winefields

[winefields]

vampire sucking blood from the inner thigh can be something so erotic and more vampire media needs to get on this train

look at this post with your eyes if you agree

[winefields]

come home, please :(

[winefields]

The Fidelity of Absence

Larissa Weems x fem!reader

A/N: this story had been a WIP since July 2023, I struggled to finish it because the emotions were elusive, hard to catch and harder to express. But sh*t happened in two years and it’s done now, in a way that feels right and true. HEAVY ANGST. READER HAUNTS THE NARRATIVE. PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK.

The knock came just as dusk began to settle over Nevermore. Shadows stretched long across the stone floor of Larissa’s office, soft lamplight glowing against the tall windows streaked faintly with rain. Her fireplace had died down hours ago, and the once-warm cup of tea beside her had long since gone cold.

She didn’t look up when the knock came. Didn’t speak. Whoever it was would either come in or go away.

The door creaked open. Then a familiar voice, quiet, uncertain:

“Larissa?”

She looked up slowly, her eyes narrowing the moment they landed on the woman in the doorway.

Marilyn Thornhill.

Red curls slightly frizzed from the weather, her cheeks pink from the cold, she looked exactly the same as she had a few weeks ago—at the funeral. Except now, she was clutching something in her hand, and she looked more hesitant than Larissa had ever seen her.

“I won’t take much of your time,” Marilyn said.

“I’m busy,” Larissa replied coolly, eyes dropping back to the paper she’d been staring at for the better part of an hour without reading a word.

“It’s not about me.”

“No?” Her tone turned sharp. “Because I’m fairly certain it usually is.”

A flicker of discomfort passed over Marilyn’s face, but she didn’t leave. Instead, she stepped forward, her boots clicking softly on the stone.

“She asked me to give you this,” she said.

That made Larissa look up again. Not fully. Just a glance. Cool. Suspicious.

“She?” she asked, like she didn’t already know who Marilyn meant.

“Yes,” Marilyn said softly. “Her.”

A silence pressed into the room like fog. Heavy. Thick. Unbreathable.

It had been three weeks since the funeral. Three weeks since she stood at the very back of the crowd, sunglasses hiding her swollen eyes, jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached. Three weeks since they lowered you into the ground and people said all the wrong things, as though words could soften the fact that you were gone.

Three weeks since she’d lost the woman she’d once planned to marry.

You’d been engaged for a year. You’d made it work somehow, despite the distance, the duties, the constant pull of Nevermore.

And then, without warning, you ended it.

No fight. No explanation. Just a trembling voice on the phone, saying, “I can’t do this anymore.” You didn’t even come in person.

You’d grown distant before that. Not cold, exactly—but quieter. You stopped answering her calls as quickly. You stopped sending pictures of your morning walks or your dinner experiments. She thought you were just stressed. Overworked. She thought you’d come around.

But then the breakup. Out of nowhere. And barely two weeks later, she heard from one of the staff that Marilyn had been seen leaving your flat. More than once. Late at night.

That was all it took.

Larissa connected the dots in the cruel, irrational way heartbreak often demands.

You left her. For someone else. For Marilyn.

Marilyn, who had smiled too brightly when Larissa had introduced you to her. Marilyn, who had always lingered a little too long when you were around. Marilyn, who now stood in her office with something in her hand and sorrow painted across her face.

“I know you hate me,” Marilyn said softly. “For what you think happened.”

Larissa said nothing.

“She asked me to give you this.” Marilyn stepped closer, hesitantly. “Told me to wait until… until after.”

She set the item on the desk. A small SD card. Innocuous. Fragile. A thousand questions in a plastic frame.

“I don’t expect you to believe me,” Marilyn added, her voice thin. “But we weren’t together. Not like that. She didn’t leave you because of me.”

Larissa’s jaw flexed. Her spine stayed straight. “You don’t get to defend yourself now,” she said. Her voice was deceptively calm, the way ice looks just before it cracks.

Marilyn didn’t flinch. “This isn’t for me. It’s for you.”

She turned to leave, her hands shaking now. At the door, she paused, as if wanting to say more—but she didn’t.

Instead, she left the office as quietly as she’d come.

Larissa remained frozen at her desk. The SD card glinted under the lamp like something dangerous.

She should have thrown it out. She should have locked it away in the bottom drawer with the photographs she couldn’t bear to look at and the engagement ring she hadn’t been able to part with.

But her hand moved before her mind could stop it. She turned the card over between her fingers. Small. Insignificant.

She wouldn’t watch it. She didn’t need to.

And yet—

When she finally rose from her desk, long after the sky had turned to navy, she slipped it into her pocket.

It was nearly midnight when she returned to her quarters. The silence of Nevermore was nearly complete at this hour, broken only by the soft tap of her heels on the stone floor.

She let herself into her quarters and leaned against the door for a moment, exhaling slowly. The stillness inside was familiar, but tonight it pressed in around her, unwelcome and suffocating.

Everything in the room was orderly. Controlled. Her world reduced to clean lines and routine. She crossed to the kettle and filled it with mechanical movements, setting it on the stove without even realizing what she was doing.

The SD card still burned in her pocket.

She hadn’t touched any of your things since the breakup. Everything was boxed up and sent back to your place, except for one drawer. A stupid, stubborn drawer in the nightstand that still held one of your sleep shirts and a half-empty bottle of your favorite perfume.

Larissa never opened the drawer. But she never emptied it either.

The kettle hissed behind her. She made tea by habit. Lavender. Honey. A drop of milk.

She removed her heels, let her hair down, and finally curled onto the couch. Her laptop sat on the coffee table, closed. Waiting.

For a long moment, she did nothing.

Then, carefully, she opened it. The screen glowed in the dark. The SD card slipped into the port with a quiet click.

A folder appeared.

One video file.

No name. No title.

She stared at it for a long time before her finger hovered over the trackpad.

Click.

Your face filled the screen.

Alive. Whole.

And the breath caught in her throat.

You were sitting on your bed. The cream blanket she’d bought for you at the winter market tucked around your legs. The sunlight behind you was soft and yellow, filtering in through curtains she remembered hemming for you one summer afternoon.

Your face was the same as she remembered it. Your hair unbrushed but lovely, your eyes searching the camera, nervous but determined. She hadn’t realized how much she’d forgotten the details of your voice. Not the sound of it—she could recall that in her sleep—but the shape of it when you were unsure. How your breath hitched a little. How you looked down between words, like you didn’t trust your mouth not to betray you.

"Larissa," you said.

And just hearing her name in your voice slammed into her like a weight dropped on her chest.

You tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and glanced toward the screen.

"I, uh… I don’t really know how to do these things. I wasn’t even sure if this camera was recording." You chuckled softly, but your eyes didn’t match the sound. They were glossy. Already swimming.

She remembered that laugh. The nervous one you used whenever emotions rose too fast, like you could joke your way out of crying.

"Remember that doctor’s appointment you really wanted me to make?" you asked, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. "The one you kept nagging me about, because I’d been feeling off for a while?"

Larissa didn’t nod. Didn’t move. But of course she remembered. You’d been pale for weeks. Complaining of nausea. Losing weight without meaning to. You’d waved it off—I’m just tired, Riss. It’s probably stress.

You’d always been good at pretending you were fine.

"Well… I did," you continued, your voice quieter now. "A few weeks ago. I didn’t tell you because… I don’t know. I wanted to be sure."

Your hand disappeared off screen, maybe rubbing your leg, maybe just needing something to hold on to. Then your eyes found the camera again.

"He sent me for tests. A lot of them. MRIs. Bloodwork. All of it."

A silence fell. You inhaled. Exhaled.

And then:

"I have cancer."

Larissa’s heart stopped.

The words hit like a punch to the ribs. She didn’t even realize she was gripping the edge of her couch until her fingers started to ache.

You looked down when you said it, as if the admission itself carried too much shame. Like you were apologizing for it.

"Pancreatic," you whispered.

The silence that followed felt deafening. In the background, the faintest sound—a heater clicking on? A clock ticking? The ambient details of a life you’d lived without her.

You forced yourself to continue.

"The doctor said it’s… it’s been there for a while. Months. Maybe longer. I didn’t know. Most people don’t know until it’s too late. Which is why most people—" You stopped yourself. Shook your head. You weren’t ready to finish that sentence.

Neither was Larissa.

Your voice dropped low. Flat. Like the reality hadn’t fully sunk in for you yet, either.

"It’s incurable."

The word sat on your tongue like poison. And still, somehow, you smiled again. That quiet, strained, heartbreaking smile that used to melt her on cold mornings.

"He gave me a few months. A year, if I’m lucky. But I don’t think I will be." You laughed again—dry this time. Barely a sound. "I don’t think I’ll have the strength to tell you, Riss."

You sniffed. Hard. Your eyes filled.

"I know you," you said. "You’d drop everything. You’d move in. You’d cancel half your life to take care of me. And I—I couldn’t let you do that."

Your shoulders trembled as the first tear slipped down your cheek. You wiped it away almost angrily.

"I made some research," you added. "It gets bad. Fast. I’ll lose weight. I’ll turn yellow. I might even shit myself."

You laughed bitterly, but it died in your throat and cracked into a sob.

"And I don’t want you to see that," you whispered. "I don’t want you to sit by and watch me disappear."

