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bindeds · 2 days

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𐔌 ✦₊ PRINCESS TREATMENT 𝜗𝜚 . WRIOTHESLEY 𑁤

⭑ — the duke shows you unending generosity when you visit your inmate father often and long past visiting hours due to your long shifts at work. Your father blows up at you again and wriothesley is more worried than he should be. As he walks you back to the surface, you find out why.

wc. 8.5k cw. nsfw 18+ , fem reader , hints of reader having a toxic family , reader’s father doesn’t trust wrio , reader probably has daddy issues , pent up wrio , soft wrio , fwb , wrio being courteous as hell , nicknames used: good girl, princess

៳ note. I haven’t played genshin in years so I’m probably going to get something wrong despite my research (wasn’t sure if transport in fontaine was 24/7 and if submarines/boats are used often or easily accessible), apologies in advance. And also, I think this is a very specific flavor of wrio I have barely seen others write so I hope you enjoy anyhow. I actually have more headcanons abt this fic so if you want a part 2 lmk! :D oh shit I’ve been working on this for a week straight too and I didn’t proofread it so AGH sorry for many mistakes! (p.s. I take requests too!) here’s the ao3 link if you prefer to read on there <3

“Agh, forget it. You know what? Since you’re always coming back here, you ought to know one thing; that duke? He’s bad news.”

You pressed your lips into a thin line. Your grip on the phone against your ear tightened.

You frowned at your father from across the clear plastic between you both, refusing to look at him properly as you lowered your head.

You sighed, shutting your eyes for a moment. “What’s wrong with the duke?”

“He’s corrupt, I’m telling you. He favors some prisoners over others. Everyone will tell you he’s just but he’s not!” Your father hissed, the microphone dulling the low noises he made.

“Dad. Why are we even—” you sighed again, this time pressing your fingers on your temples, and part of you thinks maybe this was your subconscious shielding you from him since you refused to leave yourself. “First of all, I am always here way past visiting hours. Who do you think allows that?”

Your father grumbled something under his breath, probably a curse—but it was hard for you to care.

“Second of all, we’re always dodging the topic. Why don’t you ever want to talk about our fam—”

“I’ve told you a million times!”

You flinched away from the metal desk, your father practically baring his teeth at you with wild eyes that seemed to set his complexion on fire.

“Alright, that’s enough,” a guard from behind him chimed in, clutching your father firmly by the elbows and upper arms. He scowled at you before turning back to where the guard was leading him.

When your name was called you nearly jumped out of your seat, both your hands clutching the thick-wired telephone to your chest.

“Hey, you okay?”

The Duke gave you a once over and returned to your eyes. His brows furrowed, and for a moment, looking into his eyes felt too revealing.

“Yeah, sorry,” you replied as you returned the phone to its hook and curtly stood up.

“Don’t apologize.”

You gave him a puzzled look, but he wasn’t looking as he escorted you down the halls and towards the lifts. “No, I insist. I keep staying past the visiting hours despite knowing them well—”

“Yes, and, you work for over twelve hours nearly everyday. I don’t think I want you getting up at four in the morning just to be able to visit either.”

The duke clenched his jaw just then. Your hands grew clammy. Other than his legs, he barely moved at all. His muscles were ice and his veins were held in place with coats of steel.

You remembered you had told him the reason for your late night visits early on, but his response stunned you to the point of being unable to get your thoughts right. He had thought about your situation much more than you thought he would. Though, come to think of it, the visits after you told him this, he’s always by the entrance of the visiting room just to give you a small nod of permittance. A nod you came to appreciate, and eventually miss when he stopped coming by.

“Why did you stop by today?”

He looked at you this time, silent for a moment. The lift doors dinged open, and he gestured for you to enter before him.

“Your father has been … irritable these past few days—”

“Oh, shit I am so sorry for him—”

“Hey, don’t apologize for your old man’s behavior. You’re the last person who should be apologizing.”

There it is again. That … look he has on you. The gaze he put on you weighed heavier than you could carry. Though, you couldn’t understand what about it made your knees melt. You nodded slowly. When you swallowed, your heartbeat reverberated in your ears.

Even if he was tense, your demeanor would make things worse. You knew you were making a bigger deal out of this than you should have been; you hadn’t entirely dodged the topic of the duke of Meropide purely for family’s sake. The duke … was difficult. Though, not that he was causing you any sort of trouble. Evidently, it was quite the opposite.

“Anyway, I have my men observe him closely whenever you visit. Got the memo that he was already starting to blow a fuse a few minutes before he yelled at you.”

The lift arrived at the entrance floor and you exited rigidly, your mind unable to juggle basic motor control and the bewilderment of the situation.

He continued to walk you through to the exit of the fortress.

“Thank you, Your Grace. But I hate to have troubled you.”

“I’m the one who should be worried about troubling you,” he corrected. “Your father doesn’t come close to the worst convicts here. And yet, he’s one of the most difficult to manage. Prisoners who have committed the most heinous crimes are more amiable with me than your father has been, and he’s been here longer than some of said prisoners. Now, you visit him twice or even thrice a week, I don’t want him to cause trouble for you too. Especially with how often you visit? He should be—”

He clenched his jaw again, much more conscientiously this time, turning away for a second.

“ … What?” You walked slightly in front of him as you tried to catch his expression.

“No, that was … way out of line.”

You placed a hand on his shoulder—though, with how careful you were, it was really just your fingertips.

“Please, I want to hear it,” you said, almost in a mutter. “I know my dad is an asshole.”

The duke gave you a soft smile that seemed to muddle the edges of his pond blue irises. This was a gaze you were unfamiliar with, across all the kinds he’s given you, you knew, just from the shift in the air alone—this was somehow different.

“He’s lucky to have a daughter who visits him despite … well,” the duke chuffed ruefully. “Himself.”

You parted your lips to say something.

“But besides that—I got word he was talking about me again, and he gets worked up whenever I’m brought up so I rushed over. In any case, it’s late. Later than usual; I’m trying to see if I can get you home safe.”

With all the things he’d just said swimming in your mind, it was hard to think about rest or even getting home. It was a long travel, and having someone else worry—the Duke of Meropide, no less—was unbecoming.

He clenched his jaw again and for some reason, you hooked onto that to start.

You held him back by the arm, stopping in the middle of a room. “Your Grace … listen, I just—I see that you’re tense and it’s embarrassing that I’ve made you worry about me to this degree. I can handle the commute home. Again, I’m sorry to be such a bother for the fortress and—”

“Please, you’re not … you’re not a bother.”

“Then … what am I?”

“ … I’m sorry?”

“You had your guards update you on what goes on with my father when I visit. You’re always giving me extra time and now you’re helping me with transport. I mean, you even …”

He cocked a brow. Wriothesley’s shoe clicked loudly against the floor as he took a step closer.

“Go on.” He tilted his head ever so slightly, his hair falling over his face at an angle that seemed to accentuate his jaw.

Shit.

This was all a mistake. Surely.

But for some reason, mustering the words to apologize tied knots in your stomach.

“Maybe you were just being nice,” you murmured. He was so close now, and you had to crane your neck just to look at him, which didn’t last long at all. “I’m sorry Your Grace, I didn’t mean to—”

“No no, no need for that now,” he interjected in a tranquil tone. “I want to know what you mean.”

Your heart could crack your ribs open for how hard it shook against its bars.

The Duke was difficult, absolutely—but not in the way he treated you.

He was difficult because he seemed to display a certain kind of softness unexercised with anyone else.

Something you now realized you clung onto for ammunition to your wild desires.

“No, I’m afraid I am the one who’s out of line this time, Your Grace. I was going to imply something completely absurd.”

“Are you put off by it?”

You shook your head, almost like a knee jerk reaction.

“Definitely not. You’ve been nothing but kind towards me,” you insisted without hesitance.

“Okay. Then what’s on your mind?”

The silence of the fortress laid heavy on the floor, quickly rising up to your chest. The dust whispered of the gaps between your unspoken words. Both of you might have known just what hung in the air between you but without your explicit validation, external factors could easily be to blame for tension that spanned two or more months. You both were busy, working adults. And you both were mature, of course. Tension is and can realistically be caused by work stress. However …

With the way he had never once broken eye contact with you, always hanging by the cusp of your response, your approval … it gets to your skin.

“I could be imagining things …”

“You’re not,” Wriothesley chimed in. “I want to hear it.”

Your name left his lips like a breath of cold air in winter. Sentence after sentence, word after word—it was all but one start after the other. You tried to recall the last time he said your name, but you came up with one moment only; the day you first visited the fortress of Meropide.

“I can’t help but think you’ve taken a liking to me,” you confessed quickly. “Which, of course I am more than thankful for.”

“‘Taken a liking’ … that’s one way to phrase it,” the duke scratched the side of his neck with the opposite hand, angling his jaw away for better access. A small grin rose to his lips. “I would like to think I’d use more … direct vocabulary but I understand this is a delicate situation.”

You clutched onto the sides of your pants, wiping the sweat off your palms.

He noticed, however, his eyes following the movement of your hands then giving you a discerning look.

His adam’s apple bobbed slowly before he spoke up.

“If things were simple, I would have you tell me yourself what exactly it is that you want. But sadly, they’re not, and that’s mostly to do with me so I apologize,” Wriothesley began rigidly. “You were right about me being tense. But it’s not about … you.”

Silence drifted at the tail of his sentence as you waited for him to say more.

“Okay …”

“Well, actually … it is, but it’s not because of anything bad you’ve done. It’s …”

When he struggled to choke up the words, he cleared his throat and tried again.

“Can I be frank with you?” He asked with a lowered head. “The truth is rather indecent, but you deserve it regardless. Nothing has to change between us, you have my word.”

You nodded eagerly.

“Good.

“You’ve been visiting very often within the last few months and every time I come down to see you I … don’t know how exactly to put this. I see moments when you’re trying to reason with your father who’s just—excuse my impertinence—beyond talking to, and the patience you have, the ability to be gentle in moments where he threatens you, to still care for him like that, it’s … it’s … too much for me. The reason I allowed you to stay here so late was because you’re the only outsider who came here and didn’t act like they owned the place. Besides the fact that you already know I allow you past visiting hours, this was another reason I stopped coming down to supervise. It was bad for me to think about you like that. I rarely come up to the surface as is, and even when I do, it’s usually still for matters regarding work. I know I don’t have any time for any relationships beyond friends and, well, I haven’t had much time to … let off steam either.”

Your heart was just about ready to splatter itself all over the walls of Meropide at this moment, rattling violently in your chest you could barely hold yourself up, even if you were only standing.

This was a fever dream, surely.

You parted your lips again but he stopped you before you could speak.

“Please, I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t want to involve someone I barely know with my petty inconveniences. And I don’t mean to imply that I only ever think of you crudely, I just—”

“Stop. Don’t say anything else.”

“No I must insist—”

You caught his lips chastely, tiptoeing as you pulled him in by his tie.

His hands wrapped around your waist almost as quickly as you had taken him, slightly pushing against you to roughen the kiss.

You nearly chased his lips when he pulled away eventually. His eyes were lost in the haze of what had just happened but he blinked a few times and refocused himself on you.

“Are you sure about this?” He asked, and the words left him lazily like they were dangling off of your kiss.

“Yes. I’m fucking tired—of life, of my dad, my family, my job, and I have thought about you a lot more than I’d like to admit. And I know we barely know each other, but fuck you’ve been so so fucking nice an-and you’re so fucking hot with your handcuffs, your tie, your vest, your everything. Oh, archons and the fucking—worrying about my commute home was my last straw. I can barely breathe around you. Please,” you confessed listlessly, your head spinning as you held him tighter. This caused him to tighten his grip around you, too.

Wriothesley grinned. “While I enjoy it, you don’t have to beg. Not for this.”

He drew the smallest circles on the small of your back, and there was something else he wanted to say. But judging from his averted gaze, it wasn’t easy. Though, to be fair—none of what was just exchanged was easy either. Your heartbeat still reverberated throughout your whole body, still wavering at the fact that you had literally just initiated a kiss with the Duke of Meropide.

“I need to warn you, I mean all of what I said. I can’t give you the relationship you deserve—any guy would be lucky to have you, but that comes with the responsibility of treating you right, and I can’t give you all of my undivided attention for where I am in life right now. But what I can do my best on is, well …” he cocked his head to the side.

“Giving you the best fucking night of your life.”

That was all you needed to hear.

“Where’s your office?”

“My office? Don’t you want to head home to …?”

“I need you so bad, Your Grace. I don’t know if I can wait until we get to my place.” You clung onto him like a lifeline, it was almost embarrassing—except, for every muscle flexed to have him closer, he reeled you in even more.

Wriothesley huffed, giving you a small smile and that stupid gaze you couldn’t help but see every time you blink or close your eyes.

“You don’t know what you do to me when you say that.”

. . .

It took distraction, much distraction on the smallest of sounds, the faintest of smells just to keep your hands off of the duke as you both were back in the elevator, side by side. You would have laughed at the larger physical distance between you if you had seen this from third person, but the lift was charged with a silence that both of you felt was impenetrable and the sweat from your palms was being washed away by a cold breeze.

It almost suffocated you to have waited this long—even if it had only been a minute or two. And you had already taken off your shoes by the time you arrived at the top of the stairs to his office. You thought you would tackle him then and there, but alas, the urge to be the civilized being you were taught to be reined just one point higher than your urge to take him all at once. After all, wouldn’t it be that much more enticing to see how exactly he wants to have you?

He caught you almost immediately by the lips, just as you had previously with him, this time his large hands almost cradling the back of your head as your hair fell between the gaps of his fingers.

His other hand was busy taking your hips flush against his, and holy shit, there was a bulge larger than you anticipated pressing against you. You lost yourself in the warmth his kiss brought you anyway, fingertips feeling the smooth texture of his vest and the cold metal of his chain.

A tight grip on your waist caused you to yelp and suddenly, Wriothesley carried you by the ass and placed you down on the edge of his desk. His arms cornered you around him, and you continued to kiss him again—though this time, he lightly nipped at your bottom lip for permission which you gladly granted.

Your arms floated then landed like petals on a pond upon his shoulders, hands like paper around his neck.

Much like him, his tongue was eager; while his hands crept up your shoulder blades only to begin its slow trek down, his tongue touched every surface you allowed in your mouth, brushing your tongue against his.

Fuck, at this angle your legs were wide open and wrapped loosely around him while his tent pressed intimately against you.

You hummed, trying to suppress the soft noise that burned from the depths of your lungs, fueled by months of illicit fantasies that dripped into your disposition towards him—and finally, it seems, his dam broke with the help of your nudging.

It began to pulsate against him, but you didn’t think he could tell from how he seemed to need you tangled in his arms this instant, how each inhale he took was only luring him deeper into the promise he had made to you for tonight.

You angled your jaw away when he bit your neck and sucked and kissed the pillowy ache away. You whined as he had done so, lightly kicking the back of his leg with your heel.

“Oh, come now princess. Don’t tell me you’re impatient now when you’ve waited months for this,” he rasped against your neck, his hot breath sending chills down your arms.

“I told you I need you. I need you so fucking bad, Your Grace.”

Wriothesley held you tightly in his arms as he grinded in one, slow stroke against the gap between your legs which made him groan, and you held back your own noise.

“Don’t tempt me, please don’t tempt me. I wanna treat you well, take you softly—but you’re making it impossible not to fuck you right now without restraint whatsoever,” he hissed between kisses down your jaw.

“But …” you whimpered. You couldn’t muster the strength to finish your sentence as you had already melted in his firm arms long ago.

He’s right; he was undeniably pent up, hands arm chest and arms shaking and twitching every now and then with what seemed to be the urge to just have you as he mentioned. But even after all his kindness, all his patience—he still had more to give, unwilling to crumple you for his pleasure.

“But?”

He fiddled with the button of your pants with one hand, and just like that it was undone.

The zipping sound cut through your thoughts and the breeze blew past your exposed skin.

His eyes, heavy and brimming with intent concealed from you, locked with your own as he lowered himself painstakingly before you. His fingers barely brushed your skin when he peeled your clothes off your legs, sinking lower and lower. His actions hypnotized you on him, on the lines of his clothes, his curves—the way he looked up at you as the dim light of his office glistened by the edges of his shadows.

All this time spent having to look up at him had caused this moment to flutter within both your lungs and mind. The many looks he’d given you, one after the other, each of different unnamable qualities that always left you unable to think of the decent thing to say. But this?

He looked at you not only as if you were something to be worshiped; he gazed upon you as if he’d known you all his life, and now has rediscovered you, getting the opportunity to refine his memory of how the light traversed your features as he bathed in the grace of your eyes.

“You’re even more enchanting from down here.”

His wide-eyed stare seemed to have caught the tip of this tongue as he cleared his throat.

“You can call me Wriothesley,” he concluded with a rough exhale and a nod. “If you’d like.”

He sustained his gaze on you, waiting for a response.

“Yes, I would like that very much,” you said. “Amongst calling you other things, too.”

“Yeah?” He smiled, and it was the kind of smile you could hear in someone’s tone; when they speak, you don’t have to look to know they have a smile that completes their tender expression.

“Mhmm.”

“Like what?” He had you boxed in with his ropy arms rooted on either side of you. He blocked out the light from your view, bronze shadows rose like thin sheets on both of you.

“Please me and maybe you’ll find out,” you chuckled and played with his tie between your fingers.

He let out a weakened huff as he lowered his head. He looked up at you at that angle then shook his head.

“To think I have learned of proper self restraint,” Wriothesley muttered. “This is self restraint. You test me in ways that have me failing before I even get to touch you.”

He pressed his middle finger between your clothed folds before you could quip back, causing you to gasp and cling onto him for support. He brought himself closer to you and snickered wryly.

“Cute. Impressive, even. Now, what if I …”

His hand slipped into your underwear and his finger rubbed more intimately against your slit. It was almost completely submerged between your folds.

You let out a hint of a moan, and with him hunched over you as you hugged him, you were right by his ear. Your mouth hung open but you still had control over the sounds rising in your throat, and you would let none of them pass over your tongue.

With his entire finger between your folds, his shoulder moved with each swipe that only grew vigorous by the second.

“C’mon …” he said in a low voice. “You gotta give me something, princess. Now I know you like what I’m doing. You’re shaking so much I’m scared you’ll break.”

Something you haven’t even noticed—but it made you bunch his clothing in your fist.

This time, he rubbed circles into that nub, his other fingers resting over your folds but pressing anxiously every now and then. You bit your lip, even squeaking once or twice at how he sparked your nerves alive between your legs.

“No dice?” He asked again. He exhaled audibly through his nose. “Alright.”

He draped his arm around to the opposite shoulder, laying your back delicately on his desk. With your hair splayed out, a halo formed with the ring of light waxed around your head.

His middle finger slipped into your cunt and you whimpered as a crease formed in your brow and you tightened around him—both your entrance and your arms.

“That’s it, atta girl,” he praised too sweetly for a rust-wrought voice. “Mm, you’re spilling for me. Why, I’m honored.”

“Sh-shut up,” you gritted out of embarrassment.

He littered kisses along your neck, deciding that lying like this with you was more warm than any stance with better access, because he kept his arm around you even when you assumed it to be cumbersome.

“Do you really want me to?”

He curled his finger into that sopping, textured wall that made you cry out.

You shook your head.

“Use your words, princess.”

“Fuck—why-ngh!—why do you c-call me that?” You barely managed the sentence out.

“Let’s see,” he grunted, beginning to pump his finger in and out of you, the cold silver of his glove hitting you in time with the noises you made. “Staying far past Meropide’s visiting hours, monitoring your fathers’ behavior days before, during and after your visits which means all the time just to make sure he at least treats you with the bare minimum of respect any decent human being deserves, escorting you to and from the entrance every time you visit and supervising the visiting room but really only having my eyes on you—of course, I say this all to express my pleasure to serve you. Be reminded of just how gorgeous you are every time you walk down these halls.”

“Your Grace!” You squealed, feeling something coil in your stomach.

He must’ve felt you squeeze around his finger because he chuckled.

“‘More’, you say? Gladly.”

His ring finger plunged into you, and it gave so easily with how much you gushed from your entrance. Your cry climbed higher in pitch as he curled both his fingers repeatedly, watching you squirm and squeeze beneath him.

“You okay?” He asked, and he had asked the same way—if not a little breathier—than he had when he saw you in the visiting room that night.

“Yes,” you exhaled. His face was only an inch or two away from yours.

“Tell me if it hurts or if you want to stop, yeah?”

You nodded.

“I’m just trying to warm you up to it. Believe me, I’d put it in right now if I knew it wouldn’t hurt you.”

You reached up to cup his cheeks. They’re softer than you imagined they’d ever be for the Duke of a renowned prison who barely goes outside.

“What are you … are you saying th—”

“Don’t worry about that now. I’ll take care of you.”

His pumping resumed in and out of you, his strokes spanning longer this time with his fingers almost completely exiting you this time around. You threw your head back, unable to bear looking him directly in the eye with how you were already being driven off a wet cliff to incoherence, and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

With how much he seeked a full view of your complexion without directly asking, there was no way he didn’t know he was rubbing against that spongey wall with every languid yet firm stroke into you.

“Oh, we can’t forget this, can we?”

He pressed his thumb on your clit, keeping a steady pace that matched the fingers thrusting in and out of you.

Your legs jolted in a shock of a new layer of pleasure, both your cunt and nub retracting to the stimulation his fingers treated you to.

Your muscles staggered, a growing ache making them give out and drop dead.

With his fingers still stretching you out overtime, he lifted your leg by the back of your knee.

Feeling him do that, his clothes running past your chilled skin, his grip a silent plea to have you wrapped around him accompanied by a softer kiss by your ear—your stomach coiled and flexed without much control and your cunt throbbed.

“Rest your legs on my back for me,” he grunted, his fingers stretching the boundaries of your walls faster as that silver hitting your entrance would start to bruise. You did as you were told, crying out all the same and in messy succession. He kissed your temple. “Good girl.”

His fingers juddered in and out of you making you shake to its command.

“Y-Your Grace—gonna—please—”

“Sh, sh sh—you’ve been so good for me. You deserve this and so much more,” Wriothesley praised airily. “Come on. Let go.”

He had nearly rearranged your insides from his fingers alone, and upon his command, you came all over him, pouring and pouring—even as he was slowing down, you kept coming.

He kissed you again without warning, this time his tongue making sloppy brushes against your own. He tilted his head to have more of you, your arms weak yet slithering around his shoulders.

His fingers left you, and even then it seemed your cunt was still trying to push your juices out.

When he pulled away, he licked up what was left of you on his fingers and wiped away the access that stained his gloves.

“Shit, I’m sorry about your gloves.”

He peeled the tip of the black dressing wrapped around his wrist area. “Hey, don’t worry about it. I’ll just clean them when—”

“Don’t take them off.”

You placed a hand over your mouth the instant those words left you, eyes widened and breath hitched. Even he had snapped in your direction.

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

He cocked a brow at you as he reworked the dressing on his gloves.

“As you wish, princess.”

Fucking hell, you think you just came again just from the petname alone.

As he had just begun to walk around to the other side of his desk, you sat up swiftly with pain writhing all over—mainly on your stomach and thighs.

“Are you sore?” He reeled back towards you.

“A little. Not like I wasn’t going to be,” you jested. The duke snickered with you.

“Naturally,” he smiled, and again you could hear it as he exhaled sharply. Smiles like that were always the ones that thrum against the strings in your chest.

“Okay, so … how do you want to do this?”

“Hm?”

Wriothesley strolled around to his chair and sat.

