#reading prompts more carefully next ti e

[mythical-illustrator]

Posting this as its own thing because I absolutely misread @freesia-writes prompt for Howzer.

So that's my bad.

Art master list

But I'm also kind of proud of how these came out especially echo, and it was my first time drawing Howzer and Fives.

I gave him a smolder because it felt like he deserves that.

Crosshairs sheepish expression is fake don't believe him 😆

[iliveiloveiwrite]

Hiii Hii!!! May I request for Draco🥺

Fluff prompt 3: "It's you. It's always been you."

Steams scenes 6: "Touch Me"

And miscellaneous 12: only one bed AU

Thank youuu❣️

Travelling Companions  // Draco Malfoy

a/n: NSFW - minors DNI. FEMALE READER. 2k words (not really a blurb anymore), and the fic that has inspired my latest series so pieces of this will be taken and used there that’s why this may feel very rushed. The series will be slower. 

Fluff 3: “It’s you. It’s always been you.”

Steamy Scenes 6: “Touch me.”

Misc 12: only one bed.

Upon the end of the Second Wizarding War and the disgrace of his family, Draco Malfoy left the country. There was very little keeping him tied to England; a family torn apart by their beliefs, a cold house that was not a home, an inheritance built off the very hatred pedalled by his father.

No, Draco Malfoy did not want to stay in the country.

Similarly, you refused to stay at home too. Having seen the lifeless bodies of your friends, the nightmares had become too much for you to remain at home. Instead, you packed up your things, kissed your parents on the cheeks, promising to send them a postcard from every destination.

It’s in Italy where the two of you cross paths.

The night was unusually warm; sweat rolling down your back as you walked through the thick crowds on the Ponte Vecchio. You had no distinct aim of your night; happy to wander until the early hours of the morning, falling into your bed with very little to think about other than your plans for the following day.

It’s as your dodging multiple bodies that you spy a shock of blonde hair that you swear was familiar.

“Draco?” You call, watching the tall figure pause, “Draco Malfoy?”

The blonde turns at the sound of your voice.

“Of all the people to meet in Florence,” You smile, “What are you doing here?”

“An extended gap year as the muggles would call it,” He answers, looking mildly uncomfortable at being recognised abroad.

“Well,” You nod, “It was nice to see you, enjoy the rest of your travels.”

Draco nods, a small, polite smile on his face. He doesn’t say anything to which you turn away, continuing your journey across the bridge in the hopes of finding something to eat and soon.

“(Y/N)!” Draco calls after a moment.

You turn back to the man, finding him only a few steps behind you. His eyes are bright, cheeks flushed as he asks, “What are your plans for tonight?”

“I was going to get some food and then walk about aimlessly. Why?”

“Can I join you?” He asks; the words leaving his mouth in such a rush that Draco looks shocked at the speed. “What I mean to say is: would you like some company? It would be nice to catch up with a friendly face.”

“Of course,” You laugh, “You’re more than welcome to join me.”

Draco falls into step beside you as you wander the length of the bridge, both eagerly looking for a restaurant to catch up in.

Conversation flows naturally with the blonde, as does the laughter and the wine. You reminisce over the lighter days of your education, as well as sharing countless stories of your travels, finding yourself enjoying Draco’s company far more than you expected.

“Where are you going to next?” Draco asks, grey eyes inquisitive as he sips at his red wine.

“Greece,” You answers, “I’m island hopping for a little while. I’ve heard stories of an island that feels like the end of the world, and I want to check it out. Where are you off to next?”

“Greece, if you can believe it,” He answers, topping up your wine glasses with the dregs of the bottle.

“I’ve a proposition for you, Malfoy,” You announce over your refreshed glass of red wine. “I’ve grown tired of travelling alone, I miss conversation and company. We’re both travelling to Greece next – why don’t you join me?”

Draco ponders your proposition through his next bite of food, weighing up the pros and cons through a mouthful of Tagliatelle Funghi Porcini e Tartufo. “Alright,” He eventually says, wiping his mouth on a cloth napkin, “I’ll join you. I’ve grown lonely on my travels too.”

Your shoulders sag as Draco’s words wash over you. It had become lonely travelling alone, that much was true, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were meant to run into Draco tonight. That there was something bigger at play.

-------

The Ionian Islands were beautiful; travelling with Draco at your side made it easier for you to rest at night, no longer plagued by nightmares as often, but it gave you someone to talk to when the night had been bad.

Kefalonia held its own charm; its quiet punctuated only by the clinking of wine glasses on the wine tours shared with Draco.

Your time on the Ionian Islands had you seeing Draco in a different light; the sun had bronzed his skin and you couldn’t help but stare when his shirt came off at the beach. Something was changing between the two of you; the both of you lingering on a night, not wanting to be the one to say good night, not wanting to be the one to draw it all to a close.

You could only hope that things would change soon.

---------

“Are we staying in the port?” Draco asks, eyeing you carefully as you hold your hand out for a taxi. Wearing black slacks and a white t-shirt, Draco was unintentionally drawing the attention of most women and men in the port of Skiathos

“Nope,” You answer as the taxi pulls up beside you both, “We’re staying in Troulos.”

The hotel was a small, family run establishment that you had read about in one of the many travel guides bought before you left England. Draco leaves you to check in, letting you admire the scenery as you wait patiently for him to return.

The owner is the one to lead you both through the hotel, smiling politely at you as he leaves you outside your room, explaining the opening times for the bar and the pool.

“There’s only one bed, Draco,” You state obviously as you enter the room, pointing to the bed in offence.

“I noticed,” He deadpans, fixing you with an unimpressed look. “Look, I’m not sleeping on the tiled floor. So, we either share, or you sleep on the floor.”

“Ever the gentleman,” You drawl, arching a single eyebrow. Draco smirks as he bows; the motion executed perfectly, highlighting his very expensive etiquette lessons as a small boy. “Fine,” You huff, dropping your bag onto the bed, “We share, but I’m warning you now, Malfoy, I hog the blankets.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” The blonde snorts, wandering to the bathroom where you hear the shower begin to flow.

Settling down on the bed, you press a hand to your forehead, already sticky with sweat. Your stomach turned with butterflies as you think of the night to come, sharing a bed with Draco. The feelings for the man had surprised you; you hadn’t expected to feel anything for him, simply happy to have company on the last leg of your travels, but here you were – craving his touch and his attention as if it were your lifeline.

The shower turns off, and you jump up, grabbing your toiletries in an effort to give you something to do to draw your mind from the sight of Draco in a towel.

“I’m going to shower and get ready, and then we’ll go get some food, okay?” You call out, pushing past the blonde as he leaves the bathroom in nothing, but a small, fluffy, white towel wrapped around his waist.

“I’ll be waiting!” Draco calls out, laughter rich in his voice.

As you sink against the bathroom door, it’s then that you realise, you’re fucked.

-------

It became a quick tradition on your travels with Draco that you would alternate who would pick the restaurant that evening. As you chose where to eat the previous night, it was now Draco’s turn.

The restaurant he chooses is quaint, set off just from the main road running through that part of the island. It’s fairly busy, many families laughing and drinking through the evening.

The waitress hands you the menus, her eyes lingering on Draco a little bit too long for you to feel comfortable. You smile politely as you give her your drink orders, immediately feeling awful for the curtness of your tone when you had no claim to the man sat next to you.

Food is ordered and conversation continues to flow, but you find yourself caught up in the way that Draco makes you feel. Every glance, every smile, every unintentional touch – it leaves you close to breathless with butterflies raging in your gut and your heart close to pounding out of your chest. You had never felt like this, and your poor heart could only hope that Draco felt the same.

When the food arrives, it doesn’t take long for you to gush over the meal. “You have to try this!” You cry out as you take your first bite of your meal, gathering another forkful for Draco. “It’s wonderful!”

Holding your fork out, you expect Draco to take the utensil from you, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans in, his lips wrapping around the fork in a manner that leaves you hungry for something that certainly wasn’t food.

“What do you think?” You ask huskily, throat dry.

Draco chews, pondering over the food. A smirk gathers on his lips as he swallows, “Delectable.”

The both of you fall silent as your meals are finished; the only sound between you being the scraping of cutlery on plates, but you cannot help but wonder whether Draco can hear the pounding of your heart every time he smiles at you, or whether he can sense the change in your feelings as you yearn for him silently.

“You were jealous – of the waitress – weren’t you?” Draco’s voice sounds, breaking your reverie. Blinking, you find him watching you with a curious look on his face.

“Yes,” You confess in a single breath, shifting your gaze from Draco’s, fiddling with the napkin in front of you.

“There was no need.”

“Oh?”

“It’s you,” He breathes, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear, “It’s always been you.”

“Take me back to the room, Draco,” You whisper, leaning into his touch.

Draco wastes no time paying the bill, whisking you from the restaurant and down the road to your hotel.

The door slams against the wall as you both fall into the room; hands pulling at clothing, lips attached save for the breathy laughter filling the room. He tastes of the anise instilled into the Ouzo shared at dinner; his lips fit seamlessly against yours as he backs you through to the bedroom, his hands wandering – memorising every dip and curve of your body.

Draco lays you out on the bed gently as if worried of hurting you in some form or another.  

“What do you want?” Draco asks, grey eyes bright in the muted light of the room.

“You,” You state, sitting up on the bed, pressing your hands to the man’s bare chest, scraping your fingernails down his pale skin.  

Draco shivers at your touch, barely repressing the low groan growing in the back of his throat. “Where do you want me?” He hums, not giving you the time to answer the question as he begins his onslaught of addictive kisses.

“Here?” He purrs, kissing your jaw. “Or here?” He asks, dropping a feather light kiss to your neck, pushing you back onto the bed. “What about here?” Draco teases, pressing blazing kiss after blazing kiss down the centre of your cleavage to the top of your underwear leaving you a wanton mess as you writhe underneath him.

“Darling,” He whispers, “What do you want from me?”

“Touch me,” You all but beg, reaching for the blonde’s hand, fitting it where you need him most.

It’s then that all self-control Draco had snaps; his hand slips into your underwear, fingers slipping through your slick folds. The gasp that leaves your mouth is swallowed by Draco’s lips, his teeth tugging on your bottom lip as he wrings every single ounce of pleasure from your body.

No nightmares are had that night; finding peace in each other as you sleep wrapped up together in the one bed.

[rosy-cheekx]

I Want To Be A Real Fake

@kaiserkorresponds said: Black and White + "I want to be a real fake" + formal clothing <3

Prompted fic that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since I received it! Hope you like it, Kaiser!

-

Jon would not consider himself fashionable. He has a distinct sense of style, yes, but that style lately has been Tired-Academic-Works-in-a-Cold-Office,-Steals-Sweaters-When-Necessary-core. Not exactly suitable for the business casual dress code The Magnus Institute “requires” (no one seemed to pay attention to the Archive staff’s choices of attire), but certainly not suitable for the small rectangle of cardstock Elias Bouchard hands him, on a quiet spring morning in the Archive.

“What’s…what’s this?” Jon asked, staring at the neat, printed text as if it was Greek. (If it were Greek, at least, he could decipher parts of it. He was an English Lit student, after all, and he had really enjoyed etymology.) The card was a stiff black and white, with the black owl logo, the symbol of the Magnus Institute, printed in the top middle. Glancing down at it, he saw a date, and the words: “black-tie.” Shit.

“My apologies, I forgot how tired your position tends to leave you.” Elias’s voice was prim and polite, but Jon still winced inwardly. “As a head of a department, you are now strongly encouraged to attend the fundraiser I host in April each year. Our donors are fascinated by our departments, and especially the Archives. Gertrude’s disappearance has raised questions as to her successor, and I trust you can assuage the concerns of our donors at your accomplishments in the position.” Jon chose to believe that Elias’s keen eye didn’t sweep the mountains of paperwork that surrounded his desk as he surveyed the small, poorly lit office. “I’m certain you’ll be able to find appropriate attire for the occasion.”

He turned on a heel, halfway to the door before seemingly considering something. “Ah, and Jon, one more thing. Gertrude always requested she bring an assistant. Would you like to do the same? I am happy to accommodate one more for the catering count.”

Jon snapped his mouth shut, utterly dumbfounded by the responsibility just thrust upon him, and nodded mutely, before clearing his throat. “Ah-um, yes, I would appreciate that. Does it matter which one?”

“Someone who can make a pleasant impression, please.” Elias raised an eyebrow, nodded almost imperceptibly, like he had made a decision, and rapped his knuckles on the doorframe on the way out. “I trust your judgement.”

Jon counted to thirty, to be certain Elias wasn’t coming back, and slouched into his office chair, scanning the save-the-date again, without the immense pressure of Elias’s eyes on him.

“The Magnus Institute Fundraiser Gala,” it read below the embossed owl, within a thin black border. “23 April, 7-10 pm. Black tie. Catered.” Jon traced the owl with the pad of his finger, flipping the card over to see, in Elias’s thin cursive: Make a good impression, Jon.

God, this is going to suck.

-

“Sasha, come on.” Jon wasn’t one to beg, but desperate times and all that. He had cornered her in the breakroom, while Martin was on a research trip and Tim was getting takeaway from the chippie down the street. “It’s only three weeks away, and you’re the one I trust the most. Please.”

“Jon,” Sasha sighed, smoothing her skirt patiently. “I would if I could, I swear to you. But my sister’s wedding has been planned for months, I’ve already requested time off, and I can’t undo all that for a work party.”

“Fundraiser,” Jon corrected instinctively, even as he signed in resignation. “Fine. I just really didn’t want to go alone.”

Sasha scoffed, shaking her head to herself as she opened the fridge and pulled out her bagged lunch. “You have two other assistants you know. What about Tim? Or Martin?”

Jon wrinkled his nose at the thought of bringing nervous, rambling, doe-eyed Martin to the gala. “God no. Martin would be too much; I need someone who can handle themselves and hold a decent conversation. I need someone who can attend a black-tie gala and look more at-home than me.” A withering look from Sasha.

“So why not Tim, then? He can do all those things.”

“Do all what things?” Jon jumped and spun around to see Tim, carrying a grease-spotted bag in one hand and a paper soda cup in the other. He surveyed Tim in a moment: the button-up shirt, red and printed with tiny black balloons, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Sunglasses pushed to the top of his head, dark black hair artfully mussed. High cheekbones dotted with freckles, and what Jon swore could be the faintest bit of eyeliner.

“Tim, would you like to go to a fashionable, catered work party with me?”

“Boss,” Tim lowered himself to a knee and held out his soda solemnly. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Tim, that’s backwards. The kneeler isn’t the one who accepts,” Sasha chuckles helpfully.

“You’re just jealous of our love, Sash!”

Good Lord.

-

Jon was really hoping the food would be good. He was in Tim’s flat, in the toilet, checking himself in the mirror one final time. His hair was carefully braided, courtesy of Tim’s deft hands and coiled into a thick bun at the base of his skull, gold and emerald hairpin snugly in place. His suit was nice: a respectable white shirt, dotted with tiny lime-colored flowers he had to strain his eyes to see, under a dark green suit jacket and matching trousers. The suit itself was cut in a rather androgynous style, pulling tight at Jon’s waist in a way he rather liked, and contrasted beautifully, he thought, with the smooth brown of his skin. He flicked an invisible piece of lint from his thigh and, satisfied, stepped into the hall to tell Tim he was ready to go.

“Tim, I’m all-woah,” the exhale was accidental. Tim’s suit was certainly not subtle. He was wearing a deep blue turtleneck, hair perfectly coiffed. Over the turtleneck, the suit jacket was white, a spray of water-color flowers in all shades of blue and purple shifting with every movement. The navy blue heeled suede boots on his feet accentuated his already-tall frame “Tim, you look good,” Jon breathed.

“Ouch. No need to sound all surprised. I know I clean up well; I dirty pretty damn good too.” Tim chuckled and adjusted his sleeves. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Mr. ‘I don’t want anything too crazy.’”

Jon grinned shyly, rocking on his heels of his own, less intimidating dress shoes. “I like it, I think. It feels nice.” The excitement over how good he felt in the clothes had, all too briefly, suppressed the impending doom he was feeling about the evening’s events. “Are you ready for tonight?” he asked for what must have been the fiftieth time, spinning the solid black ring he wore around his finger.

“Yes, Jon. Talk about the reorganization process as a structural renovation, converting files to audio formatting for future accessibility, don’t talk about artefact storage even a little, don’t get caught up with anyone too pretty, I get it.” His voice was flat, bored by the repetition. “This is going to be fine.”

“What-what if it isn’t, though, Tim? What if they ask about Gertrude or how their money is being used, o-or how the restructuring is going? I can’t bloody well tell them I’m using a tape recorder that’s probably older than I am.”

“Jon,” Tim’s well-manicured hand was on his shoulder, nails the same blue of his turtleneck. “Take a deep breath. For Gertrude: be honest. It was a tragedy, and you hope she’s found, but until then you’re doing your best to act on her wishes as her replacement. And for the rest, be vague. Restructuring is going ‘as well as can be expected’ or ‘is running quite smoothly with the help of your three wonderful assistants.’” He winked. “And tell them you’re using a multimedia system, that’ll confuse those old boomers enough to move topics. And it is technically true. Laptops and a tape recorder are multiple medias. Anything else we can riff, you know? I can talk with the best of them.” He eyed Jon meaningfully. “This will be fine. It’s one night. And we’ll get chips after. Promise.”

Jon nodded and closed his eyes, breathing steadying. He was grateful Tim had been available. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

-

“So, how did you know what black tie meant?” Jon asked, eyeing Tim across the seat of the cab. They’re on their way now and Jon’s hands are steepled tightly, pressing his fingertips against each other until it hurts to do so. “I had to Google it last week when I went shopping, in case we had to wear literal black ties.” He needed to talk about anything, anything but this stupid fundraiser they drove steadily towards.

Tim grew silent for a moment, considering his words. “My brother was an extra in a movie once and started dating a stylist for one of the leads. He fibbed his way into getting us tickets for premieres, so I’ve made my way through a few high-fashion events.” He shrugged, fiddling with a thin silver bracelet along his wrist, were Jon knew the letter D was carved in delicate cursive. “I like it, too, you know? Dressing up for events. It makes me feel debonaire, like a spy.”

Jon shook his head in disagreement. “Makes me feel fake,” he mumbled, eyeing the lorry floor beneath them. “Like everyone knows I don’t belong. I hate having their eyes on me and knowing they’re better than me.”

Tim prodded Jon with his elbow gently, raising his eyebrows in a comforting manner. “That’s it though, isn’t it? We aren’t fake. We worked our way here. Hell, you’re the boss of an entire department, Jon. We’ve gotten to where we are in the Institute because we deserve to be here. And anyways, everyone at that party next week is gonna be fake. They’re pretending to care about our jobs, and we pretend to care about their money, and they pretend they’re even the ones who write the checks and not some snooty financial advisor in Wales.”

Jon shrugged, trying to keep himself from biting back that he wasn’t enough, didn’t earn this spot, that Sasha deserved it more than he did and was doing nothing to prove to Elias he was up to the monumental task of being the Head Archivist. He didn’t, though, and instead took a steadying breath, nodding to Tim’s comforting words.

“And anyways,” Tim continued, shrugging. “Even if we have to be fake for a night, it’ll be fun. We get to be a part of ‘the queen’s high society,’” he added in a high-pitched, overly fake RP accent, eliciting a chuckle from Jon. “And Rosie said the catering Elias orders is divine. Apparently we should keep an eye out for tiny samosas?”

As if on cue, the cab shuddered to a stop. Jon thanked the driver, paid, and followed Tim out.

-

The Institute looked different under the pretense of wealth and success. It was still the same building of course, but the floor was clear of the rain mats and the smooth marble floor paved the way to the library, the main sitting room of which had been cleared as a rather respectable grand hall to host a party. Tables lined the cordoned off books, hot plates and silver trays steaming slightly. Bottles of wine lined a bar, behind which a vested individual with slicked-back hair was pouring small glasses and taking orders. A quiet orchestra completed the scene, cello and piano in a delicate duet. Before tonight, Jon couldn’t have imagined this many people in the Institute alone, least of all the library. Not that it’s packed. There’s maybe thirty or so well-dressed individuals milling about, the din of conversation white noise in comparison to the floating of the music.

Tim’s hand is on his back, pressing kindly into his spine. Oh yes, he remembers dimly, and nods, allowing Tim to guide him into the library and hand him a glass of wine. They stand out a little, two beacons of color around what is a pretty drab spectrum of black and grey, save for a few spectacular dresses in the crowd. Jon finds he doesn’t mind it, except that it may lead to unwanted conversation. It’s not his looks he fears being judged on, but that he be found wanting when it came to his capabilities. He was always selectively self-conscious like that, some things utterly meaningless, others inexplicably important.

Jon isn’t a huge fan of wine, but he finds himself clinging to the glass as a lifeline as he and Tim meander through the crowds, largely ignored. The music is intoxicatingly simple; he finds himself caught up in the deep reverberations of the cello as they walk, feeling it deep in his chest. There were, in fact, samosas, as well as small cannoli, and he and Tim piled plates as high as they could without garnering stares.

There weren’t many people Jon recognized; he didn’t even see Elias as he scanned the crowd for faces. Wine in one hand, a plate in the other, he thought maybe the night wouldn’t be too bad.

Jon shivered, the sensation of being stared at prickling the back of his neck. He spun around, trying to appear casual, and spotted Elias at last. He was standing with a large man, broad and wearing a deep blue suit, scruffy beard a mix of tawny and white. Elias crooked his finger, smiling primly. As Jon made his way over to the pair-who he could’ve sworn he hadn’t seen previously, he was intercepted by a short bald man in a plum velour suit, leaning heavily on a cane.

“Ah, Archivist,” he smiled warmly, extending a hand to shake before seeing Jon’s hands were full, and nodding his head instead. “Congratulations on your promotion. Elias has told me he expects great things from you.”

Jon smiled politely, glancing over to see Elias and the other man gone again. Regretfully, he turned his attention back to the man. “It’s a shame about Gertrude, yes, but I’m hoping I can do her proud,” he said in a practiced tone. He glanced over his shoulder. Where was Tim? He was just with him.

“Of course, of course. I was hoping I could have a word?”

“W-with me?”

“Yes, you see, I was rather concerned when I heard Gertrude’s position had been left open. When Elias said you yourself where at the junction to take over, I wanted to meet you for myself. I worry about the Archivists in your institute, so many of you do such monumental work for so little recognition. Do you worry your work to be meaningless?  Your name insignificant when it is all said and done?”

(It is this conversation he remembers, months later, when he demands to record Prentiss’ attack. He refuses to be another mystery, a name on a placard to be wondered about.)

“I-ah, yes? No?” What was the right answer here? Jon stammered out a half-assed reply about doing his best, midway through when he felt a hand firmly on his shoulder, where his neck and collarbone met. Glancing to his peripheral, he saw a golden ring, an eye, and was frustratingly grateful to hear the cool tones of Elias Bouchard over his shoulder.

“Now Simon,” he said, voice even, “you aren’t trying to scare my dear Archivist, are you?” He gave the shoulder a squeeze but remained put. “Jon, I believe you’ve heard of Simon Fairchild, a significant donor to our establishment.”

Jon nodded wordlessly, not really listening to the two bureaucrats delve off into some topic or other, craning his neck to look for Tim. The music had picked up, he registered dimly, a orchestral melody led by a violin, sharp and whimsical.

“Jon?” Another squeeze to his neck, and Jon tried not to wince. “Wouldn’t you agree,” Elias asked, voice patient at surface level. “That the best way to move forward is to restructure the Archive?”

Jon nodded, trying to recall the answer he had rehearsed. “Yes, ah—my team and I have worked quite hard at recording the statements a-and organizing them in a way that will last long-term.”

“Ah, what a delight,” Simon—Mr. Fairchild—said warmly. Jon was reminded of the voices adults would use when they spoke to him as a child, when his inane facts about space or etymology had moved from endearing to obnoxious.

The conversation lasted for what felt like days, Jon feeling rather like Mr. Fairchild’s cane: a statement piece, contributing nothing to the conversation but unable to find a smooth exit. Leading questions from Elias led to thankfully rehearsed answers before Simon found his own exit and walked away smoothly, eyes wide and taking the room in.

“I-I really should find Tim,” Jon muttered, glancing around the room anxiously.

“Nonsense. He’ll be back,” Elias said, releasing Jon’s shoulder and taking his elbow in turn, “I would like to introduce you to a few dear friends of mine. I believe Tim is keeping one occupied at present.” Jon sighed inwardly (and maybe outwardly as well) and allowed himself to be led around the room. His wine glass was empty, as was his plate and he found it snatched away by a member of catering. He had nothing to cling to, to keep his hands busy, and was struggling not to pull out his delicately-placed hair pin just so he could fiddle with something.

Jon was taken on a tour of old rich people of England. Names flew past him, conversation buzzed around him, and still Jon felt like nothing more than a well-dressed trophy to be ogled at. Did Gertrude do this every year, he wondered dimly. No wonder she disappeared. He fiddled with the ring on his finger, nodding and smiling at the appropriate times, speaking when needed, and feeling the swirl of the orchestra build up in pressure behind his eyes. The music was beautiful but hard to listen to. Something about it was ugly, hiding a dark secret behind the innocent melodies.

Eventually, the evening was so much of a blur that he couldn’t even begin to fathom how much time had passed. It may have been weeks, may have been merely twenty minutes. Jon glanced down for his watch before realizing he had taken it off at Tim’s flat and never strapped it back on. Pity. It only added to the dreamscape reality he seemed to be participating in.

At last, Elias led him towards the large burly man that was suddenly in view (hadn’t he always been? Jon wasn’t quite sure. The wine must have affected him more than he thought with the nerves) and Jon saw Tim, similarly trapped in conversation as he had been. He smiled apologetically as Jon and Elias approached and the larger man smiled warmly at the newcomers.

“Ah, Archivist. I hope you don’t mind I stole your companion away briefly. I was curious about the nitty-gritty of your Archive. Timothy here was very informative.” Tim winced at the use of his full name and a part of Jon smirked, relating to the sentiment of being called Jonathan or worse, John.

“I’m glad he can answer your questions.” Elias spoke before Jon could open his mouth. “I’m quite proud of the Archive staff. Jon chose well and I am sure the four of them are going to do great things together. Jon, you remember the Lukas family?”

Jon nodded, confused for a second before the man in front of him extended his hand. “Peter Lukas, at your service.” The hand was cold, and a feeling of dismay washed over Jon as he shook it. He couldn’t help the feeling that the shake of that hand was a seal of his fate.

The orchestral music had picked up, a swirl of strings and piano, ascending in pitch until it grated at Jon’s ears. No one else seemed to react to it, however, as the manic notes pulling at something inside Jon’s brain, something he couldn’t explain. It was almost like a migraine, but sharper and deep in his spine and in his ears. Elias let go of Jon’s arm at some point during the conversation with Peter Lukas, a discussion about boats, maybe? Travel? This was the conversation Elias was so keen on Jon being a part of?

As Jon felt that grip relax, the glint of the ring on Elias’ finger seeming to wink at him, Jon took a staggered step backwards. “Mr. Lukas, ah-Peter, it’s been a pleasure. Elias, ex-excuse me.”

Jon turned and dashed out of the library, feet carrying him on instinct through the winding halls and down the stairs of the institute, deep into the Archives. He stopped when he felt his feet echo against the cold, solid lino of the archival storage and bent over, hand on the wall, gasping in shallow, rapid bursts. It was too much, it was too much, he thought he could do this but it was too much and he wasn’t enough for them-

“Woah-boss.” Tim was there. When did Tim get here? Was he speaking out loud? Shit. “Jon, yeah-hey, Jon. I’m here. You’re okay. Take some deep breaths, okay? You’re going to black out if you’re not careful.”

Jon felt his suit jacket being shrugged off of him and the newly allowed freedom of his shoulder helped. He took a deep, sputtering breath, the sweet oxygen flooding his system and sharpening his thoughts.

“The-the music and the talking,” he said under his breath, Tim craning to listen without infringing on his personal space. “Too-too much.”

“The music? Jon, hey, hey, just focus on calming down, okay? That was a dick move of Elias to separate us immediately. I was talking to that Lukas guy for way too long. Not even sure what we talked about. I think he’s just one of those guys.” Jon smirked to himself as he focused on the floor beneath his feet, breathing slowly until his heart rate had resumed a normal rhythm.

“Says you,” he mumbled, eyes closing as he pressed his warm cheek to the cold wall.

“You bastard!” Jon felt a light swat on his shoulder. “I listen to people! I have meaningful conversation; just ask Martin and Sasha and Alexa from Library and Calvin from Artefact Storage. I am practically a professional listener.”

Jon smirked, satisfied with his jab and turned around, now pressing his back to the wall. “God, Tim, I do not want to go back in there.” It was hard to admit out loud, even if the evidence was written all over his face.

“Okay. So, we won’t.”

“What?” the answer was so mind-bogglingly simple, Jon reeled.

“We don’t want to be here. We’ve talked, we’ve eaten. Let’s just leave. I can tell Elias I had an emergency and you had to escort me home, like a true gentleman.”

“Lie to Elias? I feel like that cant end well.” The offer was tempting, Jon hadf to admit.

“I mean, Sasha has keys to my flat. I could ask her to start a fire, if you think that’s sufficient?”

Jon barked out a laugh at that. “Ah, no, lets save a fire for something big. Yes. Let’s-let’s go, Tim. And-er, I suppose I should thank you. For coming tonight. I know its not an ideal way to spend an evening.”

“Are you kidding?” Tim did a twirl, Jon’s own jacket slung over his shoulder. “I look hot. You think I’d pass up an opportunity to dress up like this? You’re dreaming.” He smirked and took Jon’s arm, leading him back up the stairwell. It felt different than Elias’s touch. That had been a cold tug, directional and leashed. This felt…snug, more like a link in a chain than anything else. Comforting, reassuring.

(Luckily, they weren’t laughed out of the Nando’s they popped into late at night. Lemon and herb and spices covered their hands, but they were careful to keep their jackets clean. Jon, when looking back on the evening; remembers this moment, talking and laughing and letting the fresh night air was over them. Elias, Lukas, and Fairchild be damned. He’d deal with that tomorrow.)