Another silence. You drew a long, shaking breath and looked directly into the lens.

"I’m sorry, Larissa."

Larissa felt her chest splintering. A deep, aching crack along the sternum. Her lungs burned.

"Humans are fragile creatures," you said with the ghost of a smile. "I love you."

Just then, there was a faint sound from off-camera. A voice—soft, indecipherable. Larissa couldn’t make it out. You turned your head, nodded, and wiped your eyes.

The screen cut to black.

And Larissa didn’t move. The laptop screen glowed softly against her face. Her hands were clenched so tightly on the mug of tea that her knuckles were white.

She couldn’t breathe.

She set the mug down. Rose to her feet on legs that barely felt like her own.

She crossed the room and uncorked the bottle of scotch she’d kept hidden behind the books.

Poured herself two fingers.

Downed it in one go.

The burn did nothing to stop the ache rising in her chest.

Another pour. She hesitated. Didn’t drink. Not yet.

Instead, she walked back to the couch. Sat. Her mouth was dry. Her throat tight.

The next video started automatically.
Larissa almost wished it hadn’t.

You were sitting in the same place. Your bed. Same throw blanket tucked around your legs, same lighting—though this time the sun behind you was duller, filtered through gray clouds. A different day. A worse one.

The first thing Larissa noticed was the change in your face.

You’d lost weight. Not dramatically, not yet—but enough. Your cheeks were a little hollower. Your collarbones a little more defined under the loose shirt you wore. You had dark shadows under your eyes. She saw it immediately. She knew you well enough to notice even the most subtle change.

You glanced toward the camera with a tired half-smile, and something inside her broke.

"Hey," you whispered. “I, uh… just got back from my first chemo appointment.”

You lifted your arm slightly to show a catheter taped to it. A PICC line. You touched it absently, the way you used to fidget with your engagement ring when you were nervous.

“It’s not curative,” you explained. “They’re just hoping to manage the symptoms. Slow things down. Give me a little more time.”

Larissa gripped the edge of her seat, the leather creaking beneath her fingers. She didn’t know whether it was rage or heartbreak she felt more—rage that you went through this alone, heartbreak that you thought you had to.

"I’ve been sleeping a lot," you said with a soft laugh. "The anti-nausea meds knock me out. Which is… honestly a blessing. I don’t want to be awake much these days."

You smiled like it was a joke. Like any of this was funny.

You pressed two fingers to your forehead. Larissa knew that gesture—you’d had a headache. You always did that when pain throbbed behind your eyes.

"I’m sorry I broke up with you," you whispered suddenly.

It was the first time you’d said it outright. Larissa’s throat closed.

“I knew if I told you, you’d try to fix it. That’s who you are. But this… this isn’t fixable. It is just ugly. And I didn’t want your last memory of me to be a hospital bed. Or worse.”

You laughed again, a little sharper this time. You looked off camera, blinking fast.

“I sound like I’m trying to write some tragic romance novel. God, that’s not what I wanted.”

You looked back at the camera, more serious now. And smaller, somehow. There was something fragile in your voice.

“I just wanted to keep the best parts of us intact. Even if it meant… ending things while we were still in love.”

A silence. Your lips pressed together. Your eyes glistened.

“I love you,” you said. “God, I still love you.”

You nodded at someone offscreen again. Then the video cut.

Larissa exhaled, a sound more like a gasp than a sigh. Her hand trembled as she reached for her glass.

But she didn’t drink.

Instead, she dragged her palm across her face, fingers pressing hard into her eyes, as if she could push back the tears forming there.

She didn’t let them fall. Not yet.

The screen shifted. The next video began.

This time, you didn’t say hello.
You were already speaking when the video started, your voice quiet and distracted, like you hadn’t known the recording had just begun.

“—two weeks since the last round. I’m… managing.”

You were not managing.

Larissa’s stomach clenched as she looked at you.

The change was sharp now.

You had lost more weight. Your eyes looked sunken, and the whites were slightly yellowed. Your skin, once warm and flushed with life, had taken on that unmistakable waxy tone Larissa remembered from the hospice patients she had volunteered with in university. Your hands shook slightly as you adjusted the blanket around your shoulders.

“I’ve been thinking about what you’d say if you saw me like this,” you murmured. “Probably something sarcastic. ‘You look terrible, darling. But I suppose you're still mine.’”

Your smile faded.

“I don’t feel like yours anymore.”

The words were soft, so soft they almost got lost in the quiet hum of the recording.

“I feel like… a ghost wearing my own skin.”

That was when Larissa pressed pause.

She couldn’t—just for a second, she couldn’t.

Her hands gripped the sides of the laptop. Her breath turned unsteady, shaky in her throat. Her heart pounded so violently she could hear it in her ears.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and pressed her fingers to her mouth.

You were wasting away.

You were alone.

And she—she had been here. Furious. Cold. Convinced you had left her for someone else. That you had betrayed her. She hadn’t even called.

She had gone out of her way not to call.

Because pride, and pain, and that awful gnawing feeling of abandonment had wrapped their arms around her and whispered, if she really loved you, she would’ve stayed.

But you had loved her.

Enough to let her go.

She reached for the glass again, lifted it—but couldn’t drink.

Instead, she hit play.

The next few recordings blurred into one long descent.

Each was quieter. Shorter. Your voice raspier, your words more fragmented. Sometimes you didn’t bother brushing your hair. Sometimes you forgot to look at the camera. One time, you fell asleep mid-sentence, your breath shallow, your mouth parted slightly. Larissa had watched anyway. All of it. Every second.

She watched the way your skin yellowed. The way your bones jutted from your wrists. The way your smile grew dimmer, like the slow flicker of a candle guttering out.

The last recording started without warning.

Your face appeared on the screen. Gaunt, ghost-pale against the pillow. The blanket was pulled high, tucked beneath your chin, your head lolling slightly to the side. You looked small. So impossibly small. Almost unrecognizable, and yet still you.

Your lips moved before sound came. Then, breathlessly, you whispered, “I think… I think this is the last one.”

You blinked slowly, like even that took effort. It took nearly ten seconds before you could speak again.

“I’m sorry…” you began, then coughed. A wet, tearing sound that made Larissa flinch. Your body shuddered with the force of it.

Then—

Someone entered the frame.

A redhead.

Marilyn.

Hair tied in a messy knot, a glass in her hand. She moved without hesitation, lowering herself beside you, bringing the straw to your lips. You sipped, barely able to hold the glass yourself.

Larissa froze the video.

For a long moment, the image sat there—Marilyn gently cradling your head, your eyes half-closed in exhausted thanks.

Larissa’s throat burned.

She had hated Marilyn. Accused her. Blamed her for stealing you. For poisoning the end of everything. And now, here was the truth:

Marilyn had been with you.

Not as a lover. Not as a thief.

As a caretaker.

A friend.

A witness.

The weight of that realization hollowed her out like a blade dragged through soft earth.

She pressed play again.

Your lips moved.

“Thank you,” you murmured to Marilyn, barely audible.

Then, with surprising clarity, your gaze found the lens.

“If this is the last one, then…”

A pause. You swallowed. Tried again.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry if I ever caused you pain.”

Another cough cracked through you, and this time Marilyn gently laid a hand on your arm, steadying you as your chest shook. Your lips trembled.

“I didn’t want to leave like this,” you whispered. “I didn’t want to become… someone else.”

Larissa could barely see the screen anymore. Her vision swam.

“I wanted you to remember me when I still laughed.“

Your mouth quirked, just slightly.

“I love you, Larissa.”

You didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch.

“Always have. Always will.”

The screen went black.

The silence that followed was complete. Deafening.

Larissa didn’t move.

She didn’t know how long she stared at the blank screen, the outline of your last image still ghosting behind her eyes. Her hands were locked around the whiskey glass, but she couldn’t lift it. Couldn’t drink. Couldn’t breathe.

The lump in her throat cracked wide open.

The first sob broke from her like something torn loose. Ugly. Loud. Guttural.

She buried her face in her hands and wept.

Not with the grace she imagined she might one day possess—no. This was broken, keening grief. The kind that wracked the body and made the walls feel too close, the air too thin. She sobbed until her whole frame shook. Until she couldn’t tell if she was crying for you, or for herself, or for the life that never got lived.

She cried until her voice was hoarse and her chest ached with it.

Until the storm passed, not because it ended, but because she had no more strength to carry it.

When the quiet finally came, it was hollow and still.

She wiped her face on her sleeve. Her eyes were raw. Her throat scorched.

The laptop glowed beside her.

She closed it gently. Reverently. Like laying a body to rest.

Then she rose.

Her legs were stiff. Her shoulders sore. The clock on the wall read something past three in the morning.

She slipped her shoes back on with mechanical care, ran her fingers through her hair, and crossed the cold, echoing hallway of the staff quarters.

She stopped outside a door painted the same pale color it had been for years.

Lifted her hand.

Knocked.

Nothing.

She knocked again, softer.

The door creaked open.

Marilyn stood in the doorway, blinking sleepily, her curls even more unruly than usual. She wore purple pajamas with tiny frogs on them. They were absurd. And human. And oddly tender.

Marilyn’s expression shifted when she saw Larissa. Confusion. Concern.

And then—

Larissa stepped forward. Arms opened, and wrapped them around the woman she had once loathed.