“You could sit on my lap, but I’m not sure how comfortable you’d be,” he suggested. “Or you could sit there too, but that can’t be comfortable either.”

You got off from his desk and walked around it to join him. You turned around so that your back faced him and you sat snugly.

“Your lap is plenty comfortable,” you concluded with your hands on your knees and your thighs pressed together.

Wriothesley chuckled lowly, and your breath hitched when his hands slithered to your waist and kept sliding steadily.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

By this time, he had pulled you closer, thick forearms wrapped around your torso as your boobs sat on top. He had buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathy kisses left in a meticulous trail.

The longer this whole thing went on, this little … agreement between you and wriothesley—the less this seemed to be letting off steam and a little more of making up for years of disregarded passion.

But you were far from complaining. In fact if you could have it your way … oh, you’d send the duke running out the door.

“I want you,” he murmured into your skin as if you could hear through it. “I want to see your face when you sit on it.”

Speak of the devil.

“Oh?” You muttered. Your fingers fell between the gaps of his own, and his knuckles poked your palms. “You want to see me come undone on your cock, hm?”

“Yes, yes absolutely,” he breathed heavily against you and your shoulders tensed at the chills crossing your spine. “I want—no, need to ease you into it.”

“I’m a big girl, I can handle myself.”

“Uh huh. I’ve never doubted that,” he replied instantly. “But you’re not the only one.”

You grinded against him just as he said that, your ass pressing into his bulge and his lower stomach as he hunched over and groaned.

He bit into your shoulder then, and you moaned again before chuckling.

“Stand up,” he commanded for what you recalled to be the first time that night, and after all his service, who were you to deny him?

His belt had come undone and his fingers worked the zippers of his pants. You moved them away to handle it yourself.

You teased him, though, the zipping sound buzzing through the air as you took your time over each metal tooth in the zipper. He didn’t say a word of it, even if he gripped the armrests so hard you could hear the friction. When his zipper was all the way down he shifted so you could peel his underwear back.

Oh, fuck.

You couldn’t even estimate the length because you hadn’t quite processed the girth.

You immediately rose to your feet at the sight.

He looked up at you expectantly. Goddamn, his eyes were crystals in this light. Indecisive ones that didn’t know what to think, yet held hope, adoration and possibly something more in the large pool of light it nurses.

“Your Grace, it’s …”

He reached out for you again, and for a second there was absolutely no way the hands that fell on your waist were the very same ones that have spilled the blood of others. Not when he held you like his touch would scorch you.

“You can take it. I’ll help you.”

He held the hem of your shirt but your hand grappled his wrist.

“Can I … leave it on?” You asked gingerly. “I’ll remove my bra. You can touch them underneath. I just …”

“Of course.”

He let go of your shirt. You both gave each other looks you couldn’t recognize before you reached behind tk unclasp your bra.

“May I?” He spoke up after a few seconds of you fumbling with it.

You froze.

You could just be seeing things that weren’t there, but in this moment, his gaze was … wistful, yet sanguine. A white glow poured into his irises that surely wasn’t from his office’s bad lighting.

You gave him a warm smile and lowered your head. “Sure.”

You turned around, and he prompted you to sit on his knee as his fingertip climbed your back and your bra fell to the floor within the next three seconds.

When you stood up again, his fingers brushed your inner thigh and lingered as if he wanted to draw something there, stirring up chills on your leg before two of his fingers disappeared into you again.

You cried out as your hands clutched the edges of his chair for support. His other hand squeezed firm on your hip.

He thrusted a few times before going, “tell me if this hurts.”

And he slipped a third finger into you.

“Your Grace!” You cried. “Fuck.”

“Does it hurt? Should I pull out?”

“No, no.” You shook your head. “Please.”

“Please what?”

If you went on any longer like this, your legs would give out and drool would cover your chin.

“I want you.”

“You have me.” His grip squeezed tighter on your hip as his eyes narrowed on you.

“No, you.”

He caught how your eyes shifted to his erection.

He looked back at you and nodded. When he pulled his fingers out, you would have fallen on your knees had his hands not been there to support you.

You quickly cross one leg to his other side and luckily, his chair was spacious enough for your calves to rest on either side of his thighs. You on him with his erection on your stomach.

Seeing its length against your body …

Both of you stared at it for a second, measurements filling your heads as your thoughts ran free about how exactly this was going to go. How noisy you’d be. How noisy he’d be.

His silken tip was a pulsing red, blending into his pale skin color as a few veins branched up from the base

“You’re … fuck …” you whispered.

“Is everything alright?” He asked as if you both weren’t looking at the same thing between you two.

“Yeah. It’s just—intimidating, is all.” Your playful tone fell flat with the heated air you both exhaled moments ago. “But fuck, I’ll never forgive myself if you don’t make a fucking mess of me.”

“Good, because I really don’t know how much more I can take,” he added fervently. His hands wandered over your hips and dipped into your waist, careful not to squeeze in any capacity. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

That was all the encouragement you needed as you shifted closer on your knees. He held you tightly on the hips which each move you made, one hand moving to align him to your entrance.

“Don’t rush, okay? I’ll do my best not to move until you tell me to.”

You grinned. “Stop being so nice. It just makes me wanna swallow you whole.”

You lowered yourself on him and both of you moaned out, his sounding almost like a growl. The pain clawed at the walls as you were being pried in two.

“Fuck,” he cursed sharply. If he had longer nails, they would have maimed you by now.

And that was just the tip.

“Think you can swallow me whole still?” He quipped with his hands still holding your hips up.

“I’m tougher than you think,” you couldn’t help but remark as you sank deeper in—his entire body steeled and another strained groan escaped him.

The pain took its place in the backseat in this moment, his delectable reactions causing the butterflies in your stomach to jolt awake. That was something you hadn’t felt in a while; it would steer you to a higher state of mind you couldn’t recall ever being in.

It only took a few more minutes before you had indeed swallowed him whole, his tip pressing against your cervix as you shifted to get comfortable.

His hands slithered around your waist once more only to tighten against him, your torso flush against his as his eyes wandered you. Even if you still had top on, it seemed as though he was getting lost in the folds of the fabric, frequently coming back to the swell of your breasts.

“Hey.” You placed a hand on one of his bulky arms tightly slung around you.

“Hm?”

“Are you okay?” You tilted your head.

There was something in the way he was holding you, a warmth that rose like steam that caressed your skin—but you weren’t sure this was that kind of scene. You wanted to say it felt out of place but somehow you only felt yourself dripping wetter at the thought of it.

He swallowed. “Yeah. I’m more than okay, I mean—fuck just—can’t believe my dick is in you right now. You feel so good. This feels good. I can’t even begin to explain how many times this very scene has played in my head in the most inconvenient times.”

He laughed softly, and you laughed with him.

“How many times I dreamed of fucking you like this. Having you all to myself. Thinking I’d make sure I am the best you’ll ever have.”

He pressed his nose into your clothes as it reached your sternum, his face sitting comfortably between your breasts.

“You smell like … black tea.” His comment was muffled as his eyes were closed.

“Well yeah, that’s because you always give me some when the visiting rooms get busy or if it’s raining outside,” you replied with a lighter chuckle, running your fingers through his hair. How can something be so rough and soft at the same time?

What, exactly, you were referring to when that thought flitted right by you—you didn’t care to reaccess.

“Wriothesley?”

“Hm?”

“Please fuck me,” you said, lace and pink bow ties intertwined in your words.

“You’re ready?”

“Mhmm.”

His arms unraveled from you, and it seemed like his grip had worked knots on its own; ages passed before his hands rejoined either side of your waist. He was reluctant to part from you, even in the slightest degree as he was no longer pressed into you.

“Be good for me, yeah?”

And with that, he lifted you up and down on him with ease. He started out at a reasonable pace, though it was one faster than you expected. Your moans spun the room once more, each at their highest when his tip hits your cervix. Pain slipped out and away with each sodden thrust in you.

One hand covered your mouth and the other rested on his shoulder—and even as he rubbed hot, liquid pleasure into you, you caught the precise moment he realized what you’d done.

“Agh—please princess. Haven’t I earned this? What else will it take for me to hear your precious voice, hm?” He hummed, pleasured groans weaving through his strained words.

“That—mm fuck!—damned nickname again,” you cursed under your breath, causing the duke to smile.

He slowed his pace to a near stop. “What can I say?”

Then he pounded so hard into you, the wet slap along with your scream echoing in the safe confines office.

“You make me want to pamper you.”

He clenched his jaw as he continued to fuck you at the same pace, though this time each thrust left a sting on your ass.

You felt as though your nerves swam and writhed in each layer of flesh beneath your skin, pleasure following the way sound follows shortly after light. The butterflies panicked in your stomach, almost tickling you with the shrouded embarrassment of the duke of Meropide seeing you this way—how you could barely keep your lips together as your jaw lost its zeal a long time ago.

“Mmm c’mon,” he encouraged as your name left his lips again as an exhalation of sampled affection. “If I don’t get to hear you, I’m going to do something I’m not sure you’ll like.”

His thrusts picked up its pace slightly, as if to try and get the noises bubbling in throat to spill. You stayed resilient, however, even shaking your head as you offered a choked whimper instead.

“Alright then.”

His grip on your hand was gentle as he moved it to his shoulder, his fingers brushing your arm as he stopped moving altogether.

You whined irritably, and of course the duke laughed it off with that low and sadly attractive voice of his. Your gut dropped at the very sound of it.

“I told you I’d do something you wouldn’t like,” he reminded, and he sounded perfectly fine, as if he didn’t have his cock buried deep in you and twitching from the lack of friction. His hand was warm and soothing over your own, the other sliding up your waist.

“Ride me.”

“What?”

“Please, ride me,” he repeated.

You didn’t follow his request immediately as you knew what it would entail; your entire face, fucked out and reacting to every thrust you made down on him. You couldn’t muster a reply so instead you buried your face in his neck, pressing shallow kisses on his scars.

He laughed again. “Come now, princess. I asked nicely, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t the first time,” you pouted without meaning to.

It was almost like a knee-jerk reaction when his fingers ran through your hair, kissing your head as he cooed. It felt as though his fingers left a trail of butterflies where it combed, and the nectar of his kiss seeped straight to your mind.

“I’m sorry. I know I didn’t. But I needed to see your face,” he said. His fingers still laid in the strands of your hair. “How shall I make up for it?”

“Beg.”

And so he nodded.

“Please,” he stressed, your name placed on the throne of his saccharine plea. “Please, ride me. I need you so, so bad—I promise I won’t be mean again. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

You heard him loud and clear the first time, but part of you needed to hear him say it again. A confirmation of what it would mean if he asked this of you—what exactly it is he wanted.

And so you lifted your hips off him slowly, and even in that little bit of movement pleasure ran down his every inch where your cunt hugged. He made soft noises, ones you would keep like small souvenirs in a jar as he shut his eyes for a moment.

Then you dropped down on him, moans shared between the both of you as yours reigned louder.

"I love hearing you moan, fuck," he cursed.

You repeated what you'd done, this time getting faster as the feeling of him filling you grew as addicting as it was pleasurable. Seeing him restrain his sounds and bite his lip was more than a reward for doing as he asked. You wanted him all the way in, even if it bruised your cervix—and his chivalry had only impassioned the carnal thoughts spinning in your mind, chained to the wall as you couldn't have done anything about it without seeming downright sick.

That is, until now.

Oh, to think he'd been pent up before this, and now you're the only one who can bring him brain-hazing pleasure in this moment. Your fingers clawed at his clothes, legs cramping but the hot pleasure burned brighter in you than anything else.

"I want to fuck you," he moaned. "I want to see you, hear you, make you feel good—please let me fuck you over the table—ngh—please.”

"How bad?" You panted as you refused to stop.

"What?" He perked up.

"How bad do you want me?"

He wasted no time in wrapping himself around you again, sweat on sweat as he laid you back on his desk, careful not to let your head fall.

"I hope this answers your question," he whispered in your ear before he backed away to gaze at you again. He had naturally pulled out a little from the movement, but he didn't mind—he wrapped your lips in a heated kiss once more, his tongue a little more gentle this time as he pushes in and you gasped in his mouth.

More wet slaps ensued as his thrusts grew needy. He drew out slowly only to jerk back in and nearly choke your body in bursts of pleasure, your nerves tingling again as those coils reformed in your gut. They were going to give out. It was approaching sloppily and even your mouth went limp when you tried to pull away.

You tapped his jaw, and he pulled away instead, with the fog in his half-lidded eyes you could hardly say it was any easier for him than it was for you.

"I'm c-close.”

"Me too," he panted as he straightened his back, hands finding purchase back on your waist. “You’re so pretty like this.”

Your tailbone had already begun to ache, remnants of your body ache plaguing the rest of you.

His finger wounded up back beneath your folds, and dancing with your clit as you screamed again. Shit, it was approaching before you could catch up to it. Your hands flew to his wrist out of instinct and your knuckles turned white in an instant, but your grip was wind to him.

Your eyes squeezed shut and you erupted, quickly falling off that cliff as you clenched around him and caused him to moan.

“Fuck! I’m coming!”

He pounded quicker into you, your waist bruised in his grip as your ass stinged a bright red—he pulled out just in time for his cum to spill on the desk and floors.

Your body went limp. Your clit still pulsed, and both you and the duke panted for a few moments.

It took a while before the daze of the orgasm cleared, and some of your thoughts had come back coherent to you again.

The first one that took you by the throat was that you had just had sex with the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide, the warden of a highly-regarded prison, a man known to be intimidating and a force you should never cross.

“Hey, hey hey—you okay?”

Wriothesley rushed to your side when you sat up and winced. His hold on your arm would have hurt if it wasn’t out of concern and the failed attempt to support you on time.

“Yeah, just cramping. I’ll be fine.” You dropped onto the floor, whipping around to find your pants. He didn’t let go of your forearm nor let his eyes leave your face—you didn’t fight it.

“I was thinking of offering to let you rest, but I realize you start work early tomorrow,” he said as he cleaned himself off, then fixed the belt and fasteners on his pants. “I’ll send you home.”

You turned back to him. “What?”

“I’ll see if I can get us private transport so it’s quicker.”

Your other hand fell over his arm. “I don’t want to trouble you.”

“I was the one who brought you back here, so I’ll get you back safely.”

“And if I invited you over?” You raised a brow at him.

He paused for a few seconds as shock reached his gaze. His eyes examined each of your own as if to wonder just how serious you were.

“I’d go back to the Fortress on my own.” Wriothesley cleared his throat when he handed you your pants.

“That’s hardly fair,” you scoffed as you rested your sore ass against his desk to put on your clothes.

“I have never said this about ‘fair’ before, but I think I’m okay with that,” he grinned. You frowned.

“Wriothesley.”

He said your name back to you in a laugh.

“You don’t have to do … all this for me. You’re a very busy man.”

“Indeed, so I’d better hurry and make sure you get home safe and quick.” He tucked some of your hair behind your ear, and for a moment his eyes seemed to draw your features, the way light met your eyes or how your lips crumpled in a certain way when you were in thought or observing something intently.

Just like you had been now, with him.

You gave up at his persistence, simply shaking your head and then gathering your things before leaving his office with him.

The fact of the matter is that despite the coils that had broken loose in your gut just a while ago, your pores rippled with goosebumps at the brush of his fingertips down your shoulder when he followed so close behind you. He closed the door behind him and his touch had fled just as soon as it had arrived.

“Did you mean what you said?” He started, “when you said you’d … invite me over.”

“Mmm, why do you ask?” You teased.

“Because if your word is true we’d stop when the Fortress of Meropide meets the surface.”

note. don’t ask me why I have a backstory for reader and more ideas for this fic oml. Idk why I am rotting sm over this. Tysm for reading!

taglist: @mun-in-rain @neverlandlostchild @mmmairon

#i’ll probably post this on ao3 soon #✸ written by bindeds . ⊹ ࣪#wriothesley x y/n #wriothesley #wriothesley x you #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley smut #genshin smut #genshin impact #genshin impact smut #genshin x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact wriothesley #wriothesley genshin #hoyoverse #mihoyo #hoyoverse games #genshin wriothesley

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see-arcane · 1 month

Text

The trains go only so quick

The weather’s only so calm

For the people are all out

For celebration’s a balm

Our good friend sighs in shelter

Barred from revelry and fear

A storied local greets him

As a thunderhead draws near

Preface: For maximum effect, give, “Dracula’s Guest,” a read before proceeding.

The PDF version of the preview is here.

Walpurgisnacht

Munich held onto him longer than he would have liked. Had he been marooned in the place as a mere visitor he would never have opted to haunt the station rather than milling around through the celebrating streets. There was as much reveling as reverence at work due to the holiday. The far end of it, anyway. Jonathan had tucked a note on it in his schedule. Celebration meant delays even in the most sedate locales and there was every chance that this one’s might postpone his conveyance. He smiled tiredly at the shorthand, if only so he did not torture himself with looking at his watch for the third time in as many minutes.

‘Walpurgisnacht. Walpurgis Night. A holy day held in respect to Saint Walpurga, the 8th century abbess who warred with illness, pestilence, witchcraft and grim spirits. A time of grave superstition by dark and relieved gaiety by sunup with the witches and the dead all banished. The date has a predecessor in the form of the May Day festivals of old, making the time one of bonfires and fear, beauty and feasting.’ And apparently keeping the trains held up so that any wandering spirits cannot flee too far from the cemeteries.

Jonathan tucked the note away with the rest and battled with himself over whether he dared to stray from the platform or not. His train was meant to arrive at seven o’ clock, which meant that for safety’s sake he ought to be ready and waiting by six, even if the train was more likely to appear closer to eight. But the hour was now half-past five and he had taken his lunch early that day. He was down to rationing mints from their tin lest he give in to hunger and try to elbow his way through the crowded streets to find a restaurant. One that he would not even have time to truly enjoy, needing to eat speedily and flee back to the tracks. His stomach pinched him in protest. He held a fist against it to muffle a growl.

“You can wait.” He could. If there was no dining on the train, he would still make time for breakfast in Vienna. Or if not breakfast, lunch in Klausenburgh. Or… “Or I could just break and get a room for the night.” The words were a sigh. He had spied a hotel sitting in a picturesque spot near a spread of wild greenery that bled into woodlands. What was the name? “Quatre Saisons, I think,” he said under his breath. This, like the rest of his murmured commentary, was meant for no ears but his own. The festivities had left the station remarkably barren. Everyone who had traveled to or from the area wouldn’t be packing up until at least the next morning. So it came as a surprise when he heard a voice behind his head:

“You are an Englishman?”

Jonathan turned to see a man almost as young as himself peering down at him. A cluster of wild roses at his breast was the only flourish to his apparel. His expression was unreadable apart from an angle of suspicion to the brows.

“I am,” Jonathan allowed, grateful that he didn’t need to strain his tongue or the man’s ears with his fragmented German.

“You have come from the Quatre Saisons?” The suspecting angle deepened.

“No, but I was thinking I may have to book a room if the train comes too late.”

The man’s face softened at this, his posture relaxing an increment as he insisted, “The train will come late. Not too late, but still late. You must not bother with the Quatre Saisons either way.”

“Is it full?”

“Most rooms always fill in advance of these days. Inns and hotels shall all be swarmed from now until the seventh of May. But Herr Delbrück’s Quatre Saisons must not be tried. The place is not well this time of year.”

“I do not quite follow,” Jonathan said, his nose just catching the whiff of past toasts to the date on his companion’s breath. “How is it not well?”

“The land it sits with. It is bad to be near it, even after Walpurgisnacht has been and gone. There are…” the man seemed to catch himself on a word before pressing on, “…wild dogs that roam the forest and its valley. Strange souls who would take after the devils of last night, even as we light the fires against them. No, you must not stay there until at least the thick of summer. Better to try in the city’s heart if you must have a room.”

The rooms that were full of visitors already, according to the young man himself. Either way it still relied on Jonathan potentially spoiling the entirety of the client’s route as laid out and paid for from his own account. The idea of taking a room and gambling on a morning train was only a daydream. Jonathan almost said as much.

Instead, “I do not need a room, really. I can hardly risk missing the evening’s train by a minute. But I thank you for the advice, sir.” The young man frowned at Jonathan then, his eyes roaming the length of him in a searching way. “Are you waiting on the train as well?”

“I just purchased my ticket for the morning. It is better to travel by day. And to eat by it too.” He nodded at Jonathan. “You have not been in the city itself? You have partaken of nothing?”

“Sadly no. If I were here on my own account I should have liked to see more, but—,”

“The train will not come any earlier if you sit and starve.”

“Likely not. But I cannot risk wandering too far.” He regarded his luggage drearily. No, he dared not even risk a restaurant. Even the next stop would allow him only a glimpse of the city as he rushed from one point to the next. Perhaps he could find some time to wander when he reached the hotel, but not before. He clenched his belly against another snarl and popped another mint in his mouth. Only three left, but, “Would you care for one?”

The young man whispered something in his homeland’s tongue—it sounded to Jonathan like, “Better to have the leaves,”—but in English said, “I would. Thank you.” He laid it on his tongue as if it were a medicine pill. “But it is still not a supper. Take yourself away for a meal at least, Herr Englishman.”

So saying, the young man departed, perhaps for his own plate or hotel. Jonathan swallowed a sigh and put the tin away. Looking around he saw he really was the last one on the platform apart from one dozing woman playing chaperone to her family’s luggage. Her husband had taken the two sulking children back out into the streets to burn off some energy. With the surly toddlers and the brief conversationalist departed, the space felt oddly like an island. Even the clamor that leaked in from the mouth of the tracks was muted. Jonathan tried to bury himself in a book, but gave up as the text swam before his eyes.

What rest he had gotten was as thin as his last meal was distant. If he could only lay down and sleep through the hunger he might be satisfied, but that risked drowsing through the train whistle itself. He tucked the book away and took himself to the closest opening which showed the beginnings of twilight oozing over the tracks. His hand went again to the neglected journal at his heart and thought another apology at its pages. So far he’d only managed to jot his name within the cover.

“I am sorry,” he told the air. “My head is in no state for you yet.”

A sudden cold gust blew his words back. There was a rise of distraught voices from outside as the breeze whipped through. In the next moment there was a shift in the palette of the sky as a weighty cloud rolled over the last of the sun, plunging the outdoors into early dusk. After that came the pattering of hail. The last festive sounds turned to a disgruntled din before their noise was drowned entirely by the hammering on the station’s roof. Jonathan pulled his coat tight around him and wished luck out to the revelers.

Between one blink and the next, one of the latter manifested at the threshold below. She wore what would have been an immaculate costume of a bygone age if not for the burns that had assailed the fine old dress. Though perhaps that was merely a desired effect. She was likely going around as some witch or spirit who had escaped the bonfires’ efforts during the night. Between the platform’s glow and the outdoors’ new gloom she certainly possessed the half-lit look of a ghost.

The sort of ghost meant for a stage, he added to himself. She has an actress’ face.

Yes, an actress powdered and dressed to be a dead beauty. Her mouth was a full and somber curl of red against a carcass’ pallor. She carved it into a smile as she stared up at him, seemingly oblivious to the cold and hail at her back.

“Are you alright?” he asked in his stilted German. The woman only kept her faded eyes upon him. They had a pull to them that Jonathan couldn’t place. He found himself approaching the tracks’ edge before he realized his feet were moving. “Do you need help?” he added, wondering if the trouble was just a matter of shelter. The tracks were set deep and it would be a hassle to hoist oneself up to the platform’s edge.

