching him perform at and accept a Grammy), you love doing everyday life with him.

“It’s not quite sleep time yet, baby,” you spoke gently, hoping not to startle him too much.

He peeled his eyes open and pouted at you once more. “Why not?”

“Because it’s nice, long, hot, steaming shower time,” his frown deepened, clearly not wanting to move. “I promise you, you’ll feel so much better afterwards.”

“You promise?” He refused to wipe the pout from his face, really stepping into being babied.

“I promise, now up you get,” you offered him both hands to help him up.

“Fine,” he groaned as he took your hands, and you pulled him up.

As soon as he was upright, he wrapped both arms around you and held you tight. He allowed himself a few short seconds before pulling away, not wanting to get you sick too. Even if it wasn’t covid, he still wanted his love well.

You shepherded him into the bathroom, where he winced once more at the brighter lighting. His eyes were always more sensitive to light when he had the flu. You turned the shower on for him while he got undressed, before turning to pull the blinds closed without him breathing a single word of complaint. His heart swelled with love for you for the hundredth time that day. To be loved by you was to be seen. He didn’t need to use his voice to be understood (though that communication obviously had its place).

“Take your time baby, let the steam help get all the bad stuff out,” you gave him a little smile before leaving, closing the door behind you to allow the steam to build up within the space.

Harry let out a sigh as he stepped into the stream of hot steaming water. You were right as ever, the steam helped clear him out somewhat, and even just feeling clean helped him to feel better already. He relished the heat and the soothing feeling of the water, massaging his scalp with shampoo as he began to wash up from head to toe.

He had no idea how much time had passed by the time he reluctantly turned the shower off and stepped into a big fluffy towel. He was much quicker in drying himself than he had been in the rest of his shower routine, eager to rug up in a jumper and some sweats (and some of those thick soft socks you bought him for winter).

He swung the en suite door open, contemplating where he left his comfy winter clothes last when he stops at the sight before him.

You’re putting the last pillowcase on, having changed the sheets completely. His breakfast dishes are cleared, replaced with a hot steaming bowl of vegetable soup and his bottle of water. You’ve dug the humidifier out of the cupboard as well and you’ve got it all set up and running for him. The book he was currently reading was picked up from its previous place on the living room coffee table and waiting for him on your pillow. The exact clothes he was about to grab were sitting at the edge of the bed, laid out ready for him.

“You’re an actual angel, ya know that?” He shakes his head in disbelief. He has no idea what he did in a past life to get so lucky. The success of the music, he can go to bed each night feeling like he has done a lot to earn. He’s worked hard for a long time, and while he accredited a good portion of it all to luck, he knew he wasn’t talentless or undeserving. With you, however, he had simply won the lottery. You weren’t a perfect person, but you were his perfect person. He would spend the rest of his life doing everything in his power to feel deserving of you.

“Only for you,” you say softly.

He strides over to you, holding his towel to keep it from falling as he went. He presses a kiss to your forehead and mutters an, “I love you so much.”

“I love you more,” you peer up at him. “Now get those on,” you gesture towards his clothes, “before your soup gets cold.”

“Where did the soup come from?” He asks as starts to shrug his towel off and pull his clothes on.

“Where did you think I went earlier?” you referenced your half hour long disappearance, having been downstairs chopping up and preparing vegetables to go into the homemade soup.

“Oh, angel,” he breathed, “you really are the best.”

“Oh stop. Don’t act like all of this is not exactly what you do every time I’m sick. Which is far more often than you are, I might add.” You weren’t wrong, he did baby you just as much if not more.

“You’re still the best,” he refused to relent.

“Yeah, yeah,” you end the conversation, not being able to handle too many compliments.

He lets it slide, knowing he could compliment you further and ask you to really hear what he was saying, because he meant it with his entire being. But you were doing so much for him, and he really was tired so he didn’t bombard you with more praise than you desired.

Once he was dressed, he hopped back under the covers and sat up with his soup. He didn’t have the appetite to finish it, but he knew as much of it as he could handle would do him some good.

You jumped into the shower yourself, wanting to feel as clean as the sheets did when you got into bed with him. By the time you were out of the shower and into your own pair of fresh comfy clothes, Harry had finished most of the bowl of soup and had set the remainder aside.

“Thank you so much, angel,” your cheeks tinted pink at the purposeful repetition of that particular pet name.

“Don’t mention it,” you crawled under the covers with him, picking up his book from your pillow. “Now, where were you up to?”

“Hmm?” he questioned.

“In your book, where were you up to?”

“Why?”

“So, I can read it to you, obviously.”

“Is that obvious?”

“Yes.”

“And why do you think I’m suddenly incapable of reading it myself?” He questioned, even though he was practically preening internally at the thought of your sweet voice reading his novel aloud to him. It was a beautiful novel, filled with rich descriptions and he just knew it would sound lovely rolling off your tongue, but you had already done so much for him today it was hardly for of him to let you offer this without giving you an out.

“I don’t think you’re incapable, I just know your eyes hurt when you’re sick and I can imagine it makes it hard to focus on the words. Plus, I always fancied a career in audiobooks,” you actually really wanted to do this for him, not viewing it as an inconvenience at all. In fact, you would probably find yourself disappointed if he told you he would rather read it himself.

“Are you sure? You really don’t have to,” he looked you in the eyes, gauging your expression.

“I want to,” you promised.

“About page 150, you might have to read the first sentence to check.”

So, you began reading, until his eyes grew heavier and his eyes drooped. Slowly but surely, he drifted off into the realm of peaceful deep sleep.

Not before, of course, he muttered, more than half asleep, “I can’t wait to marry the shit out of you.”