#gilded sea's dream

[4dango-the2nd]

Happy belated Birthday Alhaitham!

I have neither time nor inspiration to do a proper birthday comic for haitham 😔 so have a hug from your no.1 fan instead, alhaitham! oh, and a grilled flying serpent lmao

[sisterhoods]

tags !

[historiaxvanserra]

These Violent Delights | Chapter Two

Summary: A High Lords meeting goes awry and you find yourself thrust into the foxes den.

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Archeron!Reader (brief mentions of Azriel x reader)

Word Count: 6.4k

Chapter 1 of These Violent Delights on my Masterlist

The Hewn City’s state rooms are ugly, you think as you stalk the emissary of the Night Court through the winding, narrow corridors of Hewn City. The palatial chambers had been carved into the dark stone of the mountain by the Gods of old; and the high, domed ceilings are held in place by onyx pillars decorated with twisted carvings of beasts and fornicating demi-gods that line the Gothic archways.

Lurid, ill-fated omens, you think. 

Harbingers of your undoing. 

The emissary appointed with escorting you is adorned in ceremonial robes; a fine damask tunic in a deep indigo silk that is almost iridescent in the artificial light. You fall into step with him as he approaches a set of gilded iron gates. Two armored sentries fall into rank as you cross the threshold of the council chambers and you offer a courteous nod to the sentry as he meets your eye.

The antechamber of The Moonstone Palace is plunged in a suffocating blue-darkness with only the silvers of silver faelight, like artificial stars, to light the faces of the High Lords. The atmosphere is oppressive and the smell of hemlock and moonflowers stain the stagnant air. For a few moments, while you’re lost in thought, the world is silent and still. Feigning peace. But there is no peace. Not here, where the eyes of every High Lord in Prythian are upon you. 

Hewn City is a dark mirage. A metropolis of hedonistic desire and vulgar frivolity

It is here in the dark that you find yourself adrift; lost somewhere to the sea of time. You abandon yourself to the tide of memory. The happy recollections of your childhood; to the thought of home. Someplace far from here, where the sunlight touches your skin and the smell of salt from the coast becomes tangled in your unbound hair. Somewhere, in the recesses of your mind, where you know your mothers love and your fathers face is something more than a mere memory. 

It occurs to you that this is a home that never existed.

Home had always been burning; the acrid smell of woodsmoke beckons you like a funeral pyre and your salt-cracked lips chafe and bleed in the wake of blistering winds from the violent sea. And that’s the thing about mothers, you and she exist as some wretched mirror or one another; as hatred and guilt. 

You’ve been thinking of your mother a lot as of late; something in your dreams, the echoing of a coming storm. A fine line between love and hate. It is something strange and prophetic that makes your skin crawl uncomfortably from your body.

In a flurry of movement against the black you are brought back to the present as you take your place amongst the ranks of the Inner Circle. 

The silhouettes of the other High Lords, that had been flickering wildly against the dark stone of the mountain, cease to move. Cease to be, as shadows envelop the room, melting into the darkness as Rhysand glides into the room his violet eyes glinting in the dark. His eyes shine with a cold violence that draws you from thought and the visions of a home long forgotten turn to ashes in your trembling hands. He’s dressed all in black and violet, his tan skin looks pallid in the low light. By his side Feyre’s skin looks as though it is wreathed in starlight against the backdrop of the twilight-- you catch the scent of chamomile and moondust in the air. 

It smells like Nyx you think, smiling lightly to yourself at the thought of your nephew.

A tremor of dark power ripples through the air and you feel the shift in the atmosphere when shield after shield locks into place around each High Lord and his retinue of courtiers. The shield that Rhysand had already placed around the Inner Circle; made stronger in response. Night magic glitters in the air like stardust and you swear you can taste it on your tongue. That same cold rage and an essence of icy violence fortifies you against the hostility in the room and you school your expression to remain neutral when you seek out a pair of strange amber eyes in the crowd. 

A gentle warmth burns though your chest and your eyes scan the crowd. 

Eris Vanserra moves like a predator; resolute and obstinate. Amber eyes burn like fire glow in the dim light and each of his long strides are punctuated by the echo of boot clad feet on the marble. In this light, his face is almost ethereal. Unearthly even. Set in a painfully neutral expression as he slinks through the halls of the city below the mountains of Velaris. Eris Vanserra burns bright against the other Lords of Pryhtian; his copper hair, like burnished gold in the dim lights, and his eyes. Those fucking eyes. Haunting and evocative as he meets your gaze with a feline smirk. 

It is a wicked, false thing, that glitters with malice.

  He watches you with a wrathful sort of reverence. He is so very lovely, even in the pallid light. Even as his father and brothers flank his sides like a pack of hungry foxes; hungry and baying for blood.  

You watch him carefully as Eris takes his seat at the foot of the large black table, he’s careful to make a show of the way he languidly reclines in his chair, rolling his shoulders back and angling his hips in such a way that the whole room is displayed to him at once.

It’s almost voyeuristic in nature.

That summons a storm within you; a violent, lonely, sort of thing, that washes over him with the force of a raging tempest down the scarcely accepted bond and his eyes, glittering and amber in the dying light, finding yours again. For a moment, Eris Vanserra sees himself through your eyes; for the first time in centuries he doesn’t hate the man staring back at him. 

By his side Eris’ mother’s skin looks as though it is wreathed in fireglow against the backdrop of the twilight-- you catch her dark glassy eyes and she smiles softly at you. There is a deep sorrow there, in the depths of The Lady of Autumn's eyes, that feel kindred to you. 

A  shared pain, perhaps.

Turning as Rhysand and Feyre push further into the darkness of the antechamber, you are drawn from thought once more.

The rest of The Night Court look like some savage celestial army as they enter on a night-kissed breeze. Cassian and Nesta look like warriors hardened by war and ruin, all dressed in black and faces coloured with cold caution. They’re followed by the Shadowsinger, who is shrouded in dark wisps of shadow and his skin glows golden against the dark. His face is set in an unreadable expression, though, when your eyes meet a flash of recognition flashes in those hazel eyes.

Rhysand stops dead in his tracks when he regards the High Lord of Autumn.

Beron Vanserra; cruel and tyrannical, keens when he notes the flash of surprise in Rhysand’s violet gaze. His eyes simmer with a dim fire as his eyes land on you. Beron’s teeth are like crow-picked bones as he offers you a feral smile. 

“We weren’t expecting you, Beron.” Feyre’s voice is distant and cold as she speaks to the High Lord and his sons. 

Rhysand rises to his feet from his throne, waving his hand to the attendants, “Fetch the High Lord and his Lady a seat.”

The attendant presents Beron with a chair and he settles between Helion and the Lady of Autumn, neither Helion nor the lady seem to acknowledge each other but you can feel the shift in their demeanors as Beron’s ire sparks in his eyes. He doesn’t even spare The Lady of Autumn a glance before he moves on to inspecting his fellow High Lords. 

You pay Beron no heed and instead your eyes find the Lady of Autumn as she settles into her seat beside her husband and eldest son. The Lady of Autumn is like one of Feyre’s paintings; arresting and darkly beautiful. Her romantic eyes are shaded in the colors of sunset; a warm amber that looks almost golden in the low light and her dark auburn hair glitters in the dying fireglow and her eyes-- so rich that you get lost in their glassy depths. Those haunting eyes. They’re Eris’ eyes you realize as they meet yours. Though she doesn’t linger long she gives you a soft smile before returning her gaze to her long slender fingers that twitch in her lap. They’re adorned with many gold rings and crystals that she wears like armor to fortify her against the hostile atmosphere. 

You see something of yourself in her you think, looking down to your own attire. An opulent and finely boned corset, cinched so tight, that even breathing feels like a luxury and the heavy black damask that covers you in swathes of pleated fabric acts as barrier between yourself and the many eyes in the room that trail over you without care or warning. 

“Nor was I expecting to be here,” Beron drawls, “But alas, it seems we have business to discuss.” Beron’s fire rages dangerously against the black. Torrid and angry, his face unflinching and cruel as he turns his gaze upon Rhysand. Something treacherous passes between the two High Lords at that moment and something in your chest begins to stir like a storm inside of you.

A warning of a coming storm.

“Rumor claims that your allegiances are elsewhere, these days.” It is your voice that counters and Beron croons. The High Lord of Autumn assesses you keenly, his gaze shifting-- from the darkness of your eyes-- down. To the sulk of your lips. Further still to the exposed slope of your shoulders and coming to rest on your chest, where the swell of your breasts spills over the corseted bodice of your gown. His eyes darken luridly as his eyes meet yours again. Beron Vanserra scrutinizes every minute detail of your dark armor; every errant hair, every nervous twitch of your jaw, every flutter of your dark lashes.

It’s disarming the smile that spreads across his handsome face and his eyes shine with a maniacal sort of joy that sparks a wave of fury that runs through you like water-- and you swear you can feel Eris’ own fiery rage in answer. 

“And what would you know of my allegiances, girl?” The false smile he offered is soon replaced with a deep loathing in Beron’s eyes that practically burns through you. 

In a way, it feels strangely comforting to feel his ire. 

To feel anything at all that isn’t paralyzing dread or hirearth for a home to which you will never return. 

Helion waves a scar-flecked hand in front of him, “Let’s just get on with it, shall we?” 

The High Lord of Day glows with the radiance of the golden sun and he looks at you with such a strange mixture of boredom and curiosity that almost seems like reverence. He doesn’t dare look at The Autumn Lady in her seat though you notice the careful glances she makes towards him in those spaces between the seconds when no one is paying much heed.

“I know you met with rhe Prince of Rask.” you say and all the idle chatter in the room dies at once. “And he’s working with the Koschei, isn’t he?” 

Beron opens his mouth and you brace yourself for the torrid flames of his wrath. You see the violent delight dance across Beron’s eyes and Rhysand just holds his stare. Hold it with a face like icy death. And beneath the surface you see untempered wrath as it ripples beneath his carefully curated mask. A sharp pain in your chest has you seeking out Eris at his father’s side. His face is the picture of cataclysmic rage; writhing and burning in those eyes. 

To anyone else Eris Vanserra is the image of infernal rage. A righteous son to a wronged father. But to you-- all his fear comes home to you. 

A warning fire. 

“Never mind, we can discuss the happy news of your heir’s birth another time,” Beron smiles again at Rhysand and Feyre. It is Feyre who regards him with a snarling fury at the mention of the son she had almost died to bring into the world. 

She would give her life again if only to protect him from the clutches of a tyrant like Beron. Of that you were certain. 

“I believe we have business to discuss?” Beron questions again when no one responds to his taunt. 

All the eyes in the room turn to you when you loose a laugh, “I didn’t realize we were in the business of discussing plans with our enemies.” 

Eris Vanserra looks as though he might just vault over the table and silence you himself. His eyes smoulder in the dark and the scathing look he sends your way is enough to make you weak in the knees. 

“Make no mistake girl,” Beron muses, his eyes sparking with feral delight, “I am not your enemy,” 

“You are advised to keep it that way.”

In that moment you are bereft of every thought and sound in your mind as the room stills. 

Rhysand and Feyre falter and look between you and The High Lord of Autumn-- and his heir.

Your mate. 

Eris himself remains poised, his fingers wrapped around the arm of the chair, the wood straining under his cruel grip until his knuckles turn as pale as the sea foam that swirls atop the Sidra. 

It is the Shadowsinger who rises from his seat in response, “Threaten her again, old man-- I dare you.” Azriel’s voice wraps round you like cold death and you can’t help but stare impassively as he places his body between yours and Beron. The flicker of flame is smothered by Azriel’s darkness. 

Beron sits in his chair without so much as a word. Though you see the taunt in his eyes as he looks at you again. Azriel’s imposing figure still stands over you, a scarred hand that strokes languid circles into the skin of your shoulder. The bond in your chest hums violently. 

“Call off your dog, Rhysand.” Eris’ voice is dangerously low as he eyes Azriel. 

Rhys shrugs, smiling faintly “Very well,” he muses. 

Azriel takes his seat beside you, though his scarred fingers remain fixed on the arm of your chair. 

“Tell me, Azriel?” Eris laughs coldly, his voice devoid of any humor and he opens his mouth to speak, “Does it pain you knowing that both of your brothers have been given a sister as a mate?”

“And yet the Mother still deems you unworthy of a Mate -- desitined to pity fuck the spare sister.” Eris muses with a lilt of his voice when he realizes he has the upperhand. 

A twinge of heat in your chest from the bond makes your scowl deepen. 

Azriel blinks at first, his face twisting in rage before rising to his feet once more, barrelling over the table with an inhuman growl. Azriel grips Eris by the lapels of his emerald tunic. Coming together in flashes of flame and smoke as they struggle against one another. Eris swings a leg over Azriel’s thigh bringing them both tumbling to the floor, while the other High Lords watch on with varying degrees of amusement and frustration on their faces. 

Your face heats under the scrutiny. Unable to move or speak-- your stormy facade rendered useless as the tears begin to well in your eyes. 

You are a storm-- but in the face of their wrath there is naught you can do but watch and abide.

Rhysands commanding voice cuts through Azriel’s cursing and Eris’ insults. The room falls silent as the males pull away from one another. Azriel’s nose is bloodied and his hair falls around his face in messy strands. Eris’ lip is split, spilling crimson along the column of his throat. You trace the line of scarlet as the droplets stain the neckline of his white shirt. You can hear his heartbeat as it flutters wildly. His eyes meet yours and a look of resignation and shame crosses them for a moment; obscuring the perfect amber of his gaze. 

Azriel wipes his blood on his leathers; wears it like armor as he turns to Eris “Something to remember me by.” 

Azriel spits the words like venom at Eris whose face radiates with a dark and fiery wrath.

Feyre looks between the two males and then to you; her face softens then as she regards you. Your hands shaking wildly, and a heartbeat like an echoing war drum, the bond in your chest singing a mournful song as it rages inside you. 

You look utterly devastated. 

She’s not used to seeing that kind of defeat on the face of her elder sister; the sister who had weathered so much, always headstrong and ardent, who had suffered every injustice with a straight face-- she hadn’t quite prepared herself for the type of sorrow that realization would bring with it. 

Taking in the scene unfolding before you-- the descent into violence and the blood that pools like rubies at Eris Vanserra’s feet you loose a shaky breath. “Enough--enough” You wave your hands between Azriel and Eris. 

The males both take a tentative step away from one another and further from you. 

“Who shares my bed is of little concern, I assure you, My Lord,” You insist firstly, setting your shoulders straight and facing them now with all the stormy determination you can feign in that moment, “from what I’ve heard you yourself have quite curious bedfellows.” 

Beron sneers and scoffs from his seat at the foot of the table at the insult. A lie, at that. If anyone does share Eris Vanserra’s bed they are a mystery to you. 

“Preferring the company of hounds  - or so I am told.” Azriel adds.

And in truth you and Azriel haven’t so much as locked eyes since that night in Hewn City. After the mating bond between you and Eris had made its home in your chest you hadn’t been able to think about anyone or anything else. 

Just him. And those amber eyes.

“We are here because once more someone is threatening the tenuous peace we have established here,” Helion nods his head thoughtfully and Thesan, who had remained silent throughout the whole ordeal looks at you with genuine encouragement and utters his agreement. Kallias and Vivianne remain silent and imposing on the other side of the table.

“It is our duty-- our privilege-- to ensure Prythian and its people are not ravaged by war again.” You look to Kallias then, unimpressed by the needless violence that had passed but somehow enamored by your words.

“Hyburn took so much from us-- from all of us.” You say, gesturing around the table and the High Lord’s faces are all shaded in sympathy and regret for all they had lost, “and Amarantha made slaves of you all.”

You cast a glance to your sister; who had fought and died for these great men and their courts. And to Rhysand who had subjected himself to being her plaything. Something like grief flashes in those violet eyes that sparks a storm in you. 

“I will not be a slave again,” You vow and you notice then how all the High Lords seem rapt withal as you speak to them, and the storm inside you rages on, “to anyone.”

The tensions around the table seem to dissipate when Helion raises a chalice and smirks fondly at you and it seems that they see you as more than a bed warmer to a dark God or the mate of some High Lord’s heir. Talons scrape menacingly along your mental shields and Rhysand’s dark presence makes itself known to you. Bed warmer? Darling you are a storm-- everyone here knows it. 

A force to be reckoned with.

The rest of the meeting seems to come to pass as intended, laborious hours of negotiating and political games as you come to terms with each High Lord in turn. By the time the moon hangs in the sky like cut quartz, almost all of the High Lords have already departed, leaving only The High Lord of Spring and The Autumn Court’s entourage. 

“Where did you find this one, Rhysand?” Tamlin asks, his tone measured and light. 

Rhysand looks between Feyre and you smiling lightly, the corners of his mouth twitching as he opens his mouth to speak.

“I heard they found her in a Hyburn cell, after the war was over.” It is Beron Vanserra’s voice that cuts in, “what was left of her anyway.”

“Perhaps we should be asking where your loyalties lie?” It’s the middle Vanserra brother that speaks. His russet curls glow warm in the dim lights and his stare is cruel and malignant as he hones in on you. 

“Hyburn whore” It’s whispered, accusatory, on an inhale of breath. 

They way it is uttered with an air of repulsion and venom reminds you of those stories told in human villages; of woods women named ‘witch’ by those who do not understand. 

People fear what they do not understand. 

It seems that Fae are no different than mere mortals in that respect. 

“You’d be wise to bite your tongue, brother.” Eris’s voice is a cold echo as all thought and sound eddies out of your mind. Flashes of black and gold as the visions come back to you; those days spent cowering in the darkness of your cell, your feral anger directed at any man who came too close-- all biting fury, canines and claws, and the screams they tore from your like the howling wind over a violent sea.

A fury spreads through you, taking root in the dark caverns of your chest, slowing your heartbeat to a dull aching thud as you lose yourself to it; give yourself over to the tempest of emotion that courses through you. You try to fight it as the first ebbs of that dangerous storm embrace you. Lest you surrender yourself to the tempest; let it open you up and pour out into the world in floods of ravaging power. 

It brings forth a storm the likes of which the world has never seen; a thing of ugly rage.

You were born angry, your mother had told you once.

But rage is a learned thing. Your rage. It had been your mother’s first, before that it had her mothers, and her mother before her. 

It is an inherited curse; a wicked and wretched thing.

It is a storm enough to drown in. 

A howling wind whips around you and for a moment you are standing at a great precipice. From the cliff’s edge, peering down at a violent sea as it coils and breaks against the jagged cliff face of some distant shore, where the world looks as though it is dappled in fireglow, the smell of woodsmoke and bonfires wafts from inland. The sea-soaked wind is so palpable that you taste its salt-kiss on your lips with the ardent fervor of the most savage lover. 

There is something sacred in salt, you think.

For a moment you consider what it would feel like; to plummet into the watery abyss. How the sunlight would look as it fractures and splinters on the water's violent surface. 

How it might cascade into the murky green depths. A secret held between you and the sea.

“My Lady,” It is Eris’ voice, practically feral and dripping with an aching desperation as he all but vaults around the corner of the dark wood table, parting his brothers with a rehearsed type of brutality as he claws his way to you. His commanding aura draws you closer to him and his pale hand offers a strong and comforting weight on your arm as he takes your trembling palm in his rough hold.