“He tries again,” said the woman on the tracks. Possibly. Her German was almost as fractured as his own, albeit with a different inflection. “Another sent for. Another to travel with. Fast, fast, fast.” The sky growled at her words. A stage’s effects could do no better. With the thought in mind, he wondered:

Is this a performance?

Before he could ask, his stomach spoke for him. It was mortifyingly loud and the thunder’s next peal did not do enough to cover it. The woman’s expression cracked on a wider smile. She recited:

“Help, Heaven, help! who knows the Father

Knows surely that he loves his child:

The bread and wine from the hand divine

Shall make thy tempered grief less wild.”

Jonathan smiled back, glad to recall the verse. He and Mina had gone over it in the original text and the English for practice and preference’s sake. Lenore’s lines fell from him:

“Oh! mother dear mother! the wine and the bread

Will not soften the anguish that bows down my head;

For bread and for wine it will yet be as late

That his cold corpse creeps from the grim grave’s gate.”

The woman’s grin now bared teeth. They were brilliantly white against the crimson of her lips.

“Are you meant to be Lenore?” Jonathan asked.

“Lenore sought her lover. I sought only death.” Her hand rose toward him. “Will you help me find it?”

Thunder boomed as a new wind rolled through the station like a howl. The woman’s ruined dress and hanging hair danced wildly on her, though she seemed not to notice. Jonathan went toward her, deciding whatever act she adhered to would be better performed out of the elements’ reach. His hand reached down to hers. There was a moment when their fingers brushed and Jonathan felt sick at how frozen she felt even through his glove.

In the same instant he saw the dancing of lightning without. The bolts seemed almost like a great weaving animal, snapping in closer and closer bolts along the blackened sky. Intuition tightened in his chest. Suspicion leapt to certainty. There was no time to speak—

Get off get off the tracks it’s going to—

—only to grab for her hand.

But not fast enough. Another gale of wind rushed through, this time angled in such a way that it seized and flung him back against the floor. Lightning struck in the same instant. Noise blasted his ears. It was a nigh deafening din made from the crackle of electricity dancing on the tracks and the rattling roar of a thunderclap. Under it, he swore he heard the woman scream.

God oh God oh God hospital what is the word for hospital I need the dictionary I need—

He scrambled to his feet and back to the platform’s edge. His breath stayed trapped in his chest until he looked down.

And saw nothing.

There was no woman, alive or dead. He gawped for almost a minute at the bare tracks. The hail thinned away as he stared and the thunder softened to a grumble.

How..?

“You are hurt?”

Jonathan looked up and found the dozing mother had left her heap of baggage to check on him.

“No, no, not hurt. But there was someone…” He gestured at the tracks and limped through a few lines of German before she shooed his words away with her hand, switching briskly to English. He explained the scene in full and the mother nodded with something between grave intensity and a sprightly eagerness.

“Yes, there would still be some who wander late. Walpurgisnacht is night and day. Probably she is drifting back to her tomb, sulking that she did not get company for her bier. If you had your gloves off and showed your ring she may have not bothered. Lovers who die before the wedding day, they are the greediest souls on these nights.”

This she said with great authority and Jonathan had no desire to mention that he wore no ring as yet. No more than he had any urge to voice his suspicion that the woman had been very much alive and somehow made it away from the station’s threshold before the lightning could do any damage.

The other explanation is that the woman was, in fact, a roaming ghost come to collect a new member for the graveyard. It is the time of year for such things.

A call from the other end of the station turned the mother’s head. Father and children had come in from the storm, as had a smattering of other travelers. The train whistle bayed not long after. Jonathan looked to the tracks again as if the woman might suddenly rematerialize in the locomotive’s path. The only body that he could see was the outline of some animal at the edge of the platform’s glow. It looked like a large dog posed beside the tracks, tail still and eyes lambent. Jonathan held its stare for a moment. Then it was gone, loping off into the night.

This. This is worth writing about.

And it was. At least once his seat had him in it and a wonderfully dense meal sat in him. He brought out his stationery pages for the cause, jotting the entirety of his time in the station up to the arrival of the train. These loose sheets were reserved specifically for storytelling and recipe preservation, the better to possibly be scrapbooked away at home. The journal still drowsed in his pocket.

Hold out for the hotel room. Almost there.

Jonathan cupped a hand to his eyes to keep out the glare as he watched the world go by in the window. The storm was left behind now and the sky was all stars above rooftops and treetops alike. A brilliant wedge of a moon shined out at him. He was still admiring the view when the steward came along to tap his shoulder. There was a smile on his face but a glimmer of anxiety in his eye.

“Herr Harker, yes?”

“Yes,” Jonathan managed before the steward produced a telegram.

“For you. Will you have another drink?”

“No, thank you.” But the glass was already stolen away and refilled before he could finish the sentence. The steward vanished in nearly the same instant, looking as if he meant to finish the bottle himself. Jonathan puzzled over this a moment before turning his attention to the telegram.

BISTRITZ.

My friend, I send all apologies to you on account of the trains and the time. We arranged our meeting during the heart of much fervor, and such will always meddle with travel. I send this in anticipation of your own frustrations with the hindered hours and my gratitude for your steadfastness. I hope it shall please you to know that the Hotel Royale has its finest suite reserved and waiting for you, and so too for the Golden Krone of Bistritz after them. May their hospitality be a balm against the troubles of a passenger at the mercy of fickle clocks. —Dracula

Jonathan marveled at the message. It was a rarity in itself to have a client who made no fuss when it came to snags that the firm had no control over. To have one who foresaw said snags and went out of his way to apologize to the solicitor himself was unheard of. And from a noble?

He added the telegram to his memoranda with a smile.

#Dracula Daily has Jonathan fresh from exiting the first round of horrors #meanwhile in Harker...#(sorry buddy. doesn't get easier after this.)#jonathan harker #dracula #Harker #my writing #c.r. kane #dracula daily #re: dracula #dracula's guest #countess dolingen

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padfootagain · 4 months

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Only an Almost (XIV)

Chapter 14: Heartbreak

Hi! Here comes a new chapter!

Alright, buckle up! We’re up for a wild ride! We are reaching the heights of the angsty mess, from this chapter all the way to chapter 17. Is our girl going to be an asshole? Yes, I’m afraid she’s about to fuck up big time...

Apologies for all the damage that is about to be made in this chapter.

It’s also the first chapter I wrote for this fic! It all started with this mess…

I hope you’ll like this chapter! Please, tell me what you think!

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Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader, friends with benefits AU

Warning: No explicit smut or nsfw content, but there are sexual themes and heavy make-out sessions (it’s a friends with benefits AU, I can’t really escape it), so 18+ only!

Summary: Andrew has been in love with you for years, and yet he has never confessed his feelings. But a night out celebrating the engagement of his best friend changes everything. However, you don't seem ready to be with him just yet. You make him an offer that he can't refuse... but will certainly regret.

Word Count : 3450

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s Masterlist – Main Masterlist

It was 11pm, which was early for a night owl such as Andrew, but late for his friends. Neither Sam nor Daphne were nocturnal creatures, and so Andrew answered his phone in a hurry when Sam’s name appeared on the screen. Something had to be wrong. He suddenly wondered where he had put his car keys, in case he needed to leave in a hurry.

“Hello? Andy? It’s me. It’s Sam.”

“Yeah, I know, are you alright?” he asked with worry making his voice deeper than usual, pausing the tv-show he was watching, lounging on his comfortable sofa.

“Yeah, yeah…”

“It’s 11pm, is there something wrong? Is Daphne okay?”

“What? Oh, no! Don’t worry, we’re both fine!”

Andrew heaved a relieved sigh.

“God, don’t scare the shit out of me like that ever again…”

“Did I wake you? I thought you never went to sleep before dawn.”

“Vampires tend to do that indeed.”

“Whose blood did you drink this week?”

Andrew wanted to answer, but he heard Daphne pestering Sam about not having much time, and he merely frowned instead.

“Right… sorry, darling…” Sam mumbled through the phone. “Are you alone, Andy?”

“Erm… yes…?”

“Okay, erm… it’s… it’s about Y/N.”

Andrew sat straighter this time.

“Y/N? Is she okay? Did something happen?”

“No, no… I mean… she’s fine, but…”

“For fuck’s sake, Sam! Spit it out! What’s going on?”

“Look I… I know that you said that I couldn’t tell Daphne about you and Y/N… but Y/N told her, so we’ve talked about you two together…”

Andrew rolled his eyes, lying back down, resting his head on the armrest of the couch.

“It’s alright, Sam… I knew you’d break it to her sooner or later anyway.”

“No, Andy… look… have you talked to Y/N lately?”

Andrew frowned.

“Erm… I don’t know… about… three days ago. Why?”

“I think you should talk to her.”

“Why? Sam, what is it?”

There was a short silence, while the couple exchanged a glance, no doubt.

“Daphne thinks she might take a terrible decision,” Sam answered.

“What kind of decision? What are you talking about?”

Andrew was growing annoyed at this game of riddles. If something was wrong, he ought to know what it was…

But even if he insisted some more, Sam refused to speak.

“Just… call her, and tell her you love her. Tell her to choose you.”

“’Choose’ me? What do you mean?”

“Just… do it tomorrow, will you?”

“Alright, alright. I’ll call her tomorrow.”

“Good… good…”

When he hung up, Andrew stared at the ceiling for a while.

Choose me?

Andrew didn’t need to call you the next day. You were the one to call, and ask him if he was free tonight. You didn’t offer an activity, like you usually would: a movie on Netflix, the cinema, a walk, going to the beach, eating together… There was little ambiguity to the reason behind your demand, and Andrew wasn’t sure whether he was flattered or vexed by it.

He warned you that he wanted to talk to you about something tonight though, and you agreed. You had something to ‘discuss’ with him too. His heart dropped as you spoke those words through the phone. It ought to be some kind of bad news. Or maybe not. Maybe he was reading too much into this, and you meant… to talk about the upcoming wedding, or your job, or… something else entirely. He wondered if you knew that he meant to tell you that he felt more for you than what he had let on.

He parked his car in front of your house, but didn’t climb out just yet. First, he ran through his speech one last time.

I know that you are not looking for a relationship at the moment. But I want more than just sex when it comes to you. To us. Our arrangement can’t go on like this. Again, I understand that you are not in a position now where you want to be in a relationship. And that’s okay. If you tell me that you could give us a chance, I will wait for you. I’ll wait until you’re ready, until your job is more stable and you’ve figured things out in your life. I’ll wait until you want a relationship with me. I have feelings for you, feelings that go beyond a casual fling. And that’s the reason why I’m asking you now to give me a chance. To give us a proper chance…

No l-word yet, you might freak out if he used it. But this speech seemed good enough. Short, to the point. He had written six versions of it this morning.

He took a deep breath, before finally climbing out of his car and walking up to your house.

You were quick to unlock your door and welcome him in. You looked lovely tonight. But then, you were always beautiful…

You went through some meaningless chit-chat while Andrew took off his coat and shoes and followed you down the hall to your kitchen.

You offered him tea without asking if he wanted one. It was late afternoon, but not quite dinner time yet. He could have used some alcohol, but it would have been impolite to ask for some, so he thanked you when you handed him his favourite mug with two teabags plunged in warm water. He leaned against your kitchen counter, his back to your tiny window and your sink while you were facing him, a couple of steps away.

“You… you wanted us to talk about something,” Andrew reminded you, taking a sip of the warm beverage. “And I wanted to talk to you too, so… who should start?”

You were growing nervous, the signs were obvious. In your modern kitchen, there was a window above the sink that let in some golden light. The photons embraced your form, in a way that made Andrew’s heart skip a few beats.

You pushed back some hair behind your ear, pulled on the sleeves of your jumper. Andrew frowned at the sight.

“You’re alright? I can start…”

“No, I… I reckon I should start.”

“Okay.”

He was nervous beyond reason and measure. Andrew dried his clammy palms on his jeans, tried to breathe deeply through his nose, but his heart kept on pounding and his stomach was turning into knots…

You stared at each other for a moment, him expectant and you hesitant. He raised an eyebrow as a silent encouragement for you to speak, but you merely bit on your lower lip.

But then you heaved a sigh, crossed the distance between your bodies in a hurry. Andrew barely had time to blink, and you had grabbed him by the collar, pulling him down to you while you rose to your tiptoes so you could slam your lips to his. But kissing you was a habit by now, and a delicious one too. Andrew’s body was reacting on instinct as he kissed you back, messy and passionate and breathtaking. Your teeth bumped into his in your passion, but he didn’t mind. It was easy to deepen the kiss instead, cradle your face in his hands while you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, closer, always closer.

You were making his brain short-circuit, despite the important talk he wanted to have with you. You were everywhere, blurring his senses, making all traces of reason disappear…

Only when he felt your fingers travel down his chest and towards his belt did he stop you, pulling away.

“Wait, wait… stop…”

You immediately took a step back, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“You’re okay?”

“Yeah… yeah… I… look, we… We wanted to talk, like… I think we should, erm, talk before we…”

“Or we can have sex, and talk after that.”

“Is that wise?”

“Do we really need to be wise?”

It was tempting. Too tempting to resist. God, he couldn’t think about anything else but your lips, how inviting they looked, how he wanted to kiss your neck too, he could feel his fingers tickle at the thought of touching all these places of your body, entire landscapes of bare skin…

He blinked a couple of times, struggled to swallow, trying to calm down. But blood was pulsing in his ears, and when he tried to remember his carefully-crafted speech, he couldn’t remember a word…

Fuck all of this…

“Alright,” he nodded. “But we talk tonight… cause it’s important…”

“Deal. Deal. Can I kiss you now?”

“Yes… God, yes, please… please, kiss me…”

You were back in his arms in a second, hands in his hair at first, while his travelled along your frame, from chest to hips and arse, feeling your shape through your clothes. You detached your lips from his to take his hand and guide him to your bedroom.

“We should get dressed to talk,” Andrew proposed, his breathing finally settling back into a regular rhythm.

He threw his condom away in the tiny bean next to the door of your bathroom. He grabbed his underwear as he walked back to your bed and handed you your large jumper.

“You’re too beautiful not to be distracting,” he chuckled, only half-joking, while you put on the piece of garment he was giving you.

He noticed how you looked away, how you seemed uncomfortable, all of a sudden. Instead of joining you in bed once more, Andrew sat down on the edge of the mattress, right next to you.

“So… who should begin?” he asked, voice soft and a little timid. “I… like… actually, I think I should…”

“Andy, I… I think you should get dressed.”

He frowned at that remark, or rather… he frowned at the tone you used. Cold and distant, whispered, and your eyes were still fleeing his.

“Why? Am I distracting too?” he asked with a charming smile, forcing a chuckle out. But you didn’t laugh, merely brushed a strand of your hair behind your ear.

Andrew’s nervous smile soon crumbled.

“Right,” he let out in a breath, blushing hard now, heart racing.

He grabbed his undershirt, slowly put it on while trying to swallow back the lump in his throat.

“Look, I… We should talk about… this arrangement of ours…” he started, but you interrupted him, blurting out words he wasn’t expecting so fast he second-guessed if he had heard you right.

“We need to stop sleeping together.”

He was half-bent to grab his pants when you spoke. He froze, looking up at you, cursing at his long hair when it fell before his eyes and hid you away. He stood back up in a jolt.

“What?”

“We… we need to stop this arrangement. Things have changed.”

And all of a sudden there was hope again, brighter than a sun and blinding every bit of reason in him… And he fell for it. No matter the odds, he fell for it, flew straight to it like a moth ready to be burned at the pyre of your flames…

“Right… things have changed for me too. So, actually, I do think that we need to change things between us…”

“I have a date next week.”

He froze again. Stared at you, too stunned to say a thing, too stunned to protest or ask any question or even comprehend what you were saying.

“I… I have a date with a coworker, Maggie. Next week. So… we should stop this… We said we would if we wanted to try something with someone else…”

A date? Next week? Maggie?

You… you wanted to date again… just… not him…

“But… we’ve just had sex,” breathed Andrew.

It sounded stupid and he knew it, and yet these were the only words he could summon now. The first that came to mind, the only protest he could find.

There were too many emotions all at once. It felt… like falling… falling forever… like the ground being stolen from under his feet. He had no air left in his lungs, and he had forgotten how to breathe.

“Yeah… it wasn’t planned. But I… I just… Maybe I shouldn’t have done that…”

His lip trembled, but his cheeks were still dry.

You were regretting him now?

“I think I just… wanted one last moment with you. Before we’d stop and I would date someone else.”

“So… you… you have a date?”

“Yes, I have a date with Maggie.”

“What do you mean, you have a date with Maggie? Who the fuck is Maggie?”

Andrew stared at you as he was about to cry, and he couldn’t help it. He blinked tears away, but they lingered at the edges of his eyes, ready to fall at your words.

“She’s nice. She works at HR, she’s a secretary. She asked me out, and… I don’t know, I said yes. So… I think we should stop this arrangement.”

“Oh…”

At long last, the information was being recorded in his brain. Andrew shook himself back to earth, turned around, fleeing you and your beautiful eyes, hurrying to put his trousers back on. He almost fell in the process, already looking for his shirt. He felt so exposed like this, so vulnerable, so flawed…

You were going on a date… with someone else… because you didn’t want to date him… he was the fucking problem. He was all along…

“I just… it was… good.”

He nodded, but didn’t let out a sound.

He couldn’t look at you. He would start crying if he did. He needed to run away as fast as he could…

“And she’s nice, you know? And… just… easy. Not like, easy to sleep with, but…”

“I understand.”

Of course, he did. Same argument all over again. And he couldn’t blame you, how could he?

But what if he dropped everything? What if he stopped touring? Stopped the whole music thing?

He thought about what you looked like right now, perfect and dishevelled and still gently glowing after the efforts of love-making. Absolutely perfect. Yeah… yeah… You deserved better than him, no matter the touring or the staying…

“Andy… are you angry?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t start acknowledging his feelings now. He would start crying if he did.

Where the fuck was his sock?

“I loved the nights we had together,” you went on, apparently unaware of the daggers each of your words planted through his heart, and for the first time in the long years the two of you had known each other, he wanted to stop hearing your voice.

You seemed to need to fill up the silence that Andrew was trying to maintain. Perhaps it was a way to reach out, perhaps it was a way to keep him at bay. He wasn’t certain about that.

“It was nice.”

Where was that fucking sock?!

“Andy?”

He put on his jumper, abandoning the thought of his black sock. He couldn’t lose any more time, he couldn’t breathe properly anymore…

“You’re okay? Can you say something?”

Silence. Only the rubbing of fabric against fabric as Andrew was getting ready to leave. He only had to grab his shoes and jacket in your hallway.

“Andy, wait!”

But he was already outside of your bedroom.

“You can’t be mad at me! We agreed about this, Andy! We agreed that… that… this was nothing but sex! It didn’t mean anything.”

He was blinded by tears when he reached for your doorknob, unlocking the door without seeing the keys he was turning in the lock.

“Andy! Where are you going? Stop! We need to talk about this!”

He shrugged you off when you reached for him.

“Andy!”

But then he was shutting the door behind him, his movement so harsh it shook the doorframe. He hurried to his car while he dried his eyes, refusing to crumble now, in the alley leading to your house.

He drove blindly, unaware of a destination, of a will behind the turns he took and the roads he chose. The words kept ringing in his ears, he couldn’t shut them out, they played on repeat in his busy mind…

This was nothing but sex.

It didn’t mean anything.

Did it not? The way you touched him, the way you kissed him, the way you held him… did it not mean something?!

His hold tightened on the wheel. His jaw clenched until it was painful, until he could hear it.

Nothing. The tenderness in your touch, the fondness in your gaze, the sighs on your lips. The way you held him after it was done, like you needed him to land again gently on the ground, like you held onto a dream before it faded. How you stared into his soul when you connected in the most intimate way possible. How you laughed together until none of you could breathe, how you talked for hours about the most meaningless things and the most intimate parts of your lives. How you let him be yours, how you almost let yourself be his…

Only an almost…

He parked the car before a house he had always called home, and it was only then that he realised where he was. He stared at the familiar door of his parents’ house, the curtains behind the windows, the light that came through them.

So, you had let him love you, and it meant nothing at all?

He turned off the engines, stared at the house for a suspended moment. What would he do now? He couldn’t possibly face you again after this. He was about to lose you for good; because after having a taste of what loving you felt like, he couldn’t go back to being a mere friend. No… no, he wasn’t strong enough for that. For seeing you happy with someone else, knowing that you held him close for a moment only to let him go, because he wasn’t enough.

He picked up his phone, ready to do something stupid, something he would regret the second his thumb would press send. He typed the text under your name.

If I gave up on touring, if I stayed home… would you give me a chance? Would I be enough if I weren’t just a ghost?

He heaved a sigh, resting his head against his seat, head tilted upwards in his exhale. He blinked tears away, staring at the dark ceiling of his car.

Did you really feel nothing now? Did it not hurt at all for you? Not even a little bit? Not at all?

Andrew didn’t press send. He deleted the text, opened the door, climbed out of the car and into the street bathed in an inky darkness and orange streetlights. His feet guided him to the safest place on Earth while he tugged his phone into his pocket. His right foot was hurting in his shoe without a sock on. He didn’t even notice.

It took his mother a moment to open the door, nothing surprising at this hour. She saw him through the glass of the backdoor, and her eyes grew round. Andrew finally noticed he was crying.

The door opened in a hurry, bumping into Raine’s foot in the process.

“Andy? Honey, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

His lower lip trembled as he stared at his mother, hands digging further into his pockets, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His throat was too tight to speak.

“Honey, what’s wrong? Tell me. Tell me what’s wrong?”

She narrowed her eyes a little as she guessed, aiming straight for his heart.

“Is it Y/N?”

He opened his mouth to answer but all that he could let out was a sob. His legs were shaking, he could feel all of his strength leaving his body. He barely registered his own moevements as he bent into his mother’s arms, folding around her frame.

“Oh, Andy… here, it’s alright. It’s gonna be okay, darling. It’s okay. I’m here, I’m here…”

She rubbed his back, in this soothing movement that had never failed to appease him ever since he was a child. His voice was a hoarse whisper when he let out the most painful words he had ever pronounced.

“She doesn’t love me, mom. She doesn’t feel anything… What am I gonna do? What am I gonna do without her?”

She let him cry for a moment longer, his father calling from the living room to know who was at the door. Raine merely answered with her son’s name, and gently pushed him upwards so he would stand straighter again.

“Well, for a start, I’m going to make you a cup of tea, with a lot of honey. And then, we’ll figure out the rest.”

#hozier #andrew hozier byrne #the hoziest #hozier x reader #hozier x you #hozier x y/n #hozier x fem!reader #hozier fanfiction #hozier fanfic #hozier series #series #fanfiction #fanfic #writing

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her-devils-advocate · 5 months

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In my arms is where you ought to be

pairings: Levi Ackerman x reader

genre: hurt/comfort, eventual fluff

summary: In the dead of night, the anxieties that you had tried to keep bottled up have finally crept up on you. Bringing along all the thoughts you had tried to lock away with it.

Luckily for you, you're not alone.

note: Wrote this today since my own anxieties have been acting up and part of me wishes I could have my own Levi to help me through them, so I decided to settle for the 2nd best option: making it possible through fiction!

word count: 2,428

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55642015

You lie awake in bed, watching the shadows twist and turn on the flaking ceiling above. You are unsure of the time, having given up trying to chase the ever-elusive sleep hours ago. The moon hanging high above in the inky sky signals that it's still early in the morning, too early to be awake, yet the swirling sensation of panic keeps your eyes wide open.