Marilyn froze for half a second.

Then embraced her back.

Tight.

Warm.

Larissa’s voice, when it came, was raw and hushed.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For taking care of her.”

Marilyn didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

She only held on tighter.

-

The cemetery was too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet. The kind that pressed against your ribs like a weight, like it knew what you were carrying and didn’t care to ease it. Just wind, and the brittle whisper of leaves skittering across headstones, and the rhythmic sound of Larissa’s heels on the gravel path.

She hadn’t been here since the funeral.

Couldn’t.

Not because she didn’t want to. But because there was something final about returning. Something that made your death real in a way the recordings never could. Those videos, she could pause them. Rewind. Pretend. Imagine you were still somewhere in the world, waiting. Healing. Sleeping.

But this.

This was stone.

This was silence.

The grave sat beneath a willow tree, just off the path. The headstone was smooth and simple, carved with your name and the dates that made Larissa’s stomach twist.

There were fresh flowers already there. Someone had come before her. Probably Marilyn. She didn’t mind.

She stood for a long while, just looking. Breathing. The wind tugged softly at the bouquet of pale blue forget-me-nots cradled in her arms.

“You were right,” she said eventually. Her voice was low. Steady. “You knew I would’ve come. Dropped everything. Dragged you to specialists in Switzerland. Flown in charlatans and miracle workers. Denied it until the very end.”

She knelt down slowly, brushing a few fallen leaves from the base of the stone. She laid the forget-me-nots beneath your name with tender fingers.

“I would’ve tried to fix it,” she whispered. “And I wouldn’t have known how to let go.”

Her throat caught, just a little. She didn’t fight it this time.

A silence passed. A bird called somewhere far away. The breeze carried the smell of moss and cold stone.

She leaned forward, pressed her forehead gently to the marble.

“I hope you weren’t scared,” she whispered.

It broke something in her to say it.

She stayed like that for a while, head bowed, hand resting against your name.

The same hand that once held you as you slept. That once curled around your waist on cold mornings and poured your tea and held your chin when you were too tired to lift your head.

She missed you. Still.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “For not calling. For thinking the worst. For leaving you to face it alone.”

A pause.

Then:

“Thank you. For loving me the way you did. For protecting me, even when I didn’t deserve it.”

She brushed her thumb across the top of the headstone.

“I’ll keep you with me,” she said. “In the quiet moments. In the small ones. I’ll try to remember you with laughter. Not grief.”

The sky was pink now. Fading toward evening.

She stood slowly. Smoothed her coat. Took one last look at your name.

“I love you,” she said. “Always have. Always will.”

Larissa took one last look at the stone, then turned around—leaving you there, body buried in the quiet earth, and carrying the rest of you with her.

————————————————————————-

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[winefields]

The pose I hit when Gwendoline Christie finally posts after a decade. (Thank you..... I was so thirsty......)

[winefields]

Hi! sorry it took me so long to request! I was quite fascinated by your writing, really. (I read a few)

It would be a delight if you made a Larissa fanfiction based on the song “sleep talking” by Indigo De Souza. (it‘s one of my favs!) Perhaps, the reader is a few hours away from Nevermore and they have been married to Larissa for quite a few years now! Now, I was thinking Larissa hasn‘t been getting home for the past few weeks due to the daughter of her old roommate causing trouble and mayhem wherever she steps. So, Larissa hasn't also been giving them updates too, often sleeping after resolving the issue or working on a dozen paperworks. Hurt/Comfort perhaps? thank you! <3

Larissa Weems x Reader - When I get home

Summary: Larissa is a workaholic. She'd give up anything for her job. Luckily, her wife won't let her.

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: Based on the song "Sleep Talking" by Indigo De Souza, hurt/comfort, overworked Larissa

I drive down the highway with a tense jaw. I'm so done with this woman.

First, she tells me her old roommate's been pulling strings to get her daughter into her school. I haven't heard a single good word of said daughter since the day she arrived.

So what does a good, loving partner do when she has problems in her life?

That's right. She chooses work over her wife of 6 years.

On a cozy Friday evening, we lay together on the couch, watching whatever silly reality show we found at the time. Just like we do every weekend. That was, until she spoke.

"Darling, are you still awake?" Larissa asks, sliding her hand down from my waist to my hip. I only hum, as I was starting to doze off.

"Darling.. I think I'd like to move to Nevermore. Fully." She whispers, as if she's afraid that, dare she say it too loud, she'll scare me. Hearing those words wakes me, as I immediately prop myself up on my elbows.

Seeing my suprise, she adds. "Just for a while, my love. You know I told you about the Addams girl? She's caused so much trouble that my paperwork is piling up. And that's not even mentioning all the emails from concerned parents."

"But, Larissa.." I try to protest, but seeing the pleading look in her eyes, I give in. With a deep sigh, I mutter out an "...alright."

It was almost fine. Really. She has her own "dorm" to sleep in, she has meals prepared for her, everything should be okay. The only thing I asked of her, was to call me every night before bed.

Which she did, for a while.

Until she didn't.

She started calling less and less. I don't know what happened. Maybe she thought I'd be forgetful enough to not notice the occasional absence of the most important part of my day.

The "I forgot", "I was too tired", and the "I fell asleep early" excuses only worked for so long.

Eventually, she stopped calling altogether.

The last time we talked was now a week ago. It may not seem like much, but this is my wife, not a simple friend. 'Til death do us part feels a little weak lately.

So now, I'm here.

I got home from my shift, I ate, and I immediately got in the car. I've been driving for three hours now. There's a reason Larissa doesn't take this drive every day.

I ignore glances from any patrolling teacher or sleepy student as I strut down the halls, making my way to her room. I burst through the door with the frustration I've been carrying since she left, but falter at seeing the place lifeless.

Empty.

The anger shifts to worry.

Where is she?

I check in her bathroom, just to be sure, but she isn't there either. With my stomach turning, I hurry over to her office. The metal nameplate feels like an empty promise, yet it still gives hope.

I really am preparing for the worst, mentally. To see her laying dead on the ground, choking on her own blood. To see her with another woman, making love to her with a passion she hasn't given me in months.

But the sight that greets me once I push the door open isn't much better, either.

There she sits. My wife, laying on her desk, her head rested on her arms. Her laptop is still open in front of her, and papers are laid out all around her.

I immediately make my way to her side, concern overtaking me completely. On her screen is a half written email to the mayor, something about a donation? Doesn't matter. Larissa is passed out over her work.

"Oh, darling.." I mutter, turning to gather the papers together and put them to the side. I reluctantly shut her laptop as well, and kneel by her side.

"Rissa... Rissa, darling.." I repeat until I see her stir, tracing gentle lines along her spine. Larissa clearly doesn't want to get up, giving a groan of protest.

But she seems to realize the situation quite quickly, though, as she sits up. She gives me such a dazed look, unable to manage wide eyes in her sleepy state. "..you're here?"

"You cannot tell me you think I wouldn't check on you after a week of silence." I stand up from the ground; now that she's sitting up, I don't have to kneel. I cross my arms across my chest, almost offended at the thought.

"No, no, just..." she trails off, looking into the empty fireplace for a while. I don't press, just watch her face, waiting for her to speak. She lets out a tired sigh, before whispering. "..take me home?"

"Of course. That's what I came for." I pull her up from her chair, not bothering to put things in order. I leave everything behind as it is, guiding her down the halls, outside to my car. My steps are silent, as if I have to sneak around, but the slow clicks of Larissa's heels give us away.

I parked right by the entrance, having been prepared to leave in a haste. Though we're not exactly in a hurry, I just wouldn't want to drag Larissa all the way to the parking lots.

"If you don't mind a little risk, you can lay down in the back. Sleep a few hours 'til we get there. I'll go slow." I open a door for her and step aside.

After a hesitative glance between me and the car, she climbs inside and lays across the seat. She has to pull her legs tight up to her chest to fit properly, but it's still more comfortable than sleeping while sitting.

I shut the door and went to round the car, slumping inside the driver's seat with a heavy sigh. I start the engine and drive off without a word. Larissa's already kicked her heels off and put them on the ground.

"Darling, can you give me my phone?" I hear her say from behind me. I think about it for a beat, looking at my bag on the passanger seat.

"We left all your stuff at the school." I say. She hums in response, considering something before speaking up again.

"Then please text my employees that I'm gone." Her words trail off into a sigh, as I hear her shifting around, getting comfortable. Not even 10 minutes have passed when I hear her soft snores. She dozed off.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻ | ༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

Close your eyes, and take a minute to listen to the song. Imagine, Reader, the words you hear, are Larissa's thoughts as she sleeps.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻ | ༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

I lay in bed, curled around Larissa, listening to her steady breathing. Sleep avoids me, as I instead focus on keeping her comfortable.

But despite my efforts, she wakes. She looks up at me with hazy eyes, most likely confused at how she got here. She looks down, seeing the blanket wrapped over only her, tall enough that her toes peeking out.

"I carried you in. It was a little hard to get all that leg in my arms, but I managed." I stroke her hair, making Larissa realise that I've undone the pins from the curls.

She looks up at me with such disbelief, but I see the hint of gratitude behind her eyes. She doesn't say a word, so I reach over to my nightstand and hand her a bottle of water.