“You’re bleeding,” Eris says, cupping your palm into a fist with his own, applying light pressure to the wound while he assesses it. Turning it over in his tentative grasp. Through your lashes you take a moment to assess him as he towers over you. He’s tall and much broader than you remember but he moves with an inhuman grace. His nose is long and straight and his jaw strong and regal. His amber eyes linger dangerously over the hand cupped in his own. You hadn’t even realized you had stood up. Nor had you registered the blood you had drawn from your own palms until you see the crescent moons, indented in the tender flesh, like a taunt as they stain Eris’ fingertips scarlet as he presses the fabric of his handkerchief to your grazed hand. 

“It’s nothing, My Lord,” You say softly, your voice low and you feel his eyes burning into yours; it is a slow, searing ache that almost feels like a kiss. A fragile thing, full of reverence and a strange tenderness. A vein of hurt throbs through you, quickly soothed by the press of his palm to yours. 

Eris Vanserra holds a power over you; commands you in a way that should feel unpleasant. The knowledge that you would give yourself over to him if only he asked. 

“It is only a little blood.” The words live and die on tongue, they fizzle out just as soon as they are uttered before he is calling for Rhysand -- his voice is swallowed by the din and your heartbeat echoes like a wardrum in your ears and the sound of the violet sea breaks against you and you feel your body go lax. 

You wait for the dull ache as your body meets the cool marble of the floor only it never comes; instead your weight is suspended in the embrace of Eris Vanserra’s arms, you vaguely hear your name from his lips before the world turns to darkness. 

You feel like lull of his heartbeat as he brings you closer against his chest. 

The smell of cedar and smoked bergamot follows you into the abyss. 

The room seems to come back to you like the tide; swiftly and cruelly as it materializes before you. It comes back in flashes of the dark; the oppressive pillars of dark marble that hold the domed, onyx ceiling in place, the silver fae lights like pallid stars and the visage of contorting demons and chimera’s like half formed ghosts. 

“What happened?” You ask looking around the darkened council chambers; once filled with the idle chatter of courtiers and High Lord’s and their entourage now only the Inner Circle is gathered in the darkness contained between these walls. 

And Eris. 

He burns golden against the black. 

“Well one thing is for certain,” It is Morrigan who stands over you, her shoes shine like rubies in the low light, “You know how to make a scene.” Her voice is light and jovial, laced with concern. 

“You fainted,” Feyre says plainly as she sinks to her knees before you. It is then you feel Eris’ solid frame as he radiates warmth behind you, where you are propped against his chest. Your body feels foreign and unlike your own as you move, transferring your weight from his arms and into the arms of Feyre who helps you stand on uncertain feet. 

“I’m sorry,” You say earnestly to both Rhysand and Feyre and turning to Eris again to mutter your thanks. He looks displeased at that. The distance between your body in his, the unfamiliarity you regard him with as if you hadn’t just allowed yourself to revel in the feel of his arms wrapped securely around you. “I’m sorry.”

“You should return to your father, My Lord.” You laugh humorlessly, using the hand that isn’t wrapped tightly around the lip of the chair to smooth a hand down the pleats of your gown reflexively.

A knock, resounding and resolute echoes through the chamber and the Inner Circle seem to bristle at the intrusion. Through the blanket of the dark a figure emerges; Keir stands tall with an air of arrogance about him as he steps into the antechamber. His hair is dark and graying and his face, though handsome, has begun to show signs of age. His eyes glitter menacingly as he finds you amongst the inner circle. 

“My apologies for the intrusion, High Lord.” Keir says, his voice full of dark promise as a second figure steps from the shadow, “but it appears there is a rather urgent matter that has come to our attention.”

The rooms seems steeped in solemn silence as Beron Vanserra reveals himself through the din; dressed in fine merlot robes and embroidered with gold threads and leaves. He looks like Autumn personified. All fire and wrath as he stalks into the room. 

“It appears you have been keeping secrets from me, Rhysand.” Rhys takes a step forward approaching Beron with little regard for the fury that burns behind his hazel eyes. The High Lord of Night laughs cruelly as Beron advances further into the room, seeking out his son, who reaches for you almost without thinking. His fingers flex around your forearm and push you further into Feyre as he steps in front of you both subtly. 

Beron looks suspiciously between the three of you. 

Beron smiles.

It is not a thing of fondness or affection-- It is dark and laden with malevolence. A whisper of amusement lights in his golden irises and Eris feels like a boy again; alone and afraid as the shadows of his fathers wrath descend upon him.

“You knew,” The High Lord of Autumn charges forward, tearing through Azriel and Cassian, as he raves. His voice is dangerously low and full of malice as he advances towards Eris. His eyes blaze against the dark as he casts his wicked gaze upon his eldest son.

“You knew,” He repeats frantically, “That whore is your mate, and you lied to me.”

Accusatory.

Without thought or care, Eris lunges forward and takes one long stride so that his body shields yours from Beron’s grasp as his fire burns vengeful and angry as it bands around Eris’s arms. The putrid smell of burned flesh brings bile rising in your throat and you feel Rhysand’s shields fortify around you and the rest of the Inner Circle in response. 

You wait for someone to do something, but as is the nature of these things Rhysand is not permitted to interfere in the affairs of other courts. And whether he likes it or not, Eris is subject to his High Lord and father. 

And as it stands he is a traitor to both. 

Eris falls to his knees before you and you feel the bond die in your chest; his scream is something akin to dying. It sears through you, burning like fire until you feel like a phoenix rising from its own ashes as your body moves of its own volition. 

“Stop, stop!” You plead with Beron advancing a pace towards him as you pull away from Feyre’s secure hold. Not even Cassian dares hold you back when you claw your way from the safety of his arms, “Please, he didn’t know.” 

Beron pays you no heed as his wrath brings Eris to his knees. 

“Please.” you beg, your voice aching and angry as you address the High Lord, ignoring the warnings of Azriel and Cassian, “He didn’t know.” 

“W-we hid it from him.” Your lie desperately, your voice though strained comes out in violent waves of anger as Beron continues to inflict his fire upon Eris.

Your mate.

In a desperate bid to spare him you beg once more. 

“Please, whatever you want, you can have it, I swear it.” And all the fire ceases.

Eris heaves a heavy breath and he collapses in a swath of burnished gold and emerald, strewn lazily against the marble. You sink to your knees beside him, his hands, though shaking, are firm against you as they grasp at the many layers of your skirts as he hoists himself up. Even on his knees he towers over you. His hair drapes like spidersilk over one side of his sculpted face as he peers down at you with dark amber eyes. Despite all the eyes in the room Eris brings a tentative hand to cup your cheek and all his remorse and grief flood down the bond that runs golden and brilliant from your body to his; as if to say no use hiding now, little fox. 

Eris rises to his feet before his father who looks on with a mixture of feral delight and complete apathy as Eris’ pain subsides. 

Keir retreats into the shadows and with him the air shifts; the room, once shaded in the smell of hemlock and moonflowers, is tainted with something more. Something darker. Earthy. 

The smell of wildflowers; smoke-kissed juniper and foxglove, all undercut with the smell of salt and iron. 

It occurs to you then that it is the smell of your mating bond. 

Beron loses a dark laugh and approaches you slowly, like a predator circles its prey. Deliberate and calculating as he takes your chin in his bony fingers and commands you to look at him. His eyes are much darker than Eris’, so dark that they almost look black in this light and even in his age you admire their depths, haunting and arresting. Beron cuts an intimidating figure, you think as he flashes you a smile that is all Eris. 

You sometimes forget how alike father and son are; though Eris is undoubtedly more striking; with his strange amber eyes and baring a broader physique than his father, with strong arms and shoulders and that beautiful copper hair which he had inherited from his mother. 

“Anything I want?” Beron muses deathly quiet as he brings you closer to him, so close that the heat of his breath against your face causes chills to rise along the skin of your arms and neck.

“Anything, that is within my power to give.” You clarify, unwilling to be tricked into a more heinous bargain than you had prepared yourself for. Feyre protests loudly, calling your name, begging you to see reason though her pleas are useless against the thunder of your heart in your chest; like the sound of a storm rolling in from the sea. 

Rhysand holds his wife by her forearms as she attempts to fight her way to your side. 

A bargain offered of your own volition cannot be undone or unmade. 

All that’s left to do is come to terms. 

Beron smiles again, a saccharine smile that turns your stomach as his free hand cups your hip harshly, his brows rise in question and you realize how he’s looking right through you to his son who stands defeated behind you.

“And if I want you?” You swallow hard as his hand on your hip tightens to a bruising grip.

The High Lord of Night protests and a dark ripple of power separates you and Beron, you stumble backwards until you’re pressed up against the dark wood table as it cuts into the backs of your thighs. Beron laughs playfully and raises his hands in mock surrender to Rhysand. Keir smiles with a sense of sick satisfaction as Beron nods for Eris to join him. 

Eris joins his father on the side of the room and Beron inspects him in carefully; scrutinizes every furrow of his brow or the tick of his jaw as charred flesh gives way to pale unblemished skin. 

Beron claps a hand over his son's shoulder and offers his half-hearted explanation. 

Filling his ear with poison. 

“Your mate has deceived you, my son; she is yours by right,” Beron preens like an over-satisfied cat, offering a wave of his hand as he gestures to you, “Is she not?” 

Eris swallows thickly and through the bond you can feel his wrath as it burns silent and deadly through you. His fire burns ferocious and wild. Dark and untamed. It ignites a similar storm in the pit of your stomach as Eris regards you with feigned malice much to the appeasement of his father.

His gaze, once soft and vulnerable, is cold and predatory as he takes his time to trail over the swell of your chest and the curve of your hips like a hungry animal. 

“She is,” His voice is sharp-edged as he nods impassively to his father, the glimpses of his true self now little more than a trick in the light as he adorns his facade like a suit or armor to spare him his father’s fire. 

“You mean to claim her?” Eris questions pointedly. Eris’ eyes move around the room with a careful, almost pensive, precision.

He can’t pretend that he doesn’t want it. Some primal, territorial part of him wants it more than anything. It’s animalistic and carnal. 

Wholly perverse. 

He wants you, terribly; he aches for you in a way that he has never ached for anything.

And you want him.

But not like this. 

Not as a pretty pawn to bring him to heel. 

“She will do well in Autumn,” Beron says in lieu of an answer. 

Rhysand and Feyre stand firm against the hostility in the room even as Beron approaches them once more. “An alliance between our two most ancient and noble courts,” Beron says in a celebratory manner, his arms outstretched in a show of arrogance, “made strong by the oaths that you will swear to my son and my court.”

“Very well, High Lord.” You acquiesce and Beron smiles as his words hit their mark

You swear that Eris could burn the city to ash then and something in him cools then under your watchful gaze; it burns blue under the surface and you can see it tempering to a cold unmoving stare cast in his father’s direction.

It’s grotesque, the anger that runs hot in his veins that sears its kiss into the place where your body and his are joined. 

You seethe. A raging tempest that comes off of you in violent waves of temper that threaten to swallow the room whole. And Beron Vanserra with it. It is almost enough to bring you to your knees before him as your skin burns under his rising fury.

Your eyes meet the strange amber eyes of Eris Vanserra at his father’s side and you think then, that you will happily suffer his fire if burning always feels so profound.

[eelnoise]

gilded

zoro x afab!reader nsfw!! cw: aggressive sex, drunken sex, piv sex, sex sex sex, zoro is a bit of a smug smartass an: @kaizokuniichan this is your fault btw

One drink turns into two.

The briny, salty scent of the open sea has become something you associate with home. Surrounded by your crew as they chat amongst one another, collected and dotted around the deck as the sunset bathes the world in an amber glow, there's nowhere else in the world you'd even dream of being.

Two drinks turn into three.

The sounds of the world around you begin to fade into one another. Whatever conversation you had been a part of had now fallen to the wayside, now simply half-listening to whoever is closest. The ice cubes in your beverage clamor as you take a sip, the sweat from the glass running down onto your hand in the warm evening weather.

Three drinks turn into four.

You’re taking a stroll around the ship, wanting to stretch your legs in a bid to rid yourself of any remaining energy from the flow of the day. Unsure if it’s the rock of the ship or your inebriation that has each step weary, you take it slow - idly watching your fellow pirates without really paying attention to what they’re doing.

You only realize that you’re being moved when a large hand reaches up to grasp your wrist, and suddenly you land in Zoro’s lap, having absent-mindedly wandered his way during your laps around the Sunny. Sideways across his thighs, your legs stretched in whichever way they fell when the swordsman dragged you onto him. “What was that for?” you ask, unable to stifle a giggle at the way his arm snakes its way around you to grasp onto your thigh.

“Dunno,” he admits, a lazy grin dashing across his lips, “Just wanted ya here with me.” His other hand brings his drink to his mouth, taking a long and rather loud sip from the mug as he squeezes you closer.

Your gaze roams along Zoro. His cheeks are flushed from the alcohol that’s also hot on his tongue, the smell of insobriety stinging your nostrils. His shirt is open, as per usual, unbuttoned and leaving little of his broad chest covered, the warmth radiating from his bare skin encasing you in its hold. Just out of the corner of your eye, something glistens in the waning sunset.

A gold chain around his neck.

Despite his current disposition, Zoro is still very observant. He notices where your eyes have gone, and a smirk crosses his face before he leans back slightly, holding the gilded links in between two fingers. “This?” he asks, holding it up between you, “Ya like it?”

Like it? You’re absolutely enchanted by it. The way the necklace blends in beautifully with his tanned skin - it’s infatuating, to say the least. “Yeah,” you confirm, one of your hands reaching up to trace the outline of the accessory slowly, earning you a slight shiver from the bulky man in reward. “I do, actually.”

Twisting around on his lap, you move to straddle his legs. Zoro’s hands almost instinctively find purchase on your hips after placing his drink down onto the wooden deck, fingers pressing into your flesh in an undeniable hunger. “I like it a lot~” you hum coyly, voice low and words slurred as you slide your hand up to his neck, then to his right ear where you let your fingers clink his earrings together.

Zoro’s eyes darken at your words, a predatory gleam in them as he watches you straddle his lap. His hands tighten their grip on your hips, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. “Good,” he growls, his breath hot against your ear, “‘Cause I love when ya get all over me like this.”

His lips brush against yours in a rough kiss, his tongue pushing past your parted lips to explore your mouth hungrily. A hand moves to occupy your ass, squeezing it firmly through the fabric of your pants. Despite being drunk, he’s still incredibly strong, and you can feel every muscle in his hand as he grips you tightly.

Zoro's eyes flash with lust at your touch, but he doesn't pull away from the kiss. Instead, he deepens it further, his tongue dueling with yours as he tries to assert dominance over you. But despite his best efforts, there's something about the way you touch him that makes him weak – something that makes him want more than just control.

-

Four drinks turn into five, into six, into the blurred lines of the abyss.

It feels like the entire cabin is shaking violently alongside the dangerously loud creaking of the bed, the wooden posts threatening to crack into splinters as Zoro fucks you deep into the mattress.

His large hand presses into the underside of your right thigh, keeping it locked in place with ease tightly against your chest. Straddling your other leg with his own, he rails into you at a pace that doesn't even feel real.

His three earrings clash together with each harsh thrust, the gold chain around his neck bouncing against his chest as he bottoms out within you over and over. 

You're mesmerized by not only the way he's making your toes curl but also by the sheer beauty that he seems to radiate like this. The golden jewelry he's adorned himself with sheens and shimmers in the light of the newfound moonlight coming through the window, stunning you each time the glimmer catches your fucked-out, hazy gaze.

Zoro's movements are rough and unrelenting, his body fully giving into his desires as he takes what he wants from you without hesitation or remorse. The bed creaks and shakes under your combined weight, the sound echoing throughout the cabin like a warning call to any who might try and interrupt.

His free hand explores your body, finding new places to leave marks and claim ownership. Each thrust drives deeper into your core, filling you with a sense of complete depravity that leaves you feeling vulnerable yet exhilarated.

Your eyes threaten to close, a long sequence of elated whines rumbling out from deep within your gut as Zoro hits that heavenly spot within you with fury. As soon as you start to loll your head against the pillow, a hand captures your face, squeezing your cheeks together and forcing your gaze back up to the man ravishing you.

"Eyes on me," he demands, a devilish smirk across his lips. "You wanted the chain to stay on, right princess? Then pay attention."

His voice is rough and vulgar, filled with a raw power that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. His eye(s) burn into yours, daring you to disobey him. The thought of not obeying him sends a thrill through you, but you know better than to test him right now. With a weak nod, you lock your eyes onto him once again, letting him see the fiery desire burning within you.

With renewed energy, Zoro picks up the pace, driving himself deeper and deeper into you with each harsh buck of his hips. The sensation is overwhelming, and you can feel yourself getting closer and closer to release. The chain around his neck moves in tandem with his pace, the golden links catching the dim light in a mesmerizing dance that only serves to heighten the intensity of the moment.

He's just out of your reach, and so desperately do you want to pull on that stupidly sexy necklace, to drag him downward into the needy kiss you so badly yearn for. That damn look, that smug expression he's clad himself in as he takes you to heaven - you lose it, finding the strength to quickly latch your hand around the accessory and tugging it to get what you want.

Zoro's face twists into one of sudden surprise, but only for a moment, as you grab hold of the chain, yanking it sharply towards yourself. The movement causes him to pause, his body frozen in mid-motion as he looks down at you with a mixture of shock and something more... diabolical.

His eyes narrow, and a dangerous glint appears in them. He knows what you want, and who is he to deny you?

With a low growl, he resumes his relentless rhythm, pushing himself as deep as he can go. Lips clash onto one another. Zoro's grip loosens on your leg and you let it fall around his waist, both of his hands now on your cheeks as his tongue slips past your lower lip.

Zoro's mouth claims yours in a fierce kiss, his tongue tangling with yours with muffled moans. The combination of the rough, passionate kiss and the pressure of his body against yours is almost too much to bear, sending waves of pleasure through your veins.

Despite the ferocity of the kiss, there's also tenderness there - a hint of vulnerability that shows through in the way his lips brush against yours softly before returning to their bruising assault. Your hands find their way to his broad shoulders, clinging to him as if afraid that if you let go, everything will come crashing down around you. The heat between you both builds to a fever pitch, and you feel yourself nearing the edge once again.

The chain tickles your chest, causing you to writhe in overstimulation and twitch away from the kiss, sloppy, wet strands of saliva binding you before snapping. "Z-Zoro~!" Your cry seems to fall on deaf ears, the swordsman's pace doesn't let up.

Zoro's eyes are locked onto yours, his focus solely on taking you to the brink of ecstasy. He ignores your cries, lost in the passion of the moment. His body moves with a primal urgency, each thrust driving him further into you until you can feel the very essence of him inside you. The chain around his neck rubs against your chest, adding another layer of sensation to an already overwhelming experience.

The combination of pain and pleasure is almost too much to bear, but you hold on tightly to Zoro, determined to ride out the storm with him by your side.

As you approach the edge, Zoro's movements slow slightly, allowing you to catch your breath before plunging back into the depths of passion once more.

When he sheaths himself back inside of you, hips meeting flush against each other once again, you wail. The move brings you ever closer to the edge, so close that you can peer over it into the valley of ecstasy below. "Gonna cum for me again?" Zoro taunts from above you. "Or have I ruined ya enough already?"