The silence is almost deafening, a heavy weight on your ears as you strain to make out a single sound within the building full of sleeping scouts. The only sound to reveal itself to you is the frantic thumping of your heart, almost as if trying to escape from its cage of flesh and bone. You feel your hands tingle, like ants crawling under your skin before it fades to the familiar numbness you have come to know well. You sit up in the bed, finally fed up with staring into space and letting your mind run wild and as the blanket slides off your form, the bitter night air nips at your skin. You welcome the new sensation, happy to feel something other than the growing chaos within.

Despite being surrounded by dozens of scouts, some of whom would easily relate to your current state, you have never felt more alone than in these moments. You have felt yourself drift over time, growing more and more distant from those around you until you can’t even recognise yourself in the mirror, feeling more and more like a poor imitation of the real thing. Fake smiles and practiced words have since become second nature as your heart does its best to drag you down with each frantic beat.

You can’t remember when it started to creep up on you, but if the previous week of tearful nights has been anything to go by, it’s not a recent change. If anything, you should have expected its unwelcomed arrival, yet things had been going well recently and you had all but assumed it was gone for good. You swing your legs over the side of the bed with a small groan, bringing your hands up to rub at your face wearily.

The room is too quiet and the beating of your heart is too loud.

Everything is suffocating and your skin feels too hot. You drag yourself out of the room, each step feeling harder than the last as you dart through the headquarters’ hallways with no goal in mind. The once familiar corridors now warp into unrecognisable labyrinths, beckoning you further into the unknown. You are unable to hold back the flood of tears that now silently pour down your cheeks, and despite your best attempt to wipe them away, they are instantly replaced with fresh tears now free from their mental prison. All you can do is hope there is no one else awake to see you in this state as you continue to pull yourself through the long corridors.

“What gives you the right to feel this way when so many others have lost more than you?”

“They will think you’re pathetic if they were to see you in such a sorry state.”

With each passing breath, your mind grows into your own worst enemy, betraying you with stray thoughts plucked out of nowhere and perfectly aimed towards your heart. You pick up your pace, almost as if you can outrun the silent harassment.

“How did someone so unstable even get accepted as a scout?”“Titan fodder.”

The shadows of the hallway seem to follow your escape, doing their best to drag you back as you break out into a small jog. The moon watches bitterly from its position in the sky, remaining still and refusing to lower itself so the sun's forgiving rays can break through and grant you guidance.

You finally slow your pace when you reach a sign of life within the silent building and with a bated breath, you watch as candlelight escapes through the cracks in the wooden door. As you slowly approach the door, you can faintly hear the sound of a pen gliding over paper from within. Tottering on the spot, you try to gather the courage to knock, knowing who awaits behind the wooden shield between you. Despite your frantic run, your body has led you straight to the only person who can help calm your panicked state.

Your mind and heart are at war with one another as you stand alone in the cold corridor, your hand is raised to knock on the old wood and yet you can’t bring yourself to complete the action. The seconds feel like hours as you try to compel your body to let your fist connect with the door, but before you can, the choice is made for you. The door opens with a small creak and you are left gazing up into Levi’s steely eyes. You fidget under his stare, mouth opening and closing as you struggle to find the necessary words.

Instead, you hang your head, more than content to stare at the ground, taking in the stark difference between the dusty hallway and the pristine floor of his office. You can feel yourself shivering and you squeeze your eyes shut, as if doing so would block out the buzzing of your overactive mind.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” A cold finger lifting your chin causes your eyes to fly open, widening in shock as you stare at him once more. He takes in the still-damp tears that paint your cheeks and the way your chest rises and falls at a worrying pace.

His face holds the same expressionless mask, yet you have come to know how to read that mask well and can see the concern hidden deep within.

He watches as you shift your weight from leg to leg, the unknown panic creeping up your throat and holding your jaws shut, condemning you to silence. He raises a single eyebrow before standing aside, holding the door open to you in a silent invitation before moving back to sit at his desk.

You swiftly pad into the room, softly closing the door before manoeuvering to drop into the spare chair in front of his desk. You watch as he proceeds to pick up his pen and continue to work on the stack of papers piled neatly on the side of his desk. The quiet scratching of the pen against paper helps distract you enough for your heart to calm, no longer frantically hammering away from within, and for a moment you are convinced that you could manage to doze off within the safety of his quiet haven.

You watch as he carefully lifts his cup by the rim, bringing it to his lips with practised ease before placing it back down onto the coaster. The way he grips his cup has always confused you, yet you never thought to question it, simply narrowing it down to nothing more than a quirk of his. He catches you staring out of the corner of his eye, not once slowing in his battle against the paperwork.

“Are you ready to talk about why I happened to find you crying outside my door in the dead of night?”

His steady voice rushes over you and you raise your knees to your chest, dragging your finger across the polished desk, drawing invisible patterns over the aged wood. With your free hand, you subtly wipe away what remains of your distress.

“It’s just… my chest hurts.” You whisper lamely as shuffle to get comfy, your hand pressed firmly against your chest while you speak.

You don’t miss the way his eyebrows rise or the way he goes rigid in his chair, “do we need to get you to the infirmary?”

Under any other circumstance, you would laugh at the confusion, yet you are far too drained and jittery to even try. You also don’t want to risk the lecture that would most certainly bring.

“No, not like that. It’s just a physical reaction to my mind, I think? I don’t know, there’s a reason I’m a scout, not a doctor.” Despite everything, that earns you a small amused scoff from Levi before you can continue, “I’ve been overthinking a lot recently… About everything and nothing at all, I don’t know, I’m a bit of a mess right now and it’s so hard to concentrate. I’m just… scared?”

“Why are you asking? It’s not like I can tell you how you are feeling.” Levi replies, silently placing the pen aside and leaning on his elbow on the desk, his head resting on his hand and giving you his full attention.

You rest your head on your knees, pulling them even closer towards you as you avert your eyes, “because I was hoping that you would have the answer.”

A small, weary sigh escapes your lips as you struggle beneath his calm stare, he is silent, letting you gather your thoughts without relying on his input to help you piece your emotions together. Your invisible drawings on his desk have ceased, instead morphing into impatient taps speeding in tempo.

“I think I might have just hit my limit, bottled up too much to save for later and later finally arrived. My chest feels like it's in a vice and I’ve been on edge more and more recently. I don’t feel like myself, I just want it to go away.” You bury your face in your hands, exhaustion fully washing over you as you finish your best attempt at explaining the tangled web of emotions swirling within you.

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Levi asks, his question is quiet yet weighs heavily on you. You have always been close to him, trusting him with everything and in kind, he has always trusted you with his fair share of secrets and his past. Over time, you both came to love one another, stealing away time together whenever you could, slipping secret notes under his door when you couldn’t spend the evening curled up beside him.

A part of you wants to blame your silence on not wanting him to see you in a different light, not wanting him to think you are weak and unfit to be a scout, let alone standing proudly at his side. But the rational part of your mind, fighting for control amidst the conflict, knows that to be lies fed to you by your current state.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to worry you.” You finally lift your head to look into his eyes once more, the gentle glow of the candlelight reflecting within.

“Considering the fucked up world that we live in, I’m always going to worry about you.” This time he’s the one to glace away, the wax dripping down the side of the candle seeming to be a good distraction as he opens his shielded heart.

“You can always come to me. You don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to, but I’d prefer to have you in my sight during these moments. So I know you’re alright.”

You give a small nod, untangling yourself as you stand from the chair and move towards the small settee placed in front of the fire. Once you have gotten yourself settled on the plush fabric, you extend your hand, palm up, towards him. His eyes soften as he sits next to you, throwing one arm across the back of the chair behind you and you hear him let out a low chuckle as you shuffle closer to him, resting your head on his shoulder.

His arm abandons the back of the sofa, coming down to rest on your shoulder and your eyes flutter shut when he starts to lightly drag his finger up and down the top of your arm. The action causes your skin to tingle beneath his touch. You take his free hand in yours and he quietly watches as you play with his fingers, the fretfulness finally beginning to fade away.

“How’re you feeling now?” He breaks the comfortable silence, his voice becomes a murmur as he rests his cheek against your head.

“Better, I can still feel it, but it’s a lot quieter than it’s been all week now. Thank you, Levi.”

“Tch, I’ve not done anything for you to thank me, it’s not like I can control what you feel.” You give him a small giggle in response, not even needing to see his expression to know he’s rolled his eyes.

“We both know that’s a lie, Ackerman. You’re the only one who’s able to get my heart to flutter like this, just for an entirely different reason.”

You are met with a small nudge, the action causes you to gasp as he perfectly hits your ticklish spot and you retaliate by turning your head, letting your cold nose connect with the warm flesh of his neck and drawing out an unimpressed groan from the man.

“You have the worst timing when it comes to flirting.” Despite his words, you can hear the small grin in his voice, unrestrained in the privacy of his office. He wraps his arm tighter around you, pulling you onto his chest and holding you tight. You bring your intertwined hands up to rest on your chest before letting your mind melt away, enveloped in his warm embrace and surrounded by his scent, the mix of his soap and the lingering scent of tea pleasantly washing over you.

You let your eyes drift shut, your body begging for a nap, at the very least, and you feel him shuffle beneath you, his fingers flexing over your chest.

“Is it supposed to be that fast? I thought you said it was better?” He tries to sit up to get a better look at you, but you refuse to let him, pushing him back down with a small whine so you can snuggle closer. He relents with a small grunt.

“I am feeling better, please trust me on that. It doesn’t physically hurt as much now and I feel like I’m finally able to relax for longer than five minutes at a time.” You nuzzle your face against the soft fabric of his shirt, claiming him as your bed for the night. He lets out a small hum in acknowledgement and your eyelids grow heavier and heavier when you feel his hand come to rest on the top of your head, his fingers weaving through your hair with slow strokes as he lulls you into a well-deserved sleep.

#♥. writing #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman #levi x reader #aot x reader #levi ackerman x you #captain levi #aot levi #captain levi x reader #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #aot #snk

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The Only Truth... | Part Four

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x POW Flight Nurse!Female Reader

The day Stalag VIIA is liberated ought to be one of pure celebration. Unfortunately, fate has other plans in store.

Warnings: Language, Angst, Death, Blood, Brief Battle, Serious Reader Injury [gunshot wound], POW Camp Setting, SS Officers, Mental Health Struggles, References to Christianity, Reader Scars, Hospital Setting, Kissing, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: Thank you all ever so much for your patience! At last we come to the end of our tale. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 6267

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The morning of Sunday, April 29, 1945, dawned cloudy but bright. The chill of early spring still hung in the air, your breath hanging from your lips as you ducked out into the tent to collect the clean yet still-unfolded laundry that had been awaiting your attention throughout the drama of the rainstorm. You had just managed to tuck it away into your room when Fitzgibbons arrived with a new book for you to read, a more recently published fantasy novel called The Hobbit, though you had other priorities before diving into it.

You had almost gotten away with your clandestine chores, rags folded, and three-quarters of the bandages rolled, when your former surgical technician appeared at your door, knocking on the frame with an admonishing look on his face.

“I see you’re taking it easy on your day off, Ma’am.”

Huffing in irritation at being caught, you shook your head. “I’m off my feet, Fitz, can’t we just call a truce?”

He made a non-committal noise before cracking a grin. “Actually came to ask a favor, so I’m thinking we can come to an agreement. Menzies,” his deliberate mispronunciation of the British Captain’s name made you roll your eyes affectionately, “ordered me to flush a wound using your make-shift tools and honestly, I cannot make heads or tails of what you’ve jerry-rigged.”

Biting back a laugh, you nodded quickly, well aware that your cobbled-together system was more than a little unorthodox and not at all surprised Menzies had not taken the time to ensure Fitzgibbons knew how it worked. “Certainly, let me walk you through it.”

Grabbing the laundry you had thus far folded, you made your way down the hall to collect the items from the supply desk and followed him to the bedside of a new patient. Introducing yourself warmly, you learned the man’s name was Michaels and he hailed from the frigid wilds of Canada.

“Fitz and I are going to use this here to flush that wound, alright?” You nodded to the nasty laceration on his calf, your makeshift instruments cradled in your arms.

“Sounds fine, Ma’am.” He nodded patiently, vowels clipped remarkably short in that efficient Canuck way of speaking.

“Alright so if you take this, Fitz.” You held out a funnel with a piece of tubing secured to it, watching the tech take it carefully.

The mundane calm of the morning was shattered by the sudden hum of an airplane engine, your eyes shooting to meet Fitzgibbons’ sharply moments before the eruption of gunfire.

“Everyone get down!” He shouted and you both lurched into motion to begin helping your patients from their cots onto the wooden planks of the tent platform, abandoning your instruments on Michaels’ cot.

Panic rising as you once again found yourself in a wildly unsafe place while under fire, you urged the men from their beds to get low, presenting smaller targets for the errant bullets that were punching holes through the canvas of the tent every so often. The cacophony outside only increased with the rumble of approaching vehicles – tanks quite possible given the depth of sound that carried across the camp – and you nearly tripped over your own feet in an effort to reach the last two patients who simply could not move on their own.

Heaving one, Sidhu from India, out of his cot and depositing him onto the floor, you were just sliding your arms beneath the shoulders of the last, Hernandez from Texas, when searing heat and pain punched into your side. Your arms and legs gave out beneath you instantly, your body collapsing atop the poor boy still on his cot, both of you gasping for breath. With a grunt of annoyance, you flung a hand back to your hip, eyes widening as your fingertips were quickly covered in a warm, slick fluid.

“M…Ma’am?!” Hernandez warbled from beneath you, watching as you lifted your fingers to inspect just what was going on, his face blanching at the unmistakable scarlet of blood. “Doc?! Medic!! Help!!!” He began to shriek all the words he knew to summon assistance, making you wince at the racket as you forced yourself to roll off him, crashing to the floor in a pile of uncooperative limbs.

Taking a moment to try and catch your breath, pulse rocketing at an alarming rate, you began to realize that no matter how long you lay there, things were not improving. In fact the situation was growing a lot more serious as a deep ache was settling into your right side and you could feel your clothes growing damper with blood by the second. Rolling onto your stomach, you had just begun to feebly pull yourself across the floor of the tent when the racket outside subsided momentarily, Hernandez’s cries summoning several sets of boots to run in your direction.

A great, external cheer erupted in the same moment you were lifted by many hands onto one of the recently vacated cots, Chalmers, Menzies and Fitzgibbons all hovering above you as they yanked at your shirt and pants to get at your wound. The striking similarity between your plight and that of Simms set your teeth on edge, tears brimming in your eyes at the sudden thought that this could really be it. You might very well die here in these filthy, mud-covered clothes while the rest of the camp cheered on outside.

“Keep breathing for me, Nurse. You’ve got an entry and an exit wound, you just stay with us now.” Chalmers barked firmly and you managed a brief nod despite the shakes that seemed to want to rattle your bones. “Fitz go find out if they’ve got a Medic with them – we need sulfa and plasma, and she needs an aid station and surgery.”

“Sir!” He replied before you heard his frantic footfalls leave the tent.

Menzies applied a ruthless amount of pressure to the front and back of your hip and it was all you could do not to wail pathetically at the lances of pain that shot through you. “I know, Nurse, I know. For your own good, now. Why’d you have to go and get yourself shot in the middle of our liberation, hm?”

“Libe.r.ation?” It was difficult to form the word, your mouth clumsy and filled with cotton, head buzzing with adrenaline and pain.

Your heart was beginning to lose its rhythm, stuttering and skipping beats every so often. Your medical training offered a whispered explanation of ‘blood loss’ which did nothing for the suffocating feeling of panic in your chest.

“Looks like your American Army showed up to bring you home, so let’s make sure you can get there alright?” Chalmers added firmly and you nodded again, trying to take deep breaths.

You were so close. They were right there.

What had started as a frigid day seemed to be growing colder, your fingers tips positively icy by the time you heard Fitzgibbons return, giving someone a rundown. The familiarity of it made your heart ache for a simpler time when the two of you were the ones saving people, taking them from danger to safety. Now you were the one in peril, finding it remarkably difficult to keep your eyes open. The unfamiliar face of a young man in an Army helmet came into view before you felt the sting of sulfa on your wounds.

Your left sleeve was rolled up, your nonsensical protests going unheeded as the man began to search for a vein, inserting an IV for the bottle of cheery yellow plasma – the bright color anachronistic to the monochromatic color palette that pervaded the Stalag. Bandages were wrapped tightly around your middle once more and they were just about to lift you, cot and all, when another set of heavy footfalls sounded on the floorboards.

“Jesus christ…angelfish…” Bucky’s voice was unmistakable, though anguished, and you rolled your head to the side to look at him with a weak smile.

“Bucky.” You managed to form his nickname at a volume no more than a whisper, vision narrowing in on his pinched, tight features, the normally rosy hue completely drained from his cheeks.

Suddenly everything tilted and whirled as your cot was hoisted onto the shoulders of Chalmers, Menzies, Fitzgibbons, and the Medic.

“Take the plasma, Egan. Hold it up, keep pace.” Chalmers ordered sharply and the ceiling of the tent began to blur as they rushed out into the daylight, your vision going completely white before all was darkness.

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

The morning had seemed like any other, crowded around a small campfire trying to keep warm, trading suppositions about the end of the war with Jefferson, when the unmistakable sound of an aircraft engine had broken through the din of the camp.

“Hey Macon, that’s a P-51!” Jefferson had shouted and instantly the entire population was on their feet, cheering on the pilot as he took out on of the guard towers.

Their elation was short lived, the abrupt sound of incoming artillery sending all the prisoners into the dirt as every single German soldier seemed to open fire as one, the camp instantly an active battlefield. Bucky’s eyes strayed to the hospital tent, its canvas walls helplessly pinned between the encroaching American tanks and the defending German guards. They needed to put a stop to this from the inside before any more lives were needlessly lost. Even as this thought crossed his mind, men were falling all around him.

“Fellas! Take out the tower!” Bucky shouted as he ran for the tent where the majority of the Americans were sheltering, seeking out the homemade stars and stripes they had carefully crafted and transported from camp to camp, kept hidden from goons, just for such an occasion.

It took a few tries before Jefferson successfully came up with the flag, passing it to him quickly. Dashing through the chaos of prisoners running hither and thither through the camp, some fleeing, some fighting guards, Bucky was boosted onto the roof of the administration building. The flagpole was less than sturdy as he climbed it but as he removed the Nazi war flag and tossed it to the cheering crowd below, the guns fell quiet. Securing the ragtag American flag, watching the breeze immediately catch and fly it high, an immense feeling of relief wash through him and after taking a moment to celebrate, he pressed his forehead to the hand-hewn timber of the pole to soak in his gratitude for making it this far. Though the ragged appearance of his country’s flag undoubtedly mirrored his own.

As he carefully climbed down the rickety pole, his eyes caught on a somewhat familiar figure running frantically through the crowd toward the gate, moving against the flow of those milling around the yard, celebrating. The man’s shouts carried intermittently on the wind across the crowd and Bucky managed to pick out “Medic,” his heartrate picking up at the word “Nurse.” His stomach dropped when the word “shot” reached his ears.

“Angelfish.” He whispered and quickly scrambled his way off the roof, wincing a little at his rough landing, before he began to shove his own way through the oblivious celebrants towards the hospital.

Skidding to a stop on the threshold of the tent, he was startled to find all the patients cowering beneath their cots while you lay on one of their abandoned beds, a bloody mess surrounded by men frantically trying to save you.

“Jesus christ…angelfish…” He choked out, throat clenching painfully as your head lolled to the side, slightly unfocused eyes meeting his.

“Bucky.” Your faint whisper of his name propelled him forward, a frown settling over his features at the state of your clothes, wanting nothing more than to cover up the expanse of your abdomen and the scar on your arm – you surely hated to have that so prominently on display.

Chalmers’ sudden directive for him to manage the plasma grabbed his attention and he quickly grasped the glass bottle, holding it high as they lifted the entire bed to begin carrying you out of there.

“Just hold on, angelfish.” He rasped, heart lurching painfully as your eyes rolled back in your head, your body going slack.

Running alongside you to the gate despite the way his lungs ached, the crowd mercifully parted before their odd little group. A jeep was waiting with a stretcher strapped to the back, and Bucky watched helplessly as your unsettlingly limp form was transferred from the cot, the bottle of plasma wrenched from his fingers by the Medic before he perched atop your legs. As the vehicle took off, the Lieutenant Colonel of the armored division strode over sternly.

“How the devil did a nurse end up as a POW?” He demanded as Lieutenant Colonel Clark came to stand on Bucky’s right.

Chalmer’s sighed deeply before sharing what he knew of your story, of your arrival back in January including the fact that the Red Cross was informed through the usual process, and how you were housed separately in the hospital. As Fitzgibbons, the very same surgical technician you had earned your burns pulling out of your plane, filled in the rest of your service history, Bucky could only reflect on how little he really knew you. How short his time with you had actually amounted to be. Hell, he would not have even known your squadron number if it was not for that conversation right then.

“What a SNAFU.” The man muttered and Bucky could certainly see the resemblance of the man’s commanding officer, Patton, in him. “Well, let’s get this formal surrender over with so we can get these boys home.”

Clark nodded in return and Bucky shuffled back to sit heavily amongst the men of the 100th, waving off Brady’s look of concern. Watching the salutes and handshakes, he was completely numb, his thoughts miles away with wherever they had taken you, only able to hope against hope that their aid station was of the highest calibre.

Bucky had not resorted to prayer often throughout the war. Sure he had worn a crucifix and crossed himself reflexively when flying into a hail of flak, but conversations with higher beings had never been something he had put much stock in. Faced, now, with this gnawing feeling of helplessness, your very survival in the balance, it seemed like the only tool left at his disposal.

Crammed into the tent that night, shoulder-to-shoulder with his neighbors, he felt rusty and self-conscious as he addressed the god of his childhood Sunday school and fairly begged for you to make it. He stopped short of bargaining his own life away, but barely, before sleep overtook his aching body, the exertions of the day overtaking him.

As he found himself jostling in the back of a transport truck on his way to Paris the next day, handpicked by Lieutenant Colonel Clark to be among the first sent back to England, he could not help but feel as though he was being driven further and further away from you. It was near night by the time they pulled into the base and Bucky took his first warm shower in over a year, changing into a fresh uniform and feeling almost human. They were served white bread that might as well have been cake, with steak and eggs that were too rich for him to endure more than a few bites before he crawled into a remarkably clean bed and slept deeply, exhaustion winning out over his continuous concern for your well being.

Climbing into the belly of a B-17 for the first time in over eighteen months felt awkward and painful, the crew from the 100th consisting of unfamiliar replacements, the space feeling more cramped than it ever had as he wedged himself into the cockpit behind the pilot. The deep-seated terror he had desperately been trying to supress, his fear that Buck had not made it to safety despite their planning and the beating he had taken to distract the guards, surged to the fore of his mind. It competed ruthlessly with his anxiety over whether you were still drawing breath, the fact that he may have to face the truth of losing both of you leaving him silent and withdrawn as the plane took flight.

There was no immediate answer awaiting him at Thorpe Abbotts either, no familiar faces lining the tarmac – not even Lemmons was around, which struck him as unsettlingly odd. Making his way to the CO’s hut, his eyes at last landed on a familiar face as Herrmann emerged from one the equipment sheds.

“Hey Winks! Where is everybody? Guy comes back after a year-and-a-half and no one’s around?” He plastered on a playful smirk as the boy’s face broke out into a grin of astonishment, shaking his hand vigorously as he rushed over.