[caiminnent]

and you said, kiss me [kylux, rated M]

PROMPT(S): First Kiss (@kyluxpositivity, Day #: Past Prompts Revisited) & Surprise "Kiss a Ginger Day" Kiss (from YearofKylux on Twitter)

SUMMARY: The Master of the Knights of Ren shifts on his feet like a cadet. “I brought you a gift,” he says lowly, through a strange static. “One best enjoyed in private.”

Hux’s brain stutters.

“It’s food,” Ren elaborates before Hux’s overtaxed mind can conjure up any embarrassing ideas—around a mind-reader, no less. “Messy to eat. You would appreciate the ease of cleaning.”

Or: Ren returns from Gelda with a honeyfruit for Hux. Things get out of hand.

FANDOM: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy

TAGS: Kiss a Ginger Day, Pre-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Mutual Pining, Getting Together, First Kiss, Hand Feeding, Insecurity, Armitage Hux Has Feelings, Kylo Ren in Love, Love Confessions, If You Squint - Freeform

Photo by Alice Pasqual on Unsplash

3.5K || ALSO ON AO3

One last meeting and Hux can finally retire for the day.

With three dozen floors between him and Conference Room 11-E, he strides past the stairs without a glance, skimming the meeting objectives on his datapad on the way to the turbolifts. They will never cover all of these—not in the time they set. Sniping at each other and bickering make up half of every High Command meeting; they’ll be lucky to touch upon the important matters within the first hour.

How tragic, that the people tasked with deciding how to spend the First Order funds can’t even make effective use of two hours.

The turbolift finally stops on his floor. Hux puts his datapad away as the doors slide open, revealing only Ren inside.

Hux’s foolish heart soars. When the notification of Ren’s arrival wasn’t followed by a summons from Snoke, Hux assumed he would see Ren once—more likely, if—Ren deigned to write and drop off his mission report. After several weeks without even a status update, he will take thirty seconds in a turbolift.

“General Hux,” Ren says as Hux enters, dipping his head.

The button for the officers’ deck is lit. Hitting the one below it for level 47, “Ren,” Hux greets back. A fresh, light smell that reminds him of a forest hits him in the next breath. Odd. He’s more used to smelling ash and ozone on Ren after a mission. “I see you’ve returned.”

“Try not to sound so disappointed, General.”

The corners of Hux’s lips twitch, an errant smile quickly suppressed. “These missions of yours mean more work for me. How many of my troopers did you lose this time?”

“None.”

“Truly?” That must be a first.

“Yes,” Ren says, pride booming in his voice even through the vocoder. “The inhabitants responded favourably to a show of the Force. Your exceptionally trained men scarcely needed to fire a blaster bolt.” Arse. “The rest was ensuring a smooth transition of power.”

A smooth transition of power. Since when does Ren care about keeping things diplomatic and orderly when he could slaughter his way through a mission and call it done? Who is this man and what did he do with Hux’s co-commander?

Not that Hux is complaining. Any cause that means Ren will stop using his troopers as cannon fodder is good in his book.

In the small screen above the buttons, 45 flashes, switching to 46. “Well done, Ren,” Hux says with a nod as the turbolift slows around them. Ren straightens to his full height. “I’ll look forward to your report.”

Level 47 is a maze of offices and meeting rooms lined around endless corridors, which are empty enough this time of the day. The walk to 11-E stretches in Hux’s mind’s eye as he steps out of the ‘lift. Part of him wishes for Ren to accompany him to the meeting, to remain a solid presence by his side while Hux endures yet another bout of pointed looks and snide comments that all say he wouldn’t have been here if he weren’t Brendol’s son.

“I could brief you in your quarters,” Ren calls out after him.

His heart skipping a beat, Hux pauses mid-stride, glancing at Ren over his shoulder. Ren is keeping the doors open with a hand on the frame, one foot in the corridor. What Hux wouldn’t give to read his bare face right now.

“My quarters?” Hux asks carefully. In all their years of sharing the command, they’ve never done something so personal as to visit each other in their chambers. Does Ren even know in which section Hux resides?

The Master of the Knights of Ren shifts on his feet like a cadet. “I brought you a gift,” he says lowly, through a strange static. “One best enjoyed in private.”

Hux’s brain stutters.

“It’s food,” Ren elaborates before Hux’s overtaxed mind can conjure up any embarrassing ideas—around a mind-reader, no less. “Messy to eat. You would appreciate the ease of cleaning.”

Perhaps Ren has been replaced on Gelda after all. The idea doesn’t sound more far-fetched than Kylo kriffing Ren bringing Hux gifts and considering his comfort.

“Very well,” Hux’s mouth says with little input from his brain. “2100 hours. Don’t be late.”

-----------------

The meeting drags on.

Sixty-five minutes in, Hux caves and lets his attention wander. He’d calculated half the figures Lieutenant Mitaka is delivering anyway; he’s sitting at this table more out of duty than necessity—not to mention, to keep the High Command somewhat civil as they, quite inevitably, gripe about Starkiller Base. Simple-minded fools. Two more years—he will show the lot of them what his pet project can do.

As Captain Canady starts his own tirade about how strategically unsound putting such a sizeable portion of their resources into a single project is, Hux pulls up information about Gelda on his datapad. A tiny, nondescript system of no import besides falling on a trade route. Two high-ranking officers accompanied by three squads of Stormtroopers would have accomplished the same goal, freeing Ren up for matters which actually require his… unique skill set.

If only Canady knew how strategically unsound Leader Snoke’s missions can be.

Scrolling down, he reaches the Culture section—only to find it empty. Kriff. For the son of a kitchen woman, he’s woefully uncultured about galactic cuisine, much less that of a castoff planet in the Outer Rim. Although he doesn’t expect Ren to show up with a seven-course meal, the idea of being unprepared for the visit—which certainly isn’t a date, even if it carries the characteristics of one—leaves Hux cold.

It’s going to be all right. He’s survived countless diplomatic dinners at his father’s side, smiling politely as his throat swelled and the contents of his stomach threatened to rise; he can handle whatever Ren might bring.

-----------------

He makes it to his chambers with six minutes to spare. So much for changing into something casual and presentable before Ren comes.

Not that he’s sure he owns such an outfit to begin with. His few sets of civilian clothes were picked more for practicality than appearance. Although that green pullover and the dark pair of trousers that Phasma had wolf-whistled at should still be somewhere in his dresser, Hux doesn’t have time left to check thanks to Admiral Brooks’ desperate need to be the loudest person in every room.

Kriffing nothing goes according to plan today.

Exasperation pulling at his chest, he leans against the door and closes his eyes. There’s still time to salvage the situation. He’s lost his composure about this… private meeting; it’s his failing to face in due time. For now, he needs to make sure Ren won’t find out about the tizzy Hux worked himself into.

Taking a deep breath to ground himself, Hux pushes off the cold durasteel and goes about setting the stage. His greatcoat carefully draped over the coat hanger. His gloves carelessly thrown over the side table. While the water heater works, he unfastens the top handful of the hidden latches on his jacket and artfully dishevels his hair in the mirror. When the access panel chimes with a request for entry, everything around him communicates high-ranking officer unwinding in private after a long day.

As he opens the door, he can only hope it’s good enough to fool a mind-reader.

The ever-present helmet and gloves aside, Ren certainly pulled off casually presentable. Instead of his regular rags, he’s put on a shirt that outlines his form nicely and leggings, holding a bundle that’s tied off with an orange ribbon on one hand.

Relief courses through Hux at the sight. The fabric most likely holds a small fruit or vegetable. Unless Ren picked the weirdest harvest available to bring back, this should go without an issue.

Hux welcomes him, stepping aside to let him pass. Before closing the door, he checks for unwanted eyes in the hallway. All quiet, thankfully. An underdressed Commander Ren paying an after-hours visit to General Hux’s private rooms—Hux couldn’t hope to snuff out the rumours.

Ren is standing awkwardly in the middle of the living area, his free hand clenching and unclenching at his side. Gesturing at the sofa, “I was about to make caf,” Hux says. The water heater clicks off right then, as if backing him up. “Would you like some? I’ve only got the instant kind, but it works in a pinch.”

“Sure,” Ren says.

Hux doesn’t have a clue how Ren takes his caf, which matters little as he doesn’t keep milk or sugar in his kitchenette anyway. Palming two coasters, he brings the mugs to the living area. Ren, for his part, already made himself comfortable: unmasked, leaning against an armrest with an arm over the back of the sofa and a leg folded under himself. As if he belongsthere.

Hux knows, with the same certainty as the Starkiller’s future success, that he will make an arse of himself in front of Ren before the evening is out.

Talking about a planetary takeover with warm beverage in their hands and Ren’s gift on the table feels wrong somehow. Mirroring Ren’s position at the other end of the small sofa, Hux catches him up on what little happened in his absence instead. Shitting on the High Command and incompetent officers—which overlap—is always an entertaining pastime, and they do so unabashedly until the caf is gone and the conversation comes to a comfortable lull.

He waits for Ren to mention the gift first. Ren came here for a reason; now would be the perfect time to bring it up. Ren, however, is more interested in his own hands on his lap.

Hux suppresses a sigh. He’s got to do everything himself, as usual. “You mentioned a gift,” he says, tilting his head at it. “Am I to receive it before it spoils—or is it merely decorative?”

Face lighting up, Ren nearly knocks over Hux’s mug on the table in his haste to get to the bundle.

“There you go,” Ren says, offering it on two palms. It looks bigger in Hux’s hand; not big, but not as bite-sized, either. The binding unravels at the gentlest tug, the fabric falling away to reveal a round, orange fruit barely held within its tight skin, so bright it looks dangerous.

“I hope this isn’t an attempt to poison me in private,” Hux says, only half-jesting. He likes to think they are past the bitter rivals stage by now, but one never knows with Ren and his infamous mood swings. “That would make a poor end for our pleasant evening.”

Ren chuckles. Will wonders never cease? “Rest assured, General, I wouldn’t have resorted to poison if I wanted you gone.” He extends a hand for the fruit. “Here. I’ll help you with it.”

“I hardly need instructions on eating,” Hux points out, rolling his eyes. His curiosity is piqued enough to hand it over, though. Surely Ren doesn’t plan to play any Force tricks on it?

Appears not. Ren produces a pocket-knife like a regular person, flicking it open as he turns the fruit in his other hand. The skin parts easily under the sharp blade, a clear, glittery liquid oozing out of the thin cut and onto Ren’s gloves.

Ignoring the ruined leather, Ren cuts out a slice, offering it to Hux between the blade and his thumb. Hux reaches for it—Ren pulls it away, looking at him with open disapproval.

Hux pins him with a look of his own. “You can’t expect me to literally eat out of your hand, Ren.”

Ren gives the fruit a pointed squeeze. More liquid leaks out, dripping down the side of his hand. “Would you rather dirty your uniform?” he asks, catching a drop with the back of his other hand before it can fall on the sofa.

Absolutely not. The idea of dripping food all over himself with Ren watching turns his stomach. Still, letting Ren feed him feels shameful—in a thrilling sort of way, which only adds to the embarrassment. Tell-tale warmth has already spread across his neck, crawling up to his ears.

Ren extends the offering again, uncharacteristically patient. That alone should be suspicious where Ren is concerned. Nothing in his bare face hints at deceit, though; if anything, Hux reads nerves in the line of Ren’s shoulders, his sharp gaze walking the line between anticipation and trepidation.

Steeling himself for Ren pulling the fruit away at the last moment or mocking him for his eagerness, Hux leans forward, taking it with his teeth.

The fruit is predictably sweet, leaving a line of juice over his mouth as he sucks it in. Its flesh practically melts into a thick nectar on his tongue. Although he doesn’t normally prefer his food soft—if he can’t bite down on it, it’s not worth eating—he would gladly make an exception for this.

Resisting the urge to lick his lips, “What is this?” Hux asks. It reminds him of the birthday cake his officers tried to surprise him with once, creamy with a surprisingly dark aftertaste.

“Geldan honeyfruit,” Ren says. “It’s a rare harvest—takes nearly four standard years to grow. We were lucky to come across it.”

“And your infamous sweet tooth couldn’t resist it,” Hux throws back, mostly to see Ren pout.

Ren smiles instead, an unfairly appealing curl of lips. Curse him for making Hux feel like a cadet instead. “I don’t hear you complaining, General,” he points out. “Would you like more?”

Unwilling to seem too eager, Hux makes a noncommittal hum. Ren’s smile grows.

“On Gelda, honeyfruit is worth its weight in gold,” Ren says as he feeds Hux piece by piece, his naked voice washing over Hux. Hux keeps expecting the next piece to be one too many, for the light tingle over his skin to become overwhelming, for his pride to finally rear its head. “Their entire culture is based around it. The food. The folk tales and remedies. The calendar. Hell, if I don’t see another wedding in a forest for as long as I live, it will be too early.”

Ren places the last bite in Hux’s mouth with his fingers—that newfound, desperate part of Hux longs to chase after them, to lick Ren’s shining gloves clean.

What the everliving fuckis wrong with him?

Putting the knife aside, Ren strips his dirty gloves from the wrists up, rolling them inside out. Hux does not watch the obscenely slow reveal of skin. “And it might be just a superstition,” Ren adds, throwing the gloves next to Hux’s own pair on the table. “But Geldans strongly believe that not sharing a honeyfruit brings bad luck until the next season.”

The food sits heavy in the pit of Hux’s stomach.

Irritation rises in him, that pleasant stirring deep in his belly giving way to churning agitation in a heartbeat. Of course there was a punchline to this whole evening. “Ren, you kriffing—”

Ren slowly, purposefully, slides closer until his knees bracket Hux’s, a new weight to his dark gaze as he leans in. “Hux,” he mumbles, glancing at Hux’s mouth before meeting his eyes again. Hux feels a new tension coil between them, the air getting harder to breathe in. “May I have a taste?”

Words stuck in his dry throat, Hux nods.

The kiss is little more than a brush of skin, followed by a firmer peck on his lips. His lips stick to Ren’s as they part. Ren huffs out a low laugh before catching Hux’s bottom lip, sucking it between his own.

Hux flounders. There’s no kind way to describe it. He’s got a general idea what he should and shouldn’t be doing with his mouth, but reading up on the technicalities hadn’t prepared him for the kisses Ren peppers on and around his lips like straying too far would hurt him, mixing it up with the occasional nip. It definitely didn’t prepare him for the way Ren angles Hux’s face to his liking, parts his lips with a gentle tug and kisses him like he wants the air in Hux’s lungs.

The honeyfruit still coating Hux’s tongue is too thick to taste Ren through no matter how hard he tries. Inhaling sharply through his nose, Hux buries a hand in Ren’s hair—soft, how is it so soft—and slides the other underneath Ren’s shirt, just high enough to rest a thumb over the burning skin. Ren makes a sound low in his throat, palming Hux’s thigh and moving higher with that same, purposeful drag.

Stars. Stars, what are they doing?

Lightheaded, Hux pulls away, putting a hand on Ren’s chest to keep him from following. Ren stops without protest, sitting back far enough that they aren’t touching anymore and not an inch further.

“Is everything okay?” Ren asks, similarly winded. His hands are clenching and unclenching on his own spread thighs, his back a rigid line.

Hux nods again, focused on keeping his breathing regular and getting his heartrate back to normal. Some deep kisses, barely any contact and his body buzzes with want anyway, long starved for touch. He would have been ashamed of his enthusiasm, had Ren not been in the same state.

Once he can find his words, “That was… rather unexpected,” he says. Ren’s face falls. “I don’t mean unwelcome,” Hux amends, keeping his tone gentle. “I merely wonder, what brought this on?” Why now, after years of not even hinting at this sort of interest?

Ren runs his teeth over his bottom lip. “Are you familiar with Kiss a Ginger Day, General?”

Hux might as well have jumped into ice water for how effectively his leftover desire is doused.

Right. Right, it was today, wasn’t it. He hasn’t dealt with lewd remarks since he became a captain, long enough that he stopped dreading the date. How foolish of him to let his guard down. Of course Ren, the only one high enough in rank to dare, wouldn’t miss the chance to make a practical joke out of it.

The taste in his mouth turning bitter, “Leave,” he hisses.

Ren frowns, his expression caught between hurt and confusion. “General,” he says. “Hux. I didn’t mean to offend you, I was—”

“Let me guess,” Hux bites out. “You were trying to flirt with me.” It’s always one or the other. Does Ren think himself so clever, putting two and two together? Does he believe he’s the first person to make the connection?

A younger, softer Hux may have found the attempt endearing. Present-day Hux has been relocating obnoxious officers for calling him General Ginger behind his back since the effective day of his promotion. The attention stopped feeling flattering long ago.

“No. I mean, yes, I was trying to flirt, but your hair colour was irrelevant. Mostly.” Ren licks his lips. “Let me explain?”

Wasn’t that what Ren was trying to do? “You’ve got two minutes.”

Ren runs his fingers through his hair and grips it at the base, tightly enough that it must hurt. “I found out about this day last year,” he starts, the words practically tumbling out of his mouth. “Four days after the date. That was also the day where I realised, um. That I had feelings for you.” Breath catches in Hux’s lungs, his stupid heart quickening. “So I suppose I took it as, a sign? That I should do something about it. I swore to myself that I would, by that day next year.” He shrugs, stiff and jerky. “A year went by fast.”

A—small but loud—part of Hux can’t shake off the thought that Ren is having him on, that any minute now Ren will laugh at him for being foolish enough to think he might have any interest in Hux. The rest of him is captivated by the blush high on Ren’s cheeks, the way Ren keeps licking and sucking in his kiss-reddened lips.

“I didn’t come here expecting to kiss you, Hux. The fruit was just an excuse to be alone with you. If you regret it—” Ren takes a shuddering breath, gazing at Hux imploringly. No one deserves such earnest eyes. That’s simply unfair. “If that’s what you want, we can pretend it didn’t happen. It’s okay. Just don’t hate me for it.”

Hux’s heart clenches at the thought. “That’s not what I want,” he confesses, the words coming easier than he would’ve expected. He feels emboldened in the face of Ren’s evident uncertainty, of the hesitation colouring his words. “I want it to have happened—as long as this means it can happen again.”

“It can,” Ren says, a smile blossoming on his lips. Hux is quickly growing addicted to the sight of it. “Whenever you want. As many times as you want. And, um.” His smile turns wicked, a new glint in his eyes. “The honeyfruit. I brought back a small crate of it, if you wanted to try the other thing again, too.”

A small case, stars. Hux had never appreciated the man’s greedy nature until now. He will have to make sure they properly preserve it; four standard years is a long time. “You’re a menace, Kylo Ren.”

“That’s how you like me,” Ren says, a question lingering in his tone.

“Yes,” Hux admits. “Yes, I do.”

[emachinescat]

I Shall Have Lived a Little While

A Merlin Fan-Fiction

By @emachinescat

@febuwhump day 26 - recovery

Summary: Sequel to "Pain Has an Element of Blank." The knights bring a broken Merlin back to Camelot, and he and Arthur are finally reunited. 

Characters: Merlin, Arthur, Gwaine, Gaius

Words: 3,661

TW: mentions of slavery

Note: This is a direct sequel to my stories “I Should Not Dare to Leave My Friend” and “Pain Has an Element of Blank.”  I highly suggest reading those before you read this one, because you’ll probably be a bit lost if you don’t. :)  This is the full, finished version of the piece I posted on Day 26 of Febuwhump.  I hope you enjoy!

Keep reading here, or on AO3!

If you enjoy, please consider liking, commenting, and/or re-blogging, and you can follow me for more content like this! :)

You smile upon your friend to-day,

To-day his ills are over;

You hearken to the lover's say,

And happy is the lover.

'Tis late to hearken, late to smile,

But better late than never:

I shall have lived a little while

Before I die for ever.

- "You Smile Upon Your Friend To-Day" by A. E. Housman

Arthur was days away from striking out on a quest to rescue Merlin while injured himself when the search party returned. Gaius had told the king many times over that he was not well enough to embark on a journey to find his stolen servant, that he should wait and let the knights handle it. He'd even placed a bodyguard over Arthur – Percival – but slowly, the king found his strength returning. He'd warned Percival in advance that he would be staying in Camelot only until he could move about on his own, and then he would ride out. If that meant fighting Percival and the guards to get to his horse and out of the citadel, that's just what he would do.

Ultimately, though, escaping his own castle ended up being unnecessary, because his men succeeded just as Gaius had predicted they would. Arthur was conflicted when he heard of their approach – of course, he was delighted that they were returning, Merlin in tow, though no one knew yet the severity of the servant's condition, only that he lived. Another part of the king gilded itself in resentment and shame, for he had not been there for his friend when he'd been taken. Arthur knew Merlin well, and understood that his servant would have been waiting for – expecting – the king to come for him, to lead the rescue. And Arthur had let Merlin down, had not been there for his friend when he needed him the most.

A third part of Arthur felt immediate relief that he would no longer have to drag himself onto his horse and ride out into unknown dangers, because he knew full well that his wound – a nasty, deep sword-cut across the ribs – had not healed as much as he was trying to convince Percival – and himself. Of course, Gaius hadn't been fooled for a moment. Neither had Gwen. But both knew that there was only so long they could hope to contain Arthur when Merlin was missing.

Arthur insisted on meeting the knights in the courtyard, and felt like he had just fought a dragon by the time he got there. His wound ached, his body felt weak and limp and heavy, and his breathing came in ragged bursts. Beside him, Percival took hold of his arm to steady him. Arthur glared, but didn't pull away. He tried to ignore the knowing gleam in the man's eyes, one he knew without having to look also resided in his Gwen's and Gaius's gazes.

Despite the pain and exhaustion from the exertion, Arthur managed to break into a stilted run when the knights, red cloaks announcing their return, rode into the courtyard. "Gwaine!" Arthur panted, because it was Gwaine who held Merlin gently in front of him on his horse. The servant was unconscious, but he was alive. Arthur looked up at Gwaine, who had yet to hand Merlin off to any of the now dismounted knights, and made no attempt to dismount himself. A stirring of dread plucked at Arthur's heart like a lyre.

"What happened?" Arthur asked, and his voice came out much weaker than he wanted it to. His eyes traveled back to his servant, taking in the drawn, pale face, the dark circles under his eyes, and the way that Gwaine held him so carefully, as if afraid he might break. There was something else, something that Arthur could not identify, something that radiated a sense of wrongness. Arthur kept studying his friend, and for some reason, his gaze kept moving back to the servant's legs.

Gaius shuffled up beside the king. Arthur could sense the worry and relief coming off of the old physician in waves, but he did not turn from the unconscious servant. "Gwaine?" he prompted, as the knight had not answered his question.

But it wasn't Gwaine who responded. Gaius had already begun his cursory examination of his ward, and when he spoke, Arthur's head snapped around to meet his gaze. "His legs are broken, Sire. Both of them."

***

Arthur felt numb as he followed the knights, Gaius, Gwen, and Merlin back across the courtyard, up the steps, and into the castle. Both legs broken. Arthur knew at once that Merlin's injuries hadn't been an accident. He hadn't slipped and fallen and broken his bones. Of course, it sounded exactly like something clumsy Merlin would do. But Athur also understood the kind of people that had taken his servant. He had spent a large portion of his time as King of Camelot attempting to rid his kingdom and the surrounding areas from the influence of slavers. These were men who were ruthless, cruel, and unfeeling.

It was clear to Arthur that they had broken Merlin's legs intentionally, and at first the king was so stunned by the level of violence done to his servant that he didn't feel anything. He just couldn't stop thinking about how it might have happened. He didn't have to ask why. Merlin might have been scrawny and unassuming at first glance, but he was also incredibly stubborn and determined, and sometimes even clever, on the rare occasion he wasn't being a complete idiot. He would have tried to escape from his captors, Arthur was sure. Maybe multiple times. And to keep it from happening again, they'd shattered his legs, made sure he couldn't run.

They arrived at Gaius's chambers, and Gwaine carefully laid Merlin out on the well-worn patient's cot. Gaius shooed everyone out of the room, save for Arthur, who as king could not be "shooed" anywhere, and Gwaine, who dug his heels in and refused to budge. Arthur and Gwaine watched in tense silence for a while as Gaius examined Merlin further, checking to make sure his legs had been set properly, binding them, treating a nasty wound on the back of his head, washing the blood and muck and filth out of his hair, spreading salve on bruises and cuts and tipping potions down his throat.

Eventually, as Gaius fell into a rhythm, Arthur turned to Gwaine. "What happened?" he asked in a low, even voice. That numbness still froze his heart, but he could feel the anger beginning to thaw the icy disbelief. "Where did you find him?" The unspoken but obvious question lingered between them: Did you kill the bastards who did this?

The king had fully been expecting an enraged, ultimately triumphant tale of the knights discovering the slavers' hideout, bathing the walls with the blood of the men who had tortured their friend, and sweeping Merlin into his arms and carrying him home like the swooning maiden he was. But to Arthur's surprise, Gwaine hesitated, a faraway, almost uncomfortable look in his eyes. "I'm not actually sure," he finally answered.

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "How are you not sure of what happened? Have you been drinking?"

Gwaine's response was serious and immediate. "Not on a quest this important. Not when Merlin's life was at stake." Arthur nodded curtly in approval, then waited for Gwaine to explain himself. The knight took a deep breath, then told Arthur everything that had happened. Along the way, Arthur noticed out of the corner of his eye that Gaius had finished with Merlin, and he stood stiffly, his spine as tall as he could manage, listening intently.

When Gwaine had finished, Arthur shook his head in confusion. "That makes no sense. He just appeared at the edge of your camp?"

Gwaine shrugged. "We thought he might have escaped and stumbled upon us, but with his legs…" He trailed off, dark, flaming eyes darting over to the servant as if to remind himself that Merlin was home, and he was safe.

Gaius turned around and joined the hushed conversation. Arthur thought he saw a flicker of something he couldn't quite place in the old man's gaze – it might have been understanding, or fear, or something else entirely – when Gaius urged, "Since we are at a loss to explain these things at this moment, perhaps it is best to find comfort in Merlin's return – and maybe, once he has awakened, he can shed some light on how he came to be in your camp." Somehow, though, Arthur had the feeling that Gaius didn't expect Merlin to have the answers.

***

Merlin woke the next morning. Gwaine and Arthur had both refused to leave over the night, and so Arthur had slept in Merlin's bed and Gwaine had fallen into a restless slumber slumped over the table in the physician's chambers.

Arthur awoke early, at first confused as to why he was in such an uncomfortable bed, then he recognized his surroundings and spent a few horrified moments trying to figure out why he was in his servant's room, in his bed, but then everything flooded back to him in a great rush, and he thought he might be sick.

He swung his feet over the side of the bed, the familiar deep ache in his ribs more pronounced after sleeping in such a hard, threadbare bed. Well, sleeping was a generous term. The king had only fallen into a fitful, anxious sleep in the early, still-dark hours of the morning and felt less rested than he had before he'd drifted off. It wasn't the discomfort or pain that had kept him awake, however – it had been his own mind, the boiling rage that had hit him full force as soon as he was alone.

The fury was accompanied by equal parts disgust and heartache, and his mind had been alive and seething with images of what Merlin had gone through, the pain he had endured. He'd actually fallen asleep once, only to wake up minutes later with a pounding heart and coiling gut, the crisp snap of bones in his dream much too loud and real in his mind. And when all of the emotions had been boiled down to their basest forms, the thought that resounded through Arthur's head was painfully simple: Merlin didn't deserve this.

Merlin was just stirring when Arthur limped his way down the steps into the physician's main chamber, right arm curled instinctively around his burning midsection. Gwaine still slumped over the table, snoring loudly. Gaius was gone, most likely on his early morning rounds. It was comforting to see that Gaius had thought Merlin well enough to leave more or less alone while he was gone. It meant that he was in no immediate danger.

"Arthur?"

Arthur hastened to his servant's bedside and eased himself carefully into the chair that Gaius had vacated when he left. Arthur responded with a smile and a whispered, "Hello, Merlin. It's about time you woke up." He wasn't sure why he kept his voice lowered, other than a desire to have a moment to speak to his servant alone, before Gwaine woke up.

Merlin looked terrible: His face was pinched in pain, his eyes glassy and legs bandaged and propped up on the mountain of pillows Arthur had ordered brought to the chamber. Still, he smiled at Arthur's light jab. "How… how did I get here?" His voice was weak and dry; Arthur saw a flagon of water on the bedside table and helped Merlin drink, holding his body rather more stiffly than usual to minimize his own pain at the movement.

Arthur's heart dropped a little. There went his answers. "You don't remember?"

Merlin shook his head, his eyes somewhere far away. "The last thing that I recall is…" He trailed off, his long fingers picking anxiously at his blanket.

Arthur leaned forward the tiniest bit. "What?"

"I was at the fortress. The, uh, bandits' hideout."

Arthur's eyes widened. "Do you know where it is? Could you lead us there?"

Merlin tilted his head to the side, confused. "Wasn't that where you found me?"

Merlin's words were like another sword in the gut. Merlin assumed that Arthur had been the one to rescue him, the one to lead the search party. And why wouldn't he believe that? That was what should have happened. If it hadn't been for Arthur's injury, it would have been him carrying his servant home instead of Gwaine. Of course, Merlin couldn't have known that. Arthur forced a smile that he hoped didn't look too fake onto his face and shook his head. "You weren't found at any fortress. None of the men who had taken you were nearby." Guilt gnawed at him for his purposefully vague description of the rescue party, but he shoved it aside. He would not take credit for what his knights had done alone, but he wasn't ready to divulge his own injury to Merlin yet.

"What do you mean? I know I couldn't have escaped on my own, I–"

"What?"

Merlin had cut off, the tiniest spark of something lighting in his eyes. He dropped his gaze. "Nothing. I can't remember."

Arthur had a feeling Merlin wasn't telling the full truth. He could have sworn that the expression on Merlin's face, for the briefest of seconds, was that of realization. As if he'd figured out exactly how he'd managed to get away from the bandits with two broken legs. But he let it go, for now.

"Well, you were found feet from the rescue party's camp," Arthur continued. "Lying in some bushes, unconscious. With your legs…" He didn't finish – he didn't have to. The pain lines in Merlin's face deepened.

Merlin scrubbed a shaky hand through his hair, then winced when he hit the cut. "Ow."

"Don't touch it, you idiot," Arthur chided.

Merlin rolled his eyes, settled deeper into his pillow, and regarded Arthur with something far too close to suspicion.

The silent staring got to Arthur far quicker than he liked to admit. "What?" he snapped waspishly.