Zoro's voice is low and rough, laced with a hint of egomania as he teases you with the words. You're far past the point of ruination, and he knows. You can only moan in reply, unable to form any coherent thoughts or sentences. All you can do is lay there, panting and writhing beneath him as he slams into you with relentless precision.

He pushes you to the very brink, and you can feel yourself trembling, on the verge of falling over the precipice into a sea of blissful oblivion.

You cry out, managing a sputtered, raspy sound that sounds close enough to his name to make him growl in pleasure as you reach that high for the umpteenth time that night.

Zoro's face contorts into a mix of pleasure and exhaustion as he feels you climax yet again. He holds himself deep within you, letting the wave of sensations wash over him before pulling back slowly, savoring every last bit of the experience.

As he withdraws from you, he looks down at you with satisfaction and slight weariness. Despite the fact that he's nearly spent, there's still a fire burning in his eyes - a hint of determination that tells you that he won't be happy until he's taken you to the absolute limit.

Despite your overstimulation, he leaves you empty and wanting. Before you can oppose him, he rolls you onto your stomach, a breathless gasp leaving you at the sudden change of position. For a while, nothing happens. You hear him fiddle around with something behind you, and soon enough you feel him moving your hair out of the way to clasp something around your neck - the chain.

And in a nanosecond he's pushing back into you, resuming his pace as if there hadn't been a brief pause. One hand uses the gold links to aggressively pull you upward toward him, allowing him access to your shoulders where he doesn't hesitate to bite down.

Zoro's movements are relentless. The chain that now sits around your neck adds an extra level of intensity to the experience, pulling you upwards with each thrust and creating a delicious tugging sensation across your skin.

He bites down on your shoulder, marking you as his own once again, and the combination of pain and pleasure has you panting and clawing at the sheets like a fucking animal below him. The feeling of being claimed like this is incredibly arousing and primal, and it only serves to push you closer to the edge once again.

Frantic howls of pleasure are all you can muster as you see stars again. Drool runs down the side of your chin and down your chest as he tugs on the chain as if they were reins. Zoro feels that familiar tension pooling in him, and he knows he's about to join you in the throes of final satisfaction. "Gonna fill that pussy up until ya leak all over this fuckin' bed."

[vilhelios]

— SWIM WITH ME / I THINK I CAN SEE THE BEACH;

( i need you here with me / but we're out in the open. ) ; romantic headcanons for abysswalker!rafayel ♡ more under the cut!

CW: spoilers for rafayel's "sea of golden sand" myth + general abysswalker rafayel lore ; fluff ; angst ; hurt/comfort ; mentions of blood, injury, and self-harm (rafayel plucks off his scales) : might feel a little ooc because it is abysswalker and not main story rafayel ; quite the word dump (bc i rattle my cage for him)

— as the morning light of the desert creeps into the dim of a tent, two bodies lay tangled in the warmth of each other. RAFAYEL sleeps light and wakes early—hours before the sun peeks over the golden dunes—and although the habit irks him, it does offer him a wonderful sight as compensation: the sight of you, bathed in the soft, rose-gold light of morning, hair a mess, marks littering your skin from where the sheets pressed up against you.

overcome with a love that warms him like molten gold, the young god cannot help but litter your face in butterfly kisses. two to the apples of your cheeks, one on the tip of your nose, the corners of your lips, the middle of your temple. when you shift in your sleep, groan at his ministrations, rafayel can only chuckle, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. he thinks he can hear amund yell for his presence. he couldn't care less.

— RAFAYEL sees himself as the sword at the hilt of your belt, the dagger in your hands that you should use as you see fit, the steady hand guiding your own, drawing your bowstring. he is your ever faithful shadow, always at your side, a watchful gaze always on you. it is only natural for one to protect the keeper of their heart... which is why you and the medical kit from the nurse's tent have gotten well acquainted with each other.

"one of these days, you're going to listen to me." you sigh, gently peeling aside the torn leather of his garb. rafayel does not wince; you don't think you've ever seen him do so, not when he ripped that arrow from his shoulder, or when he stumbles back to your tent with a bloody gash on his chest, or when he's brandishing new bruises on his knuckles. the royal guards seem intent on tracking you down, crossing all of philos's 30,000 zetameters of sand to lock you up in your gilded cage again.

rafayel seems equally intent to ensure that doesn't happen, even if it means throwing himself into their line of fire.

"if i listen to you," the lemurian starts, violet gaze trained on the gentle workings of your fingers, "they'll take you from me again, back to the palace." his breath hitches the slightest—at the thought of you leaving him again, or at the too-harsh tug of the bandage, you're not sure.

— some nights, RAFAYEL is awoken by dreams—horrible, lifelike nightmares. it's sudden, a jolt that has him taking in rapid breaths, a tremor in his hands. "a nightmare", he tells you, when you stir awake and ask him what's wrong in a groggy voice that makes his heart ache, "just a nightmare, sweetheart. nothing to worry about." he waits until he hears your breathing slow once more, pressing kisses to your temple all the while, before slinking out of the tent and into the cold desert air. he'll return to your side before the sun rises, but for now, with still-stuttering breaths, he just needs some time to clear his head.

in his nightmares, a butterfly flaps its wings just the wrong way and rafayel is landed in a world where he is as cold-blooded as amund wished he was. he is back in the ruins of the isle of songs, your hand guiding his own (white-knuckled, dagger brandished) to the place where your heart thrums beneath. and unlike himself, rafayel takes the chance: takes back what is his, what was never yours to keep. the god of the sea was a foolish, lovesick man. he would not make the same mistake.

the dagger sinks into your flesh, the ease of it wrong. your blood flows onto his palms, gets into all the creases of his gloves, spills onto the barren earth and dyes the returning sea red. it is so, so warm against his skin, warms the fire in him that threatened to fizzle out. (he has always been a selfish man, he knows. it is only right that he is no better than bloodthristy philos.) the look dream-you gives him, before he awakes from this cruel world, sears itself into the back of his eyelids. he can see it still, when he looks at the dark of the night sky: reverent, loving. (how could you not, when he has freed you yet again?)

— often, you ask RAFAYEL to tell you tales of the ocean; more specifically, its creatures! what were those rays he spoke of, or the sharks, or those star-shaped things? do the lemurians actually eat them? your lover finds your boundless curiousity incredibly endearing, chuckling whenever your eyes seem to light up at the mention of some new deep-sea fish.

"this is a whale shark." rafayel says, and you watch as the scale in his hands transforms into a small purple apparition. it's as long as his pointer finger, heteroceral tail flicking as it swims in the flame currents, light purple spots patterning its black back. "they are gentle things, despite their size. they only ever eat plankton. i used to have one as a pet, long ago."

"how cute!" you laugh, waggling your finger in front of the shark and watching it follow. "did you have other pets?" and at that, he procures another silver scale, places it into your palms and covers it with his own. a barreleye manifests, and you grin when it's luminous purple eyes stare up at you.

(rafayel ignores the sting in his arm, pinpricks of blood soaking his garb from where he'd plucked some scales off. the wonder in your eyes is more than worth it.)

— helping the LEMURIANS with their daily chores within the camp comes like second nature to you. there is always so much to do: collect jars upon jars of water from the nearby oasis, prepare food, feed the camels, record the state of the camp's supplies... all the while, you feel RAFAYEL'S eyes on your form, your ever cautious vassal. with a little smile, you pretend you don't notice his lavender gaze, if only to spare him from the flushed ears.

it's surprisingly simple, making that lemurian cake: tapioca flour, camel's milk, a healthy dash of sugar, and citrus rind... when the sweet old woman you've spent the afternoon baking with feeds you a slice, you think you've simply ascended. back then, rafayel had fed you one that was cold and a little stale—probably as it was a part of his rations for long journeys. perhaps he'd like one that was far fresher, and baked with love?

... which is how rafayel found himself with a wicker basket full of cake shoved into his hands, and an awaiting you in front of him. "you've been training a while, haven't you?" you smile, taking one of the soft slices and bringing it up to his lips; "try it for me, please!"

and as obedient as ever, rafayel takes a bite, sweetness and citrus on his tongue. "it's good," he hums, kisses your fingertips, "tell me when you're making it next time, love. i'd love to help."

— the LEMURIANS, you remember, were masters of the arts: singing, painting, poetry... so it's no surprise, then, that they celebrate their craft almost every night: children crowd around a charming poet, hooked on every word of their newest bedtime story—his newest fable, that is (something about a fish and a bird, who wished to visit a bakery); the musicians have already begun their newest improvised song, a lively version of an old elegy, it seems; the bonfire in the centre burns high into the night sky like it was trying to reach the stars itself, and when the lemurians dance around it their shadows are long against the sands. you don't know how, but you're eventually dragged into the dance yourself. the glee is infectious, and you find yourself instinctively looking for your beloved.

RAFAYEL doesn't indulge in dancing often, as fun as it may be. he knows the steps, his feet still tapping to the rhythm of the tambourines even as he nonchalantly leans against the tent pole in the distance. it is second nature, now, but his eyes always find you, even in the crowd of people—you, laughing and twirling around without a care in the world. it makes his heart race, a smile creeping onto his own features. he watches you dance with his people, linking arms and being spun around; for a moment he wonders if he should join just to be your one and only dance partner.

... he doesn't notice when you've escaped his gaze, but before he knows it, you've snuck up on him and wrapped a shawl around his neck, dragging him towards the crowd; "dance with me, rafa!"

and how can he refuse a shared moment that transcends lifetimes—across shimmering oceans, and marble floor ballrooms, and golden sands? rafayel's stumbling forward into you until his arms take their rightful place around your form. his hands find the small of your back and yours hold onto his shoulders, shawl long abandoned on his neck. this is second nature, galaxies colliding, two souls becoming one.

— after all of the night's festivities are said and done—the musicians pack up their flutes, lyres, and tambourines; the children cover up their yawns with still-red palms from clapping to tonight's tunes; the remaining food is safely packed away for tomorrow—it's just you, RAFAYEL, and the dwindling embers of the fire he'd just stomped out. "i do believe even your highness is not exempt from curfew," he hums, takes your hand in his, and presses his lips to the knuckles.

and in the silence of your tent, coveted in the silver hues of moonlight, rafayel sits you down before him, your back leaning against his chest. his arms wrap around your frame, his chin resting on the crook of your neck. this is your ritual, on too-cold nights: rafayel lights a flickering flame in his palms, the black and violet embers cold as ever. you both stare into this dying fire—you both know what is to come.

sometimes, when the ugly concoction of guilt and sorrow prick at your very soul, your hand reaches up to entwine with his own, just as they did to guide his dagger to your heart. "i won't." rafayel says, and you know what he means. "i will never hurt you." he doesn't complete the sentence, the words dying on his tongue, but you know the rest (there is no other end to this story): i would rather die.

a/n : i need abysswalker carnally it's not even funny anymore 🤩 these were. not supposed to be this long (they are like little fics in themselves omg). but i love this rafa so much i think he deserves it. thank you for the love on the previous rafa content <3 it makes me so happy seeing people who also love this lil guy. the dancing with rafa hc is very much so inspired by "through heaven's eyes" from the prince of egypt! <3333

[crappymixtape]

gold & glitter

REQUEST → @superblysubpar, A VERY MERRY MIXTAPE ❝ i’m thinking a little rich!steve harrington, a little spicy somethin, somethin and a holiday play – spicy is right, steve takes you to see the nutcracker, but you don’t even make it to the first act • 18+  | ( 3.1k – smut with a dash of fluff, rich!steve x reader )

G O L D & G L I T T E R 🎶 the nutcracker suite, tchaikovsky

“Good evening, Mister Harrington. Miss. May I take your jackets?”

“Thank you, Charles. Did you order the MacCallan Anniversary malt?”

“Of course, sir. It is available neat here from your decanter or we can dress up however you like. Miss, your jacket?”

Squeezing your eyes shut, you opened them again expecting the finery before you to disappear into thin air like a dream, but it didn’t.

“Oh ye-yeah. I mean-yes. Yes, thank you,” you stumbled over your words as the waitstaff took your coat and disappeared behind the curtain. God, you were working overtime to maintain the same level of calm and collected sophistication that seemed to come so easily to your date.

Steve Harrington. Son of John Harrington and heir to the Harrington fortune. One with a foundation built by generations of brokers and wealth managers. Carried on throughout the years to be passed down to the eldest or, in Steve’s case, the only son.

You’d been together for over a year now, but you still weren’t used to it. This lifestyle.

Going anywhere with him meant multiple planned routes in and out of your destinations. Private cars with dark tinted, bullet-proof windows. Black American Express cards, Gucci loafers, and champagne flown direct from the Garonne Valley in Bordeaux, France.

And of course, at Christmastime, a viewing of George Balanchine's The Nutcracker from a private balcony, performed by only the finest troupe at the New York City Ballet.

You’d been to the theatre, the opera, but never like this. A suite all to yourselves, up and away from prying eyes, and upon each seat rested a pair of exquisitely golden opera binoculars for your viewing pleasure. It felt otherworldly. Lush and dark, gilded and polished. Long, red, crushed velvet curtains draped heavy to the floor and on a small table thick, crystalline tumblers sat next to a matching decanter full of only the finest single malt whiskey.

Lifting a hand, you ghosted an immaculately manicured finger around the rim of one of the glasses.

“Is it up to your standards, honey?”

The low, warmth of Steve’s voice broke your trance and pulled your gaze quick to look up at him.

“What?” you wondered aloud, still surprised at how he could ask such questions, “My standards? God. It’s beautiful.”

“Good. M’glad you like it.”

A smile tugged up at the corner of his mouth as he watched you walk to lean out over the balcony and look down at the sea of seats below. You were wearing the emerald green dress he’d bought you especially for the occasion. Made of the finest silk and fitted tight against every curve and dip of your body. Your hair swept long over one shoulder, soft skin exposed through the keyhole cut into the back. You were exquisite.

And you were all his.

Tucking a hand into the pocket of his slacks he reluctantly looked away from you and took up the decanter to pour a measure of whiskey for himself. MacCallan, single malt, from 1928 and around three-hundred thousand dollars a bottle. Lifting the tumbler he inhaled deeply and let his eyes drift shut. Worth every single penny.

“Charles,” his voice notched up in volume and the man from earlier appeared through the thick, velvet curtains.

“Sir?”

“A bottle of Dom and a chilled glass,” Steve took a drink from his whiskey and let it sit on a his tongue for a moment before swallowing it down. “Oh, and my cigar case.”

“Sir, you know smoking isn’t permitted–”

Steve hummed, a low thrum in his throat, and stepped forward toward the other man.

“How much do I pay for these seats, Charles? How much does my family pay for these seats? Since the theatre opened in 1964…I’ll let you do the math,” he took another sip of whiskey and lifted a hand to smooth down the other man’s cravat, “My cigar case.”

“Yes. Of course, Mister Harrington,” the man replied quietly, eyes glued to the cheap, shiny black plastic of his dress shoes.

Steve put on a smile, the one he gave to clients when he knew he’d closed an account, and gripped the man’s shoulder, “Good man.”

And without another word Charles was off again through the curtain.

There was no denying it, Steve’s presence always held weight. Held power. No one could tell him no. Stood in boardrooms dressed to the nines. Gold heirloom cufflinks, custom tailored jackets and Tucci de Lusso oxfords included, but this version of him was different. Somehow more and you didn’t know how it was possible.

Brunette locks perfectly coiffed. Custom black Armani suit fitted tight across his chest and shoulders. Gold signet ring with his initials engraved upon it shining up from his index finger, and damn if his ass didn’t look incredible in those slacks.

You clicked your tongue at him and fixed him with a look, closing the gap between the two of you.

“Babe, he’s just trying to enforce the house rules,” smoothing a hand up his chest, you pretended to adjust his tie as an excuse to touch him.

“Honey, you and I both know who makes the rules around here,” he drawled, his tone making you weak in the knees, and he set his glass down in favor of taking hold of your waist. His hand wide and warm on the small of your back as he ran it down the curve of your ass and squeezed, pulling a gasp from your lips.

“Steve,” you chided, no heat behind it, and he dipped down to press a kiss to your neck.

“This really is your color,” he whispered in your ear and your eyes fluttered at the sound. Pressed your thighs together as he traced a finger across your exposed collarbone. Warmth blooming in your core as he followed the hem that chased along the edge of your shoulder.

“You’ve got good taste,” you whispered back, swallowing the moan that had crept up your throat and he grinned.

“I do, don’t I.”

“Sir, your cigar cas–oh!”

Charles came back through the curtain to find the two of you pressed into each other, Steve’s nose buried in the crook of your neck. Your cheeks burned at being caught.

“My sincerest apologies, sir! I should’ve–”

“S’alright,” Steve chuckled, pulling away from you to casually take the case from the other man without missing a beat. He reached into his money clip and slipped a hundred dollar bill into Charles’ hand, “Now. That will be all. If I need anything, I’ll ring you.” The finality of his words hung in the air.

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Excuse me,” and with that Charles disappeared again for what you were certain, after all that, would be the last time.

“Shit,” you breathed, cheeks still bright red as you bit back a laugh.

Steve was laughing too, but no where near embarrassed, and he grabbed your hand to pull you close to his chest again as the theatre lights flickered and slowly dimmed.

“Mmm, damn. Showtime,” he murmured softly into your hair.

You felt your stomach drop at the thought of having to sit so still, and so far from Steve for three hours, but then another thought came to you. One that made your cheeks flush again and you pressed your face into his lapel, breathing in the citrusy, cedar scent of his cologne.

Pulling away just enough to meet his gaze the expression you maintained was innocent, but the look in your eye wasn’t. It was dark and needy. Warm and flickering at the feeling of his hands on your waist.

“We could freshen up first,” you suggested quietly and as Steve put your words together his pupils blew wide. Pools of black edged in gold and he squeezed at the plush of your hip.

“Uh-huh,” came out strangled and it was all he could manage. Unable to focus on anything other than rucking that silk dress up around your thighs, and without hesitation he grabbed your hand and pulled you through the thick, velvet curtains.

The corridor was empty, Charles hiding wherever he’d rushed off to, and everyone else was in their seats to catch the opening act as Steve led you the short distance down the hall.

Luckily for you, the neighboring balcony’s ticket holders had filed for bankruptcy earlier in the year and now the restrooms on this wing were exclusively Steve’s. Doors crafted from thick oak and etched with breathtaking carvings of Swan Lake and Slyphide, they were heavy enough to drown out anything happening on the other side.

Thank god.

Ignoring the men’s and women’s signs, Steve chose the closest door and shouldered into it, bicep straining against the tight fabric of his shirt as he held muscled it open. It was a hurried mess, both of you tripping into the room on the train of your dress in a fit of giggles as Steve huffed a laugh and cursed under his breath.

“Baby.”

Heels clicking on the white granite tile floor, you regained your footing and finally took in all the exquisite details of the ornate room. Wide marble slabs. Bottles of lotion and perfume that cost more than your mortage. Gold fixtures shining in the low light falling from crystal chandeliers that refracted bright shards of color against the walls.

You would have appreciated the incredible beauty of it all, but Steve. You couldn’t have cared less and neither could he.

He spun you around to face him and hooked his arms behind the backs of your legs. Scooped you up off the ground and pulled a squeal from you as you held on tight around his neck to steady yourself.

Squeezing his hold on you, he freed an arm and swept it across the counter. Knocked the soap dish clattering into the sink basin and paid absolutely no attention to the lush basket of designer hand towels that fell to the floor as he lifted you with ease onto the marble surface.