That seems to have caught her off guard, but she takes it from my hand with a nod. After taking a few sips, she hands it back to me, finally uttering a "Thank you, my love."

"Go back to sleep, dearest. I'll be right here when you wake up." Larissa contemplates it for a mere second, then pulls me up to her chest, all cozy, and settles into the pillow.

It doesn't take long for her to fall into a deep sleep. She's home now, and she's got her wife in her arms. Reunited with the things she almost lost.

Phew. So, um. When I said I'd post this today, I didn't think it'd turn into tonight (for me). I may have set the bar a little high with the deadline, so I'm really sorry if it's not the best. Not much hurt, but definitely comfort! @winefields I hope it lives up to your expectations. I'm not quite the most satisfied with it, but it was definitely a good thing to pass the boredom. Over halfway through, I realised It doesn't have to do much with the song, so I worked it into it to make up for that. If anything, you've got a reason to listen to the song! This is something I made, to help me see things better, so you can have this image as well. Thank you for reading!

[winefields]

Seven Days Til Fall (Part 7)

Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6 – Part 7

Read on AO3

Words: 6,666

Pairing: Lucifer Morningstar x Angel!Reader

Summary: You're an angel sent on a divine mission to retrieve a powerful relic that has been stolen from Heaven. The orders are clear: gain an audience with the Devil, make deals with them if necessary, anything to return that object to the Silver City. But Hell is not quite what you expected, and neither is Lucifer.

Trigger warnings: Mentions of blood and wounds, non-graphic mentions of nudity and sex, slight wing kink

Midnight approached, and you could feel the quiet shift, the final moments of the sixth day slipping into the seventh as you tried to define the complex emotions coursing through your mind.

Soon, you would be walking down the same path Lucifer had when they were still Samael, Heaven would cast you down and Hellfire would come. How much would it hurt? More than you could imagine, undoubtedly more than you deserved.

The unknown weighed heavily, yet, deep beneath the fear, lay something else –a strange, unexpected peace. The end of everything you had ever known was near and it felt as terrifying as it was liberating. This path would lead you to the Morningstar, and in their realm, you would live on. In Hell, you would be free.

Chants began resonating from the heart of the Silver City. You knew what that meant. It was midnight. The seventh day had begun.

The door to your cell promptly opened then, and you closed your eyes to take a few deep breaths. Masked guards unfastened your chains from the wall and firmly gripped your arms to put you on your feet. Your heart was thumping, your knees wobbling with fear and yet, you found yourself smirking.

The guards took you to the Pearly Gates where every angel in Heaven seemed to be present, gathered in vast ranks stretching out beneath the Divine Light. Their voices rose in an anthem, praising God's justice and the Fall of Evil, but somehow, amidst the celestial harmonies, you failed to recognise the fervour the same angels had expressed when Lucifer had fallen all those aeons ago.

Then, Heaven had rejoiced with absolute conviction; you had been the only one not to sing –so you had found out from Gabriel the other night. But now, as your eyes moved through the assembly, you noticed things had changed. So many angels were barely singing, murmuring the words with their gazes fleeting or riveted to their feet.

Somewhere in the distance, you caught sight of Camael. Their purple eyes were of those that refused to watch the scene unfolding before them, and their mouth was forming words but not of praise –it seemed more like a prayer, a farewell whispered in your honour.

Not far from them, Muriel had decided to join the chorus, but her expression was anything but celebratory. She looked almost as if she were scolding herself, disappointment shadowing her usually cheerful traits.

Finally, among the Archangels, Arakiel's eyes shimmered as if on the verge of tears, though their face remained proud and their lips moved mechanically.

Seeing all your former peers like this stirred a strange emotion in you, a spark of hope, and you couldn't help but think that maybe your defiance would mean something. Maybe someday angels would question these chains and silences, the fearful compliance. Maybe you wouldn't fall in vain.

After a lengthy look at the Silver City and a small nod to those you could have once almost called friends to assure them you would be fine, you turned to the Pearly Gates.

The members of the Divine Council and the Metatron stood unwavering on each side, smug superiority in their stance, although betrayed by a certain bitterness. They had wanted to see you obliterated in the Hellfire, not alive under the Devil's protection.

"Such a shame," Michael murmured with an edge of disappointment as you walked by him, though his eyes were the coldest you had ever seen them. "We had placed a great deal of faith in you. Truly."

You turned to him fully, your voice sharp, a determined look on your face.

"So had I. Shameful, indeed."

Michael's expression flickered, but you moved past him, facing the Gates. With a mighty surge, they began to open, revealing the edge of Heaven. You stepped through and considered throwing one last glance at the place you once called home, or maybe even saying something to the angels awaiting your Fall.

But what was there to tell them? Most of them would not listen, so you figured a resolute silence would be more meaningful and you stayed still, your wings held high.

Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted, became charged with a power greater than anything in the infinite universe, and you felt the Presence. God was now here, and though you knew the angels behind you were still singing, you couldn't hear them any more. It was just you and Him.

An overwhelming sensation engulfed you, hateful, though you realised it was not so different from the so-called love you had felt at the moment of your creation. Interesting.

God reached down and, with mighty strength, lifted you by the wings, holding you aloft in front of Him. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, the weight of eternity suspended in His hands, and you shivered.

"And thus we meet again," you said, your voice surprisingly steady considering the turmoil raging inside you.

God did not answer. He never did –not to you, at least. But His energy spoke for Him, and you understood the disappointment and blame emanating from Him.

You knew it would be useless to defend your case now, and you didn't even want to. You had said it yesterday, you would not ask for forgiveness any more. You also knew it was too late to demand an explanation and that God would not give it to you anyway. But you had things weighing on your heart and you would not see God ever again. You had to speak now or forever hold your peace.

"Oh, my God, why have You forsaken me? Here I stand, condemned for nothing but my mind and my heart. I was once taught You had love for Your children even while they were still sinners, that no sin was truly unforgivable in Your sight. And so I believed. I believed in a God who loved even those who strayed from the path, a God who longed for each soul to return to the Light, who would always be there to guide me. Instead, You hid Yourself and left only Your Law –Your confusing, irrational Law. How was I supposed to understand that what I was doing was wrong?"

Faced with nothing but indifference, you looked up at the sky, aimlessly searching for an answer.

"I was merely seeking the Truth. You knew the way that I was taking, You have tested me. Why not make me know my transgression and my sin if I was so corrupted? And if I was to follow You blindly, why did You not make me of steel and stone? Why did You allow me to feel? I have tried to faithfully serve You and now look at the danger I am in. God, oh, my God… Have I feared You for nothing?"

Again, your desperate words were only met with silence. You sighed heavily. Was it all the Creator, this omnipotent and omniscient being, could do? Order to be obeyed and cast all resistance away like chaff in the wind?

"If all of this was known to You… If this end was Your design, if that is what You truly are, then I cannot regret choosing for myself. I can see, at last, that, perhaps, this was always the way."

Against all odds, a small, sour chuckle escaped your throat.

"In fact, I realise it is quite alright. Let it be, Father. I forgive You."

There was nothing left to say, and God could hear no more complaints. Thunder boomed under the heavenly vault and then, suddenly, you felt your skin tear and your wings snap like dead branches, violently ripped off your back.

And so, like the fragile autumn leaf, you fell.

The world, the whole universe began to spin around you. You were nowhere and everywhere all at once. Light and darkness collided. Your sense of time blurred, and you weren't sure if it was slowing down, accelerating, or if it had stopped altogether. Moments flashed before your eyes, past and present merged. Memories flooded in –laughter, tears, warmth, and cold. Faces and places flickered like shadows. Home. Lucifer. Prison. Isolation. God. Joy. Despair.

Everything was chaotic, yet so clear. You saw every choice, every doubt, every moment you wished you could change. There was a cacophony of emotions in your heart. You were nothing yet finally becoming something. Fear gripped your heart. Relief washed over you. You were free, but the price was steep.

With no wings to slow you down, your body ignited with the heat of your descent. It burnt, but you felt nothing. Not yet. The pain seemed distant as if belonging to someone else. Your Fall appeared like a never-ending death but still you lived.

Your body flipped again, and, for the very last time, you saw the Divine Light and heard the angels sing. That only lasted a brief moment before profound darkness swallowed you whole, a ludicrous cocoon, protecting you for the final instants of your Fall.

You hopelessly tried to brace yourself for impact.

And then crashed into Hell.

Your ears rang with the force of the shock, plunging you into a deafening silence. Your eyes were clouded with tears but still, you noticed a shape coming closer.

Lucifer.

The Lightbringer was rushing to your side, followed by Mazikeen, and then ungracefully collapsed on the ashy ground.

Your ears suddenly unclogged when they did and the first thing you heard was a blaring, high-pitched shrill. It took you a moment to realise it was coming out of your mouth.

"We have you," Lucifer attempted to reassure you as they scooped you in their arms. "You are not alone."

Your blood quickly ran down their hands and arms, tainted their robes. You were squirming ferociously, too, trying to fight the searing pain, but they never let you go. If anything, their embrace seemed to tighten.

You weren't too aware of it, but demons, alerted by the bright light coming down from Hell's orange sky and the echo of your Fall, had started to gather all around, ready to witness the transformation they had all once been through.