"You talked about the rescue party like you weren't a part of it," Merlin observed, and Arthur sighed. Even when badly injured, the servant was annoyingly observant in the most inconvenient ways. Why couldn't he pick up on subtleties in situations where it would actually be helpful?

Despite his exasperation, Arthur was truthful. "It was a party of knights who brought you home," he admitted. "I was not one of them."

Merlin looked at him with an unreadable expression on his face. Then he said simply, "Oh."

"Merlin–"

"No, no. That makes sense," Merlin interrupted, and it was more like he was trying to convince himself than Arthur. "I'm just a servant. You're the king. You had many important… king things to do."

"King things?"

"Like being a royal prat."

Arthur smirked. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed Merlin's insults while he'd been stuck in bed worrying about the missing servant. He didn't rise to the bait, though – not yet. "You know very well you're not just a servant, Merlin. You are…" He hesitated only briefly; seeing his servant being hauled away by slavers, then spending weeks wondering if he'd ever see his friend again had opened his eyes and battered down his defenses, and ultimately made it easier to say his next words. "You are an old, dear friend. And I feared – I thought I'd never see you again."

Merlin's eyes shimmered in the candlelight. He looked like he was about to cry. Arthur prayed he wouldn't. Then, Merlin smiled and complained, "If I'm such an old, dear friend, then why am I still scrubbing your floors and washing your undergarments?"

"It's your job, Merlin. Being friends with someone shouldn't stop you from doing your duties."

"Then can I have a different job? One that doesn't involve running after your every beck and call?"

Arthur chuckled. "Absolutely not. And don't let what I said go to your head. If you ever tell anyone I said it, I'll feed you to my dogs."

"You can try, but since I'm the one who's been walking them for years now, I think they like me more than you."

They shared an amiable laugh, but the unresolved issue of Arthur's role – or lack thereof – in Merlin's rescue still hung between them. Arthur sobered. When he next spoke, his voice was grave. "The only reason I did not ride out after you, Merlin, was because I was injured. Gwaine and the others had been gone for days before I finally woke up."

Instantly, Merlin's entire demeanor changed. Like he had been struck by lightning, every aspect of Merlin's frame snapped to alert. His face hardened, his eyes flashed, and he levered himself up onto his elbows. He gave off an almost frightening aura, one of worry, as Arthur had expected, but also of… fierce protectiveness? Arthur was touched, but also somewhat unnerved. Something akin to power sizzled in Merlin's blue eyes as they searched Arthur up and down for injury.

"What happened? Who did it? How are you now?"

Arthur blinked, then shifted uncertainly in his chair. "I… I took a sword to the ribs – I'm fine, lie back down – but it missed anything vital. One of the bandits who attacked us got a lucky hit in right as you went down. He's dead now, by the way."

The flames flared before dwindling down into embers. "Good. And you? Are you recovered?"

Arthur thought about lying, about telling Merlin he had never been better, but instead he said, "I'm well on my way. A few more weeks, Gaius says, and I should be as good as new."

Merlin eased himself back down onto his back, wincing as the adrenaline wore off and the movement pulled at his legs. Arthur glanced at the broken limbs and hesitated before asking the question he both desperately needed and ardently dreaded the answer to.

"Merlin… what did they do to you?"

Merlin's face, already whiter than usual from pain, took on a faintly green tint. "I'd rather not talk about it, if it's all the same to you."

Arthur wanted to retort, No, it's not all the same to me! But he took a deep breath, and thought about what was best for Merlin. He would have to talk about what was done to him eventually. Even if it wasn't to him, he would have to relive the terror and the pain and the memories. But he had just woken up. If he needed some time, then who was Arthur to begrudge him that?

Only, he had to know – "Just one thing, then," the king implored, and Merlin's eyebrows raised, surprised that Arthur was giving up on his quest for information so easily. "Can you tell me… did anyone do anything to you? And did they actually come to the point of… of…"

Merlin's voice was troubled, but he finished Arthur's question with a quiet strength. "Selling me?" He shook his head. "I'm not entirely sure. I know there was an interested party–" Arthur's gut rolled over on itself, and he thought he might be sick, "–but I honestly can't remember anything that happened after he knocked me out." He looked up at Arthur almost shyly. "I'm sorry, that's all I can remember. But to answer your first question, other than breaking my legs, they didn't touch me."

Relief flooded through Arthur. "Honorable slavers?" he asked incredulously.

A hint of mirth touched Merlin's lips. "I think they were afraid of me," he whispered conspiratorially.

Arthur snorted. "Afraid? Of the likes of you? What were you going to do, kill them with your incompetency?"

"I have many talents that you don't know of," Merlin said mysteriously, and if Arthur hadn't known better, he'd think Merlin was being serious.

"You have one talent," Arthur deadpanned. "And that's irritating your king."

"Glad to be of service," Merlin joked.

"That would be a first," Arthur shot back. Then he said, "Merlin, I'm sorry I wasn't able to rescue you myself. I know you would have done the same for me."

Merlin shook his head. "You were injured, sire."

"That wouldn't have stopped you." He regretted the words, and the guilt that permeated them, as soon as they left his mouth.

Merlin studied him seriously for a few moments before responding with a slight grin, "Maybe not, but aren't you always saying I'm a reckless idiot with no mind for my own safety?"

"That, you are," Arthur agreed heartily. A beat. "I'm glad you're back."

"Me, too."

In the comfortable silence that followed, Arthur realized something – he couldn't remember the last time he'd heard a snore from Gwaine. Slowly, he turned around to see the knight still sitting on the bench, his upper body sprawled on the table, face-down. "Gwaine?" Arthur asked.

All was quiet for a handful of hopeful seconds. Then – "...Yes, Arthur?"

Arthur groaned. Behind him, he heard Merlin stifle a chuckle. "How much did you hear?"

Gwaine popped up to an upright position, cracked his neck, popped his knuckles, and sent his friends his most shit-eating grin. "Enough to wonder if you're actually engaged to the right person," he answered chipperly. "You two are so sweet."

Arthur felt the blood rushing into his face, and he steadfastly refused to turn around to look at Merlin, sure that the servant's face, too, would be bright red. "Why, you… I… that's treason!" Arthur exclaimed indignantly, even though it wasn't.

Gwaine shook his hair out of his face, stood, stretched, and ambled his way over to the sick bed. "Merlin, my friend. It's good to see you recovering."

"Thanks, Gwaine," Merlin responded, and Arthur did look back at him now, noting that a fierce blush was indeed just beginning to fade from his cheeks. When he smiled, first at Gwaine, then at Arthur, it was a tired smile, but a hopeful one, too.

"It's good to be home."

FebuWhump2021

Febuwhumpday26

Recovery

Resolution

Sequel

Whump

Hurt Merlin (Merlin)

Hurt Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)

Friendship

Hurt/Comfort

Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Broken Bones

Sword Wound

Gen or Pre-Slash

Protective Merlin

Protective Arthur

Protective Gwaine (Merlin)

Protective Gaius (Merlin)

everyone is protective

Worried Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)

Worried Merlin (Merlin)

Everyone Is Worried Too

Arwen Is Referenced

Heart-to-Heart

arthur shows he cares

Bromance

Epic Bromance

Mentions of Slavery

[seokiloquy]

Tip Toe - Semi Eita

Soulmate AU: Dancer (ballet) x Pianist + name on wrist

Requested

Tags/Warnings: GN! Reader though they are in a more female-dominated role, Fluff

Word Count: 2.3k+

His hands rested on your waist gently, guiding you in circles as your block covered toe dug into the vinyl matted floor. Your arms were raised in the air with your elbows and wrists bent slightly inwards to form an elegant oval frame around your head. The pointed toe at your knee lowered to the floor in a calculated motion. Point, ball, heel. Your knee bent to carry the rest of your transferring weight. Muscle memory set in quick.

The light twinkling of keys filled the air, guiding your moves like a trail of breadcrumbs. Up to point on the high note, drop on the downbeat, spin on the scale. The instrument’s strings vibrated in a happy tune that painted an image of blooming fields across your vision. You smiled, falling into your partner’s arms. You adored the feeling, like twirling in the air and sleeping on fluffy clouds with stars shining above you.

In the opposite corner from the grand piano, your instructor stood with his arms crossed, scrutinizing every dancer’s moves as the ensemble was practiced. He yapped out an order calling for one of the dancer’s heads to look up higher. The music continued.

Your partner’s hands shifted, one coming across your lower stomach, pushing heat through your bodysuit to sit against your sweat coated skin and the other catching your thigh as your leg raised higher into the air. The bent knee that held your weight pulsed before snapping straight, shooting you onto the end of your shoe in a tight arabesque.

You raised your arms, one ahead of you, fingers dancing carefully along your eye line and the other to your side, a little back. The man's hand left your stomach, shifting so he held your raised angle carefully. Toe first, he walked you in circles, spinning like a little fairy in a jewelry box.

After a 180-degree turn, he took your hand, slowly pulling you forward and out of your pose and into a waiting position.

The piano stopped.

"Water, everyone." 

Walking to the back wall of the studio, you ripped open the puckered opening of your flimsy bag. As you dropped the carrier and leaned against the banister that sat under the window, you tilted your head back to pour the iced water down your throat. Your head felt like it was floating, you sighed and sunk into the feeling.

“(L/N).” 

You coughed, choking slightly which prompted your dance partner to rub your back.

“Sorry, you good?” 

“You couldn’t have waited?” you forced out between coughs, the haze that had given you colourful illusions was gone. The dark floor and white light suddenly seemed a lot brighter. You winced, coughing some more.

Matteus, ever the awkward man he was, lowered his hand and offered you the towel that he pulled for your bag. You thanked him, dabbing your neck with the fresh material.

“You were a bit dazed there,” he said, turning to face the window next to you, sticking his pelvis backwards as he leaned on the wooden bar and stretched. “You danced well, as always, but dazed. Something on your mind?”

You bit your lip, closing the cap of your bottle. “I can hardly remember dancing. Honestly, like I knew it was happening but my mind was somewhere else. I think it was the music.” You turned your attention to the grand piano, where the ash-blond pianist sat, speaking with your instructor.

“Hmm? The music is a bit different than normal. I think it’s probably the new pianist they hired? Finally able to give old-man Monty a break.” 

Holding your wrist gently, you dragged the soft pad of your thumb over ink, making it burn under the heat of your hand. “Do you know his name?”

Matteus sat back in his heels before standing straight, catching your gaze as it zeroed in on the musician, unmoving even as the instructor walked to the centre of the room and called for everyone. “No clue.” He looped his arm through yours. 

You watched the loose threads at the tip of your shoe slowly unravel as you walked. Small pink strings slowly littered the black floor you stood on. Another pair? You looked to your fellow dancers’ shoes, noticing similar states of damage between them, nothing in comparison to yours though. Was it all the extra practice? Time to replace them.

Matteus, having actually paid attention to the words coming from your choreographer’s mouth, held your arm and pulled you to the side of the room. “Come on dreamer, time to practice.”

The sturdy dancer led you to the side of the room getting in the circular line, left hand holding yours as his right sat at your lower back. You watched the first pair of ensemble dancers began, running toe first into the center of the room as they waited for the music to begin.

The first key hit the piano. Your breath hitched, and without meaning to your head turned to the piano that was only a few metres away. Using Matteus’ hold to your advantage you leaned back, looking over the shoulders of your friends to catch a fleeting glimpse of the pianist at work.

His eyes were focused on the sheet of paper in front of him, never looking down at his fingers as they did their own dance. His whole body moved with a harder press on the keys and every note he played was visible in the floating of his arms. His grown out, shaggy hair (uncommon in the professional world, but intriguing nonetheless) swayed gently. You caught sight of his head moving upward, just about to get a good look at his face when Matteus gave you a good tug, pulling your attention back to the dance. He chuckled when your eyes went to his canvas slippers and nostrils flared.

You and your mirroring pair on the other side of the room pranced forward and once again you had become lost in the music. 

Early mornings in the studio were your place. No one seemed fond of being in hours earlier than needed and the thought of staying late to practice instead of strengthening or stretching sent shivers up your spine.

Unluckily though, today, like every week or so, was shoe day for you. No early morning practice, no solo improv, just the irritating sounds of ripping fabric and sound smacks of hard materials making contact as you broke in your new pair of pointe shoes.

Raising the expensive shoe over your head, you brought it down to the dance floor with a loud bang.

“That’s a bit harsh, what did the shoe ever do to you?”

Your arms froze above your head at the sudden intrusion. When did the doors open? You looked over your shoulder. On the other side of the room, lit up by the natural light that poured through the window, was the new stranger with musical hands. His casual jacket sat on his shoulders snuggly, sleeves hanging down to his hands. The soft-looking material made a wall, blocking you and anyone else from seeing the name that was printed underneath.

You hitched a breath as his arms flicked out, pulling the offensive fabric higher, only to be met with the sight of one bear wrist and another covered by a slick pair of leather bracelets. You sighed and only realized your mouth was open when you closed it to gulp down any drool that was trying to escape your mouth.

“Sorry,” you pushed out, lowering your arms and reaching for your ribbons and threading needle. “I’m just getting my new shoes prepped.”

“Ah, I didn’t realize you had to replace them frequently,” he said, nonchalantly making his way toward the piano in the corner of the room. His fingers reached to pull out a few slips of paper from his shoulder strap bag. They fluttered as he shook them. “Do you mind if I practice? I was given new music last night.”

“Ah right, we’re starting the opening today. Go ahead, I won't stop you.”

He gave you a small smile before taking the last few steps to the stool, setting the sheets of paper on the available ledge. He played the first note, then the second, and before long he was sight-reading and easily making his way through the opening number at a steady pace.

You stuck your needle and thread through the fabric of your ribbon and marked portion of your ballet slipper. Listening to the music he played as you soaked in the warmth pouring in from the windows above you. You looked up when he spoke.

“You’re an amazing dancer by the way.” He kept his eyes on the sheet music, jaw clenched tightly as he tried to keep even a thread of focus tied to the paper and not all over your presence next to him. “I’m surprised you aren’t in one of the lead positions, ensemble seems too bleak for you.” His ash hair seemed to glow in the sunlight.

“Huh, oh thank you. I think your playing is mesmerizing. I hardly remember dancing yesterday, I was too immersed, ya know?” You tied off your last stitch and began slipping on your protective gear and pointe shoes

You kept your eyes on him, the bright sunlight made all the shadows in the room disappear into a void, leaving the particle-filled beams to give the man in front of you an ethereal stoplight. His eyes pinched slightly and he gave you a meek grin. “Can I ask you a question?”

You rose from your seat on the floor, stepping over to the side of the closed piano. Placing your fingertips on the edge of the instrument you began stretching, using the piano as a barre. “Only if I can ask one back.”

You watched as his fingers pushed against the keys. He — ignoring your legs moving beneath you — met your eyes. His brows raised in a shocked manner that made an endearing warmth grow in your chest. “How did you start dancing, it seems to come naturally to you?”

You brought your toe to your knee. “I was very hyperactive as a kid, so my mom enrolled me in dance. When they saw I was good but still very hyper, they moved me into a dance academy ‘cause the teachers were stricter.”

He laughed, shoulders bouncing as he bit his bottom lip. “Based on what I saw walking in, I guess it didn’t really work.”

You cheered, “You’re right! It didn’t! But I got super hooked on ballet and made them cough up a small fortune to pay for dance education.”

Resting your elbows on the piano lid, you sat back in your heels and flattened your back into a table, stretching the muscles behind your knees. You didn’t notice his wide eyes quickly shoot back to the paper in front of him. 

“So they made a dancing machine,” he spoke smoothly.

“If that machine had a tendency to twist their ankles, then yes,” you smiled up at his peripheral. He laughed. “Okay my turn, similar train, how did you get into music? More so, how did you end up here?”

“Well, in a similar fashion, my mom made me take piano lessons as a kid, but mostly because it’s a skill. I hated playing classical music at the time, but it’s grown on me now. In high school, I played volleyball, so the strong fingers definitely helped. And towards the end of that, I joined a band as their keyboardist.”

“A band?” You shifted positions, standing straight again. You moved on to a port de bras exercise, raising your arms into an oval shape before continuing. “Like a rock band?”

His hair swayed as he nodded and bit his lip. Caught up in both the conversation and memorized movements, you didn't notice his eyes follow your wrist.

“Okay, I have to know. How did you end up here?”

He laughed again, cheeks flushing at your enthusiasm and heart picking up pace. Not that you could tell. He continued, “well the band wasn’t going anywhere and I needed money. And my old piano teacher just so happened to have a few connections.”

The sun rose higher, and the conversation was never-ending until the door opened. Hand on the door, first in the room was Matteus, giving you a surprised look and waving you over as he mouthed off frantic words that you couldn’t make out. The music slowed to a deafening stop, leaving a dissatisfying chord to hang in the air that made your shoulders raise uncomfortably and nearly forced your knees to buckle. You raised a brow in the dancer’s direction, a bit aggravated at the group’s interruption.

You were unaware of the musician’s eyes trained on your profile as he shifted his hands to the beginning tonic chord. Unconsciously, you stood a little straighter, and the pianist smiled.

“He’s early,” Matteus whispered harshly.

Swallowing, you turned back to the black-tipped haired pianist, nervous smile painting your features. He wanted to reach out and soothe the frantic lines on your face, holding your cheek gently.  “What’s your name?” you asked hurriedly. 

He laughed gently, and you swore the sun began to shine brighter. “Eita. Semi, Eita.”

You smiled as he reached out to hold your wrist delicately between his fingers. The name he hoped to hear rolled off your tongue in a hush.

You spent the rest of the day dancing in the sun.

I want to write longer fics like Catch Me If You Can, Pumpkin Spice, and Cross the Pacific, but I feel brain dead. I will at some point. I’m certain. But that point isn’t now. I hope you liked this fluff though. - Bacon

Posted: 31/01/2021

[witchy-anna]

Play with Fire (Dabi songfic)

Quirk: Homeostasis- the ability to force someone’s body back into its stable condition. Requires physical touch to activate. Examples are regulating the body's blood pressure, heart rate and temperature. Disadvantage: May cause the person to go into shock if the quirk works too quickly.

A/N: I’m going to go with vigilante fem!reader, sorry it took so long Fox! You’re a Doll 😘 Each section is essentially a time skip. 

Warning: cursing (I curse a lot, can’t control my potty mouth)

Taglist: @soldier76sbabygirl

Message to be added to taglist

Insane, inside the danger gets me high Can't help myself got secrets I can't tell

Another string of deaths caused by the serial arsonist. When will it end? The news anchor reads off the prompt with obvious faux concern. Is this another travesty caused by the League of Villains? Find out tonight on the Hero News Network.

You sigh and grumble, “What a crock of shit.” 

A husky voice says close to your ear, “You sound more irritated than concerned.”

Without startling to the closeness you crane your neck around and level a glare at the person intruding in on your space. 

A raven haired man stands close, sunglasses obscuring his eyes and shirt collar pulled high covering the bottom half of his face. How strange. 

You tsk and turn back to the screen now playing an expose on a local pro heroes love life, as if that matters. Gesturing vaguely at the screen you spit out, “They sound so..fake...People are dying and instead they focus on who crawled out of bed with some pro.” 

“This world is so full of suffering, who can blame them for being desensitized to it,” the man says with an oddly cheerful tone.

“I suppose so,” you say but it falls on deaf ears. Gone. 

In other news, the police and pros are still on the lookout for a masked vigilante...You spin on your heels before the news anchor can finish their report. With a quickened pace to trudge another monotonous day of desk work. Fun stuff.

I love the smell of gasoline I light the match to taste the heat I've always liked to play with fire

Another night, another secret patrol, hood pulled high, mask secured, and ass kicking boots laced with vengeance. Monotonous desk job during the day and vigilante at night. 

Illegal being the operative word, the one floating in front of your vision akin to an annoying bug. Following you around each and every night you took off on an excursion.

This night was the same as any other night, some unsuspecting fool thinking they could pull one over on you. Sorely mistaken darling. Your quirk may not be the most suited for combat but you had worked hard to get where you are now. 

Again and again late into your sleepless nights you question why you are doing this. Why pick up what the pro heroes leave behind. 

The words etched into your mind of popular top ranking heroes saying: My quirk isn’t suited for this. Let someone else handle it. Over and over again. 

You want to scream in their face, Neither is mine but you don’t see me giving up!

Bitterness will get you nowhere in life, so instead, you chose to focus that venom on helping those left behind. At least, that’s how it was at first. 

I ride (I ride) the edge (the edge) My speed goes in the red

The concussive shock of an explosion nearly knocks you off your feet. Without a second thought you take off in a sprint to the source. 

“No,” you whisper. Just a moment too late. To slow, what you wouldn’t give for a speed quirk. 

Blue flames roar, reaching and clawing high in the sky. There is the distant scream of sirens signaling their approach. Someone is crying, a wail, a whimper, the harsh dissonance of fear. 

Ash falls like snow, blue and black tinted snow. It’s eerie but strangely beautiful. 

Emergency lights reflect off shattered pieces of glass littering the sidewalk and a single silhouette stands framed by the flames. The wind picks up causing ash and debris to fly everywhere; and almost comically his beat-up coat to flair behind him. 

A dry humorous laugh escapes much to your dismay. What is this an action movie? 

Intense eyes matching the azure flames turns to you, meeting your own (e/c) and rooting you to the spot. A flash of stark white teeth stretches the skin at the corners of his mouth, cut in half by scarred skin. No fear, no panic of being caught. 

“Wait!” you shout, desperation evident in your voice. “Stop!” Something nags at your subconscious, that feeling when you leave the house and your mind insists you forgot something but have no inkling what it could be. 

The man leisurely lifts a hand from his pocket and waves without turning around, disappearing around the corner. A wave that says: Until next time. 

Hot blood (hot blood), these veins (these veins) My pleasure is their pain

Another week passes before you see him again. Lying to yourself, you had dropped everything to sprint to another howling blue fire, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. To save people? Or to...no don’t finish that thought, you grumble internally. 

The stench of burnt flesh makes your stomach churn and you stifle a gag even through your mask. Steeling yourself you search for the source, is it a body or a person in need?

You follow your nose to the source. “Oh,” the word leaves your mouth with barely a sound. Just a puff of air really. 

There he sits, reclined against a trash bin partially hidden in shadows. If not for your keen sense of smell he would have stayed hidden. The smell is strong enough to make your eyes water. He watches you with narrowed luminous eyes, the only thing visible in the dim light. You step closer and he raises an open palm pointed at you, the blue flames dance and kiss his skin.

Steam rises from his skin and he pants, clearly in pain. 

“Your quirk hurts you,” it’s a statement not a question. “Let me help.” 

His eyes narrow to slits before he gives a quick nod and you carefully moved to kneel beside him. The palm with the flame clenches closed to extinguish the flame but stays poised to react if you try anything. He lets out a heavy breath that literally steams the air, he’s overheating.

“I need to touch you,” you warn and slowly reach out your own hands. “I can cool you down.” 

There’s a pause and he nods again, staying silent. Up this close the amount of scarred skin is jarring, as well as the staggering amount of piercings or are they staples? No matter, your hands slowly reach up to cup his cheeks and let your quirk kick to life. The steam rising from his skin slowly dissipates as your quirk works to regulate his temperature, cooling him down to his body's normal level. 

Part of you wonders why he is even letting you touch him so...intimately. His temperature now back to as it should be but your hands remain. 

“Is anyone there?” a stern voice calls from the entrance of the alley causing you to jump. Someone shines a flashlight down the alley, it’s a police officer.

“Leave now,” you hiss to him and stand quickly to move out of the cover of shadow. To the police officer you call out a soft, “Hello?”

His mouth opens as if he wants to say something but snaps it closed. Without a word he stands to leave but not without throwing a curious glance at your retreating form. Mask now gone but he can only see the back of your head, he watches as you put on an act for the police officer.

“Interesting,” he says to no one in particular.  

I love to watch the castles burn These golden ashes turn to dirt

And again, he’s toying with you. This is a game to him. 

It’s a mansion this time, his flames eating up the opulence like a cavity. Eating up the perfect expensive abode and turning it to rot; to ash. “How cliche,” you mutter to yourself. “What an idiot.” 

A low chuckle sends shivers down your spine, “I have a name.”

With a half interested turn of your head, you glance back over your shoulder. “Oh? And why would I care?” Lie.  

Another chuckle, but closer this time. He calls you out on your bluff, “Oh Doll, we both know that’s a lie.” 

Right behind you now. You sense no malice, only curiosity coming from the man. 

Your entire body locks up when you feel the barely there brush of a single callused finger at the base of your neck. It flicks the spot where your mask is tied and a breath of hot air sends goosebumps crawling across your skin.

“Dabi,” he whispers. Another long finger adds to the first, pads whispering against the soft skin of your neck. Heat radiates from both the fire in front of you and the man at your back. He tugs gently enough at your mask tie to not remove it, yet. “Why did you help me?”  

That’s a good question, why did you? Because he’s a pretty face or someone in need, regardless of villain or civilian status. 

You dodge the question, “Why did you let me?”  

“Maybe I just want to unmask a certain little vigilante,” he chuckles again and it vibrates against your back. A single finger slips underneath your mask brushing against your cheek and dips to ghost over your lips and you let him. 

“And maybe you’re just a pretty face,” you say, just a tad breathlessly. 

He hums, “Oh so you think I’m pretty?” He chuckles at the blush creeping over your neck but then curses when there’s a shout about a pro arriving on the scene. 

Dabi says directly into your ear, “Until next time Doll.” Gone.

I've always liked to play with fire Play with fire Fire, fire Oh, watching as the flames get higher Oh, I've always liked to play with (mm)

This time, he finds you. 

“Are you following me?” you ask. It’s quiet where you sat, luckily far away from the view of any passing civilians as he could be easily recognized.

He sits beside you, stretching his long legs out and crossing them at the ankle. “You never answered my question last time,” it’s a statement, ignoring your attempt at deflecting. 

“I- I don’t know,” you admit staring down at your hands as if they hold all the answers. They clench and unclench in your lap. 

You are the antithesis to his sturm and drang. A man who clearly is the type to take what he wants, simply sits beside you, waiting and watching the war going on inside of you. 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he teases. “It was a simple question.” 

Little did you know at the time it would only take one little push, or rather a gentle pull to flip your already wavering resolve. A hand catching yours, rough calloused thumb rubbing a line across your knuckles distracting you. The other shoots out and releases the tie of your mask before you can react. 

“Maybe I just want the satisfaction of turning a vigilante hero to our side,” he says but spits out the word ‘hero’. 

That’s what you get for letting your guard down. That’s what you get for letting a villain get so close. 

“Get away from me,” you snarl and shoot to your feet. Reaching to yank back the mask he took from you but he keeps a firm grip on it. With a frustrated growl you rip the mask from him and storm off, face lit with a flush. 

A dry raspy laugh sounds from him, and he says those stupid infuriating words again, “Until next time. Doll.”

Right of passage classic maverick Match in the gas tank Ooh that's wretched Unstoppable legendary animals (mm)

Just in time, you find him face to face with a pro, no, it’s a sidekick but dangerous nonetheless. The sidekick is clearly a newbie, shaking slightly in their boots but standing firm against the notorious villain. 

Dabi has clearly overexerted himself again, the steam rises from him in waves, a drip of blood leaves a trail that disappears below the collar of his shirt. 

Both swivel to face you. One pair of stern eyes that immediately recognize you as that vigilante. The other pair of eyes at first looks annoyed at the new addition but then relaxes to an easy expression, one of familiarity. 

There’s a challenge in those azure eyes, asking what will you do? Who will you side with? 

The sidekick starts to advance turning their attention away from you. You sprint, desperate to get to Dabi before the sidekick does. 

Dabi sends out a flare of him fire directly at the sidekick but aims it away from you, over your head. What? Impossibly warm arms close around your waist, shielding you from harm. Again, what? 

A camera flash. At the last second you realize your mask must haven fallen off in the chaos. 

Right time for them; wrong time for you. Shit.

Digital justice Now you're gonna know us

Your face is displayed across tvs, newspapers, online articles, everything. 

Vigilante Hero unmasked. Connections to the League of Villains?

An entirely unflattering picture from your workplace displayed beside the picture from the previous night. You, held in the arms of Dabi. 

Your apartment had already been raided and is being watched by the police. An entire lifetime of stuff out of your reach in an instant. What did you expect to happen with this type of lifestyle anyway? Only the clothes on your back and a long since smashed cell phone tossed into a dumpster. 

You go back to the place where he first took your mask, bearing your naked face to the world. Baring your face to him. 

Hail to the king and queen of the ruckus Yacht Money wired No denying I've always liked to play with fire

“There’s no going back now Doll,” he says in a hushed tone. There is an edge uncertainty hidden under his usual bravado, maybe even vulnerability. 

You shake your head, “Who said anything about going back.”  

Azure eyes meet your own (e/c) and matching grins split both of your faces. Rough callused fingers slip into your palm and twine through your fingers, tugging until your nose to nose. His tongue darts out to taste the ash stuck to his scarred lip, it floats all around you both like a gentle but haunting snowfall. 

“No going back now,” you repeat the sentiment before sealing your now flipped resolve with a kiss.

I've always liked to play with fire

[hurtfairchild]

Clary/Jonathan, 3k, Rated E

Tags: Canon Compliant, Explicit Sexual Content, Vaginal Sex, Cowgirl Position, Light Pain Play/Blood Play/Nipple Play, Sibling Incest, Dubious Consent Due to Magic Bond, Episode: s03e20 City of Glass, Morgencest, Soft Siblings

@bannedtogetherbingo2020 prompt: Strong Women Leaders

Read on AO3

Part 4 of the Blood & Bone Series

Clary and Jonathan order the Seelie Queen to get them the Morningstar Sword. Clary's jealous and turned on by the display.

The Seelie Queen’s back was straight, her eyes twinkling with smugness and defiance. She looked as regal as ever. Clary wondered how that was possible. She wouldn’t look that good if she’d spent the night tied to a chair, prisoner. But she wasn’t an immortal ruler of one of the most complex people she’d ever imagined, so she couldn’t judge.

Jonathan was leaning against the doorframe, legs crossed, watching the Queen with sharp, predatory eyes. Clary wasn’t really used to this side of him. The softness with which he looked at her was incredibly different. His entire face looked different like this. He was dangerous.