“Steve,” you protested weakly and when he notched himself between your legs you felt yourself melt under him.

His hands were everywhere. Your waist, the small of your back, fingers pressing into your cheek and pushing your hair over your shoulder to drag messy, open-mouthed kisses against the skin there. It pulled a moan from your lips and at the sound he groaned into you.

“Christ, babe. I’ve wanted to get my hands on you since you climbed into the limo. Pretty as a fuckin’ picture in this thing. So damn hot. All for me, huh?”

“S’always for you,” you half-laughed, but it caught in your throat as he slipped a hand between your thighs, “God, Steve.”

“This for me too, honey?”

He gathered a handful of emerald green silk in one hand and pooled it at your waist as the cool air of the room sent a shiver up your spine. Then he caught sight of the black lace panties hugging tight against you and sucked in a breath. Bit down on his bottom lip and looked like he might cry.

“You’re gonna kill me with these. Are you kiddin’ me? Baby. Look at this,” he babbled, just standing there not touching you and you grabbed hold of his wrist and tugged him back into you.

“Talk too much,” you murmured against his ear, running a hand through the hair at the nape of his neck and dragging your nails against his skin, “It’s all yours…Mister Harrington.”

And fuck if the dress and panties weren’t enough, the sound of your voice wrapped around his name did him in.

“Damn right it is.”

He growled as you tugged on his hair, slipped his hand back between your legs and tugged the thin fabric of your panties aside. The way he had been kissing and talking at you out on the balcony had been plenty to send you pressing your thighs together, but the way he was handling you in here had you soaked.

His fingers slipped in your slick as he felt just how wet you were and he smirked against your skin as he dragged his lips up to your jawline. Tutting softly he slowly circled your clit, his other hand moving to wrap gently around the column of your throat.

“Bet you want me to talk now, huh honey? You want that? Talk dirty to you?” his voice was barely above a whisper as his fingers slid down to press against your entrance.

You swallowed against the hand he had on your throat, your lips dropping open into a perfect little ‘o’ as you squirmed against the counter, impatient for him.

“Uh-huh,” you breathed and he smirked at how he had you wrapped around his finger, literally as he slid one into you.

“That’s my girl. I know what you like, don’t I? Give you everything you need. Take care of you, hm?” he babbled, kissing and sucking at the hollow behind your ear as he began to slide his finger in and out, in and out. A slow drag at first before adding a second finger and pulling a moan from your lips.

“Good care of me,” fell out mindlessly as he gently tightened the hand on your throat making your heartbeat thud in your ears.

“This isn’t enough though, is it? Not enough. Want me to fill you up, don’t you honey?” he whispered and you nodded, your throat too tight to speak, and god you wanted him to make you see stars.

He pulled his hand from between your legs to undo the button on his pants and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes at the loss of his touch.

“Shh, I got you, baby,” he coaxed, pulling down his zipper and reaching in to free his rock hard cock.

It sprang out of his pants without any encouragement and he wrapped a hand around it. Rubbed it against your slit as it practically cried in anticipation and as he slowly pushed himself into you it made you sucked in a rasp of a breath.

“Steve,” you begged and he moved his hand to grip your thigh.

“I know, baby.”

An inch more and he was into you up to the hilt. Filling you so much that you could feel the tip pressing against the spot only he could reach. Easing out he groaned as you clenched down on him before pushing back in and he set the pace there. A slow drag. In, out. In, out.

The wet sounds coming from you as he fucked you slowly were obscene. Made louder by the empty room, but you didn’t care. You wanted more.

“Harder,” you pleaded. He wanted it too and as he looked down at the sight of his cock sliding into your cunt he nearly lost it.

Letting go of your throat he grabbed onto your other thigh for purchase and pulled you to the very edge of the counter. Picked up the pace and started fucking you faster, the slap, slap, slap of his thighs against yours filling the air.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Feel so good. You like that? Huh? Want more?”

“More–shit. Yes, god. More, Steve.”

Your knuckles were white with how hard you were gripping the counter, moans falling freely from your lips now as Steve pushed you both closer and closer to climax. You could feel the coil tightening in your stomach as he squeezed into the plush of your thighs and your hand flew up to grab at the back of his neck.

“Gonna–ugh–come, baby. Come with me, baby,” he said through gritted teeth, jaw ticking when he clenched down, and as he rocked his hips back into you, you both came.

Your orgasm wrapped around you tight. White hot. Electric. Every inch of you buzzing and sparking like fireworks on the fourth of July and you cried out as his thrusts fell out of sync, jerky and messy as he came down.

A soft thud echoed against the tile as your head fell back against the mirror behind you, beads of sweat holding your hair messy across your forehead. Steve leaned into you, rested his head on your chest, and slowly your breaths evened out.

Your lips twitched with a smile, your hand lifting to cover your mouth as you held back a laugh, and Steve seemed to have the same thought as he chuckled against your dress.

“Someone heard us. For sure,” you finally said, voice crackly from breathing so hard.

“And? Who gives a shit. Maybe we just gave them a good idea,” Steve grinned, looking up at you from where he rested his chin on your belly.

You swatted at him, gasping as he pulled out of you to avoid getting hit.

Bending down, Steve grabbed a couple of the hand towels from where they’d landed on the tile and ran warm water on them. Quickly cleaned himself up and then took his time with you. Paid close attention to where he’d held onto your throat. Where his fingertips pressed into your thighs. Dabbed softly across your forehead and spent extra time on the mess between your legs.

You touched up your makeup and perfume, adjusted Steve's tie and hair, and when you both finally emerged from the bathroom the piece the orchestra was playing reached a crescendo and the theatre filled with applause.

It couldn’t be the end of the first act?

Steve walked you easy back to the balcony and held the heavy velvet curtain open for you. Your gilded opera binoculars were still sitting perfectly upon your seat where you’d left them and the bottle of chilled Dom Perignon was on ice along with a champagne flute – you hated whiskey.

You both sank into your seats as the orchestra began to play again and you recognized the piece and shot Steve a look.

“The party scene just started,” you whispered, “We’re not even out of the first part of act one.”

“Christ,” he groaned, grinning into his hands as he rubbed them across his face. Then, glancing over at you he grabbed his cigar box, “We can always make up for it next year. Right?”

Your eyes grew wide.

“Skip the Nutcracker?” you asked incredulously and he quirked a brow at you.

“Yeah. Skip it and we’ll go catch part two of the bathroom scene at mine,” he said giving you a wicked grin and you feigned shock, your own grin threatening to shatter your facade.

“Mister Harrington, what would your mother say?”

And the look he gave you then was the absolute definition of smug.

“My Stevie boy always gets what he wants.”

And damn if she wasn’t right about that.

[ml-nolan]

Coffee in bed with Dreamling

You got it! T-rating for this one.

--

When his eyes open, Hob is greeted by high ceilings swirling with kaleidoscopic clouds. It takes no time at all for him to remember where he is. Dream has done a lot to make him feel comfortable and safe in The Dreaming.

"Hello, Hob."

That includes making sure to be at his side every time he wakes in this behemoth of a bed. Sometimes Dream takes the time to lie down beside him, with or without clothes, depending on whether he feels like seduction is necessary. It usually isn't with Hob—he's pretty much game at any time. 

Today though, Dream is perched on the side of the bed, close enough to run his fingers through Hob's hair. It's nice that there's sort of a middle ground for physical affection these days. In the beginning it was a bit hot-and-cold, with Dream either demanding to be ravished or fully disappearing for days on end. But the joy of having been friends first is that, eventually, they both missed sharing the simpler, less heated moments. 

"Is there anything you require this morning, Hob Gadling?"

"Hmmm…" This isn't a question he ever waves off. He's never understood why people play coy little games to be polite. He knows that here in The Dreaming, he can pretty much have whatever he wants. Why not take advantage of that? "Don't suppose you could get us a cup of coffee."

Dream snorts of the very idea that there would be something he couldn't provide. It's subtle, but very cute. Not that Hob would dare tell him that (well, not right now, anyway).

"How would you prefer it?"

"Just a regular cup of joe, a little cream, no sugar." 

Hob can't say it's not delightful to be waited on by a king. To be indulged, more like. With the hint of a smile, Dream goes very still, and then there is a cup in his hand. It's gorgeous in an artisanal sort of way, with starbursts of gold leaf where cracks used to be. He hands it to Hob, its temperature cool enough to hold in his hands.

"Where'd you get this one?" Hob says, pushing himself up to sit against the cool wooden headboard. The coffee is perfect—roasted but not burnt, creamy but not too thick.

"From the dream of a cafe owner who lives in a seaside village," Dream says.

"Uh oh. So does that mean I've stolen some poor sod's coffee?"

Dream turns his head ever so slightly, which he always does when Hob says something that he thinks is silly.

"This dreamer is much like you," Dream says, voice colored with affection. "He is resourceful enough to make the best of the unexpected."

Hob sets his cup on the stone window ledge beside the bed. "Uh oh. I'm not going to lose you to him, am I?"

Anyone would clock the smile on Dream's face now. He shakes his head. "You are still singular to me, Hob Gadling. I would have no one else. Besides," his expression drifts slightly, "his existing partner figures heavily in his dreams. I would be loath to interfere."

With a thoughtful sound, Hob scoots closer to Dream, straining up to kiss him. Obligingly, Dream leans into it to meet him halfway, letting his soft, cool lips linger on Hob's. There's a flutter in Hob's stomach, the same way there always is when he wakes up under Dream's attentive gaze.

They break from the kiss. "How long will that coffee stay warm?" Hob jerks his head toward where he'd left the gilded cup on the windowsill.

Dream's eyes flash, darkening from sea green into that clear black sky. He sets a hand on Hob's chest and eases him onto his back.

"As long as is necessary."

--

This piece was brought to you by these Soft Prompts. I've got a lot of great ones in the queue, but please feel free to send an ask for Sandman, The Magnus Archives, or Malevolent ships (or any of my OCs)!

[quintsentenial]

Klonnie Week Day #2

Portrait of a Muse - Unresolved Sexual Tension.

⊱ ───ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ─── ⊰⊱ ───ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ─── ⊰⊱ ───ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ─── ⊰

Summary:

He captures her in soft moonlight, posed in silence, a living dream... "They say he might've loved her..." One of the viewers comment. "I mean look at how he drew her! How can they not?" A touch of fingers, a stolen glance, yet their boundaries stay held in a cautious dance... "They say you might've loved me..." She repeats to him one night. "And what do you think?" "That things were rarely that simple." Or, an AU starting in 1492 Bulgaria where Bonnie is but the simple daughter of a traveling merchant and Klaus a man on the hunt.

⊱ ───ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ─── ⊰⊱ ───ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ─── ⊰⊱ ───ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ─── ⊰

Story Blurb:

“I’d like to draw you,” a stranger asks, his words hanging in the air between them like an unexpected

Bonnie blinks at the man before her, her eyes widened in bafflement. "Draw me?" She utters, because that wasn’t the first thing she was expecting to hear from him with all the days he’s spent watching her work the inn, his eyes tracking her every move yet never approaching. 

No.

It was a different kind of proposition she'd expected, one she loathed responding to; and yet such depravity is not what he's asked from her tonight.

Though the man before her doesn’t bother repeating himself, all but a fleeting twitch upon his lips as sea-green eyes continue boring into her. “I’d make sure that you were well compensated for it,” he adds, nodding towards the dishes in her hand. “Double whatever you might be making here.”

…

Double?

Bonnie instinctively pulled the plates closer to herself, a bit defensive as she asks, “And just what would such an agreement with you entail?” 

"That you pose as I ask, allow me to dress you however I desire for a scene, and make yourself available to me whenever I want."

…

Just who was this man?

“It would be easy for you to abuse such rules,” she retorts, her skepticism lingering. 

Though the man only shrugs at her, his expression bored. “It would. But you’ll have to trust that my intentions aren’t wicked.” A subtle grin played on his lips now, a tilt that Bonnie isn't sure she should like. 

This was a bad idea…

And he seems like the kind of cautionary figures her mother always warns her about—men who purposefully sought out naive or disadvantaged women, disguising their ill intentions with the facade of opportunity that proved advantageous only to them and detrimental to their victims. 

…

Still…she was no regular woman—the magic constantly stirring against the surface of her skin could attest to that—and she certainly wouldn’t call herself naive.

She glances away for a moment, teeth worrying at some of the dry skin on her bottom lip. “I don’t know you…you’re a stranger here.” 

This was a very bad idea…

“A stranger offering you a grand opportunity,” he counters, eyes alight with a ferocity she can’t comprehend, one that seems to draw her in further. “Do you need more evidence of my wealth before you can agree? I can assure you that it’s nothing to scoff at.” 

That much was obvious with the way he was dressed, the way he looked; opulence in every thread, his attire draped in velvet and gilded finery, intricate patterns of embroidery matching perfectly with the few bits of gold jewelry he wore on his fingers, his blonde hair seeming soft and perfectly styled on his head.

Yes, this was a man whose comforts surely matched that of a king, his offer hanging in the air both tempting and treacherous.

…

She could always use the gold…

The innkeeper here was kind enough to pay her what he could in exchange for her modest services, but it was never going to be enough to put certain plans of hers in motion, the idea of orange grove trees and sandstone beaches flashing temptingly in her mind's eye.  

Bonnie looks back at him, gaze assessing. 

She could have it…

…

…she could have it all in exchange for what? A few pictures? 

“I want the option to say no if your requests prove to be against my liking,” she demands, taking the first step toward the precipice where either her success or peril surely awaits.

The man, seemingly unfazed, shrugs again, conceding easily to her demand. “Fair enough.”

“And for the first few drawings…” She continues, unwilling to let a single condition of hers slip their current negotiations. “We’ll do them here in the inn.”

Where she could call for help if anything were to go awry. 

“Easily done,” he quickly agrees, tossing her a smile that was something both dangerous and beckoning. “Now….do we have a deal?”

Bonnie nods once, sealing her fate. “We do.”

He extended a hand toward her, and she discarded her dishes to a nearby table before taking his hand in turn. “Klaus. Klaus Mikaelson.”

An interesting name she thinks, looking down at their hands, that familiar dark energy coursing through their touch, surprising her eyes back to his; her heart beginning to beat sporadically in her chest. 

Vampire. 

…

Witch, his eyes seem to answer, grin widening further to show all his teeth. “And your name is?”

Bonnie licks her lips, wondering just how desperate she seeks to become before finally making a decision, bowing slightly as she answers, “Bonnie Bennett, my lord," though the answering look of glee on his face does nothing to help the shivers running up her spine.

⊱ ───ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ─── ⊰⊱ ───ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ─── ⊰⊱ ───ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ─── ⊰

For @klonnieshippersclub KlonnieWeek.

Read the rest below!

Closing Note:

A bit late to the party but here nonetheless! xoxo

[theostrophywife]

the prince of hell | part two.

we might just get away with it, the altar is my hips even if it's a false god, we'd still worship this love

author's note: i have chosen violence today and i won't apologize for it. anyways, enjoy this soft fluff.

song inspiration: false god by taylor swift.

The underworld was nothing like you expected it to be. 

It was a land of perpetual night, but it wasn’t the frightening unending darkness of nightmares, instead it was moonlight and constellations, twinkling stars and violet skies. Never in a million years would you have predicted hell to be dreamy. 

But it was. Everything about the place was an absolute dream. None more so than the winged male carrying you in his arms. 

The Prince of Hell smiled softly as he cut through the cumulus clouds, flying towards an enormous castle perched atop an obsidian mountain. The peaks glittered like dark diamonds, the gothic spires and turrets spearing through the endless night as you floated through the sea of stars. The moon shimmered overhead as Azriel landed on the open balcony. 

Though his feet hit the chequerboard floor, Azriel made no move to release you from his grip. He merely continued carrying you through his home, past the moonstone walls and marble pillars, through countless rooms full of lavish furniture and extravagant paintings, and underneath a crystal chandelier that projected starlight onto the polished onyx floors. 

You gaped in wonder as he slipped past mahogany doors and into a bedchamber with a four poster bed. The sheets felt like silk to the touch as he carefully set you down. Across the room, you stared at your bewildered expression through a gilded mirror, your hair wild and unbound, your wedding dress smeared with blood and ash. 

Azriel’s brows furrowed in concern as he wiped a streak of dried blood from your cheek. “Are you sure you’re alright, my heart?” His fingers skirted over your hairline, brushing a stray strand behind your ear with surprising gentleness. “You’re shaking.” 

You gave him a watery smile. “I’m fine. Just a little rattled, that’s all.”

“I won’t apologize for what I did to that mortal, but I am sorry if it frightened you. The way he spoke about you, the way he grabbed you—” he released a shaky breath as if the memory still stoked his anger. “I wanted to do more than just rip out his wretched heart.”

You grabbed his hand and squeezed in reassurance. “You saved me.” Honey eyes dawned on you like sunset, disbelief dancing in Azriel’s gaze as though no one has ever said such a thing to him. “You saved me and I owe you my life.” 

“You owe me nothing,” Azriel declared with determination. “You will never owe anyone anything ever again.”

Those words released another floodgate of tears. As the Prince of Hell cradled you in his arms, his soft voice a soothing lullaby in your ears, the realization that you were free—truly free slammed into you. You didn’t know how long you stayed like that, maybe minutes, maybe hours, but what you did know was that Azriel was a refuge in the storm.

As he had been in your dreams for far longer than you could remember. 

“I thought I’d dreamt you up,” you said, looking up at this stranger who really wasn’t a stranger at all. “How are you real?” 

There was something about the way those golden eyes softened that made your heart leap in your chest. Azriel brushed a tear away and took a deep breath. “Once upon a time, there was a raven with a broken wing. It searched high and wide for shelter, but because of its injuries, the raven couldn’t fly very far. One day it landed in the countryside, half-frozen and half-starved, where a girl found it buried amongst the snowbanks. The girl took pity on the raven and brought the bird home, offering it shelter and mending its broken wing. As she nursed the raven back to health, he did something very foolish. He fell in love with the girl. The raven knew it was a mistake. She was beautiful and gentle and kind and he was a creature of nightmares. Eventually, he healed and she set him free. That should have been the end of the story, but the raven was a selfish bastard. It kept coming back—watching over her, leaving her gifts, and visiting her dreams.”

Your breath hitched in your throat as you listened, realization slowly washing over you as Azriel spoke. “Then one day, the raven heard the girl’s father praying to the old gods. Heaven ignored his pleas, but Hell listened. The raven listened because he had never forgotten the girl’s kindness. What the girl didn’t know was that the raven wasn’t a raven at all. He was the Prince of Hell. The day she found him, he had been attacked by his step brothers who sought his throne for themselves. They held him down and drove a spear through his wing, nearly severing it.” 

His right wing flared out and you saw a large scar running through the underside of the red and gold membrane. “Before they could kill him, the Prince of Hell shifted into his raven form and fate took him to the small village where the kind girl rescued him. The raven would have died if it weren’t for her. When she set him free, he knew it killed her to do so. But the girl understood what it was like to be in a cage and she didn’t want him to have the same fate as her, so she let him go. As the girl watched the raven fly away with a heavy heart, he promised that one day, he’d set her free too.”

The room was silent as Azriel’s fingers raked through your scalp. “So the raven bided his time. Bargained with the girl’s father. Slaughtered his greedy step brothers. Reclaimed his throne. Then finally, the raven fulfilled his promise. The girl thought that he had set her free, that he had saved her, but what she didn’t know was that she saved him first. Before he met her, everyone always said that the raven had no heart and they were right because his heart was tucked away in that small, snowy village.”