“Buck took Rosie, Douglass, Croz, and Kenny up on one of those mercy missions they’ve been practicing for, they should be back any time now, sir. Gosh it’s great to see you back here.”

Bucky’s attention immediately snagged on the first name Herrmann mentioned, finding it immensely difficult to continue listening as he exhaled half of the tension that had strangled him all the way across the English Chanel. “Good to be back, Winks. Think you can give me a lift?” He raised an eyebrow, desperate for a moment of levity.

With a quick nod, Herrmann was promptly driving him towards the control tower. The most difficult part of getting up there was making it past all the congratulatory pats and handshakes, but Bucky was able to pull off his surprise, the sound of Cleven’s voice over the radio going a long way to mending some of the deep wounds he was still sporting.

More handshakes and pats-on-the-back awaited him at the hardstand and it finally felt like he was back amongst the familiar faces of these men. He did not miss the way Cleven’s eyes were quietly scrutinizing him, however. The gratingly familiar feeling that his friend was looking right through him was undeniable as he joked and smiled with the boys who had never been imprisoned. Who had not endured the things they had. As the crowd around them thinned out, Bucky turned to watch Cleven pull out one of his toothpicks, sliding it between his molars in a familiar yet long-lost motion.

“So what you been up to since I left?” His friend asked.

Bucky swallowed and shrugged a little walking over to the jeep, Cleven immediately sliding into the passenger’s seat out of habit.

“That terrible, huh?” Cleven muttered and Bucky sighed as the vehicle roared to life.

“Ended up in Moosburg.” He started out slow, with simple facts. “Got a little hurt on the way, so Brady and Hambone took me to the hospital. Turns out there was a Nurse there, POW since January.”

The look of shock on his friend’s face registered in the corner of his eye and Bucky did not have the heart to fully face him.

“The German’s held a woman prisoner?” Cleven shook his head with a sigh of dismay.

“She got shot during the liberation, stray bullet. Medics from the armored division took her and I have no idea if she made it.” Now that he had started telling the story it all just came pouring out of him.

“You care about her more than just on moral grounds.” Cleven stated matter-of-factly and Bucky sighed as he pulled up in front of what used to be their hut.

Who knew if it still was.

“Yes.” He begrudgingly admitted, though his admission was addressed to the steering wheel.

There was a long, drawn-out silence, the incessant chirping of sparrows filling in the gap in conversation and Bucky realized he had not really heard a bird his entire time in captivity. His head snapped sharply to look at Cleven as he suddenly spoke again.

“If anyone can find someone in the chain of evacuation it’ll be Smokey.”

Bucky furrowed his brows a moment before it clicked. “Doc Stover? You think?”

Cleven shrugged. “He’s our best shot I guess.”

“Our…”

“Are you going to drive us to the hospital, or should I?”

A grin pulled at Bucky’s lips as he started the jeep back up and took a sharp U-turn, heading for the base hospital. He pretended not to notice the way his friend’s eyes lingered on the stiff movement of his body as he climbed out of the jeep – he was definitely sore but was most certainly not going to admit to it. The wards were just as populated as they had been in 1943, something he found rather infuriating. It was another feeling he tucked into a neat little package and shoved down to be ignored until a more convenient time. Or perhaps never to be acknowledged again.

Stover was easy to find, dressed in his white coat, just finishing his rounds.

“Majors, what can I do for you?” He gestured for them to follow him into his office and Bucky sank down into a chair heavily, once again ignoring another man’s assessing gaze on him.

“Well it’s an odd request really but…” He trailed off, hesitating as he smoothed his too-long hair, reflecting once again that he needed a proper haircut.

“We’re wondering if you might be able to track someone down for us. Someone who was injured at a camp in Moosburg and evacuated to an aid station.

Stover raised an eyebrow curiously. “One of your fellow POWs?”

“Something like…. well yeah, she is.” Bucky corrected himself midway through, watching the doctor’s eyebrows shoot up dramatically. “Flight Nurse from the 802nd MAES, POW at Moosburg since January of ’45, shot during liberation and taken to the aid station of Patton’s 3rd Army – armored division. Which division I don’t know.”

They watched as Stover quickly grabbed a pen and started jotting down the important details, including your name.

“How bad was she hurt?” Stover asked and Bucky swallowed tightly.

“I didn’t see it happen but there was a gunshot to her stomach somewhere. They got her on plasma quickly.” He added hopefully but Stover’s face remained grim.

“I can’t promise you anything Major Egan, it doesn’t sound particularly hopeful either, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Doc.” He nodded, leveraging himself out of the chair with a barely concealed wince.

“And what do you have going on?” Stover stayed seated, eyeing him expectantly.

Bucky noticed Cleven had not budged either, the bastard. Emptying his lungs with a heavy exhale, Bucky put his hands on his hips and shrugged.

“Couple of broken ribs, I’ll be alright.” He replied nonchalantly.

“And how old are these broken ribs?” Stover prodded and Bucky ignored Cleven’s pointed look up at him.

“Couple weeks, I’m halfway mended, just overdid it getting in the fort to come back.”

Stover rose from behind his desk and opened a cabinet, fetching a bottle and holding it out to him. “Aspirin, to keep you comfortable. Take two every four hours as long as you need. Come back if you run out.”

Bucky accepted the bottle with a nod of thanks, the memory of you scrounging up two rare pills for him in the Stalag flooding back, furrowing his brows. The things you could have done in a place like this with limitless supply.

“Thanks again, Doc.” Cleven’s expression of gratitude pierced through his reminiscing and Bucky nodded quickly, tucking the pills into his pocket before heading out quietly.

Accommodations were procured and there was not much for him to do around base aside from rest and learn how to eat properly once more. It took several days for any news of your condition to reach him, via Stover’s connections, but when the man pulled him into his office on the morning of the May 5, he was stunned to learn that not only were you alive, but that you had been air evacuated to Redgrave Hospital just thirty minutes away from Thorpe Abbotts.

You were safe. You were close.

“Seems they weren’t quite certain what to do with her, but as she serves under the Army Air Force, they sent her to our main hospital.” Bucky realized Stover was still talking and he shot him a warm grin before grasping his hand to shake firmly.

“Well I really appreciate your help, Doc. I’ve gotta…” Bucky glanced over his shoulder at the door, desperate to make his way to you.

“Yeah, go…” He chuckled and shooed him out of his office.

No longer a squadron commander, Bucky technically did not have a jeep of his own to disappear with off base and so he was in the process of grabbing one of the stray bikes outside the control tower when Crosby emerged into the daylight, eyes squinting in fatigue at the brightness.

“Where are you off to Major?”

“Redgrave Hospital!” He replied brightly, watching the younger man blink.

“Sir that’s a good eleven miles, that’s a terrible idea with your ribs.”

Word seemed to have spread fast…

“Take my jeep, I’m not gonna need it today.”

“Croz, you are a lifesaver.” Bucky dropped the bike he had been wrangling to slap him on the back before diving into the jeep allotted for use by the Group Navigator. “I’ll be back!” He shouted, taking off in a spray of dust and gravel.

Turning onto the two-hundred-acre country estate, Redgrave Hospital, consisting of nearly forty Nissen huts, stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the trees and landscaped green. As he pulled up to the headquarters of the hospital, Bucky quickly realized that the staff there were not nearly as excited to see him. In fact, they were downright reluctant to allow him in to visit you, but assured him that while you were ‘heavily medicated and resting’ you were still ‘on the mend.’

While relief still permeated his system, it was a new agony to have you so very close and yet still out of his reach. If they were not going to permit him as a regular visitor, Bucky realized he was going to have to get a lot more creative in order to lay his eyes on you, and until he did, there would be not real peace.

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

Moments of clarity punctured through the blackness – a blur of trees, the flurry of activity of an aid station, the masked face of a surgeon speaking to you reassuringly, the heartbreakingly familiar interior of a C-47 – but it was not until you were settled in a bed inside a hospital with four walls, windows, and nurses that true cognizance really returned to you. Casting your eyes around the sterile, white space, you noted you were situated at the end of a row and walled off from other patients with a set of privacy screens. The most striking feature of this hospital was the very stern-faced Bucky parked in a chair to the left of your bed.

As you began to stir, his eyes lifted quickly to meet yours, some of the tension easing from his frame. “Have a good rest, angelfish?” he whispered, and you furrowed your brows up at him, so full of questions. “They got you on the good stuff don’t they.” He chuckled fondly, reaching out to brush his fingertips across your cheek tenderly.

“Kick a girl when she’s down, why don’t you.” You sighed, speech slightly slurred from pain medication and the dryness in your mouth, but still capable of using his own lines against him.

His resulting grin contained all the brilliance of the sun and made you look down with a self-satisfied smirk. Your eyes immediately fell on your exposed arms laying atop the blanket, the scarring along your left forearm lain bare for all to see. Jerking your hands back roughly, you clumsily tried to shove them beneath the covers despite the warmth on the ward. Bucky’s gentle tut before his hand came to rest atop yours halted your attempt.

“Shhh, you’re just fine you brave, beautiful woman. Stay right there.” He murmured as he laced his fingers with yours, pinning your arm to rest above the blanket. “You have nothing to hide or be ashamed of.”

Swallowing thickly, you slowly lifted your gaze to meet his. “I think I’ve acquired a few more…” You sighed, the feeling of thick bandages padding your hip acutely registering as you spoke.

“Probably.” He nodded softly. “You also probably saved that boy Hernandez by taking the bullet, so I’d say they were well earned. Besides, they’ll make an excellent target for my mouth one day.”

Your soft smile transformed into a look of disbelief, your free hand rising to whack his shoulder gently. “John Clarence Egan.” You chided half-heartedly and he pressed his face to the side of your head where it lay propped up against several pillows, his heavy exhale ruffling through your hair. “We are in a hospital, and you are making inappropriate jokes.”

“Mmmm.” He hummed in agreement, stroking his thumb against yours affectionately.

“Which hospital is this, anyway?” You asked curiously, finding its curved roof and white walls lacked distinguishing features.

“Redgrave Hospital, you serve in the Army Air Force after all.” He pulled back slightly to answer.

“Redgrave…” you repeated thoughtfully. “Sounds awfully English.”

“Hit the nail on the head, angelfish. We made it.” Bucky’s lips brushed against your temple, and you smiled softly. “Despite our best efforts.” His teasing made you laugh softly, and you shook your head.

“If we’re in England, where’s the King?” You raised an eyebrow expectantly and he smirked, shaking his head.

“No King, unfortunately, but I did bring you this?” He reached behind him, pulling out a newspaper to lay across your lap.

“Victory in Europe.” You read the headline aloud, pausing a moment as the words sunk in before gasping and looking to him wide-eyed. “Truly?”

A look of solemn earnestness overtook his features and he nodded softly. “Truly. German army surrendered yesterday.”

You gulped roughly and looked back to ready to date of May 8, 1945, on the top of the paper – you had lost nearly nine days. You really had been so close, everyone had. And the fact that you were here, and others were not seemed so very arbitrary. Sighing heavily, you squeezed his hand gently.

“By the skin of our teeth.” You murmured thickly, looking up as a nurse shuffled past with a faint nod of acknowledgement before making a sharp about-face to come and check your vitals.

“How’re you feeling?” She asked you and you nodded slowly.

“I’m alright, thank you. Bit foggy but things are the clearest they’ve been in days.”

“I’m going to fetch the Doctor.” The nurse turned to eye Bucky sharply. “You’d best make yourself scarce.” She commented before continuing on her way.

“How on earth did you get in here?” You raised an eyebrow as you came to realize how unusual his presence was.

“Bought my way in with a few bottles of champagne – your flightless comrades are quite friendly if one knows the price.”

You coughed out a laugh as the comment made Nurses sound like some species of bird and his lips twitched into a smile, your eyes unable to look away from the soft, rosy skin of his mouth.

“Hey before you go…”

“Hmmm?” He turned to you, half risen from his chair.

“I don’t have the mental capacity to think of something self-deprecating right now, so can I just get a kiss?” You murmured before pursing your lips shyly.

His face transformed into a warm smile, eyes crinkling adorably at the corners as the tips of his ears flushed pink. “I always said you just had to ask, angelfish.”

Echoing his smile, you turned your lips up expectantly as he braced his hand on the pillow beside your head, leaning in to gently brush his lips against yours, drawing a contented sigh from deep beneath your breastbone. Bucky’s lips pressed closer, a tender hum rumbling from his throat just as a sharp cough sounded from the end of the bed and he slowly pulled back with a rueful huff.

“Just checking her breathing, Doc.” Bucky grinned wolfishly as the man raised an eyebrow sharply. “She’s doing great.”

“Hn.” The doctor intoned, clearly unimpressed. “And how are your ribs doing, Major Egan?”

Inhaling sharply, you looked him over quickly, the litany of his injuries flooding back to you from your sub-conscious.

“Much better, thank you Doc. Who knew Smokey was such a gossip. Well, angelfish,” he brushed his knuckles down your cheek, “guess that’s my cue.”

Nodding slowly, wondering who on earth Smokey might be, you watched him leave before your Doctor took over, running through numerous checks with you before discussing the extent of your injury and the surgeries that had been performed to save your life. It was nothing short of remarkable, what they had thrown at you to prevent your death, the conversation a very sobering one. It would be a long road to recovery, and one, it turned out, you would mostly be taking back home in the United States.

After a week or so in Redgrave Hospital, you were deemed fit enough for transport back to the Zone of Interior for convalescence and recovery in a domestic hospital. Though the sympathetic nurses had not seen fit to permit Bucky onto the ward again, they had taken a shakily written note, the loss of strength you had suffered in just over a week was startling, and promised to deliver it to him. The trip via Prestwick to Greenland, then Newfoundland, and ultimately Grenier Field in New Hampshire felt luxurious on the much more spacious C-54. You were admitted to the Station Hospital there to continue your recovery and rehabilitation, enjoying phone calls with your family instead of delayed correspondence for a change.

It took two months for you to be fully back on your feet, back to yourself. The same amount of time, it seemed, for the 100th bomb group to be repatriated stateside. Freshly discharged and clad in a brand-new olive drab dress uniform, proudly bearing your silver 1st Lieutenant’s insignia following your promotion and the ribbons from your two purple hearts, you had sweet-talked your way back onto the base. One of the more sympathetic MPs who had heard your story – admittedly there were few in New Hampshire who had not heard your story at this point – had not even protested your request. It seemed that fate saw fit to land Major John Egan in your life a second time, with Grenier Field the destination for his bomb group on their return flight.

Standing in the warm summer breeze, watching the sky for the silhouettes of their planes, it honestly felt odd to be wearing a skirt. The complexity of affixing your stockings to the straps of your garter belt had briefly made you long for the convenience of slacks, but with your properly cut and styled hair and feminine clothing you felt like an entirely new woman as you stood outside on the grass with the ground crew. Would Bucky even recognize you?

At last the distant droning of aircraft engines reached your, and everyone around you’s, ears, the shapes of B-17s multiplying on the horizon before they began to circle in for a landing. Honestly, there were so many of them you briefly doubted you would be able to find him with any manner of efficiency. Clamping a hand over your officer’s cap to hold it in place as a plane taxied onto a nearby hardstand, your eyes began to scan the crowd of men as they filtered past, surely headed for the mess hall or officer’s club. Catch a glimpse of those unmistakable ears, you stepped forward and called out to him.

“John Clarence Egan!”

His head whipped around so fast he nearly took out the man walking beside him.

“Do I really look so different in a skirt that you would walk right by me?” You teased fondly.

“Angelfish!”

His flight bag hit the asphalt with a sickening ‘crunch’ that had you worried for its contents, but the impact of his body against yours drove that thought quickly from your mind. Wrenching his cap from his head he tilted his face to nestle beneath the brim of yours and kiss you soundly. Distantly, you were aware of all manner of cheers and wolf-whistles from his comrades, but you were too busy clutching at his shoulders to truly mind.

“How did you-? What are you-? God, it’s good to see you.” He rambled before pressing his mouth against yours firmly, not even giving you the opportunity to reply.

Laughing brightly into the kiss, you became vaguely aware of the sound of footsteps approaching much nearer and pulled back slowly, smiling fondly as Bucky’s lips made as if to chase yours, but his friend’s question interrupted him.

“You gonna introduce us, John?” A tall blond man with striking blue eyes and a pair of unsettlingly symmetrical facial scars asked sardonically.

Bucky cleared his throat and stepped back, though you noted his arm slid around your waist in a rather proprietary move. You found you did not mind in the least, particularly as your fully healed wound gave no protest of pain whatsoever.

“Angelfish, this Gale Cleven – call him Buck, Robert Rosenthal – Rosie, and Harry Crosby – Croz.” He followed up by introducing you by your full name.

“He give you that nickname, too?” The one he told you to call ‘Buck’ raised an eyebrow and you laughed.

“It’s a long story….”

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

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @luminouslywriting, @softspeirs, @sunny747, @storysimp, @slowsweetlove, @httpsmoon, @buckysegan, @justheretoreadthxxs, @precious-little-scoundrel, @jointherebellion215, @timetowastetime8, @mads-weasley

#john egan x reader #bucky egan x reader #major john egan x reader #john egan x you #john egan fic #john egan imagine #john egan #mota fanfic #masters of the air fanfiction

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artbyblastweave · 7 months

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While I'm thinking about it, the thing about Civil War is that it's an event that conceptually makes total sense as something that would eventually happen in the Marvel Comics universe as it had been depicted up until that point, particularly in the early oughts- the center obviously was not gonna hold. The hammer eventually coming down is inevitable, the tension between the wild cowboy soap opera antics of the superheroes and the government trying to reign them was well-established by 2007.

The problem is that once you pull the trigger on it, you can basically never go back. You can never plausibly have Iron Man or Mr. Fantastic or Captain Marvel return to a working relationship with any of the antireg people ever again after they spend a year and change running the extradimensional virtual reality gulag for all of their colleagues who wouldn't kiss the ring. A bunch of people died and a couple of the less popular ones even stayed dead. It's the kind of thing that happens in a bad future that you have to send Kitty Pryde back in time to prevent because it would so obviously be an irreparable annihilation of the status quo were it to happen in the main timeline. And yet, after a few greater-scope threats and a reconciliatory whimper, to the status quo we inevitably return. Comic Books Babey

#even funnier is when you consider that marvel universe time compression is inevitably going to crunch the first and second civil wars #into having happened within a couple of years of each other #genuine credit that they stuck with the SRA as the status quo for as long as they did though #thoughts #meta #hey does the Wilson Fisk as Mayor thing bring us up to four Superheroes are Illegal now arcs?#Five?#Marvel comics #civil war #marvel civil war

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galebrainrot2024 · 8 months

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Enemies to Lovers Gale x Tav Part I

I am nothing if not prolific, this will be a multipart series.

Summary: Tav recognizes Gale from their early studies at black staff academy when she pulls him from the portal and he seems not to recognize her. This begins at the Tiefling Party, Tav prepared to confront Gale for being so pompous. This POV will be from Tav, Part II will be from Gale, and it will alternate accordingly.

Will they? Won't they? Only time will tell!

She paced outside of her tent, her mind buzzing from the ale and wine. The Teiflings were heavier drinkers than she anticipated and Tav was challenged by Rolan to go bottle for bottle. Now, her mind swam with intoxication and her wandering eye kept catching one of her companions, the one she often found herself thinking of before she drifted to sleep.

Gale.

She felt the familiar flame of ire lick up her spine, mingled with something else… desire, maybe? She ignored the thought, gritting her teeth as she thought about how insufferable he was when they were children. She wasn’t even sure if he recognized her, time had changed many things. Tav’s mind swirls with memory, of she and Gale competing with one another, trying to outsmart, outcast, the consistent berating…

And just like that they had gone their separate ways into the world.

That is, until she stumbled across the unstable Portal after the crash. A desperate hand reached out, begging for assistance and Tav happily obliged - the more, the merrier. Tav was one to include all, her heart at times bigger than it ought to be. When she watched as Gale tumbled from the portal, her face darkened and they locked eyes, the same smugness radiating from him that she detested so many years ago.

And then he introduced himself to her and Shadowheart, as if they were strangers. Tav didn’t correct him. Gale still carried himself with the same pompous hubris that boiled her blood as a teen, and yet there was something darker in him now. An edge of suffering Tav couldn’t place.

Just as she did when she was young, she felt a magnetic pull as if a divine calculus had thrust them together - this time, the feeling morphed and grew beyond basic rivalry. There was something else, just lingering beneath the surface.

“Pull yourself together,” she hissed at herself, shaking her head as she pulled the ribbon that held her wild curls. The curls wrapped around her like wildfire and she looked up. Her breath caught in her throat - Gale was staring directly at her, his face curious as he looked away quickly. Was he blushing? She furrowed her brow - had he been staring at her? Tav felt a deep crimson spread across her cheeks, and whether it was the wine or her own recklessness, she decided tonight was the night. She would confront him about his inability to be wrong, his stubbornness, his hubris - even now, fully grown and showcasing her full abilities Gale had the audacity to give her direction, how to enunciate her incantations, how to cast her arcane ward even though he was studied in evocation! She felt her ire growing and she took a deep breath to steady herself.

As she began to stride towards Gale, she was intercepted by Astarion and he wrapped an arm around her shoulder, “Ah, if it isn’t my favorite traveling companion,” he cooed, his hot breath brushing against her ear. Tav did find Astarion attractive.. yet, there was a level of shallowness in his praise, it was empty, and it left her wanting. She made the unfortunate mistake of sharing her body with him a few weeks prior and it felt as if she were sleeping with a ghost. He’d opened up to her since then about his traumatic past and Tav’s heart ached for him, and biologically, yes, her body stirred but there was something critical missing.

“Are you enjoying your evening?” He murmured against her ear. Tav flushed, her gaze darting to Gale and Gale’s eyes seemed to pierce into her soul and he turned on his heel, ducking into his tent.

Tav spun a bit, removing herself from Astarion’s embrace. Astarion cocked an eyebrow at her, intrigued by her disinterest. “It seems as if you’re enjoying yours well enough..” Tav smirked playfully and she began to walk towards Gale’s tent again, but Astarion moved quickly to stand before her.

“I think we could both enjoy it a little more��” he murmured, his tone laced with intent, “If you catch my meaning. Why don’t you come and find me, after the others are asleep.” He stepped closer to Tav, his eyes swimming with desire. Tav smiled politely and turned her gaze away from him.

“Maybe another time…” she said, beginning to walk away, “maybe try Shadowheart?” She noted the disappointment that flashed across Astarion’s face. He seemed almost dumbfounded that she turned him down. But she was on a mission. She needed to confront Gale. Her vision swam, the alcohol in her bloodstream suddenly catching up with her and she stumbled a bit, tripping over herself outside of Gale’s tent.

His head popped out, “Are you alright?” He said, his eyes shining in the firelight. Tav’s breath caught, taken aback by just how handsome Gale was and could only offer a slight nod. Get a grip, she thought to herself, it’s just the wine talking. Gale’s lips turned up into a smirk as he stepped outside his tent, taking her by the hands to help her up, “Up we go then, come on.” Tav was surprised by his strength as he pulled her to her feet and she stumbled forward, Gale steadying her in his embrace. He was so different than the scrawny boy he once was… stop it, she chided herself, he is difficult, self-absorbed, and you are not here to… to…

It felt as if the world stopped around them, Tav hyper aware of how close Gale’s face was to her, how she could smell his musk, the pine mingled with the nights meal that he expertly prepared for them all. She felt her face redden and she felt as if she could drown in Gale’s wide, brown eyes. She didn’t remember them being quite so… captivating. “Thank you.” She murmured, pushing back and clearing her throat, “How embarrassing..” She laughed, pushing her curls out of her face.