“You know,” Jonathan started, “Usually, when people are kidnapped, they scream. They beg. Why are you smiling?”

He talked slowly, deliberately. Clary felt a shiver run down her spine. Jonathan smirked for half of a second, so fast that she barely saw it. He knew how it made her feel to see him this dangerous.

The Seelie Queen’s attention was entirely on him. He seemed to enjoy that greatly. He was being watched by both of them after all, two beautiful women; one at his complete mercy, the other his sister.

“There’s no need for me to make such a spectacle of myself when your sister is doing all of the screaming herself,” the Queen retorted.

Fuck. Clary felt herself flush in the dark of the corner as she watched the two of them. Of course the Queen had heard everything. Clary hadn’t exactly been discreet.

“When you first came to my Court,” the Queen continued. “I thought you nothing more than an impetuous child. But you're a man now, aren't you?” she purred.

Clary swallowed angrily. The Queen was flirting with Jonathan. She could feel it, in the purring of the Queen’s voice when she emphasized how much of a man he was. That Seelie had no idea what she was talking about. Clary was the one in bed with Jonathan.

“Perhaps you shouldn't have underestimated me,” Jonathan replied, cool and collected. His voice alone was enough for Clary to feel hot.

“A mistake I can't possibly make again,” the Seelie Queen said with a small chuckle. “Never in the history of the Seelie Court has someone managed to do what you have.”

Clary blinked. The Queen hadn’t been talking about sex. She’d been talking about Jonathan kidnapping her. How fast had Clary’s mind jumped to the conclusion? Or maybe she was talking about both. That would be just like the Queen.

“Well...I can't take all the credit, your Highness,” Jonathan smirked. The title sounded dirty in his mouth, in this slow and dangerous voice he used. He was flirting back.

Clary stepped into the room. “If you two are done flirting…” Her voice was harsher and colder than she expected it to be. This was really annoying her.

Jonathan seemed aware of that, because he looked up at her with slightly wider eyes. “I wasn't flirting,” he explained. He looked ready to apologize to her.

The Seelie Queen’s smirk was unmistakable. “I was.”

Clary’s blood boiled at that. How dare she? Jonathan was hers, not the Queen’s, and it made her want to punch the Seelie in the face to knock her down a peg, to make her understand that she would never have him. Clary could feel her rage building almost instantly, like a match to petrol built a fire.

Jonathan’s eyes were trained on her now, darker than before. And then it came. The arousal. Clary smirked, her eyes quickly meeting Jonathan’s. She was the only one able to do that to him, to turn him on like this.

She turned her attention back to the Queen. The woman’s eyes were watching the two of them intently. There was no use in pretending what had happened hadn’t. She’d seen them fuck in the club, she’d heard them fuck all night and again in the morning. Clary had no shame in front of the Seelie.

“We have to attend to the matter at hand,” Clary started. “Your people have something that belongs to us,” she explained. “So, why don't you use your birds and your bees to tell the Seelie Court to hand over the Morning Star sword.”

She loved mocking the way the Seelie Queen usually talked. Oh, how the tables had turned. Now it was her who was at their mercy.

“And if I don't comply?” the Queen asked, arrogant.

Clary slapped her, hard. She’d been wanting to since the bitch had started flirting with Jonathan. It felt good to see the strong and usually so invisible and intimidating Queen be struck down. It felt so good she could feel herself getting wet.

“I'd expect this behaviour from a proper Morgenstern,” the Queen continued. She spoke in her usual slow and sensual tone but there was a hint of offense in her green eyes. “Not from you.”

The insult was sharp. Needles pointed right at Clary’s sensitivities. Clary’s lips pressed together angrily as she looked at the woman. How dare she insult her like this?

“I am a proper Morgenstern,” Clary snapped. “Just like my brother.”

She took a few steps towards Jonathan, looking at her fully for the first time in minutes. He was staring at her in obvious lust and awe and it went straight to her pussy.

“After all” - Clary reached him, settling by his side. Her hand rested on his chest softly, even if she wanted to grab his jacket and crash their bodies together -"We are one.”

Jonathan stared at her intensely, licking his lips. Clary smiled at him.

“Bedroom,” she whispered, as low as possible, before walking away.

She was already halfway through undressing when the door of the bedroom shut after him. He was right. The pants posed a bit of a hassle right now.

He came up behind her, slipping his hands around her waist. She could feel his fingers on the patch of skin between her top and her pants, could feel his breath against her neck.

“Watching you go head to head with the Seelie Queen is the hottest thing I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing,” he said softly.

Clary smirked, leaning back against him. She could feel his arousal;not only physically but through the bond, calling at her, washing over her like waves. It was like standing at the edge of the sea, feeling the waves try to take you away every time they reached you.

Jonathan pressed his lips to her neck. He seemed to like to do that. She let him.

It was hard to stay away from his touch now that she’d given in not once, not twice, but many times. It was hard to push herself away from him. All she wanted was to be close. Clary closed her eyes. His hands started roaming over her body.

“Hopefully our…guest...is telling her people we want the sword.”

“Guest?” Clary chuckled. She turned around in his arms, looking him right in the eyes. She felt a fire light under her skin then. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “No,” she whispered. She pulled him close, down to her, so his lips were almost touching hers. “Our prisoner.”

She almost felt his smirk against her lips as he grabbed her, picking her up and closing the couple of steps to the bed that were left. He almost threw her on it and she giggled.

They tore themselves out of their clothes and grabbed at each other as soon as they could, needy, desperate for each other’s touch.

Clary’s fingers dug into Jonathan’s skin as they stumbled over the bed, trying to find a position satisfactory for the both of them. She’d let him manhandle her most of the time before, but she was feeling a bit too powerful for that now.

She wrestled him onto his back, sitting down on his lap with a smirk. He looked up at her, eyes wide and surprised. But if the raging hard-on he had and Clary’s dripping wet pussy were any tale, they were both enjoying this situation very much. Clary smirked.

She let her fingers trail down his chest, using her nails to scratch over his nipples. He groaned and writhed a little under her and she felt it like lightning through her bones.

“You’re so sensitive, Jonathan,” she praised, and went over his nipples again, harder this time. It wasn’t gentle in any way, but the way he bucked underneath her made obvious how much he enjoyed this.

“Tell me, brother, do you like pain?” she asked softly. “Do you like when I claw at you? When I draw blood from your back with my nails?”

She let her hand rest at the center of his chest, lightly for now.

Jonathan’s mouth hung open and his eyes were wild. “Yes,” he replied, reverently. “Yes, I do.”

Clary smirked. “Good.”

She dug her nails into his skin harshly, and pulled her hand down his chest. It was like trails of fire going down her torso and she grunted. Jonathan was breathing hard, his cock twitching against her legs and his eyes open wide.

She looked down at herself. From right in between her breasts to right above her belly button, twin marks of nails adorned her, blood pearling over the edges of it; almost a perfect mirror image to Jonathan’s body.

The next wave of arousal from them both threatened to overwhelm her. She would have loved more foreplay, truly, but the need, the formidable ache she felt to be joined to him, wouldn’t let her wait for much longer.

She carefully moved, grabbed his hard and leaking cock, and angled it right against her entrance.

“Clary,” he whispered, worshiping.

Clary smiled and let herself sink on his cock.

They groaned together, feeling the way their bodies fit like pieces of a puzzle. She sunk down until he had bottomed out and waited a second. She was breathing just as hard as he was now, the fire burning through her.

Jonathan reached for her, with both hands, and Clary took them. She intertwined their fingers, leaning down to him. She dragged his arms back. She pinned them to the bed. Seeing him with his mouth open, awe and need written so obviously all over his face that anyone could know what he felt, bare and open and vulnerable to her, was almost enough to make her come on the spot.

She used the grip on his hands as leverage and started to move. She started slow, torturous, long and deliberate motions of her hips, raising herself up until he was almost out of her every time, and sinking back down. She wanted to feel every second of this, wanted to drag all the noises out of his mouth.

It wasn’t just her at his mercy, it was him at hers. She could make him fall apart as hard and as thunderously as he could do the same to her. Fuck.

Clary picked up the pace a little, fucking herself down onto him faster than before.

“You feel so good inside of me,” she groaned. “You fill me so perfectly, I’ve never felt something like that before…” She tightened her grip on his hands.

Jonathan was watching her still. Clary wanted to drown in his eyes. No one had ever looked at her like that before. Or maybe she’d never been able to pay attention to it. Right now, there was nothing else she could see. She was leaning over him, fucking herself onto his cock faster and harder the longer it went, her hair falling down around her face, restricting her vision of him.

She knew he was holding himself back, that she probably would not be able to hold him down like this if he wasn’t letting her, but it was just making this whole thing hotter. The control he let her have on him right now, even if relatively trivial and far from total, made the warm coil of pleasure tighten in her groin.

His pale skin gleamed slightly from sweat. Clary wanted to bite marks into it, red and dark. She wanted to lick at the runes on his chest, the ones that were a little too familiar; like Jace’s or like hers.

His eyes sometimes left hers to settle on her breasts, watching them move with her motions, before looking back up at her probably flushed face. What did she look like to him? For a moment she was curious. If this continued, maybe she should ask him to bring a mirror in.

She’d thought about it before, but had never dared to ask. It was one of those things she was almost ashamed to ask Simon or Jace to do, but she had no problem with possibly telling Jonathan. She was riding his cock and he was her brother. They were past any sort of taboo, right?

She was starting to feel the aching burn in her thighs from the constant motions, her breathing was hard and shallow and the building pleasure in her core wasn’t going to last much longer.

“I’m close, Clary,” Jonathan whispered and Clary nodded.

She leaned down to kiss him, hard and bruising. Her teeth latched onto his bottom lip and she bit him. She could have been much more careful, but she didn’t care. And he certainly enjoyed it. The pain in her own mouth was sharp, the taste of blood sudden.

The blinding orgasm that followed took her entirely by surprise. She cried out his name right as he cried out hers, right in each other’s mouths, and she finally stopped moving. His face as he came was the most sinful thing she’d ever seen. His mouth was open, his lip bloody from her bite; his eyes wide and lost in the pleasure she could feel from both their orgasms.

Clary found herself unable to hold herself up for much longer, her arms and legs shaky with exhaustion. She let herself rest onto him.

“Was it the bite that did it for you?” she panted.

Jonathan nodded. She’d let go of his hands and he was now touching her, caressing her, mapping every inch of her body he’d ached to touch during the ride. He was so tender with her.

She was in no hurry to move, however. He was softening inside of her, but she didn’t really care. Right now, she needed him as close as she could. Jonathan’s arms wrapped around her and she settled more comfortably on top of him. His heart was racing. She was pretty sure hers was too.

“Raziel,” he whispered. “You’re amazing.”

Clary smirked lazily. “I know.”

Jonathan chuckled under her, pressing a kiss on her sweaty forehead. She felt sticky and tired and completely sated. She probably could have fallen asleep like this.

Jonathan was the one who moved them, shifting and rolling to the side so they were laying side by side. Still intertwined, his cock still somewhat inside of her. It wasn’t the most comfortable feeling but for some reason the idea of losing that physical manifestation of how deeply their lives and souls felt intertwined was terrifying.

Her fingers traced the runes on his chest, the marks she’d made with her nails, the lines of his abs. There were so many things she wanted to map out, so many details she needed to remember.

“I don’t think I’ve ever…had so much pleasure with sex,” she admitted.

Jonathan looked thoughtful. “Me neither,” he said after a while. “I…don’t know why. But it feels right.”

Clary bit her lip a little, watching him. Once again, she wondered how he was so calm and so unashamed of this, of them. Even in her happy, post-orgasmic bliss she could feel the nagging of the taboo in the back of her mind.

“What we’re doing…I feel like it’s wrong. Not because I don’t feel good, but because you’re my brother,” Clary admitted.

He looked a little hurt for just a second before she explained why she felt wrong. He swallowed. She could see his Adam's apple bobbing. After a few seconds, he gently pulled out the rest of the way, putting just a little bit of distance between them. Enough to make her pout.

“Siblings are not supposed to have sex, are they?” Jonathan asked after a long silence.

Clary nodded. “They’re not. It’s really taboo, and wrong and…I still have trouble not feeling disgusted by what we do.”

“It’s been less than a day. I wouldn’t expect you to completely stop feeling wrong in so little time,” he pointed out.

Clary reached out to touch him, tracing his collarbone tenderly. “How can you be so okay with this?” she asked quietly. “I don’t understand it.”

Jonathan’s eyes closed a little for a few seconds before he spoke. “I wasn’t raised like you were, Clary. Our dad kept me away from the world enough that I already would have had trouble with social norms if I hadn’t been…given to Lilith.”

Clary swallowed. That made sense.

“I haven’t been around Earth for very long, but I’m starting to catch on to a couple of concepts. Not fast enough to be ashamed of how much physical intimacy I have with you though.”

Clary never wanted him to be ashamed the way she was. It was ugly and gnawed at her from the inside when she could just be carefree. It didn’t have to mean to him what it did to her. It was just sex, he was right. Wasn’t he? She didn’t know. She was lost.

Jonathan leaned in to kiss her forehead again, and then he rolled away from her and off of the bed. “I’ll take a quick shower before we start preparing to go to the Seelie Court.”

[kiatheinsomniac]

Chapter III: Rooftop Talks

Part one: here Part two: here

Every student was gathered in the hall. (Y/n) looked around oddly, taking a mental headcount. There were only twenty-five students. That was one class.

They had just met the principal, Crawford Starrick who was standing on a podium and had just announced that they were allowed to have their first day to themselves in order to familiarise themselves with the building and the grounds. Perfectly timed, he asked if anyone had any questions. A few hands went up, along with (Y/n)’s.

“So, do we get to go out on the weekends at all?” Asked a boy who looked strikingly similar to Evie. (Y/n) concluded that this must be her twin, Jacob.

“If you’re willing to make the walk.” The principal replied. (Y/n)’s brows shot up, recalling how long the drive had been through the woods; she couldn’t imagine walking that distance. She was called on next.

“Is this everyone? I mean, it’s only one class unless we’re being split into two smaller classes.” She pointed out her observation.

“Each student here is handpicked for success.” The reactions to this were a mix of straightening backs with pride and scoffing, “We want you all to achieve your very best and thought a singular class would better achieve that.” He explained. (Y/n) nodded her head but something about it felt odd. Just one class? Then again, it could be down to the school being new and having to prove its worth before it could accept more students. “Kassandra.” He called on the Greek who had her hand up.

“So what aren’t we allowed to do?” She questioned, not wanting to get into an argument with staff over something she didn’t know.

“Break curfew, start fights, truant, steal, fail to hand in assigned tasks on time, disobey staff, have mobile phones.” The Greek smiled sweetly.

“Ok.” Was her simple answer. (Y/n) squinted her eyes at her slightly. She seemed far too happy with that answer. Why was she smiling so much? Why did her eyes light up?

With no more questions left, they were dismissed to familiarise themselves with the grounds. (Y/n) made her way over to Kassandra, curious. The Greek grabbed her hand and went running down the hall. A few other students watched this, curious before looking to their peers and shrugging, running after them.

When Kassandra finally stopped, they were standing at the top of a staircase by a set of old rusty doors. (Y/n) turned around to see that they had company. Claudia, Aveline and two other boys who (Y/n) didn’t know were all behind Kassandra and herself.

There was a loud creak and snap. Kassandra had kicked the door open, breaking the worn-down lock inside while keeping the doors intact. There was glass on the outside of the metal framing but it was so overgrown with moss that it was difficult to see what was outside. Was this some sort of balcony?

As soon as the doors were opened, it was revealed to be the roof. They all walked out onto it, chattering among themselves while (Y/n) made her way to the edge of the far wall. She could see the lake that gave Vermere Lake Grammar School its name. It was off in the distance, past the extravagant gardens and field with a few layers of trees blocking it from the view if you were on the ground. It appeared to be a clearing in the middle of the sea of green trees and had a stream trickling into it.

(Y/n) took the opportunity to look around the area from a higher viewpoint which she stood on. Trees and trees and trees covered the hills around the school. The colour was quickly becoming sickening to look at everywhere she turned.

Her (e/c) orbs flickered to the gardens and the sports field. She prayed that she wouldn't have to participate in any form of physical education. She had always been far more academic than athletic and saw it as a waste of time - she could be studying something far more useful in her opinion. The gardens were wonderful and defined by tidy gravel paths. The hedges and trees were trimmed to perfection and the colourful pop of the flowerbeds were a nice change from the constant, droning green. There were statues scattered in a grid among the gardens and a large fountain stood proudly in the epicentre of it all. The water was running, putting on a repetitive show, sunlight reflecting off the water and making it sparkle, while statues of cherub angels and mermaids were in the centre. It was a very flamboyant school, indeed.

She shuffled a little closer to the edge before a pair of hands carefully held her sides in a tight, yet cautious grip, causing her to jolt slightly with surprise.

“Careful, don’t fall.” A male voice spoke from behind her. She turned around to see that it was a boy with long brown hair which he swept back into a ponytail, tied with red satin. His skin was softly sunkissed and he had rich brown eyes with golden tones glimmering amongst them. He wore a deep blue high-necked jumper which defined his torso and was tucked into a pair of black trousers which were accompanied by a black Louis Vuitton belt and black suede boots. She took a step from the edge, which inevitably brought her body closer to his, before making her way past him.

She flashed a shy smile, blushing a little at how he'd held her hips, "Thank you." She managed out before making her way over to Claudia and Aveline seeing as she knew them the best. She thought over leaving so abruptly like that. Perhaps he wanted to get to know the other students here too - after all, most people here didn't know one another. She found herself feeling odd and liking how touchy some of the other students were - the way Kassandra had grabbed her hand, the way Arno had grabbed her sides, etcetera. She never got much affection from her parents and never had any friends to give her any either. She quite liked the contact. It was comforting.

What unnerved her though, was the realisation that she was so touch-starved that she was enjoying this from people that she hardly knew. It was quite a shocking sudden realisation, really; something that she didn't want to admit to so she pushed the thought away. She would be getting to know them all soon enough anyway, right? Well, aside from Cesare and Lucrezia. She didn't plan on associating herself with those two.

She hadn't even been here for a whole day and she was already finding out things about herself that she had failed to notice in the past. It only made her lap up all these new changes even more, finally free of that old routine which she was constantly restrained by back at her home.

(Y/n) watched as a blonde male student went running for the lake, followed by an olive-skinned boy who resembled Kassandra a lot.

"Oh, I think they're going to jump in." She pointed out as she gestured her hand towards the two students that were sprinting across the sports field and making a beeline for the lake.

"Of course he is." The Greek girl sighed, a smile on her lips as she watched one of the two boys in particular. "The taller one's my little brother, Alexios; but, a lot of his friends call him Deimos." She paused for a while, her smile lingering as she witnessed her brother and the blonde student strip off as many layers as they could (while staying decent) before plunging off the small pier and into the cold water, "I never liked his friends back home, they were terrible for him. If he's mean to you: don't take it to heart." She rested a hand on (Y/n)'s shoulder to express her sincerity, "Those friends of his made him an asshole but I'm hoping that he will change now that he's not around them anymore. Mater hopes so too."

"Are you here for a change too?" The ebony-haired female prompted, wanting to get her own story across int he process.

"Because I tried to defend him from his friends, I ended up making a lot of enemies back at home." Shrugged, "I've always been one to punch first and ask questions later." (Y/n)'s eyes roved over Kassandra's arms to see how muscular she was. She definitely seemed like she would win a fight. "I suppose I'm looking to try and change myself in that aspect - learn to negotiate. But I know it won't happen overnight." She laughed at herself.

"I mostly accepted the application here because I wanted a change and I don't really have anyone at home." (Y/n) expressed, "I'd wake up and go to my school where I never had any friends, study all break and lunch, go home to paint or read for half an hour, study until dinner then get in the shower and go to sleep." She explained, "I was always home alone a lot because my parents work all the time. I've never been close to them. . . They didn't even drop me off at the airport. . . The family driver was the only one with me. . ." She spoke nonchalantly but Kassandra looked liked like she was on the verge of heartbreak.

For the Greek girl, her family was one of the most important things in her life, her source of happiness. It made her sad to know that her classmate didn't have anyone at all in the world.

"Well, you have friends now." She beamed, throwing an arm around her shoulder, "A lot of people here seem to like you already." Her gaze went back to her brother and the other student who were still swimming in the cold water and her lips tugged into a frown, "He's going to get sick if he stays in there too long. . . I should go get him." And with that, she left and (Y/n) made her way over to Claudia who was standing under a large greenhouse which was on the roof, gesticulating a lot with her hands while Aveline, the boy in blue from earlier, and the other guy were all paying attention to her.

". . . Just imagine it!" She spoke expressively, "Some lights, some chairs, pillows and blankets! If we clean up the glass and the floor and maybe add a few little flowerpots and trinkets on the shelves! This could be an awesome hangout! And, judging by the doors on the way up here, no one comes up here, so we can keep it as a thing between people we like."

"That's quite a cool idea, actually," Aveline spoke from where she was standing inside the rather large greenhouse, a frown tugged at her full lips, "But it would be nicer with some music."

"I bought my guitar with me." The boy that (Y/n) had yet to meet raised his hand in contribution. He had an Italian accent which made (Y/n)'s eyes flicker between him and Claudia, making note of their similarities. She concluded that this was Ezio, Claudia's brother. He, like Arno, suited long brown hair which was tied back - but he had shorter parts that fell loose and framed his angular face neatly. He wore a white hoodie with dark red joggers and white trainers. She wondered why he was dressed so casually until she realised that he and his sister must have had to wake up early to catch the plane and he would have wanted to be comfortable for the journey.

"I'm going to miss my music - I really hate this 'no phones' rule." The one who (Y/n) had briefly spoken to earlier piped up, "I mean, in a controlled environment like a boarding school, they're not exactly going to get in the way of us learning." He shrugged as he leaned against the glass, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Good point." (Y/n) agreed. Ezio turned his eyes to her, not having noticed her before. The Italian raised one of his brows in amusement, a flirtatious and teasing smile tugging at his scarred lips.

"You're quiet." He pointed out.

"Oh, leave her alone, stronzo. She's not one of your easy girls back home and I don't want you sleeping with my friends." Claudia snapped at her older brother, placing her hands on her hips to try and show her authority. Her older brother smiled at this while (Y/n)'s (e/c) eyes widened.

"Whoa, that escalated quickly." She held up her hands, shocked at how the conversation had gone from him teasing her about being quiet to Claudia telling him to not try it on with her.

"Oh, believe me, it would have escalated either way." The female Auditore rolled her chestnut eyes, "I'm sure that as soon as he said that, he would have mentioned something about getting you to moan loudly." She shot an accusing gaze at her brother who tossed his head around, considering his answer with a playful smile.

"Guilty." He confessed, his eyes going back to (Y/n) who felt quite singled out. The other boy clicked his tongue.

"Talking dirty to a girl as soon as you meet her isn't going to get her in your bed." He corrected.

"It isn't?" Ezio shot back, "Oh please, master seducer Arno, share your knowledgable ways with me?"

"Alright, we're leaving." Aveline rolled her eyes, amusement playing on her lips as Claudia followed her and she took (Y/n) by the arm to lead her away as well, "We don't want any part of your guy talk."

"Is your brother always like that?" (Y/n) asked Claudia.

"Yes." Was her blunt reply, "But don't misinterpret him; he respects women a lot even though he sleeps with all the pretty ones he sees. When my ex cheated on me, he broke his nose and when his ex got a new boyfriend, he made sure that he'd be good to her with a heavy threat."

"That's. . . violent but also incredibly sweet?" (Y/n) laughed while she glanced over her shoulder to where Arno and Ezio were having an in-depth discussion about the best way to seduce a woman. She rolled her eyes before following Aveline back downstairs, hoping that she wasn't still the topic of their conversation.

She decided that she wanted to explore the school building.

[everlarkficexchange]

Unmasked ~ Twenty-Four

Written by: ~ M ~

Prompt #88

Rating: E (Explicit) This fic will contain consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; discussions of miscarriage; discussions of minor character suicide; references to non consensual sexual situations; minor character death. 

My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery. 

Dear readers, we continue with our game. I thank you for allowing me to write and share with you from behind a mask, for embracing this story wholeheartedly despite not knowing my identity. Remember, learn my name, you must use the clues in each chapter starting with 21 until the end to hunt for a word in the text of each chapter itself. Gather the words, hold onto them, for they will provide the final clue to the puzzle. 

Please enjoy the twenty-fourth chapter of this adventure. It is again a lengthy chapter. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,

~ M ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~ Chapter 24 ~~

The morning we leave Everdeen dawns cold and grey. Frost covers the ground and a chill seeps from the stones through my boots as I make my way outside to the stables. Inside is warm, the pungent scent of horse and hay heavy in the air. Peeta is already here, silent as he communicates somehow with Cicero, through touch alone. Peeta turns to give me a wan smile, alerted to my presence by the response of both horses to my scent. We have chosen to leave our mounts here at Everdeen, in Johanna’s able care, and will travel by carriage, but we cannot leave them without a farewell. We stand side by side as we do so.

When we leave the stables, my hand seeks out Peeta’s and he twines our gloved fingers together. We walk with matched steps towards the carriage, two well worn trunks tied to the top and a quartet of horses waiting, stamping their hooves in the chill air to keep warm. Frederick sits atop the box, draped in coats and scarves and blankets for warmth.

We embrace and bid farewell to our family. The last time I left, it was with determination and trepidation. I feel those same things again this morning as Madge murmurs words of encouragement to me. Yet there is more inside me. As I ascend into the carriage, my fingers tucked into Peeta’s as he assists me, I also feel a joyful sort of anticipation.

The carriage leaves, and we wave to those we leave behind until they are out of sight, faded into the distance. I ensure that my healing kit is secure beneath my seat, then I seize one of the fresh, warm blankets Sae stocked the carriage with and leap across to the opposite seat to sit beside him.

Peeta laughs as I insert myself in his arms, pressed tight to his body. He adjusts the blankets about us, creating a cocoon of comfort. “Much better,” I declare as he leans down and kisses the tip of my nose.

The journey takes several days, all of which begin cold, and gradually warm to a comfortable temperature by afternoon. Night brings the chill once again. As we travel north, the cold only permeates deeper, lasts longer, until the day is nothing but cold. We spend our time in the carriage seated as close as possible, talking or reading, and on one especially dull stretch of road…kissing madly. Peeta’s hand wanders beneath my skirts, toying with the ribbons on my stockings and teasing me until my thighs quiver with the need for him to touch me, to bring me to climax on those clever fingers of his. 

Unfortunately, just as I think we’re getting somewhere, we reach our midday stop and he withdraws his hand. I consider pleading ill and demanding we take a room at the inn for the night rather than merely stopping for sustenance, but this is not a purely pleasurable trip. We’ve a child waiting for us and can not afford to tarry longer than planned.

After our noon meal that day, I curl up and sleep, content and warm, reclined against Peeta’s shoulder. There are occasional unplanned stops when the nausea and dizziness overwhelm and I can no longer withstand the jostling of the carriage. On those stops, I must run for the side of the road. Peeta is unfailingly there to help me right myself and to comfort me after. He is, for the entire journey, perfectly solicitous and perhaps a tiny bit overly protective of me. I feel it in the way he guides me in and out of establishments when we stop, in the way he uses his body as a physical shield between mine and strangers. It is in the way he tucks me into blankets and confers with Frederick to ensure everything is safe and secure before we depart. The knife always near at hand, even when we are locked in our room for the night and tucked into bed.

At night, we sleep bodies pressed tight together on cramped inn beds, too tired to engage in much beyond holding one another and a few murmured words before we sleep. Besides that, I am uncertain of the cleanliness of these beds and their comfort leaves much to be desired, so I restrict myself to chaste nights with my husband. De Vale will certainly have clean, comfortable beds for us to make use of and provide time for us to better rest.

Peeta does not seem to mind. In fact, the closer we get to de Vale, the more distant he becomes. At first, I am annoyed and hurt by this, but then I think about what it must mean to him, what it must take to fulfill this request – no this demand – from the man who might biologically be his father but whom is such only because he raped Peeta’s mother. What a sticky, uncomfortable position that must have constantly put Peeta in as a young man, even now as a man fully grown. Their relationship forever one part reluctant gratitude and one part utter loathing.

I cannot fathom how he handles it and manage my annoyance at his growing distance by lacing my fingers with his, kissing his cheek, and murmuring that I love him and that he can speak to me if he wishes to. 

On the third day of travels, Peeta shifts uncomfortably, waking me from a nap after a fitful night of sleep. “What is it?”

“We’ve reached the border of de Vale,” he says simply.

“Oh good. I could use a cup of tea and a long stroll to stretch my legs,” I say and Peeta caresses over my cheek, tilting my lips up to his.

“I’m afraid that is still a few hours away, my love.”

“What?” I ask and practically crawl across his lap to lift the curtain and stare out at the lands. 

Sharply sloped hills lead to craggy cliffs. Snow twirls through the air, tossed about by haphazard winds. The land is grey and brown and dismal, the snow sticking to the ground in patches without accumulation that make it appear… spotted and ugly. There is no sign of a house or a lane.

Peeta shifts me so that I may see better, ties back the curtain. I shiver and he wraps his arms and the blanket around me.

“It’s so…cold,” I say and he nods.

“And we’re not even to the house yet.”

I snort and set my hands over his so he will continue to hold me. “Is it truly another several hours’ journey?”

“Yes,” he says and I sigh. 

We pass the next few hours sharing only scattered words. I would demand he put his hands under my skirts again to distract him, except he seems so agitated that I am uncertain of his response. As we draw closer, I can no longer stand the silence.

“Should we pretend to be miserable together? Would that satisfy the Marquis enough to hasten our visit?”

“It does not matter how we present ourselves. He will think he has won somehow.” I have no answer for that and turn a quizzical look towards Peeta. He runs a hand through his hair, disturbing the carefully styled curls that have behaved themselves all morning since we left the inn, but he explains. “If we are miserable, he will delight in it and claim it is because it is what we deserve. If we are happy, he will claim credit for that and arrogantly assume it is all his influence.”

I snort at this and make another suggestion. “And if we are silent and apathetic?”

“Close enough to miserable for him delight in that as well.”

“Are you not supposed to be making me like this man? He is technically your father.”