The Prince of Hell brushed his lips over your temple. “That’s what you are to me,” Azriel said softly. “My heart.”

“Why me?” you asked. The memories flashed through your mind. Finding him in that snowbank. Bandaging up his wing. Your father had scolded you for it. Called you soft hearted. Always bringing in the strays of this world. The girl who desperately clung onto magic and fairy tales to escape the harsh reality of her own life. “I’m just a girl who has a weakness for the wild things.”

“Being kind is not a weakness,” Azriel said firmly. “I used to think it was. My father taught me as much and so did his father before him. But they were wrong. It was the kindness of a stranger that brought me back to life. A girl who gave me everything when I had nothing to give in return. That is true strength.”

Tears fell from your eyes like raindrops. It felt good to be seen. To have the whole of you reflected so clearly in someone else’s eyes. “You’re my freedom. You’re my salvation,” you stroked his cheek almost reverently. “I think I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”

“As have I, my heart,” Azriel whispered softly, pressing his forehead against yours. “As have I.”

“You saved me,” you said once again.

“We saved each other.”

Your heart thundered in your chest as he traced the outline of your jaw, his thumb brushing against your lips. His touch was featherlight, but it set your entire body on fire. Azriel’s gaze marked you, burned you. It felt like he was embedding himself upon your soul.

“Azriel?” Your voice came out in a whisper, low and breathless. 

“Yes, my heart?” 

“Kiss me. Please.”

The Prince of Hell shuddered a breath. Then his hand slid into your hair, tilting you back. There was nothing but tenderness in his eyes as he closed the gap between you. Lips brushed against lips, tasting, testing—it was excruciating agony, it was sweet release. The kiss sparked a fire in you and you burned for Azriel, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers tangling through his silky locks like you were trying to get lost in the dark paradise that was him with no desire to ever escape. 

Azriel pulled you into his lap, his lips never leaving yours. The way your bodies moved in perfect synchrony, melding together, melting together seamlessly made you think that maybe you were created just for this purpose. He was intoxicating; there was nothing more divine, nothing more sacred than the feel of his mouth against yours. Kissing him was an act of worship. 

You had the vague sense that you’ve never felt true hunger until Azriel’s tongue slipped past your parted lips and filled you with lust and desire so strong it made you feel like a depraved hedonist. There was Azriel and only Azriel. 

Desire was a lit match catching fire on a field soaked with gasoline. The need for Azriel was endless, like staring into an empty abyss and realizing for the first time in your life that you were finally seeing what lay inside this whole time. You were hungry. 

Azriel groaned as you rolled your hips against him. His hands found your waist, gripping you like his life depended on it. The gold dancing in his irises flickered to black. His eyes fluttered close as he nuzzled his nose against yours, reeling himself back to reality. 

Then, in a voice full of care and restraint, Azriel said, “We don’t have to do anything you aren’t ready to do. It’s your choice, my heart.” The words cracked your heart open, letting sunlight into the shadowy crevices. “From this point forward, it will always be your choice.”

You cupped his cheek, marveling at all that he was. “My entire life, every decision has been made for me. Other people have always told me how to dress, how to speak, how to act. Tonight is the first time that I actually get to choose something for myself. I want my first choice to be you, Azriel.” 

The words seemed to unleash something within the Prince of Hell. Azriel surged forward and kissed you, his mouth full of passion and heat. You arched into him and he took the opportunity to graze his teeth against the column of your throat before flicking his tongue over the sensitive spot just below your ear. 

“I choose you, too,” he said softly. 

You smiled, tugging him down until you both tumbled against the mattress. Azriel pinned you underneath him, taking his time to stroke your curves, his featherlight touch awakening goosebumps along your arms. He peeled the dress off of you gently, kissing your collarbones, your breasts, your stomach, and your thighs. You helped him out of his clothes, peeling layer after layer until the two of you were bare to one another. 

You had no idea where to look first. Azriel was a work of art, a sculpture carved out of marble, every inch of him perfectly crafted by the gods themselves. The forbidden fruit seducing you to taste, to bite, to savor. He shuddered as you pressed your palm against his chest, feeling the beat of his heart as if it were your own. 

“You will be my undoing,” the Prince of Hell declared. “I would worship at your altar tonight. You are my own little piece of heaven.”

“I don’t want to be your heaven,” you said, voice stern and unwavering. “I want to be your hell, because their god is the only one who has ever answered my prayers.”

Azriel looked down at you as though you were a god yourself. A treasure that he would give his life to guard and cherish. With your legs wrapped around his trim waist, Azriel hovered above you. His gaze was contemplative, searching for any sign of hesitation. 

When he found none, Azriel kissed you gently while easing his way in. You were wet, soaking with arousal, and the length of him stretching your walls was a welcomed sting. He kept his eyes on you as his cock filled you deliciously. You moaned into his mouth and the sound seemed to completely unravel him. 

It was ruin and restoration, life and death, pain and pleasure combined in one single act. Azriel twined your fingers together, holding your arms above your head as he made love to you. His wings flared behind his back just as his shadows swirled above his head, encircling him like a crown of smoke. The Prince of Hell was a dark god. He was night and mist and shadow. The space between the stars. 

You would pray to him a thousand times over. 

“Gods,” you moaned, the word falling from your lips like a solemn prayer. “It feels too good. You are too good, Azriel.”

He kissed you deeply, fusing your very souls together. A white hot heat seized your body and suddenly you were careening towards the cliffs, falling hand in hand with Azriel. The Prince of Hell growled into your mouth, his forehead pressed against yours as you both surrendered to release. 

For a moment, nothing else in the realm existed besides the two of you. 

Azriel opened his eyes and it was like staring directly into the sun after centuries of darkness. With a soft smile, he pulled you into his arms and kissed your temple. Like pieces of a puzzle falling into place, your limbs locked and something within you just clicked. 

This was right. 

He was right.

You nestled against Azriel like you belonged there all along. “You never told me.”

“Told you what, my heart?”

“How the story of the girl and her raven ends.”

Azriel smiled, pulling you into his arms. “It doesn’t. They just find a new beginning instead.”

taglist: @viradeity @moony-thoughts @i-opened-the-chamber-of-secrets @demirunner @swansworth @heart-defendor @momlo @mali22 @roselensage @searchingford@nessianxgwynriel@azriels-angels@brekkershadowsinger@morelovemorepeacemoretattoo-blog @mattte-black @marina468 @lillithathecathecat @highladyofillyria

[head-in-the-shrouds]

366 Prompts For 2024:

One word prompts for 2024 (all 12 months) and some alternatives. These are mostly horror / fantasy aimed.

January (31):

Behold

Justice

Oak

Weave

Hook

Waggon

Torch

Jinx

Prey

Must

Lit

Keep

Vanquish

Yarrow

Intended

Tomb

Marsh

Leather

Blanket

Kin

Lordling

Promises

Heath

Rot

West

Under

Sworn

Rusted

Transformation

Quest

Pond

February (29):

Midwinter

Oath

Croak

Blush

Nimble

Malady

Deal

Roots

Willow

Orders

Moss

Lantern

Portent

Lovelock

Mourning

Horned

Keys

Earn

Remedy

Bog

Yearning

Lace

Trunk

Coiled

Linger

Soothsayer

Revenge

Oleander

Revered

March (31):

Metal

Pride

Gunpowder

Inheritance

Master

Brandish

Enchanted

Path

Sacrifice

Tailor

Crypt

Remain

Toad

Understanding

Legacy

Archway

Mirror

Omen

Home

Fur

Dust

Bow

Necklace

Sly

Permanent

Grin

Aim

Nest

Hex

Church

Valour

April (30):

Masonry

Inquiry

Ledge

Years

Hospitality

Clay

Priestess

Sunken

Lavender

Trust

Waters

Guilt

Dusk

Protection

Musket

Castle

Flee

Ancient

Value

Charm

Fever

Penance

Silk

Foxhole

Ornament

Tradition

Meld

Hare

Well

Pest

May (31):

Moonrise

Sea

Wander

Absolution

Bark

Ridge

Crackle

Sacred

Bind

Frozen

Thatch

Naming

Elder

Wealth

Dappled

Reading

Father

Cathedral

Tent

Grey

Payment

Enshrine

Tales

Velvet

Cell

Guide

Dawn

Mines

Riddle

Falling

Clock

June (30):

Vixen

Stolen

Worth

Tar

Alchemy

Fickle

Barrell

Harrow

Pyre

Chest

Worship

Steps

Armoury

Tear

Den

Ladder

Ruins

Bargain

Snake-leaves

Corn-doll

Garnet

Eccentric

Telescope

Antler

Stone

Break

Laden

Tower

Chain

Rook

July (31):

Masquerade

Pines

Mother

Herbs

Limb

Prize

Rescue

Scales

Melody

Shore

Tempest

Appease

Queen

Hermit

Separated

Bear

Righteous

Chimney

Storm

Manipulate

Boots

Apple

Rings

Crafted

Trail

Bleak

Dear-heart

Sanctify

Feast

Gathering

Door

August (31):

Luck

Display

Greed

Autumn

Found

Wildfire

Sleep

Grandfather

Watch

Hidden

Lookalike

Whimsey

Thicket

Runes

Horseshoe

Smoke

Awaken

Gargoyle

Wig

Poison

Thousand-fur

Shatter

Barrow

Tempt

Flag

Mercy

Web

Beast

Candle

Hunt

Serpent

September (30):

Belladonna

Magician

Birch

Reflection

Sight

Elaborate

Captive

Rope

Glass

Decades

Blade

Sorrow

Finickity

Carving

Stag

Fairy-tale

Spark

Blackthorn

Mountain

Century

Fury

Question

Claws

Fangs

Decay

Gift

Shipwreck

Blessed

Harvest

Crown

October (31):

Troll

Vines

Scattered

Prayer

Hatchet

Coat

Fireside

Grim

Sealed

Walled

Healing

Cobbled

Secure

Forest

Blind

Constellation

Shroud

Regal

Helm

Shadowed

Ward

Sinking

Hills

Goldsmith

Silver

Entwining

Soldier

Courtship

Guest

Defy

Crone

November (30):

Bones

Fear

Talisman

Song

Witness

Cloak

Plague

Hearth

Returned

Testament

Ceremonial

Yearning

Written

Silhouette

Gilded

Boundary

Hunger

Stranger

Fiend

Dungeon

Huntsman

Want

Birdsong

Wish

Hierophant

Favour

Dreaming

Coal

Brother

Fields

December (31):

Bottles

Curse

Horizon

Supplies

Wallowing

Hodge-podge

Thorns

Wisdom

Trinket

Warmth

Timber

Honest

Ritual

Welcome

Branches

Disguise

Bound

Gallows

Shield

Window

Finality

Tinder

Starlight

Winds

Bridge

Fortune

Tracks

River

Guardian

Summon

Warmth

Alternative Prompts:

Cunning

Puppet

Hound

Brambles

Eldritch

Garden

Eldritch

Cosmic

Bells

Tainted

Sleigh

Sect

Glowing

Coven

[4dango-the2nd]

Gilded Sea's Dream [Ep 1/?]

Let's see how long this series can go lmao

Anyway, desert adventure!! ft. Kaveh and Alhaitham (primarily)

tbh I also don't know which construct Mehrak's core came from 🤔

[Ep 2]

[alphabetboyluvr]

dance with the devil | jjk

REQUEST | jktaee3 on wp

VIBES | angst, royalty - bridgerton vibes, childhood friends to enemies to ?luvrs?

SOUNDTRACK | die for you - joji

HOLLY'S NOTE | (originally posted april 2023) so fun facts, i've never watched bridgerton. i actually put it on in the background as i was writing, which is where the lil line about being diamond comes from. i also do fuck all world-building in this, so just... use your imagination lol. i have no idea if this is like... correct? i dont read nor write period pieces and haven't done since school so.... go easy on me hahaha <33

also!! went for jeongguk instead of jungkook. feels more dramatic? time appropriate?? idk! mix of eng and Korean inspo for titles / locations!!

WORD COUNT | 2.5k

There are easily a hundred pairs of eyes on you as you walk into the ballroom. Maybe more. The room is grand, gilded in gold—grotesque in its display of wealth, but nothing new to you. You've been in a dozen rooms like this within the last month alone. More money than taste—but you can't buy class.

Despite the influx of unwelcome stares, there's just one you can actually feel. It comes from a pair of deep brown eyes in the corner of the room; a glass of red in one hand, the gloved fingers of your least favourite cousin in the other.

Dark and brooding, Jeon Jeongguk has no right to look at you in the way that he does. Duke of Busan, womaniser of more counties than you care to imagine, he's troubled wrapped up in a waistcoat and ruby-encrusted signet rings.

But you've always liked trouble. Shame.

The grip that Lord Min of Daegu has on your hand tightens. He can notice it too; Jeongguk's stare. Your satin gloves are silky against Lord Min's skin, and he must admit he enjoys being the focus of Jeon Jeongguk's envy. He thinks it's about time that the over-egotistical tyrant of hearts had his comeuppance.

"Remember," Lord Min whispers quietly to you as the crowd watches on. He's a trusted confidant; not suited for marriage. At least not with you. It's the county's worst-kept secret that he retires to the boudoir with Master Park each and every evening. No one at the ball is under any illusion that he is a suitor of yours. "You're a diamond in a mine of sapphires."

"Oh, but sapphires are far prettier than diamonds," you pout, voice dulcet as you scan the room. It's approaching your birthday, and time is running out. A suitor needs to be found, and found promptly. Too much time squandered on frivolous pursuits during your youth had prevented such a search.

It's something you're reminded of whenever your eyes catch Jeongguk's. Endless days spent under beating midsummer sunshine; burnt skin and freckled cheeks. Youth well-spent. Youth wasted.

"So? It matters not." Lord Min smiles. "Diamonds are far stronger. Sharper. And still just as exquisite as sapphires. Do not sell yourself short."

And by that, you know exactly what he implies: steer clear of the Duke of Busan.

It would be a fruitless endeavour. No good would come from it.

Years of your childhood had been spent in a whimsical land with him, full of castles and fairies, and witches and warlocks. Potions had been made in his garden using his mother's best perfumes and items stolen from the pantry; make-believe scenarios came to life in the forest between your family's estates.

Summers had been frittered away together by the sea; Winterton Manor the backdrop of your dreams, your hopes, your fears.

But the Duke did as Dukes so often do; embroiled himself in debauchery and distasteful pleasures.

You had watched on, bemused for the most part, and also intrigued by what compelled him.

Had you not been enough?

Grapevines whisper, and Jeongguk had spent far too much time frolicking in vineyards. Drunk on the delights of his youth, he'd forgotten that there would be life beyond the present.

It's a price he pays, now. A debt he hadn't realised he had racked up.

One that he's reminded of every single time you glance his way. He cannot afford a diamond.

Somehow, however, he can seem to afford the audacity of approaching you in the powder room towards the end of the evening.

You've had lacklustre dances with half a dozen bachelors, and they've all been uninspiring. Only two of them managed to make it through the waltz without stepping on your toes.

Time is running out.

And Jeongguk?

He's running in circles trying to get you out of his head.

Seems apt that he'd bump into you at some point.

Not like he sought you out. Not at all.

Not like he handed the maids by the staircase a few silver coins to divert other partygoers elsewhere, either. He wouldn't dream of doing such a thing.

The Duke of Busan knows you well.

Knows that it takes all of your might to not glance in his direction as he makes his presence known.

"Really?" He asks with a cocked brow and arrogant smirk, leaning against the doorframe. You're preening at your hair. Making sure your pins remain in place. "That's what you chose to wear? To a ball of this grandeur?"

You're wearing white. It's tight against your chest. Too tight. Pleated beneath the satin ribbon under your bust, encrusted with sequins and finished with lace. It's beautiful. Matches the white satin gloves that finish just above the crease of your elbow. You carry yourself with elegance.

In fact, your posture is so well-poised that Jeongguk is the only attendee of the ball who has noticed the split in your skirt. When stood, it is hidden by the pleats. When dancing, it is camouflaged by the lace. When you lift your skirt to meander up the stairs? He becomes reacquainted with the curve of your ankle. The split is no larger than the length of a letter inviting him to tea, but it feels overwhelmingly large.

As far as the Duke is concerned, you may as well be wearing lingerie.

You smooth the skirt of your dress and consider rearranging your tits just to give him something to stare at. You decide against it. Think he would enjoy it far too much.

"Oh precisely," you respond with an equally arrogant grin, before turning to face him. You're haughty in the way you position your body, almost as if you're trying to entice him. "Haven't you heard? I've a suitor to find."

He scoffs. "And you think dressing like a whore is going to find you one of any value?"

A whore.

Very rich of him, you think, as if the entire party doesn't know what he gets up to in the dark. And the daylight. And just about any time of the day, actually.

What they really don't know?

That he used to get up to it with you.

"Absolutely not," you smile. Your father might want you married off, but there's no suitor here for you. Not tonight. If you have to bring a man home, it unquestionably has to be one that your father won't approve of. "That's the point—although, now I come to think of it—this dress did seem to find you, didn't it, Jeongguk?"

He stays quiet for a moment. He doesn't enjoy you being correct. It's part of the reason you bicker so much. You're always correct.

"White really isn't your colour," he tells you with an ambivalent shrug. "We both know that."

Innocence. Purity. Virginity.

For once, The Duke is correct. It really isn't your colour.

Humorous, how he's dressed head to toe in black. Perhaps you should be, too.

"And green isn't yours," you tease, walking towards him. "Yet you seemed to be full of it when I entered the ballroom with the Lord of Daegu."

He remains silent. Can sense you have more to declare.

"Moreover," you hum, proving him right as you pause beside him, "as I'm sure you're well aware, Duke, it's the colour beneath the dress that counts."

"And what is beneath the dress?" Jeongguk husks, not looking over towards you. He doesn't want to let you know how much you affect him, still.

"The same lace that greeted you last summer in the stables of Winterton Manor."

Red. Fuck.

His favourite.

"Tell me, Duke," you tease. He deserves it, you think. "Does the Viscount of Gwangju like red?"

"Hoseok?" Jeongguk scoffs, addressing him by name, not title. The lack of respect shown by the young Duke is asinine, truly. A show of his immaturity. "Despises it."

Truthfully, he has no idea of Viscount of Gwangju's preferences.

"Good," you taunt. "I'm enthralled by the prospect of a challenge."

Jeongguk will be damned if you end up betrothed to the Viscount of fucking Gwangju.

"He concedes easily," he says. This is another lie. He just doesn't want to give you any further ideas. "Do not expect a challenge. Anticipate disappointment."

"Oh, but Duke," you laugh and it's so exquisite that he thinks he might just melt. "Disappointment has always been your forte, has it not?"

During the balls of recent years, where Jeongguk would only ever offer his hand to other women, and never you? Yes. Disappointing.

In the smoky parlours, where he laughs and jokes with the other gentlemen, about which debutantes are simply destined to become spinsters? Oh, incredibly disappointing.

In the drawing room adjacent to his bedroom, while you had waited beneath his sheets for his return, as he was agreeing to court your cousin instead of you? Perhaps the most disappointing he'd ever been.

It's been a year—the worst of your life.

"You've made your bed, Duke. Sleep in it."