Indeed, new wings began to grow in your back, piercing through your tender flesh. Your eyes snapped in horror and your hands clumsily clutched Lucifer's tunic and everywhere you could while your shrieking doubled, resonating through the whole kingdom. And yet the Morningstar held on, even when you scratched their face.

"We know, We know."

Lucifer knew their words were vain, but still they tried to console you and make the torturous transition somewhat easier.

"We know, little dove. Breathe, it is almost over. Shh..."

But you were panting, contorting in impossible ways, and your head was starting to spin.

It felt atrocious, and not only physically. The psychological pain was just as intolerable. You felt like a newborn violently snatched from the womb. You were lost, had no idea what to do with all that freedom, and felt an inexplicable need to crawl back to your toxic certainties, and to the places and people you knew, those who had once made you believe you were safe.

Lucifer kept shushing you as more and more demons gathered, and then it was done. Your Fall was over. You were no longer an angel.

Your pain was still very much present and your wounds were still dripping, but you were now too weak to express your agony. You felt like fainting and you vaguely heard Lucifer encourage you not to resist it. So you didn't, and your head lolled against their chest.

By then, you were too confused to fully register anything that was happening but managed to grasp a few things nonetheless.

First, Lucifer's scent. You hadn't noticed it before, but it was probably the best thing that had ever hit your senses –warm, comforting, grounding, with faint notes of amber and burned incense, and undertones of hemlock.

Then you felt their regal arms move under your body and lift you off the ground with ease, mindful to support your head and avoid touching your back as much as they could.

Lucifer paused once they were standing as if silently presenting you to their court. At that moment, you heard swords clatter and vaguely noticed from the corner of your eye that it was Mazikeen who had let them fall. And then, as Lucifer slowly began walking towards their palace, carrying you like a bride, you heard more weapons hit the ground and saw the demons around you line up. Even the Damned seemed to have stopped screaming.

Heaven had watched you leave with a walk of shame; Hell welcomed you with a guard of honour.

You were already in and out of consciousness by the time Lucifer took you inside. You weren't sure where they had taken you but felt them lay you on a soft and warm mattress.

Still, the contact with your back and newly-grown wings hurt and made you wince and hiss.

"Lucifer…" you whimpered pitifully.

"We are right here. We are not leaving you."

"Lucifer…"

"We know."

You thought you felt fingers graze your forehead, but it could have very well been the fruit of your imagination. You were delirious and close to fainting again.

And thus you spent a great deal of the night and early morning between states of consciousness. Once, you woke up to feel Lucifer plump the pillow you rested on, only to immediately fall back asleep. Then you opened your eyes again and saw the Morningstar waiting with a bowl of warm broth, which you refused –that scene actually happened twice and you weren't sure in which order. Another time, you woke up screaming and crying once more, widely agitated, and Lucifer stopped you from hurting yourself any further and wiped your tears.

That went on for what seemed an eternity, and you weren't even sure how long had passed since your Fall. You were exhausted, and if Lucifer was, too, they didn't show it.

"Relax now," they whispered eventually, trying to lull you to sleep once and for all. "Even God rested on the seventh day."

You felt a strange pressure on your forehead, warm and delicate, but were unable to make out what it was. And already, you were falling into the deepest slumber you had ever known.

You had no idea how many hours had passed when you woke up next, and there was no way to know. Several, you guessed, because your back had finally stopped bleeding and you felt your new set of wings settling in. They hurt like… well, like Hell.

Sitting up in the bed painstakingly, you tried to recall what had happened since your Fall. You didn't remember much, except for Lucifer's gentle hands and soft gaze, always present each time you had come to.

But once you were completely seated, you realised the Lightbringer was nowhere to be seen this time. You felt a pang of disappointment as they had said they would not be leaving but understood. They still had a kingdom to rule, one that had just welcomed a new immortal denizen; they couldn't possibly stay at your bedside all day long.

You took the time to look around you. The bed first, enormous and soft as clouds, was draped in dark silks and woven blankets, with intricate embroidery glinting like stars across the fabric. The bedposts were made of polished obsidian, each carved with scenes that seemed to dance and shift as you looked at them –figures falling and rising, like the story of every Fallen etched in stone. Pillows in dark red, silver, and black were piled around you, catching the faint light and making the space feel safe.

You noticed the grand furnishing next: a firepit, burning with the same Hellfire that had almost killed you yesterday; shelves, carved directly in the black marble of the high walls and holding ancient artefacts, books bound in leather, and crystalline vials containing swirling mists and colours you had no names for.

As you took in the room's subdued opulence, it dawned on you. This was no ordinary guest chamber. This was Lucifer's own sanctuary. The idea that the Morningstar had brought you to the one place most private to them made your chest tighten.

Your eyes kept scanning the room, and then, noticing a full-length mirror inlaid with gemstones nearby, you decided to stand up and take a closer look at yourself.

It took all of your strength to extricate yourself from the bed and to cross the room without falling. Your muscles hurt and your wings seemed to have a different weight than before; you weren't sure how to stand.

When you finally managed to reach the mirror, you couldn't help but gasp at your reflection. Bruised, burnt here and there, covered in dried blood, you hardly recognised yourself. Your robes, once pristine white, were now ashy grey and tattered. They barely hung on by a thread and you guessed the only reason they had been left on your body was to give you a semblance of modesty.

Then of course the biggest change in your appearance was your wings. Black with a slight mahogany undertone when the light hit them right and leathery, they reminded you of Lucifer's, though you felt like you didn't sport them nearly as well as they did.

After looking at your reflection for a while, it began to look foreign, and you suddenly felt the need to glance down at your body as if to make sure that what the mirror showed was true. And it was. You had no idea what to make of the emotions this new truth stirred. You looked half-dead, felt half-alive.

Absorbed by your thoughts –or better yet, the lack thereof; you rather felt absorbed by the silence post-chaos in your mind–, you didn't hear the door opening behind you.

"You're awake."

Despite its softness, Lucifer's voice startled you, making you look up to meet their gaze through the mirror.

"We were not sure you would wake up any more today."

You looked down at yourself again, somewhat ashamed by your dishevelled appearance –you were truly in no fit condition to stand in the presence of your new sovereign. You were also ashamed of the scratch you had left on their face and that they still hadn't taken the time to heal as well as of the state you surely had left their previous tunic in.

But Lucifer didn't seem to mind. They knew what you were going through and had already seen you at your worst. When they spoke again, their voice sounded even softer and almost hesitant.

"We brought you some new clothes," they said, putting the garments down on a nearby hassock. "We have also had some ointment made. For your back. Your wounds are not of the kind that Our powers can heal."

The consideration made you smile, but sadness quickly took over. Lucifer had fallen first, crashing all alone into Hell, with no one to dry their tears or soothe their pain, hence why they knew exactly what you needed. The mere thought was enough to break your heart.

"Thank You, Lightbringer. The ruler of Hell must know my gratitude towards Them is infinite."

"Please…"

Had Lucifer's tone been any weaker, it would have become beseeching. Their plea made your heart clench even harder.

"Do not be so ceremonious. Not now."

"I merely wish to thank my Lord for Their benevolence."

Without even turning around, you felt Lucifer tense behind you.

"You are not Our subject," they retorted as if wanting to berate you for even thinking such a thing.

"Am I not?" you asked, your smile widening ever so slightly.

Lucifer didn't answer that. You weren't their subject. They had said so once and hated to repeat themself.

"We will call for a servant to tend to your wings," they said instead.

"I would rather not," you replied without missing a beat. Your wings, just like your heart, had been mistreated too much. You would never let a stranger touch them ever again.

There was a moment of silence and you wondered if Lucifer understood your underlying request or if they would leave you to get by on your own.

But then you heard the distinct sound of a jar being opened followed by footsteps, and Lucifer's reflection appeared in the mirror behind yours while the air around you filled with the scent of honey, yarrow, turmeric, and arnica.

"We need to…" Lucifer's voice trailed and you heard them swallow thickly.

You understood they didn't dare to move the shredded panel of cloth that covered the space between your wings, so you reached with difficulty over your shoulders and pulled the fabric yourself to reveal your back.

The sight made Lucifer's breath hitch no matter how hard they tried to prevent it. Not only did you hear it, but you also felt the warmth hitting the nape of your neck, and your hair immediately stood on end.

Neither of you dared to speak or look at each other through the mirror as Lucifer scooped a bit of healing balm on their fingers and started applying it to your wounds, at the base of your wings. They were being extremely careful and you could feel their hands tremble, proof that they were worried they would hurt you.

Finding comfort in their touch, you slightly leaned back to let them know it was alright. Not that you weren't in pain –you were, deeply. But the pain was somehow easier to deal with the closer you were to the Morningstar.

Again, Lucifer gasped quietly. Your gesture could be considered daring, and they were evidently unsure how to react. Yet, soon enough you felt their fingertips trailing up your wings, along your sore muscles. You shivered then and found yourself unable to tell if it was more from the pain or that unknown feeling sparkling inside your chest.

Regardless, the sudden movement brought Lucifer back to reality, and finally their voice broke the silence, barely a whisper.

"We… I am sorry."

At these words, you finally looked up at Lucifer's reflection. You knew what they were sorry for –for forgetting about etiquette and the customary distance they should have kept between you two; for causing you pain, just now as well as days ago; and most of all, for not finding a better way to save your life than causing your Fall.