“He was never my father, not in any real sense. More of a benefactor.” Peeta looks out the window, away from me. His jaw tense and his frame rigid in his seat. I slide across the carriage seat to wrap my arms around him and kiss one cheek, then the other, claiming his attention.

“Then we might as well be just as we are, husband, no pretending, no games.”

“And what are we, wife?”

“Madly in love and ridiculously happy, of course,” I tell him and he smiles. 

“That is an act I can manage quite easily, for it is no act at all,” he says and we distract ourselves with kisses for a few minutes.

Then the carriage slows and curiosity gets the better of me. I lean against the window as we turn down a lane marked with a massive stone archway, carved with intricate statuary. Angels pluck harps, wild stag flank the entrance, a fox scampers low to the ground. There are words inscribed at the apex of the arch, but I do not have a chance to read them before we are beneath it and moving on.

Peeta shifts again and when I turn to him, he is tugging at his collar as though it chokes him. I take his hand and pull it away. Our eyes meet and I tend to his collar and cravat, ensuring that it is once more perfect.

“Thank you.”

“It is just a cravat,” I whisper and I see my own feelings reflected in his eyes. We both know he means to thank me for far more than a bit of knotted silk. “And what of my appearance?”

“Perfect, although I now wish I had more time to have you looking well kissed,” he says with a slow, lopsided smile that makes me feel as though I could brave just about anything with Peeta by my side.

“I am always well kissed if you are present, husband.”

It seems to take an age to traverse the lane, almost as long as it would take to travel the breadth of Everdeen in its entirety, and still I am not prepared when the house finally comes into view.

“That is a castle… not a house,” I say and Peeta chuckles, the sound rather dark, but I shake my head, wondering how he can laugh. I imagine him as a boy, frightened and facing this for the first time. I am a woman fully grown and I feel the urge to run and hide at the imposing facade. “How terrified you must have been coming here for the first time.”

“It was not the first such manor I had seen. I grew up on one.” I glance back at him and scowl, waiting for the truth. He shrugs and examines his gloved fingers, folded in his lap. “It is quite different entering through the front door of one of these places as opposed to the servants’ entrances… So yes. I was petrified. By the time the Marquis brought me here, I had been living as part of his household for nearly six months and had already made an infinite number of errors, been at the sharp end of a strap countless times. At first, I feared the Marquis would toss me from the moving carriage on the road somewhere between Capitol and here and be done with me. I think in some ways I almost hoped for that to happen.”

“But he did not,” I say and Peeta nods.

“My presence kept Robert occupied and entertained so that the Marquis could read his papers the entire journey. I suppose he saw me as useful for the first time after that.”

My scowl and my dislike of the Marquis only deepens. Peeta takes my hand and squeezes once as the carriage reaches the courtyard. As soon as it halts, the door is opened.

“Master Mellark. Welcome home,” a nasal voice greets and Peeta gives the man a half smile that is more grimace than anything else as he heaves himself from the carriage.

“Thank you, Branson. How is Anastasia?”

“Ill with the grippe again, sir.” He sounds more annoyed than worried and I wonder at this.

“My condolences. I presume Doctor Hassel has been to see her?”

“We expect him this afternoon, sir.”

“Good,” Peeta says and extends his hand to me. I take it and carefully descend. “Branson, my wife, Katniss Mellark.”

“An honour, Madame,” says the dour looking man as he bows to me. He snaps upright and spins about, waving his hands in some sort of signal. A handful of servants descends on the carriage as Peeta and I slowly walk towards the front of the house. A carved archway, identical to the one over the gate, frames the front door, a massive and imposing thing of polished wood with ornate handles and knockers that I am not certain I could even grasp, they are so thick. I can make out the words on the archway this time and read them.

“Non ducor, duco.”

“I am not led, I lead,” Peeta translates and I shudder. From what I know of the Marquis, he is the last sort of man who should be allowed to lead anyone. Controlling and manipulative, cruel and untouchable, amoral yet seen as an example.

As we ascend the stairs, a woman with regal bearing and dressed in deep shades of purple steps onto the wide verandah, her hands folded in front of her.

“Whatever you do, do not give in to her bait,” he says under his breath. “She will attempt to have you screeching in anger or crying in despair at some point during this visit.”

“You wait to tell me this now?” I ask and he sighs.

“I feared that if I told you, you’d abandon me to face this alone,” his voice carries a slight whine and I cannot help but laugh at his discomfort.

“How many times must I remind you, husband…”

“You are not so fragile,” he finishes with a smile at me, but it fades as we reach the verandah. His usual, easy expression vanishes in favor of one far more somber than I am used to seeing. It is an expression suited to a funeral, not a homecoming.

“You grace us with your presence at last,” the woman calls out as we reach the top.

“Lady Mellark,” Peeta says when we halt in front of her. He bows and I curtsy, but I keep my eyes on this woman, who could have been my mother in law and instead is now simply a nuisance to me. “May I present my—“

“I know precisely who she is. The chit who was not exceptional enough for my Robert.”

Lady Tabitha Mellark is rather petite and delicate looking. Her brown hair a light shade, close to that of some of the reeds that grow alongside the lakes of Everdeen. Her nose tilts up the smallest amount and her green eyes seem almost vacant and unseeing, or perhaps bored as she flicks her gaze over us, dismisses us both. I add haughty and bitter to my list of descriptors for her.

“I am pleased to meet you, Lady Mellark,” I say in as sweet a voice as I can muster.

“Hm. Well, you’re not as pretty as a Mellark wife ought to be, but at least you are only married to an illegitimate son.” I’ve no idea how to respond to such insults and hold my tongue, refusing, as Peeta suggested, to rise to her bait. “Branson will see you to your rooms. Tea in an hour. Do not keep me waiting.” 

Her edicts delivered, she spins about, her skirts flaring and her slippers clicking on stone then marble as she leaves us in the doorway.

“That went well, I think.”

“No bloodshed, tears, or screeching. I deem that a rousing success,” Peeta says and I laugh. The sound bounces off the walls as we enter the hall and I spot at least one servant who is startled by the noise.

We are barely over the threshold when a silent servant pauses in front of Peeta and presents a silver tray with a folded and sealed piece of parchment on it. I attempt to hide my surprise as Peeta accepts it with a murmured thanks and the servant disappears. He opens it, the sounds unbearably loud in the hall. As he reads, I examine the foyer and understand in an instant why Peeta implied that the house itself would seem far colder than the weather outside.

The place is a monument to wealth but feels nothing like a home. The foyer alone would hold one whole wing of Everdeen. Ornate fixtures and paintings turn the walls into a veritable museum. Tall narrow windows admit the faint winter light but the heavy, dark blue velvet drapes that hang in perfect shapes to imitate waterfalls give more the feeling of entrapment. I cannot help comparing the shimmering crystal chandeliers, and perfectly polished marble floors with no carpets to add warmth to the room with the warm tones, abundance of fabrics, the sturdy metal light fixtures, and worn wooden floors of Everdeen. The sprawling ceilings of de Vale to the cozy comfort of my own home.

I shiver and Peeta grumbles as he pockets the note, turning to rub warmth into my arms. “I am summoned already. Will you be alright getting us settled on your own?”

“I will be fine,” I assure him and tilt my head back to accept his soft kiss, a reassurance that I need before I watch him walk across the hall in one direction while the dour butler named Branson leads me down a hallway and up a flight of stairs in the other direction. The hallway on the second floor is lined with gleaming wooden doors on one side and more of the massively tall and narrow windows with their suffocating, imitation waterfall drapes on the other. Still no carpets. I will need to wear shoes at all times in this place.

I am pleasantly surprised by the room Branson shows me to, however. The wealth in it is still an excess and a little intimidating, but there is a cheery fire in the hearth, several thick rugs to hold the warmth, and the bed appears luxurious and inviting. Decorated in cheering yellows and warm green tones, the room is a circle of spring in a vast winter prison. It is the nicest piece of de Vale I’ve yet seen. A maid bobs a curtsy and scurries from the room as the butler mutters something to her. I do not hear the words, but I do hear the biting tone.

“Welcome to de Vale, Madame,” the butler says to me with a bow. “Lucy will be in shortly to assist in your unpacking. If there is anything you need, the bells are on the wall.”

“The bells?” I ask and turn towards where he gestured. A quartet of velvet cords all with etched placards. Kitchens. Laundry. Personal Maids. Housekeeping. “How efficient,” I mutter but when I turn around, Branson has disappeared. 

In his place, a footman carries in my trunk and sets it near the bed. He bows and is gone before I can even speak. It is strange and coldly efficient and…aggravating. A maid appears on his heels, not the one from before, and curtsies before moving towards my trunk.

“There’s no need,” I say and she purses her lips.

“You do not wish to unpack?”

“I can manage for myself,” I say and smile at the girl. She’s young. Barely older than Prim, if I had to guess. This must be Lucy.

“But the Mistress…” 

“Oh there is no need to worry about that. She’s no need to know that I unpacked my own things.” The maid stands there, looking confused and something strikes me then. “Where is…where is my husband’s luggage?” 

“It would have been taken to his rooms,” Lucy states as though that is obvious.

“His rooms? Next door then?” I look about for a door to an adjoining room, for surely that must be what the maid means by his rooms, but I see none.

“No, ma’am. His rooms are in the east wing, with the family.”

“And what is this?” I ask, growing more aggravated by the second.

“This is the west wing…for guests.” I stare at her and she shifts her weight on her feet. 

“For guests,” I say and clench my teeth. Whether this is Lady Full of Insults or Lord High and Mighty Mellark’s doing, the message is clear. I am not welcome. I am a guest, an interloper, and despite our marriage, despite that they never truly loved him as I do, Peeta somehow still belongs to them, not to me. 

“Shall I unpack your things now?”

“Indeed not,” I say and move towards the door. 

Glancing up and down the hallway I hail yet another servant who is carrying a parcel of firewood down the hall. “You there! Do you know your way about this monstrosity?”

“Er…me?”

“Yes, you. There is no one else presently in the hall.” He glances about him and seems almost surprised that he is in fact alone. “Where is that firwood bound?”

“The Neptune Room….just there.” He tilts his head towards the door adjacent to mine and I nod.

“Very well. If you would be so kind as to deliver your firewood and then return to assist me with my things? Oh I suppose I should ask…are you capable of carrying them to Mr. Peeta Mellark’s rooms?”

“Master Peeta’s room?” The man gapes and turns nearly puce at the mention of the name. I gather my skirts and my temper as I respond.

“Yes. He is my husband and by some error, I seem to have been banished to the far reaches of Egypt instead of placed with him.” Lucy the maid snorts and the man still gapes at me. “Can you assist me?”

“Assist you with your things?”

“Yes,” I say and smile. “Unless I need ask Branson to–”

“No!” The man nearly shouts then clears his throat. “No need, Madame. I can see to your needs.” He scurries down the hall and I grasp hold of my healing kit. The footman returns, wiping his hands on his trousers and lifts my trunk. “This way.”

Lucy follows us, despite my earlier assurance that I do not require her assistance. It is a bit of a long journey, winding through the halls to the other side of the house, and when we reach it, there’s little difference in the decor. Wealth drips from the trimmings and trappings and yet none of it appears loved or worn or even lived in. The place is spotless. Even as a bright shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom outside and lays across the floor, I find no dust motes dancing in the illuminated air. I feel as though one must tiptoe in a place such as this and place a protective palm over my womb, as though our mere presence in such a soul sucking place might snatch the life growing inside me straight from my body.

Then I catch Peeta’s voice coming from an open door that spills warm firelight and the welcome tones I am now so familiar with into the hallway. I hurry around the footman and ignore his mild protest as I come to a halt in the doorway.

“Oh. Forgive the intrusion,” I say as two sets of eyes turn towards me. One set is blue and belongs to my husband, the other is green and belongs to a man of similar build and vaguely similar features, though not an exact replica. His hair is stick straight and a soft shade of light brown, the exact shade as Lady Mellark’s. He is undeniably handsome, impeccably dressed, and his lips quirk as we stand examining one another.

“Ah, Katniss this is Ethan,” Peeta explains, motioning towards his brother.

“So I gathered,” I say and manage a slight curtsy as the eldest Mellark son examines me from a distance. No matter, I am doing the same, attempting to determine if this is an ally or a foe. Peeta’s only spoken of him in vague terms. I keep my eyes on Ethan and aim my words at Peeta. “I’ve had my things moved.”

“Moved?” Peeta asks and I nod.

“Yes, it seems there was some mistake that placed me in the west wing. Lovely room, but the distance to the dining room and parlor seemed rather formidable. I suppose with such a large house and so many guests in and out that it is a mistake that must happen at least once. I’ve seen it remedied and had my things moved to your rooms, husband, with the assistance of this fine man.” I motion towards the footman still balancing my trunk.

“Jefferies?” Peeta asks and the footman shifts nervously on his feet.

“Yes, sir. I’ll just deliver this and be back to my chores,” the footman says and shuffles down the hall several doors. I then examine the room where Ethan and Peeta stand and notice the family crest, complete with the motto in Latin, woven into the tapestry on one wall. A portrait of the Marquis and Marchioness hanging over the mantle along with a pair of crossed swords. A door leading into a separate bedroom, for this is only an antechamber, a sitting room. This is the room of a first born son and heir, I realise – Ethan’s room, not Peeta’s. I flush at my blunder before taking a step back.

“Well. I think I shall go freshen up for tea. Wouldn’t want to be late,” I say and incline my head towards them before sliding down the hall.

“Good lord. You were not exaggerating,” I hear Ethan say with laughter in his voice. I would take offense at this seeming insult, but Peeta’s answer comes with a clear note of admiration in it, the words themselves praise as well.

“Not in the least. The heart of a lioness.” 

“She’ll need it. Mother’s itching for a squall.”

“Is that why you’re here without Sarah and the children?”

“Partly, though now I regret it. I feel as though your wife and mine might make a formidable pairing.”

“Crafty, unstoppable, and terrifying,” Peeta answers, his words slightly muffled as though uttered into a glass near his mouth. Ethan laughs at this.

So the Marchioness is itching for a squall, is she? I’ve no need to hear any more. I roll my shoulders back and march towards the door through which the footman disappeared. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At first glance, I thought his room to be much like the others – imposing with its impeccable wealth and taste, cold in its impersonal attempts at intimidation, masculine with its heavy woods and dark draperies – but the longer I examine it, the more I notice the small touches of Peeta hidden throughout. 

A well worn sofa before the fire with plush cushions and even a large footstool. I examine the thing and make notes to add such a piece to our own sitting area. A low shelf with books, both for reading and for sketching. A box tucked next to the sofa filled with watercolors and charcoals. He should bring those with him when we depart. A cane leaning against the mantle, the handle worn smooth. We should take that as well, as he mentioned that sometimes the cold weather aggravates his leg and makes walking difficult. 

Paintings adorn the wall, not the classic portraiture in heavy gilt frames meant to impose feelings of gratitude for the Lord and Lady, but a wide landscape painted directly on the plaster walls, sprawling green fields and gentle rolling hills dotted with sheep and trees, up to the ceiling painted as a sky around the ornate mouldings. It looks very much like Everdeen and I wonder who painted it.

As Lucy and I unpack, I open a rather ancient looking wardrobe to perhaps hang my dress for dinner and startle at the black as night coat trimmed in blood red and moonlight silver that greets me. Peeta’s uniform. It is ready to be worn again, odd for a garment that has spent more than a year hanging here unused and will likely never be worn again. The bright brass buttons are polished to a high shine and the silver braiding over the cuffs and lapels gleams even in the faint winter light, the red collar stands at attention. I reach out and run my hand over the shoulder, turning it slightly and staring at the decorations pinned to the breast. A regimental insignia and an ornate cross hanging from a short bit of red ribbon. I slide my hand beneath it and read the words etched into the polished silver.

Cum Fortitudine et Honore

My Latin is patchy at best, primarily focused on botany and the natural sciences, but even I can decipher the phrase. “With Courage and Honour.” Did my husband receive some sort of medal of valour then? I’ve no answer and will not find it here. I step back away from the thing and then step forward again to push it into the shadows. Then I hang several of my dresses next to Peeta’s other coats, ones I recognize, to better hide the reminder of where the Marquis sent Peeta to disappear, to perhaps die.

By the time Peeta joins me, I have freshened up and changed my dress with assistance from Lucy, and am now enjoying some quiet time to myself. I sit on the sofa, gazing into the fire and tapping my nails on my teeth, forming a battle plan as best I can to prepare for tea. The sound of the door shutting startles me and I relax when I see Peeta leaning against the panel.

“Who is Jeffries?” I ask and Peeta shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

“Straight as an arrow and right to the ugly. Jeffries used to be Robert’s valet. After Robert eloped with Delly, the Marquis dismissed him. Or at least, I thought he had. Ethan tells me that Jeffries begged for mercy. His wife was with child at the time, they now have a newborn infant. She had been one of the seamstresses the Marchioness employs. Now she is a laundry maid and he is a footman. A significant pay cut and demotion for them both, and I suspect something else possibly unsettling although I cannot yet be sure, but at least they are not starving on the streets.”

“Such generosity,” I sneer and Peeta moves to sit beside me. “I should think he deserves a raise, not a demotion.”

Peeta laughs and turns my face to kiss me. “I did consider hiring him, and his wife.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but as I was not certain you would want to add any more bodies to our household right now, I did not wish to make a decision without consulting you.”

“I think it inspired! As thanks for the great favour he did us both. Although I think we should warn poor Jeffries that a post as your valet will be most trying.”

“As will a post as your seamstress,” Peeta says, encircling me with his arms. I care not if he will wrinkle my dress. I feel that I need this moment with him before we take the field against the Mellarks, and it seems that he does too, as we both quickly yield to the need to kiss one another.

“Your room is the most welcoming in the house,” I say forlornly when he lifts his head, and he sighs. 

“It was not when it first became mine. It required several years of secret alterations and at least a dozen arguments with Lady Mellark to make it so.” I tilt my head and gaze into his eyes, trying to imagine what that must have felt like.

“We should give Miranda a choice of rooms.”

“That or give her the option to change whatever she wishes, to make her feel at home, as though she has some form of choice,” Peeta agrees. We pass what time we have left before tea just like that, murmuring soft plans for our future with an adopted child. Ensuring that we are in agreement, a united front as parents, before we even sign the papers for her custody. We need not even say why, but being here in this house makes it clear to me what sort of parents we do not wish to be.

Eventually, we can tarry no longer and Peeta leads me down the halls and into the parlor. I feel as though I am being crushed almost the moment I enter. The ceiling soars to a painting of angels and demons locked in some sort of combat and the dark shades of burgundy and purple make me think the walls are bleeding. What a pleasant room for tea.

My fingers clench on Peeta’s arm as Ethan joins us. The two of them resume their conversation as though nothing is amiss. Ethan shares news of Sarah and his children, his voice happy and light. He speaks of a place called Medora and Peeta explains that it is one of the family’s lesser properties, acquired as part of a dowry nearly a century ago.

“The place is gothic but Sarah adores it,” Ethan explains. “Until we moved in, it rarely saw any use. Now it is thriving. You should visit for Christmas sometime. Sarah sees the place decorated with so much green it feels near to summer inside. The children fashion ornaments to hang from all those grim suits of armour in the hall.”

“That sounds lovely,” I manage to say, because the more Ethan speaks about his family, the more I think he was right. I grow to like the sound of his wife and his family and wonder at how the first born son and heir wound up so different from the current Marquis. How did he avoid the influence and shaping his personality after his father as so many young men attempt to do?

We’ve sat and talked for close to a half hour before Lady Tabitha finally deigns to join us. It is rather annoying, her tardiness after her insistence that we not be late. Tardiness is apparently reserved for the titled and wealthy, the privilege of others excusing your poor manners due to your wealth. She sweeps into the room with a maid bearing tea service in trail.

“Mother, you look well,” Ethan greets and stands, as does Peeta. Ethan kisses her cheek lightly when she turns it up for him. She sweeps right past Peeta with no acknowledgement and stands in front of me.

“You will serve, and you will not embarrass this family,” she orders and then turns to carefully arrange her skirts before sitting, prim and stiff. She watches me closely, every movement of mine under scrutiny. What little conversation we have is stiff and formal.

“Sugar?”

“Two lumps, if you please…no not that one. Those are stuck together.”

“How were the roads, Ethan?”

“Cold and barren but not much ice yet. It should still be safe for me to return to Sarah as planned.”

“Hmmm and how do you find de Vale so far….?” It takes a moment for me to realise she addresses me since she gives no name.

“Magnificent. I do so love the mural in our rooms. Is the artist still living or was that done some time ago?”

“Mural? What mural? There is no mural in the Proserpina Room.”

“Oh no, Madame. I am not staying in the Proserpina Room, but with my husband.” I say and take a delicate sip of my tea. Ethan attempts to hide his smile as Lady Mellark turns to Peeta.

“I suppose this was your doing? Countermanding me again? Have you no shame?” Before he can answer, she moves on. “I suppose you’ve grown accustomed to how things are done in a less refined area of the country. How do you find your new residence?”

“Thriving and fertile, madame.” Her face colours at these words and the bare minimum of courtesy seen to, she returns focus to her son.

“The children should come home for Christmas, Ethan.” 

“We would, Mother, except Sarah is…well not feeling well lately.”

“Is she with child?”

“No, Mother. We’ve spoken about this.”

“It is ridiculous. You need a second son. I bore three. Sarah can manage two.”

“She had great difficulty with Genevieve. We do not wish to risk–”

“Pish. Motherhood is sacrifice. Marriage to a Marquis is a duty. She must be willing to make the sacrifice and perform her duties to carry on the name or not be a mother at all. Really Ethan, you have been married far too long for her to be so derelict. You must guide her in these matters if her understanding is so lacking.”

Somewhere in this exchange, I begin to wonder if there is nightshade or perhaps hemlock growing anywhere on the grounds. I might attempt more pepper in the tea at the very least if that would cease her damnable judgements, only I fear some poor servant would feel her wrath instead of me, much like Jeffries. While I am contemplating lacing her tea with poison, Peeta devises an entirely different method of dealing with her. 

“If it is the continuation of the Mellark name you worry for, my lady, then there is still much hope. Katniss and I are happy to announce that we are expecting.”

“Indeed we are. Sometime in the summer,” I confirm and bat my lashes shamelessly at Peeta.

Ethan coughs violently into his tea and I bask in the angry flush that sprouts around Lady Tabitha’s collar and quickly spreads up her neck to her face. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lady Tabitha does not attend dinner, begging off with a headache and choosing to take her meal in her chambers. The Marquis does attend dinner, however, and my opinion of him remains unchanged from our first meeting. I search for redeeming qualities in him, as he must have something redeeming, but by the end of the meal, I am convinced that any good qualities he can lay claim to are not truly his…they belong to his sons. 

The Marquis spends the time interrogating me on everything from the health of my father and my uncle to the status of our harvest to Peeta’s announcement at tea that I am with child. He sneers at most of my responses and I see precisely what Peeta meant in the carriage. The man clearly believes the world revolves around him. The arrogance, conceit, the need to lay claim to and control every aspect of his miniscule environment is astonishing and infuriating. I am struck with the insane urge to call the man out for a duel for the sheer audacity of insulting my husband at every turn. I care not that he was somewhat generous in financially providing for Peeta. He is a wretched father. To all his sons.

I am forced to sit next to Ethan, Peeta across the table from me. I would complain and pitch a fit, except that he has shifted his seat so that his booted foot is pressed up close to mine beneath the table. This small connection feeds me at least a touch of his steadiness and strength, bolstering me enough to deal with the constant line of questioning and beratement, and the fact that I am unable to finish a single course.

The food appears, enticing in aroma and appearance. Clearly the Marquis employs only the finest for his kitchen staff, yet I am not given opportunity to enjoy it. He asks the questions, I am expected to answer. I do so as quickly as possible, and Peeta does attempt to answer in my stead several times. Unfortunately, the Marquis seems to recognise this tactic of his and manages the conversation so that I am almost forced to answer, and before I can take more than a few bites, the dishes are whisked away, hardly touched in my case.

When dessert is finally cleared, I am ready to leap after the poor footman to claw my slice of cake from his grip and scarf it down in one bite.

“Thank you for the pleasure of your company,” the Marquis states, pulling my chair back and helping me from it when dinner is done. His touch on my hand has my skin crawling and I manage a forced smile as I compliment the excellence of the food. He nods as though it is expected, then turns to his two sons. “Shall we retire to the study?”

Peeta lingers, risking censure no doubt for the signs of affection he bestows on me. He leans over to whisper in my ear. “I have something waiting for you in our rooms. Don’t wander or it will spoil.”

I nod and fight back tears. I am tired and hungry, angry and heartsick and he is abandoning me to drink bourbon and smoke cigars in the study with his arrogant bastard of a father, sending me straight to bed like an errant child. Peeta gives me a gentle, lingering kiss on my cheek and then he is gone. I consider wandering about the halls against his advice, but I am so tired and fear another bout of nausea that I trudge back to our rooms.

When I arrive, I shut the door and am preparing to fling myself on the bed to have a good cry when I notice the massive silver tray with a domed cover sitting on the footstool before the fire. I hurry over and lift the cover, laughing and crying at the sight of an entire dinner, all of the courses I missed out on, waiting for me. I savor them and relish the tastes. One dish at a time. A creamy, yellow squash soup, a plate of cool greens and ripe cucumbers in a dressing flavored with dill. How did they manage cucumbers at this time of year? There must be a greenhouse for vegetables somewhere on the grounds. Roast quail and orange marmalade, crusty bread with rosemary. Beef braised in a dark almost cherry flavored wine sauce. Fluffy chocolate cake and a creamy white chocolate beverage.

When I finish with my feast, I ring for Lucy and dress for bed. When Peeta joins me, I am sitting on the footstool, warming myself by the fire and brushing my hair. 

“Thank you for the dinner,” I say softly. “It was delicious.”

“You should have been allowed to eat it at the table with the rest of us. I am sorry that I could not keep him from interrogating you so.”

“Hm,” I hum and chuckle slightly. “I begin to understand what you meant when you first described the reason for this visit.” He sits on the sofa behind me and takes the brush from my hands, assuming the task of brushing my hair.

“I used to despise this place, this room. I may have altered it to fit my tastes as much as possible, but it was still never truly mine. I was reminded of that constantly, reminded that I would always be unwelcome,” he whispers. I relax under his gentle ministrations and tilt my head so he may kiss my neck. I shiver at each intimate touch. I can smell the sweet smoke of cigar on him, but underneath that, unable to be fully doused or eradicated, I catch the scents of vetiver from Everdeen and Peeta’s skin. He is still mine, we are still us, despite what rifts the Marquis and Marchioness may attempt to cause. He sets the brush aside and begins braiding my hair for me. “You make it feel more like home than it ever could have before. I think because you have become my home, Katniss.” When he is done, he slides his arms around my waist, his palms spanning my stomach, protecting our child. “Should I apologise for my abrupt announcement at tea?”

“No,” I say as he once more kisses my neck, causing such delightful shivers to tremble through me. “No it was worth it to see her lose her grasp on her arrogance. If only we could come up with some such announcement to affect the Marquis.”

Peeta chuckles against my neck and continues kissing me. “She would have badgered Ethan another hour if no one shocked her out of it.” But I do not wish to speak of Ethan nor of Lady Mellark when there are much more pleasant things we could be doing.

“Peeta, I feel as you do. Everdeen is my home, but you are as well. We brought our home with us in a way. Let me show you?” I whisper and turn to face him. I kiss him, tasting the bourbon on his tongue, gently pushing him back to relax on the sofa, so that I might climb into his lap and curl up in his arms, to kiss him for as long as I wish to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Do you know what I want right now?” I say into the stifling darkness of our rooms as we lay in bed, the moonlight a cool companion and the fire a crackling balm.

“Mmmm, I would not even attempt to guess at the desires of a pregnant lady. I however,” Peeta murmurs and pulls me roughly up against his chest, “would like a smaller bed so that my wife would cease wandering so far. I am beginning to miss those tiny beds at the inn.” 

I chuckle at this and wriggle deeper into his arms. My stomach makes a most unladylike noise then. “But clearly that will not be what you are wishing for so let’s have it, wife. Was the dinner I had sent in not enough?”

“It was at the time, but I am making a child. This requires great sustenance.”

“What do you need, my love? Say the word and it is yours.”

“Bread,” I say and sit up. “Fresh, warm bread.”

“Now that I think I can help with,” he says and joins me in sitting up. We are giddy as children as we pull on whatever clothing we have nearest and cover it with dressing robes and slippers. We scurry through the vast, empty halls, ignoring the cold and the snow as it falls outside the wide windows.

“When we were children and would sneak to the kitchens like this for a late snack, Robert and I would pretend the halls were haunted. We had to evade all the ghosts and goblins that inhabited the drapes at night.” I laugh as he continues telling me the story, imagining the two boys dodging spectres while in search of a tasty pudding or wedge of cheese.

We reach the massive kitchens and I gasp in appropriate awe. He laughs and fires up the ovens, inserts a loaf that has finished rising to bake. Then he quickly sheds his dressing robe and rolls up his sleeves. I do the same and stand before the wide table.

“Teach me?” He smiles and turns me so that he stands behind me, his arms around me and his hands guiding mine as we flour the surface then mix the ingredients and work the dough together. As we knead, he murmurs instructions. It is heady, rhythmic work, coaxing the dough into something usable and nourishing. I barely hear his words, my entire body alive and pulsing with warmth at performing the simple task with him. When our bread is set aside to rise and the loaf he placed in the oven sits sliced on the counter, emitting curls of steam and burning my fingertips as I grasp a slice, I smile and hoist myself onto the plank, kicking my feet as he moves to stand near me.

“Tell me about your father.” A cloud passes over his eyes and I shake my head, grasp hold of his shirt and pull him closer, to stand between my knees. “No. Not him. I meant the baker. William Thackeray. Tell me more about him.” 

“He was…kind and quiet, but when he spoke, it was always worth listening. He…he always had a story to tell me, some about the people on the estate, many more that I’ve no idea where he came up with them. Perhaps they were born of his own mind.” 

Peeta’s face relaxes then, and as he speaks and we eat, the kitchen fills with warmth and light, laughter and evident love. The cold intimidation of this place cannot touch us here. He tells me the stories. About the man who raised him, taught him kindness and to view the world as it ought to be rather than how it is. Who taught him the importance of acting as one ought rather than as one can get away with. A man who could spin tales from nothing but sugar and air and coaxing them from words the way we did bread from dough.