"I've tried," he says sternly. He doesn't want to joke any more. Doesn't want to flirt. "I cannot bear to sleep in it without you."

You shake your head. Such a devil.

"You seem well rested enough."

"It's a facade."

And you find yourself quite annoyed; frustrated by his apparent disdain for a life he chose. A destiny brought upon you both by his inability to be discreet—though you're unaware of this caveat.

You see, everyone does know of his reputation, but he always kept your pursuits of passion hidden. Private. To the world, you're pristine.

"What do you require, Duke? My pity?"

He knows he doesn't deserve it.

"I require nothing of you."

"Then seek me out no longer. Do not pursue what you cannot commandeer, Jeongguk."

It's a lesson he would have done well to learn many moons ago; one remembered by you even if it was lost on him.

And yet, at quarter past twelve, as he loosens the black satin bow of his collar in his bedroom, Jeongguk pauses.

A knock has just sounded at his door. His chambermaid, he assumes, just checking on the fire—or maybe Master Park's chambermaid, instead (though Jeongguk's business with Master Park's staff isn't ever entirely 'business').

Regretfully, he thinks it could be Lord Kim Namjoon of Ilsan, here to reprimand him for his manners. His mentor in all fashions, Namjoon is always the first to discipline the young Duke following his nights of debauchery—though all things considered, he feels he's been quite well-behaved tonight.

He sighs as he rests a palm flat against his bedpost, and bellows, "Enter."

A sternness settles on his brows, hard and uncompromising, as he turns to the door. There's a dishevelled nature to his hair, undone and falling slightly over his dark eyes. His loosened collar and unbuttoned waistcoat only aid to make him look even more rugged.

He's marred in vulnerability, though. His pretty pink lips rest ajar, as his eyes fall on the intruder of his thoughts.

Amusing, you think, how the bedroom is where he domineers best, and yet is always where he seems the most unfortified.

Perhaps he hadn't been lying about his facade.

Perhaps he really doesn't sleep well without you.

Perhaps—just perhaps—you might indulge him one last time.

"Tell me, Duke"— You walk into his room and close the door behind you, eyes not leaving his —"Do any of them compare?"

He watches you strut past him and crawl on the luxe quilt on his bed. Oh, how you've missed it.

"Any of who?"

"The maids," you shrug. You aren't naive. You know exactly what he does, and who he does it with. "Master Park's maids? Surely Lord Kim's, too. And the working girls. The debutantes—need I go on?"

"No," he says, watching as you loosen your heels and kick them to the floor. They land with a thud. He knows the noise will have echoed throughout the house. "You needn't."

The truth of the matter is that his escapades are well-known amongst high society. He has a reputation, which is why his courtship with your cousin was forced upon him.

You're surely too good for him, but he's of too much value to remain without an heir.

A marriage is needed for him before the end of the year. His father says so.

Contrarily, your father would never agree to the Duke of Busan proclaiming you as his Dutchess.

Jeongguk knows this, for he's already asked.

Of course he has.

Last spring. Kept his mother's ring in his pocket just in case. A proposal was planned for early summer, before your trip to Paris.

He thought perhaps he would go with you—a pre-honeymoon, maybe—but your father had refused his request for your hand, and who was Jeongguk to go against the will of the man who had raised you?

Jeongguk won't burden you with this knowledge. Your life will be far more fruitful if you remain silently furious with him for never giving you what you deserved.

"And do they?" You enquire once more. unaware of his anguish. "Do they compare?"

Jeongguk leans down to his boots. Unties his laces and stands on his heels to remove them. He kicks them away. Is just as undressed as you are. Equal.

"Do you think my bed would be empty right now if they did?"

"It isn't empty," you tease.

"No," he acknowledges. "But it has been. It's been empty for months."

"Months?"

You don't believe him.

"I've had an empty bed since I returned from Winterton last summer," he declares.

"Though your hands have been full?" You sneer, painfully reminded of the way he'd held the hand of another woman in the ballroom that evening. You've had to bear witness to it on multiple occasions by now. It never gets any easier. Your fucking cousin, of all people.

"Pay no mind to the fact my hands have not been empty in ballrooms," he speaks quietly, shame washing over his features. Yes, it would be far more desirable if you were to be furious with him, but he wants to alleviate the hurt that you are quite clearly encumbered with. "As I said, it's a facade."

"Why? What are you hiding, Duke?"

As if you don't know—he laments—that I'm utterly besotted with you.

He glances away from you to watch the fire as it crackles in his hearth. He wonders if it would be less painful to tear his heart from his chest and roast it in the flames, than it is to be in love with you.

"I hide nothing from you," he says with a broad smile as he turns to face you once more. Jeongguk is adept at falsifying his discretions. "But I am without at a dance."

You grin, now. "A dance?"

"I'd love one," he smirks as he holds out his hand. He twists your words almost as elegantly as he used to twist you around on empty ballroom floors; just two of you after the parties had died down and the revellers had hung up their dancing shoes.

He strides to the side of the bed. Satisfaction sinks into his features when your gloved hand slips into his palm. He pulls you up. Pulls you closer. Rests a hand upon your waist and positions himself perfectly for you. He was raised a gentleman after all, even if grew up to be a rogue.

"May I have this dance?" He says quietly, only needing to whisper.

You're so close you probably count the beat of his heart.

One, two.

Does anyone dance better than I do?

Three, four.

Do you lose your breath when someone else draws you closer?

Five, six.

I could dance with you forever.

Seven, eight.

Would that be agreeable?

Nine, ten.

As if you can read his thoughts, you just nod.

"You may."

[nicksalchemy1]

Mientras Respiro, Espero - Part 1

Pairing: Firefighter AU Dean Winchester x Nurse!Plus-Size!Mexican!Reader

Summary: Dean Winchester, a firefighter with a reputation for casual flings, finds himself longing for something more meaningful in his life. Meanwhile, you, a stubborn surgical intern, are trying to escape your past in California. When Dean loses a bet and is tasked with cleaning the trucks, your paths cross unexpectedly. Little do both of you know meeting each other would cause some problems.

A/N: “Mientras Respiro, Espero��: Spanish for “while I breathe, I wait.”

Here’s the first part of my little story. I really like writing in this universe and if part goes well, then I’ll continue posting. (I’m gonna post it anyways 🧐) Credits for inspiration again go to @zepskies !!

🚒 Series Masterlist

Word Count: 2,167

Warnings: Toxic parental situation, mentions of fat-shaming, childhood trauma, and a quick old-fashioned meet cute.

Part 1 - Who’s Afraid Of Little Old Me?

Avalon, California, was a gilded cage with ocean views, where the houses were as polished as the facades people wore. It was in one such manicured home where your story paused.

“Mija, you’re wasting your life with these... these dreams of yours! ¡No seas tan estúpida!” Your mother’s voice was a razor wrapped in velvet, cutting into you as you packed the last of your belongings into an old, battered suitcase.

The room was a mausoleum of your former life, with its pristine walls adorned with academic accolades and a full-length mirror that once reflected a girl desperate to please. Now, it only mirrored your resolve.

“I’m saving it, not wasting it,” you shot back, the words tumbling from your lips like brave soldiers in battle. You tucked a framed photo of your childhood self – the one with the broadest, most hopeful eyes – into the suitcase's side.

Your mother’s silhouette filled the doorway, her arms crossed in the silent indictment. “And what about the family reputation? Our standing in the community?”

You zipped up the suitcase, and the sound of a definitive line drawn. “What about my happiness, Mamí? What about living a life that’s actually mine? With someone who won’t pick on me like I’m still a child?”

She scoffed dismissively, a sound that stung like salt in an open wound. “Esos gringos no saben nada. Happiness is a luxury for those who can afford to be foolish.”

You locked eyes with her in the mirror, your own gaze hardened like forged steel. “Then consider me a fool.”

The house seemed to hold its breath as you shouldered past her, suitcase in hand. Your father stood in the hallway, a silent sentinel. His eyes, a mirror of your own, flickered with something that might have been pride or sorrow – or both.

“Daddy,” you whispered, pausing for a moment.

He cleared his throat, a rumble from deep within. “You always were the stubborn one,” he murmured, his voice barely above a soft-spoken whisper. “Be careful. Call me anytime you need me.”

A nod was all you could muster before you descended the staircase, each step a drumbeat to your newfound freedom. The door closed behind you with a finality that echoed through your bones. The California sun dipped low, as if bowing to your courage.

The suitcase wheels rumbled against the cobblestone path, a small but sure declaration of your departure. Behind you, the house – a beautiful prison of expectation and familial duty – faded into just another part of the landscape.

You didn't look back.

Considering it was your first time flying in an airplane, first class at that, you were anxious. Not about actually being in the plane around people or the way the lady in the seat across from your aisle coffee smelled like someone took a fancy shit, but because you were moving in with a couple that you trusted yet, hardly knew.

Mary and John Winchester were rough around the edges, but they meant well. They knew what happened in your household, how toxic it was, and invited you to stay with them in Lawerence. Plus, you would be able to keep your job. Mary was head of Neurosurgery and earned you a spot as a surgical intern. Working hard or hardly working, am I right? You thought to yourself, smiling to yourself.

And boy, were these ‘gringos’ rich. Not only did they offer you that extra guest room in their house, but they also bought you your first-class seat, in which your butt was in right now.

You knew John was a respected detective, and with his income mixed with Mary’s, they made bank.

You also knew they had two sons. John and Mary mentioned their names, but you knew the youngest worked for the ADA, and the oldest worked as a firefighter.

Cool. Wonder what that's like, you tilt your head in thought.

A stable work life, home life, and family. But not all ‘picture-perfect’ families meant they were truly picture perfect.

And that was for you to figure out.

The airplane descended through the cotton candy clouds, and the world below began to take shape—a patchwork of fields and roads that would soon become your new reality. Your heart danced a nervous tango with the seatbelt across your lap, anticipation tightening with every drop in altitude.

The captain's voice crackled through the cabin, announcing the imminent landing in Lawrence. You straightened up, smoothing the fabric of your jeans as if to iron out the last creases of your past life.

When the wheels kissed the tarmac, you felt a jolt, not unlike the one that had propelled you out of your family’s house. You collected your single suitcase from the overhead bin—a symbol of your fresh start—and made your way through the aisle with a resolve that echoed the click-clack of your boots on the aircraft's floor.

The airport was small but buzzing with life, a hive of reunions and farewells. You stood for a moment at the arrival gate, scanning the crowd until you saw them.

Mary's presence was undeniable. She stood with a grace that spoke of her surgical precision, her eyes warm and welcoming. John, equally imposing in his own right, had the stance of a man who had weathered storms and could chart a course through any adversity.

They spotted you almost immediately, and Mary’s smile widened as she opened her arms. “There she is! Welcome to Kansas!”

You stepped into her embrace, the scent of antiseptic mingling with a soft perfume—a stark contrast to the oppressive aroma of your mother's overwhelming floral scents. “Thank you, Mary,” you smiled, grateful for the genuine warmth.

John extended his hand, which you shook firmly, finding in his grip the silent support of a seasoned detective. “Good to have you here. We’ve got the guest room all set up for you,” he said, his voice a deep timbre of reassurance.

You nodded, your eyes meeting his. “I can’t thank you both enough for this opportunity.”

As you walked through the airport, with Mary’s hand lightly on your back and John carrying your suitcase, you felt the weight of your old life lifting. The conversation was light, peppered with Mary’s questions about your flight and John’s quips about Kansas being the true heart of America.

Once in the car, the grilling starts. “So, how are you doing, hun?” Mary asks curiously, mainly because she’s concerned and trying to make sure you’re comfortable.

“Oh, you know, as good as you can be while moving state from state.” You remark as politely as possible, trying not to seep tension into the car ride.

“I hope you feel better. When we get to the house, you’re welcome to rest. I don’t cook very well,” She clears her throat, shrugging, “But I can give you some money to order something in?”

“I couldn’t do that, but thank you. It’s late, anyways. I’ll wait till tommorow morning.”

“Okay. Just as along as you’re comfortable.” Mary winks, a soft, motherly smile on her face.

You nod, meeting her smile with the same.

John pulls the Volkswagen van into the driveway and puts it in park, shutting the engine off. “Home sweet home.”

You sigh and step out of the car, staring at the home. The house is a two-story structure with a prominent green exterior. It features white trim around the windows and roof edges, contrasting nicely with the green. The front door is wooden with a rich, warm tone. There are two windows on the upper floor and one window on either side of the front door on the ground floor. A chimney extends from the left side of the roof, indicating a fireplace inside.

A well-maintained lawn adorned with various small plants and flowers. A concrete pathway leads to three steps up to a small porch area before reaching the wooden front door.

Mary leads you up to where your room is at and it seemed to be one of her boy’s old nurseries, but now the wall was decorated with two old band posters, The Beatles and a Zeppelin poster. Huh. The bed had a floral blanket and a navy sheet under it. There were two pillows in a white silk covers and a lamp on the beside table.

“John and I are gonna hit the hay, so, goodnight, love.” Mary waves from the doorframe, giving you one last glance before heading off.

“Goodnight,” You reply, setting your suitcase down beside your bed and lay back on your bed.

In the locker room, you changed into your scrubs, the fabric feeling foreign yet exciting against your skin. You tucked your hair under a surgical cap and checked yourself in the mirror. Ready.

The hospital corridors were a maze of activity, doctors and nurses moving with a sense of urgency that was almost palpable. You found your way to the intern's lounge, where a group of young doctors was gathered, pouring over patient charts and sipping on coffee as if it were a lifeline.

That's when you met her — Charlie Bradbury. With her vibrant red hair and a stack of comic books under her arm, she was a splash of color in the sterile environment. She noticed you immediately, her green eyes lighting up with an impish sparkle.

"Hey, you must be the new kid! I'm Charlie, your friendly neighborhood genius slash intern. Welcome to the chaos!" she greeted you with an outstretched hand, adorned with quirky rings.

"Thanks, I'm..." you began.

"Don't tell me," she interrupted playfully, "You're the one who just flew in from Cali, right? Mary's been raving about you."

You chuckled, feeling a sense of relief wash over you. "Guilty as charged."

Charlie showed you around, her chatter filling the spaces between the bustle of the hospital. She introduced you to the other interns, the nurses, and even the grumpy guy who ran the coffee cart. Throughout the day, you shadowed her as she confidently navigated patient care, inserting IV lines with precision and calming anxious patients with her quirky humor.

Despite the exhaustion that came with the endless rounds and the mountain of new information, you felt a sense of accomplishment. You were doing this, really doing it — and you were not alone.

In the afternoon, Mary tasked you with delivering first aid kits to the local fire department as part of a community outreach program. You welcomed the break from the hospital walls and made your way to the fire station with a box of supplies in tow.

As you approached, you noticed a firefighter washing a large, red truck — his sleeves rolled up, revealing muscular arms, and his focus never wavering from the task at hand. You hesitated for a moment before approaching.

"Excuse me," you called out, "I have a delivery from Lawrence General?"

He turned around, and you were met with striking green eyes and a smudge of soap on his cheek. He was ruggedly handsome, with a stubble that spoke of long hours and a jaw set with determination.

"Oh, hey," he replied, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Thanks for the-"

Before he could finish, another firefighter called out to him, "Dean, we need you!"

"Sorry, duty calls," he said with a charming, apologetic grin. "Just leave the kits by the door, and thanks again."

"No problem," you replied, feeling a pang of disappointment as the moment ended too quickly. You placed the box down and watched as he jogged back to his colleagues, ready to respond to the next emergency.

The rest of your shift passed in a blur, and before you knew it, Mary was driving you back to the Winchester home. As the car hummed along the road, she glanced at you with a knowing smile.

"I hope your first day wasn't too overwhelming. You did great," she said encouragingly.

"It was definitely a day to remember," you admitted with a tired smile.

Mary's expression turned warm and excited as she announced, "Well, get ready for a family dinner tonight. John and I want you to meet our sons properly. They're excited to have you."

The thought of the evening ahead sparked a mix of nerves and curiosity within you.

"Oh, uh, okay." you replied slightly indifferent by the unexpected dinner, but the prospect of a meal with a family that wouldn’t make measure how many calories your plate has won’t be bad just because you had to meet your “landlord’s” sons. “Sounds nice.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

And there’s that! Next time. 😉

Character Introduction For This Series

Dean Winchester Masterlist

[starglitterz]

THE STARGLITTERZ GALA !

— a milestone event !

one fine day, you receive an embossed letter in the mail. on the envelope, your name is written in grand gilded letters, swooping cursive gleaming gold against the parchment. upon breaking open the teal wax seal, the contents slip out: it's an invitation?!

☆ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 : you are hereby invited to ‘ THE STARGLITTERZ GALA ’ , a monumental masquerade designed for our attendees to find love. for one night and one night only, you shall dance and make merry alongside others on our exclusive guestlist. we pride ourselves on making some of the most historic matches at our soirée, and we eagerly await more blossoming romance this year. do rsvp for a night to remember under the glittering stars – we hope to see you there ♡ 

☆ 𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 : this is a request event to celebrate reaching 5k followers! i will be taking 15 requests in total, one for each of the prompts below on a first-come first-serve basis. do send in the number of the prompt you want + the character, as well as two back-up prompts in case the first one is already claimed. you can also send in any extra details that you wish to be added into the fic, though their inclusion is up to my discretion. ( my inbox can be found here. ) requests will be closed once all the prompts are taken. all the prompts will be set within the fictional event of the starglitterz gala. the pronouns in the prompts below are interchangeable ( as in it could be either the reader or the character in either position ). this event is strictly sfw but may have suggestive content. mutual requests will be prioritised. i will fulfill the requests at my own pace. do feel free to send in an ask if you’re confused about anything. hope you have fun at our soirée ♡

☆ 𝐀 𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐒 : tis i, lady quill herself ! HAHAHA okay naur i can’t take myself seriously TT but anyways yes!! thank you all so much for 5k, i say this every time but this blog quite literally would be nowhere without my followers. i appreciate you all sm, thank you for being with me as i developed my writing and hopefully also grew a lot as a person :’) i hope you enjoy this event, i had a lot of fun putting it together :]

☆ 𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐘

#1 — meet me at midnight : your partner has to find you before the clock ticks twelve in order to kiss you at the stroke of midnight. -> WRIOTHESLEY

#2 — walk but in a garden : strolling through the lush gardens of the mansion, you bump into another attendee who also stepped out for some fresh air. -> NEUVILLETTE

#3 — drunk-dazed : someone’s had a little bit too much to drink and is a lot clingier than they were before. -> CHILDE

#4 — from the start : even with the mask amidst the sea of faces, they’d recognise you anywhere. -> NEUVILLETTE

#5 — slow dancing in the dark : though you may not be the most talented dancer, all eyes are on the two of you as you waltz through the ballroom. -> WRIOTHESLEY

#6 — one kiss : stolen kisses in the grand corridors of the mansion, hidden away from prying eyes. -> LYNEY

#7 — moonlight sunrise : the sky is beautiful tonight, but in their eyes you’ll always be prettier. -> GA MING

#8 — greedy : they want one too many dances with you, and only you, refusing to dance with anyone else. -> KAVEH

#9 — let’s skip to the wedding : love at first sight ends up with a ring on your finger by the end of the night and the promise of your dream wedding to come. -> AYATO

#10 — daydreaming : despite being in an arranged marriage, the two of you have attended this event together in the hopes that it will bring you closer. -> DILUC

#11 — something about you : you’re not really hoping for much at this dinner, but after flirting with almost everyone, it seems like you’ve caught this one person’s eye… -> XIAO

#12 — could this be love? : you’ve never had a relationship before, but you’re pretty sure the butterflies in your stomach as they whirl you across the dance floor is exactly what love is meant to be. -> GA MING

#13 — partners in crime : you and your ‘partner’ decide to crash the ball for no reason, but end up getting swept away by the festivities. -> HEIZOU

#14 — save your tears : when you bump into your ex at the gala, it spells trouble [ at least until a new partner steps in to save the day. ] -> SCARAMOUCHE

#15 — heaven sent : the soiree seems to be a blessing in disguise (not!), for you were able to bump into your greatest enemy and even share a dance. -> SCARAMOUCHE

© starglitterz 2024. do not repost or modify in any way.