Gale smiled though almost looked disappointed when she pulled away. “Always happy to help,” he said, looking towards Astarion for a moment before continuing, “You and Astarion seemed to be rather cozy?” Despite the innocuous question, Tav could hear - a hint of jealousy in his voice? Certainly not, it must be her imagination. Mustn’t it?

“Oh…” she said, blushing again, “He’s kind of cozy with everyone,” As she spoke the words they were barely audible. Tav looked beneath her thick eyelashes at Gale, her expression curious. There seemed to be at least three Gale’s in front of her and she swayed a bit. Too much wine.

“Easy there,” Gale smiled, holding out his arms to steady her, “Can I get you some water? Here..” He said, his hand resting on the small of her back. It made her breath hitch.

Gale led her into his tent. The outside appeared so small yet on the inside you would have thought they were in Boulder’s Gate by the sheer number of comforts Gale had conjured. Tav couldn’t help herself and she started laughing.

“I shouldn’t be surprised you’ve conjured yourself so many comforts. The entire time I’ve been sleeping in a bedroll in the dirt while you sleep like a king.” She said this teasingly and looked at Gale. He blushed. She snorted, the entire reason for her storming over here flooding into her mind. This was so like him, just as he once was, believing himself superior. “Leave it to you to think you’re above the rest of us.”

“Well.” He stumbles over his words, pushing his hands through his hair before looking at her sheepishly, “I could teach you, the incantation is simple enough.” The way he seemed to fumble over this, how his voice shook and his tone seemed sincere. Still, she laughed sardonically and grit her teeth, blinded by emotion.

“I know how to conjure simple comforts, thank you,” Her face was hot and her voice tight, “I choose to sleep on the ground like everyone else. Part of the ship, part of the crew.”

“Ah,” Gale says, holding up a finger and smirking in jest. “Lest you forget if you want a well rested Gale who can carry his weight in battle without an aching back and knees.” He sat beside her, handing her a glass of water. “I shall be sticking to comfort, if it’s all the same to you.”

She felt her stomach lurch with the tell-tale sign of nausea. “Oh, I shouldn’t have tried to outdrink Rolan…” she groans, gripping her head and whimpering. Tav was a terrible drunk and hated feeling uncomfortable, writhing pitifully on the bed. A simple spell could take it all away, but with her mind as intoxicated as it was it would be an impossible task. “You must think I’m pathetic,” her head rested in her hands.

He was staring at her so intently it made her self conscious. And angry. “So you do think I’m being pathetic. Probably amusing yourself with how I can’t even cure myself at the moment.” She hiccuped.

“No!” He interjected quickly and then his tone softened, clearing his throat “No… I don’t think you’re pathetic,” he smiled while brushing a stray curl from her face. “May I? Soothe you, I mean, take your, erm, headache away?” The gentleness of his touch, the way his eyes seemed to seer into her. Her heart was beating too fast, her vision was spotting and she nodded dumbly. Her breath hitched as her body surged with electricity as she felt his fingers on her skin. Did he feel it too? Gale smiled and shut his eyes, whispering a quiet spell while his hand brushed over her head. Just like that, he’d taken it all away. She wanted to be furious, to be annoyed at how simply he harnessed the Weave, but there was something else there now, rooting within her and weeding out the anger to make room for something new.

#gale dekarios #god gale #bg3 brainrot #bg3 gale #baldurs gate 3 #gale of waterdeep #bg3 art #gale #tav x gale #enemies to lovers

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shady-tavern · 7 months

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Preview for "The Price of a Life" the March Patreon Short Story

(warnings ahead for murder and implied, attempted assault, please take care of yourselves)

*.*.*

Rani grew up with neglectful parents and a little brother who was treated like he could do no wrong. While she was often tasked with looking after him, receiving the blame for any and all misbehavior, her brother was given pats on the head for being such a strong willed rascal.

It wasn't the easiest time growing up and as soon as she was able, she spent every minute out of the house, helping the miller with carrying sacks of flour, holding horses still for re-shoeing at the blacksmith's smithy and in the evenings she was wiping down tables in the tavern.

Any excuse to stay away and earn some money was pounced upon without hesitation. She was soon known around town as the girl who accepted any job so long as someone paid her for it.

No matter how rough and tough it was, she lifted her chin stubbornly and no matter how hard it became, she was determined to prove people wrong when they doubted her.

She learned who in town was corrupt and to be avoided, she learned who would attempt to exploit her and she learned how to recognize the glint in people's eyes that promised nothing but pain and misery on her end.

She learned just how hard she had to hit to take someone down, heart pounding with terror and adrenaline as she stood in a dark, damp alley. A stone smeared with blood was in her hand as she stared down at empty eyes.

She learned just how deep she had to dig a hole to ensure no wild animals dug the body back out, painful bruises blooming on her skin.

She learned fast and she learned well. Her hands grew rougher than any other girl's her age, she became stronger than many of the boys and she turned into a ruthless negotiator with a sharp intuition for those who wanted to trap her into agreements that demanded too much of her.

Her parents rarely saw her, but the few times they caught her sneaking back home, they were scolding her for being a terrible daughter who was never around and she ought to hand over some of her hard earned coin, they had housed and fed her for years after all.

Rani moved out of her childhood home as soon as she was old enough and the blacksmith flagged her down for an apprenticeship right away. It was hard work, but Rani was used to that and in the evenings she still went around, doing odd jobs for a bit of extra coin.

"I heard that unruly brother of yours got tangled with some unnatural folk," she heard her master say one day, almost half a year after having moved out of home.

They had some massive horses in today and they behaved well under her steady and reassuring hands. She had learned early on that animals liked it when she gave them a feeling of comfort and security, that they liked her calm and quiet words.

"I genuinely don't care," Rani answered, the black mare snorting and finally relaxing, lowering her head and her ears perked.

She was a sweet one, but a different blacksmith had once badly hurt her while shoeing her and now she got worried and scared easily. It was understandable, in Rani's opinion.

The blacksmith hummed, a low noise that seemed to rumble in his barrel chest. "No one's seen him in a week, people think he ran into the Blood Lords."

Her hands stilled for a moment. Everyone knew of the Blood Lords, of the monsters that called the cursed city beyond the forest their home. Endless rumors surrounded that place, one worse than the other. Anything and everything could be bartered away in that place, from souls to blood and even someone's own children.

The Blood Lords never left their cursed city and while some speculated it was because they couldn't, they didn't need to either. Not when there were people desperate or foolish or arrogant enough to seek them out anyway, thinking they could weasel out a deal in their favor.

Rani had always thought that even her hardheaded brother knew better than to tangle with creatures which knew neither pity nor compassion.

"He'll be back soon, I'm sure," she said, though a part of her was sinking like a stone headed for the bottom of a lake. "He's old enough to start adventuring away from town. He's probably trying to get to the king's city and he'll turn around when he realizes it's a bad idea."

The blacksmith hummed, low and sceptical and Rani felt just as doubtful of her own words. What if her brother had been stupid enough to go to the cursed city? A place shrouded in eternal fog and with the taste of death so prominent in the air it made all but the most foolhardy or desperate flee in terror.

At least, it was like that according to rumors.

Rani focused on her work, but once she was sent away by her master, instead of seeking out one of the people who usually needed an extra hand, she headed to her childhood home. It had been the first time since she had moved out that she had gone back.

She half expected her brother to pop out, scaring her half to death and laughing at her face and the angry but secretly relieved lecture she'd give him. She half expected the little shit to have been hiding somewhere, watching as people fretted and worried, giggling to himself.

What she found were her parents crying their eyes out. Even before they looked up and spotted her in the open door, their hopeful faces falling with disappointment upon seeing that it was her and not her brother, she knew the truth.

Her brother had, indeed, been stupid enough to tangle with the Blood Lords.

"You must save him," her mother began, tone half accusing and half an order, as though she blamed Rani for this situation.

Rani turned on her heel and strode away, angry and worried in equal measure. She had always ended up stuck with cleaning her brother's messes. Had always had to face the anger of anyone he had played a prank on, getting scolded and told to keep him in line, because her parents slipped away from their responsibilities whenever they could.

She was sick and tired of being dragged into their problems, into being blamed. Her parents were two perfectly healthy adults, they should handle this.

She stomped all the way home, to the tiny little apartment over a general goods store she had rented. She passed by the alley where she had fought that terrible man, the rock she had used still lying where she had dropped it. Any blood on it had long since gotten washed away.

No one had ever found out what had happened to that man.

She owed her brother nothing. In fact, she had told him multiple times to be more careful with his pranks and jokes, that one day he'd bite off more than he could chew. That he had sought out the Blood Lords was as laughable and nonsensical as a louse trying to tear out a wolf's throat. What had he been thinking?

She told herself that it was most likely already too late to save him. The Blood Lords took everything they wanted, they were considered even worse than the fae knights that rode through the forest during full moon nights, luring the prettiest lads and lasses out of their homes to whisk them away for forever.

The Blood Lords lived off of blood and souls and the screams of the anguished and tortured, their veins filled with dark magic and malice. According to rumors at least.

But there was always a kernel of truth to rumors, wasn't there?

Rani stared into her cramped little space, gritting her teeth, until an enraged snarl ripped free and she grabbed her cloak and shoved some things into her satchel before stomping out the door again.

*.*.*

Would you like to read more? Then check out my patreon! Or the masterlist, for more of my stories and other patreon story previews. Enjoy!

#my writing #short story #preview #patreon #dark fantasy #dark fairy tale #monster lover #I hope you'll enjoy it!#i had so much fun writing it #and I hope it will be a fun read as well!

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gatheringbones · 2 years

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genuine question: how do you stand the loneliness? i'm in my mid 20s and ive never been loved in a way that didnt hurt. i dont want to have to run after ppl begging for the smallest scrap of affection anymore but i keep turning up ppl who, even though they are interested in me and seem generally decent, arent ready to lower their walls and let me in, so its either that or nothing, and im so fucking lonely. i try to bury myself in work and going out as much as i can, but sometimes it hits me, and i dont know how to stand it anymore. i just want to be able to be kind to someone and treat them with all the love and affection i have, and not have to guard myself at the same time or be afraid of them or feel like i can never be sure with them. i think you've been lonely like that for a long time, too, and i dont have anyone who understands. i know the only advice you can give is probably "endure and continue to have self respect", but i dont know how to do that without also becoming small, and sad, and worn out from all the loneliness. if there's anything you can think of that helped you get through it, please tell me--i dont want to burden or overwhelm you, but i dont know what to do anymore, and like i said, you seem like you've survived a couple of those sorts of droughts and i dont have anyone else to talk to about this

so on those first few early dates with c when she was either driving an hour up north or I was taking the bus two hours down to see her, I was so rattled by the experience of building intimacy with someone else that I couldn’t really think of what we ought to do with each other on our dates. In the end I decided: we would just do what I ordinarily did to build intimacy with myself, which meant taking lots of long walks all over residential seattle. and I’d been living there for over ten years at that point, getting around either by walking or by bus. before that I’d lived in the sticks. before that I’d lived in the part of the sticks that wasn’t connected to the power grid. my earliest memories are long lonely walks. long lonely walks were my primary coping mechanism for debilitating post traumatic stress and survivor’s guilt. and with c it was wild because. it was exactly like going on these walks with myself, only I was more of myself and these walks were more of what they were. what’s more the internal map of the city I had built in my feet over a decade was suddenly of use. all of the time and neurons I had put into building it were relevant to the present situation.

i packed a backpack once. water and a cheeseboard with a little cheese knife and a can of prosecco and a can of kirin for c and lots of little cheeses and salamis and fruits and veggies and chocolate almonds. And I took c on a long meandering walk that I knew from memory; fremont to the crown hill cemetery to the stairs leading down to golden gardens to the beach at sunset. all places I’d been by myself and taken my friends to before. places I’d taken myself to after packing myself a snack and bringing my journal and quite literally staring across the water at a home that would kill me if I ever returned to it. all that time mattered. the time I had spent in that place making those friendships and mourning that life and building that intimacy with myself and the city mattered.

All the years before— giving, giving, gifts to those who could not care, would not give back. How well we made a feast together. Those years of waste were over.

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separatist-apologist · 2 years

Text

All Of The Girls You Loved Before

Summary: I want to teach you how forever feels

OR:

That time Elain was a witch and Lucien was condemned to hunt her down

Part 1/2: Just Pretend | Read on AO3

Note: Big thanks to @octobers-veryown for the prompt and @the-lonelybarricade for being my beta. This is for @elainweekofficial day [mumble] because I don't want to post on a Friday/Saturday.

She sensed him before she ever felt him.

Like a hollow cry in her bones, a tug at her gut, Elain Archeron felt the witch hunter the moment he stepped into her territory, though in truth she’d always known him. They’d been born mere seconds apart. First her—and then him. Balance, as all things ought to be and the price of magic. For every trueborn witch, an adversary was created, too. They were fated by the very gods themselves to hunt the other, a brutal dance that ultimately would leave one of them dead.

Elain had parted ways with her sisters early on hoping to avoid three witch hunters descending on their little cabin. One witch was suspicious enough, but three were impossible to hide, besides.

Sandwiched between two sisters who were more elemental in nature, Elain had always been the one left out. Her magic skewed toward visions—and poisons. She had a way with nature, as though the great goddess of creation flowed through Elain’s fingertips. She could make things grow with merely half a thought. Once, as a girl, Elain had only thought of flourishing life.

That was before the men came. When she was eleven years old, men swept through the village in search of witches. Not hunters, but just scared villagers who didn’t understand magic wasn’t inherently evil. They’d smoked her family out and burned her mother atop a smoking pyre while she’d screamed curses—and then screamed in agony. Their father had stolen them away before they might be next and in a fit of fury, Nesta had struck him down for letting their mother be taken at all.

It had left them alone, wandering from place to place first as orphan beggars, and later as healers. And with nothing but each other and the memories of the men who’d once come, Elain, Nesta, and Feyre had become cold—almost cruel. They could no longer reside together and one night, on Feyre’s nineteenth birthday, they’d divided the continent into three sections. The borders had been drawn in Nesta’s blood, procured by one of Elain’s sharp nails.

They’d sworn not to cross the borders, to send word on the back of a crow's wings if they needed any assistance—but to otherwise stay out of each other's way. For Elain, that meant settling back in a rural village far from the more populated cities.

Elain had the gift of prophecy, and she’d always known, since she was a little girl that the man born in response to her magical blood, would never rest until he found her. He wouldn’t be settled, the call too heady for him to ignore. She wouldn’t be caught off guard in some dense city.

No.

When he came, it would be to the rolling hills and the wide open space of the world she occupied. She’d built a cabin just outside the village center which, on occasion, had made her the target of a different sort of man. The sort that tried to ambush a woman, to force her to do things she didn’t want to, all because he found her interesting.

Her beautiful face was a different sort of curse. Elain never said anything on the nights she heard them creeping to her door. Nor did she ever try and stop them when they rattled at the locks and window, certain there must be a way in for them. And Elain had certainly never deterred the wild animals at the edge of the forest she lived just beside, from creeping out in search of their own prey.

Though she enjoyed the sounds of their screams when they were caught and dragged away, choking on their own spit and blood.

There was only one man who would ever touch her, and she’d grant him that honor only if he managed to best her. The witch hunter, after all, was supposed to be her equal. If he managed to get his hands on her, he’d kill her. And Elain knew if he touched her, was close enough to slide his fingers over any part of her skin, she was as good as dead anyway.

It could take him years to find her. Wherever he was, it wasn’t close enough to scare her. Only enough to keep the hair on the back of her neck perpetually on end. Her blood thrilled with each passing day—days in which she stayed in the sprawling, rural village to help deliver babies and see the sick, the elderly, and the infirm off into the under realm where they might know peace again.

And each day, that man crept closer and closer. Elain caught herself wondering about him. Who was he? What was he like? Was he battle hardened? A cunning warrior? She’d long wondered about him and the kind of man he’d be. What kind of skills she’d need to kill him.

Elain could sense him stronger that misty morning when woke. Perhaps he was close—had figured out where she’d exiled herself to and was coming for her. Elain groaned into the gray, moody room she was in, kicking off her blanket sullenly.

She dressed in lavender, her heart pounding with each new step. Down, down, down she trekked, her leather boots covered in spring dew by the time she reached the village. Elain knew where she wanted to go first, despite her rumbling stomach.

The village was cleaner than it had been the day before, with great, colorful banners and awnings strung about. Welcoming a visitor—likely not a witch hunter, though she couldn’t be sure. The streets were cleared of any debris and though people walked along the gray cobblestone just as she did, there were no animals out. They’d been penned to keep shit from stinking up the walkways.

Elain veered down a back alley toward a familiar tavern. The Ensnaring Snake had a gleaming brass sign hanging above the door, swaying gently in the wind. It was too early for a drink, but not for the owner inside to be awake. Elain pushed inside, nose wrinkling at the smell. Some attempt had been made to clean, if the lemongrass and mint hanging in the air was any indication.

But vomit and sweat still permeated the very pores of the building, collecting the grime no amount of muscle could scrub away. Elain turned to the bar and the man just behind, offering him a friendly smile. She hated men—all, except this one.

Lucien Vanserra.

“Elain,” he said with an easy smile. He was folding freshly laundered napkins and when she went to the swiveling chair to join him, Elain plucked one of the white pieces of fabric from the basket to help. “Have you eaten?”

“Not yet,” she said, half hoping he’d make her something. He would if he had time—and no one stumbled in, still half drunk from the night before to demand his attention. It was rumored that she and Lucien were courting. Laughable, given Lucien had never shown any interest in her beyond friendship. She knew he’d been engaged as a very young man and that woman had died, and she suspected that like her, he had no interest in that sort of companionship from the opposite sex. He was the perfect cover for her, though. No one thought twice about the orphaned girl living at the edge of town if a man was willing to speak for her.

One day they’d grow suspicious, and Elain hoped this friendship with Lucien would shield her from the kind of violence her mother had once endured. That he wouldn’t be the sort of coward her father was, no matter how unfair it was to put that burden on his ordinary shoulders.

He offered her a smile, one that stretched the entirety of his beautiful face. Elain had always wondered what had caused the trio of vicious scars that cut down one of his russet colored eyes. The markings started in his scalp, like nails dragging through soft butter, and vanished just beneath his jaw. It kept the other women away which, Elain supposed was lucky for her, even if it was unlucky for him.

She’d long thought it was their loss. Lucien was still beautiful. Broad shouldered and muscular beneath his tunics, with a sort of grace to his movements she admired. His long, auburn hair was often half braided off his face, the rest left to tumble down his back, and his skin caught the warmest shade of gold in the bright rays of day.

Sometimes she felt so tempted to touch him.

She’d always admired beautiful things, after all. Coveted them, even. And of everything lovely in her seaside village, Lucien was the most beautiful of them all. It was folly—he wasn’t for her and she knew it. As long as another man hunted her, there could be no peace for Elain. So he smiled, with those warm eyes and his gleaming teeth, and Elain willed herself to feel nothing at all. Willed herself not to love him, burying it deep, deep down in the quietest corner of her heart, until she could pretend it didn’t exist at all. He was just her friend. And she wanted nothing more.

“You fold, I’ll cook,” he told her, unaware of the battle constantly raging through her. The smell of leather and cinnamon stole over her. He vanished in the back, a smile dancing over his features. Like he knew some secret she didn’t. He always looked like that.

Elain folded in companionable silence, finishing just in time for Lucien to reemerge with two plates laden with potatoes and sausages and beans.

“So,” she began as Lucien leaned against the smooth wood counter, fork in hand. “What’s going on outside?”

Her skin was icy, blood thrumming in warning. Whoever came was a harbinger of her death, and the icy fear sliding down her spine was an omen of the terrible thing to come.

“Lord Nolan from the north,” Lucien said, lowering his deep voice ever so slightly. “They say he’s hunting witches–that he found one in the Illyrian mountains and butchered her before she ever knew he was coming.”

Elain’s heart leapt in her throat. Nesta was somewhere by the Illyrian mountains. Had he found her? No, she reassured herself. This was mere legend and human braggary. Witches were bound to one hunter. Once that bond was severed, she had it on good authority the witch hunter lost his immortality and became little more than a regular man. If Lord Nolan had killed Nesta and was looking for her or Feyre, he came to Elain as little more than a mortal male.

Easily killed, then.

“There is no such thing as witches,” she heard herself saying with a pretty laugh. Lucien’s eyes searched her own, some emotion she didn’t recognize streaking over his features.

“You should stay in the village,” he finally told her, gripping his fork just a little tighter. “You’re out there on your own…you could have one of the rooms upstairs. I’d make sure no one bothered you. And if anyone questioned…”

So he would shield her. Elain fought a shiver. “That’s not necessary,” she assured him, though in truth, his idea had merit. If a man was coming to hunt out witches, he’d start with anyone unprotected like they always did. How many widows with no sons or husbands to vouch for them had been caught up in the hysteria when the word magic was uttered? Too many.

And though Elain was a witch, she didn’t need anyone to know until she was ready for them to know. She didn’t need to be caught unaware and had to be extra careful, given she couldn’t pour fire or water from her fingertips.

“Elain–”

“Everyone will expect an announcement if they learn I’m staying here,” she said, her voice strained. “They’ll assume…”

Pink crept up his neck. “Right. And that would be…”

“A lie,” she supplied when no words came out of his mouth. “One not easily taken back.”

And she would not risk her friendship with him over a few days of safety. No, Elain would take her chances alone, trusting that if a question arose regarding her, Lucien Vanserra would defend her. She could see he didn’t like what she’d said, though he must have known she was right.

“You’ll take care of yourself?” he asked. As though that was ever in question.

“There is no such thing as witches,” Elain said again, though with far less humor. “And Lord Nolan will have no interest in me. You’ll see.”

Far past breakfast, after she’d left Lucien to his tavern and had restocked her supplies at the market, Elain found herself wondering if Lord Nolan wasn’t her fated killer. She could practically feel each step reverberating through the stone and settling in her gut. He was coming for her. She waited on the side of the road, ignoring the gathered crowd. She wanted to see the witch killer before he realized who she was. Would he recognize her on sight? Would he know her by instinct, or would he have to root her out?

Elain’s anxiety was at a fever pitch, the magic in her blood all but bubbling as Nolan approached. She could see his white horse in the distance, flanked by sentries and warriors likely just as battle hardened as he. A hand settled on her shoulder, causing her to jump—her whole body jerked, hyper aware of the witch killer coming for her.

Twisting, she found it was merely Lucien Vanserra beside her. He squeezed, which did little for the dread coiling through her. He didn’t know, thought her nerves were the same as everyone else's. A fancy lord from the city coming to their village didn’t bode well for any of them, especially if he’d come to root out witches in the name of glory and fame.

Lucien’s solid, warm presence beside her steadied Elain just enough to look Lord Nolan in the eyes when he approached. He was princely, she supposed. Handsome enough with his dark brown hair and matching set of eyes. A sharp jaw and a soft mouth set in a disapproving scowl didn’t hide his handsome face well enough. The thrumming in her body reached a fever pitch until Elain knew with certainty the witch killer was right in front of her. Unaware he was being watched by his very prey as his eyes swept over the gathered crowd. He swung powerful legs over the side of his beast and prowled forward while his guards and retinue remained atop their steeds.