“I wish I could have met him,” I say when he falls silent and Peeta nods, lifts my hand to his lips.

“As do I. He would have adored you, but then… you and I likely never would have married. Probably never even met, had he lived.” The truth of Peeta’s statement does little to dull the regret that I see in his eyes, that I feel in my soul. I shift my arms to wrap around his neck and hold him close, close enough to remove all of the cold air between us, close enough to wrap my legs around him and bring him closer still. Peeta buries his face in my hair, his strong arms around me and his lips just touching my neck, sending warmth spiraling through me, down to my toes. My fingers twist strands of his hair and this…this moment here feels far too good to let it end.

“I think I am ready to sleep now, husband.” I eventually say when a loud yawn over takes me.

“Sleep or…is there something else you require, now that you are fed?” He lifts one eyebrow at me and I laugh.

“No, sleep will suffice. We will need our rest for the morning. I am sure the Marchioness will have regrouped and be prepared with fresh salvos readied for breakfast.”

Peeta laughs and hand in hand, we return upstairs to our bed where he holds me close to him through the long, cold night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The days pass much like the first. I see little of the Marquis, although he does send word every so often, summoning Peeta to his side for one thing or another. When I am forced to be in the Marquis’ presence, I am constantly unsettled, uncertain if the roiling nausea is due to pregnancy or to the way in which Peeta’s father regards me, like some sort of specimen to be dissected and then consumed. He frightens me with his cold blue eyes that could be Peeta’s, his joyless smile that could be Peeta’s. His well crafted biting words and insults that could be Peeta’s, for even in his cruelty I can recognise the talent with words that his son wields, only with far more kindness and grace.

And that, I think is the crux of what makes me so ill at ease, seeing this dark, twisted, mutilated version of the man I love and knowing that Peeta could have been like this… except that he is not.

I spend half my mornings bored and sitting in the parlor with Lady Mellark, pretending to be industrious at sewing. Afternoon tea with Lady Mellark and Peeta by my side where we trade veiled insults as much as we trade pleasantries. It feels like a constant war and after one particularly gruesome tea time, I mutter to Peeta that the infantry must have felt like a stay of execution after life here. Dinner with Lord Mellark, Ethan, and Lady Mellark if she feels up to it, then I am sent to my room like an errant child, banished from the evening, manly entertainments. 

It is a strange manner of entertaining guests, so unlike how we entertain at Everdeen. There, it is an entire event, all focused on ensuring the happy nature of our guests’ visit. Here, I feel as though guests are not welcome. A nuisance, and interruption of the importance of the family. When I am not expected to perform for our hosts, I spend my time wandering. I walk in the gardens or explore the vast halls. Peeta is able to join me on some days and instead of boring me with the history and importance of each room, he weaves a different sort of tale, just as he did our first night here. 

As he speaks, he paints such a picture that I can see it as though it is happening before me. Peeta and Robert as boys, enacting the stories William Thackeray gave to his son, a dowry of irreplaceable wealth for the life he was to lead here and then adding their own creations to the repertoire – sword fighting with the suits of armor outside the dining room, launching expeditions into the cellars to slay dragons, befriending them instead and pretending their dragon companions accompanied them as protectors on all future expeditions.

“Phineas and Isabelle,” Peeta tells me. “They preferred to eat lemon custard and cherry tarts rather then boys and lambs.”

“They did or their human companions did?” I ask with a smile and Peeta shrugs.

“The poor dragons were blamed for any number of pilfered desserts.”

The ballroom becomes a desert to be crossed and the gardens outside their wall of stained glass doors the oasis. A little used kitchen intended to prepare quick meals for the guests to consume in their rooms is turned into a sailing ship, each guest room a new island to be explored. Treasure buried under mattresses or wardrobes, disgruntled maids and guests when they discovered it. The grounds themselves presented limitless possibilities, too many for Peeta to cover while we are indoors but his words give me an inkling. All of the stories Peeta’s father brought to life in a warm kitchen on another estate in another time, used here as a shield against the dismal silence and suffocating expectations, a source of bonding for a pair of half brothers both in desperate need of someone to love them unconditionally, to care for them.

It sounds so lovely when he describes it, so much like my own childhood with Madge, hiding in corners of our own homes, venturing forth on the grounds. But here at de Vale, the lofty house almost demands more fantastical imaginings than she and I conjured, and Peeta provided. A thousand different worlds unleashed from his mind with Robert by his side, then locked away again when the Lord and Lady entered the room. I am glad that Peeta was able to find some shred of light, laughter, happiness, beauty, and love here.

On days when he cannot join me, I dress warm and wander on my own, all about the gardens, impressive even in their dormant winter state, through the humid greenhouses as I inhale the pungent scent of warm earth, digging my fingers into the soil to feel any sort of connection with my home, to remember who I am. Into forgotten rooms still kept pristine, where lessons were once taught and now silence reigns. An art studio with brushes awaiting an artist, half done paintings on a pair of easels, paints in a neat line, the only proof of use the speckles of color on the floor beneath and on the lip of the easel itself. A library with shelves upon shelves of books on every subject imaginable. I read as much as possible, sitting upon a cushioned window seat and basking in the cool shafts of winter sun that dare to poke through the clouds. The place is silent most of the time, like a tomb or a palace lost in time. So very silent and somber, it drives me near mad, and I am grateful when Peeta is able to join me and fills the world with such beautiful imaginings.

“Because Ethan and Henry both refuse to live here with their children,” Peeta explains the silence now. There are no more children to fill the barren halls of de Vale with laughter and games.

Together, we find some hidden treasures that I cannot resist asking Peeta about. In a room that Peeta calls the Music Room, there are half a dozen instruments covered in canvas coverings, piles of untouched sheet music beside the piano bench, and a half covered painting. When I peel back the fabric draped over it, I gasp in shock. It depicts a stunning woman and her lover, caught in an amorous embrace, only a sheet wrapped about their hips to preserve a shred of modesty.

“That would be Aunt Chastity. Not my aunt, but Robert’s and the others as well. Lady Tabitha’s sister.”

“How does a lady named Chastity wander into such a …salacious painting? In her sister’s home no less!”

“Chastity ran off to the continent to become an opera singer. She was rumored to be exceptional. Eventually, she became a paramour to a French prince. She sent this painting of herself and her prince as a birthday gift for Lady Tabitha one year. The Marchioness wished to burn it, the Marquis refused. They fought terribly over it and the final solution was to hang it in the Music Room. None of us have taken up an instrument and Lady Tabitha has not played since years before I even came here, so it remains mostly unseen back here.”

I laugh for at least an hour over that story. Although I should feel some pity for Lady Mellark, I instead feel some affinity for the mysterious and daring Lady Chastity. We leave the painting uncovered when we depart the room.

Despite our shared moments of levity, I begin to dream of a fog, silent and lethal as it creeps towards me and chokes the breath from me. When that happens, Peeta is there to soothe me, his own sleep poor in a place full of unpleasant memories. We do what we can, holding one another, sneaking into the kitchens late at night to bake and to talk.

Perhaps it would be easier to manage if we were not separated so much during the days. Perhaps it would be easier if we could lose ourselves in physical love in the nights, but with each night that we remain here, passion and desire seem to drain from us a little more. The cold surroundings leech all warmth that dares to challenge the manor’s solemn hold, and that includes lust. This place steals it from us in small degrees until I feel it is near a miracle that we even embrace as we sleep.

It does not help that I am in constant war with my own body, as the violent swings in mood continue. I cycle between ill, irritable, and sad with alarming speed and no warning. The moments of feeling happy or desire become shorter and infrequent, and it frightens me but I’ve no idea how to cure such a thing. I write to Mother about it yet know the answer will not reach me until we are in Capitol.

Every night, I lay close to my husband, resting my ear on his chest that I might feel and hear the steady thump of his heart, a soothing lullaby. His physical warmth and the steady strength of his arms about me serves as both a shield against the crippling cold of this place and as a reminder of the warmth, the heat that lives and breathes as part of his soul, even if it is forced into submission and retreat in this tomb of a house. I will not allow it to be extinguished. I cannot lose the man in the mask, my husband, my love, my Peeta.

Near the end of our stay, I ask Peeta to show me the family portrait gallery, that we might repeat our game from the masquerade. Most of them are as expected, grim and somber, an entire family full of its own importance. Peeta has very few stories to share about them, though.

“Ethan would be better able to give you the family history,” Peeta admits but then I find one he must know about and drag him before it. “Ah yes. The Marchioness delivers an heir.”

I tilt my head and examine the portrait of Lady Tabitha, smiling and benign, holding a chubby infant looking equally as tranquil. “The painter failed to capture the essence of her smile.”

Peeta shakes his head, clearly hiding laughter as we move to the next. Lady Tabitha again with yet another cherubic looking infant. “Henry?”

“Henry. And Ethan in the frame next to him at three years of age.” I smile at the painting of Ethan sitting and looking disgruntled with either his bonnet or the wooden toy horse in his meaty fists. “It became a tradition thereafter. First at birth, then every three years after, a new portrait of each of her sons. The math conveniently worked out as they were spread three years then six years apiece.”

I take another step and quickly peruse the next set. Ethan at six, standing and holding the reins to a squat horse, Henry as a toddler with a wooden sword and a vacant expression. Then onwards to Lady Tabitha with Robert on her lap as an infant. Nine year old Ethan in what appears to be a school uniform, six year old Henry sitting at a desk with quill and parchment. A pictorial timeline of the boys as they grow older by three year leaps with every few steps that I take.

My shoes scrape the marble as I halt and stare at a face out of the timeline, to be certain, I glance back at the ones I’ve only just viewed. Ethan at one and twenty, dashing and confident. Henry at eighteen, stoic and studious. Robert at twelve, charming and mischievous. Here now a fourth face in the grouping. I glance back at Peeta for an answer. 

“Robert refused to sit for his portrait the year he turned twelve…unless I sat for one as well. The Marchioness spent a full three days in isolation after the Marquis ordered it hung here.”

I turn back and tilt my head to examine Peeta at fourteen years old, his blonde curls haphazard. Blue eyes somber. There is, as always, no denying the brotherly similarities.

“So there are more portraits of you here?” An excitement fills me at the idea of seeing some part of Peeta’s growth through the years.

“It was one of Robert’s many small acts of rebellion, in addition to insisting on calling me his twin. Every three years, he demanded that I be painted in portrait and join them here as one of the brothers Mellark, ensuring that I was at least shown to be part of the family, if not always made to feel as such.”

“No wonder you would do so much for him,” I muse as I continue down the line of portraits.

While I note the maturation of each brother as we walk, it is Peeta’s face I seek with each new set. At seventeen, showing the signs of the man he would become, the full lips and chiseled jawline more prominent, his youth still evident in slightly rounded cheeks. And then…

“Oh,” I say as I stop once more in front of him, at the age of twenty this time.

“What is it?” 

I do not know how to account for the difference. It is still his face, the same collection of features though aged and mature — the devil may care styling of his curls, freckles dusting his nose, limpid blue eyes, the exact curve of cupid’s bow, his ears just right. Yet this portrait is entirely different, and not simply because he is all man in appearance. It is undeniably clear in his expression as well. The hint of a smile lurks about his lips and the expression in his eyes! 

Heaven and mercy! had I been in Capitol for Madge’s debut as had been planned the year this portrait was painted, and not at Everdeen dealing with a poor harvest year, had I met this expression across a ballroom, I fear that my heart would have been forfeit in an instant. Even now it patters madly at this almost knowing and teasing and tempting expression. This gaze that taunts and whispers: Follow me to shadowed alcoves. Share your secrets. Lift your skirts a bit. The pleasure I can offer will be worth the danger of ruin.

I am heated then chilled in rapid turns and cannot look away as my knees acquire all the rigidity of blackberry jam. Then words rise up from memory to provide an answer, an explanation for the change in him.

The stupid impetuousness of youth. 

Of course. This portrait is of a young man who has recently discovered the thrill and satisfaction to be found in a woman’s body. The portrait of a man who has recently removed a corset and thus his boyhood.

“Who was she?” I ask.

“Who?”

“The woman you were thinking of when you sat for this.”

“What do you mean?” I turn to face him and clench my hands together, a sense of dread and foreboding filling me.

“Peeta… I am not stupid, nor am I so naive. I’ve seen you look at me with this expression. I know what it means. Who was she?”

“Ah,” Peeta makes a noise or two of discomfort.

“Who was she?” I repeat.

“Are you certain you wish to hear? I cannot take it back, Katniss. I cannot change the past.”

“No but I can use it to understand who you are now.” He hesitates and then turns me back to face the paintings. To face his captured visage as he discovered manhood and sexual prowess. I hate her. Whoever she is, I hate her, as illogical as it may be.

“Her father was on commission with the Marquis. He painted every portrait in this series,” he points back down the hall from whence we just came, “and she was his apprentice for nearly thirty years until his death, some time prior to my twentieth birthday. While the Marquis and Marchioness had reservations hiring a female painter when it came time for this set to be done, she challenged them to give her a chance. She painted Ethan first,” he moves me back down the line and points to the difference in skill, in the fidelity and shading, the techniques between the years before and this set. I must admit to myself that even Ethan at nine and twenty and Henry at six and twenty appear more like themselves, more alive when captured with her brush than they did under her father’s. “The Marquis acknowledged her skills far surpassed her father’s. She has painted every portrait since.”

“And how did you wind up beneath her skirts?” I ask, unable to keep the bite of jealousy from my voice.

“We shared a commonality, low birth and an interest in art,” he says as we return to the portrait of him. “I began drawing as a child. Pigs and cats and things drawn with bits of rock and chalk, on the paving stones at Hilston House. Then parchment and charcoal when I continued to show a desire to draw. My mother… my mother taught me. She used to draw as well and my father would spend what he could spare on parchment and pencils for us. When I came here, Robert learned of the interest and asked the Marchioness to hire a painting master to teach him, and by that he meant to teach us, even though Robert had no interest in studying the arts.”

“Because she would have refused if she knew it was truly for you.” Another way in which Robert showed his affection for Peeta.

“Yes. She,” he points back at the portrait, “was willing to speak with me at length about art and that led to discussing other topics. We became friends of a sort.”

“And that led to not talking and not being friends,” I mutter. “You had a torrid love affair with a painter who was twice your age.” Peeta does not answer, for there is no need to.

It burns, the knowledge that this expression of sublime flirtation and desire was aimed at some other woman than me. I knew there had been someone before me, but seeing him thus, through her eyes, burns almost as badly as running through open flames. Because I have seen something like this expression myself, hovering over me in our bed, teasing me across drawing rooms when he knows my thoughts wander to the salacious and I can do nothing about it. I thought that look was mine and mine alone yet here it is in oil pigments, permanently captured and saved for someone else to remember his lips, his embrace, his body against hers.

I can see it so clearly. Peeta sitting in a chair, confidently flirting, slinging witty remarks and distracting a blushing beauty as she attempts to paint him, admonishing him to stop moving so she may finish and they might engage in other activities. His hands wandering up her skirts, eliciting soft moans and high pitched cries of pleasure. His mouth…learning the intricacies of  a woman’s pleasure under her tutelage…bodies spread across that massive bed beneath the wide azure sky painted on his ceiling… I am on fire with rage and jealousy and the need to smash something and watch it burn too.

“Katniss, please,” he reaches for me. I feel the approach of his touch in the change in the air around me. My body responds and I shake my head, stepping out of his grasp. “You wanted to know.”

I did, and now that I have asked, a hundred more questions tumble about in my mind, several of them spill from my lips, forced out by the sheer overcrowding of my thoughts.

“Did she paint your mural? Your beautiful sky and meadows? Did she leave her permanent mark on your bedroom walls after you loved her in your bed? Did she stare up at that blue sky and think the color matched your eyes as she cried out your name in ecstasy? Is that why the Marchioness would not give the name of the artist? Because it belonged to your lover?” My voice is shockingly cold and calm, given the fires raging inside me.

“Had Lady Mellark known of the affair, she would have given you every detail she knew of and several she would have made up, simply to cause a chasm between you and I.” He is undoubtedly correct and still I seethe. “Lady Mellark would not give you the name of the artist because I painted that mural.” I stop moving away from him, stunned. “I started it when I was twenty, yes. But I had known her,” he gestures towards his own face, “several years before that. She may have given some guidance at the start, but she never saw the mural itself… because she never set foot in my chambers.”

I march down the hall, uncertain that I believe him and unseeing until I reach the frame that will show him at three and twenty. I spin on my heel, prepared for another assault of a happy, seductive Peeta and am instead met with ice. My fury is quenched in an instant.

There has always been an undeniable physical resemblance to the Marquis, but there was always something in his eyes and the way he holds his mouth, in his manner of expression, that belonged only to Peeta, that set him apart from his sire. But this painting… in this painting, he truly and fully looks exactly like his father. 

My jaw drops open as I stare at him, at the cold and foreboding glower of a man with no joy and no love in his life. Once again the change from the previous painting is astonishing and unnerving. Still dashingly handsome, nearly devastatingly so, but his eyes burn now not with the playful desire and flirtation of a young man engaged in a love affair, but the cold reticence of a man who has seen far too much. He wears his uniform in this one and his face…his face is scarred. So then he had already spent time away at war. Had already saved Johanna’s life and was keeping her secret. Had killed a man, slaughtered him like a pig, perhaps more than one.

“I came home on a medical furlough after they removed shrapnel from near my ribs. Just in time for Robert’s birthday.”

“And yours.”

“And mine… so we sat for our portraits and I could barely sit still. Nothing would hold my attention for long. I felt…out of sorts in all company. I was in pain and unsure if it was from healing wounds or something fractured in my soul. This place… had begun to feel more like I might belong before I had left but when I came back, I was a stranger again.”

His words strike on memory. I burn as he speaks. Not with rage or jealousy but with memory. The sudden looks of pity, disgust, uncertainty. The carefully treading of well meaning people as they come to believe my worth, my place in the world, my chances for happiness, have been forever destroyed. How to treat a creature mutilated and damaged by flames, be they the flames of war or the flames of a fire. I burn with the cold radiating from his expression and know…I was right about us. We recognise and understand something in one another that few others can. The way scars on the soul burn deeper than scars on the skin. 

“As I attempted to hold pose and she attempted to cajole me into laughing for her… I couldn’t even smile. My body wouldn’t even allow a false one. That essentially describes my entire week at home before I returned to my regiment.” I nod mutely as I absorb the aura of the painting. 

“Did you and she…while you were at home that is…?”

“Yes. Once. We were not in my chamber. As I said before… She never saw that room at all, so to answer your other questions, all of them… No.”

I want to ask him where then, where did he lay her down and love her? Perhaps one of the guest rooms. Or did he make the effort to leave this place and seek her out elsewhere? Perhaps they conducted their affair in dark corners of the manor here, frantic fumbling and the thrill of a rushed tumble in shadows. 

“What is this line of questioning truly about, Katniss? Do you truly wish for me to paint a sordid picture for you? Or is there something else prompting this?” He asks and runs a hand through his hair. 

“Have you thought of her when we are in bed together here?” Some of my fury leaves me as I voice the words and I realise it is because I thought he had touched her, loved her, seduced and been seduced by her in the sanctuary of his room, in his bed that we have now shared, yet has not known our love, as he has barely touched me since being here. And my jealous mind now assumes it is not because this place discourages romance as I had thought, clearly that is not the case if he had an affair right under the nose of his benefactors, but because he must be remembering her. 

“No. I’ve not given a single thought to her until this moment when you asked me who she was. Katniss… I love you. I married you. I have pledged my life to you. I would not change that for the world. And I have neither seen nor spoken to her since the last time she painted my portrait. She was a piece of my past but she was only one part. You… you are everything to me. I am, in every way… yours.”

I nod and he seems to deflate a little, but I know it is in relief. Still, I have a few lingering curiosities and so I ask.

“Why did it end?” I ask softly and he takes my hands in his and lifts them to his lips, his eyes growing hazy and pained as he explains.

“She told me that there was something twisted and dark inside me. She wanted me to be who I was at twenty, but I was no longer that young man. You see the scars on my face in that portrait. You know what caused them. What I had seen and done. She knew none of it, only saw the effects and did not care for them. I returned to my regiment … and my leg was…  and I realised she was right about me. There is something dark and twisted. You have seen it too. But I—“

I cover my mouth with my hand and close my eyes. Was he as wild with her during their last time together as he was that night with me? Did the savage and riotous force of his need to love and be loved frighten her? Did she recoil in horror from the brute? I can feel the damnable wetness leaking from my eyes down my cheeks. The schism inside him in these paintings, the change within his eyes alone is staggering and unbearable. But I know that this is only one piece of my husband. A portrait can capture only a moment, a brief instance, and one expression. There is far more to him than this one moment. Surely a painter would have known that? And that’s when I realise what a fool she was and accept that I’ve no reason to envy her. It falls away lime the cloak of winter, shed to absorb the warmth and light of spring, of hope.

Just as I cannot sever my scars from my skin, from my soul, neither can Peeta. I already knew this when I wrote to him that I could handle the brute in the night and the gentleman in the sun. That I am strong enough for all of him. And that is when I understand. She held a piece of him for a short time. I hold all of him, from now until death parts us.

“Katniss.”

“I do not know why I am crying!” I say and Peeta brings me to his chest, holds me in his arms. He soothes me when it is I who should be soothing him. I cling to him and expel my tears onto his coat, and when he tilts my chin up and whispers my name, I cannot help kissing him. Kissing him even in the middle of the hall with sunlight slanting across the marbled tile and his face. I invite the brute and welcome the force of his kiss. I demand it. 

And when he finally releases me, I cannot help asking one more thing. “What was her name?”

He stares at me and finally answers, the syllables dull on his tongue. No remorse, no excitement, nor any longing. Simply stating a fact. “Ophelia.”

I nod and then compose myself, running my hands over the fabric of his coat, ironing out any wrinkles I may have caused in our moment of abandon. “I will be present at the sitting for your portrait come this spring or you’ll not be painted at all, husband.”

“Of course you will be present, if there is such a sitting. I would want you to be painted beside me.”

“Truly?”

“Truly, and I would not complain if we took some inspiration from Aunt Chastity for it.”

“Lecher!” I accuse, but I am suddenly laughing and smiling, as is Peeta when he gives me one more, chaste kiss. “Even if there is something dark and twisted inside you, you do not let it rule you. That makes you the man, not the monster.”

He smiles at me and caresses my cheek, such a loving gesture and I am struck with an idea. I tuck it away for later, another time when I am alone. For now, I take his hand in mine and lead him towards our room, shutting the door and uncaring if it is unseemly to do this in the middle of the day. We have never paid heed to that stupid rule of propriety anyways.

“We haven’t much time,” he whispers as we kiss and heat builds and builds inside me, pushing out the numb of the past few days.

“We have enough,” I whisper back as we lay across the bed and he lifts my skirts to my waist. I cling to his hair and relax into his touches and kisses, gaze up at the blue, blue sky above me. Then down at his eyes between my thighs as he watches me unfold. I gasp, keeping the sounds quiet as he loves me. I hold tight to it, so tight that I’ve no warning and no chance to prepare. My sex seizes all control as I am flung into rapture, my spine arched on the bed and his name a ragged cry that echoes off the ceiling back to my ears. My body convulsing in waves. I shudder and moan and then his lips are on mine, feeding me the taste of my own desire, my own pleasure, my own release.

I watch him struggle with his trousers, myself still drifting on a cloud of sublime release, and then he groans in frustration when there is a knock on the door.

“What is it now?” He growls and climbs off of me, yanking my skirts back down to cover me and leaving me feeling hollow, needing him to fill me, as he strides across the room and opens the door enough to speak to but not enough to reveal any of the room to the person on the other side.

“Lady Mellark reminds you of tea, sir,” comes the timid squeak of an answer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The tension continues to build, even though I’ve gained more of an understanding of it and of Peeta as a result. There are more members of the household feeding it than just us. It is like a sleeping demon preparing to rise and wreak havoc on all the world. I grow agitated and jumpy and Peeta is the same as tea is served. 

Steam curls from my cup in tranquil tendrils yet I know the violence that rages inside the kettle as it heats. I press my thighs together beneath my skirts, eager for this to be over that Peeta and I might find a quiet moment to continue where we were interrupted. I have had my release and still feel the pressure building inside me. He must be near to bursting.

Then, the stifling quiet build of tension is broken at last by the arrival of an unexpected visitor. Sir Robert. 

As he enters the parlor in the middle of tea, Lady Tabitha rises with a smile on her face. It is the first genuine such expression I have seen on her.

“Robert, my darling!” She says and practically falls on top of him. “Do you travel alone?”

I give Peeta a questioning look at her eager inquiry and he shakes his head, indicating that I should watch, observe, before I speak.

“Mother. Yes, I travel alone this time.”

“Oh I am so happy to see you! You have been away from home far too long, neglecting your mother. How long will you stay?”

“Not long. Only a night and then I must return to town.”

“No, Robert! So soon?” Lady Mellark laments.

“I am afraid so, Mother. I only came to collect a few things and to make my excuses for Christmas in person.”

“Not coming for Christmas?” Robert ignores his mother’s whining question and forges onward.

“And I have good news to share. Delly and I have secured lodgings of our own.”

“What?” Lady Mellark practically yells and Ethan once more coughs in his tea. Peeta asks if he takes pepper in it, peering into his brother’s cup, and while Ethan and Robert both laugh at this, Lady Mellark only seems befuddled.

“Of course not. Why would Ethan take pepper in his tea?”

“Katniss poured today,” Ethan answers through his tears and I give Lady Mellark my best look of innocence as she scowls and shakes her head, clearly deeming it not worth her inquiries as she turns back to Robert.

“But darling, you are always welcome here. You know that! What will I do without you?”

“I have quite decided on it, Mother. And you will be fine! You’ll finally have time to yourself as you’ve always wished for more. Besides that, Peeta was right. I cannot continue to be a burden on you and Father. I am a married man now and must stand on my own feet, care for my wife. My wife and I thank you, brother, for the assistance. I shall pay you back, as promised.” Lady Mellark whirls and glares at Peeta, opening her mouth and clearly prepared to launch into a tirade, but Ethan intervenes.

“Splendid! I shall bring the girls and Thomas by sometime soon! Where will you be staying?”

“Hartford Road,” Robert says and Lady Mellark sputters some more. 

“But that is…you cannot!”

“I cannot live in the Merchant Quarter? But whyever not? My wife is a cobbler. It is an excellent location for her to build her trade. And I am to be a barrister – oh! That is the other bit of news I had for you. I have–” he claps his hands together gleefully “– at long last decided to make use of that fine education you and Father provided for me with a profession of my own!”

“Drinks are in order!” Ethan declares and hurries across the room to a sidebar as Lady Mellark flounders, her face growing redder by the second. “Happy news for all the family!”

The brothers move to distribute glasses and see Lady Mellark seated before she swoons. I get the distinct impression that this is a carefully orchestrated, well practiced routine for them. 

“What news for you, Ethan?”

“Sarah wrote that she is much better. The doctor believes it a bad reaction to clams. So the solution is simple! No more eating clams! I detest the things anyways. Slimy little buggers.”

“Henry and Angelica?” Peeta asks now.

“Emma has surpassed Mr. Bowland’s skills by far in her studies of Greek, Latin, and Hungarian. They are making plans to travel to the continent next summer to immerse her in the cultures and languages as well as to hire more skilled tutors,” Ethan reports. Toasts are made to Emma’s brilliance and likely future as a scholar. Lady Mellark grips the cushions beneath her. She takes deep breaths, the sounds whistling through her teeth.

“That leaves you, Peeta,” Robert says with a grin and Ethan once more delivers the news, gesturing towards me.

“Expectant father!”

“Congratulations, brother!” Robert shouts and smacks Peeta heartily on the back.

Lady Mellark screeches then and Robert thrusts a glass in her hands. “Oh Mother, forgive my rudeness. Your sherry.”

She gulps it down and then stands, storming from the room and throwing the glass as she goes. It shatters against one of the paintings on the wall. A door slams down the hallway and all three brothers drink calmly, as though nothing had happened.

“Is that painting difficult to repair?” Robert asks.

“Probably,” Peeta mutters and Ethan shrugs.

“I am certain Miss Ophelia will be glad of the work.”

Their nonchalance in the face of such hysteria is troublesome. For one moment, I feel sorry for Tabitha Mellark. I stand slowly and clear my throat. “Do none of you feel guilty for antagonizing her to cause that scene?”

“Oh trust us, it would have happened sooner or later,” Robert says with a heavy sigh. “Best to get it over with fast. The longer it takes, the messier the resulting fit.”

As if hearing this, there’s shouting down the hall and the sudden sounds of more smashing glass. “AND SEND FOR THE DOCTOR! I cannot breathe! And my heart! Oh! You have broken me this time! Are you happy for breaking your poor mother’s heart?”

I watch as Robert mouths her entire diatribe nearly word for word until the last, which makes him visibly wince.

“…UNGRATEFUL WRETCH!”

A harried looking maid practically runs past the door to the parlor as the one down the hall once more slams shut.

“Oh good. An immediate call for Doctor Hassel. Usually she waits for at least an hour before she does that,” Robert says.

“You did tell Mrs. Hastings that you were here with announcements, to give the staff a warning, yes?” Ethan asks.

“Of course! I am not a complete ass,” Robert says. Then smiles at me. “Most of the time. I’ve made rather a habit of it lately but I am trying to turn it around.” 

An apology. Having learned all that I have of their life here and of more of his relationship with Peeta, I am inclined to accept it.

“That poor maid,” I say with a shake of my head.

“Who was it this time?”

“Noelle,” Peeta answers and Ethan nods.

“I’ll see she’s compensated, as usual. If Henry were here, he could tell us just how fast we managed it this time. It seemed rather swift, did it not?” Ethan says, returning to their previous line of talking.

“Robert usually isn’t the cause. I think she was unprepared for that,” Peeta points out and Ethan laughs, punching Robert on the shoulder.

“At long last, the favoured brother falls.”

Robert heaves a sigh, the sound oddly relieved. “It was still Peeta that sent her over the edge, getting his wife pregnant. For shame, man!”

“I am happy as always to fulfill my family role,” Peeta says and I sit back down, strained laughter spilling from my lips.

“Are you alright, Katniss?” Robert asks me then and I shake my head.