[bits-and-babs]

🐺 Dark Paradise

expect more of these cause the love I have for Lana Del Ray is strong.

𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐄 — 𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋

warnings: 18+ MDNI, Oral (f receiving), sad af, mentions of violence, SAD AF. 

oberyn masterlist | main masterlist | follower celebration | taglist

Arching your back from the bed, you sob out the name that had repetitively dripped from your lips all evening. You’d craved him for so long, what feels like an eternity, begging him to return to bed and relinquish you from the sleeplessness that had been forcing your eyelids open in the darkness. 

The candle on the bedside table flickers a warm gold across the bare skin of your thighs, crowning the Prince with a gilded halo of light. His brown curls wrap around your fingers as you clutch at them for dear life, bracing against the overwhelming torrent of feeling that only he could bless you with, his magic mouth and tongue enchanting you with a bliss that consistently took your breath away. 

“Oberyn-” you sob softly, tears streaming down your cheeks and into the fabric of the pillow that you rest your head against. He hums softly in response, the vibration against your clit that he has wrapped his lips around makes your eyes roll back into your skull, whimpering as the way it skitters down your spine and sparks across your extremities. 

“Oh- Please don’t stop,” you beg him softly, almost breathless as he pulls wave after wave of bliss between your thighs as they tremble against his ears. Your heels push into his spine, between his shoulder blades, but Oberyn doesn’t complain. Instead, he continues to assault your poor clit with his mouth, his tongue, raking his teeth over it. 

“D-Don’t-” you wail, more tears spilling out and wetting your lashes, “Don’t leave- Please don’t leave me like this-”

Oberyn pauses his ministrations, a frown creasing between his brows as he watches your pained expression. 

“My love,” he coos softly, resting his head just below your navel. His curls tickle your skin, his deep brown eyes gazing up at you with confusion. “What makes you request such a thing?”

Sobbing into the sea breeze, you scrub at your face with your palms and dig your nails into your hairline. The agony rips through your chest and buckles your knees, dropping them into the sand as you collapse at the waterline of the Dornish sea. It’s dark, the golden sands lit only by the torch that smoulders in the grains, discarded by your trembling hands. 

‘Today is not the day I die,’ he had promised you that day. He had kissed at your temple, offered the kind smile that he always blessed you with whenever his eyes caught your own. Tywin Lannister’s eyes had been filled with pride, vindication when The Mountain had gouged out those beautiful oak irises with his thumbs, smothering Oberyn and snuffing him out. 

In a way, he hadn’t died that day at all. He haunted you constantly, visiting you in your dreams and entering your mind at every waking moment, refusing to leave. 

Laying down in the sand, you wail his name, begging him to return to bed and relinquish you from the sleeplessness that had been forcing your eyelids open in the darkness, always thinking of him.

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

How the Light Attaches to a Change of Heart (ao3)

It’s been three years since Rhys demanded Nesta move to the House of Wind or be exiled to the human lands. That day, she walked away and never looked back, choosing a new life for herself on the continent. But something’s not right, and when she returns to Velaris for Elain’s birthday, she figures out what she was missing all along. (For @nessianweek day 5! Title taken from the Marianas Trench song The Death of Me)

There were times when Nesta Archeron thought she had it all.

When she returned each night to the apartment she had by the river, for example, feet sinking into plush carpets as the sun set beyond wide glass windows offering a vista of a city she’d never once thought to see when she was human. When she was paid handsomely each month, two hundred gold coins heavy in her palm, or when she rifled through the papers on her desk and found the deeds to her apartment, her own name penned in ink at the bottom. Times when she found herself in a fancy wine bar, sipping expensive vintage at a marble counter— so vastly different from the dive bars with the sticky floors and low light she’d once drank herself to oblivion in.

A distant memory, now.

So much had changed since then— since she’d last stumbled down a darkened alleyway in Velaris. 

She’d gained so much since then.

Hadn’t she?

Ever since that day at the River House, when Feyre had sat shedding silent tears as Rhysand delivered his ultimatum, when he told her to move the House of Wind or be exiled to the human lands. 

He hadn’t given her a third option.

So Nesta had found one. Had made one for herself when she boarded the next ship for the Continent carrying nothing but a half-empty suitcase and a letter of introduction provided by - of all people - Lucien Vanserra. Within days she’d found herself accepting a job as advisor to the continental monarchs— an ambassador between the continent and the Night Court, Lucien’s counterpart across the sea. 

And her life was… elegant, now.

The kind of life she’d imagined herself living, once. Back when she dreamed of foreign skies and unfamiliar coastlines, a land beneath her feet that hadn’t damned her or ruined her or broken her— where there was salt in the air and the scent of wildflowers on the wind. Vallahan had given her all of that and more, a thousand opportunities and a hundred different paths, and it was enough, she told herself each morning as the sun filtered through the clouds and gilded the mist that hung on the river.

It was enough. 

Wasn’t it?

It wasn’t home, not quite, but it was enough. 

She certainly had more now than she’d ever had in the Night Court, where her grief had kept her in a chokehold so tight she could barely breathe. It was easier now, the weight no longer so crushing, and she’d even gotten herself a cat— long-haired and white, named Tristan after a white knight in some legend she’d grown up with.

It was enough.

And it didn’t matter that it felt hollow, that her victory felt short-lived. It didn’t matter that there was a burn in her chest, a creeping kind of loneliness that dimmed the brightest edges of her fledgling happiness. Something was missing, something lacking, but it didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.

She had enough.

She hadn’t been back to Velaris since. 

Three years had passed, and her only contact with her sisters had been letters. She wrote monthly to Feyre— ambassadorial business only at first, but the distance made things easier between them, let old wounds heal, and before long Feyre was asking how Nesta fared on the Continent, and Nesta was answering in earnest. Their letters contained post-scripts now, a few brief lines each month that had no bearing on politics or business at all, just two sisters trying to mend a couple of broken bridges, attempting to salvage whatever relationship they had left. 

Nesta never asked about him— the one she’d left that day at the docks, his eyes burning with tears he didn’t shed and a face lined with a grief so complete it told her everything he’d never quite managed to say out loud—

No.

She shook the memory away, pushing it down, down— all the way back to the furthest reaches of that void inside her, where there was no hope of it clawing its way back up again. And with a deep, trembling breath Nesta looked instead at the letter sitting idle on her glass coffee table— the one that she had opened, read, and promptly cast aside. It had lain there for a week now as she tried to figure out what to do with it, the deep purple seal haunting her every time it caught her eye. 

On the wide sofa opposite, Tristan’s fluffy tail flicked as he too looked at that little square of ivory parchment, green eyes narrowed and head tilted as if he could sense, somehow, that that letter was about to take Nesta away. 

Because it was Elain’s birthday soon.

Her twenty-fifth birthday. A significant milestone, even if she was no longer human, and even though for the past few years Nesta had only ever sent Elain a birthday card and a gift, this was different. Feyre had planned a party, and the letter on the table was an invitation— a tentative one, in which Feyre asked cautiously if Nesta thought she might find it in her to attend.

Nesta’s first instinct had been to answer with a resounding, definitive no.

But then she’d looked around at her empty apartment, at Tristan curled up on her velvet sofa, and felt that old pang in her chest, the one that said something was still missing, even if her heart was far more mended now than it had been when she’d left.

There was something hollow inside, right where her heart should be, and if Nesta thought about it for long enough she knew that the reason she was so empty boiled down to messy dark hair and hazel eyes and an argument on the dock before a departing ship, but—

It didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter.

Tristan made a small noise of discontent as Nesta sunk into the cushions beside him, and as she stroked her fingers across his ears, down his neck and over his spine, she figured that she could go back— accept Feyre’s invitation and spend a weekend in Velaris. Just a weekend, just for Elain. She could put on a smile, smooth and serene, and wish Elain a happy birthday in person for the first time in three years. 

And at the end of it all… well, would it really matter if the smile she hid behind didn’t quite reach her eyes?

Would they even notice?

***

The ship had been a bad idea.

Feyre had offered to winnow her to Velaris, but Nesta - stubborn Nesta - had refused, preferring to make her own way to the city, and oh, she regretted it now.

The docks had been an assault.

Each step she took over the creaking wooden boards had reminded her of the way they had shook as he had rushed after her, quaking beneath his leather boots as he reached for her hand. The call of the birds overhead reminded her of how they had cried that day, circling above as she spiralled below, and—

Her heart tightened, something in her chest breaking, cracking, all over again. Just like it had three years ago. 

Like she hadn’t been away at all.

The city beyond the port hadn’t changed either, she realised as she made her way to her sister’s sprawling estate by the river. It was all the same— the same shops still lined the riverfront, the same lemon verbena scent hung in the air, and working her way through the winding streets from the edge of the city to its heart, she found herself retracing old steps, passing the corner where her apartment used to be and walking the same path she’d taken that cold Solstice night, when the snow had fallen in drifts and he had walked her home.

Her breath hitched. 

No, Velaris hadn’t changed— but she had, and idly she wondered if she would find herself still absent from Feyre’s walls when she stepped over her sister’s threshold. If she would walk through that hallway for the first time in three years and find herself still erased, no space left for a portrait of her to fill.

She turned the corner, the River House sitting straight ahead, and wryly she shook her head. What would it matter if she did, she wondered? If the paintings that lined Feyre’s staircase hadn’t expanded to include her? Nesta had been the one to walk away, after all. She’d left, moved on, and refused to come back even though for the first year Feyre had sent invitations to come back for Solstice and Starfall both.

Nesta had ignored them all.

And by the time she’d made her way up that stretching driveway and reached that painted door with the shining bronze knocker, she’d begun to wonder whether she ought to have ignored this one too— if it had been a good idea after all, accepting this invitation. The walk between the docks and the house had done nothing but tie her stomach in knots, familiar grief rising up to meet her like an old, unwelcome friend, and all she could think of was how broken she had been the last time she had stepped foot in this city, how desolate and desperate. Standing on that wide marble step at the foot of her sister’s front door, suddenly Nesta paused. Hesitated. 

There was laughter drifting from an open window, the gentle buzz of conversation, and all she could think was… 

Did she knock?

The rest of Rhysand’s Inner Circle tended to let themselves in, as though this were their home as much as Rhys and Feyre’s, but it was different with Nesta. It had always been different with Nesta, like she had always been some kind of stranger to them, never so much at ease as the rest. 

But she was here for Elain.

Nesta allowed that thought to steel her, even though her throat closed as her fingers stretched towards that knocker. Finally she made herself lift it, letting it fall back against the brass plate with a loud, dull thud.

The laughter beyond that painted door quieted.

Not only had Feyre organised Elain’s party, she’d also organised a dinner the night before— a small, intimate gathering before the bigger party tomorrow. Nesta knew with certainty that she’d find all of Rhysand’s closest inside, all of those who had judged her harshest, and as she waited on that elaborate front step, she could only imagine why the room beyond the door had turned still. 

It was like Solstice Eve all over again, when they hadn’t wanted her there, not really, and she’d stepped into a room so thick with tension it had been almost unbearable. And what if Feyre hadn’t really expected her to accept this invitation? What if she’d only asked as a courtesy, and now that she was here and couldn’t turn back, what if Nesta walked into that room and was met with falling smiles and downturned eyes, just as she had last time? What if this was the wrong decision, and she wasn’t ready to be back in Velaris at all? What if the home she’d been searching for all these years was just a myth, a dream she’d never be able to hold in her own hands?

She had just about convinced herself to turn back around when the lock clicked open.

The door was pulled open, and suddenly Feyre was standing there, colour in her cheeks and a glint in her eyes, her parted lips splitting to reveal a wide, bright smile that was a world away from the welcome Nesta had received that fateful Solstice night. 

She had expected an awkward and stilted hello, but instead…

Instead Feyre lurched forwards, gripping her by the shoulders and pulling her into a fierce hug as she said, almost breathless, “I’m so glad you came.”

There was some kind of silent apology contained within that hug, some semblance of regret and understanding, and it took Nesta a moment - one where she did nothing but blink in surprise - but eventually she gathered herself enough to cross an arm across Feyre’s back, returning the embrace she hadn’t expected. 

“I…” Feyre pulled back, her smile turning soft as she glanced over her shoulder to the hallway behind her and the sitting room beyond. “I didn’t tell anybody you were coming just in case you changed your mind, but…” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she repeated.

Nesta offered her a weak smile, and didn’t look up to the stairs, to the portraits lining the walls. She didn’t want to know yet— didn’t want to see if her sister had missed her at all.

Instead she followed silently as Feyre ushered her inside, letting her sister take her suitcase and place it at the foot of the stairs. It wasn’t lost on Nesta that everything seemed to still the moment that Feyre led her through the sitting room door— that the conversation died, a hush settling over the room that was broken only by a glass being placed down on a table a little too hard.

She almost winced, and for an agonising moment time seemed to slow, but then Elain was rushing her, a high-pitched gasp slipping from her painted-pink lips as she hurtled forwards in a whisper of silk and rose-scented perfume. She grabbed hold of both of Nesta’s hands and pulled away just enough to take her sister in, holding her at arms length to study her from head to toe. When she spoke, her words were hurried, her tongue tripping over itself as her eyes danced. 

“Nesta— I didn’t know you were coming, nobody said anything and— oh, I can’t believe you’re here! You look well— are you well? Truly? You said you were in your letters, and Lucien said you seemed it, but still—”

“Let her breathe, Elain.”

Her sister stopped to take a breath as Lucien placed a hand on her shoulder, a gentle smile curving his lips as Elain lifted a hand to cover her mouth, fingers curling against her lips. Nesta smiled— at the casual intimacy, the affection, the way Lucien’s russet eye sparked as his hand lingered over the fabric of Elain’s dress. 

In his other hand, he held a cut-crystal wine glass, refracting the light and making it dance across his bronzed skin. With a single raised brow, he held it out and pressed it into Nesta’s waiting fingers. 

“It’s not as good as that bar downtown,” he whispered conspiratorially. “But we’ll take what we can get.”

He winked, his golden eye shining in the late afternoon sun, the honeyed light that spilled in through the wide windows. Nesta gave him a small smile. Sometimes she ran into him in a small wine bar in downtown Vallahan, when he was in her city on business. Sometimes, they shared a drink together.

Sometimes they shared several.

He pressed a kiss to Elain’s hair now, bringing a flush to her sister’s cheeks as she swatted at the hand he still had resting on her shoulder. Nesta’s heart twisted. At least Elain was happy, she mused as she sipped her wine, tasting the richness on her tongue, the smoothness of the vintage, and willing it to serve as some kind of distraction. And would anybody have guessed, she thought dryly, that it would be Elain and Lucien to work things out first? To find happiness in one another against all odds, whilst Nesta and Cassian were…

Well.

There was no Nesta and Cassian.

Not anymore.

With Elain and Lucien at her side, Azriel was the next to offer her a soft hello, Nesta. His scarred hand patted her once on the shoulder, and though his face was expressionless, those shadows of his twined about his neck, and the look he gave her said he recognised the falsity of her facade and saw through it as easily as anything. But he said nothing, merely slipped past her as Rhys gave her brisk nod and a tight smile, as if he was at least trying to be civil. Feyre’s doing, Nesta suspected. And perhaps the distance had done them all some good, she thought wryly, because soon Amren was approaching her with a glint in her eye, slender fingers toying with a sapphire as large as duck egg hanging from a chain at her neck. Her raven-dark hair shone as she tilted her head, and when she said, it’s good to have you back, Nesta half thought her words were genuine. Even Mor made some degree of effort, her bracelets clinking as she too rose to greet her.

But he was the last.

Cassian.

She hadn’t let herself so much as think his name for the past three years, hadn’t let her mind stray so far, and there was no escaping it now, no escaping him, or the way her chest suddenly felt unbearably tight, like it was bursting with all the things she did and did not want to say, all of the things she’d regretted in the time they’d been apart. She had needed to leave— for her own good, she had needed to walk away three years ago. But gods, it had broken her— had taken her away from something that could have been beautiful. 

She blinked as he rose from his chair, pretending not to notice the way her sisters suddenly found somewhere else to be— Elain tugging on Lucien’s hand and whispering something about fetching another bottle of wine from the kitchen, and Feyre clearing her throat and saying she’d better take Nesta’s things upstairs to her room. All of it faded into insignificance as she felt the press of his gaze on her skin, his lips parting in something like surprise— something like agony. 

She’d had the entire journey across the sea to think of what she was going to say when she saw him again, and still she came up empty. The words in her throat dried up, slipped through her fingers like mist, and standing there entirely alone as he approached…

It was a harsher kind of torture than anything even Azriel could inflict. 

And gods— he hadn’t changed. He was still Cassian, with hair a mess of waves falling to his shoulders, his left ear still pierced with a single garnet. His hazel eyes were still that depthless swell of gold and green and brown, and when he stepped closer, his familiar scent engulfed her, soothing in a way it had no right to be.

Her mouth went dry, and this— this was the reason her life on the continent always felt just a shade shy of complete. It didn’t matter who she took to bed or how many fine things she owned. Nothing mattered, because nobody else had ever looked at her the way he had.

Unbidden her mind went right back to that battlefield. She hadn’t thought of it in years - actively tried hard to avoid thinking of it most days - but there she was, dragged right back again as those eyes widened, dark eyelashes framing a hazel that was fraught with the same kind of pain they’d held when he lay dying beneath her, her hands trying to staunch his bleeding as he promised to find her in the next life. Her heart lurched and something like regret swarmed thick in her gut. Not regret for leaving but rather… regret for what could have been. A grief for the love Nesta had almost touched, the devotion she’d brushed with her fingertips just before it had slipped from her hands.

Cassian cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair, making his messy strands even messier. Nesta’s heart thumped once in her chest, and even though she cursed the damn thing, she didn’t move away, didn’t turn from him.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he began at last, his voice hoarse. 

Nesta shrugged. Swallowed. “I’m here for Elain.”

His eyes shuttered. “Of course you are.”

Because she couldn’t be here for him. She wouldn’t go down that road again. Couldn’t. 

Stay, he’d asked, as the salt-air breeze carried off the sea shifted his dark hair across his forehead, as that same garnet earring winked in the sunlight. He’d held out a hand, then. Fingers outstretched, a silent plea.

I can’t, she’d answered, and the guilt had almost destroyed her, had broken her heart so thoroughly there could never be any hope of making it whole again. She had wanted to stay— more than anything she had wanted to stay, but there had been no place for her here back then, and nothing but grief and sorrow waiting for her. 