But what surprised you the most was the change in pronouns. Like many monarchs would, Lucifer never said "I" unless they were in the presence of someone they trusted and the matter was personal. And as you looked at Lucifer through the mirror, at the way their eyes roamed on the expense of your wounded back and wings, you realised they had made your Fall personal. You were personal.

You remained silent for a while, feeling the warmth in your chest spread further down. And once you were certain your heart and mind agreed with one another, you replied in earnest.

"I'm not."

It was now Lucifer's turn to lift their head. Their eyes found yours in the mirror, so full of emotions, filling with hope as their chin quivered. They looked so vulnerable, and you finally understood what that unfamiliar feeling creeping through your body and burning your heart was, for you realised you had fallen twice this week.

Down to Hell.

And in love with Lucifer Morningstar.

Slowly, steered by pure instinct, you pulled on what was left of your angelic robes, tearing them off your body, and revealed yourself entirely to the ruler of Hell. Your eyes never let go of their reflection as you did so, waiting to see their reaction.

It was immediate, though not exactly everything you had hoped for. Indeed, Lucifer averted their eyes, staring at the ceiling in despair, and you figured they felt as lost as you were. Still, you mustered what little self-confidence you had left and insisted, turning around to encourage them to look at you and this shattered body you offered them.

It worked. Briefly. And then Lucifer looked away again.

"Why are you doing this?" they whimpered more than they asked. "What do you want?"

Their question was legitimate. After all, the last time Lucifer had got too close, you had rejected them.

Once again moved by forces beyond your understanding, you reached out with trembling hands to seize the lapels of their robes. Lucifer stiffened, their eyes widening slightly, but they didn't pull away.

"To worship the Devil," you said your voice suddenly dropping to a lower tone you had no idea you could reach.

And as you felt the weight of those words settle in the air between you, you used their robes for support, pulling yourself up and closer, your mouth now merely an inch from their ear.

"Show me how," you whispered then.

Lucifer's body tensed even more, and you could feel the subtle tremor in their frame. You pulled back, letting your nose slide along their cheek, the barest hint of contact, before your eyes met again. This time, Lucifer didn't look away. Their gaze locked onto yours, and you could see the storm of emotions swirling in their eyes –desire, uncertainty, restraint.

In fact, it seemed that Lucifer doubted that you were in full possession of your faculties. They knew all too well how traumatic the Fall could be and were worried that your sudden boldness came from confusion rather than genuine want. They did not want you to later feel used, nor did they want to get hurt.

But you saw their pupils dilating, and that gave you enough confidence to cup their jaw, your thumb just under their bottom lip as you let the tip of your nose poke their cheek and your lips hover over theirs, testing the waters. The touch was light, barely there, but enough to send a spark of electricity through your entire being and make that building heat in your chest drop down to your lower abdomen.

Lucifer decided to take a chance then and tentatively placed their lips on yours, without moving them at first. But that was all it took to make their wings shudder and spread violently, an involuntary reaction that betrayed their carefully guarded control. The sight of their wings trembling made your heart leap. It confirmed everything.

Lucifer wanted you.

Encouraged by this knowledge, you inhaled sharply and leaned in, pressing your body fully against theirs, seeking out more of that intoxicating closeness. This time, you kissed them with purpose, and Lucifer responded in kind, their lips moving against yours with growing urgency.

When you felt the tip of their tongue against your mouth, you realised you were unsure what to do, but decided to trust your instinct and parted your lips. Lucifer let you know that this was the right thing to do with a low, guttural growl that made your knees weak, and the kiss deepened, your tongues meeting in a slow, passionate dance.

Without parting, Lucifer crouched slightly to wrap their arms around your thighs and lift you up. A faint noise of surprise escaped your mouth, and your own wings unfurled before a smile came to grace your lips as you realised the Lightbringer was carrying you back to bed.

They laid you down carefully, as though you were something precious –deeply fragile, but desired beyond measure– and, inevitably, your gaze dropped to the expense of cleavage now revealed as gravity pulled their neckline down.

They sat up and your chest heaved in anticipation as you waited for them to undress. And when they did, the sight stole the air from your lungs. Devil or not, Lucifer remained the most beautiful creature the Lord had ever fashioned.

"Magnificent…" The word slipped out of your mouth before you had even finished forming the thought.

Lucifer smiled then. But their smile was not smug; the pride you had expected was instead replaced by relief as if Lucifer had been worried not to be to your liking and had needed the reassurance that somebody would want them not for their well-known ability to engage in lustful sins, but because they found genuine beauty in their body and soul. And you did.

Lucifer leaned forward, their gaze tender, studying every detail of your face as if they were seeing you for the first time. And they might as well be, for everything you once were was no more and you were like clay demanding to be shaped anew.

Lucifer's touch was gentle, reverent, patient, so much more than skin against skin –it felt as though their very presence was seeping into yours, filling the cracks Heaven had left in your soul, and you were suddenly not hurting any more. You surrendered entirely to the moment, and it was as if time held its breath, the Silver City and Hell themselves fading away, leaving only the two of you joined in a space beyond mere existence.

The world indeed seemed to stop and blur, the air thick with anticipation, yet there was no rush, only a shared understanding that the two of you were breaking through boundaries that neither angels nor demons knew could be abolished.

"Is this alright?" Lucifer asked with care, their mouth nibbling at your pulse point.

Barely able to form a coherent thought, you nodded eagerly, desperately pushing your body against theirs with need. So Lucifer's smile widened before they captured your lips once more and let their nails rake along your arms, all the way to your palms until their fingers intertwined with yours and they brought your hands above your head.

And then you felt it.

What the Morningstar was doing to you was not too dissimilar to the earthly act and yet so different. It was something boundless, woven from light and shadow, a union of energies that transcended flesh. It was everything you had ever needed and even more, and, as you cried out loudly, you clutched their hands, happy to have something to hold on to and keep you grounded as you felt yourself fly somewhere so high you feared falling again.

"Lucifer!"

"Shh… I have you."

Never once did you feel abandoned indeed. Lucifer kept guiding you with unwavering tenderness and patience, understanding that this moment was delicate for you, a once-in-a-lifetime offering.

The intensity of your connection deepened, tension building as pleasure overtook you both. You loved Lucifer. You loved them so much. And you craved to tell them. But perhaps was it too soon for such heartfelt confessions, you weren't sure, and you couldn't speak anyway –your mouth was too busy either dancing with Lucifer's or chanting how good they were making you feel.

Still wanting to convey your feelings, you soon let go of Lucifer's hands, your own finding their way to their back, their waist, their hips and, finally, their wings. Lucifer's head dropped forward and the low, shuddering groan they let out then only spurred you on. You moaned even louder, your hips still rolling to move with theirs in unison.

Panting heavily, Lucifer cradled your head to bring you even closer while their free hand started stroking your wings, still scared to hurt you but wanting to give you the same pleasure you were procuring them.

And then, most unexpectedly, as if understanding your unspoken desires and fears and wanting to answer them, the ruler of Hell spoke the most beautiful words you had ever heard.

"I love you."

The words undid you, a sudden flood of warmth filling every inch of your body as you began quivering all over. The bliss made your back arch and you felt as if light exploded within you and you could see stars.

You screamed Lucifer's name and they screamed yours as their release followed, your wings shuddering uncontrollably together as the sensation rippled through your bodies in waves that seemed never-ending.

And then, as the wave ebbed, you both lay there breathless, utterly content, feeling a new kind of completeness settle within you. Lucifer's forehead pressed gently against yours, their wings folding protectively around you.

Despite the sudden weakness overtaking you, you wrapped your arms around their strong torso and pulled them closer, urging them to let their body cover yours. They did, and you smiled as their weight anchored you to the mattress and helped the trembling subside.

"You delivered me from Evil, Lucifer Morningstar," you whispered before planting a kiss on their temple. "And I love you, too."

You had lost count of how many hours you and Lucifer had spent making love before falling asleep in each other's embrace. Now you were admiring their peaceful state as they rested next to you, their expression still somewhat worn out from the intensity of this week's events but content.

After a while, you quietly slipped out of bed, hoping not to wake them up as you walked towards the hassock where they had left new clothes for you earlier. You picked the vestment up and the corner of your lips twitched slightly upwards.

They were silk, in a beautiful gradient from crimson red to obsidian black, too elegant for you. But what actually made you smile was how comfortable they looked and how thoughtful Lucifer had been, choosing a halter top that would leave your wounded back bare of any fabric.

You put them with surprising ease now that the pain between your shoulder blades had turned into a dull discomfort and walked back to the mirror to take a look at your new self. The demon that stared back at you was already no longer a shadow of your former angelhood, but a vibrant embodiment of freedom and defiance. The weight of God's injunctions was gone, replaced by the warmth of self-acceptance. You were finally home, and this was who you were meant to be. For the first time in your long existence, you felt utterly proud.

As you let your hands wander on the fine silk, Lucifer's voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

"Luxury suits you."

Your cheeks blushed at their words and you pinched your lips while they rose to their feet in one smooth motion and joined you, still naked. They, too, were looking at you with pride –rare would be the angels to take the Fall so well and recover so quickly.

Letting their fingertips graze your scalp with adoration before cupping your cheeks, they spoke softly.

"All that is missing is a crown."