“I think I have been here far too long.”

“Cheers to that,” Ethan says and lifts his glass to me with a wry smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That night, we spend an hour of talk in our bed. Peeta caresses over my back and my shoulders as I whisper in the dark, spilling more of my own secrets, the days following the fire and how it affected all my hopes for the future. He listens as I tell him of the young man who had been writing poetry to me, perhaps the early stages of courtship and how his desire turned cold after the fire. The knowledge of my scars a deterrent to love.

After, when I’ve run out of words and my throat aches, Peeta kisses me softly, across my cheek and down to my scars. “He was a fool. You are exquisite in every way.”

Peeta sleeps soundly that night, yet I cannot. Excitement courses through me with each beat of my heart. Tomorrow we leave. Tomorrow we head to Capitol and if all goes as planned, in a few days we will be bound for Everdeen with one addition to our family.

I trace the dark circles under my husband’s eyes as he sleeps. Kiss each one and then his lips before I slide from our bed and slip into my slippers and dressing robe. I find a taper and light it, silently leaving him to sleep as I seek out the room I need. 

The cold is biting tonight as I hurry on silent feet through the strange halls. I imagine the ghosts pointing the way, helpful spectres who only desire to be left in peace to rest. When I finally reach it, I inhale the lingering scents of paint and turpentine. 

At first, I plot a thousand kisses to overshadow his memories in this room, a thousand ways to make this ours when we are next forced to visit here, and when I spot a divan I had not noticed on my previous visit, I have one lurid thought before it careens out of control and instead of dreaming of Peeta touching me, I am picturing him holding paint stained skirts out of the way and thrusting between creamy unmarked thighs wrapped about his hips, glossy hair spilling over the divan and fingers spotted with bright oil paints gripping his buttocks.

I shake my head and turn away from the divan. Perhaps they did conduct their affair here. And perhaps Peeta is right. He cannot change it, and I cannot erase it. This room, that affair is a thing of the past. I have only struggled with it so because I have been faced with the proof of it, whereas before coming here, I had only a vague knowledge of it. Now the lover has a name and a story. Ophelia.

I run my hands over the soft bristles and note characteristics of the brushes that Peeta would have used. His birthday is in a few months, and now I know precisely what to get for him, another piece of him to welcome to Everdeen and bring home with us. 

Satisfied that I have gleaned all that I can from the history in this room, I leave and return to bed, sliding with ease into Peeta’s arms. He wraps me in his embrace and murmurs in his sleep.

“Katniss, my love.”

And with that, I am at last able to find rest as well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lady Mellark remains closeted the rest of the day after her fit at tea and into the morning. Her throwing the wine glass is the last I see of her. Lord Mellark delays our departure in the morning by summoning Peeta after breakfast and keeping him far too long. I pace the marbled hall, dressed for travel and ready to leave. 

Robert has already departed an hour ago, calling me “sister” with an odd sort of affection and soliciting a promise that Peeta and I would see him and Delly in town. Ethan too, has long since left, rising with the sun and departing before the rest of the house had even stirred, leaving only a note reminding Peeta that we are welcome at Medora any time we wish. Even Jeffries and his wife Lydia have left in a hired carriage, a trunk filled with Peeta’s things as well as their own belongings in their care, a letter in my hand addressed to Father explaining who they are and how they are to be employed at Everdeen.

Our own bags are packed and the horses hitched. Frederick sits on the box with reigns in hand. I await only my husband. At long last, he hurries up to me, grasping my arm and fairly charging out the door.

“Do not look back. Just leave,” Peeta mutters. He moves rather swiftly, given the wooden leg. He steers me down the stairs and into the carriage, following right behind with four words of instruction. “Capitol, with haste Frederick.”

“With pleasure, sir.”

I am still settling in as the coach lurches into motion and I fall backwards, right into Peeta’s lap. His arms surge around me and he holds me tight. He inhales and releases it, a shuddering and desperate sound. “God I couldn’t bear another second of it. It’s harder to bear, knowing life need not be like that at all.”

“Peeta…I cannot breathe.”

“Apologies,” he says and loosens his hold enough to help me onto the seat. “I hope you did not forget anything. If you did, I fear it is now lost. I will not go back there for all the riches in the world.”

“What happened?”

“They were bickering and making it impossible for me to cross a room without risking something being thrown at my head.” I gasp and push his hat off his head to examine him for injuries, he chuckles and takes my hand in his, bringing it to his lips in what has become a familiar and comforting gesture between us. “No injuries, my love. Only a desperate need to get as far away as possible as quickly as possible for as long as possible.”

“For me as well, husband,” I murmur and settle in, comfortable against his shoulder and chest. “What were they arguing over?”

“Me, or rather what we did.”

“Oh?”

“They did not take the news well that I had hired myself a valet and a seamstress for my wife.”

I glance up at him and he smiles at me. I return the expression and kiss his jaw, happy that Jeffries and his wife will no longer suffer. I am too afraid to ask what the other thing is that Peeta suspected was happening to the couple, what other payment the Marquis had extracted for Jeffries protecting Robert. 

We ride in silence for a time, watching the snow dance outside the carriage. It is already nearly midday and we still have a fair distance to travel.

“We might need to stop at an inn on the edges of town,” Peeta says and I nod. “We’ll send word ahead to Haymitch when we stop.”

“Peeta,” I say, attempting to order my words and waiting for him to make a sound of encouragement for me to continue. “How is it that none of you wound up anything like the Marquis? Or the Marchioness?”

“Well…for Ethan I think it was school. He spent most of his life away at boarding schools. The best ones, only the best for Ethan. He stayed away for so long that by the time he returned home to learn the particulars of the title and estates he was to inherit, he was already his own man. Henry…no one paid any mind to Henry. They did not know how to handle his thirst for knowledge and his constant questioning of everything. They left him to his books instead, hired tutors and left him in their charge. He found mentors and guidance elsewhere, through his academic studies and letters he sent to scholars, anyone who would correspond with him. Then he too went away to university and met Angelica. Robert spent more time in the care of the Marchioness than the others did. In many ways, he is most like them out of us all. In others he is nothing like them. Since he was the third son, the Marquis had no interest in parenting Robert other than using him as a source of pride. He was content to leave the youngest in his wife’s hands.”

“Until you came along.”

“Until I came along. Then Robert spent a great deal more time with me than anyone else in the household since we shared tutors and school lessons, went off to school together for several years.”

“I suppose that is why she favours him and despises you.”

“Likely, among other things. Robert grew closer to me and grew away from her. She has accused me more than once of poisoning both Robert and the Marquis against her, which is laughable. I am not her son in any form. She has no reason to care for me at all, and she has never once called me anything other than ‘you’ or ‘that boy.’ I only serve as a constant reminder of her husband’s indiscretions and his disregard for her wishes. I am not the only bastard he has fathered. I am not even the only acknowledged one, but I am the only one she was forced to even converse with.”

“I almost felt sorry for her. Up until she insulted me for the thousandth time and threw a glass across the room. It is not as though she could control her husband’s actions, but she can control how she treats everyone around her. Look at Madge. She was married to a tyrant and managed to maintain the kindness of her soul. As did you,” I say. I yawn then and snuggle closer to my husband.

“Are you suggesting that I married a tyrant?” He asks, and I smile inside at the teasing note in his voice yet I turn a scowl to him.

“Not as long as you packed some of those rolls with the cheese on them.”

“They are under your seat.” 

I gasp in delight and he chuckles. As I search for them, I find something that I packed as well and present it to him.

“Why did you bring this?”

“For the cold days to come. You mentioned that the cold affects your leg.” He smiles at me and I can see the lifting of the dark clouds from his eyes as he accepts the cane and sets it next to his seat. Then he grasps my arms and hauls me into his lap.

“You are too good to me,” Peeta whispers and nuzzles my nose.

“It is what you and I do, husband. Take care of one another.” He kisses me then, my entire body awakening as we drive away from the tomb that is de Vale. It is as though spring has arrived early. Warmth blooming in my chest and birdsong fluttering in my head.

From there it is far easier to speak and enjoy the ride, wrapped up in his arms and cosied together, and yes kissing here and there.

Only as we continue, it becomes clear that this journey is taking far longer than expected. The roads and ice necessitate a slower pace. We stop for a late midday meal that will likely double as dinner. We send word with a rider ahead to Haymitch. Frederick lights the lanterns to dispel the darkness. Peeta wraps me in warm blankets and fur, and I allow him to pamper me. Then we continue on. I am drowsy and begin to nod off as the sun sinks from the sky.

The sounds of horse and carriage remain as I dream, swaying and floating in a strange sort of way. My feet grow cold as I walk through frosted woods. Flashes light the trees and I cannot place them as I follow faint tracks in the frost painted ground. I catch the scents of cinnamon and dill, vetiver. There’s a brush of a hand on my cheek and I attempt to capture the hand, to hold Peeta close to me. His fingers slip through my grasp.

A loud crack of thunder startles me. My eyes fly open to the screaming of horses, a sound of collision I cannot place, the lurch forward as the horses break into a mad gallop, the precarious swaying of the carriage as it dashes through the night. The lanterns outside follow the movement, a macabre dance of flames through the glass. Peeta attempts to move me and I am sluggish to respond. Then the carriage leans to the side too far and Peeta shouts something, grabs my shoulders and turns me away. We are suspended for one moment then I land on my back atop him.

Glass shatters and wood splinters. My head strikes something. The already dark world turns hazy and spins before my eyes, then everything turns black. Black as death.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To be continued…

Your clue for chapter 24: When we build a life with someone, we are already a person with a past, secrets, and this one word you seek. Words rise up from it to cause a bit of strife. A stroll down this lane can be painful, cathartic, and sometimes both but usually necessary to reconcile past and present in the name of the future.

[purgatorys-fallen-angel]

What was first? Eggnog or drunk?

Written for: @notfunnydean‘s SPN Adventcalender 2019

Prompt: Day 4: Eggnog

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Castiel

Summary: Cas tries eggnog for the very first time.

Word count: 1213

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21680731

Sam and Dean were sitting in the library when Castiel opened the door. A bowl of hot spiced wine – that smelled delicious – and two other bottles of liqueur Castiel couldn’t identify were placed in the middle of the table, surrounded by mugs, glasses and plates loaded with biscuits and cookies. It was warm and the air smelled like spices, chocolate and Christmas. Cas smiled, the tension easing off his shoulders.

“Hey, baby.” Dean slurred.

Cas frowned at that and took off his shoes and jacket. Dean had never called him ‘baby’ in front of his brother. He put his jacket away carefully and then went into the library, taking one of the cookies when he sat down next to Dean. “What are you doing?”

Dean just giggled and took his mug, clinking glasses with Sam before he leaned back again. Sitting right next to Dean made it easier for Cas to smell the alcohol Dean must have consumed and he could see that the bowl with hot spiced wine on the table wasn’t exactly full anymore. “Hey, Sammy, can you turn on your Christmas playlist again?”

“Are you getting drunk?” Cas leaned back to get a better look at Dean. “Wait, a r e you drunk?”

“Nuuuuh, we’re just – Sammy let’s sing!” Dean bolted and stumbled to his feet, nearly knocking over the plates on the table. Cas recognized the song and looked even more confused. Dean didn’t sing loudly to ‘Rudolph, the red nosed reindeer’. He looked at Sam who just shrugged and joined in on Dean’s singing.

“Guys! What is happening?” Cas sat up and took the bottles from the table, inspecting them carefully. Who knew what they were drinking.

“We’re having some Christmas fun, don’t you see?” Dean giggled, his words came out slurred and weirdly pronounced. He grabbed one of the bottles from Cas’ hand to use it as a microphone and obviously tried to turn a harmless and innocent Christmas song into something almost unbearable.

“C’mon Cas, it’s not that bad! It’s fun!”

Cas rolled his eyes and pretended he was busy reading the ingredients of one of the liqueurs. Its yellow colour and weird consistency had attracted his attention. He expected something with milk and vanilla and was surprised to find eggs as ingredients. “You’re drinking egg liqueur?”

The brothers stopped and turned around to look at him, both managing to appear slightly offended.

“That’s not egg liqueur. It’s eggnog. And it’s awesome!” Dean nodded, as to reassure himself that his statement was definitely true. He got a new glass from the cabinet and placed it in front of Cas, filling it to the brim. “Try it.”

“Uhm…” Cas shifted slightly and looked at the glass and then at Dean. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, it contains a lot of alcohol.”

Dean blew a raspberry and waved his hand around. “Doesn’t matter. It’s good. You gotta try.” He held up his hand and pointed at Cas, just as if he was about to warn or scold him. “And don’t use that ‘angels don’t eat and drink’ crap on me cuz it’s not workin’.”

Cas raised one eyebrow but took the glass. He had to be careful not to spill anything. Sniffing on it first maybe wasn’t the best idea either. The smell of raw eggs, vanilla and all sorts of spices hit him and he wrinkled up his nose at their intensity. “Dean, I really don’t know if I-“

“Just try it. It’s even better than it smells.”

“That’s the point. It doesn’t smell good.” Cas sighed and looked at Dean, hoping that he would have mercy but Dean just stood there and grinned. “Fine, I’ll try it.”

Dean beamed and bumped fists with Sam before sitting down next to Cas to watch him up closely. Cas grumbled and took the smallest sip he could somehow manage, just to be interrupted by Dean.

“That doesn’t count!” Dean sounded a bit frustrated and Cas looked at him. At the fully grown-up man with broad shoulders and a normally serious expression, who was now bouncing like a little child with his arms crossed in front of his chest and his lower lip pushed out. He sighed and tried to tell himself that he wasn’t doing this for Dean, as he raised the glass again and drank.  And surprisingly it wasn’t as bad as expected. It was sweet and tasted weird but overall it was quite good.

“Aaaand?” If it was possible, Dean scooted even closer and placed his hand on Cas’ thigh. “Do you like it?” His thumb rubbed small circles into Cas’ thigh and Cas tried to swallow down the lump that was beginning to form in his throat.

“It’s fine.” Cas didn’t know how he managed to sound completely normal and serious, but he wasn’t about to complain about that, as long as Deans’ fingers were still inching up his thigh to softly caress his inner thigh.

“Uh, yeah. I think I should go now. Got some reading to do. Have fun.” Sam scratched the back of his neck, took his mug with hot spiced wine and disappeared out of the door, leaving Cas alone with a more or less drunk Dean.

Cas didn’t get nervous. And he totally wasn’t nervous at all when Dean pulled him closer by his waist and he quickly downed the rest of the eggnog.

“Are you nervous?” Dean’s breath ghosted over Cas’ neck when he leaned forwards to place soft kisses just beneath his ear and could feel Cas shiver beneath his fingers.

“Shut up, Dean.” Cas mumbled and placed the glass on the table. He tried to ignore the goose bumps on his skin and pushed at Dean’s chest. “You’re drunk.”

“And?” Dean chuckled and slid his hands beneath Cas’ shirt, feeling the firm muscle and soft skin. “Doesn’t matter, does it?” His fingers slid over Cas’ chest and wrapped around the lapel of his shirt. “I like that you’re not wearing ties. Would’ve been hot to pull on now, tho.”

“Dean…” Cas placed his hands on Dean’s chest to gently push him away, but somehow ended up sliding them up and then he wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck. Deans’ eyes were focused on him and they looked so clear and sober that for a brief second Cas wondered if the hunter in front of him was really drunk.

Dean smiled and brushed his lips over Cas’, sending a shiver down the angel’s spine. “You’re so cute, you know that?” He chuckled, his voice suddenly very deep and rough. It just made Cas squirm more. But he was stopped in his tracks when Dean finally pressed their lips together and kissed him properly. He sighed quietly and pulled the man closer, relishing in the feeling of his soft and warm lips against his own.

“Cas….?”

Cas felt Dean stiffen and then part, which made him furrow his brows in confusion and squint at the other man. “What is it?”

“Tired….” Dean just mumbled and rested his head on Cas’ shoulder, dozing off a few seconds later.

“Dean…?” Cas nudged him gently, but didn’t get a reaction from the hunter. Dean was sound asleep, cuddled close to Cas, his arms still resting on Cas’ waist and thigh.

[docholligay]

Support has Arrived

themiscyra1983 replied to your post “What if I did some fluff (hypothetically) prompts tomorrow? Would...”

Mercy and Emily hanging out! It feels like they'd be on a similar wavelength, they both have high-strung partners in different ways, and I like the idea that Emily has formed her own friendships with Tracer's friends and coworkers.

I hope I did okay, it’s my first time writing these two together, so FINDING MY FEET. 2,300 words. All of my OW universe is here, this takes place after Powerless. 

Pharah was a worrier.

She would never herself have phrased it that way, and if Mercy had put it that way to her, she would have wrinkled her lip in a light scowl, in the way she always did before she took issue with something, shake her head, and tell Mercy that wasn’t true at all, she was no nervous person. But you did not have to quake and shiver to be a worrier, and it was true that Pharah did not sit anxiously, biting her nails and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Instead, she took the shoe out of the hands of whomever might drop it, made herself responsible for the maintenance of all shoes, and refused to delegate much more than whose job it was to turn out the light.

Pharah had a gift for overextending herself and weakness for trusting others with any responsibility. Pharah was loving and steady and conscientious. Pharah would do anything for Mercy, before she even asked, and if Mercy ever had to ask Pharah would count herself a failure and write it down in another line of her Book of Responsibilities, so she would never forget again. Mercy loved Pharah more than she could possibly say, and Pharah had healed her in ways that she had not even known she was broken.

And Angela Ziegler was going to get off of the couch, weak as she was, and murder Fareeha Amari with her bare hands.

It was not that Mercy did not understand. She had come very close to death, and it would be a long, slow recovery, and even as Mercy sat reading her own medical records, she wondered if she would ever be well enough to return to the field. She had frightened Pharah terribly, whatever little Pharah had said about it, and Pharah’s reluctance to leave the house was just another responsibility she gave herself. If Pharah was there, no one would hurt mercy. Not while she still breathed.

But however much she understood, Pharah’s hovering and insistence that Mercy could not so much as sit and read her medical records for more that thirty minutes at a time, despite the fact that Mercy was the one with a medical degree, and felt she knew fairly well the limits of her health, was putting her quite on the edge of her sanity.

She could not tell Pharah to go away for a bit, and the thought of even doing so sent a pang through Mercy’s heart. It was only that Pharah loved her. She could not reject that.

But what she could do, was send a text to Tracer saying Pharah seemed like she might wear a hole in the floor for pacing, and hope that Tracer’s agile little mind would come to a solution.

Help arrived the next day, with a tiny Brit practically bursting through the front door with a bright smile on her face, a workout bag slung over each shoulder.

“Fareeha!” She jumped into the living room, “ere to rescue you, I am. Been without a proper bit of exercise for weeks now--”

“When did we give you a key?” Pharah leaned over the back of the couch where she had been standing by the window.

“--Ang gave me one, don’t interrupt--and isn’t you always saying we ‘ave to be all tip-top, first class, ready for anything? I thought as you might forget that, things being as they are, but--”

“You must let Pharah say yes, if she’s to join you.” Emily gave a giggle from where she was removing her shoes in the entryway, and walked into the living room, kissing Tracer on the head when she reached her.

“Was getting to it.” Tracer nodded “Come on then, ‘ave your bag,” she shrugged her right shoulder, as if Pharah could not see the tag on it herself, “Did the washing for it and everything.”

Pharah shook her head. “Angela still needs--”

“Oh, I’m to stay with her,” Emily gave her shy smile and sat down on the little chair near the window, “You and Lena can go on.” Pharah did not respond, and Emily gave a small nod, “Amn’t I trustworthy?”

“It is not that.” Pharah sighed, “if someone were to--”

“Jesse’s out front there!” Tracer bounced toward Pharah and extended the bag, “Owes me a favor or two, e does, but I will e never does argue the point.” She chuckled, “‘ad to ‘ave ‘im take a bit of an ‘oliday from punching Gabe in the face, as it was. Think ‘e’s working out some emotional issues, tried to tell ‘im there are some lovely therapists in town…., “She looked at Pharah, “well, anyhow, I’m...talk to ‘ear me own voice sometimes, don’t I then, love?”

Pharah’s face had darkened, and grown solemn. Gabri--Reaper, he was, now, was still to be dealt with, held in their cell in the basement of Winston’s home. She had tried not to think about it, the man she had thought of as an uncle, and what he had become. What he had done.

Mercy touched her arm. “Go on.”

Tracer brightened up again, and tossed the bag at Pharah, who caught it with one hand. “I’ve an idea. I’ll run, and if you catch me, you can pummel me, right?”

“I will never run so fast in my life.” She slung the bag over her shoulder and looked down at Mercy, stroking her hair. “You will call me?”

“I do not think I will be needing to call you. But I would.”

Pharah nodded, licking her lip and thinking a moment, then sighed, kissed Mercy tenderly, and headed for the door.

She pushed Tracer playfully as they walked toward the entryway. “You should hope you run fast.”

“Fareeha, love, I know I run fast.”

They left, and Mercy relaxed a little against the high pile of pillows Pharah had arranged on the couch. Tracer was good for her. It was difficult to be too caught up in her own thoughts, the way Tracer needled her and played with her. Mercy had always thought their Overwatch had succeeded when the other had failed, because love had been added. Each of them were members of a family, more than an organization.

The thought made her remember that it was only a few weeks ago, just before all this had happened, where they had been together celebrating Tracer and Emily’s wedding.

“You’ve no need to entertain me, if ye do get a wee bit tired.”

Mercy turned to her voice, and Emily sat perched still on the little chair, her red hair tied back and glistening even in the tiny and sparse patches of London sunlight, her eyes soft and kind, as they always were. When she noticed that Mercy had turned, she got up and walked over to the end of the couch, settling in there, realizing even before Mercy had that it would be less tiring for her to sit straight.

“This should not be your honeymoon.” Mercy smiled apologetically.

Emily shook her head. “Och, we have the rest of our lives, don’t we?” She smiled brightly. “Hana’s gifted us a holiday together, once it all is a bit more settled.”

“I used to say you should not be giving someone so young so much money, but,” Mercy gave a soft shrug, “she is kinder with it than most would be.”

Emily nodded happily. “I dunna think she’d ever say so.”

“And she would call me a liar for saying it is true.” Mercy looked over to the photo on the back wall, all of them tucked tightly together in front of the unimpressive building that was their headquarters, taken the first day they came to London. “But she is kind.”

“Oh!” Emily got up and padded back to the doorway, grabbing a large bag she’d left there. “Had a thought,. It’s only from something Lena told me, when she was hurt, so if ye’d rather no, I understand.”

She set the bag down on the coffee table, and unloaded a large bowl, a towel, pitcher, and a small bottle of shampoo, decorated with flowers up the side.

Mercy was not about to cause herself the pain of reaching up to touch her hair, but she knew it must be limp and greasy, tied in a loose bun on her head. Emily had always been a favorite of Mercy’s. She was quiet and kind and calm, a perfect match for Tracer’s expressive vibrancy and volume, and the way she loved Tracer came out in every thing that she ever did. But as much as she had loved her before, Mercy was not certain she ever had, or ever would again, love her as much as this moment.

She blushed slightly. “It should be very dirty.”

Emily set the towel down next to Mercy and smiled, giving a little giggle. “Day before last, a student handed me a dead bird. Bit of grease to your hair won’t phase me. Would you like it?” She looked at Mercy, waiting. Emily would never have done anything without anyone’s okay, if they were not sure, if they were uncomfortable.

“Please.” She hoped she looked as grateful as she felt, in that moment.

Emily popped over to the kitchen, only a few steps away, and began to let the water come to temperature. It was funny, Mercy often thought, that so many of them fell in love with someone in the same business, in the constant danger, because it was easier to be understood. There were things you did not have to say. But Tracer had often dated civilians, because Tracer was the bravest person she knew. Tracer was not afraid to explain herself, to give words to the things she’d been through, and hope another person could understand. Maybe because there was no one quite like her, even in their work.

But Emily had been brave, too. She was a beautiful woman, with a good job and a gentle heart, but instead of picking a suitor who she might have had an easy life with, one where they came home at safe hours and where the news was not frightening, she had chosen Tracer. Because she loved her. Because she refused to settle for a candle when she could have a firework, whatever the risks. And she had done it all quite calmly.

Mercy admired her.

Emily carefully set the full bowl down on the table, and then took a few of the pillows out from behind Mercy slowly, taking the bowl and easing her hair into it. She massaged the warm water deep into the roots, and Mercy felt the comfort of it wash over her, closing her eyes and enjoying the knowledge that not only was she being helped, but her wife, as well. It felt nice to know Pharah was cared for, when she could not do it herself.

“And how is your married life?” She felt Emily smile even with her eyes closed, “Barely a month in?”

Emily squirted a bit of shampoo into her hands and rubbed it firmly into Mercy’s hair, the rose and violet of the thick, rich shampoo filling the air. She must have gone to special trouble,because of course she did. That was Emily’s way.

“Not much has changed, I suppose,” she took out the shampoo to the tips, “Lena is still my lovely, we stay in the same house.” she chuckled, “Haven’t yet told my parents I’m taking Lena’s name over mine. My brother, Owen, he approves. He’s always thought kindly of Lena”

“I am sure the Oxtons were delighted, however, to make you one of their own.”

“Amn’t they over everything, though?” Emily giggled, happily this time, her parents’ light shadow over marrying Tracer forgotten in the joy of Tracer’s family for them both.

Mercy gave a soft, small, laugh. “It is true.”

The pitcher rinsed her hair, and Mercy felt the grease and grime fall out of it, wondering if it had lightened three shades in the course of a moment. It was an exquisite gift, and one that no one had thought to give, even with all the casseroles Jack had brought, the laundry service D.va sent, and even Ana’s neatly wrapped gift of fresh pajamas and baklava from the Middles Eastern bakery, freshly made, which was not so much for her as for Pharah, but Mercy would rather Ana gift her, anyhow.

Emily gently teased out Mercy’s hair with a wide-tooth comb, slicking the water out of each bit as well as she could.

“Fareeha must be driving you right mad.” She whispered conspiratorially. “I canna be too judgmental, for I know I’ve been the same with Lena, but I know I’ve driven her right mad.”

“Yes!” Mercy gave a laugh so sharp it hurt, and she had to catch her breath for a moment. She continued, softer, “She is so protective and kind, but I do not need the supervision so constantly.”

Emily nodded as she reached for the towel. “A regular border collie needing a job, is our Fareeha.”

Our Fareeha. It did Mercy’s heart such good to hear those things. As she awoke from her injuries, days after, the haze still settling over her, her first thought had been of Pharah. What would become of her if Mercy was lost. How she would always worry that her determined and dedicated wife would take that hurt and turn it into overwork, into procedure, into long nights spent studying engineering and strategy as her only protection against the loneliness.

But today, Emily and Tracer had proven it didn’t need to happen. They would care for Pharah, in their complementary, utterly opposite ways.

Pharah was a worrier, and nothing would change that, but as Emily gently braided her hair, Mercy remembered that they both had love beyond each other, a sprawling family that would catch them when they fell, and Mercy worried just a little less.

[voiceofreader]

ahhh!! i hate to be a bother, but it’d be super cool if you did the ABC thing for todoroki from bnha, since he’s my favorite character :))))

You’re not a bother. I love you. Shouto is the best boi and I will protect him until the day I die. I was gonna do this eventually if I never got a request for it. I’m glad I gotta do it now. ❤

Shouto Todoroki A-Z (Smut)

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after): Shouto is more aware of you. He’s more attentive. Like he’s watching to make sure you’re not hurt, or like about to shatter into pieces. He’s extremely caring and over the top. If you ask him to go get you a towel to clean up, he’ll end up running you a bath instead and he’ll put essentials oils in it, with some rose petals on top (you don’t know where he got rose petals but he did it) If you ask for maybe a glass of water, he is asking you what type of water like he’s about to go get dressed and go to the store to buy you fancy water. Like, no, Shouto, just go get a glass of water from the tap?? But besides that, he just wants to hold you and kiss you because no matter how many times you guys go at it, he’s surprised because he can’t believe you’re still letting him do this?

B = Body part (They’re favorite body part as well as their partners): -He likes his hands just because they’re the focus point of his quirks.

-He really just likes all of you. You can’t get him to say one thing.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum):  - His favorite place to cum is on your stomach area. -Just because it’s so dirty seeing his cum glisten all over your body like whoa

D = Dirty secret  (Dirty Secret of theirs): - he wants to be way more kinkier than he is. He is gonna read all those adult women magazines giving advice on “how to spice things up in the bedroom” and he’s going to want to try all those tips and tricks but he doesn’t know how to go about it with you.

E = Experience (How experienced are they): You are going to have to teach this boy everything because he has no clue what to do. But he does learn fast, so there’s that for you.

F =  Favorite position (Basically says it in the title): Anything that lets him see your face. He wants to be able to kiss you at any moment, and he also wants to be able to see you to make sure you’re okay.

G = Goofy (How serious are they? Do they prefer joking?): Serious boy is serious. Not because that’s the tone he’s going for. He’s just focused. Once you lighten things up, he will too, because sex isn’t just sex for him. It’s a way to bond with you, and if you’re giggling the whole time, he’s more than fine with it.

H = Hair (Does the carpet match the drapes? Are they groomed?):  I read a headcanon that his pubes are half and half just like his hair, so fuck it, we’re sticking with it. Half red and half white down the line pubes. He shaves down there just for you, for your convenience.

I = Intimacy (How they are during the moment): He’s very romantic. He is constantly making sure you’re okay and that you’re enjoying yourself. Eventually he’ll grow a bit out of the constant worrying phase, and he’ll just be your prince. He’s so thankful and happy you love him enough to do these things with him and he has to let you know.

J = Jack off (Masturbation headcanon): He jacks off very seldom. He thinks he has better things to do that masturbate. “Why do that when I can go for a run? Or go eat soba? Or go run to a noodle shop and eat soba?”

K = Kink (One of their kinks): -Has a thing for food play. -Really likes it when you take control-Kinda wants to be tied up at least once?-Loves praise. Tell him how good he feels or how great he’s doing.