There was no pretty preamble introducing himself. Lucien’s fingers dug into Elain’s shoulder when Nolan called, “There are witches living among you!” Someone she couldn’t see snorted with laughter. Nolan’s eyes fell on her for only a moment, sliding to Lucien and his claiming hand on her body. It was a warning, she supposed. Alone she might be, but unspoken for she wasn’t. She wondered if Lucien thought she was afraid and needed reassurance and protection.

Excitement was replacing the bubbling dread. She’d spent her whole life waiting for this. Once Nolan died, she’d have nothing but immortality ahead of her, assured she could not die so long as she kept to the margins. She wasn’t even thirty yet, had just turned twenty three a few months before. He could have made her wait centuries before hunting her down. She rather liked the thought of getting things out of the way now so she could live her life.

“You laugh?” Nolan cried, eyes sharp as he looked at them. “Witches are everywhere. They’re clever, rooting their way into your villages, your homes—all before cutting open your children to devour their hearts!”

Elain almost laughed. That sounded like the sort of rumor Nesta would spin. She didn’t want to draw any attention to herself and so she stepped just a little closer to Lucien to feign fear. Like she needed the strong man beside her to protect her. His grip slid down her arm, until his fingers were brushing her own.

It was tempting to give in. To take what she knew he was offering. Elain kept still, even when his finger hooked around her own.

“I killed five witches in the Illyrian Mountains,” he said, the absolute liar. “All in villages far smaller than this.”

Five innocent women were dead. Did he know he’d been wrong? Had anyone taught him what he meant to be a witch killer? Or did the humans lie, like they so often did, about his importance and the curse upon them. He’d learn.

Nolan looked at her again, though without awareness. A different sort of hunger slid over his features. It was one she’d learned to read well. Was it wrong to be disappointed? She’d expected…well, she’d expected more. Killing him would be easy. That should have filled her with relief and yet it didn’t. If he killed her, it would be because she’d gotten sloppy.

Not because he had any true skill.

No one dared to argue with the lord, and though Elain said she wasn’t afraid of him, she trailed behind Lucien back to the tavern, along with so many others. The topic of conversation was Lord Nolan—Graysen, she learned—was cause for amusement.

“Witches,” someone called, which caused riotous laughter. Even Lucien chuckled, filling mugs as quickly as they were thrust in front of his face. Elain drummed her fingers against the bartop. Graysen would be staying across town in the lord's manor which would make him difficult to get to. She could always try and court him, but that left her without male protection if he declined her advances.

No. She’d need to be clever. She was far from the most recent transplant and yet she wasn’t married unlike so many other women who’d come and been snapped up quickly. There were more men than marriageable women here, and when one arrived, they were claimed almost immediately.

She thought that was what Lucien had tried to do when she’d strolled through his doors and inquired after lodging. He’d been the one who helped her find someone to build her cottage and it had been room number four just upstairs she’d spent six months living in while he kept her fed and entertained.

She turned her eyes to him, surprised to find him watching her, too. Maybe she ought to use him, then. Just as a cover. She could always leave once Graysen was dead. Lucien was mortal and was doomed to a mortal life. Even if she did love him, there was nothing to slow death that was surely coming for him. She couldn’t remain here forever—better to leave once she was free of the curse and start somewhere else.

“You’re rethinking my offer, aren’t you?” he murmured, leaning his elbows against the bartop. “Five dead women, Elain.”

“I know,” she whispered, closing her eyes. She didn’t want to be anywhere but her bed—and she couldn’t invite him into it. He wouldn’t understand she only wanted protection. He’d read too much into it. He didn’t love her and she loved him and Elain knew if she gave in even a little, she’d want far too much. She’d make mistakes, she’d compromise too much and she’d end up dead anyway.

“You’re not going to stay?” he asked, though it wasn’t truly a question. Lucien’s mouth was set in resignation as a sigh rose through him. “I—”

“Smile,” he interrupted as a patron made their way toward the pair of them. She did as she ordered, bristling at his brusque tone.

“Is that a yes, lady?” he asked, raising his voice loudly. He’d arched a brow, rising to his full height to look at her. Elain blinked, unaware of how the tavern had become silent around her.

“Yes?” she agreed, not realizing what he’d just done until cheers broke out in the space around them. Lucien, too, grinned a dazzling smile. Hoisting himself up over the bar counter, Lucien slid to the floor just beside her. He slid an arm around her and pulled her close. Elain could only brace a hand against his chest and squeeze her eyes shut when his mouth fell on hers.

It was chaste—polite and almost apologetic in its insistency. Her first kiss, she realized with a daze. Lucien cupped the side of her face gently, like a lover getting everything he’d ever wanted. This was a different sort of trap, she realized.

She wanted to be furious and yet—and yet when he went to pull away, Elain curled her hands in the lapels of his tunic to hold him close and kiss him again. It was nothing—she would leave just as soon as Graysen was dead. So what did it matter if she kissed him once or twice, or pretended to love him if it kept her safe? Lucien’s lips were soft and he tasted just as good as he smelled.

“I’m sorry about the ring,” he rasped when they pulled apart, his eyes glazed. “I got ahead of myself.”

Another lie. “It’s fine,” she breathed. There was no ring because this was not real.

Lucien stepped apart to accept congratulations from the largely male patrons. Elain stayed in her chair, dazed from the kiss and the predicament she’d found herself in. Selfless Lucien had given her more than just roots. He’d claimed her publicly, in front of a good fifty something people.

This woman belongs to me, not the dark god of the underworld.

Unaware that Graysen wasn’t even wrong. Elain was a witch. And though she meant no one in the village any harm, it didn’t change the fact that magic coated her veins or that everything Graysen had said was true. She’d come to this place specifically to hide.

To wait for him. What would Lucien do if he realized he’d just betrothed himself to a witch?

Lucien left his tavern in the hands of an apprentice when night fell, earning wolf whistles as he slid his hand against the small of her back.

“I’m going to walk you home,” he said as they emerged into the cool, crisp night. “I want everyone to see—to think we are together.”

“We are,” she said dryly, not daring to look at him. What kind of man went to so much trouble? “You can’t make that kind of declaration thinking you can back out of it.”

A small smile crept over his features. “I trust you’ll find a way.”

“And if I don’t?” she whispered, letting him lace his fingers through her own.

“Lucky me,” was all Lucien said in response. Her head whipped to look at him, catching the pained smile on his face. “Surely you must have guessed…”

Elain felt terrible. “I—”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “I don’t expect anything. I never have. I just—I know what men like Nolan do, how they whip everyone into a frenzy and send innocent women to the pyre so he can tell our bloodless king he’s rid the land of evil.”

Elain’s heart pounded in her throat. “No one could think I—”

“Who would speak out against a fine lord?” Lucien asked bitterly. “I’d hoped for more time but…”

He drew a breath, stepping beneath the gated entrance of the village. Just in the distance, atop the hillside, lay her little cottage and her garden just beyond. She wasn’t the only one who lived among the plains. Plenty of farmers were counted among her ranks. Elain wasn’t the only one with a massive herb garden, either—though it was likely hers was the only one with so much carefully cultivated and hidden poisons.

All healers maintained gardens like hers. It was how Elain had learned to plan one outdoors to begin with, rather than using pots inside her home where no one could see. Let them walk to her door and see the blooming hydrangeas and the rosemary all woven together. She was no threat to them—that was true.

More than a few people watched them walk out together, clasped hands. The approval on their faces told her that this was what people had hoped for. Unwed Elain Archeron and the handsome tavern keep Lucien Vanserra, betrothed at last. He finished grieving and was ready to try again, and Elain…well, Elain had waited dutifully, had stitched up his broken heart like a good woman ought to.

Elain’s pulse hammered hotly against her skin. They walked silently, unsure what to say to the other. To hear him admit he wanted her—that he would marry her if it came down to it—left Elain without a clever come back. Lucien Vanserra was a distraction she could ill afford. The witch hunter was here, making threats and determined to dig her out. If Elain was thinking about Lucien, she put herself at risk.

She should have ended it right there. Right on her doorstep where he paused, looking down at her with those simmering eyes. Send him home. No man had the right to touch her—the only man who could claim to was the witch killer in the village.

“Would you like to come inside?” she breathed. Lucien blinked, eyes sliding to the round, wooden door behind her.

“Yes,” he admitted.

And though she knew she’d live to regret this moment, Elain let Lucien Vanserra into her home.

Lucien stepped into her cottage with wide, curious eyes. He seemed to dominate the small space, far larger than she’d ever realized right until she’d closed the door. Unaware of how nervous she suddenly was, Lucien peered at the little kitchen and her books lined neatly along the shelves on the wall. While Lucien ran his fingers over the innocuous spines, Elain rushed past him to start a kettle.

What was she doing?

“I always wondered what it looked like up here,” he murmured, turning his attention to a crocheted blanket hanging over her sofa that faced the fireplace. If he hadn’t been there, Elain would have flicked her fingers and brought it roaring to life. Instead, Lucien went to it, stoking the flames with a poker until a rosy warmth filled the space.

He sat, then, not daring to look at the archway behind them where Elain’s bed was hidden. It put her at ease, enough to steep tea leaves and bring him a cup as she sat beside him. His thigh touched her own, his body close enough she could have leaned against him and perhaps absorbed some of his strength.

“Well?” she finally said once he’d had a sip or two. “Is it how you imagined?”

“About,” he admitted, eyes sliding to her face. Elain didn’t dare ask what else he’d imagined, though she could guess. Her own heart was thudding at the very thought of what they could do together. They were betrothed, after all—it was as good as married.

Everyone who saw them leave, who counted the minutes until he didn’t return, would assume as much. Part of her wanted to prove them right while the rest of her knew whatever she’d find would only further damn her.

Lucien drained his tea after another moment of silence. Elain cleared her throat, embarrassment heating her cheeks. “I uh…I’ve never…I um…I’ve never been with a uh…”

“Right,” Lucien mumbled, rising quickly to take his cup to the sink.

“Have you?” she called after his retreating form. He stilled for a moment.

“Yes.”

Of course he had. He’d been engaged, after all. It was a stupid question to ask. Lucien braced himself against the edge of the sink, the muscles in his powerful back expanding and contracting before he turned to look at her.

His eyes betrayed whatever inferno raged within him, exciting her though she didn’t dare admit it. The magic in her body recognized that look, despite his mortal existence, and rose to meet him all the same.

“Are you telling me so I will be careful, or as a warning not to touch you?” he all but growled. Elain couldn’t suppress the shiver that raced through her.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, which was the truth of the matter. Lucien prowled forward, dropping back to the sofa with that gleam in his eye. The one that told her if she asked, he’d sweep her off to bed and do every little thing he’d imagined when he wondered about the inside of her cottage.

“Can I kiss you, at least?” he whispered, perhaps guessing that no matter how much he might want to do more, she was going to make him leave. “A proper kiss this time?”

He was coming closer, reaching for her jaw to draw her nearer. He smelled good, warm and rich—that leather and cinnamon that Elain was always thinking about. He paused just before their lips met. “Say yes.”

“Yes,” she agreed, her eyes fluttering shut. It was nothing like the bar. There was heat to his kiss, enough to burn her, to feel as though he were standing before the hearth all but consumed by flame. Elain, too, wanted him to devour her. She was clumsy, moving against him in a mimicry of what he was doing.

He liked it, at least. Liked it enough to wrap his arm around her, to pull her close enough she was straddling his lap, hovering over him like the kiss had been her own idea. Maybe it had been. When Lucien licked the seam of her mouth, pleading for entrance, Elain granted it hungrily. She was lost, adrift in the heady, masculine taste of him—her first ever.

He would be her ruination, of that she was certain. And right then, she didn’t care. Would damn them both for another frantic kiss. Raking her fingers through his hair, Elain didn’t stop him when his own began pulling the hem of her dress up over her legs.

“Can I—” he groaned, kissing her again like a starving man. “Can I touch you?”

He was touching her. Elain didn’t understand what he was asking until that same hand slipped beneath her dress to run the length of her thigh.

“Oh,” she whispered.

Reaching behind him, Lucien pulled the couch cushion to the floor, dragging them both down with it. He’d rearranged her easily her back to his chest, braced against his legs. The cushioned softened the wood beneath them, and when he whispered, “Spread your legs,” while tilting her face for another burning, claiming kiss, Elain could only do as he asked. His hand was back beneath her dress, pulling down her undergarment until he’d flung them somewhere far from them both.

“This engagement isn’t real,” Elain breathed, though the great goddess only knew if Elain spoke those words to Lucien or herself. He kissed down the column of her throat, his hand inching and further and further up between her legs.

“It’s real to me,” Lucien replied. Elain felt the world still for only a moment, dragging her awareness away from the man behind her to the magic thrumming in her veins. Whatever was happening, the fates themselves seemed to approve. And maybe—maybe she was supposed to be here with him, even if it was for only a brief respite of time. Or maybe she just wanted that to be true because for two years, he had been the closest thing to family she had.

Elain cared about Lucien. Cared enough that when he told her to say yes, she did it without question. And when he dragged her to the floor so he could kiss and touch, she didn’t worry he’d hurt her.

“Spread your legs,” he whispered, his other arm banding around her stomach. Elain did as he said, spreading herself apart until her ankles touched his shins.

Elain tried one last time. One last valiant attempt to remind him this was going nowhere. “Lucien–”

“I know,” he interrupted, as though he couldn’t stand to hear the words. His mouth covered hers, claiming a brutal kiss that stole the very air from her lungs. His tongue found her own, stroking just as his fingers brushed along the center of her body. Elain’s hips jerked off the cushion, startled and excited all at once.

“Soo fucking wet,” he growled, teeth nipping at her lip. “Just how I imagined.”

“Lucien,” she panted in response, trying to widen herself, to angle her hips so he’d touch her like that again. He held her tight against him, kissing and sucking at the side of her neck. There would be no mistaking what had happened tomorrow when she returned to the village. The villagers would see those claiming bruises and they’d know that finally—finally—Elain Archeron and Lucien Vanserra had given in.

Clever fingers rubbed against the sensitive nub of flesh only Elain had ever dared to touch. But Lucien did, moaning softly behind her when he swiped through the slick desire pooling between her legs.

“You will be my wife,” he spoke against her skin, licking the salt from her with another shuddering moan. Elain couldn’t find it in her to protest. Not when she felt as though she were being consumed by flame. And certainly not when Lucien hooked his ankles around her legs to spread her wholly apart, her cunt bared to the fireplace in front of them.

“I want to hear you come,” he whispered. She turned to kiss him, not embarrassed by how she was grinding against his hand. His tongue was relief, heightening the building, pooling pressure pressed against her spine. “I want to feel you on my fingers.”

She didn’t have the presence of mind to ask why he wanted that. She was writhing between his own spread legs, pinned to his body by his ironclad grip. She could feel him behind her, rigid and hard against the base of his spine. He was grinding himself into her, but when she twisted to try and touch him, Lucien batted her away.

“Another night,” he promised, which seemed absurd given she had two perfectly good hands. Lucien redoubled his efforts, his fingers stroking and circling until Elain’s eyes were a vision of bright, dotted stars and her whole body imploded in on itself. Pleasure overtook her, racing through her very marrow until Elain could do nothing but ride through it—she was boneless, at his mercy for as long as he wanted her.

She was happy to be his captive.

Elain came down with a whispering breath. His fingers slowed and then stilled, wiping the wet mess of her release against her bare thigh before he brought them to his own lips. She could only watch, entranced, as he slid them against his tongue before wholly sucking them into his mouth. Licking himself clean of her, Lucien groaned softly, his hips bucking behind her. “I should have started with my tongue. I didn’t think I’d get this far.”

Regret should have begun seeping in—and it was, but not how she imagined. Elain regretted he had to leave, and regretted even more that she hadn’t been permitted to touch him. Sensing her rising argument, Lucien kissed her cheek.

“Next time,” he murmured. “Tomorrow, even—though I won’t be in until late.”

“Come whenever you like,” she heard herself saying. “Stay, even, if you want.”

He exhaled. “You could come back with me. Come to my bed…I’ll even make you breakfast.”

She smiled as she replied, “You’ll do that regardless of where I sleep.”

He smiled, too. “I know. I should go before the whole village knows I’ve compromised you.”

“I doubt it matters.”

“Still,” he said, helping her to her feet. “Let me claim a little innocence, at least tonight. By tomorrow everyone will have heard the good news and when I bring you to bed, there will be no surprises.”

She leaned up on her tiptoes, not allowing herself to think about the implications of his words. There would be no marriage, regardless of what he’d said. At best they’d only have this fractured, limited time before she killed Graysen and fled. What would he make of it in the aftermath, she wondered?

She intended to cherish this time. Elain kissed him, delighted when he turned his head for a full, deep kiss.

“Tomorrow,” he murmured.

Elain smiled. “Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow came in the form of pounding on her front door. One of the women had gone into labor and needed a midwife. She was bleeding badly, they’d said, and Elain knew how quickly things could go wrong. She’d grabbed her supplies, thinking only once of Lucien’s promise to make her breakfast. He’d understand.

It took hours to deliver a set of twins. By the time Elain managed to turn one of the breech babies around, the sun had risen fully overhead and mom was exhausted. It happened quickly once she managed to get the shoulders through. One healthy boy—and then another. Elain applied salves to halt the bleeding and to help with the bruising and gave a tonic that would help the new mother sleep.

And once she’d cleaned herself up in the washroom and packed away her spoiled clothes, Elain felt a pang of longing—and regret. This was what she’d miss, more than anything. These women, this place, and a job that made her feel important and special.

She wanted to bathe before going to Lucien and begging him to feed her lunch. Even with her apron and gloves tucked away in the bag over her shoulder, sweat clung to Elain. It seemed like an ill omen to go to the man she was infatuated with reeking of another person's blood.

There, just outside the market square, stood Graysen Nolan. He wore a blood red cape about his shoulders, and was dressed in well-made black trousers and a fine cobalt tunic. He turned as she approached, ignoring the villager he’d just been interrogating.

“And you are?” he asked by way of greeting. Elain tensed, her body reacting to his nearness. This was him—this was the hunter. DId he recognize her? Elain met his stare, surprised when his own gaze flicked down her form.

“Elain Archeron, lord,” she replied demurely. He hadn’t recognized her. Oh, how that disappointed her. More and more, Elain was beginning to think he was hardly a true adversary. Merely a bumbling fool who gotten lucky. If he was distracted by her looks, that was even luckier for her.

“Ah. Congratulations on your engagement,” he sneered, never taking his eyes off her breasts. He took his time admiring her form before returning to her face with an arched brow. She understood the suggestion on his face.

He was a lord—what low born lady didn’t want that sort of husband? And thought Elain didn’t believe for one second that was what he was offering, she did think he wanted her to believe her might. She offered him a smile that was just suggestive enough and sank into a bow.

“Perhaps you’ll join me this evening? For dinner?” he pressed.

“Just dinner,” she clarified, noting how he looked at her hand that was without a ring. His smile widened, as though he’d ensnared her in his trap.

But it was him now caught in hers. Elain wanted to know the layout of the lord’s home, wanted to know who would be around—what servants she’d need to get out, who she might also have to incapacitate. If she could get him alone, that would be even better.

But she suspected she might not.

“Of course,” he swore. “Just dinner.”

For now, his brown eyes implied. Elain didn’t disagree with him. She merely allowed him to kiss the back of her hand, revolted by this casual touch he had no right to, before turning back for her cottage. It was there she bathed, taking her time to ensure every last inch of grime and blood was gone from her person. She took care with her appearance, choosing her nicest dress and curling her hair carefully.

Seeing Graysen was work.

But joining Lucien in his bed—that was what Elain prepared herself for. It was why she took such care to make sure she was pleasing to look at, that she smelled good, that everything he’d find, he’d like.

She made her way to Lucien first. Just to see him. Stupid, really, given Graysen might be dead in a matter of days. It didn’t matter, she lied as she made her way back to the village. People beamed as she passed, as if they knew exactly why she looked so lovely. Those smiles widened when she pulled open the door to Lucien’s tavern where he waited behind the bar.

His eyes found her the second she stepped inside and whatever had caused the frown gracing his beautiful face vanished instantly.

“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me,” he teased, earning a chuckle from a patron nursing his mug.

“I couldn’t forget you if I tried,” she promised, pleased when he hopped the bar to come to her.

“You look pretty. Is this for me?”

“Yes,” she agreed. He gave her a rather chaste kiss which didn’t keep someone from whistling, though they both pretended to ignore it. “This is for you and only you. But—Lord Nolan has asked me to dine with him this evening.”

The entire tavern seemed to be hanging on their every word. Lucien, who’d been rubbing his hands up and down her arms, froze when he heard the words. “Oh?”

“It’s nothing,” she assured him, looking into those russet eyes. “I couldn’t say no.”

Lucien nodded, forcing a smile on his face. “I know. Of course. How—how long will you be gone?”

“Not long I hope.” The words all came out in a rush.

Behind them, someone coughed loudly, a sound that might have been a concealed he’s a bastard, though Elain couldn’t tell. Lucien brushed a curl from her face.

“Lunch, then? I heard the good news,” he added, arm around her shoulders to lead her to the bar. Elain exhaled, relieved he wasn’t angry. Beaming, she nodded.

“Twins.”

Lunch stretched over hours, with Lucien doing his best to keep her in her chair, talking and laughing and telling him every little thought she had. The other patrons, too, seemed determined Elain would not go to Graysen’s, and when a servant came to retrieve her, the whole tavern had soured. No one wanted to see her go and all of them seemed to understand that Lord Nolan was trying to steal Elain right from under Lucien’s nose.

She appreciated their concern, but each step walked her straight toward a destiny she was grateful to meet. He thought of her as a pretty trinket—a little bit of decoration he could play with while he worked to ruin the peace of their home. Elain was curious about him, though. She’d heard witch hunters were gifted with powerful magic to balance whatever she’d been gifted with.

What lurked in Graysen’s veins, she wondered?

If dinner was any indication, whatever magic he possessed wasn’t special. Elain found herself frustrated as the time passed. He talked endlessly of his great wealth back at the capital and his many conquests. The only time he deigned to ask her anything was when he was curious about other villagers—all women, all young, all beautiful. Elain supposed she knew who he was considering as witches. Typical male brutality. He wasted her time with flattery and flirting, so clearly hoping to bed her.

What Elain did learn was how careless he was. If she dined with him again, it would be easy enough to slip a little poison in his cup. He’d fall over dead and Elain could run for it, packing up in the night and vanishing before anyone ever thought to look for her. She could hide for fifty years—just long enough for everyone to forget her. It sent a pang of sadness through her as she imagined Lucien picking up the scraps she’d left behind. Of realizing yet another woman he’d cared for had left him.

He’d love again, she told herself firmly.

It would have been a kindness to leave him alone. To let Lord Nolan walk her back to her cottage, eyes gleaming when he reached the threshold, just as Lucien had done the night before. And the irritation that bordered on rage when she closed the door firmly in his face with little more than a bow and a murmured thank you.

She stared at the window, noting how he trampled through her garden purposefully before making his way back down. Petulant. Spoiled and cruel. She wanted to be sure he was long gone before she made her way back down to Lucien’s bed—just as she promised.

Fingers gripped her arms, a hand pressed over her lips to suppress a rising scream. “He’s gone,” Lucien whispered against the back of her neck.

“How—”

“I thought he might try something at the door,” he said, letting her twist in his arms. “And I’m terribly jealous.”

“I had it under control,” she told him, unable to pretend she didn’t like the sight of him in her little cottage again. “Who is manning the bar?”