You blinked and slightly pulled back to look Lucifer in the eye, rather shocked by the implication.

"Lucifer, I–"

"It is better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven."

"So it is. But Lucifer, my whole life has been spent in servitude. I do not have the makings of a ruler."

"I disagree," Lucifer countered kindly, their voice like honey. "Do you believe I would have gone to Heaven for just anybody? That I would have negotiated with my brother and missed a chance at revenge with my Father for someone I deemed unworthy?"

"Perhaps not."

You lowered your head slightly, feeling somewhat guilty Lucifer had given up on the opportunity they had been offered for you. But Lucifer quickly placed a finger under your chin and lifted it. You were to keep your head up in pride at all times now, they would not let you bow any more.

"But… What about your subjects? Will they not think me illegitimate?"

"You are one of them now, one of us. Are you not?"

"Yes," you replied firmly. Your scars were proof of what you had once been. You were proud of them, proud to call yourself a demon.

"Then they shall accept you and respect you as such." Lucifer paused briefly to stroke your cheek. "Only perhaps are you more deserving, and they know it."

"How so?"

"Because you knew the horror that awaited you and still chose to fall. And not because you were fighting for somebody else's ideals, but for your own convictions. It is most honourable."

"Is it honourable to seek to redefine oneself, to pursue freedom and… love?"

"Yes."

You let Lucifer's words sink in for a moment, then turned back to the mirror. You had much to learn about your new self and as exhilarating as it was, it was also dizzying.

There was still something bothering you, though. But you weren't sure what, and it made you furrow your eyebrows. Lucifer sensed your confusion of course and, as if reading your mind better than yourself, they offered a solution to your issue.

"You can change your name. If you'd like. Heaven does not have any more grip on you."

The possibility of creating a new identity for yourself, building a new life and detaching yourself entirely from your celestial origins lifted an enormous weight off your shoulders and you let out a long, shaky sigh.

It was a difficult choice, one you needed to make with care, but it didn't need to be made today. You had all eternity, and perhaps, you mused, the name would come to you as naturally as the decision to fall had.

Lucifer smiled as they watched your features relax, and they wrapped their arms around your waist. In that simple, familiar gesture, you felt the weight of your new world settling comfortably.

"There is no hurry," they murmured, their voice low and reassuring. "A name is only one part of who you are. All the rest, your choices, your dreams, your hopes… those are already yours."

"I have a lot to learn," you stated as you turned around to face Lucifer again. "You will help me, will you not?"

"Fear not," Lucifer replied gently, their eyes softening. "In Hell, you are allowed to find yourself at your own pace, without expectations. And I shall be there for you, forever."

"An awfully long time…" you joked, your eyes shining almost mischievously, though your words were intended to make sure Lucifer understood you would not take such a promise lightly.

"Mmh. Eternity has a way of slipping past when one has purpose," Lucifer replied, their fingertips sliding along your left wing.

"And have you found it, your purpose?" you asked, pressing yourself to their front.

"Oh, yes. And in time, you shall find yours, too, in whatever form it may take."

"I think I already have."

You placed a hand on Lucifer's chest and leaned in. The gesture, coupled with the confession, made their heartbeat quicken and they smiled before closing the distance to capture your lips in a tender kiss.

When you broke it for air, you realised life in Hell had resumed its course. The demons had picked up their weapons and were fighting again, the Damned wept once more. Hellfire burnt and ashes fell from the sky.

Quietly, you turned to the balcony and crossed the room to observe this realm you could now call home, this kingdom that would soon be yours to rule, by Lucifer's side.

You had so many ideas already, impatient to fulfil your new role, to govern these damned souls, to welcome them in the afterlife, and help them grieve Heaven. You would help them and, in return, they would help you. Everything would be as it should have always been.

Lucifer joined you, placing their hand on the small of your back, and the two of you stood there, bound by something that felt ancient, inevitable, and yet entirely new as if this day had been waiting for you both since the beginning of time and even before that. You let the silence embrace you, neither of you needing to say anything more.

There would be a time for crowns and names, for ruling and discovering yourself and the full extent of your freedom. For now, you had all you needed.

And there was evening, and there was morning –the seventh day.

A/N: If you’re interested you can find the link to the playlist I used to write this fanfic here.

A/N 2: This has been a journey and feedback is so important! Please consider reblogging and leaving a comment –perhaps giving me some lines you really liked, or discussing the religious references you recognized or the ones you feel you didn’t understand. I would LOVE to talk about this work with you all.

[winefields]

And it hit me, a few more days until Wednesday S2 begins streaming and we will no longer see and hear from her again.

[winefields]

Hi :) I hope you're well x I have just been drawing a Brienne scene where she is polishing her sword by a river (I've not seen GOT), and I love how peaceful an image it is. I was wondering whether you might write care to write something where Brienne is maybe escorting 'reader' somewhere, or protecting her, and reader 'dismisses' her for the night, expecting the knight to go drinking and carousing, but instead finds her taking solace alone, surrounded by nature, and finding her peace by taking care of the sword that has saved her life on many occasions. Maybe seeing that makes the (formerly irritable/aloof/demeaning of Brienne) reader see her protector in a new light x

Thank you x

Down by the Riverside

Brienne of Tarth x fem!reader

A/N: Thank you so much for this request, it’s always a pleasure writing for Brienne. I almost feel jealous of reader and that sweet moment. I hope this will do justice to your piece of art! 💙

You had expected her to be gone by now.

When you’d waved her off at twilight with a careless flick of the wrist and a half-hearted, “You’re dismissed, Ser,” you assumed she'd take it as an invitation to vanish into town—drink herself to forgetfulness, perhaps, or find crude camaraderie among the sellswords who had begun to gather near the village inn. It’s what most knights did when released from duty. Even the noble ones.

But Brienne of Tarth was not most knights.

You’re beginning to understand that now, though you’d spent the last several days pretending otherwise. The journey south had been long and dust-coated, her silent presence at your back both a comfort and an irritation. She was everything you resented about the world of swords and oaths—honor-bound, duty-struck, unmoved by the subtleties of politics or manipulation. A wall of virtue where you preferred open windows.

She hadn’t asked for your story, which was surprising. Most protectors tried to unravel their charges quickly, sensing either threat or advantage. But Brienne didn’t prod. She didn’t flirt. She didn’t indulge in gossip or even much in the way of pleasantries. She simply was—towering, loyal, and ever-watchful.

You had mocked her under your breath, called her “my shadow” and “the maid of silence.” You’d said cruel things when the path grew tedious and tempers frayed. She never responded. Only blinked once, as if to bat away the sting.

But now…

Now, you find her by the river. Not by design. You had wandered away from camp hoping for quiet, or maybe for some restless movement to shake the thoughts from your head. You hadn’t meant to seek her. And yet, when you step through the low brush and catch the glint of silver in the dying light, you stop short.

Brienne sits alone by the water’s edge, legs crossed, boots set beside her, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Her sword lies across her lap like a sleeping creature, and she moves the cloth in slow, reverent strokes across its surface. Not polishing for show, you realize. Not for the gleam. But for the care. For the memory.

You stay half-hidden among the trees, watching.

The river laps gently at her feet. Fireflies have begun their dance. And though you see the heavy exhaustion clinging to her frame—her shoulders slumped with travel, her neck tilted slightly as if long burdened—you also see something you hadn’t noticed before.

Peace.

She finds it here. In the solitude. In the way the world narrows to a single blade and a quiet stream.

You don’t know what compels you to step forward, but you do. A twig cracks beneath your boot, and her head lifts at once. She doesn’t reach for the sword. Doesn’t rise. Only turns her face toward yours, solemn and still.

“You’re meant to be resting,” she says, not unkindly. “It’ll be another long ride tomorrow.”

You shrug. “Could say the same to you.”

A pause.

“This is rest.”

You fold your arms, not out of defiance but for lack of anything better to do with your hands. She makes no move to hide what she’s doing, doesn’t stiffen or retreat. You sense she has no need to defend herself. Not from you, not from anyone. Her solitude is not shameful.

But you feel shame anyway.

“I thought you’d be in the village by now,” you say, sitting down a few feet away, unsure why you’ve decided to stay. “Drinking. Laughing. Sleeping somewhere warm.”

She looks out toward the river. “I don’t often find what I need in places like that.”

You examine her face in profile—strong jaw, soft mouth, windburnt cheeks. There’s a quiet dignity to her that you’d mistaken for arrogance. But now… now you see the weight behind it. The history.

“The sword,” you say. “You’ve had it a long time.”

She nods. “Oathkeeper.”

There’s a story there. You wait. But she doesn’t offer it, and strangely, you don’t resent her for it.

You glance down at the blade. “You polish it every night?”

“When I can.” A pause. “A sword that serves you well deserves care.”

“And does it? Serve you well?”

She finally turns to look at you—really look—and her eyes are a stormy blue, striking even in the fading light.

“It’s saved my life more than once,” she says. “But it’s not the sword. It’s the purpose.”

You blink. “Which is?”

“Keeping those in my charge safe.”

You exhale slowly. “Even when they don’t make it easy?”

Brienne’s lips twitch, but it’s not quite a smile. “Especially then.”

You’re quiet for a moment, digesting that.

She doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t remind you of your own behavior. She simply lets the truth lie between you, like the sword across her lap.

“You think I’m ungrateful,” you murmur.