L = Location (Favorite place): -Bedroom is the go to place.-Really wants to do it in the shower, so once that finally happens, of course sex will happen more often in there. He will join you in the shower all the time. Don’t shower around him, he will walk in like 8/10 times)

M = Motivation (What turns them on): -He’s a bit of a jealous boy, so if he seems someone way too close in your personal space, he’s gonna go intimidate them and once he gets you alone, he’s gonna love on you.-You training gets him going. He loves seeing how strong you are. - Also has a thing for watching you tell Bakugou off, or show him up. Just put Bakugou in his place. And Shouto is yours.

N = No (Something they won’t do): - No threesomes. -No side hoes. He is already constantly worried that you’re going to someday leave him, so please don’t make this anxiety worse.- Nothing that will hurt you

O = Oral (Giving or receiving): We got ourselves a selfless boy here. He is a giver as the day is long. He doesn’t ask for anything in return but please repay the favor. He will really appreciate it.

P = Pace (Are they fast or slow):

He can go either way. -Sometimes he gets way into it and is just going to pound town, -but he’s also a soft boy and goes slow.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies): -If you want it, yeah, sure, but he’s really not into it. -He doesn’t like time limits.

R = Risk (Will they be down to experiment in risky locations): -Subconsciously he’s into it. -He can get really wrapped up in you where he will go all the way where he is at. -Is it 2 am, and we’re all alone in the common area on the couch? Well my pants are already off. Nothing we can do about it now. -But, he’s a smart boy and will really try his best to calculate the probability of someone catching you.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go): -While he can go for hours,-He doesn’t understand why tho-We’re both satisfied, why ruin it and be too tired to even move and be sore the next day?-Push his limit. Do it. Make him go all night.

T = Toy (Do they own toys and if they do, will they use them): -Nope.-Though, the thought of getting you something has came up in his head.- Doesn’t know how to ask you about -But if you do end up getting something, he’ll try his best to use it to its full capabilities

U = Unfair (How much will they tease): -He’s a playful tease. He doesn’t hold back long. - Just enough to get you going.

V = Volume (How loud are they if they even are): -He’s actually kinda vocal. Lots of moans of telling you how good it feels and when he’s gonna cum. While he’s not really loud, he does make noise.

W = Wild card (Headcanon of choice): -He wants to see if he can use his quirk on his dick?? Like can he change the temperature and can he use both sides on it since it’s in the middle? He. wants. to. know.

X = X-Ray (What’s going on down there): - He’s average size, 5-7 inches but he’s girthy boy.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive): -It’s meh. If he wants the sex, he’ll try for the sex, but it’s not like a major thing. -Sex is mainly just to love the fuck out of you.

Z = ZZZ (How quickly do they fall asleep):

He waits until you go to sleep. But that doesn’t mean he’s not tired. If you stay up, he’ll casually try to coax you to go to sleep for both of yours sake.

If you look carefully you can see I’m fighting with myself in this prompt. I can’t choose if I want Shouto to be a dense soft boy or a daddy and so I tried my best to mix them but????

[technohumanlation]

Whumptober Day 6

The ever so lovely @whumptober2019 made a list of prompts to complete every day for the whole month of October and I’m giving a shot at it this year! 

As always read what you can handle and do not read if you are squimish to any of the warnings. 

Dragged Away

Warnings: Creepy kamski is creepy, capturing/rape, Emotional shock

Characters. Chloe, Kamski

A fundraiser for a local children's hospital was in full swing now, and none other than Elijah Kamski made this one of his many debuts back into the public eye. On his arm was his ever loyal android, Chloe.  

Dressed in a form fitting and flattering shimmering blue dress with a split down the side, her hair tied into the signature ponytail, and an eased smile, she was the epitome of young beauty. Her lips were stained the perfect shade of youthful pink. Kamski matched her attire with a deep blue shirt under a back dress jacket.

Their arrival was short-lived, and the duo was more than happy to stick to the sides of the ballroom as speeches were made on behalf of the families sponsored tonight. Dinner was announced but Kamski was more than content to sip at a flute of champagne.  

The night was winding down as they now made their way around the ballroom. One couple to the next. Some small talk, some genuine prying. The man didn't mind, and Chloe would comment from time to time, but other than those few words, she was there to be an ornament.  

An appreciated one of course. When he asked for another drink, she was more than glad to retrieve one. When a passing tray of hors d'oeuvres caught his eye, she was willing to pluck it from the tray and hand feed him almost lovingly.  

The relationship they held was mysterious and strange though no one dared to comment upon it. She was robotic and stiff, yet her face was human and tricked the audience for a while. That is until it was when she remained still and silent, they were reminded of her origin.

Her LED was conveniently curtained by locks of golden hair.

Kamski turned towards her looking at her expression. The night was old, and he too was growing bored of the same conversation over and over again. He could only take such stimulations for so long until they became numb.

He fished around in his pocket for a moment before presenting it to the android. The android looked down at his hand in a curious manner. "Chloe, do you mind?" He asked in a low murmur.

Of course, she didn't wait for her to answer, nor would she. She raised her hand, and the keys were dropped into her palm. She took her arm from around his and walked away. He returned to the conversation without another glance her way.

The night sky was cloudy, and the wind that rippled through the air was cold, but that didn't bother the android at all. And even if it did, she would make no indication of it.  

She walked down the sidewalk, raising her hand to unlock the modern car that sat among similar makes and models. The headlights blinked as it was unlocked. Her heeled footfalls echoed in the air that grew silent. The android stopped just as she was about to cross the street.  

She turned her head over her shoulder, seeing a shadow slink out of the alleyway from behind. Arms suddenly were around her. Social protocol predicted that this was indeed not a hug nor anything at all pleasant. Quickly and wordlessly, she bowed over, raised her elbow, and jammed it as hard as she could into the human's chest. A crack and a shout made her audial unit ring, and the man released her reluctantly.

“Gonna be like that, huh bitch?”

“If you do not want any more injuries, I would suggest walking away," Chloe advised easily.

“And skip out on my chances of getting the original android ever?" A smirk crossed his lips. "Doubt it, honey."

Something was taken from his hip and raised. He pulled the trigger. Something dug into her arm.  

“Nighty night, princess...”

The clicking of the taser had her crumpling to the ground in spasms. A choked cry was ripped from her throat, but nothing more. She didn't struggle as she was gripped by under her arms and dragged into the dark shadows of the alleyway.  

It didn't take this long to bring the car around. By now, a message would have been sent to his wristwatch, and he would have been on his way. After all, he was connected to her in more ways than one.

“Excuse me, gentleman.” He smiled politely, removing himself from the conversation and making his way towards the front entrance of the gala.

A nod was given to the doorman as he opened the glass door for him.

He walked down the street just aways. They didn't park far, and no valet services always warranted an early arrival to get a decent spot after all.

He adjusted the cuffs to his jacket casually as he looked at his watch. A warning was blinking for his attention that a Chloe unit was in distress or offline.

Someone had gotten brave with his property.

Her location was practically a few steps away.

He turned into the alleyway, against the dark shadows he saw glimmering blue and pale skin. A shadow was hunched over her.

He took in a deep casual breath. “That’s enough.” Elijah's voice echoed in the alleyway. A dark shadow against street lamps' light.

The man narrowed his eyes standing up from Chloe’s prone body that twitched unnaturally every moment or so. “Who the fuck are you?”

A small sound came from the android.“E-Elijah…?” Chloe whimpered. He made no indication of the android’s plea.

Mister Kamski causally made his way towards the duo, hands moving into his pockets. “If you do not know who I am clearly, you must live under a rock. It doesn't matter. You have what's mine."

A smile split his face and the dark. “Elijah Kamski...”

He bowed his head slightly in a sort of greeting. “Now, return my property, and I won't go to the authorities." He continued, his dress shoes clicking against the broken pavement in a steady languid pace.

“All the more reason to take your doll.”

“She,” He began. “Is not a doll. More than a doll.” He praised quietly.

Unease grew from the would-be robber. He was not expecting a calm and collected encounter with Cyberlife's CEO, after all.

He stood before the man, hands still in his pockets as he looked down at his work. Her dress was torn and tattered, and her chest was bare. He was going for her undergarments, as well. Kamski's expression twisted into displeasure upon the sight of a thin trail of thirium from her forehead and corner of her mouth.

Her dress was expensive. Such a waste.

“You do not deserve her if you would treat her in such a manner. If you wanted her so badly, you could have asked. I have many, after all." He sighed.

The man who was afraid to move ticked his head in confusion. “Wh-what?” He gasped.

“You have damaged her.”

An uneasy smile. “Look, all I wanted-”

“She didn’t deserve this.”

“I-I mean listen, man. I can pay for the damages I can-." He stuttered, sweat beading against his forehead even in such cold temperatures.

“Humans are such disgusting animals, aren't they, my flower?" He cooed softly.

“Wha-what?”

Kamski looked up to the man with a darkening expression. “You are not needed anymore.” A firm blow to the neck had him crumpling to the ground next to Chloe.

Silence came over them as Elijah looked over his body in disgust.

“Elijah...”

He turned his head towards the crumpled android on the ground, and he sighed, hands moving to unbutton his jacket. "Look what he did to you." He murmured.  

Carefully he took the android by her hands and helped her to her feet. She wavered dangerously, but he planted her firmly into his side, draping the jacket over her shoulders to cover her bare chest and protect her from the cold.

“Run a scan, Chloe.” He asked as they began to walk. One shaky foot in front of the other. He was more in tune with her than she liked to think. Her LED swam a yellow and red never turning back to blue as they trekked their way towards their vehicle.

“Everything is fully operational.”

“Run a scan, Chloe.” He murmured again, albeit more strictly.

She tripped over her own feet. If it weren't for the fact he was half-carrying her, she would have fallen.  

“I was so scared. I...I...want to go home." She shivered. It was not from the remaining electrical current that ran through her, but for other reasons, he knew. She pressed her face into his neck, seeking comfort. "I'm cold."

Gently he pressed his forefinger and middle finger against the LED. Upon his touch, it stalled to a solid blue and then blinked off. Chloe, in turn, became limp. Before she fell, he easily hefted her into his arms and curled her against his chest.  

He couldn’t bear to see his flower wilt before him.

“We are, and you won't be cold for long. Or scared." He tightened the jacket around her lovingly. "You will be better by morning."  

[eyeforgold]

Prompt #17: Wilt

"A few more steps. You're nearly there, boss. He's very close and then, it won't hurt anymore, think of Phiros."

"It hurts... Phi, I wanna see my Phi." Come the words from the struggling Miqo'te, her limbs burning with every step she takes. I won't falter. I won't fail you, my love.

A heavy sigh is released as her foot finally touches the upper floor of their mansion, Moriarty smiling at her as she keeps close to the Miqo'te, her dark hands hovering over the Miqo'te shoulders, ready to catch her should she fall.

"Phiros?" Ruby calls out as she slowly approaches their large canopy bed. Unable to see in such darkness, she is loathe to awaken her husband so abruptly but they have very little time to spare as the aether burns her from the inside.

The older hyur woman turns on the light, familiar with her employer's house and only notices a neatly made bed, clearly lacking one Au'ra man. Ruby can only blink at the empty bed, surprised and unable to comprehend what is happening. Where could Phiros have gone so late into the night?

Her confusion turns to anger as she notices a thin white square on Phiros' pillow and limps up to it, her control on the overwhelming aether fraying as her anger swells. Before she even begins reading the note in her hand, she snaps at her employee, her whip like voice echoing in the bedroom, the wooden feet creaking and breaking off the bed along with the crack of her words.

"Find him! FIND HIM!"

Sizzling hot tears run down her cheeks as she reads her husband's letter, wishing her to find another love and to remember him. The mansion shakes in her fondations as Ruby clenches her bloodied fist to hold on to the slippery aether. Her body was not made to host such a quantity of aether, not even the previous Padjals she murdered had as strong an aether as Kan-E-Senna. Narrowed eyes look down at her hand, still covered in the blood of Gridania's beloved leader.

It had taken months of intense stalking and constant reports to find this one occasion for Ruby to syphon her aether and Phiros wished to be remembered?! After she had succeeded twice at mending his broken aether slightly, pushing back the time of his death! He wishes for her to move on?!

"Stupid idiot big dumb lizard husband! Where did you go?! What do you expect me to do without you?"

As her words echo into the empty bedroom, Ruby feels more in control over the Padjal's aether, her palms no longer burning at the aether leak though the pain is ever present. A glance down at her hands shows unblemished skin, belying her fifty-two years of age and resembling more her thirty year old's body, the aether hurting and healing her body at the same time, causing her to revert to a more youthful appearance as long as the aether remained within her. Once she has used it on Phiros however...

Bah, no use thinking about that when her love could be dead in a goddamn ditch somewhere. It has now been an hour since she has sent Moriarty to track down her husband, her missing heart, as she reads and rereads his farewell note. It is disgustingly Phiros like in every way, wishing her happiness, leaving her hidden presents, getting people to watch over her. And yet, he had all but forgotten one thing: she could not and would never give up on him. No matter the cost.

Perhaps if she had told him how she had managed to draw in such quantities of aether twice over the past eight years, he would have understood. Nevertheless, she had chosen to keep silent as to the blood on her hands, the blood she has willingly shed in his name.

After another hour of painful ruminating over the now crinkled letter, her ears catch the sound of incoming footsteps, a fast pace that was barely short of a run. Heavy and careless. Adler.

Though he tries to hide it, her retainer cannot cover quickly enough his wide eyes at seeing her look much younger. The man takes a second to compose himself before resuming as if nothing of note had happened, which his next word would confirm.

"Phiros went to Coerthas. We don't know where exactly yet but there's an airship waiting for you in Limsa."

Her pink slit eyes flash white then hot pink as she follows the younger Raen outside, her constantly aching body forgotten at the thought that she might have a chance to find him before he did himself in.

Bloody Coerthas of all places. What the hell are you thinking, Phi? Are you planning to turn into ice? I'll set this world on fire if it's what it takes to warm you up.

A twisted smile takes over her face as the fingers of her right hand snap together, dried blood flaking off at the gesture, and the broken bed feet, the split open couch and the overturned bookshelf right themselves, the wood and fabric as good as new as she exits the house. It would not do to have Phiros witness the remnants of her temper tanttum.

I'm gonna heal you, bring your stupid butt home and kiss you until you die in my arms ten years from now.

__________

The Vault?! The highest floor of The Vault?! Where she'd lost 'Chefant and nearly lost Phiros twenty years ago. Her husband is apparently the biggest moron that has ever inhabited Hydaelyn.

Insults and vehement thoughts run on repeat through her mind as Ruby climbs up the many steps of this Ishgardian hell, her skin crawling as the cold morning wind hits her feverish skin, the aether enhancing every pain, twinge and itch in her body.

Her raspy voice faintly echoes through the high walls of the former Ishgardian seat of power, the shimmery white sheen encompassing her body lighting her path as the sun's morning ray were barely reaching the high windows.

"I will find your stupidly big scaly old man butt and I will kiss you first, because I love you, and then I will slap you until you learn to never run away from me again... Making me waste so much time trying to find you! Keeping this aether inside me is no easy feat you big dummy!"

Breathless, her legs trembling, she stops for a moment, hand clenching the railing to keep standing. Her eyes look pleadingly towards the rotunda one stairwell up as she screams.

"YOU BETTER BE ALIVE AND LISTENING TO ME UP THERE!"

You better be alive... Her anger fades as she continues her painful trek up, fear and worry clogging up her throat as she tries to push out of her mind the idea of Phiros' corpse welcoming her. What would she do if he was gone? What wouldn't she do, was the bigger question. Could she bring someone back to life with such quantities of aether? More importantly... Would Phiros want to be brought back? He had left to die on his own terms, and to rob that from him only to inflict him a painful death...

Stop, stop! He's alive, I know it. He's too strong to die from a little hypothermia. He's Phiros, he's unbreakable.

"In sickness and health we vowed, and you don't get to decide when sickness gets to much for me." Ruby pants out as she finally reaches the Rotunda, the sun now high and lighting the exterior walkway. Immediately, she spots Phiros' slumped body against a marble wall. Unmoving.

"Phiros!" Her cry tears through the air, her body appearing next to her lover in the blink of an eye. Now kneeling over him, his paleness is all too obvious against his dark armor, accentuated by his white hair, tied in their usual ponytail. A sob escapes her as she notes this silly detail, his ever rebellious lock of hair framing his cheek, the tip resting over his blue lips.

"Oh my love, what have you done."

As she falls to her knees, her magic seems to have a will of its own, tendrils of aether reaching out to Phiros, curling around his throat, wrists and chest. Her mouth seeks his cold blue lips, hoping for any sort of reaction as her fingers attempt to feel a pulse in his veins. His body is too cold and stiff for her fingers to feel his pulse, yet her magic brings her the assure that his heart is indeed still beating, though very slowly.

The tears run down her face, milky and aglow with churning aether, the Padjal's life force attempting to leak out of her every time she uses her magic, testing her control and threatening to hurt Phiros instead of heal him. By now, her youthful appearance is beginning to fade proportionately to the lost aether, pain shooting from her knees as they carry her weight on the marble floor.

"What should I do?" She asks her dying lover, her tear stained lips never parting from his long as she cups his face, brushing the stray lock of hair behind his horn in a bittersweet motion. "Should I fix your aether first and then warm you up? Will you be able to hold on? What if you don't wake up? What if I fail? ...Phiros, you stupid idiot! How could you expect me to live without you when I never even felt alive before I met you."

A wet choked laugh turns into a disgusted sigh as she notices the dry blood on her hands dirtying Phiros' face, her hands glow a yellow light and the blood burns off her hands before she gently brushes it off Phiros' face with her shirt sleeve. "I have to succeed, darling, I have to. If you knew the things I've done for you, would you judge me?" She shakes the maudlin thoughts out of her mind, she has a job to do. I've gone too far to stop now.

One last kiss, I need it. She stifles back a sob as she feels his cold unloving lips against hers and carefully tilts Phiros off the wall until his head now laid on her lap, one hand curled around his throat while the other rests over his heart. Controlling her raging aether in order to mend Phiros' broken aether pathway requires minutiae and focus, as well as something to ground her, to force her to forget the sizzling pain in her body, or to anticipate the painful consequences of releasing this healing aether. Thus she begins to speak, hopeful that her husband could somehow hear her through his comatose state.

"Remember that night in the Royal Menagerie? When we looked at the stars and you told me stories about Hingashi. I remember the legend of the firebird you told me. At first I thought I could find it, y'know, I thought: I'll catch myself a phoenix and my husband will be fine." A bitter chuckle escapes her as more milky white tears roll down her face onto Phiros' chest and neck. "Turns out it's not as easy as you'd think to find a phoenix... But I thought, it's okay, I have access to endless aether, I'll be even better than the firebird, I'll figure out a way to save you."

Around them the landscape changes, a meadow of green tall grass and white and red flowers grow in circles around the couple, growing through the splintering marble floor as the loose aether she cannot fully control conjures an idyllic vision of the Royal Menagerie, pulled right out of her memory.

"I nearly failed you, my love... Yes, yes, I know you'll say you gained a few years thanks to me but I want more, so much more. One more hour. One more day. One more anniversary spent in each other's arms. I've always been greedy, haven't I? Your greedy kitten."

Ruby holds back a scream as she directs the flow of aether, slowing the relentless wave into a slow trickle meant to seeking the network of his aether to mend the damage made to him when he was younger. Each time she had syphoned the aether off a Padjal, she had managed to improve his flow of aether, granting him a longer lifespan. She had however never told him how she had done it, but Phiros had looked at her worriedly every time before giving in once he realized it was working.

Perhaps if she had been more forthcoming about her plans, if she'd told him about her hunt for Kan-E-Senna. No, he would have tried to stop her, deeming it too dangerous. Her beloved hero. Her personal voice of reason. Her spell sturtters to a halt, the aether rebelling against her. Gritting her teeth, she hisses.

"Listen to me you bitch, I did not rip your heart out of your chest and hold on to your self righteous aether for you to let my husband die!"

Perhaps due to the experience of having done such intense and unconventional healing before, the aether bends to her will, painful and fighting her back as always, but her will is stronger and the broken connections in Phiros' body seem to mend. It would not repair the damage he had gone through over the aether but would easily grant him a few more years as long as he did not run headfirst into danger.

As the aether is poured in her love, her own body begins to age again, from her thirty year old body, she finds herself in the right body, weathered by fifty years of life and then more, her hair turning completely white as she watches the back of her hands wrinkle, the skin dry and blemished.

"Ha. I'm as old as you are now... Maybe even older! You'd have to pour me the drinks!"

The long process ends, trembling hands no longer aglow, her lips find the Au'ra's forehead as translucent tears of joy run down her face.

"Almost there, love. All that's left is to wake you up."

Although she feels bolstered by her success, it would be foolish to ignore how depleted her aether reserves are, likewise for the land around her for yalms around. Pink eyes look down at the beloved visage of her husband, his odd purple and yellow eyes hidden by his eyelids.

Her lips find his once again in an upside down kiss as she is certain of her next course of action. Her strength is low, her nerves burning as she is now unable to draw on to the aether around her, her only source of magic to warm him up is her life force. Yet there is no doubt in her mind, no ifs and no consequences other than waking up Phiros.

If she must pass away... Not even the lifestream could keep them apart, she knows this. I'll find you in every life. Placing her bag under his head, she settles down over Phiros' larger body, her right hand tangled in his long white hair as her left twines their fingers together, her head resting under his chin as she would usually do so at home, ears over his heart, laying her entire body over his as her magic warms the air around them while a thin thread of aether connects her heart to Phiros', attempting to bring his heart back to a strong heartbeat.

"You might hate me for this, I know it. But it would not be more than what I felt when I found your letter, Phi. I was gonna ask you, y'know, because our anniversary is in less than a month, if you wanted to move to Shirogane with me. Be a cute old couple that lazes around at the hot bath, drinks sake every night as we looked down at the pond. I'd offend people every other day without realizing and you'd shrug and say I'm a foreigner."

Her breathing is now shallow, chest rising painfully as her life force is sapped into Phiros' body. Suddenly, the sound of his heartbeat reaches her hear, finally strong enough to be heard! It's working!

"I'm afraid you'll have to do that without me. I can already see you, walking down the streets, with your hair untied and flowing over your back, a formal but colorful yukata on your back. My gentle giant."

Her heart stutters as Phiros' seems to pick up pace, his body warming up as hers begins to shiver despite her aero spell warming up the air around them. Her eyes close as she whispers her final words to her awakening love.

"I am so happy that I got to love you, to be loved by you. I never thought I could receive as much love as you have given me for the past twenty five years. I won't lie, I would have liked a little more still." Hiccups cut off her words as her hand clenches on Phiros' shoulders, her nose buried in his chest to inhale his scent one last time.

"You carry my heart in you, Phi. I love you, my husband. Live well."

Her grip on his shoulders relax as his chest begins to rise, hands falling limp as she falls into a deep slumber, the sound of glass breaking as white crystal shards scatter over the red and white flowers nearly covering up a raspy inhale.

[homesoutofhuman]

Your sinner, in secret pt 2

Warnings (for all parts): sex, daddykink, swearing, boss taking advantage of an employee, age-gap, d/s dynamic.Honestly though this part is relatively tame I think.

------------------------------

His resolve lasts until he sees you again, sitting at your desk wearing headphones and humming along with a song while you shred more documents. John moves nearer, noting the buttons of your cream blouse are undone, showing more of your skin than you probably intended. He breathes deeply through his nose, trying to stay calm as you lean over to grab an errant piece of paper, giving him a grandstand view of your cleavage.

You do not hear him approach of course, as if you did you’d never be singing. After yesterday’s encounter with him you’d felt strangely energised, doing yoga after work and carefully picking out your outfit ready for the next day. The devil whispered in your ear as you dressed in the morning, making you leave a few too many buttons undone to give your boss a good view of what you’ve got to offer.

And you would offer it up him freely. Despite his outward appearance of sullen grumpiness you find yourself drawn to him. His assertive ways are attractive, you even respect him for pulling the file trick on you, even if you did lose a few years of your life while it was in progress. It had all been worth it to see the look on his face when you’d called him ‘Sir’, deliberately coquettish. You knew you were dreaming, there was no way in hell you could get under the skin of such a mature, self-assured and successful man, but it was fun to imagine little ways you could try.

John creeps up to you lifts one of the headphones away from your ear, talking close so you can hear.

“Good morning Y/N”

You let out a little scream, making him chuckle, he lets go and the headphone snaps back against your ear with a sting, it’s not unpleasant, and even less so when you wrench them off, rubbing at your ear and find him watching you with warm eyes.

“Morning Mr Wick…” you reply, taking in the full gorgeous view of him. You swear his chest looks even wider today. “Sleep well?”

The question is innocent, prompted by the fact you notice his eyes look slightly tired, a few creases on his cheeks that weren’t there before. It definitely wasn’t due to the fact you’d been studying his face for wrinkles and concluded he couldn’t be the age you knew he was, and that Google must be lying. You’d done a little late night surfing on your new boss, finding several articles written years back about a ‘young and exciting up and coming lawyer’. Now they described him as a ‘powerhouse’ or a ‘beast’ in the courtroom. It kinda made you wonder if he was the same in the bedroom.

John’s reaction to your question looks guilty, and you almost think you see him blush, although that seems extremely out of character.

“Late night...prepping for a case…” he mutters, eyes suddenly dark again and you wonder what you said wrong.

“Can I help?” you ask, a little too eagerly.

John sighs, looking impatient. “You think you, a...what are you...third year law student? Could help me...who’s has years in the game?”

“I didn’t mean…” you feel your pride smarting again and struggle to hold back tears which suddenly threaten to appear. “I just thought I could help research.”

John snorts. “You are not here to think. You’re here to do exactly as I tell you, and so far you seem to be struggling with that concept.”

You shake your head, not daring to speak. You would rather die than cry in front of him. Luckily for you, John is done with the conversation, moving on to his office, so you take the opportunity to run to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face in an attempt to pull yourself together.

He’s mean. You mutter. A fucking asshole. You say out loud to make yourself feel better. I don’t like him. The last one doesn’t really ring true

You work a few more hours until lunch, when you look up and find John standing in front of you. Without his jacket in just his shirt he looks a little softer and more approachable, his dark hair falls across his eyes and you shift in your seat, he looks delicious.

“Hungry?” he asks, as if reading your thoughts and you nod.

“Want me to go and get you lunch?”

He shakes his head. “You don’t know what I like...come on..”

He walks off as if just expecting you to follow him and of course you do, hurriedly grabbing your bag on the way. He walks fast with long strides and you’re almost panting to keep up.

He takes you to a deli and requests a sandwich order so precise you’re glad it wasn’t your task to fetch it, seeing as it involves about 8 ingredients in a particular order.

“So what happens if they put the tomato on top of the lettuce, do you throw it back in their faces?” you ask playfully if a little cautious from his mood before, ordering a plain bagel with cream cheese for yourself.

John looks at you slightly hurt. “No...I’d just make them to do it again until they got it right. That’s what I’m going to do with you.”

You feel yourself growing hot at his tone of voice, low and unrelenting, right in your ear like a caress.

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Not yet…” he replies in the same velvet tone that holds both a threat and a promise at the same time.

He hands you your food but all hunger had disappeared, leaving you with nothing but the desire for him.

You expect to take your sandwiches back to the office but John motions for you to sit down. He places himself opposite and chews his food, regarding you thoughtfully.

“You’re not scared of me. I like that.”

You hide a smile and start your own lunch, his voice is softer and he seems ready for conversation.

“You are intimidating, but more from your reputation than anything else. Personally, you seem not too bad…”

“Not too bad?” John echoes, smirking around a mouthful of bread. “You are quite bold for your age.”

You open your mouth to apologise but he waves it off. “It’s a good thing. I saw your application you know? I was the one who suggested picking you for the internship.”

You’re shocked and hardly know what to say. “Wow. Thank you...honestly...this is almost like a dream come true for me..”

“Shredding documents and fetching coffee is grunt work, not a dream.” corrects John, softly stern. “But we all had to do it. Believe it or not a long time ago I was in your position, taking abuse from my superiors. I vaguely remember how difficult it was.”

You giggle a bit at the thought of a young John Wick. “I can hardly imagine you young…” you mean that you can’t imagine him naive, with long hair and cheap clothes taking orders, but the words come out wrong, and you see you may have hurt his feelings.

He leans across the table, so close you can see the amber flecks in his eyes, the streaks of grey in his beard. He is beautiful, warm, so solid and masculine it makes your stomach flip over with want. “Do you really see me as that old?”

You shake your head dumbly. “I mean...no...John.” you dare to call him by his first name but he doesn’t even flinch, focused on your face, his eyes flicking to your mouth, awaiting your response. Having the full weight of his attention on you is like facing down a wall of fire.

He nods, almost to himself. “I’m not dead yet Y/N….you’d be surprised the things I can do..”

I wouldn’t you think, as your mind starts running wild with obscene images. The way he is looking at you gives you hope, gives you a strange feeling that he wouldn’t be completely averse to your interest.

“What is this John?” You ask, looking from your lunch which he bought you, around to the cosy ambience of the deli, the sounds of coffee being made and people chatting happily. “Is this a date?”

He snorts so loudly you see you have amused him.

“A date with an old man...is that how you’d see it? Are you just staying here because I’m your boss?”

You chew your lip thoughtfully.  “Why don’t you ask me out on a proper date?”

“I don’t really go on ‘dates’” he replies, not questioning the fact he would ask you out, making your heart beat rapidly. “Why, would you say yes if I did ask you on one?”

He is looking at you with guarded eyes, but with enough interest to show he is demanding an answer.

You tilt your head and pretend to consider it. “Would you tell me about the case you’re working on?”

He smiles then, amused that you’re trying to exploit his interest for your own gain. “For an hour. Then in return you can tell me about yourself.”

“Any other conditions?” you ask.

“It depends how the night goes…”

You sigh, this seems like a dream, and you’re worried about how it makes you look, less than professional, and a little desperate, but you cannot deny your attraction to him, strong and inescapable. It’s like being tied to the tracks with a speeding train bearing down on you.

He almost seems to read your thoughts. “It’s usual for lawyers from the office to discuss business over dinner, don’t worry, you won’t become the subject of any gossip, and if you did, I would shut it down immediately.”

He leans forward and touches your hand, his long fingers sure but surprisingly gentle. “Don’t be afraid…”

You place your hand over his, making him blink his eyes with surprise. “I’m not afraid John.”

He rubs his other hand over his mouth, still watching you closely. Your actions are so unexpected it fascinates him.