“Well then,” Cassian said briskly now, drawing back an inch. It was over— the conversation, whatever had lingered between them. It was over, dead and buried and beyond repair, and though Nesta hadn’t expected him to welcome her warmly… something inside her wilted, withered, when he refused to meet her eyes. “I suppose it’s nice to see you again, Nesta.”

Nesta.

His voice was flat— detached, like he couldn’t wait for this to be over, and gods— he’d never called her Nesta. It was always Nes, or sweetheart, or princess. It hurt. More than it should and more than she expected, and the cracks in her heart she’d papered over suddenly felt like deathless chasms, too wide to bridge and too deep to fill. 

And maybe she should have opened her mouth— maybe she should have begged him to understand. Maybe she should have raged, screamed, asked him why he thought she’d left in the first place. But her mind was blank, and before she could so much as ask how he’d been, Elain was reappearing, bottle in hand and smile on her face.

Cassian took another step back, his face as empty and as cold as the space in Nesta’s chest, and she could do nothing but let herself be dragged over to the sofa by the windows, so far away from the warrior who turned and clung to the shadows now, as if hoping they might hide him, might save him. Azriel handed Cassian another drink, one he knocked back as his fingers gripped the glass so tight his knuckles were white, and still Nesta said nothing, forcing herself to focus on Elain’s excited chatter as she lowered herself to the cushions. When Lucien joined them, she spoke at length about her life on the continent, about her apartment and her work, infusing her voice with a joviality she didn’t feel, an optimism that escaped her, and a lack of regret that was so false it made her throat feel tight.

And all the while she ignored the pulling in her chest that begged her to turn around, that pleaded with her to find the warrior on the other side of the room.

Because if the look on his face had made anything clear as they spoke, it was that Cassian did not want Nesta to find him. Not now— not ever again. 

***

She managed to ignore him throughout dinner.

Feyre had placed her at the other end of the expansive mahogany table, between her and Elain, like it might shield her somehow. Or shield him, she wasn’t sure. Either way, Lucien sat across from her, and over a candlelit meal of roasted chicken, Nesta kept her attention far from that other end, never daring to so much as turn her head more than an inch to the side. And it might have worked, might have helped her forget just a little bit of the anguish still swarming in her gut, had it not been all too easy— had there been anything but silence from the seat he’d taken.

He was quiet, subdued, and even though Nesta had spent the entire journey across the sea dreading the sound of his booming laugh, she found its absence to be a pain all of its own.

Because she was the reason he didn’t laugh— the reason he’d switched to whiskey from wine and drank deeply from his glass, like mixing his spirits might help, somehow. 

And when dinner was over and they returned once more to the large sitting room at the front of the house, Rhys pulled out another expensive bottle of wine and uncorked it. But with so many people inside the air grew quickly stuffy, and she wanted nothing more than fresh air. So she made her excuses and got to her feet, murmuring a quick I’ll be right back to Elain as she slipped through the doorway and headed for the back door in the kitchen.

But stepping outside, Nesta found Cassian already standing half in darkness, right beside her sister’s wrought-iron patio set, as though he was too restless, too agitated to sit. There was a fresh glass in his hand as he looked out towards the river, and his face was lined with something like grief, the moonlight drifting across his thinly pressed lips, and he didn’t turn to look at her. Like he couldn’t bear it. 

Nesta stilled, the silence growing thick, awkward.

“I’ll leave you—” she began, at the same time as he said, 

“I’ll go—”

The words died, leaving behind a thick silence, stretching between them uncomfortable and unwieldy. Never before had she been speechless around him, but now…

What was there to say?

She lingered for a moment before turning on her heel. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said again, finishing her sentence this time. She cleared her throat, taking a deep breath of the cool night air, biting her lip as she faced the house, the windows glowing with the warm, golden faelight from inside.

She heard the sigh Cassian let loose, felt in it every piece of his agony. He didn’t answer, didn’t say a word, and yet even though Nesta turned back to the house, her steps were slow— like some part of her was wondering if he would stop her.

Her hand had just closed around the door handle when he spoke. 

“Did you—” He started, running a hand through his hair. “Did you find someone?”

His voice was strained, almost cracking, and even in the darkness Nesta could see that he gripped his glass so tightly it was a wonder it didn’t break beneath his fingers. He didn’t look at her, kept his eyes forward, out to where the moon gilded the river silver.

After a minute Nesta shook her head. “No.”

The silence stretched, and she found herself stepping forward, taking in the cut of his jaw, the way it was clenched tight, as if he’d been hoping her answer would mean something.

“Did you?” she asked.

Cassian let out a bitter laugh.

“No, sweetheart.”

The old nickname fell from his lips easily, but it wasn’t the same as before. Years ago, it had been said with a kind of teasing, a kind of flirting that always accompanied a glint in his hazel eyes, but this…

This was almost mournful.

“Not after you,” he added a moment later. He looked at her, and maybe it was the wine she’d had, or the whiskey he was drinking, but he swallowed and Nesta could swear that she saw him steel himself. “How could there ever be anybody after you?”

“We weren’t anything,” Nesta said, but her heart thumped against her ribcage and she knew that her words were false.

Cassian only shrugged. “We never got a chance.”

She might have asked him whose fault he thought that was— demanded of him why he thought she’d left in the first place. After all, he’d pulled away from her long before she boarded that boat. He’d been the one to wrench his wrist from her grip during the war, the one to gift another woman lingerie at Solstice. But in three years she’d never quite managed to silence that small, small voice in the back of her mind, the one that whispered, quiet in the dark, what if? 

What if she had stayed? What if he had taken her hand that day during the war, what if he’d stayed by her side on Solstice? 

What if?

Nesta looked down at her hands now and somehow found the strength to ask, almost hesitantly, “And if we did?”

“If we did what?”

“Got a chance?”

Cassian shook his head ruefully. “Could’ve, would’ve, should’ve, Nes. What’s the point in going over all this again?”

His voice was low, pained. Grief shone in those hazel eyes, heartbreak written all over that beautiful face. Nesta had forced herself to forget, over the past three years, the way he’d looked when she boarded that ship for the continent. She’d refused to remember the way he’d begged her to stay.

Is training with me such a terrible option? he’d asked, his hand fisting over his heart as his eyes widened, begging her to reconsider. Is it so awful that you’d walk away from me— from us?

There is no us, she’d said, and her voice had been cold because it had needed to be. Her back had been straight and her shoulders back because she’d needed to get on that ship, needed to spend some time away.

It had never been that training with Cassian was the problem with the options Rhysand had given her. It was that he’d dared to give her options at all, to think he had a right to interfere.

And— her heart had broken because how could Cassian not see it? He’d chosen Rhys over her the moment he’d expected her to bend to Rhys’ demands, the moment he’d stayed his tongue and let Rhys lecture her like she was some kind of… delinquent. Cassian had fetched her from her apartment to the River House, knowing all along the ultimatum she was to receive, and as Rhys had laid out her options - as if the choice was anything more than illusory - her heart had cracked because Cassian hadn’t said a word in her defence.

She’d been angry— heartbroken and angry, and that day at the docks…

There is no us.

No lie haunted her like that one.

Cassian sighed now, tipping his head back. He drained the last of his whiskey and set the glass down on the table, eyes sliding to her slowly, as if he were afraid to look at her for too long, afraid she’d melt away into the darkness, like she’d never been here at all. 

“I don’t know,” Nesta whispered at last, shaking her head. “I don’t know why I even…”

“What?” Cassian said sharply. “Why you came back? Or why you came out here?”

Weary, she sighed. “What do you want from me, Cassian?”

“Nothing,” he countered, but she didn’t think she imagined the bitterness in his voice. “I never wanted anything from you, Nes.”

I have no regrets in my life but this— that we did not have time.

Her words tuned to ash in her mouth, and Nesta felt her heart breaking all over again, the wound she’d thought years healed suddenly rupturing, tearing back open with the kind of brutal force that once had her seeking solace at the bottom of a bottle.

“I couldn’t stay,” she whispered. “You know I couldn’t stay.”

She expected him to argue, to fight back, but Cassian… 

He dipped his head, lips tugging downwards. Sorrow limned his face, the same kind of heartbreak that ravaged her own chest playing out on every beautiful plane of him, every line of him she’d tried so hard to forget these past three years.

“Tell me you’re happy,” he murmured. “Give me that, at least.”

“Does it matter?” she countered, because despite how much she so desperately wanted to tell him that yes, yes, she was happy… she couldn’t make herself speak the words, couldn’t lie to him now, because as much as she liked her life on the continent, there was too much missing for her to truly feel… happy.

He turned to face her fully now, his eyes seeming to burn beneath the starlight. “Of course it matters. It’s all that I ever—“ He hissed, cutting himself off. He shook his head, and found the strength to finish, “It’s all that I ever wanted.”

Nesta looked out to the river. Thought of her apartment, overlooking a different river, in a different city.

“I have a fancy apartment now,” she said softly. “Right over the river in Vallahan. You’d…” She faltered, but when she looked at his face, the eyes that hadn’t yet left hers, she continued, “I think you’d like it. It’s better than my last one.”

He huffed a sardonic sort of laugh, blinking slowly.

“I have a cat too,” she added.

“A cat?” he asked, eyebrows rising.

“Mhm.” She smiled a little. “I called him Tristan.” She swallowed again. “Maybe you could…”

She fell into silence, and Cassian’s brows furrowed. 

“Maybe I could what?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Nesta said, shaking her head. Stupid— stupid to think it, to even suggest it—

Cassian stepped closer, raw emotion on his face that Nesta didn’t dare name. It looked… it looked like hope, and damn if that didn’t break her heart all over again. He shook his head again.

“No,” he whispered. “Tell me. Maybe I could what?”

“Maybe you could come visit sometime,” Nesta said, in a voice so low she could barely hear it herself. She didn’t miss the hiss of breath that slipped through Cassian’s teeth though. Didn’t miss the way he stilled.

“I’m surprised you’d want me to,” he countered.

“I always wanted you to,” Nesta said, letting her eyes drift closed for just a moment. “I always… wanted you.”

Maybe it was the time away. Maybe it was the distance she’d had for so long. She didn’t know what it was, but it was easier, somehow, to speak honestly to him now. Maybe it was the space she’d needed to deal with her pain, the time she’d needed to grieve and to heal. It felt easier now, to tell him what she wanted. Far easier than it had been that day on the docks three years ago.

Slowly, Cassian lifted a hand. He brushed his knuckles across the back of her cheek, a slow, fragile smile curving the corners of his lips. It was the first time he’d touched her in three years and— oh fucking gods, how she had missed that gentle brush of his hand across her cheekbone. 

“I’d drop everything to come see you,” he said gently. Quietly. “Just tell me when.”

Nesta turned her face into his palm, her lips brushing the top of his wrist. Her eyes had snapped to his this moment he’d reached for her, their gazes locked, and she was unable to look away now, to see anything but him. 

“I’d like that.”

Her eyes searched his— looking for something, some answer she’d been seeking all this time, and though neither of them moved, neither said a word, volumes were spoken with the way neither took a step back. Cassian’s beautiful face looked like he’d shatter if she so much as turned her face away, and Nesta felt her heart steady in her chest as that hollow place inside her suddenly began to warm, to feel less like a void and more like a place where comfort might be harboured.

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly feeling dry, and Cassian tracked the movement, his gaze breaking, dipping to her throat as it bobbed.

“I’m so sorry, Nes,” he said, so softly it was like he was afraid his voice would break. His hand fell away from her face, and Nesta suddenly felt cold. “For all of it. The moment you got on that godsdamned ship I knew that I should have done more—  that I should never have let Rhys order you about like that and—“

She stopped him with a palm of her own against his cheek. “I forgave you a long time ago,” she murmured.

His eyes slid closed, and she might have whispered his name, or he might have whispered hers, but without thinking her thumb brushed across his cheekbone, her palm lying flat on his cheek, and his eyes fluttered closed for a moment before he turned his face into her palm the way she had just done with his. 

“I missed you,” he whispered, like it was a confession— like something he’d kept inside for so long that it hurt, now, to let it out. “More than anything, I missed you. So much I—”

He cut himself off, lowering his brow until it was barely an inch from hers, but Nesta shook her head, dared to raise his face to hers. “What?”

His eyes opened, burning. “So much I almost went to the continent myself to beg you to come back— to come back to me.”

She didn’t say anything. What was there to say? That there had been nights where she’d dreamed of him doing just that? That every morning she woke and hoped she’d find him waiting at her door? That even now, every time she walked by the docks in Vallahan she scanned the boats coming into port, just in case he’d be stepping off the deck of one of them? She couldn’t find the words, and as his breath whispered across the skin at her wrist, she shivered. Every single nerve in her body felt alive then, more than it had in three entire years.

“I missed you too,” she confessed.

Cassian dared to lower his chin, to press a kiss to the soft skin of her palm— then another to her wrist, his hand rising until it covered hers, his warmth sinking into her bones as he kept her touch pressed to his cheek, like he couldn’t bear the thought of her pulling away just yet. As his fingers slipped through the gaps between her knuckles, he let out a rueful laugh.

“Why are we doing this, princess?”

“Doing what?” she asked, trying not to think of how his lips brushed the heel of her hand when he spoke.

“Dancing around it,” he said, letting her hand drop and pulling away just enough to look her in the eyes. She mourned the loss of that touch, but not for long— his hand slid to her waist, his palm settling at the curve of her ribs. “Ignoring the fact that the past three years have been hell for the both of us.”

“I didn’t say it had been hell,” Nesta muttered tartly, and Cassian let out a bitter huff of a laugh as his hand rounded her waist, falling to the small of her back as he pulled her that last inch closer.

No, it hadn’t been hell. Not for the most part. And yet…

With his other hand Cassian traced her jaw, moving over her cheekbone and up to the curve of her ear, where he tucked back an errant piece of hair that had escaped her braid. His touch was soft— slow and reverential, but his hand fisted in her dress at her back. She braced her palm on his chest and he dipped his head, bringing his brow to rest, at last, against hers.

“I’m not letting you go this time,” he murmured. “Not without a fight.”

Her heart skipped— stumbled, and it suddenly felt like there was no air in this entire city, like she couldn’t breathe at all. It was all she’d ever wanted, she supposed. For him to fight for her the way he’d promised he would on that battlefield. 

She smiled as his nose nudged against her cheek, her palm sliding across his chest, feeling the muscles covered by that thin shirt that did nothing to hide the definition beneath. Gods, how had she walked away from this— from him? How had she survived without this, the feel of him beneath her hands, of his warmth encompassing her as he held her so close to his chest that she wasn’t sure where she began and he ended? 

Wandering, her fingers traced a path over his collarbone until her arm wrapped around his neck, her fingertips just barely brushing the edges of his wings. He hissed, both hands resting on her waist now, gripping her tight.

And there was nothing left to say - she couldn’t make her mind form sentences anyway - so Nesta tilted her head back, and when Cassian opened his eyes… 

She was left stunned, for a minute, by the raw emotion in the hazel, the way he looked at her like he saw every part and piece of her and wanted it all. He looked like he was holding himself back and Nesta…

Nesta didn’t want that at all.

So she rose onto her tiptoes and hauled his face to hers, crashing into him like a wave breaking against the shore. His lips met hers, rose to the silent challenge she issued, and gods, his kiss wasn’t soft or gentle— it was three whole years of longing and missed opportunity. It was everything she’d ever lost, every piece of him she’d given up, contained in the swell of his lips against hers— every time she’d stopped herself before she could remember the sound of his laugh or the way he called her sweetheart, every time she woke from dreaming with his name dancing on her tongue, like she wanted nothing more than to speak it aloud. Every ounce of anguish and every kernel of heartache was healed by that kiss, by the way he claimed her so thoroughly she wondered if his name had been scarred across her heart all this time.

He moved against her, so perfectly in sync it was like he was made for her. His hands stroked her waist, brushed her ribs, and as her hands delved into his hair, she felt every inch of him flush against every inch of her, and oh gods— the taste of him eclipsed anything and everything she’d ever known.

She’d had lovers over the past three years but none of them— none of them compared to this, to him, to the way his hands skated across her middle, down to her hips to bring her closer, eliminating any remaining space between them as his thigh pressed against hers, as his hands roamed, as she tasted him on her tongue, all lips and teeth and heat, precious, precious heat, warming that hollow space inside she’d felt for so long.

She might have moaned into him, might have let herself lean into his touch and melt in his arms— he might have moaned her name too, whispered it as he crashed against her, but she could barely hear, barely think, barely knew anything beyond what he was doing to her.

Only when her chest grew tight from the lack of air did she pull away, and even then— she twisted her head to the side, her cheek pressed against his lips as she drew air into her lungs, her chest heaving.

He’d stolen everything, every breath she’d had, and she clawed them back now, trying desperately to bring herself back from the edge of the brink—

But she looked at him, and those hazel eyes had her falling all over again, reaching back and framing his face with her hands, pressing her palms into his cheeks as she brought him back to her for another soul-searing kiss.

Gods— there was nothing sweeter than this, than him, than the way he breathed her name as he backed her up against the wall.

With a thumb beneath her chin he tilted her head back, deepening the kiss until Nesta wasn’t sure which way was up. Distantly she was aware of her hands falling from his face and landing on his shoulders, scrabbling at the fabric of his shirt as she all but clawed at him, so desperate for every last inch of him, like she’d been starving for three whole years. 

Cassian was a warm weight against her, moving a hand to the small of her back to keep her from pressing uncomfortably into the brickwork, and just that - that small, simple gesture - had her heart squeezing in her chest to the point of pain because…

She loved him. 

Oh gods, she loved him.

It was what she’d been running from ever since that day on the docks, what she’d known the moment she’d left, and all the time she’d been away hadn’t changed a thing. Hadn’t dulled the spark he’d ignited, the one that couldn’t be extinguished, no matter how hard she tried. 

Three years— and it hadn’t changed a thing.

He was still the only one that made her feel like her head was over her heels.

He was home— she knew that, felt it when he took her into his arms at last. He was everything she’d been missing, everything she’d been chasing. It was right here, all along, and no wonder she’d never found it on the Continent, no wonder there had always been an empty space in her chest, right where her heart should be. He’d held it all along, all this time.

Still, Cassian wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her as though he was afraid that if he let her go, she’d leave again.

But Nesta wasn’t going anywhere— not this time. She’d figure things out— find a way to keep her apartment on the Continent, to keep the parts of her life that had healed those deep, deep wounds she’d been dealt by the Cauldron and the war and everything else that had sent her running from these shores three years ago.

She’d do whatever it took, because she didn’t think she could go back to being without him— without this.

Breathing hard, she tangled her fingers in Cassian’s shirt, pushing closer and rising on her tiptoes so the crown of her head nudged his chin. Oh, he reminded her of magic— of all the stories she’d wanted to be true when she was a girl. Of knights and princesses and wondrous, marvellous beauty. Of a love so great the world turned vapid in its wake, one that redefined the heavens and stars above and made life itself worth living. She’d forgotten what it felt like when he held her, forgotten what his touch did to her, but beneath that Night Court sky, suddenly she remembered. And…

Home.

In his arms, she found home at last. 

So as the moon shone silver on the river and laughter echoed from inside the house, Nesta let Cassian kiss her again, let herself be lost in every inch of him. And when he tilted her chin up towards the sky, Nesta looked into those hazel eyes and let him remind her what it was to be loved, to be held, to be cherished— 

To be home.