“A friend who is almost certainly robbing me,” he replied cheerfully. “When I said I needed to go so I could defile my new wife, everyone was understanding—”

“You did not say anything of the sort.”

“I implied it,” he replied with that unapologetic grin. “Heavily.”

“I take it you aren’t hoping for a long, drawn out engagement?” she asked dryly.

“I’ll marry you in the morning,” Lucien replied, his voice husky from wanting. “I’ll wake the priestess and marry you right now, if that’s what you want.”

Lucien reached into the pocket of his pants and procured the thing Graysen had been looking for earlier. It seemed far too nice for a simple barkeep to own. The ring Lucien slid against her finger was made of gold, with a pretty orange stone shaped like a bright summer sun now perched against her skin.

“It was my mothers,” he told her, his eyes so impossibly soft. Elain didn’t dare ask if he’d once given it to the other woman—and taken it back when she died. “And now it’s yours.”

She was fooling herself. Elain tried to twist it off, to give it back but Lucien took a healthy step away from her, palms raised. “It’s yours,” he repeated, his eyes flashing with warning.

“Lucien, I…”

“I know,” he said, though he didn’t. He didn’t know at all—didn’t know tomorrow she'd begin brewing a tasteless, colorless poison and as soon as it was done she’d free herself of the curse that bonded her with the worst man she’d ever met. And he didn’t know that because she was doomed to complete this task, she would be forced away from the best one she’d ever met.

That even if she could somehow stay, he’d notice she wasn’t aging one day. That every year he got older while Elain remained exactly the same. No matter what, fate would drag her away from Lucien Vanserra.

It felt so obscenely unfair. Elain looked up at him, wanting more than anything some loophole that would allow her to keep him. She was already drowning in her regrets—what were a few more? She brought her mouth to his, pulling him down as his arms snaked around her waist. Lucien responded immediately, moaning softly when he felt her pressed wholly against him.

He hoisted her into the air easily, like she was weightless and made of nothing but air. Elain wrapped her legs around him, squeezing until he moaned again. Everything she did was merely accidental, hoping he liked the way she touched his back, his hair, his shoulders. Lucien, it seemed, like anything at all so long as she opened herself for him so he could taste.

She hadn’t realized he was walking until they both fell sideways, still wrapped around the other. He’d brought her to bed—just as he’d promised the night before. Elain hadn’t saved herself for any special reason. It had merely worked out that way. She was so focused on killing the hunter destined to try and kill her that she’d had no time to consider romance.

Lucien pressed her into the blanket, grinding against her so she could feel his arousal, just as she’d felt the night before.

“Are you going to let me touch you tonight?” she gasped, arching her neck so he could kiss her there, too.

“Eventually,” he growled. Didn’t he want her to touch him? Elain slid her hand down his clothed chest, trying to thwart him. He grabbed her wrist and pulled it over her head.

“If you touch me, I’ll lose myself,” he told her, kissing her until she was breathless. “I won’t let you stop, and there are things I want to do first.”

“Like what?” she asked, trying to imagine what might take precedent. “I want to touch you. I want to see you.”

Lucien released her to straddle her hips. Eyes locked on her face, he reached for his tunic and pulled it over his head. His body was lovely—all smooth, golden brown skin and lovingly carved muscle. When had he found the time, she wondered? As far as Elain knew, Lucien was always behind the bar of his tavern, monitoring the festivities and doling out food and drink. She’d seen him drinking often, and yet when she reached up to run her hand down his toned stomach, she found herself touching a man who very clearly had dedicated a lot of time honing his body.

She wasn’t complaining. Not when the carved vee at his hips was pointing toward the prominent bulge in his pants. She wanted to touch that, too, and knew Lucien wasn’t going to remove them for her.

He was already reaching for the buttons trailing the front of her dress, put there for ease over style.

“You didn’t finish,” she complained, pulling at the laces of his trousers. Lucien’s hips bucked into nothing as he ground his teeth together.

“You first,” he rasped, pushing the sleeves of her now billowing, open dress off her arms. Elain arched up, pressing her stomach against his cock which earned her another soft, delicious moan.

Elain let herself pretend what was happening was real. That they were two newly engaged lovers finally giving in to the simmering passion between them. Assured he wouldn’t leave her stranded at the altar, that they could have this now.

“Is this what I can expect all the time?” she teased as Lucien made quick work of her underthings.

“An eternity of it,” he swore in the dark. Elain only smiled, turning her head into her hair so he wouldn’t see. He had no idea how wrong he was—but oh, she half wished he was right. At best, if everything went perfectly, Lucien could be assured a decade. At worst, he had a week.

What would her sisters say if they knew how she was altering her plans? For a mortal man, no less—the thing their father had been when he’d so cowardly left their mother to burn on that pyre.

They weren’t here. They’d spit up, were still bound by the borders they’d drawn in Feyre’s blood and whatever she did was between her and the great goddess. It was only Elain and Lucien, back to kissing in the dark. Skin to skin, arms wrapped around the other like they might vanish into mist and shadow if they let go.

She could have stayed like that forever. Ignoring the pooling arousal in her stomach and her own excited need, kissing Lucien felt like the answer to a question Elain had been asking herself her whole life. Like he’d been made specifically for her and her alone—the way she wanted him ought to have frightened her.

And she wondered, as his mouth began to trail down her neck again, licking and sucking and biting, if he wouldn’t understand what she was. If he wouldn’t accept it, even. Her father had, albeit cowardly and without true love. But Lucien…

“Lucien,” she whispered just as he licked her peaked nipple. She was going to tell him, she swore. He looked up, russet eyes bright in the waning moonlight pouring through the window.

“Yes?” he replied softly, his breath fanning against her skin.

Maybe she was a coward, too. Because Elain merely raked her fingers through his hair, snagging on one of the careful braids she liked so much. Maybe he’d accept her—maybe he’d still want her, would still marry her and love her.

But maybe he wouldn’t. And she couldn’t leave it to chance. Not when the witch hunter was on the loose and not when men always believed other men. Lucien could tell—and Graysen would believe him.

“Don’t stop,” she said instead, parting her legs wider so he could fully lay between them.

“I couldn’t even if you begged,” Lucien admitted, running his hands down her sides. His words thrilled her beyond anything—the idea that he was so ruined, so wrecked, that this was the only path forward.

“Gods, Elain,” he breathed, teasing both breasts with those clever fingers she liked so much. “I’ve been thinking about this for so long…what I’d do, if I ever had you here.”

Elain exhaled. “And?”

“I feel brand new,” he said, sliding further down her body, even as his hands remained, drawing soft moans from her. Elain’s hips undulated beneath him, and when Lucien pulled himself up just a little, she could see the slick patch of her arousal gleaming against the trail of copper hair just beneath his navel.

Lucien reclined back on his haunches, hands moving to her thighs to spread her wide open. Elain squirmed beneath his gaze, but Lucien didn’t budge, drinking her in as though she were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“I’ve had your taste burned in my mouth all day,” Lucien whispered, lowering himself so slowly, still looking at her spread apart with ravenous hunger. “It’s all I’ve thought about.”

“You’re going to eat me?” she questioned. Lucien kissed her cunt, unaware of how his lips against the most intimate part of her sent a thrill shivering up her spine.

“I’m going to devour you,” he swore.

He gave her no reprieve, no chance to demand he explain before his tongue replaced his lips and he was licking her with wild, desperate abandon. Nothing in her entire life had ever felt half as good as his mouth—as his fingers holding her open as he slid up and down her aching, swollen cunt.

She wanted to make it last and she knew she couldn’t. Not tonight, maybe not if she had a hundred nights with him. And from the way Lucien’s hips were bucking against the mattress, rubbing as though to alleviate his own ache, she doubted he could, too. Elain gripped his head, pushing and pulling alternately to keep him flush against her, to keep his tongue flat against her clit.

Lucien groaned every so often, the sound vibrating through her. Elain rolled into him, chasing the bright, burning release unspooling through her until she couldn’t stop—until she screamed so loud she was sure the village must have heard. Lucien pulled himself off her as she drifted boneless in the dark until the warm, solid weight of his body resettled her.

Lacing his fingers through her own, Lucien whispered, “One moment of pain—just one—for an eternity of pleasure.” She hadn’t realized he’d removed his pants, couldn’t be sure when it had even happened. She certainly felt the proof of it, lined against her soaked cunt, pressing into the opening. She didn’t have the sense to ask what he’d meant until Lucien thrust the long, thick length of himself wholly into her body.

A bright spark of pain made Elain gasp, her eyes pricking with tears. Lucien gripped her hands, holding himself still as he kissed her sweetly. His fingers had been nothing compared to his cock, and the stretch it took for her to accommodate him bordered on impossible.

“Breathe,” he whispered. Could he feel the frantic thumping of her heart? “Take a breath, Elain.”

She did, well aware of how she tightened around him. Lucien’s own breath caught in his throat though he did a good job of hiding how much he wanted more, kissing her instead. It felt impossible to feel so much. He was in her, sharing the same breath, her body—her very soul.

She didn’t know how long they stayed like that, connected and unmoving as Elain let herself relax and unclench around him. And she wasn’t quite sure when the pain faded into a soft ache she just barely noticed when need crept back in.

Lucien didn’t release the hand he was holding when he realized she wanted more. Eyes searching her own, he merely murmured, “I love you.” She wanted to say it back. She wanted to tell him the truth and knew she couldn’t, not when she was hiding so much from him.

Not when she knew she’d have to leave him. Better to let him think she’d never cared. That the problem was her, and not him. Elain suspected Lucien would blame himself if he believed she loved him only for her to vanish. And she knew, without a doubt as he took that first, long stroking drag in and out of her body, that he’d look for her.

That was unavoidable now. She could see it on his face, peering from those russet eyes. He wasn’t going to let her go easily. Elain pressed her forehead into his shoulder and wrapped her free arm around his neck. She wasn’t letting go of his hand for anything and it seemed he wasn’t either.

Lucien stroked, slow and deep until they were both shuddering from the pleasuring building through them. Elain was taut, pulled by a thread deep in her gut—the one she often felt when she sensed the hunter. This was different, though she wasn’t sure how. Only that fear and hatred were the mark of the hunter and whatever magic wove around her heart felt like love.

It was.

Elain came with a soft cry against his lips, arching into him to take more. Lucien’s careful rhythm stuttered as his breath became ragged and desperate. The hold on her hand was so tight she wondered if he wasn’t bruising her.

“Elain, Elain, I—”

He came with a whimpering cry, face buried in the crook of her neck. His thrusts had become harder, deeper, like he was trying to bury every inch of himself within her. Elain took all of it, holding his gaze to silently say she’d take more. All of it—whatever secrets he had, she wanted them. They couldn’t be any worse than the ones she kept clutched at her breast.

Lucien collapsed against her boneless though hardly spent. She could feel the wild, erratic pulse of his heart pulsating in his cock, a match for her own.

“Holy gods,” he whispered, not bothering to withdraw.

Elain only nodded as Lucien brought their joined hands to his lips for a kiss.

“Lucien?”

“Yes?”

“Can we do it again?”

A slow smile spread over his face and as he dragged the blanket over their bodies, Elain couldn’t help the giggle that tumbled from her lips.

“We can do whatever you like.”

Elain woke up wrapped around Lucien’s body, tucked safe against his chest. They’d been up half the night, and judging from the way the sun filtered through the room, were missed in the village. A polite knocking at the door pulled them both apart, Lucien groaning as Elain slipped on some clothes and made her way to the front.

Before she dragged herself out of bed, Elain indulged in one soft kiss—one Lucien returned enthusiastically.

“I think it was fate to find you,” she whispered, earning a heart stopping smile in response.

The sister to the woman who’d given birth the night before had come for a pain tonic, and a little more herbs to help with bleeding. As she waited, Lucien stumbled into the front room, mercifully wearing pants, though little else. There was no hiding what was happening, then. The woman averted her eyes when she saw his bare chest and Lucien swore, vanishing back into the bedroom to finish dressing.

He pressed a kiss to her cheek and bade her farewell before winking at the woman still waiting on Elain’s couch. Word would spread like wildfire through the village—Elain and Lucien, together as husband and wife. If Lucien backed out now, he had the potential to ruin her reputation, though from the soft, rosy look on his face before he’d gone jogging for the village, Elain very much doubted he would.

It would be her backing out.

She thought of nothing else all morning. Long after her client had vanished and she began grinding and boiling her poison for Graysen, all she thought of was Lucien. She needed to focus, or she was going to burn just as surely as her mother had. Elain could not bare the shame of her sisters learning she’d been bested by a witch hunter—or that the cause of her demise lay at the feet of a mortal man who’d had the audacity to love her.

The urge to tell Lucien everything and beg for his help overwhelmed her when she made her way to the village. A vial of poison—strong enough to destroy half an army—lay in the pocket of her dress. She’d dressed carefully to draw no attention to herself and wound toward the market mid-afternoon where she knew Graysen would be.

All she had to do was convince him to invite her to another dinner where she might slip it into his drink and watch him die. Graysen was waiting, interrogating several older women with those dark, suspicious eyes. Elain couldn’t make sense of him—had no one taught him anything? Or was he so convinced of his righteousness that he simply didn’t care?

“Elain Archeron,” he said with a smile that was anything but friendly. The vendor standing behind a cart of assorted nuts averted her eyes, an apology etched in the harsh lines of her face. “You are all anyone talks of today.”

Her heart thudded in her chest. “Oh?” Because of her dinner—and the potential to betray one of their own, she assumed.

“Do you know the king forbids any unmarried woman from engaging in…” his voice trailed off even as his eyes raked down her body. “And any woman caught doing so is considered…fair game.”

Her heart picked up. “That’s a lie.”

Anger rippled across his features. “So sure, are you? Perhaps I’ll drag you before him and we’ll find out who the liar is.”

He gripped her upper arm, unconcerned with the utter spectacle he’d made before everyone. That was part of the humiliation, she supposed. If they didn’t know what she’d done by then, they certainly knew now.

“Or,” Graysen lowered his face, his breath foul against her skin. “Perhaps you are free for the takin—”

“Get your hands off my wife,” Lucien’s voice interrupted, snapping through the silence like a whip. “Step away from her.”

Graysen turned, though he didn’t release her. Elain’s heart thudded wildly. Wife—he’d called her his wife.

“Wife?”

“Wife,” Lucien confirmed, striding for her like some sunlit prince. “I married her in the dead of night last night because I simply couldn’t wait any longer.”

He angled his head toward the priestess, draped in blue. Teal eyes narrowed in calculation, as though to say I better see you later today, before she nodded her head in agreement to Graysen.

“Take your hands off her,” Lucien repeated, forcing Elain—and every other villager watching—to wonder what he might do if Graysen told him no. There was no deference in his tone. No respect. Only his blazing, unguarded hatred.

Graysen released Elain with a little shove, sending here stumbling toward him. “Rules are rules,” Graysen snapped at Lucien, who merely shrugged.

“Until the king forbids sleeping with your lawful wife, I think she’s safe.”

“Watch your mouth.”

Lucien offered a practically feline grin before sweeping into a flourishing mockery of a bow. “My apologies, your grace.”

Elain reached for his hand as Lucien straightened, the challenge on his face. Everything was going so poorly—all wrong, and not how she’d once imagined. Nesta and Feyre would have incinerated him by now. Elain was forced to be more careful which put her in danger.

Lucien slid an arm around Elain’s body, allowing her to slide her hand—the one that bore his ring—over his shoulder. Graysen noticed, his face rippling with hatred. He’d punish Lucien for this moment, of that she was certain.

Everything was far too tangled. Graysen stalked away, allowing chatter to erupt in the market once again. The pretty priestess held Lucien’s gaze before she approached. “We should get your documentation,” she murmured, cognizant people would be watching. “I’ve just drawn it up.”

Lies. Pretty lies for the ears around them.

“Lucien,” Elain tried to whisper, but he brought his face to hers for a soft, sweet kiss.

“This isn’t how I wanted it,” he whispered, soft enough she might have dreamed the words entirely. “I’m sorry.”

There was no helping what came next. The clasped hands, the vows spoken in the priestesses small temple. Lucien pledged his life for hers and Elain wondered what the mother goddess made of all this. It felt ordained somehow—as if the world had stopped breathing when Lucien spoke those words, and Elain repeated them right back.

A document was procured for Lucien, the date and time carefully altered to fit his lie. To the rest of the world, Elain had been married a full twelve hours already, and her night with Lucien was to be expected. No one in the village would have cared so long as he eventually married her, and Elain wasn’t convinced Graysen hadn’t made the whole thing up simply to soothe his wounded pride.

The whole thing led to a vicious, too fast coupling in the room Lucien lived in above his tavern. She hadn’t cared that he hadn’t taken his time with her, nor did she care when he’d merely lifted her up on his dining table and buried himself with one mighty stroke. She’d clung to him, his words still bouncing through her skull.

My wife, My wife, My wife.

“I’ll come to you tonight,” Lucien had told her in the aftermath, holding her face in his hands. “He won’t remain for much longer and then we’re free.” Elain only smiled, her poison burning a hole in her pocket. She’d nodded, thinking she should say something—anything—for what he’d done.

Thank you.

I love you.

I can’t leave you and I’m scared.

“I’ll be waiting,” she said instead, forcing herself out of his embrace. She still had work to do, still had to kill Graysen somehow. Maybe this was his dark, immortal gift—his brutal cruelty, his ability to destroy communities with little more than a pointed finger. His unending, ugly hatred. She supposed that made Graysen a perfect foil, given how Elain believed everything would work out. That in the end, she’d have happiness.

Peace.

She trudged back to her little cottage, her throat burning with emotion. As she worked inside, Elain began to practice how she’d tell Lucien. He needed to know, needed to understand what she was and why she couldn’t stay. He deserved that, after everything he’d done for her. Misery curdled in her chest as she pictured his revulsion, his horror.

By the time she heard his boots coming up the steps, Elain was a trembling mess. She went to greet him at the door, blinking back tears she didn’t want him to see. Not yet. Not until she’d told him, her voice clear and calm.

It wasn’t Lucien on the other end. Graysen pushed his way into her cottage, a sword on his hip. At the bottom of the path stood four sentries, lingering at the grassy hillside with matching expressions of boredom.

Elain’s heart froze.

“So. Married,” he said, eyeing the dried lavender hanging over her sink.

“Yes,” Elain agreed, still holding open the door. Night hung thickly around them, and Elain wondered how long before Lucien arrived.

Graysen guessed her thoughts. “You’ll be delighted to know that your beloved is currently entertaining a host of drunkards—my men are thirsty.”

She took a breath. “You have no right—”

“I have every right,” he whispered, spinning so quickly she nearly tumbled to the floor. “Did you think I wouldn’t figure you out? Witch?”

Elain swallowed. There was a sword at this side, but worse than that was the magic she knew he commanded—magic designed to destroy her. There would be no rescue, not from Lucien. Only her and her wits could save her.

Elain whirled, reaching for a vase at the end of the table. She smashed it against his face, moving far quicker than she ever dared before. She caught him off guard for only a moment before he whirled and slammed her to the floor with every ounce of strength he possessed.

“Fucking bitch,” he snarled as blood dripped from his face. Elain tried to stand up, but Graysen pressed his boot to her throat, choking the hair from her lungs. Elain clawed at his shoe, twisting to try and escape him, which only made him push harder.

“I am going to enjoy watching you burn.”

Blackness dotted her vision, pulling her into a dark abyss before she could truly fight back. Elain tried—oh, how she tried.

But in the end, Graysen was the victor.

Elain woke to the sound of weeping and wet stone seeping through the fabric of her dress. She groaned, only to find Graysen standing at the bars of the cell he’d thrown her in. Elain hadn’t even known there was a jail in their village. Daylight shimmered somewhere behind him, illuminating him brightly despite the gloom Elain found herself encased in.

“Just in time,” Graysen murmured, his eyes wide with delight. “I was starting to think I’d killed you.”

Elain ran her fingers over her burning throat. “Go to hell,” she whispered.

“You’re heading there soon,” he promised, pulling a ring of keys from his pocket. The sound of weeping intensified at his words, betraying that Elain would not be going to that pyre alone. Just as her mother had done.

As though he sensed the direction her thoughts were heading, Graysen said, “Seems fucking you wasn’t enticing enough to convince the barkeep to come for you.”

The burning in her throat intensified, though Elain didn’t let Graysen see. What had Lucien heard? She’d wanted to tell him the truth of the matter herself but perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered who told him. If Lucien knew and had hardened his heart toward her…Elain couldn’t picture it. Eyes closed, she let herself imagine Graysen strolling in, so smug despite his bleeding face. How he must have lorded it over Lucien that his brand new wife was a witch and he’d been made a fool of.

She could see the hurt on Lucien’s face, knowing he’d given her his mothers ring. Elain still wore it, though she thought she should take it off so he could have it back.

“Wait,” she breathed when Graysen stepped in. “Wait, you have me. Let the rest of them go.”

Graysen blinked. “You’ll all burn together.”

“But—but they’re not—”

Elain reached for him and for her trouble, was thrown black to the damp stone floor. Guards rushed in to bind her hands. She could hear them doing the same to the other pleading women who would go down with Elain. She twisted as Graysen pulled her forward, his face inches from hers.

“You should have taken what I offered when you had the chance,” he whispered. She hadn’t used any part of her magic while he was here, too afraid he’d realize what she was and come charging. But Graysen already had her, and for that, it didn’t matter if she confirmed what he already knew. Elain poured her magic outward, searching for the hunter.

All her anger, her hatred rushed out of her with enough force to slam Graysen to his knees.

He didn’t budge, though she certainly felt a twin reaction of groaning, twisting pain on the other end. A pulsing plea for her to stop from someone too far away to help.

She was going to be sick.

She knew the hunter was there—she’d felt him. She swore it, even as Graysen dragged her out of the dungeon and into the bright light of the village, Elain was willing to stake her life on the hunter somewhere among the crowd of villagers.

There was no joy on their faces. Not like when her mother had burned. No gleeful delight, no celebration. She saw horror and grief as five women were tied to unlit pyres.

No Lucien. That was for the best. Elain couldn’t stand the thought of him standing silent while she died before him. She didn’t want his cold indifference, his hatred, to be the last thing she saw. Elain closed her eyes when the soldiers came forward holding torches and willed herself to feel nothing. To give in to the curling smoke she knew would choke her first without ever feeling the licking flame. She could do that.

Amid the restless crowd murmuring in anger and the pleading women beside her, Elain swore she felt the ground shake. Rage—or something like it, silenced them all. Was it the goddess, angry she’d been thwarted by mere mortals? It was not Graysen’s place to kill Elain, after all.

The torch lit the kindling beneath her feet, warming the wood. Graysen was grinning, watching her with hungry eyes. He’d devour her, just as he’d wanted. She couldn’t look at him, and so she didn’t. Instead, Elain turned her gaze toward the horizon, and wondered what happened once she died.

Someone was coming down the hill, red hair aflame in the sunlight. His steps echoed in her blood as he pushed forward, eyes all but burning with hatred. Her husband.

Lucien Vanserra didn’t take his eyes off her, shimmering with magic she ought to have recognized the moment she’d seen him.

Lucien Vanserra—the man she’d been looking for her whole life. The first person she’d met when she’d come to this village.

And Lucien Vanserra, who spoke loudly as he pushed through the crowd.

“Untie her. Right now. She belongs to me.”

#elucien #elain x lucien #elucien fanfic #i just miss posting elucien #thats literally why this is here im just missing them #and i think this is my favorite thing ive ever written

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