“No,” she says gently. “I think you’re afraid.”

That strikes deeper than you’d like.

You scowl. “Of what?”

“Trusting someone who doesn’t want anything from you.”

That silences you.

Because it’s true.

For so long, everyone who stayed near you did so out of ambition or lust or hunger for secrets. Even those who claimed to care always seemed to take more than they gave.

But Brienne, she hadn’t asked for coin. Hadn’t pressed you for answers. Hadn’t even flinched when you lashed out in your exhaustion and fear. She simply walked beside you, sword at her side, gaze scanning the horizon.

And here she is. Alone in the woods. Polishing a sword like a prayer.

You swallow hard. “Why do you do it?”

She doesn’t pretend to misunderstand.

“Because once, someone believed I was worth protecting. And now I try to do the same for others.”

You feel something twist inside you—quiet and painful.

“No one’s ever said that to me before,” you say. “That I was worth protecting.”

Her eyes soften. “Then they were fools.”

You turn away, blinking too quickly. You hadn’t meant for this night to shift you. You hadn’t meant to see her.

But you do.

Brienne, not just the knight. Brienne, not just your shadow. Brienne, sitting barefoot by a river, cradling the sword that has saved her more than once, the sword she uses to save others.

You draw your knees to your chest. Sit in silence beside her, neither of you speaking.

Eventually, she returns to her task, the cloth whispering over the blade.

You watch her work, and for the first time since this journey began, you feel safe.

Not because she’s strong. But because she cares.

And that, you realize, is rarer than any sword. More precious than any armor.

She glances sideways at you after a while. “You should rest.”

“Maybe,” you say. “But I like it here.”

Brienne nods, once, then turns her attention back to the river.

You stay until the stars appear, and when she stands to leave, you rise beside her.

Not as her burden.

But as someone who sees her now.

And hopes, perhaps, that she sees you too.

————————————————————————

Taglist : @weemssapphic @cblanchetts , @valerielovebug , @schlaegerpaula , @suckerfortallwomen , @dingdongthetail @gwensfz @erablaise-blog @rainbow-hedgehog @renravens @kaymariesworld @niceminipotato @notmeellaannyy @weemswife @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 @redkarine @women-are-so-ethereal @opheliauniverse e @willisnotmental @raspburrythief @vii-v @fictionalized-lesbian @theboreworms @ness029 @geekyarmorel l @h-doodles @cxndlelightx @winterfireblond @nocteangelus15 @aemilia19 @theswordmaiden @spacetoaim22 @anbadann @vendocrap8008 @jkregal @mysteriouslysapphic

[winefields]

I miss this tall woman

[winefields]

Smiley Lucifer keeps tugging at my heartstrings 😖

[winefields]

hello!!! would you ever make an angsty fic with reader being cheated on by larissa ? hurt no comfort?

you want to see the world burn, don't you? well ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ here ya go!

what if i’ve lied

words: 1.1k | ao3 link in title hurt/no comfort, cheating, also mention of pregnancy. read at your own risk (but hey, it's short, so it'll be over quick!)

Two lines.

You can hardly believe your eyes. You think you should take another test, just to be sure. So many pregnancy tests taken over the past two years, each ending in disappointment and frustration. So many nights spent crying in Larissa’s arms, wondering if motherhood just wasn’t in the cards for you. Wondering if you should stop trying altogether. And now you’re in Ohio for a conference, in a little hotel room, after suffering from morning sickness for the better part of the week, having the biggest revelation of your life. Alone.

Larissa should be there with you, you think, and tears of exhilaration blur your eyes as you reach for your phone with trembling hands. 

You pause.

You should tell her in person — she’ll be elated. You could surprise her, come home early, have dinner waiting for her when she gets home from work. The conference is suddenly the farthest thing from your mind — you’ll say you got sick or something, it wouldn’t even technically be a lie, as it’s been a challenge to keep your breakfast down all week. 

Booking a flight is hard with how hard you’re shaking but you manage. You’ll fly home the following morning and take a taxi from the airport — if all goes to plan you’ll be home well before Larissa finishes work. The hardest part of your plan is staying calm when you call Larissa before bed that night, not telling her you’re coming home, not telling her you’re pregnant. Luckily for you, you don’t have to keep up the facade for long — she’s not feeling well and cuts the call short to go to bed, and you tell her that you hope she sleeps well. You know you won’t get a wink of sleep. 

~~~

Trees whizz by outside the window of the taxi, butterflies of excitement bat their wings against your ribcage. You feel like a teenager about to pick up their date for prom, a small bouquet of Larissa’s favorite flowers from a flower stand in the arrivals hall clutched in your clammy palms, faint remnants of nausea from your morning sickness belying the drive. 

You’re grateful for the hours you still have before Larissa gets off work, you’re going to need the time to calm down a bit and figure out exactly how you’re going to tell her. As the taxi turns onto your road, however, you realize you might not get much time at all — Larissa’s car is parked in the driveway, right next to yours. Your brow crinkles and you frown, you’d texted with Larissa before your flight and she hadn’t mentioned staying home sick or anything like that.

“It’s that one.” You point to your house and the driver stops the taxi at the shoulder of the road and gets out to help you with your suitcase. You thank him absentmindedly and drag it up the driveway, fishing around in the pocket of your coat for your keys. Unlock the door, step into the house, close the door, drop your bag to the floor.

“Babe?” you call out cautiously, wandering down the front hall towards the living room.

“Darling?” Larissa appears in front of you, in the process of wrapping her robe around herself, clutching the silk to her breasts in a white-knuckled grip. Her hair is mussed, long, platinum curls cascading messily over her shoulders, and her cheeks are flushed. Her eyes are wide, like a deer caught in headlights, and you frown at her. “You’re home early.”

“Don’t sound so thrilled,” you joke, though your voice falters a bit. 

Larissa’s gaze drops to the flowers clutched in your left hand. The stems are starting to feel mushy from how tightly you’ve been holding them with sweaty palms. Usually her eyes light up when you get her flowers, the gesture always brings a beaming smile to her face, makes her crinkle her nose. This time, however, her face twists into an unreadable expression and her shoulders tense visibly, one hand nervously smoothing over her hair. 

“What’s the occasion?” she asks, her voice hoarse. “Have I forgotten an anniversary?”

You falter — you both know that you’re the one who’s prone to forgetting important dates, Larissa is the one who always has everything under control. 

“No… no, you haven’t forgotten anything, I just…” 

Of all the ways you pictured this afternoon going, Larissa reacting like this wasn’t even an option, and now you’re starting to second guess everything, from coming home early to how and when you should drop the news of your pregnancy. 

“Riss? Who are you talking to?”

Larissa freezes, her eyes snapping shut, her throat bobbing as she swallows. A young woman walks into the living room, coming from the direction of the bedroom. Her short, black hair is just as mussed as Larissa’s and she has your robe tied securely around her waist. 

It takes every ounce of strength and restraint in you not to empty the contents of your stomach onto Larissa’s bare, pedicured feet. It’s as if you’re suddenly standing in some sort of tunnel, the silence around you ringing loudly, your vision going black at the edges, a bottomless pit opening up in your stomach. 

And Larissa isn’t doing anything. She’s just standing there, still as stone, eyes closed, as if pretending you’re not there could teleport you away. 

You don’t realize you’ve dropped the flowers until they hit the ground at Larissa’s feet and cause her eyes to open. Then they meet yours and you finally recognize the emotion that you couldn’t name before. 

Guilt.

“Larissa?” you ask, or at least you mean to — you’re not sure you’ve actually said anything aloud.

“Sweetheart, I’m s–”

“You said you were getting divorced,” the other woman pipes up, sounding hurt, as if she has any right to, and that knocks the rest of the air clear out of your lungs.

“We’re what?” 

Larissa pinches the bridge of her nose. “Charlotte, I think it’s time you leave.”

“No.” 

Your answer seems to surprise Larissa, and she falters. “Darling, what do you–”

“Don’t fucking call me that, Larissa.” The anger is taking over, thoughts of your baby forgotten for the moment. “Why don’t you let Charlotte stay — I’m already packed, I’ll go. She’s already wearing my fucking clothes, anyway.”

The momentum from your anger propels you into motion as you turn on your heel, ignoring Larissa’s protests as you tear back down the hall, fumbling with your bag, dropping it, shoving the spilled contents back inside, opening the door and pushing your suitcase out onto the driveway. 

Maybe getting in your car with tears blurring your eyes is the wrong move. Maybe not telling Larissa about your — her — baby on the phone last night was the wrong move. Maybe not hearing her out is the wrong move. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe you were wrong for ever trusting her or thinking she loved you back. The only thing you’re sure is that you need to get the hell away from her, for you and your baby.

You don’t look in the rearview mirror.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

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[winefields]

[winefields]

I was not born in sunny Hispania My father came from Rovno Gubernya But now I'm here, I'm dancing a tango

[winefields]

I open Tumblr to check if there‘s new fics of my favourite fictional character x reader, scroll for a few mins, reposts few posts, then leave if there‘s no fics to be found

[winefields]

Steph at Comic-Con

[winefields]

Well..well

I'm happy to be making you more...Cheeky

[winefields]

I PANIC WHENEVER I SEE GWENDOLINE ON THE SCREEN FUCK WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME