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the-lonelybarricade · 1 year

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Ten Past Five - Feysand NYE

It's six days late, but it's finally here. My Feysand New Years Eve fic, delayed because this mofo is a whopping 12k words. This is my very late contribution to @unofficialfeysandmonth2022 Day 31: Holiday. Please enjoy!!

Read on AO3 • Feysand Month Masterlist

Ladies and gentlemen, please note that due to extended strike action, train services will be ending early this evening. If you are leaving this station for London Marylebone, please check your returning train times. The last train leaving from London Marylebone will be at ten past five.

“Great,” Feyre sighed under her breath. She rolled up the soaked sleeves of her coat to glimpse her wrist watch.

Noon already.

She’d woken up late.

Well. Actually, she’d woken up with plenty of time to get to the station. But she’d turned her bleary eyes towards her bathroom door, and the distance between the bed and the shower had felt unconquerable. It had taken her so long to convince herself to get out of bed that she’d needed to brush her teeth in the shower to leave the house on time. Then it hadn’t even occurred to Feyre that she’d rushed out the door without her umbrella—not until she’d taken the elevator to the ground floor and walked out her building's front steps. There was no reminder quite like being assaulted by a winter downpour. If she’d turned back around to grab it, she would have missed her train.

So there Feyre was, shivering on the platform, waiting for her train to arrive, praying she could handle things in central London quickly enough to be back at Marylebone by ten past five.

She hated Tamlin for insisting they meet in person to do this.

She hated him more for insisting it be in central London on New Year’s Eve.

She hated him the most for using this as an excuse to hatch some braindead plan to win her back.

Feyre wondered if he thought she was stupid. He’d probably suspected she’d have no plans, since all of her New Years plans had been with him and his friends. Perhaps he’d expected to find her sad and lonely and willing to forgive him. She could already hear his pitch to come home with him to celebrate. We could start over, Feyre. New Year, new us. A fresh start. As long as she didn’t let him talk, she could just give him back his house key and get home in time to snuggle on the sofa with a glass of wine. Tamlin was too vain to believe it, but Feyre was actually relieved she wouldn’t need to be spending another New Year with his stuck up friends, watching Ianthe hang herself all over him.

Good riddance.

The trains were, thankfully, not very busy, nor was the Underground. And Feyre used the idle travel time to rehearse everything she would say to Tamlin.

No, I don’t want a coffee. No, I don’t want anything to eat. I just want to give you this house key, and I want you to give me mine, and I never want to see you again.

Firm. Direct. Unwavering.

“Hey, Feyre.”

It all fell apart when she saw him standing in the cafe, smile nervous. Charming. He was wearing the cream knit jumper she’d gotten for him last year. The one he never wore, despite how Feyre expressed her fondness for the look. It softened his demeanor.

“Hi Tamlin.” She forced a smile, trying not to look at his eyes, or his loose, shoulder length hair. Things that were easy to miss.

“I got you a coffee,” he said, holding up the cup with that stupid bashful smile. It was the same one he’d flashed her the day they’d first met, when he’d come up to her at her art gallery and admitted he had only attended because he thought she was pretty. “Two pumps of vanilla, one pump of hazelnut. Whipped cream. Just how you like it.”

Feyre stiffly accepted the drink. There was the first part of her plan up in flames. A drink kept her in his proximity, forced them to sit down. She knew that was his plan—he’d never bothered with gestures like this before. She hadn’t even realized he knew her favorite order, and she wasn’t suddenly touched to find out he did know it.

It meant that ignorance wasn’t the reason he’d never bothered, he just hadn’t cared.

The paper cup stung her palms as she followed him to a table in the corner. She could at least take the drink with her when she left. She didn’t need to stay and drink it.

“Here,” Feyre said, placing the cup on the table so she could dig into her purse and withdraw the small jewelry bag she’d placed his key into. She dangled it by the strings towards him. “Your house key.”

Tamlin stared at the small velvet bag. He started to reach for it, then paused. “Feyre…”

“Take it, Tam. And give me back mine.”

“Don’t you want to talk about this?” He asked, leaned back in his seat. Leaving her holding that key in the air, cheeks burning the longer she held onto it.

“No,” she snapped, flinging the bag at him. The weighted metal inside slapped against his chest, any satisfying thunk she imagined in her head blanketed by the soft, thick sweater. He was frowning as he caught it in his hands. “There’s nothing to talk about,” she added. “We’re broken up, Tamlin.”

She watched his hands curl around the bag. She scooched back in her seat.

“It was one drunken—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted. “Don’t you dare make excuses. Just give me back my house key, and we’ll go our separate ways.”

The bag was now smothered in his fist. She watched him clench his jaw, then look back at the bag. He took a deep breath, intentionally relaxing the tension in his posture on the exhale. He tried another smile, but it was poisoned by the irritation in his eyes. “Come on. It’s New Year, Feyre.” He tilted his head, both brows raised high. “Remember all the plans we made? I know Lucien and Alis will miss you tonight.”

“I have plans,” she said flatly. Tamlin jerked his head up, eyebrows bunching into a tight knot. Feyre stared him down, channeling her best impression of Nesta’s cold, cruel indifference. She reached carefully for the coffee cup, hoping that moving her body would help conceal her shaking hands. “So if you could give me back my house key, I can be on my way.”

“Who are your plans with?” He asked.

She remembered watching Tamlin shave his face in the mornings, gliding his sharp razor carefully over his cheek, applying just the right of pressure so that he didn’t nick his skin. She could feel him, pressing that edge into his voice. Not too much—not enough to wound, not yet. But she could feel the razor on her skin, a warning that she was entering dangerous territory.

“You don’t know them.” She made a point to pull up her sleeve, check her watch. Nearly three already. She needed an hour to get back to Marylebone, but she was fine. She wouldn’t be here longer than two hours.

“A man?” He pressed, words gritted. “Is there someone else?”

Feyre sighed. “Tamlin. Just give me back my key.”

“Maybe I’ll hold onto it,” he said. “You’ll never know what will happen if you’re inviting strange men around, Feyre. If anything happens, I’ll be able to help—”

“Tamlin. Let me make this clear. If you show up to my house and let yourself in, I will have you arrested. Do you understand?” She stared at him. Levelly. “Give me my fucking key back.”

“I’m just trying to look out for you, Feyre,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“You know what?” Feyre stood up from the table, coffee cup in hand. She momentarily debated dumping it on top of his head. “It’s fine. Thanks for the coffee. I’ll be staying with a friend until I get my locks changed.”

A bluff, but he didn’t need to know that.

Tamlin scrambled to his feet. “Feyre.”

She was already striding to the door.

“Feyre, let me at least walk you to the station. ”

She ignored him entirely, keeping her head fixed on the cafe doors. People were likely turning their heads at the commotion—the British public always knew how to act scandalized by an outburst. But she didn’t dare acknowledge the cutting looks. They could think what they wanted. She wasn’t going to indulge him any longer, he wasn’t worth the headache.

“I have an umbrella—”

He was cut off by the door slamming shut. Once she was out, Feyre turned abruptly, the opposite way of the station. Knowing Tamlin, he wouldn’t be far behind, and she was at least going to ensure she wasn’t easy to follow. She took a sharp corner so that she’d be out of sight when he came out of the cafe, rationalizing that it was better to waste time walking in a big circle than risk him catching up to her.

And perhaps he wasn’t even trying to chase her down, but that didn’t stop her from ducking into the first Underground Station she saw. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t on the right line. She had plenty of time, and Tamlin certainly wouldn’t be looking for her on the District Line—not when walking a block to a station on the Central line would have saved her half the time.

Worth it. Worth it to avoid that angry knit of his eyebrows and delay the onslaught of texts that would come through once she was above ground.

Three thirty.

It was fine. She had plenty of time. She’d get to Embankment by four, Marylebone by four thirty, and would be halfway home before the final train even left Marylebone.

She fished out her phone once she was in the train carriage, juggling her coat and the coffee cup in her other hand, so that she could pull up a picture of the tube map to ensure she’d mentally mapped out her journey correctly. It calmed her to have a plan, and to know that there was no rush. Though, in the Underground, it was hard not to rush, with the rapid flow of traffic. When she stepped off the train at Embankment, she couldn’t help falling into the familiar habit of long, quick strides, staring up at the signs to direct her towards the Northern Bakerloo line.

Feyre promptly turned in that direction, glancing at her phone to double check the time. Five past four, just as she’d guessed. The status board said everything was running on time. It was all going to be—

“Shit!”

Her phone clattered to the ground as she smacked into the shoulder of someone who had cut in front of her. The impact jolted his arm so that his phone went flying, too, as did her coffee.

All over his expensive looking shirt.

“Oh my god,” she squeaked, pulling to a halt in the middle of the busy tunnel, earning nasty glances from the passersby. “I am so sorry.”

He grimaced as he looked at his shirt, then lifted his head to look at Feyre.

To her horror, the man she had just assaulted with coffee was utterly gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous she would ordinarily be mortified to even make eye contact with—And, oh, he was making eye contact. Unblinking, soul-bearing eye contact. It felt like magnets clashing, the pull so strong it would have been impossible to look anywhere else. She probably should have been saying more, but she was too fascinated by the array of colors in his eyes, some hues so deep they were nearly purple.

She could feel herself forgetting how to speak as he smiled, lifting a hand to wave away the apology. “It’s fine. I hated this shirt anyway.”

God, what did she even say?

He reached down, risking his hand against the foot traffic to retrieve both of their phones. He stood back up in one fluid, graceful movement. “It’s my fault, anyway. I shouldn’t have cut in front of you like that.” Raven-black hair fell across his forehead as he gazed down at the pair of black screens in his hand—both remarkably unscathed, considering neither of them had phone cases.

Their phones were an identical make, she noticed. Feyre supposed that meant she and the handsome stranger had similar tastes. As if it wasn’t the most popular phone brand. It was nice to delude herself that this was some clandestine meeting, as fleeting as it would be.

“Here you are,” he said, deep blue eyes sparkling as he extended the phone towards her. Their fingers brushed as she accepted it and oh no his hands were so big. She didn’t want to notice—she hated that she did. She hated that she couldn’t stop noticing. Long, elegant fingers, with a large vein running over the back of his hand.

“Sorry again,” Feyre said. She told herself she was only breathless because she had been rushing through the station. Her face was so hot, and she dreaded to think about how obvious her blush probably was.

It was normal to be flustered after spilling coffee on someone.

“Don’t be.” He winked. “Running into you was worth a ruined shirt, any day.”

Feyre turned her face to hide her blush. “I should, um..”

He laughed. “Happy New Years, darling,” he said, offering her a small wave before he took off, swallowed back into the flow of the crowd before she could even ask him his name. Not that she would have been brave enough to. Feyre was certain if she learned anything else about him, it would ruin her life, burning inside her mind along with the knowledge that she would never see him again.

It was better to keep the beautiful man nameless.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Feyre assimilated back into the crowd. She clicked the power button on her phone to glance at the time, only to stop abruptly at the picture on the lock screen. Feyre recognized those smiling violet eyes immediately, sandwiched between two grinning men with equally dark, rugged features.

This wasn’t her phone.

Feyre turned, searching for that dark of hair in the crowd, but he had already disappeared toward the Westbound Circle Line. Heart pounding in her chest, Feyre doubled back, elbowing her way through the crowd to chase after him. She didn’t even have a name to call out, not that it would have been heard over the roaring tunnels and the screeching wheels against the track.

The train now approaching is to Edgware Road. Please stand back from the platform edge.

She broke onto the platform where a train was already waiting, doors open as passengers filtered inside. She scanned left and right, but there was no tall, charming stranger in sight.

Doors closing.

BeepBeepBeepBeepBeep

Fuck. Feyre panicked. Her train ticket home was on that phone.

She jumped on.

And as the doors closed, she immediately felt foolish. He wasn’t in this carriage, and she had no idea if he had even gotten on this train. At least the carriages on the Circle Line were all connected. It gave her a chance of finding him as she carefully navigated to the next carriage, then the next. No purple eyes. No coffee stained shirts.

The next station is Westminster. Change for the Jubilee Line. Exit for Westminster Abbey, Houses of Parliament and Riverboat Services from Westminster Pier.

Mind the gap between the train and the platform.

Had he gotten off? Feyre had no idea, but she’d resolved to follow this carriage all the way to the back of the train.

The next station is St. James Park…

The next station is Victoria…

The next station is Stone Square…

The next station is South Kensington…

God, what was she doing? He could have gotten off at any of the stops. The final train home was leaving in thirty minutes, and she still needed to get to Marylebone. It wasn’t like the man had stolen her phone on purpose—no thief would offer their own phone as collateral. Once she was off the Underground, she could call her number, and they could meet each other another time to exchange phones.

Resigned, Feyre got off at South Kensington. It would be cutting it close. She would need to switch lines and double back, then up, but she might make it if she hurried. With an exasperated huff, she followed the signs towards the Piccadilly line, trying to forget the handsome stranger for the time being.

This is South Kensington. Change for the Piccadilly Line. Exit for the Museums and Royal Albert Hall. This is a Circle Line train via High Street Kensington and Paddington.

Rhysand stepped off the train, relieved to be almost home so that he could change out of his sticky shirt. Not that he particularly minded. Not when blue eyes lingered in the back of his mind, so wide he could mistake them for the sea. They reminded him of staring out at St. Ives Bay as a child, when their family would go on holiday in the summer. Warm and beautiful and dangerous.

Mor would laugh when he told her the story. He had run into Feyre Archeron, of all people, on the Underground. She clearly hadn’t recognized him, or she simply didn’t know who he was. If he was bolder he would have said something.

But he’d looked into those eyes and he’d felt like he couldn’t breathe, let alone say anything articulate. Feyre fucking Archeron, red-cheeked and just as devastatingly beautiful as he remembered. He wondered where she’d been going, if he should have pretended he was going that direction, too. Hell, he would have followed her to the other end of London just to listen to her talk. He was endlessly curious to know what she’d been doing. Why was she in a rush? What did it sound like, when her lips shaped his name?

Rhys wasn’t certain they’d ever actually spoken a word to each other. Tamlin seemed to very intentionally avoid him at any work functions, and Rhysand had always been content to do the same. He’d gotten used to pretending Tamlin didn’t exist outside of when it was strictly necessary. That was, until Tamlin had started showing up to parties with Feyre Archeron on his arm. Then he became harder to ignore. Rhys had last seen her only a few weeks ago, at their work Christmas party. She’d been wearing a red velvet, long-sleeved dress, which in itself could have been a living commentary on how men were first driven to sin. It hugged her hips the way Tamlin should have been doing—adoringly. Like it wanted to worship every inch of her.

Where did someone like Tamlin even find someone like her?

Rhys had been wondering that question for almost a year now, and he supposed he had his answer. In the Underground, apparently. He’d been paying so much attention to his phone that he hadn’t even seen her until they crashed into each other.

What had he even been looking at, again?

Rhys tapped his card on the reader, following the gates out of the station before he pulled his phone from his pocket to remind himself what he’d even been in the middle of doing before his mind had become tangled up in Feyre Archeron.

There she was again. Smiling at him.

He blinked, half expecting the image was some strange mental projection because he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

But—no. That was a picture of Feyre on the lock screen, her arm thrown around Lucien Vanserra’s shoulder. Interesting that it wasn’t Tamlin. And more interesting, that he seemed to have ended up with her phone in their collision.

That was when the Whatsapp messages started coming in.

Tamlin: Feyre.

Tamlin: Where did you go?

Tamlin: Feyre???

Tamlin: Come back. Let’s talk about this.

Tamlin: If you don’t want to come to New Years, I can come to yours. Just the two of us.

Tamlin: Feyre???

Tamlin: I’m sorry. Tell me where you are and I’ll bring you your key.

Tamlin: Who are your plans with?

Tamlin: Are you with them right now?

Tamlin: Is there someone else already? Did our relationship really mean that little to you?

Jesus Christ. Rhysand could venture a guess as to why Feyre was in such a rush when he ran into her. Knowing he was likely overstepping, Rhys held down the most recent text so he could type out the reply: Hey buddy. Ten messages is a little overkill, don’t you think? Maybe you should leave Feyre alone.

The response was immediate.

Tamlin: Who is this???

Rhys stared, wondering how far he could take this before he crossed a line that Feyre wouldn’t let him come back from. When the phone began ringing, he couldn’t resist answering.

“Hello,” He greeted smoothly. “Feyre Archeron’s phone, how may I be of assistance?”

“Who the fuck is this?”

“I was about to ask the same,” he said. “This number isn’t saved in Feyre’s phone.”

“Put Feyre on.”

“Feyre darling is a bit occupied at the moment. I would be happy to take a message, though.”

“... Is this fucking Rhysand?”

“Ah, so she’s told you about me? I’m flattered to know I’m not the only one who’s been telling all my friends about her.”

“Rhysand, I swear to—”

“Oh, what’s that? You’re ready to go darling? I’ll be right there. Hate to cut this call short, but I’m needed elsewhere. Hope you have a happy new year.”

He quickly clicked the end button, marveling at what he’d just done. Knowing he shouldn’t—knowing he’d already invaded too much of her life already—Rhysand clicked on the home button, just to see what would happen.

It unlocked immediately. Rhys could guess why.

No secrets between us, right Fey?

He’d overheard Tamlin say that to her once at a party. He’d missed the context, but the tone with which he’d said it, the condescension, had immediately curdled his stomach.

Rhys shouldn’t. But fuck, did he want to. It was right there. Everything he could possibly wish to learn about the girl he’d been dreaming about, literally at his fingertips.

Okay. Wait. There were some things that he did need to do—like adding himself on Whatsapp so he could send her a message.

Hey! This is Rhysand. Looks like we accidentally swapped phones in the Underground. When you get this, please call this number. We can meet up and switch them back.

Her conversation with Tamlin was right there below his own name. Maybe he could tell himself that his thumb had slipped.

And—oops. The conversation opened. There was the slew of texts that had just come through, but if he scrolled up, he could see more.

Feyre: I am stopping by the post office today to send your house key. Please return mine.

Tamlin: Post office? Why? Let’s meet in person.

Feyre: No. Send it in the mail.

Tamlin: I don’t trust the mail. I don’t want you to lose my house key.

Feyre: If it gets lost, I’ll pay for a replacement.

Tamlin: Let’s meet tomorrow. That cafe by Mile End?

Feyre: Tomorrow’s New Years Eve, Tamlin. Let’s at least meet next week.

Tamlin: You know what? Why don’t I come swing by your place and drop the key off.

Feyre: Mile End is fine. I’ll meet you at 2.

Bastard. Rhys felt less guilty about involving himself.

And maybe he could admit that he himself wasn’t much better than Tamlin, with the way he kept scrolling through their conversations. He wanted to know more about her, what she was like when she was in love, the things that made her happy.

There wasn’t a lot of substance to her conversations with Tamlin. Feyre was clever—and funny. Rhysand found himself laughing under his breath at the dry humor she often used to combat Tamlin’s abrasiveness. She was a treasure, and each of Tamlin’s low effort responses left a bitter taste in his mouth.

The jealousy burning in Rhysand’s chest was ugly. He knew that.

But god it wounded Rhys, in his soul, to know that the bastard hadn’t even appreciated what he’d had. Tamlin didn’t ask after her very often, and when he did it was always demanding. Where are you?? Show me. Rhys was fairly certain he’d blow Feyre’s mind with just a simple Good morning, beautiful.

The bright side is it meant there were many pictures of Feyre out and about, usually holding a random number of fingers at his request. A “peace sign” selfie in front of St. James Street. A wide-eyed mirror shot when she was brushing her teeth, toothpaste foaming at the corner of her mouth. Feyre beaming in front of a canvas, paint splattered on her cheeks like a smattering of freckles.

And when she was in bed. Naked.

Rhys had to sit down when he came across that conversation.

It was a picture of Feyre sprawled in her bed, wearing the tiniest pair of sleeping shorts he had ever seen.The angle was downturned, focused mostly on her breasts, emphasized by the way she beautifully arched her back. Rhys was losing his mind imagining precisely what she would look like melting underneath his touch, sliding his hands along her spine while he sampled every inch of the skin on display.

And—fuck.

He was glad he was sitting, or the next one would have taken him to his knees. Feyre sat in a chair, her legs spread open to show off her glistening pussy. Her fingers were posed at her clit, and her mouth was tilted into a taunting smirk that could have convinced him to do anything she asked. Anything to taste those perfect pink lips—either of them. He would have traded his entire life away, just to have been in that room to see her in person.

His throat went dry. Did she even know how much power she had?

She was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, and she was owed someone who would crawl through broken glass if it meant earning a smile.

Tamlin had never deserved her. No one would ever deserve her.

God, he wanted to try to.

Rhysand called his phone.

This is Marylebone. Change here for National Rail Services.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

It was 5:05, and she had only just stepped onto the Underground platform.

Feyre ran, even knowing there was no way she was going to make her train in time. Not when she still needed to buy a ticket. She pushed to the left on the escalator, taking them two at a time. When she burst out of the gates, her eyes darted immediately to the departure board.

5:08.

Please say it’s delayed, please say it’s delayed, please say it’s…

Platform A. On time.

Fuck. Feyre barrelled to the ticket kiosk, frantically stamping in her destination with the pad of her finger.

5:09.

The train was at the other end of the station. She knew, even as she continued to the payment screen, that she wouldn’t make it in time. There was no way.

Her phone started ringing.

No—it wasn’t her phone. But that was her number on the screen.

“Hello?”

“Is this Feyre?”

Oh god. He knew her name. It only just occurred to her that her phone wasn’t password protected because of Tamlin’s rule about not hiding secrets from each other. What do you have on your phone that you don’t want me to see?

Nothing. But she had plenty that she didn’t want a complete stranger to see. Especially one that looked like him.

“Um, yes. This is Feyre. And you are…?”

“Rhysand,” he said with a small laugh. “It appears we swapped phones when we ran into one another.”

“Yeah,” she breathed, watching the LED clock switch to 5:10. In the distance, a whistle blew, and her train pulled out of the station. “I, uh… I’m sorry that I spilled coffee on you then stole your phone. I promise I’m usually better behaved.”

“... Are you okay?” She could hear the frown in his voice

“No, I…” she pinched her nose, holding back tears. “Sorry. You called at a bad time. I just missed my train.”

“Oh.”

Fuck, she probably sounded so dramatic. She could practically hear what he was thinking: So what, Feyre? Wait for the next one.

“It’s the last one of the day,” she explained. “I… need to figure out where I’m going to stay tonight. And I can’t call any of my friends because….”

“I have your phone?”

“Right,” she said on a soft sigh.

“Where are you?”

Feyre hesitated to answer. This man was still a stranger, and she had just admitted that she was in a vulnerable position.

Please note that due to extended strike action, train services from London Marylebone will be running on a restricted schedule. Please check your journey before travelling.

“London Marylebone?” He guessed. Feyre’s face felt hot. “Feyre, stay where you are. Please. I’ll be there in, fuck. Thirty minutes, max. Just… don’t go anywhere. Okay? If you’re bored, my passcode is 1221. I’m on my way.”

“Rhys—”

The phone call abruptly ended.

Feyre stared at the lock screen, at the man sat in the center who now had a name. Rhysand. He looked so familiar to her, but she couldn’t quite place why.

With a shaky breath, she slid the screen over and typed in the numbers.

1 - 2 - 2 - 1.

To her surprise, the phone actually unlocked.

A stranger had given her full access to his life, just like that? If you’re bored, he’d said. What was off limits? She scrolled aimlessly through his apps, but he didn’t exactly have any mindless games she could play.

Curious, she went to his photos. What kind of person was he? She could only imagine that someone that handsome had to be a major asshole. She was picturing a homage to the material. Fancy cars and Rolex watches. Pictures of beautiful women traipsing his house in lingerie. He probably collected them like Christmas wrapping paper—pretty, until they’d served their purpose.

She hadn’t expected all the pictures of the stars. Real stars. Some of them she recognized, like the picture of deep space that the Hubble Telescope had recently come out with. She only knew about it because Hank Green had talked about it on her For You Page. But Feyre got the feeling, as she continued scrolling through his camera roll, that he hadn’t gotten his news from Tiktok.

He was an astronomy nerd.

Feyre couldn’t help smiling at the revelation. And the fact that there were no pictures of naked women, just Rhysand and the same two men from his lock screen. On a skiing trip, at the gym, midair at a trampoline park. She might have wavered on those last two photos, zooming in to get a closer glimpse at Rhys in a loose black tank top. Covered in sweat that glazed over his toned chest and broad biceps.

She didn’t think the sight of someone upside down in midair would ever be sexually arousing, but Rhysand certainly challenged that prospect. Gravity pulled at his shirt gratuitously, exposing a tightly corded abdomen that she wanted to run her fingers over. And her tongue, if Feyre was being honest with herself.

Though, to her dismay, there was one woman who appeared quite regularly in his photos. Long blonde locks and big I-know-you-want-to-fuck-me brown eyes. She was exactly the kind of beautiful she imagined would be suitable for someone like Rhysand. There were plenty of pictures of them together, hugging and laughing and pulling silly faces. They looked happy.

She’d never properly met this man, but she could admit she was burning with jealousy.

Especially when she scrolled far back enough to find a picture of Rhysand fresh out of the shower. He’d taken a picture in the foggy glass, one hand sliding through his wet hair, eyebrows quirked in a way that begged, should I drop the towel?

Please drop it, please drop it, please—

Feyre swiped to the next photo and quickly locked the screen, letting it go black before anyone could walk behind the bench to see what she’d just been staring at. Even if it was gone, the picture burned in her mind.

She’d thought romance novels had been exaggerated.

It was wrong to compare. It was wrong to even look. But…

Feyre unlocked the phone again.

Dear God.

He was fisting his erection at the base. From using that single fist as a size reference, it looked like a second fist wouldn’t have been enough to cover the rest. Ferye had seen his hands, she knew that they dwarfed her own. Would she even be able to wrap her hand around it? Or her—

No. She couldn’t let herself fantasize about being on her knees for a man who hadn’t even consented to being seen naked. Who probably had a very lovely blonde girlfriend. Oh my god, what was she doing? Why was she like this?

She locked the phone again, pushing it into her pocket to curb the urge to keep looking at that photo. It was far too tempting to zoom in on that flushed head and imagine…

Feyre walked stiffly towards the toilets. She needed to splash cold water in her face and get a grip. One stunning man with vibrant eyes, and she’d suddenly lost touch of all her sensibilities.

Meeting her own eyes in the mirror was an effort, how was she going to manage when it was Rhysand? Her cheeks were stained with the evidence of what she’d just been doing, and she took more than a few minutes to press cold water on them, willing the flush away. Unfortunately the water couldn’t wash away the image that had imprinted in her brain.

Rhysand’s phone buzzed in her pocket.

I’m here. Please tell me you haven’t left.

Her feet felt heavier than they’d been when she came into the bathroom. Feyre had to drag them out the door, back into the station center. There were no more trains running, so it was practically empty save for the man who stood beneath the departure board, craning his neck in every direction as he searched for her.

No—his phone.

Feyre was just an inconvenience to him.

He turned at her approach, and she watched his expression melt from concern to relief.

“Thank god,” he said, closing the distance between them much faster than Feyre would have liked. There was still a coffee stain over the entire front of his shirt, not that he seemed to notice or care. “I was so worried you’d left.”

“There was nowhere to leave to,” was her response. She couldn’t help cringing at the complaint in her voice. It was meant to be a light hearted comment.

He laughed softly. “Right—sorry about your train,” he said, sounding as if he didn’t mean it at all. She supposed it was more convenient for him this way.

Feyre couldn’t help feeling annoyed at the growing smile on his face at the expense of her misfortune, even when it made her heart flutter to see that smile up close. It helped to know he was at least a little bit of an asshole. It made it easier to find peace with his absurdly attractive face and his obscenely large—

“Anyway.” Feyre reached into her pocket, holding his phone out to him. “I believe this is yours.”

“Ah, yes.” He responded in kind, retrieving her phone from his front pocket. It was torture, watching the way his fingers curled around the plastic, sending her mind elsewhere as he clicked the power button. A picture of herself and Lucien lit up the once black screen. “Lucien Vanserra?”

Feyre blinked in surprise. “You know him?”

“I work with him,” Rhysand said. There was a note to his voice that made it unclear how he felt about that statement. “Are you and he…?”

Oh. Oh. “No!” She said quickly. “No, not at all, Lucien’s just a…” Friend, she almost said. But she wanted to make sure he believed her. So she said, “He’s my brother-in-law.”

Lucien was the reason she’d ever met Tamlin to begin with. He’d invited his work colleagues to her art gallery as a favor, assuring at least a few of them would make for wealthy clientele. She wondered if that meant Rhysand had been invited, too, and she hadn’t even noticed. If he worked with Lucien, he also worked with Tamlin. How many times had they come so close to meeting and simply passed right by?

The tragedy of her life was that if he had come up to her at the art gallery, she would have forgotten all about the cute blonde man who’d been flirting with her. Tamlin who? She wouldn’t have even kept his business card.

“I see,” Rhys said. Did she imagine the relief in his voice?

In any case, Rhysand must not know Lucien particularly well, if he was unaware that Lucien was married to Elain. Feyre swore every other sentence that came out of his mouth began with, Elain and I… They were the kind of lovesick that always made Feyre wonder what was broken between herself and Tamlin. So many things, it turned out.

For someone who was so eager to get his phone back, he tucked into his pocket with remarkably little attention. For all he knew, she could have wiped the entire thing clean, or used his virtual wallet to buy herself something lavish or—anything. And he put it away without even looking, staring at her like it didn’t matter to him at all.

“Seeing as you’ve missed your train home, would you like to come celebrate New Years with me? And my friends, that is. The five of us are just getting together for some drinks at my place. It’s very casual.”

“Oh,” Feyre reeled back, trying to process this change of direction. “Uh…”

“I know. I know. We’re strangers. You don’t really know me. But I know Lucien—call him up. I’m certain he’d vouch for me.”

She hesitated. Yes, she wanted to say. But… going to his house? Meeting his friends? It was too much, even if she was attracted to him. “I don’t know Rhysand…”

“Rhys,” He said. “Call me Rhys, please.”

“Rhys,” she corrected, not missing the way his gaze flickered to her mouth.

“Do you have anywhere you can stay?” He pressed.

Feyre bit her lip. The only person she could think to stay with would be Tamlin. Either that or risk an extortionate hotel room.

“Okay.” It was quiet. Resigned. But she wouldn’t have thought so from Rhysand’s triumphant grin.

“Good.” She could tell he meant it. Rhysand extended his hand towards her. “Come on. It’s not far, but we’ll have to go back through the Underground.”

She took it, not really knowing why. His fingers curled around hers and didn’t let go. Instead he smiled, lifted his arm over her head, and spun her, like it was a dance as he guided her back toward the Underground gate.

Smooth. Feyre could give him that much. But she hadn’t forgotten the blonde girl she’d seen in his phone.

“Tell me Feyre,” he purred once they stepped onto the right hand side of the escalator. He turned so that he was facing her, still taller despite being on the lower step. “Anything about yourself. Whatever you think is relevant.”

“Um. I’m an artist?”

“I know,” he said, something unreadable in his eyes. “Lucien invited me to your first gallery show. I have one of your pieces hanging in my living room.”

Feyre gasped. She’d sold all of five pieces that evening. Three to extended family, one to Tamlin, and one to… “That was you?”

She’d never met the anonymous buyer, and she’d always assumed it was another one of her family members trying to encourage her.

If she didn’t know better, she would have said that was a blush growing on Rhysand’s cheeks. “It’s one of my favorite pieces,” he admitted.

Feyre could remember it well. She’d painted the night sky—stars and the moon and clouds and just endless, dark sky. She’d never really known why, just that she’d been staring out her window one night and something had seemed to call to her. She supposed, as an astronomy nerd, the image had called to him, too.

“Your turn,” she said.

Rhys cocked his head, searching her face. “Pardon?”

“I told you something about myself.” They stepped off the escalator and descended back into the winding tunnels. “Now it’s your turn to tell me something about you.”

He seemed to think for a long moment. “I’m an older brother,” he said. “I technically only have one sibling.”

“Technically?”

“Well…” Rhys stared ahead as they turned onto the platform, eyes flush with warmth. “I have one little sister. She’s in Year 11. But I also have two friends that I consider brothers. And a cousin who might as well count, too.”

“So many people to look after,” Feyre teased. “You must be very responsible.”

“I believe you are the first to hold that opinion of me, Feyre darling.” Rhysand leaned close, so that his breath tickled her ear as he whispered, “Your turn.”

And so it went, back and forth trading little facts about themselves, until they stepped off the train at South Kensington. There was no way. Had he gotten off at this station when she’d been trying to chase him down?

“Not too far from here,” he murmured. “Though it does look like it’s coming down pretty hard.”

Rhysand withdrew an umbrella from his jacket pocket, pausing like he was waiting for Feyre to do the same.

“I…” She didn’t want to explain that she’d been in such a rush not to miss her train that she’d left it at home. How dysfunctional must she look to him?

He shrugged. “All the better. Come share with me.”

No, certainly not all the better. Rhys opened his arm, encouraging Feyre to tuck herself against his body so they could both fit beneath the umbrella that was really only big enough for one person.

They stepped into the rain and we’re immediately embraced by the sound of water droplets thudding against the plastic. Rhys used the arm around her shoulder to protectively tug her closer, practically shoving her face into his neck.

“You smell like coffee,” she blurted before she could help herself.

His chest shook beneath his laugh. “That’s my cologne, Eau de Feyre. It’s limited edition, unless you’re feeling up to making this a regular occasion.”

“What, spilling my coffee on you in the Underground?”

He hummed. “Something like that.”

They took a turn onto a gated road. It was lit intermittently by streetlights that had been reduced to a fuzzy glow in the rain. Rhys pulled them to a stop in front of a white terraced house and while Feyre was marveling at the size of it, he leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Could you grab my keys for me, darling? They’re in the front pocket of my trousers.”

With one hand holding the umbrella and the other wrapped securely around her, Feyre supposed there was no other way to retrieve the keys unless they broke apart. But Rhysand clearly didn’t want to risk either of them getting wet.

And maybe… maybe he was flirting with her. It was too dark to gauge his expression, but she heard his breath hitch when she slid her hands against his leg. She’d seen in the photos that he was toned, though it hadn’t truly prepared her for the feeling of dragging her palm over the hard, powerful muscles.

Rhysand had gone stiff. When her fingertips skimmed his inner thigh, he made a small, strangled sound in the back of his throat that sounded suspiciously like a groan. Feyre knew the second they stepped inside, he would be able to see that her face was bright red. Why did they make men’s pockets so much deeper than women’s?

At last, her fingers slipped around the keyring. She withdrew quickly, stumbling out of his grip. Rain droplets splattered on the back of her neck and the icy cold that lurched down her spine was a welcome reprieve from his touch.

Rhys extended the umbrella towards her, trading it for his keys. Feyre watched, numbly, as he quickly ducked into the rain to unlock his front door. He glanced over his shoulder as the door pushed open, somehow unbothered by the rain pressing into his skin, its weight dragging inky wisps of hair across his forehead. The heavy downpour turned the rest of the world to static, narrowing her entire world down until it was just Rhysand and the stupid smile on his face as light flooded from inside, haloing his back.

“Welcome home, Feyre darling.”

She swallowed past a lump forming in her throat. Nerves. Butterfly shaped nerves that were beating furiously to escape.

It was warm inside. Her fingers tingled at the sudden change in temperature, and she struggled with the mechanism of the umbrella until Rhys laughed softly and took it from her, easing it back into its compact form with a click of a button. Sly.

“Can I take your coat?”

His house was big for central London. But the entryway was too small for the heat in his gaze as Feyre breathed, “Yes please.”

Rhys stepped behind her, fingers brushing against her collarbone as he grasped the collar of her coat. As smoothly as he had twirled her in the station, Rhys glided the coat off her shoulders and hung it on a nearby hook.

“I should probably text my cousin,” he said. “Ask her to bring some spare clothes.”

Feyre turned, prepared to tell him that wasn’t necessary, but he had already opened his phone. His mouth fell open at what lay on the screen and—too late—Feyre remembered the picture she’d been staring at when his phone had last been unlocked.

“Rhys…”

Fuck, what did she even say?

He clicked his phone shut, jaw working. With anger? It was hard to read the darkness in his expression.

Feyre tried to steady herself for the tension she could see coiling in his body, preparing for an outburst as Rhys pocketed his phone and prowled forward. She instinctively took a step back, only for her shoulders to meet the unforgiving wood of his front door.

“Curious about me, Feyre?” He braced a hand on either side of her, gripping the door frame. “Did you find anything interesting when you went looking through my phone?”

“You gave me the passcode,” she whispered. “You never said…”

“No,” Rhys agreed. He was staring at her mouth. “I wanted you to do whatever you pleased.” The butterfly was back, a pulse in her throat that she couldn’t escape. Rhys met her eyes. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I wasn’t looking for anything!” She insisted. “I just…”

A sly smile quirked at his lips, close enough that his breath caressed her lips. “You just found it?”

“Yes,” she said, aware of every inch between them, the distance smaller and smaller.

“Did you like what you found?”

Feyre hesitated. It was an admission she couldn’t come back from.

Just then, the door at her back creaked open.

“Hello?” said a voice tinged with confusion at the unexpected resistance.

Feyre and Rhysand stumbled backwards, clearing room for the blonde woman on the other side. She beamed when she saw them and Feyre’s butterflies turned to stone, dropping into a pit deep inside her chest.

“Rhys!” The blonde greeted pleasantly. “Who’s this?”

“Ah…” Rhys touched a hand to the back of his neck. “Mor, this is Feyre. Feyre, this is Mor.”

“So nice to meet you Feyre!” The blonde threw her arms around Feyre’s shoulders like they’d been friends all their lives. “Are you going to be celebrating with us?”

“Yes,” Rhys answered before Feyre could make up an excuse and book it out of there.

Sleeping on a park bench sounded really nice, suddenly.

“Oh good! The boys are just behind me. We raided everyone’s liquor cabinet.” She turned towards Feyre and grinned conspiratorially. “I hope you like drinking.”

“Oy!” A deep, masculine voice called. “Get the door!”

Mor turned on her heel, pulling the door open to two bulking men that Feyre instantly recognized from Rhysand’s lockscreen. They were carrying a storage crate filled with bottles of alcohol. The one at the front, with wavy hair that fell to his shoulder, paused when he saw Feyre. He raised a slit eyebrow. “Who’s this?”

Rhysand placed a hand on her shoulder. “This is Feyre. My guest for the evening. Feyre, these are the brothers I told you about. Cassian and Azriel.”

She nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

They were both flickering their eyes to Rhys, then back to Feyre, in some silent communication between friends. Rhysand’s eyes had gone wide, practically pleading. Whatever that look meant, Cassian cut her a toothy grin.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said. “The artist herself.”

Mor’s hands flew to cover her mouth. “I forgot! You made that painting!”

“What happened to your shirt?” That was the one at the back, the darker one. Broodier in expression, his eyes narrowed on the coffee stain.

“Collision on the Underground,” Rhys answered noncommittally. His hand, still clasped on Feyre’s shoulder, squeezed lightly. “Why don’t you guys set up while I show Feyre to the guest bedroom, hmm?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cassian muttered.

Rhys ignored them as he led Feyre down the hall, then up the stairs. The voice of that blonde woman—the trill of her laughter—followed them. Rhysand gripped the banister so tightly Feyre could see the whites of his knuckles.

What was Ferye even doing there?

He paused in front of a white door, sliding his hands into his pockets as he braced himself against the door frame. “This one's yours.” He nodded his head. “I’m the one across. I’m just going to change into a new shirt, but take your time if you want to freshen up. Hell, take a bath if you want.”

“I’m—”

“I’ll get you a towel. There should be some shampoo in the ensuite—”

“Rhys, I’m fine. Thank you.”

He looked sheepish. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Um…” He’d already started to turn, but whirled immediately at the sound. Feyre stared at the soaked sleeves of her jumper. Rain and sweat had made the fabric unbearably itchy. “Would I be able to borrow a top? If it’s too invasive, don’t worry—”

“No,” he interrupted. “No, not at all. Here, come with me.”

She followed him across the hall, faltering when he pushed his bedroom open and gestured her in. Rhyand leaned in so he could shut the door behind her. They paused, too close, and she watched his Adam's apple bob as he studied her, then pushed off the door.

Feyre stayed where she was, safe from the thrall of his proximity, as he strode across the room and opened a drawer. “What do you like? Jumpers, t-shirts, hoodies? The heating’s on, but still it’s a bit…” He glanced over his shoulder at her, and Feyre finally noticed the flush crawling up the golden brown column of his throat. “It’s a bit chilly.”

“Um.” Feyre shifted weight on her feet. “Just a hoodie or a jumper is fine.”

Rhysand nodded towards the drawer. “Take your pick. I’ll change in the bathroom.”

Once he was gone, it was like a weight cut loose. Feyre ventured forward without worrying about that violet gaze assessing her as she ran her hand over the various soft fabrics. They were all so neatly folded. Her fingers snagged on a navy knit jumper.

“Rhys? Wouldn’t Mor mind that I’m wearing your clothes?”

“What?” Even muffled through the door, she could hear the frown in his voice. “No. Why would Mor care?”

“Well…” Feyre hesitated, absently thumbing the soft cable pattern. “Mor seems lovely, but personally I would be bothered by some random girl wearing my boyfriend's clothes.”

Something clattered to the floor in the bathroom.

Then the door tore open, and Rhys was standing there with wide eyes. “What?”

The entire front of his shirt was unbuttoned, falling open to expose his muscular chest and stomach. Her hands fell away from the drawer. “Maybe it’s just a girl thing,” she said defensively.

“Mor and I…” Rhys wavered as he ran both hands through his hair. Feyre tried not to pay attention to the way his muscles flexed in response. “We’re cousins.”

That stunned her into silence. Rhys had mentioned his cousin on the train, but he hadn’t assigned a name to her, she’d just assumed that the woman in his phone was his girlfriend.

“So you’re not…?”

“I’m single, for the record.” he said. Holding her eyes in a way that made her mouth go dry.

“Right.” She hastily turned back to the drawer, busying herself with unfolding the jumper. “Well. Good to know.”

“Feyre.”

The floorboards creaked behind her. She didn’t turn around.

He said behind her, so close the skin on the back of her neck tingled, “A thought for a though, darling?”

“What?”

“Tell me something that you’re thinking.” His voice was a soft seduction at her ear. “In exchange, I’ll do the same.”

He still wasn’t touching her. Feyre was too afraid to turn around to see just how close he was—certainly close enough that his body heat warmed her back. “I’m thinking… that this jumper must have been expensive.”

Rhysand’s laugh scraped against the thin space between them. “I’m thinking that it would look exquisite on you.”

“I’m thinking that it would feel like wearing a cloud.”

“I’m thinking that I would prefer you didn’t wear it.”

She dropped the fabric back into the drawer. “Oh—”

“I would prefer you didn’t wear anything at all.”

Oh. Thank god his back was to her. Feyre had never had much of a poker face, and she was certain her expression would have given everything away. “I think that doesn’t sound like very appropriate attire for a New Years party.”

“It’s appropriate attire for my bedroom.” He leaned closer, lips a phantom touch on her neck. “Don’t you think?”

Feyre bit her lip at the invitation. Rhysand had braced a large hand along the curve of her hip, ever-so-polite considering the proposition he’d just made. She believed if she told him no, he’d drop it and take them back downstairs like nothing had happened.

She needed to know that.

“I think that your friends are waiting for us.”

His hand fell away. Feyre turned, unsurprised to see Rhys had taken a step away from her, and now wore an easy smile as he slid his hands into his pockets. “Best not keep them waiting then, hmm?”

Feyre buried her nails into her palm. It didn’t sting nearly as much as the immediate, burning regret. Oblivious, Rhys disappeared back into the bathroom—presumably to give her privacy to change into his sweater.

What was she doing?

In the midst of some divine intervention, she was at an absurdly attractive man’s house, in his bedroom, and she turned him down because… why? Because she wanted to ensure he understood the word no, even when all she’d wanted to say was yes. Yes, yes, yes. And so what, if that was all that he wanted? It was normal for people to have one night stands on New Years. As a newly single woman, she should be having fun.

Feyre peeled off her jumper with a small huff. Maybe it was for the better. This whole ordeal was so unexpected, she wasn’t exactly prepared for it. Her underwear was mismatched and not exactly interesting. Not to mention it was the middle of winter, so she hadn’t bothered shaving regularly since the breakup.

Midway through pulling Rhysand’s jumper over her head, Feyre faltered, and instead she pressed her face against the fabric to smother a groan of frustration. At least she was right—It was like a cloud. A soft, Rhysand-scented cloud that only reminded her what an idiot she was. And a coward.

There was a small knock on the bathroom door. “Feyre? Am I good to come out?”

Right. Time to pull herself together.

“Yeah.”

Rhys emerged. Just like before, his eyes went wide as he looked at her. He stumbled to such a clumsy stop that he had to catch himself against the doorframe.

“Thought for a thought, Rhys?” She asked. Feyre watched him work his throat, like words were suddenly an effort for him. Steeling her nerves, she said, “I’ll go first.”

That first step towards him was the most difficult. It became easier after she saw the way he was watching—like a man who’d seen God. The muscles in his arms strained as his grip tightened on the wood. It gave her confidence to keep going.

“I’m thinking that actually, you were right about the appropriate bedroom attire. And…” her voice shook, she hoped under the guise of raspiness. She came to a stop in front of him, quietly impressed by the way he held her gaze as she whispered, “I think you’re overdressed.”

As if it was permission, his eyes finally flickered downwards, surveying the swell of her breasts held up by a simple black bra.

He spoke slowly, voice like gravel. “I think you should get on my bed.”

“Or what?”

Rhys shifted his weight—the only warning she had before he lunged forward, hooking his arm around her waist to pull her against his body. He said roughly, “Or I won’t be able to make it that far.”

If he intended to let her try, he didn’t do a very good job of it. His grip was iron tight, and there was no going anywhere from him but closer. Not that she wanted to. Feyre tangled her hands in his hair, still damp from the rain, and tugged him down until their lips touched.

It was gentle—softer than she expected, given the way his body was trembling. She could feel in the way he was holding her, that careful control not to come on too hard, too fast. But she had slammed into him on the Underground, she’d seen him naked before she knew his name, she’d missed her train chasing after him. There was nothing about this that had been controlled. What was the point in being reckless, in going home with a stranger and standing topless in his bedroom, if they weren’t going to throw their whole selves at each other?

Feyre wound her fingers through his hair until she wore the locks like rings, creating the perfect handle for her to tug, saying, give me more. Give me you. With their bodies flush, she could feel Rhysand harden against her, and she groaned into his mouth.

That sound snapped whatever leash he held on himself. Rhys surged forward until Feyre’s back hit the bedroom wall. The next second, he dropped to his knees, keeping her captive in his arms so he could lay praise with his lips over her bare stomach. She squeaked in surprise, earning a wicked laugh in the back of his throat.

“I warned you,” he murmured as he nuzzled a path from her navel to the waistband of her leggings. “I wasn’t going to make it to the bed.”

Calluses scraped her skin as Rhysand’s hands trailed over the shape of her waist with the same measure of reverence she’d seen sculpters use to meld clay. They stopped at the top of her leggings, fingers curling beneath the fabric, tugging to create enough space so he could taste her hip bone.

From the way he passionately sucked and bit and licked at her skin, Feyre knew she was going to be covered in lovebites. Tamlin had always left bruises, too, but… these felt different. She’d never been undressed like this. On his knees in front of her, peeling her leggings down slowly so he could savor every inch of skin, Rhysand’s mouth felt less like a claiming and more like a devout man paying his oblation.

He stopped at her knees, perhaps sensing she was losing her balance, and tugged the rest of the way down. Feyre had never felt so exposed, standing bare before a man on his knees. It didn’t help that she couldn’t see his face—his eyes were downturned as his hands folded delicately behind each of her ankles. He slid them up, slowly, over her calves, behind her knees, raising until they fell just below her bum.

“Beautiful,” he rasped, staring at her with what could only be described as awe. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, Feyre.”

Suddenly her throat felt tight. “Rhys.”

Her hands tangled back into his hair, trying to urge him up so she could kiss him again.

Rhys resisted in favor of nuzzling the junction between her hip and thigh. “I want to taste you,” he whispered—pleaded. She hesitated, thinking about how little she had prepared, but Rhysand’s fingers were digging into her backside, and he was mouth at her inner thigh with a hunger she had never seen in anyone.

She dropped her hands, a silent concession that gave Rhys all the permission he needed. Her hands scrambled against the wall for balance, something to hold herself above water, as all the coiled tension finally snapped. Rhys sprung forward, hands guiding her hips to meet him halfway as he buried his face into her cunt.

Rhysand’s nose touched her first, guiding unhurried through the seam of her lips as the flat of his tongue followed. He held her eyes as he licked her—for as long as he could, anyway, until his eyes fluttered shut, and he licked her again. And again. Slow, broad licks that curled warmth up her spine.

She wasn’t used to this. Tamlin had been willing to go down on her, but it had always been a part of quid-pro-quo. He had never been particularly enthusiastic about it—certainly not Rhys, grunting against her skin, utterly lost in what he was doing. He was kissing her with open mouthed passion, savoring her on his tongue, and when he moaned—a wet, garbled sound—it offered just enough friction that her hips bucked forward of her own accord, grinding against his tongue.

Rhys moaned again, this time in encouragement. She rolled her hips experimentally, and his hands pushed her forward, desperate, practically begging Feyre to keep going. To fuck herself on his tongue. Rhysand groaned when she did it again, craning his head back to cover a better surface area as his mouth and tongue worked feverishly against her canting hips.

His grip tightened when her legs started to shake, weakened by the frenzied heat growing in her stomach, twining up her chest, spinning her heartbeat into overdrive. Could he hear that roaring drumbeat in her ear?

She didn’t think so, not over his own slurping, debauched sounds as he sucked her clit into his mouth and lashed his tongue mercilessly, flicking upwards against her sensitive bud, until her legs threatened to collapse.

“Rhys,” she gasped, pulling on his hair. Feyre tried to pull her hips away and he growled, tugging her closer. “Rhys, I’m gonna—”

Fall, she was going to say. But Rhysand had grabbed her hips and pulled her downwards, refusing to let go or detach his mouth until her knees hit the floor. His grip on her hips guided her forwards, and the next thing she knew she was hovering over his face.

She hesitated for a moment. And Rhys, in his frustration, broke away to gasp, raggedly, “Fuck me, Feyre.”

It was those eyes—wide and dilated—that encouraged her to put her weight on him and move again with abandon. He was such a mess. Hair ruffled from her fingers, full lips swollen and glistening with arousal that coated his cheeks, his chin, his neck. And the second she started grinding against him, he groaned in veneration, used his grip on her hips to help her go faster, harder, while he buried his tongue inside her.

Feyre covered her mouth to smother the scream building in her throat, knowing Rhysand’s friends were just a floor below. But Rhysand released her hip to grab her arm, pulling it away with a wild glint in his eye. The message was clear: I want to hear to you.

Oh god. Oh god, she was coming and—”Rhys,” she gasped as her entire body shuddered, tightening and releasing like a phantom fist around her chest. She whimpered from the force of it, her vision went spotty, and for a moment all she could see were those violet eyes through the soul-bearing pleasure that crested white-hot through her body.

He continued licking her, slower now. Easing her down until he gently guided her off his face.

“Beautiful,” he repeated, rolling them until he was hovering over her. “Fuck, Feyre. You’re incredible. Look at what a mess you made of me.”

Rhys pushed his hips so she could feel the erection tenting his trouser. God, he was still clothed.

“You have a choice to make now,” he murmured, wet mouth close enough that she could smell her own arousal. “I can fuck you right here, on the floor, or you can get on my bed and I can fuck you there.”

He pressed a hot, open mouthed kiss to her lips before he climbed off her body. “I’ll be right back.”

Feyre laid on the floor, stunned, as Rhys quickly disappeared into the bathroom. She heard a drawer open, followed by the sound of a wrapper and—oh. She scrambled to her feet, shaky as they were, and quickly sat on the bed.

Rhysand came out of the bathroom naked, condom ready, smirking at her with those violet eyes as he surveyed the way she’d spread herself on his bed. “Good choice.”

She tried—and failed—not to stare too long at his bobbing erection as he stalked towards her. Feyre had assumed the picture had been an exaggeration, a manipulation of angles. And it was, to some degree, but…

“My eyes are up here, darling,” he teased, pulling her gaze up with a gentle finger beneath her chin. His lips found hers again, and he took his time savoring the taste just as he had done between her legs. When he broke away, they were both panting. “Lay back for me, Feyre.”

Rhysand followed her retreat, pressing a knee to the bed, then the other. Feyre watched, breathless, as crawl over her body, taking his time to drag his eyes—and sometimes his lips—over every inch of skin. “You are devastating,” he said once their faces were level. “How are you even real?”

“How am I real?” His face was still coated in her arousal. He hadn’t even bothered to wash it off his face and as he kissed her again, slow enough that she could taste herself, she had the feeling he didn’t want to.

The head of his cocked nudged her entrance, and Feyre’s gasp was quickly smothered by another kiss as Rhys pushed in, and in, and in. Careful not to hurt her. He grunted into her mouth as he seated himself all the way and ground his hips, nudging the dull head against a cluster of nerves that had Feyre gasping again. He used the sound as an invitation for his tongue and a light thrust, directly into that same spot.

Feyre keened, burying her fingers into scalp, another set into his shoulder blade. He liked it rough, she gathered, as she scraped her nails along his back, she earned herself another thrust. Harder, enough for stars to flood her vision.

He broke this kiss to gasp, “Fuck.” Then, on choked air, “Where did you come from?”

“Marylebone,” she whispered. He laughed. A wonderful breath against her collarbone.

“Thank god for Marylebone.” He kissed her again. “Thank god you missed your train.”

“Thank god I-ah—”

She watched his eyes darken at the sound. “What was that, darling?”

Smug prick.

“Thank god I spilled—”

Feyre cut herself off again, this time in a squeak of surprise as Rhys slipped a hand between their bodies and rubbed his fingers, tauntingly, against her still sensitive clit. “Sorry, fuck. The sounds you make, Feyre.” He nipped her pulse, grinding relentlessly into that single spot. “You have no idea what they’re doing to me.”

She had some idea, if it was anything close to what he was doing to her. She scrambled her nails at his back, uncertain if she was begging for more or less, just something as her mind slipped away from coherency.

“Pretty like this,” he was saying, still driving his hips forward. “So fucking pretty coming undone on my cock, Feyre.”

The sound in the back of her throat was embarrassingly close to a whimper.

“Are you going to come for me?” He whispered, nuzzling her jaw.

Downstairs, she heard Rhysand’s friends begin shouting, Ten… Nine…

Rhys groaned, speeding up the small, tight circles around her clit. “I know exactly how I want to start the New Year,” he said roughly.

The heat was building again, near unbearably this time. “Rhys,” she panted.

Five… four…

“That’s it, Feyre.” His hips had sped up, too, and she could feel his heart hammering against her own as her fingers tangled in his hair.

Three… two…

Rhysand’s mouth surged forward, claiming her lips in one final, breathless kiss as that hot wave of pressure crested and light bursted into fractals behind Feyre’s eyes. She felt herself clench tightly around him, and Rhys groaned into her mouth as he slammed into the hilt and stilled, holding Feyre flush against him.

For a moment, all she could hear was the drumbeat of their pulses, the soft cymbal of their colliding breaths.

Rhys broke the kiss to whisper, “Happy New Year, Feyre darling.”

Brzzzzzt. Brzzzzzt. Brzzzzzt.

Feyre muttered some incoherent complaint at the vibrating sound, turning over to snuggle closer into the warm beneath the covers.

Brzzzzzt. Brzzzzzt. Brzzzzzt.

She groaned, which earned a soft, sleep-addled chuckle.

The bed shifted as Rhysand rolled over, and a moment later she heard his raspy voice purr, “Feyre Archeron’s phone.”

Feyre lifted her head at that, peeling her bleary eyes open to Rhysand’s handsome smile. He’d propped himself up on one elbow and her phone was braced leisurely against his ear with two fingers.

“Mmm. Feyre darling’s sleeping. She can’t come to the phone right now.”

“Rhys,” she said softly, swallowing her terror at the idea that he was talking to Tamlin. Who else would call her this early, on New Years Day? “Hang up, don’t indulge him.”

He raised a brow, likely at whatever hostile words Tamlin was lashing at him on the other side. “Feyre’s house key?” Rhys reached out an arm, ran his fingers slowly along Feyre’s shoulder, down her collarbone. “Well of course she wasn’t at her house. She was at mine. Post it through my letterbox.”

Rhys hung up, tossing the phone to the bed with an expression of distaste. He glanced up, and must have read the worry in Feyre’s expression because his face instantly softened. “Don’t worry, darling. If he comes by I’ll have Cass and Az answer the door. Have you seen them? They’ll get your house key back.”

Tamlin had gone to her house.

The smile Rhys offered her was gentle. His hand slipped around her shoulder, inviting her to rest her head against his naked chest. She could hear his steady heartbeat as his fingers wound into her hair, stroking soothingly over her scalp. “Thank goodness for the train strikes, hmm?”

“I hear the railways are closed today,” she said, quietly. A subtle way of asking if she could stay. Not just because Tamlin was apparently at her house and the thought of possibly being alone with him made her feel nauseous, but because… she liked it here. And she wanted to meet Rhysand’s friends.

The fingers in her hair paused.

Feyre lifted her head to gauge Rhysand’s expression.

She was met with a shameless grin as he said, “And tomorrow. Actually, I heard they’ll be closed all week.”

#Feysand month #Feysandmonth #Feysandmonth22 #Feysand #Feysand fic #Feysand fanfic #Feysand fanfiction #Rhys x Feyre #Feyre x Rhys #Ten Past Five

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tropes-and-tales · 1 year

Note

“Do you really think I hate you? Just because we’re rivals doesn’t mean I hate you” for the enemies to lovers prompt with Mike Duarte, please!

The problems only start when you’re made the acting captain of Bronx SVU. Housed in the same building as the Gang Squad, you’re on the same side (technically) as Captain Mike Duarte…but in practicality, you’re rivals.

Your rivalry extends from the mundane (the two of you fighting over the same handful of parking spots available at your building) to the profound (the two of you fighting over the too-few budget dollars, the same junior detectives to backfill vacancies in your organizations).

SVU and the Gang Squad share a breakroom, a locker room. You suspect Mike is the one who nabbed your lunch from the refrigerator.

You wonder if he suspects that you’re the one who dumped out his orange sodas in retaliation.

He purposely hits the “door close” button on the elevator when he sees you sprinting towards it.

You purposely kick shut the fire door to the roof while he’s out there indulging in a cigarette.

It’s childish and stupid, and if life were a romantic comedy, some wise third party would step in and remark that you and Mike are flirting. But you aren’t flirting—not at all. You have a good gut and are a good read of people, and Mike Duarte? You get nothing but irritation from him—on a good day. On a bad day? You feel like he loathes you.

It's a million little tells. The way his easy smile drops when you enter a room. The way his eyes slide away from the sight of you. The way he’s relaxed, friendly, easy with everyone else when there’s drinks at the nearby bar….everyone but you.

You can pretend it doesn’t bother you, but it’s a lie. You can’t figure him out. Maybe he had someone else slated for the SVU captaincy. Maybe he’s a closet misogynist. Maybe you remind him of his ex-wife.

You can pretend it doesn’t bother you, but you’re a people pleaser at heart. You want to be liked. Or, if you can’t be liked, you at least want to understand why.

-----

It’s a cold war between you and Mike. It’s mostly just tense with the occasional skirmishes that threaten a larger war. When SVU cases brush against gang stuff, you each outsource to your detectives as much as possible.

A case comes up when you’re both short-handed. You’ve both been the victims of poaching from Manhattan. You have to pair up.

The cold war tension heightens: early mornings, late nights. Greasy take-out eaten at opposite ends of the conference room table that you’ve commandeered for the case. Uncomfortable silences paired with rolled eyes, gritted teeth. Time crawls. The case is ugly shit: gangland violence intertwined with the trafficking of women. Sleep evades you, so you pull all-nighters fueled by bodega coffee.

Sleep must evade Mike too: he’s usually in the office with you during those all-nighters.

The progress on the case crawls until it breaks wide open, all at once. You and Mike make a good team, you begrudgingly admit. It’s old-fashioned police work: knocking on doors, interviewing witnesses, palming cash to informants. The two of you scare up a lead that brings the feds into it, and the case is solved and handed off to the FBI in the same day.

You glance over at your temporary partner as the special agent thanks both of you during the handoff. You catch Mike looking at you, but when you offer him a truce—an acknowledging nod, the smallest of smiles—he only looks away.

-----

You’re exhausted. You haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks, but you have that wash of adrenaline making you jittery and anxious. So you go to the bar near your apartment instead. You try to dampen the anxiety, the jitters, the visions of those trafficked women with gin.

Halfway into the night (tipsy enough to unclench your jaw but not drunk enough for your shoulders to drop from where they’re pushed up near your ears), someone sidles up beside you. They settle into the stool, and you don’t have to turn to see who it is. You’d recognize that cologne/secondhand smoke scent anywhere.

“The case is over for us, Duarte,” you tell him as you stare into your half-empty glass. “We can go to our separate corners.”

“Separate corners don’t stop you from pouring out my soda in the break room,” he retorts. He flags down the bartender and orders his own drink.

“The soda was retaliation for stealing my lunch.”

He chuckles around the rim of his glass. “It was your own fault for bringing in baked ziti. I love that shit.”

“You really telling an SVU detective that she had it coming?” You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, but he’s facing forward and not looking at you.

He shrugs. “You gotta bear some of the responsibility. It was too tempting.”

It’s so close to joking. So close to flirting, or even just that companionable teasing that you have with other detectives. But Mike doesn’t turn towards you, doesn’t look at you. He keeps his elbow tucked into his side so it doesn’t brush against you.

The conversation peters out and you sit in silence, each sipping your drinks and thinking whatever lonely thoughts you each have.

-----

It’s hard to know how much time passes in a bar. You’ve passed the threshold from tipsy to drunk, but with Mike perched beside you (silent as always), you can’t relax. You lift a hand in a limp wave to the bartender for your tab, but when he set it in front of you, Mike reaches out—surprisingly quick—and snags it from you.

“No, no,” you protest. You reach out for the slip of paper, but he’s faster and surer in his motions. He puts down his credit card just out of your reach, and you dare not touch him.

“Least I can do.” You hear his words, the rounded off quality and realize he’s pretty drunk too.

“Why? Because of the baked ziti?”

“Nah.”

“Why then? You hate me.”

He turns in surprise and actually looks at you, makes eye contact with you. “You think I hate you?”

You shrug. “Yeah, kinda.”

His bleary eyes widen. “Do you really think I hate you?” His soft voice goes a quarter-octave higher in disbelief. “Just because we’re rivals doesn’t mean I hate you.”

“Okay, maybe not hate. But….like, dislike.”

He gapes at you, opens his mouth to retort, but the bartender brings his card and receipt back and interrupts. Mike glances away, turns to sign it, and suddenly the bar feels too closed-in, too warm. You slide off your stool and mumble a weak thank you to him, an even weaker good night and get home safe, and then your feet are taking you out the door into the cooler air and away from him.

Or not.

Someone strides up behind you, then beside you. You don’t have to turn to see who it is. You’d recognize his cologne and smoky scent anywhere.

You don’t have to turn because he doesn’t just fall in step beside you: he puts his hands on you, clumsy from the whiskey. He turns you, makes you stumble, steadies you against him. Then he’s pushing you into a narrow alley, pushing you against the cool brick exterior. He presses his body against yours, pins you against the building. He pushes his face close to yours—close enough for you to smell the faint cigarettes, the stronger whiskey on his breath—but he doesn’t kiss you.

“You really think I hate you?” he growls. “Really?”

“Mike, I—”

“Fuck, I don’t,” he interrupts, and he finally looks at you, peers deep into your eyes as he says it. “I don’t hate you at all.”

If you weren’t so addled by all the gin, you could give him the laundry list of reasons why you thought he hated you, but your mind spins uselessly. You’re stunned to near-silence by this moment—from the cold war to this, his big hands kneading at your curves, cupping your face, his knee tantalizingly close to where you suddenly seem to ache for him.

He's just drunk, you think, but then he bridges the gap between you and his mouth is on yours, firm but not harsh. His calloused thumb brushes over your cheekbone as he kisses you, then drifts over your jaw, down the line of your throat.

He breaks the kiss, just barely. His breath fans across you as he mutters, “don’t hate you,” and then he dives back in, pushes his tongue into your mouth, groans as he tastes you, then groans again at the little whimper he manages to pull from you.

He’s just drunk, you think again, but under the gin and under the intoxicating feeling of his hands and mouth on you, another thought surfaces: maybe you’re not as good at reading people as you thought.

#ask game #mike duarte #mike duarte x reader #mike duarte imagine #law and order svu #tropes and tales

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youcouldmakealife · 6 months

Text

LBTE: Jared (114-117)

We've got a Jared on the move. But only after he's forced to feel far more feelings than he would like.

If you want to read along, the series page is here. All previous parts under the ‘liveblogging the end’ tag.

114-Rejection

The Oilers go to Calgary. And like, Jared’s not excluding himself in that. He’s on the flight, obviously, because scratched players travel with the team — the whole point of having more dudes on your roster than on the bench is so they’re there if someone gets hurt or sick last minute, or like, married a Flame and is subsequently getting punished for it.

All very common occurrences.

It’s not a long walk to his apartment, and he feels this fundamental sense of relief as soon as he walks in the door, gives the concierge a smile and a wave as he heads for the elevator. Home.

Hi James! (Add him to the name twin pile with all the Not-Mikes and Yes-Mikes, and multiple unrelated Bradleys)

Jared barely hears Bryce’s key in the lock before Bryce is behind him in the kitchen, chin on his shoulder and hands curling around his hips. He must’ve like, sprinted it.

He didn't walk, I'll tell you that.

“If you want to eat you can’t distract me,” Jared says, and Bryce digs his chin in harder before he kisses Jared’s neck, making it very clear where lunch lies on his priority list.

“No lunch?” Jared asks.

There’s a hint of teeth in the next kiss.

Bryce has priorities. Lunch is not on his list.

“We are not having sex in the kitchen,” Jared mumbles against Bryce’s mouth as he fights Bryce’s shirt buttons, and Bryce makes a disagreeable noise in response, but starts steering them towards their room, so that’s good.

Jared has sacrificed his safety for shower sex, but he draws the line at health. No kitchen sex. They make food there. (Okay, HE makes food there)

Every time he thinks Bryce has reached the plateau of being the best at blow jobs, he figures out how to make it even better. It’s like. There’s probably a hockey metaphor in there, applying himself to his game, getting on the scoresheet, something, but Jared’s too come dumb to think of one.

I admire Bryce's dedication to be the best at all his passions: hockey, marriage, sucking dick.

Hmm,” Bryce says, and kisses Jared’s shoulder in a blatant violation of the no-touching policy. Jared will allow it.

That edict lasted ten seconds.

He cuts it close: less than a minute after curfew there’s a curt knock on the door. Jared exchanges a glance with Julius, a silent ‘who’s stuck getting up?’, but considering Jared’s probably the reason it’s happening — they periodically check in on at least the ELC guys to keep them honest, but Jared suspects this is not a random spot check — he gets up and goes to the door.

“Good kid,” Mulligan says, then turns on his heel and walks away.

Mulligan hates everything about this situation.

Mulligan didn’t even check if Julius was there. He could have been out partying.

lol, okay Jared.

Julius is bobbing his head to whatever Finnish death metal band he’s obsessed with at the moment — they all sound the same to Jared, and he bets they would even if they were singing — screaming? — in English — while peeling an orange with his teeth like a total weirdo.

I love him.

He shoots the nauseated face Julius’ way.

Julius looks down at his phone when it buzzes, then pushes his headphones down, scowling at Jared. “What?” he asks.

“Peel the orange with your hands,” Jared says.

He really should have expected the half-peeled orange that comes flying his way.

“Go back to your husband,” Julius mutters.

“Would if I could,” Jared says.

Brothers <3

Jared works very hard on keeping his face completely stoic when the goal goes in. It helps that Bryce just scored on Jared’s goalie, which tempers the flare of vicious satisfaction he feels, thinking of Deslauriers’ face right now. Jared doesn’t like it when people score on his goalies, and that includes his husband. It’s rude.

It's poor etiquette to score on your husband's goalie.

They’re wheels up in nine hours. Less than ninety minutes until curfew, and maybe this was a bad idea, maybe he should have gone back to the hotel to stew instead of getting not enough of Bryce again, the time so short he’s just going to feel worse when he leaves, feel cheated. He would have seen even less of Bryce if he was playing, so it’s not the scratch, except it is, it’s the scratch, and the distance, and he puts his fucking ass on the line every single time he steps on the ice, worked so fucking hard to get there, and —

Jared’s so tired.

Oh Jared.

“They gave you first star, right?” Jared asks into Bryce’s chest.

“Yeah,” Bryce says.

“Good,” Jared says. “You deserved it.”

"Thanks,” Bryce says, then, “Sorry,” and Jared closes his eyes when he feels Bryce’s lips brush his hair.

Oh buds.

115 - Barrage

So yeah, consensus is it makes no fucking sense logistically to scratch him. Jared’s glad they noticed, though, of course they do — you cheer for a team as bad as the Oilers, a team that’s been bad as long as they’ve been bad, you’re going to question every roster decision, especially one that makes your already bad team weaker.

Flames fandom dies hard.

“This is such a fucking mess,” Jared says.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Greg says. “I’m going to call Summers, okay? He’s got a lot of influence, he might be able to swing something I can’t.”

Low key every time Greg is out of his depth, he's calling Dave. And Dave's picking up, of course, because the one time Greg DIDN'T call him, that lead to Jared coming out to Oilers management while Bryce was about to hit the postseason.

Jared shuts his eyes for a moment. Types out You too., then rewatches Deslauriers throwing him under the bus. He doesn’t know if the hint of a smirk he’s detecting is real or if it’s just what he’s projecting onto that stupid fucking face.

Jared is projecting it, but like -- who could blame him.

“GMs on poorly performing teams don’t have the best job security,” Greg says, and Jared bristles a little, even though the Oilers are an objectively poorly performing team. “But they tend to last at least a few years with the benefit of the doubt before they get chucked. And Halla’s bought him time. He’s going to be there for at least a couple more years I think. You want to be across from him at the negotiating table when you’re an RFA?”

“That’s almost two years away,” Jared says.

“Two years he’s going to undermine you, two years he can do whatever he wants to you without repercussions, because people aren’t going to think he’s scratching you for no reason, they’re going to assume there’s something behind that, and they’re going to start wondering what that is. Unless we file a grievance, but that could blow up too,” Greg says. It’s stuff Jared’s already thought of, but it’s different, starker, to hear it from his agent.

“I’m not going to bullshit you, Jared. If he wants to sink your career, he wouldn’t even have to try hard. A few more offhand comments about personal reasons, a few more scratches, they’re going to start assuming things about you. And you’re talented, but you’re not the level of talented where a team’s going to gamble that it’s worth it. Once you get a reputation, that doesn’t go away. And he knows that.”

Greg’s talking more confidently than usual, no hesitation, and Jared thinks he’s repeating what Summers told him.

Practically verbatim from Dave's mouth, bless him.

116 - Unease

Jared doesn’t know what he expects after Greg tells Deslauriers he wants a trade. Well, he sort of does: he expects to be traded.

Fair. But also not always accurate. I've seen dudes stuck in franchises for seasons after the request. Which honestly should be something the NHLPA should be on more, that a trade request doesn't start a formal process or a clock or SOMETHING. It's like one of those 'door close' buttons that isn't connected to shit. But then, I suppose some franchises would have a real hard time keeping anybody.

some of the hardest calls he’s ever had to make, and one he kind of wishes had been a call, because telling Julius in person lead to Julius staring at him, stone-faced, colder and colder as Jared talked, and he didn’t say more than a syllable at a time to Jared for literal days after. Everyone else Jared talked to saw the sense in it, even if they didn’t like it, but Jared thinks Julius took it personally.

I mean, it's hard not to be hurt by 'Hello, I, your only friend in North America, have requested to leave you', even though Julius understands why.

Every day Jared wakes up thinking it might be his last day as an Oiler, and every day it isn’t he finds himself appreciating the team more. Not Deslauriers, obviously, but the gruff no bullshit of Mulligan’s coaching style, the quiet solidity of Julius beside him at dinner or on the plane, the loud talent of Julius beside him on the ice, the room around him, guys around him. Jared finds himself agreeing to go out more, dragging Julius with him, hoping partly that Julius makes more friends — Jared doesn’t want to worry about him if he leaves him behind — but also because he wants to, now that it’s something that could end at any moment.

Oh Jared, you're the friend Julius deserves too.

Maybe it’s something he should do with his new team from the start, whenever or whoever that’ll be.

Maybe!!

Deslauriers hasn’t scratched him again, hasn’t said anything about him to the media, and Jared guesses that makes sense. Doing either of those would hurt Jared’s trade value, and Greg’s right: he’s going to need to get a good asset back or the fanbase is going to be pissed, especially with the chemistry him and Julius have.

Also the bromance. Fans hate when you break up a bromance. But that's another kind of chemistry.

And who knows, maybe the second Jared asked for a trade Deslauriers twirled his moustache and went ‘then I won’t trade Matheson, just to spite him’.

Deslauriers does not have a moustache, for the record.

There’s a lot of talk that the Oilers are looking to trade their own captain, which Jared is — kind of fine with. Jacobi’s a UFA at the end of the season, so it’d be good to get something for him that can make them a stronger team in the future. Also he’s annoying.

Jared.

“Jared,” Julius says, with this scandalised but delighted voice, like he can’t believe Jared just said that but he’s not actually disagreeing.

Julius is with me.

The nerves, and they don’t have a game tomorrow, just practice, so whatever. Jared can have a drink. Jared drinks.

The statement every drinker makes, of course.

He’s not just their best player by a long shot, Jared’s wholly convinced he’s going to end his career in the Hockey Hall of Fame. Nineteen years old and he’s already breaking the ankles of the vets trying to defend against him. Jared shudders to think what he’s going to play like at twenty-two, let alone twenty-seven.

Dude I based his play off is, at 24, currently the NHL's points leader (this may change, because it's tight as fuck up there, but he'll still be in the top 5 when I post this), so: big hype for 27, widely considered a forward's career peak. (And when Julius goes to KC)

Edit: he's still at the top, but he's now 25!

Great, the sad thoughts are invading. Jared gives his glass of wine a distrustful look.

I love him.

I won’t miss you at all if I get traded,” Jared says.

“Yes you will,” Julius says.

“Just on the ice,” Jared says. “Off the ice you suck.”

Julius stalks to the kitchen, all ruffled, like a furious cat, and Jared grins fondly after him, but makes sure his face is neutral when Julius comes stalking back out, beer in hand. Jared doesn’t know how you can take a passive-aggressive sip of beer, but Julius pulls it off.

Also love Julius. One thing that made me sad about moving all these pieces into place for Jared's move was leaving Julius behind in Edmonton.

Jared’s got a fun morning planned of mainlining coffee and trying not to have a heart attack.

These seem to be contradictory activities.

“Did you just get up?” Julius asks judgmentally when Jared opens the door.

“Yeah,” Jared says through a yawn. “Have I been traded? Are you the trade fairy?”

Julius rolls his eyes at him and pushes past him, putting two coffees and a bag of McDonald’s on the table.

The trade fairy brings McDonalds.

“Healthy,” Jared says, but it’s not like he’s ever going to turn down a McDonald’s hashbrown. He roots into the bag, finds two egg McMuffins and nothing else. “No hashbrowns?” he asks.

Julius shrugs. “Too greasy.”

Jared grumpily unwraps his sandwich. Hashbrowns are the best thing at McDonalds, no contest. Too greasy. Fuck Halla.

Subpar McDonalds. And big Joey Munroe energy from Julius.

“I refuse to learn I’m traded on TV,” Jared says.

Could be worse: could learn you're traded because you got a call from TSN asking about your feelings on being traded, and then have to awkwardly ask them where exactly you've been traded to. Not that that has ever happened.

He opens twitter, goes to the account of the guy who’s known as an insider and has earned that title, as far as Jared’s concerned, scrolling through the updates.

I kind of ride the line re: media personalities in this 'verse and still haven't made a full call on whether they're the same, or some are, or the like, because almost everything in YCMAL 'verse outside of hockey are the same (celebrities, media, fads, etc) but they're hockey adjacent so -- this is either Bob McKenzie or some dude named Rob MacKenzie, whatever!

Anyway before he retired I had a tab with Bob McKenzie's twitter permanently open on trade deadline, free agent frenzy, etc, even when I had the TV on for live coverage (which I inevitably did, though sometimes I put it on mute when things started to slow down). Those days are holidays for me.

A few bottom six guys, a slightly surprising move of one of the top Bruins, considering they’re in the playoff picture. Making room for someone big, maybe.

Maybe.

Jared eats his hashbrownless breakfast

Jared Matheson has never held a grudge in his life.

Julius has an impressive poker face considering he just got promoted to first line centre.

I mean he's a little concerned about the dude sitting beside him, still.

Greg huffs out a laugh. “He got a bit,” he says. “Do you want to know where you’re going?”

He doesn’t.

“Yeah,” Jared says after a moment. “Lay it on me.”

It was a mean thing to leave this part here. I'm not apologizing or anything, though. Doing it put everyone in Jared's shoes more effectively than anything else would have.

116 - Reconfiguration

Jared’s been to Boston all of twice before, both times for games. Not long stays, right in the middle of roadies, and he can barely recall them, though he remembers how the games both went — loss, loss.

Jared is going to continue to have some trouble with the Bruins going forward.

“The Bruins are going to trade me?” Jared asks.

“I’m pretty sure they’re finalising it right now,” Greg says. “Sit tight, okay?”

The author giveth, the author taketh away.

“This isn’t like, trade two of three, is it?” Jared asks, because sucky or not, it’s the best case scenario. Or like, second best. “I’m not about to be shipped to, like, Florida or something?”

“No, they were desperate to get someone good on the right wing,” Greg says. “You’re a Canuck.”

I cannot overstate how many wingers the Canucks went through that season on the Cursed Line.

Julius leans over Jared’s suitcase to hug him, sudden and pointy and borderline painful — he’s skinny, but he’s strong, he wouldn’t have made it this far if he wasn’t, no matter how much talent he has — and Jared, after a short, slightly terrified pause, hugs him back.

<33333 Jared and Julius hugs get to me the way Jared and Erin hugs do. Possibly because in both cases Jared is the MORE enthusiastic hugger, which is honestly impressive.

Dammit, this is the exact reason he wasn’t taking calls. He needs to pack. He needs to be ready to go wherever the Canucks need him. He needs to not be crying on his bed — fuck, it’s going to cost so much to ship his bed to Vancouver, and probably take forever, he shouldn’t even bother until he knows if he’s there for next season too — with a clinging, all-bone Finn attached to him.

Jared is crying, clinging to Julius, all emotion, and then boom — damn the shipping costs are gonna be whack. I love him.

Fuck, who’s going to feed Julius when Jared leaves? The Oilers won’t just let their franchise player starve, will they?

“Please learn how to cook,” Jared begs.

“Fuck you,” Julius says into his shoulder, then lets go, Jared’s lungs suddenly getting airflow again, though his breathing’s still a little too shaky. “Packing,” he says.

“Yeah,” Jared says. “Packing.”

<3 Them. As excited I was about getting to return to my boys Gabe and Steve, and excited for Jared’s reaction to Dmitry, I was slightly distraught myself about Julius going from main supporting cast to guest star (joke’s on me for that too).

“Boston, huh. They’re — they’re a good team, they’re a playoff team.”

“That was like, a whole team ago,” Jared says, interrupting the glummest sounding set of compliments he’s ever heard. “My time as a Bruin has come and gone. Didn’t even get a jersey.”

Give Jared a Bruins jersey.

“I’m betting that’s an understatement,” Foster says. “Just wanted to let you know we’re really looking forward to having you in a Nucks uniform. You’ve been a total pain in the ass to play against, so it’ll be nice to have you on our side.”

Here comes Brian Foster. My fave GM, and it ain't close. (Barrett Rutledge probably takes second, but again -- huge gap)

“I won’t keep you, I’m sure you’ve got a hundred things to do,” Foster says. “You’re at home, right? Not on the road?”

“No,” Jared says. “I’m at home.” For however long it’s home.

“Good, it was the worst when I got traded on the road,” Foster says.

“Didn’t see most of my shit until the offseason. I’m rambling. I do that. A lot. Just. Before I let you go — my job’s to make the best team I can, and I made it better today. I feel really good about how you’re going to fit on this roster, and I hope you do too.”

I loved him already.

#liveblogging the end

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itzynabi · 1 year

Text

meet the fam

summary: in which san officially meets eve’s ahjussi

word count: 2.3k

set: 5 december 2022

warnings: mention of food and one (1) swear word

an: hey hey hey! more nasan coming your way! words in bold are english. feedback and reblogs are much appreciated 💘

eve’s masterlist

Today was the day. San was going to – officially – meet her brother. After four months – almost five – of dating, Eve and San were going to have dinner with Kibum. San had just come back from tour the day before and was a little tired but still excited to meet Kibum.

“I’m sorry we're doing this so soon after you came back. It's just surprisingly very hard to schedule something with this man. I usually show up unannounced and make him host,” Eve said from the driver's seat of the car after picking San up.

“It’s okay. I’m actually glad we're doing it now because I am so nervous and excited and I just want it to happen. Perfectly,” he added, wiping his hand on his jeans.

Eve glanced at him from the corner of her eye whilst navigating Seoul streets at night. “He's gonna love you. You said he was nice to you on Amazing Saturday! Also, my members love you and they're only slightly less protective of me,” she reassured him. “And if he doesn't like you, then we can be Romeo and Juliet.”

San looked at her with a hesitant expression on his face. “You do know how that story ends, right?”

“They get married?” she guessed with a shrug, still focused on the road. “I’ve never read Shakespeare. I find him boring.”

“They die at the end.”

Eve looked at San and then back at the road. “Wow. What a bummer. We can be some other great couple that goes against their family. But if Kibum ahjussi reacts the way I suspect he will, then we won’t have to.”

San smiled at her. “I missed you,” he said quietly, reaching over to hold Eve’s hand on the centre console.

“I missed you, too.” She blew him a kiss as she drove to the gate of Kibum’s apartment complex. “Hello, I’m here for Kim Kibum,” she told the security guard when he came to the car window.

“Does he know you’re coming?” he asked as he called Kibum’s apartment.

“Yes, he does,” Eve replied.

Kibum soon answered and gave the security guard permission to let them in. Eve quickly found a parking spot in the guest parking lot and switched off the car, turning to face San.

“You ready?” she asked.

San exhaled deeply and closed his eyes. “Not quite.”

Eve chuckled and reached over to brush her hand against his cheek, causing his eyes to flutter open. “He’s not gonna hate you. It’s impossible to.”

San nodded. “Okay. I’m ready.”

She smiled and leaned over to press a quick kiss on his lips, pulling back with a smile on her face. “Let’s go.”

They exited the car and walked hand in hand into the apartment building, taking the elevator to his floor until they stood in front of Kibum’s door. They shared one last look before Eve put in the code for the door, entering soon after.

“Honey, I’m home!” she shouted as she and San took off their shoes. Commes des and Garçon ran to greet her. Kibum soon appeared at the hallway wall, leaning against it with his right arm above his head and a smirk present as day on his face.

“Nabi,” he said cheerfully, walking to her with a pep in his step and hugging her when the dogs had gone to inspect San.

“What’s up with you? You sound like a stay-at-home mom that had a bottle of wine at 10 in the morning,” she said over his shoulder, furrowing her eyebrows in confusion.

Kibum simply chuckled as he pulled out of their hug. “Don’t be silly,” he said, swatting Eve’s shoulder. He then focused his attention on San, who had been standing in the doorway awkwardly and waving at the two dogs. “You must be San,” he said as San bowed.

“Stop acting like this is your first time meeting him. He knows you're a weirdo,” Eve scolded from behind them, causing Kibum to glare at her before facing San again. She called Commes des and Garçon to her so she could play with them more, tickling the area behind their ears.

“Thank you for inviting me, sunbaenim,” San said.

Kibum waved him off. “Don’t mention it. Let’s go to the table.” He directed the both of them, turning the corner into the living room area where the dining room could be seen, plates of food sitting on the table. Commes des and Garçon went to their beds where they had their dinner laid out in front of them in their bowls. Eve stopped walking the moment they turned the corner and her eyes focused on three figures already sitting at the table.

“What are ahjussi’s one, four and five doing here?” As far as she was concerned, this was supposed to be dinner with Kibum only. She looked at her brother and suddenly his odd behaviour began to make sense. “You were acting like a drunk housewife because you invited the other ahjussi’s?”

Kibum just smiled and nodded, letting his cult leader smile drop from his face. “Of course I invited them. This is a family affair!”

Eve rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, scoffing. San looked between the two siblings, unsure of what to do.

“Yah! Stop fighting, you’re making Nabi’s boyfriend feel awkward,” Minho scolded from the table.

The siblings turned to look at San and took note of his posture. They looked at each other and silently agreed to a truce. Kibum led them to the table, them sitting on one side and Jinki, Minho and Taemin sitting on the other.

“So. Ahjussi’s. This is San,” Eve introduced when they were all seated. “San, this is Jinki, Minho and Taemin,” she said, pointing at each of the members when she said their names.

“Hello,” San greeted and the members greeted back. The house was soon engulfed in silence.

“This is very awkward,” Jinki commented.

“If I was told the other ahjussi’s would be here then I wouldn’t be this awkward, but no! Everything needs to be a secret!” Eve exclaimed, causing Taemin to laugh.

“How about we start eating?” Kibum suggested. Everyone else agreed and started picking at their plates. Kibum started reaching to cut the steak on Eve’s plate for her when she turned to look at San.

“Can you cut my steak for me?” she asked him sweetly.

All movement at the table stopped. Jinki froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. Minho’s hand was stuck in the air from when he was taking a sip of his wine. Taemin had his hand over his mouth in shock. Key squinted his eyes at his sister. San’s jaw dropped as his eyes flitted between everybody at the table.

San quickly got over his shock and leaned in to whisper in Eve’s ear, “Um, is– isn’t your brother supposed to do that?”

Eve merely shrugged as everyone watched with bated breath. “He’d argue that he didn't sign a contract so…”

San blinked. Twice. “Are you sure?”

Eve nodded with a smile. “Yes.”

San gulped. He slowly reached towards Eve’s plate as everyone watched him. He was about to hold the plate when he stopped. “No, this isn’t right! Your brother is supposed to do this, Biyah,” he whined, much to Eve’s amusement.

She pursed her lips to conceal her smile as Kibum covered his mouth with his hand. Taemin looked to the side so San couldn’t see his face. Minho coughed to cover his laughter. Jinki put his food in his mouth to keep himself busy.

“I mean,” he continued, seemingly unaware of everyone's reactions, “even if he invited his members without asking you, he should still cut your steak. You told me that if you’re eating steak with him, then he has to cut it for you. So, I’m not going to!” He finished passionately.

Eve burst out laughing uncontrollably, leaning back against the chair for support and the other four men followed her. San watched them with questioning eyes, confused at why they were laughing.

“Well done, Sannie,” Eve said after calming down. She reached over and tapped his nose, his eyes closing shut at the contact. “You passed.”

San looked from her to Kibum – who had also calmed down – and back at her. “I passed?”

She nodded. “Yep. Kibum oppa said that in order to get his stamp of approval, you need to respect that he’s the most important man in my life – his words not mine – and this was the only way to test that. Therefore, you passed.”

“Oh,” San said, still surprised. He slowly moved to face forward again. “Okay.”

“You see, San,” Kibum started after taking a sip of his wine. “Nabi is my baby sister, and I wouldn’t want her to date some asshole that thinks he’s more important than me. Obviously we are important to her in different ways, but at the end of the day, I’m her brother. And if her boyfriend had no problem disrespecting me, then he'd have no problem disrespecting our parents. And that’s something I can’t allow.”

San nodded in understanding as he listened to Kibum. “I would never try to disrespect you, sunbaenim. Or your parents. Or the rest of your family,” he vowed. “Nabi wouldn’t even let me. I know how important you are to her and I wouldn’t want to cause any problems with her relationship with her family.”

“That’s good,” Minho said as he cut up his steak. “I liked you from the moment she told us she was dating you,” he added matter-of-factly.

As San proceeded to talk with Minho, Jinki and Taemin, Eve turned to look at Kibum with a smile on her face. He reached over to squeeze his hand before cutting her steak up for her. She sent him a finger heart when he was done and ate a piece.

“As much as we tease Nabi,” she heard Jinki say as she started listening to the conversation, “we would bury a body for her,” he finished, crossing his arms.

“Even if that body is her first boyfriend,” Taemin added, half-jokingly, causing San to gulp. Eve kicked her leg out under the table and Minho let out a yelp.

“Ow!”

“Oops. That was for the oppa on your left,” she said, gesturing at Taemin. Minho punched Taemin in the arm, who immediately gasped in pain.

“Okay, I’ll dial it back,” he said, raising his arms in mock surrender.

“Goes to the military and immediately starts threatening people.” Eve scoffed.

The rest of the night went by in a blur. After finishing dinner, they all went to the sitting room and sat on the couch. Commes des and Garçon quickly warmed up to San and started fighting for his attention, causing Eve to pout because “Why aren’t they fighting for my attention?”. They played Monopoly and San beat all of them flawlessly, triggering Eve and Minho’s competitive spirits. To end the night, the SHINee members shared embarrassing stories of Eve.

“She just shaved it off,” Taemin said through his laughter. He was telling the story of the time Eve accidentally shaved off one of her eyebrows with Minho’s shaver.

Eve huffed and crossed her arms. “I thought it was a skin softener! I didn’t know why you used it all the time!”

San looked at her with pursed lips, trying not to laugh. She rolled her eyes at him and he burst out in laughter. “I’m sure you looked really cute,” he said.

“I think I have a picture of her,” Jinki spoke up, reaching for his phone. Eve scrambled to steal his phone and held it to her chest.

“Nobody can see these photos,” she said seriously.

San and her soon got ready to leave. She said goodbye to the boys, hugging them all before walking to the door as San bowed respectfully to them. Kibum walked them to the elevator.

“It was nice to officially meet you, San,” Kibum said, sticking his hands in his pocket as they waited for the elevator to arrive.

“You too, sunbaenim,” San sincerely responded.

“Thanks for not being annoying,” Eve thanked Kibum.

He rolled his eyes. “Thanks for only being mildly annoying.”

The elevator came and the two got in.

“Bye, oppa,” Eve said as she and San waved goodbye. Kibum waved goodbye to both of them as the doors shut.

When they got in the car, San let out a deep exhale and Eve chuckled as she fished her keys out of her pocket.

“How was it?” She asked, putting the key in the ignition and starting the car.

“Great!” He exclaimed. “They really love you,” he observed.

She shrugged as she pulled out the parking space and drove out the apartment complex, waving at the security guard. “Yeah, I’m their baby. They’re super protective of me. I’m basically Yeri but in JYP. And related to one of the members.” She rested her hand on the centre console and San soon linked his fingers with hers.

“I’m glad you have so many people that care about you,” he said.

Eve smiled. “Me too.”

“Did you know he was inviting his members?” He asked once they arrived at his dorm building. “Like, was that part of your plan?”

Eve shook her head. “I didn’t have a clue. The only plan we had was to get you to do something that he’s supposed to do. I merely saw my opportunity and took it.”

“Well, you guys really had me convinced,” San said as he got out of the car. He walked around to Eve’s side and she rolled down her window. “Goodnight, Biyah.”

Eve reached out and held San’s face in her hands, pulling his face to hers and placing a kiss on his lips. “Goodnignt, Sannie,” she said once she pulled away.

tagging: @mystic-luv // @ateezivy // @ateezjuliet // @cafemilk-tea

©️ kim nabi

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queenlucythevaliant · 1 year

Text

When Lucy returned to school for the spring term, Peter sent a war poem. It dropped from the crease of his letter into her lap, as unexpected as a firebomb.

“On Receiving News of War,” the title read, and Lucy’s heart lurched. She was sixteen and Peter was twenty-one. The war had ended three years ago and he had only been a British soldier for a matter of months before he was discharged. Now, this poem came: words from the Last Lot, the 1914 war. Lucy picked up the loose page and read.

ON RECEIVING NEWS OF THE WAR

Snow is a strange white word;

No ice or frost

Have asked of bud or bird

For Winter's cost.

Yet ice and frost and snow

From earth to sky

This Summer land doth know,

No man knows why.

She looked up in shock. What did Peter mean in sending this? Was it only that it made him think of their first days in Narnia, white and frozen under the White Witch’s curse? He could not have missed the title. Lucy worried her lip between her teeth, considering. Her brother did not often use words idly.

Red fangs have torn His face.

God's blood is shed.

He mourns from His lone place

His children dead.

O! ancient crimson curse!

Corrode, consume.

Give back this universe

Its pristine bloom.

Oh. Yes, alright. That made a certain kind of sense. And there, at the bottom of the page, was a single line writ in Peter’s hand. “Variations on a theme,” he had written, “only I’m not yet certain what theme it is. Do you have an idea?”

Several, in fact. Lucy’s mind lit up in an instant, all a-whirl with memory and typology. She wasn’t a child any longer, and in small bits her many battles came back to her. Peter, she was sure, remembered even more of Narnia’s wars.

Yet Lucy remembered the ice of Lantern Waste on the first day as though no time had passed at all. She remembered the crimson of Aslan’s blood. She remembered the thaw. In her mind, those things had nothing and everything to do with Britain’s last war. Nothing: the two worlds were as different as King Arthur and Winston Churchill. Everything: because maybe Arthur and Churchill were not so different after all.

That night, after a trip to the library and with a book of poetry on her desk, Lucy composed her reply. “Another variation,” she wrote, and carefully copied out the lines.

All the dead kings came to me

At Rosnaree, where I was dreaming,

A few stars glimmered through the morn,

And down the thorn the dews were streaming.

And every dead king had a story

Of ancient glory, sweetly told.

It was too early for the lark,

But the starry dark had tints of gold.

The poem was called “The Dead Kings.” Peter was not dead, but Lune was and Cor was. Caspian was. It was easy to imagine them appearing in the trenches and whispering their stories into the ears of British soldiers.

“Caspian would have liked the notion, I think,” Lucy said thoughtfully.

Peter leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Yes. Come to think of it, I rather like it myself. If I were the dead king, I mean.”

“It’s strange—I think these were meant to be sad poems, the way they were written. The world unwillingly cursed and the ancient kings dead. Yet when you apply it to Narnia, I don’t think it’s terribly sad at all. Maybe a little melancholy, but hopeful too. Like I know something that the poet doesn’t.”

“You do know something that the poet doesn’t,” answered Peter.

“I mean about war and dying and all. It’s all so distant for me, you know? And yet I often suspect that I know secrets that some men who actually fought couldn’t guess at. The hopeless men, maybe. In Narnia it was all more beautiful. Having lived there elevates even war and death, in this world.”

“We were, both of us, soldiers once.”

Lucy nodded.

“How about this one, then?” Peter shoved his book across the table, nearly upending the cream along the way.

The drab street stares to see them row on row

On the high tram-tops, singing like the lark.

Too careless-gay for courage, singing they go

Into the dark.

“Simple,” said Lucy. “Singing on the way to war is courage. Singing in the dark is just about the bravest thing a person can do. Just because these boys go into the battle without knowing what it’s really like doesn’t make them any less brave for going, or for singing.”

“You would know,” her brother smiled fondly.

With tin whistles, mouth-organs, any noise,

They pipe the way to glory and the grave;

Foolish and young, the gay and golden boys

Love cannot save...

“It makes me think of Susan,” Peter murmured.

“I can see that. Our love cannot save her, only Aslan’s.” Lucy frowned thoughtfully.

“No, no—I mean I wonder if that’s how Susan thinks of us: foolish children still playing games where singing in the dark means anything at all. Gay and golden, but naïve and careless by the same token. Too caught up in notions of courage and glory to realize that we live in a world where good people die.”

“Oh Peter, you don’t really think?”

“She told me once she’s afraid that we’ll never grow up, did you know? I wondered if she meant that we would always be like children, or if she worried we might die young. Sometimes I still wonder.”

“It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world,” said Lucy. “To always be child-like, or even to die young. Not by half.”

Peter snorted. “You might not mind dying young, but I’d certainly mind it. You’re my little sister, Lu. If you die young, it means I’ve done something wrong.”

“Well of course I’d mind! There are so many things I mean to do once I’m grown up. But I’ve always thought—ever since Father Christmas handed me that dagger—that I might. As long as I died for something, it wouldn’t bother me. I think I could be a rather good martyr.” She winked across the table.

“Don’t you dare. If Aslan has short lives in mind for either of us, we’ll drink what we’re given. In the meantime, let’s both of us focus on growing up well.”

The next week, Lucy went with Marjorie Preston to the mail room. It was Marjorie’s birthday and she was expecting a parcel from home, but Lucy was also privately hoping for another letter from Peter.

An abundance of riches awaited Marjorie: an enormous box that the two of them had to lift together. Thus, Lucy tucked Peter’s letter under one of the box’s flaps as they carried it, and it was Marjorie who tore open the envelope when they reached the dormitories.

“What in the world is this?” Marjorie exclaimed, waving a poem under Lucy’s nose. Lucy snatched it away and hungrily read the words, considering how this variation fit Peter’s theme. Then, she noticed that Marjorie was still beside her, tapping her foot impatiently.

“My brother sends me war poems,” Lucy explained hurriedly.

“That’s strange.”

“Do you think so?” Lucy considered. “Well, no matter.”

WAR GIRLS (here Peter had added “& VALIANT QUEENS”)

Strong, sensible, and fit,

They're out to show their grit,

And tackle jobs with energy and knack.

No longer caged and penned up,

They're going to keep their end up

Till the khaki soldier boys come marching back.

"Does he mean you?" asked Marjorie, wrinkling her nose.

Lucy laughed, but didn't dispute it. She went to fetch some paper and a pen.

On they went for the next several months, passing poems back and forth in their letters. Some of them were hopeful and some despairing, some sad, some darkly funny. It was a dialogue in a war that Peter scarcely remembered, and Lucy even less. In time, Tennyson and others from before the Last Lot worked their way in. Even Shakespeare made an appearance with several selections from the Henriad. Spring lurched into summer which tumbled into fall. Peter turned twenty-two in August and Lucy was seventeen in November.

Then, at dinner at Professor Digory’s house one night, the specter of a Narnian king appeared before them. Before they left, Peter found the poem he was thinking of in the Professor’s study and gave it to Lucy.

Horror of wounds and anger at the foe,

And loss of things desired; all these must pass.

We are the happy legion, for we know

Time's but a golden wind that shakes the grass.

“Does it feel different this time?” he asked once she had read it.

“Yes,” replied his sister, “and no. It feels obscurely like it did the night Aslan died. Like something is hanging over us.”

“I think this is the end,” Peter said bluntly. “He said we wouldn’t ever go back to Narnia, yet here we are. It feels like the end. Do you remember what it was like the night before a battle?”

“Yes. I didn’t before, but I do now. Like we had to gather up everything inside ourselves and name it. Fear and courage, love and memory.”

Peter sighed. “We ought to get going. There might be ice on the roads tonight.”

Lucy went into the closet and fetched her coat. Peter followed, moving a fraction slower than usual.

“Peter?” Peter turned and looked at Lucy, who was standing in the doorway with her fur-trimmed collar turned up around her throat. “It was a good poem, Peter. The right poem. Time’s but a golden wind that shakes the grass…”

Golden. Golden like Aslan’s mane, which they both so dearly longed to touch once more. Lucy tossed the poem round and round in her mind all that evening.

Before he and Edmund left for London, Lucy slipped an envelope into Peter’s pocket. “Read it on the train,” she told him.

Peter nodded. “I have one for you too.”

It was the last conversation they shared in the Shadowlands, though neither knew it at the time.

When Lucy unfolded her poem, she recognized the words. It was her favorite war-poem, which she’d first sent to Peter months ago when their correspondence had begun.

Sombre the night is:

And, though we have our lives, we know

What sinister threat lurks there.

But hark! Joy—joy—strange joy.

Lo! Heights of night ringing with unseen larks:

Music showering on our upturned listening faces.

It almost made her want to giggle, how well Peter knew her. Lucy thought of him and Edmund together in London; she ached for Susan, who had chosen not to join her siblings in their last battle for Narnia. She breathed in deep and thought of music on the way to war.

Death could drop from the dark

As easily as song—

But song only dropped,

Like a blind man's dreams on the sand

By dangerous tides;

Like a girl's gold hair, for she dreams no ruin lies there,

Or her songs where a lion hides.

That last couplet was wrong. Peter had changed it. The poem ended with, A girl’s dark hair and kisses where a serpent hides, but Peter had written gold and lion instead.

When Peter unfolded his own poem on the train, he found only a single stanza, annotated on nearly every line.

It didn’t pass— (His will be done) it didn’t pass- (His will be done)

It didn’t pass from me.

I drank it when we met the gas (His will be done)

Beyond Gethsemane! (His will be done)

The train halted and the whistle blew. Peter shook Edmund awake beside him, and together they went to unbury the rings.

Poems referenced: “On Receiving News of the War,” Isaac Rosenberg; “The Dead Kings,” Francis Ledwidge; “Joining the Colours,” Katharine Tynan; “War Girls,” Jessie Pope; “Absolution,” Siegfried Sassoon; “Returning, We Hear Larks,” Isaac Rosenberg; “Gethsemane,” Rudyard Kipling

#i really am very interested in the ways that Narnia relates to both ww2 and ww1 #but i almost never like the way other people address the subject #(sorry)#so here's my attempt #i'm not 100% satisfied with it but i think it's good enough for now #the beauty of using a cut is that i can still revise if i decide i want to #also this is part of my informal 'Narnia lit analysis series'#because that's just the kind of gal i am #narnia #dear darling heart-daughter of aslan #high king over all the rest #chapter one #martyr club relevant #leah stories #pontifications and creations #intertextuality

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yeehawbvby · 6 months

Text

Falling Away With You | Ch. 45

Sebastian x F!Reader and M. Rasmodius x F!Reader

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Chapter Summary: Time for that cute date with Magnus! :^)

Author’s Note: I was gonna release this chapter either tomorrow or next Wednesday, but here it is early, as a little Halloween Spirit's Eve present!! (Totally beating myself up rn for not lining up the Spirit's Eve chapter to come out today.. ough)

Anyway, there's a lotta RomRas referenced in the first half of this one! It’s pure, cavity-inducing fluff >:3 And some sillies, because of course there is.

I hope y’all enjoy it, take care, and happy Halloween! x

Table of Contents + Work Summary

Check it out on ao3!

Prev | Next

After freshening up in Magnus’ restroom, I jog back downstairs to the main floor, where he’s patiently waiting for me to head out.

After I slip on my shoes, he takes both of my hands in his, calmly stroking my knuckles with his thumbs. “Ready?”

I hum my affirmation, nodding and smiling at the handsome wizard in front of me. As per usual when I’m being teleported, I close my eyes, saving myself from any potential freak-outs. I’m curious to know what it looks like to teleport, but today isn’t that day… Or tomorrow. Baby steps, (y/n).

I realize we must be at our destination when I feel a soft breeze against my cheeks and hear the sounds of nature.

The air smells fresh and crisp, and as Magnus steps aside and I open my lids, I’m met with a beautiful, serene forest, like something out of a fairytale. The pine trees directly ahead of us are coated in green moss and beige fungi, and as my eyes scan upward, I notice that there’s a vast cliff behind them, with more woodland up top.

As my gaze pans right, I see a waterfall that drops onto a small, elevated piece of land before creating a new and thicker cascade just below it. There’s a pale rainbow forming around the foam at the bottom, making every straying droplet look like glitter bouncing through the air. The crystal-clear water of the river it flows into shines iridescently under the sunlight, and as I turn around to follow its path, I realize it’s all gathering into a vast lake full of fish I’d never known existed. Some are purple, with pointy pink fins; others teal, with what looks like small rubies and emeralds and sapphires embedded into their scales.

Completing my full circle, I peek behind Magnus, noticing a similar pattern to what I’d already seen: a long and wavy river, waterfalls, and trees galore. When I finally look back up to him, he’s peering down at me. His cheeks are pink but his eyes stay maroon, and he has that cozy, lovestruck gaze he usually does when looking my way.

“Where are we?“ My voice comes out quiet, as if speaking any louder would somehow disrupt the peace.

“Grenville Falls,” he answers. “A forest of magical origin that lies far from civilization, and one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever come across in my travels.” I guess that explains why it’s so serene here. Humans haven’t been around to taint it yet. “Until now, most of the magic we’ve discussed has been almost purely pragmatic.”

“Almost.” I give him a shit-eating smirk.

My brother in Yoba is seriously trying to pull the “Magic must be used responsibly!!!” bullshit after casting spells on me for his own horny entertainment on several occasions. Magnus laughs before looking around at the grove we're standing in.

“Buuut,” he pointedly continues, “we’ve only barely touched on the simpler joys that magic can bring.” He turns back to me and laces our fingers together, a soft grin slightly plumping the warm apples of his cheeks. “I realize that, spiritual interference or not, it must have been hard to befriend me – let alone begin seeing me romantically – given how suspect our first interactions must have made me seem, alongside how out of touch I am in current social practices.”

Oh. So he really had almost no idea that I was unwillingly swooning right off the bat? I thought he’d read my mind plenty back then… maybe it was less than I’d assumed.

I give his hand a reassuring squeeze. Maybe he knows now, if anything – and if not, I could always just tell him when he’s not, like, pouring his entire heart out to me.

Magnus continues, “And yet you took the trouble to give me a chance, my dear, in spite of all that stood in our way. You’re so incredibly precious to me, and I wanted to give you even a sliver of the joy that you’ve brought into my life. So,” he sighs, reaching into his shirt pocket, “Although I don’t have a bouquet, as per tradition with the humans of the Valley, I thought you deserved to be properly and officially courted.” Magnus pulls out a fucking ring, and upon seeing the whites of my eyes, he chuckles. “I promise, this is not a marriage proposal.”

“Oh thank god.” I breathe out a nervous laugh, my right palm resting over my heart.

“But I am asking if you’d do me the honors of being my… girlfriend?” Magnus looks off to the side briefly, tilting his head as his eyes pinken. “I’ve always preferred the term ‘partner,’ but I’m not sure how common of a label that is in these times.” He shrugs, bringing his gaze back to mine, and beaming with again-maroon eyes upon seeing me enthusiastically and vigorously nodding my head.

“‘Partner’ is fine, I like ‘partner,’“ I squeak out. My cheeks are on fire, I can’t tell if it’s more from the thick blush coating them or from smiling so wide.

I jump to koala myself onto Magnus, unable to resist pecking his cheek and burying my face into his neck before accepting his gift. As always with physical contact, he barely needs time to think as he wraps his arms around me for support, one hand resting on my lower spine and the other against the back of my hair.

“I honestly didn’t think you were gonna ask,” my mumbles muffle into his collar. “I just assumed it was some sorta elemental tradition for sex to solidify a relationship, or something.”

“That is true in many cases, actually,” he confirms, setting me back on my feet. “Luckily, we more mindful beings have a say in the matter.”

Now that I’m not frazzled by what seemed like an engagement waiting to happen, I can actually look at the ring – which Magnus had looped onto his pinky for safe keeping during our embrace – up close. It’s fucking gorgeous, oh my god. A small moss agate is clasped against a gold band, and the bits holding the stone in place look like thin vines. Seems almost too delicate to wear.

Holding the ring between his left thumb and forefinger, he says, “That necklace Lady Welwick gifted you is an artifact imbued with her clairvoyant magic to aid your clairvoyant magic, generally speaking. But artifacts can be made to assist you in any aspect of magic, or of life itself, really.” Bringing his right hand up to his right earring – with his usual long, red ones adorning both ears – he explains, “These are similar, in that they provide a defense I don’t normally have. Although young for my kind, I’m still… er. I am an old man.”

My lips twitch as I attempt to hide a smirk. Magnus notices and chuckles.

He shushes me teasingly before continuing, “I don’t have the same oomph in me that I used to, so I wear these to keep myself safer in case anything should go awry. The rings I often wear serve a similar purpose — but those, I change to accommodate what is on my schedule each day.”

I nod in understanding, eyes wide with intrigue as Magnus brings his hand down to match his left.

“I conjured this with the same purpose as my earrings. I’ve yet to teach you defensive or combat magic, and while you may hopefully never be put in such a way that someone or something could threaten your well-being, this will offer a veil of protection, as well as invigorate you once you’re able to arcanely fend for yourself.”

“That’s so cool,” I mutter. “Thank you, Magnus,” I smile up at him. Swooning completely. “I love it, it’s perfect.”

“It’s the least I could do for you, my love,” he offers, his expression mirroring mine. He then asks, presenting an upturned palm to me. “May I?”

I nod, opting to place my right hand in his. Rather than looking down at our hands, I keep observing him:

The way he mutters something about hoping it fits under his breath.

The soft squint in his eyes.

The way his bottom lip rests subtly beneath his top teeth.

How his almost nervous expression turns into a bright grin as the ring is slipped on in a flawless fit. That familiar spark I experienced when putting on my necklace for the first time buzzes through my newly-accessorized digit, but I ignore it in favor of watching Magnus for just a bit longer.

Happy, dense crows feet form at the corners of his eyes as he pans them up to mine, before they widen slightly, his irises turning rosy as he notices that I’m staring. I simply smile up at him. The crinkles next to his eyes come back and he chuckles, taking my cheeks in his hands before leaning way down to softly plant a kiss on my forehead, and then my lips.

I giggle out of our smooch.

“What?”

“This feels like an actual proposal, honestly.”

His brows furrow. “Did I do too much?”

I get back on my tippy toes and pull him back down to me before he’s out of reach, whispering, “No way,” before stealing his lips again.

_______________

After all the cheesy stuff, Magnus summoned us a picnic! It took him a bit, and I needed to lend him some mana as he had to teleport it all from storage at home, but he managed. The blanket he brought for us to sit on has a purple gingham pattern, and the food and drinks were rested within a stereotypically tan, woven picnic basket.

Encased within the basket was a large bottle of cherry wine, a few empty cups, and some snacks. Mostly charcuterie-type things, like cheeses, fruits, and sliced meats, but he included some raw veggies and a few dips for ‘em as well. When I asked about the extra cups, Magnus said that the water here is perfectly safe for drinking, and that he added those so we wouldn’t need to mix the water and wine at all.

As soon as he told me that, I grabbed a cup and rushed over to the river. I’ve never had fresh water like this before – and holy fuck, it was so nice. Never tasted anything like it.

Fast-forwarding to right now, we’re laying side-by-side, lazily snacking on the few crackers and apple slices that are left. Both feeling all silly and happy and wine-drunk. About halfway through the bottle’s contents, we abandoned our cups in favor of occasionally passing the glass vessel back and forth to each other.

Speaking of which, now seems like a good time to top myself up!

I lean up onto my elbows and grab the bottle by its neck, chugging a few gulps back. Magnus, who’s peacefully lying still with red cheeks and closed eyes, startles a bit when I tap his arm with the bottle. I smile down at him.

“Sorry,” I giggle, “want more?”

He nods, then shuts his eyes again. “Feed it to me.”

My giggle turns into an ugly snort-laugh. “Why?”

“I’m sooo comfortable, (y/n)…”

“Too bad! It’s dangerous t’drink laying down.”

Magnus rebuttals, “I love danger.”

“Why are you lying?”

“Who, me?” He opens just one eye, smugly smiling up at me.

“Don’t play dumb.”

“To think my beloved partner would accuse me of such a horrible thing…” he trails off, sighing dramatically while closing his eye again.

I know Magnus is only teasing, but I still pout with furrowed brows. What a little shit! It’s at least nice to learn that he’s a coherent drunk, instead of the bumbling mess I am.

“Y’know what? Fine!”

I take a little wine in my mouth, then lean down, meeting Magnus with my lips against his. A surprised hum escapes him, but he melts into the kiss regardless. I stay still, so as to not blow my own cover (this would totally blow it easily in most cases, but right now, he doesn’t seem to notice). Finally, the moment Magnus’ lips part, I let the wine trickle onto his tongue. It’s barely even half of a sip, so it should be safe enough.

Another startled noise emits from the wizard’s throat, but he quickly adapts, swallowing the wine before bringing a large palm to the back of my head. Kissing me harder and deeper. Catching me off-guard. Oh boy.

I put a palm against his chest to steady myself, feeling my already-toasty cheeks heating up some more when he adds tongue. Noticing that my lower half is heating up too, I pull away, rolling over to lay on Magnus’ belly. It would feel wrong to do The Sex in such a seemingly sacred place.

My head jostles as Magnus sighs contentedly, and I turn onto my side to look at him.

“You’re s’handsome…” I murmur, reaching over to trace his jaw.

He raises his head a smidge to meet my gaze. The little bit of a double-chin this gives him is adorable. Makes me laugh. After a lazy smile, he lies flat again. As he moves, he reaches a hand to my hair and begins running his fingers through it, occasionally soothing my scalp with some light scratches. I hum, thoroughly enjoying how it feels.

Magnus sighs again, then dreamily murmurs, “It’s truly remarkable how lucky I’ve gotten meeting you.”

Smiling, I shake my head. “It’s more—“ I swallow back a small hiccup, “S’more fate than luck, no?”

“I suppose, but it feels lucky, nonetheless.”

I pop the last bit of apple into my mouth before letting myself relax into his touch. After a few moments of thought, I wonder out loud, “What kinda hobbies do y’have other than magic?”

Magnus doesn’t respond right away, but knowing how little time he has for things not magicky, I don’t rush him.

“I’m not so sure, honestly…” he eventually answers. It comes out quiet, almost whispered. “Gardening, I suppose, although that is often tied to my magic in some way.”

I frown, then suggest, “So let’s figure something out together.”

He peers down at me. “Anime,” he announces determinedly.

“Wh-“ I cut myself off to laugh, “What?!”

“I would like t’watch anime.”

Maybe it’s the booze, but I hug my tummy as I roll to lay on my side, curling in on myself with giggles. I almost knock the wine over, and Magnus quietly tuts at my clumsiness.

“Why don’t we start you off with manga instead?,” I suggest once I’ve relaxed. “Might like it better.”

“Manga?”

“Anime, but in book form.”

“Oh, that sounds splendid!”

“You read it backwards, just so you know. It’s usually published in Gotoroan, an’ translated for distribution elsewhere.” I emphasize the last two words with a vague wave of my hand.

“I can do that.”

I close my eyes for a few moments, the conversation coming to an abrupt end by my spinning head. “Is there a spell t’cure drunkenness?”

“I don’t believe so.”

I groan, rolling some more to nuzzle my face into Magnus’ chest.

“Although,” he adds, “a cheeky dip over there might help us sober up.”

“What about the fish?”

He snorts. “Why would they care?”

…Y’know. I was worried, at first, about the potential danger of swimming with these funky lookin’ fish. But something about how candidly Magnus responded convinced me that I should’ve been more worried about the critters’ opinions.

And you know what? He’s sooo right! Why would they care? Why should I care?!

I flop off of Magnus, laying flat against the blanket for a moment. He stumbles onto his feet, then assists me in doing the same, before beginning to strip.

My mouth falls open, a little bewildered. For some reason I thought he’d conjure up swimsuits, or that we’d swim in our underwear, or something like that. Promptly, I begin lifting my sweater over my head.

I observe, “We’re raw dogging this lake, huh?” The chilly air gives my skin goose bumps, but I don’t mind, given how much alcohol raises my temp.

“What are we ‘dogging?’”

I snort. “Oh. Slang.”

“For what?” he asks, stepping out of his boxers. He stumbles a bit and I hold his arms to stabilize him. Shamelessly give him a once-over, too.

“I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“I’m very old, (y/n).”

“Not old enough!”

Seeing me struggle out of my skirt, Magnus offers the same assistance I gave him. Then, he glares at me. Silently, but not even telepathically, telling me he’s gotta know. Sighing and remembering his yearn to be hip and cool, I give in.

“Fine. Sex. But like, without protection or whatever.”

“Ah… we are indeed raw dogging this lake!”

I chuckle at his enthusiasm. “Hell yeah we are!”

He holds his hand out to me, and practically drags me with him upon contact. I stumble a bit, then jog, wanting to match his pace. Don’t have the time or coordination at the moment to hold my boobs in place, which has me feeling a little self-conscious…

The water shocks me out of any negative thoughts though.

“Holy shit, s’freezing!” I strengthen my hold on Magnus as if it’ll steady my shivers.

“It’s not that bad.” His teeth are chattering.

“Liar.” I splash him with my free hand. He lets out a tiny yelp and tries to pull away, but I keep my grip firm, attempting to hit him with a few more watery snipes.

“Oh, if it’s a war you want, so be it!”

“What?”

“Hold your breath,” he warns before promptly yanking me down.

I scream out bubbles, laughing in delirium due to both the sudden change in temperature and Magnus’ own distorted under-water laughter. After a short moment of observing how ethereal he looks — his purple hair floating around him, the sparkle of his pale gray skin being tinted blue, the otherworldly fish circling around us — I shake my hand free and promptly bring myself back up to the surface. He follows my lead.

“Damn it,” I continue to giggle, repositioning my wet hair out of my face. Swiping some water from my eyelashes, I once again mentally thank Yoba for waterproof makeup. “So cold…”

“This seems to be doing the trick though, wouldn’t you agree?”

Unfortunately, he’s right. I feel surprisingly more level-headed now than when I was laying on him in a wine-driven stupor. “Yeah, yeah…”

I look around, admiring the beauty of our surroundings again, now from a different angle. I don’t notice anything new, but it’s still just as pretty, nonetheless.

Feeling something tickling my ankle, I look down into the water, watching as a sparkly blue fish swims around me. I giggle.

“Hey buddy,” I murmur, reaching down to try and stroke its scales. The movement scares it away, though. “Aw, man.”

“‘Twas a good effort.”

I meet Magnus’ fond gaze and furrow my eyebrows. “Not good enough.”

“Maybe someday.”

I sigh. “What are these fish, anyway?”

My partner shrugs. “Many are your typical river fish, such as carp or bass, whose forms have been altered due to the magical properties of the area.”

“Huh,” I grin, returning my gaze to the fish that swim a mere few feet away from us. “That’s sick.” I look back up at Magnus, quickly diverting my attention again when I notice the dreamy stare he’s still boring into me. My cheeks heat up, warming my whole body a little, as if I’m not skinny dipping in an almost freezing-cold river.

Then, my mind ruins the moment — as it typically does — suddenly drifting to my fish friend’s scales, then back to the weird note I received earlier.

“Can these fish’s scales be made into ink, or something?”

“Perhaps.” With a brow furrow and head tilt, he asks, “Why do you ask?”

“Um…” I think for a moment.

Do I tell him? Well, I suppose there’s no backing out now, really. He’s looking at me so expectantly, and he could read my mind if I were to lie too poorly.

“I got this letter earlier,” I go on, “and the ink looked really similar to that blue fella that was here before, right down to the way it shimmers. Never seen anything like it.”

Magnus frowns. “I hope it hasn’t come from one of them.”

A particularly small fish swims closely by the old wizard, this one a vibrant purple. It almost matches his hair. He reaches a gentle hand towards it, and it doesn’t back away, unlike the blue fish who graced me a moment ago. Lucky…

“It’s been a mutual decision between the Ministry and First Slash that places such as this remain unscathed.” He peers back up at me, letting the guppy move on. “Who was its sender?”

I shrug. “Didn’t have a name or return address. I didn’t feel any energy from it, either.”

He hums in thought. “I’ll take a look, if you don’t mind the intrusion. Maybe I can discern who or what it’s from.”

I offer a small salute. “You got it, boss.” Then, I sniffle. It’s super boogery. I better not be getting sick from this…

“Let’s get you out of here,” my partner prompts, noticing my… goopy state.

Magnus wades over to me, reaching out a hand. I’m surprised it’s so warm as I clasp mine into it, and take advantage of his body heat, looping my arm through his and pressing my bare body closer as he guides us to the shore.

“We’ll head back once you're warm and dry, alright?”

I grin up at him. “Sounds good to me.”

11 notes · View notes

istumpysk · 2 years

Text

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

AFFC: Cersei VI (Chapter 28)

The Winds of Winter is delayed because he convinced himself every chapter needs to be the size of a short novel.

"There are other men as well, I hear. Knights and courtiers. Admirers. Tell me true, my lady. Do you think Margaery is still a maiden?"

"She says she is, Your Grace."

"So she does. What do you say?"

Taena's black eyes sparkled with mischief. "When she wed Lord Renly at Highgarden, I helped disrobe him for the bedding. His lordship was a well-made man, and lusty. I saw the proof when we tumbled him into the wedding bed where his bride awaited him as naked as her name day, blushing prettily beneath the coverlets. Ser Loras had carried her up the steps himself. Margaery may say that the marriage was never consummated, that Lord Renly had drunk too much wine at the wedding feast, but I promise you, the bit between his legs was anything but weary when last I saw it."

"Did you chance to see the marriage bed the morning after?" Cersei asked. "Did she bleed?"

"No sheet was shown, Your Grace."

I'm guessing Loras being present helped with that.

I still don't understand what the long-term plan was with these three. Was there seriously no consummation? Did they never intend to have sex? She was on board with her husband being gay and in love with her brother? What about an heir?

I have so many questions.

+.+.+

A pity. Still, the absence of a bloody sheet meant little, by itself. Common peasant girls bled like pigs upon their wedding nights, she had heard, but that was less true of highborn maids like Margaery Tyrell. A lord's daughter was more like to give her maidenhead to a horse than a husband, it was said, and Margaery had been riding since she was old enough to walk.

I'm sharing because it made me laugh out loud.

+.+.+

"I understand the little queen has many admirers amongst our household knights. The Redwyne twins, Ser Tallad . . . who else, pray tell?"

Lady Merryweather gave a shrug. "Ser Lambert, the fool who hides a good eye behind a patch. Bayard Norcross. Courtenay Greenhill. The brothers Woodwright, sometimes Portifer and often Lucantine. Oh, and Grand Maester Pycelle is a frequent visitor."

"Pycelle? Truly?" Had that doddering old worm forsaken the lion for the rose? If so, he will regret it. "Who else?"

"The Summer Islander in his feathered cloak. How could I have forgotten him, with his skin as black as ink? Others come to pay court to her cousins. Elinor is promised to the Ambrose boy, but loves to flirt, and Megga has a new suitor every fortnight. Once she kissed a potboy in the kitchen. I have heard talk of her marrying Lady Bulwer's brother, but if Megga were to choose for herself, she would sooner have Mark Mullendore, I am certain."

Highlighting for later.

Pycelle frequently visits Margaery, but it's those flirty cousins and their suitors we should be paying attention to.

+.+.+

When Taena frowned, a tiny crease appeared between her dark eyes. "Every morn and every night he [Loras] visits, unless duty interferes. Her brother is devoted to her, they share everything with . . . oh . . ." For a moment, the Myrish woman looked almost shocked. Then a smile spread across her face. "I have had a most wicked thought, Your Grace."

"Best keep it to yourself. The hill is thick with sparrows, and we all know how sparrows abhor wickedness."

I can only assume her idea is spreading fake news about Loras and Margaery. That's a bold suggestion from someone playing both sides.

+.+.+

"So I suspect. As a rule the Most Devout elevate one of their own, but there have been exceptions." Grand Maester Pycelle had informed her of the history, at tedious length.

Always pay attention to history, Cersei.

+.+.+

"During the reign of King Baelor the Blessed a simple stonemason was chosen as High Septon. He worked stone so beautifully that Baelor decided he was the Smith reborn in mortal flesh. The man could neither read nor write, nor recall the words of the simplest of prayers." Some still claimed that Baelor's Hand had the man poisoned to spare the realm embarrassment.

King Baelor the Blessed sounds like a looney tune. How predictable.

Is that last part about poison relevant?

+.+.+

"After that one died, an eight-year-old boy was elevated, once more at King Baelor's urging. The boy worked miracles, His Grace declared, though even his little healing hands could not save Baelor during his final fast."

Please!!

+.+.+

Lady Merryweather gave a laugh. "Eight years old? Perhaps my son could be High Septon. He is almost seven."

"Does he pray a lot?" the queen asked.

"He prefers to play with swords."

"A real boy, then. Can he name all seven gods?"

"I think so."

"I shall have to take him under consideration." Cersei did not doubt that there were any number of boys who would do more honor to the crystal crown than the wretch on whom the Most Devout had chosen to bestow it.

Yes! A number of boys! Who cares if he doesn't know how to read or use utensils? Not me.

+.+.+

This is what comes of letting fools and cowards rule themselves. Next time, I will choose their master for them. And the next time might not be long in coming, if the new High Septon continued to annoy her. Baelor's Hand had little to teach Cersei Lannister where such matters were concerned.

I believe her.

+.+.+

"You should bring this son of yours to court," Cersei told Lady Merryweather. "Six is not too young. Tommen needs other boys about him. Why not your son?" Joffrey had never had a close friend of his own age, that she recalled. The poor boy was always alone. I had Jaime when I was a child . . . and Melara, until she fell into the well.

Unreliable narrator Cersei Lannister.

Cause, you know.

+.+.+

"Your Grace is kind, but Russell has never known any home but Longtable. I fear he would be lost in this great city."

"Bring my son to court to befriend the king? Nah, we're good, thanks."

Hun, this is not your friend.

+.+.+

We had to have those ships. She could not rely upon the Arbor for her navy; the Redwynes were too close to the Tyrells. She needed her own strength at sea.

The dromonds rising on the river would give her that. Her flagship would dip twice as many oars as King Robert's Hammer. Aurane had asked her leave to name her Lord Tywin, which Cersei had been pleased to grant. She looked forward to hearing men speak of her father as a "she."

rofl.

+.+.+

Another of the ships would be named Sweet Cersei, and would bear a gilded figurehead carved in her likeness, clad in mail and lion helm, with spear in hand. Brave Joffrey, Lady Joanna, and Lioness would follow her to sea, along with Queen Margaery, Golden Rose, Lord Renly, Lady Olenna, and Princess Myrcella. The queen had made the mistake of telling Tommen he might name the last five. He had actually chosen Moon Boy for one.

Really?

Samwell, please make sure the Renly chapters are accurate.

+.+.+

She wore a white gown slashed with cloth-of-gold, lacy but demure. It had been several years since the last time she had donned it, and the queen found it uncomfortably tight about the middle.

It's unnecessary that I keep highlighting this, yet here I am doing it again.

+.+.+

The day she wed Robert Baratheon, thousands had turned out to cheer for them. All the women wore their best, and half the men had children on their shoulders. When she had emerged from inside the sept, hand in hand with the young king, the crowd sent up a roar so loud it could be heard in Lannisport. "They like you well, my lady," Robert whispered in her ear. "See, every face is smiling." For that one short moment she had been happy in her marriage . . . until she chanced to glance at Jaime. No, she remembered thinking, not every face, my lord.

Doomed before they even made it out of the sept.

+.+.+

No one was smiling now. The looks the sparrows gave her were dull, sullen, hostile. They made way but reluctantly. If they were truly sparrows, a shout would send them flying. A hundred gold cloaks with staves and swords and maces could clear this rabble quick enough. That was what Lord Tywin would have done. He would have ridden over them instead of walking through.

What else would he do, Cersei?

Lord Tywin would not have bothered with a search. He would have burned that town and every living creature in it. Men and boys, babes at the breast, noble knights and holy septons, pigs and whores, rats and rebels, he would have burned them all. - The Griffin Reborn, ADWD

+.+.+

"We ask no vengeance for our dead," said the one-legged man, "only protection for the living. For the septs and holy places."

"The Iron Throne must defend the Faith," growled a hulking lout with a seven-pointed star painted on his brow. "A king who does not protect his people is no king at all."

This always feels like a Jon shoutout.

+.+.+

But as she made her way through the press to the steps of the sept, a gaggle of armed men stepped out to block the doors. They wore mail and boiled leather, with here and there a bit of dinted plate. Some had spears and some had longswords. More favored axes, and had sewn red stars upon their bleached white surcoats. Two had the insolence to cross their spears and bar her way.

"Is this how you receive your queen?" she demanded of them.

Blocking the Queen Regent from entering. That's pretty outrageous.

Red flag, Cersei. Red flag.

+.+.+

"You are welcome here, but your men must leave their swordbelts. No weapons are allowed within, by command of the High Septon."

"Knights of the Kingsguard do not set aside their swords, not even in the presence of the king."

"In the king's house, the king's word must rule," replied the aged knight, "but this is the house of the gods."

They don't answer to kings, they answer to their gods.

Cersei? 🚩🚩🚩

+.+.+

"I do not see my friend Septon Torbert."

"Septon Torbert has been confined to a penitent's cell on bread and water. It is sinful for any man to be so plump when half the realm is starving."

The flag, Cersei. It's red.

+.+.+

"We have no crown, Your Grace."

Her frown deepened. "My lord father gave your predecessor a crown of rare beauty, wrought in crystal and spun gold."

"And for that gift we honor him in our prayers," the High Septon said, "but the poor need food in their bellies more than we need gold and crystal on our head. That crown has been sold. So have the others in our vaults, and all our rings, and our robes of cloth-of-gold and cloth-of-silver. Wool will keep a man as warm. That is why the Seven gave us sheep."

Haaaaahaha, fuck you Tywin.

+.+.+

He is utterly mad. The Most Devout must have been mad as well, to elevate this creature . . . mad, or terrified of the beggars at their doors. Qyburn's whisperers claimed that Septon Luceon had been nine votes from elevation when those doors had given way, and the sparrows came pouring into the Great Sept with their leader on their shoulders and their axes in their hands.

Cersei, I'm begging you.

+.+.+

Incense sweetened the air, and beside the seven altars candles shone like stars. A thousand twinkled for the Mother and near as many for the Maid, but you could count the Stranger's candles on two hands and still have fingers left.

Since we're in a sept, I'll pray this isn't the Arya foreshadowing I think it is.

+.+.+

At the Mother's altar, a septon was leading a hundred sparrows in prayer, their voices as distant as waves upon the shore. The High Septon led Cersei to where the Crone raised her lantern. When he knelt before the altar, she had no choice but to kneel beside him.

Hahaha, he took her to the Crone instead of the Mother.

+.+.+

"Night soil can be washed away more easily than blood, Your Grace. If the plaza was befouled, it was befouled by the execution that was done here."

He dares throw Ned Stark in my face? "We all regret that. Joffrey was young, and not as wise as he might have been. Lord Stark should have been beheaded elsewhere, out of respect for Blessed Baelor . . . but the man was a traitor, let us not forget."

"King Baelor forgave those who conspired against him."

CERSEI. PLEASE.

+.+.+

"War is a dreadful thing. These atrocities are the work of the northmen, and of Lord Stannis and his demon-worshipers."

"Some of my sparrows speak of bands of lions who despoiled them . . . and of the Hound, who was your own sworn man. At Saltpans he slew an aged septon and despoiled a girl of twelve, an innocent child promised to the Faith. He wore his armor as he raped her and her tender flesh was torn and crushed by his iron mail. When he was done he gave her to his men, who cut off her nose and nipples."

(I apologize for making you read that.)

CERSEI. LISTEN.

+.+.+

"As you say. Yet it must be asked—where were the king's knights when these things were being done? Did not Jaehaerys the Conciliator once swear upon the Iron Throne itself that the crown would always protect and defend the Faith?"

Cersei had no idea what Jaehaerys the Conciliator might have sworn. "He did," she agreed

Having no idea is kicking her ass right now.

When Ser Joffrey and Lady Lucinda urged him to undo his uncle Maegor's decrees and reinstate the Swords and Stars, Jaehaerys refused firmly. "The Faith has no need of swords," he declared. "They have my protection. The protection of the Iron Throne." He did, however, rescind the bounties that Maegor had promised for the heads of Warrior's Sons and Poor Fellows. "I shall not wage war against my own people," he said, "but neither shall I tolerate treason and rebellion." - Fire & Blood

He swore the crown would always protect and defend the faith so they would remain disarmed.

+.+.+

It is traditional for every new High Septon to give the king his blessing . . . and yet you have refused to bless King Tommen."

"Your Grace is mistaken. We have not refused."

"You have not come."

"The hour is not yet ripe."

Are you a priest or a greengrocer? "And what might I do to make it . . . riper?" If he dares mention gold, I will deal with this one as I did the last and find a pious eight-year-old to wear the crystal crown.

pleasepleaseplease.

+.+.+

"The realm is full of kings. For the Faith to exalt one above the rest we must be certain. Three hundred years ago, when Aegon the Dragon landed beneath this very hill, the High Septon locked himself within the Starry Sept of Oldtown and prayed for seven days and seven nights, taking no nourishment but bread and water. When he emerged he announced that the Faith would not oppose Aegon and his sisters, for the Crone had lifted up her lamp to show him what lay ahead. If Oldtown took up arms against the Dragon, Oldtown would burn, and the Hightower and the Citadel and the Starry Sept would be cast down and destroyed. Lord Hightower was a godly man. When he heard the prophecy, he kept his strength at home and opened the city gates to Aegon when he came. And His High Holiness anointed the Conqueror with the seven oils. I must do as he did, three hundred years ago. I must pray, and fast."

Is this. . . something?

+.+.+

Cersei itched to slap his solemn, pious face. I could help you fast, she thought. I could shut you up in some tower and see that no one brings you food until the gods have spoken.

You first!

+.+.+

"Give Tommen your blessing, and he shall put an end to these outrages."

"And how shall he do that, Your Grace? Will he send a knight to walk the roads with every begging brother? Will he give us men to guard our septas against the wolves and lions?"

I will pretend you did not mention lions.

Why are you pretending? He mentioned lions! HE MENTIONED LIONS.

+.+.+

"The realm is at war. His Grace has need of every man." Cersei did not intend to squander Tommen's strength playing wet nurse to sparrows, or guarding the wrinkled cunts of a thousand sour septas. Half of them are probably praying for a good raping.

Oof.

+.+.+

"Your sparrows have clubs and axes. Let them defend themselves."

"King Maegor's laws prohibit that, as Your Grace must know. It was by his decree that the Faith laid down its swords."

It's a trap! IT'S A TRAP.

He wants you to think this is your idea! IT'S NOT YOUR IDEA.

+.+.+

"Tommen is king now, not Maegor." What did she care what Maegor the Cruel had decreed three hundred years ago? Instead of taking the swords out of the hands of the faithful, he should have used them for his own ends. She pointed to where the Warrior stood above his altar of red marble. "What is that he holds?"

"A sword."

"Has he forgotten how to use it?"

"Maegor's laws—"

"—could be undone." She let that hang there, waiting for the High Sparrow to rise to the bait.

He did not disappoint her. "The Faith Militant reborn . . . that would be the answer to three hundred years of prayer, Your Grace. The Warrior would lift his shining sword again and cleanse this sinful realm of all its evil. If His Grace were to allow me to restore the ancient blessed orders of the Sword and Star, every godly man in the Seven Kingdoms would know him to be our true and rightful lord."

You're not casting the bait! YOU'RE NOT CASTING THE BAIT.

What did she care what Maegor the Cruel had decreed three hundred years ago?

omg.

+.+.+

That was sweet to hear, but Cersei took care not to seem too eager. "Your High Holiness spoke of forgiveness earlier. In these troubled times, King Tommen would be most grateful if you could see your way to forgiving the crown's debt. It seems to me we owe the Faith some nine hundred thousand dragons."

He's not forgiving anything! He already knows you never intend to pay! HE ALREADY KNOWS.

+.+.+

The High Septon pondered that a moment. "As you wish. This debt shall be forgiven, and King Tommen will have his blessing. The Warrior's Sons shall escort me to him, shining in the glory of their Faith, whilst my sparrows go forth to defend the meek and humble of the land, reborn as Poor Fellows as of old."

oh no.

+.+.+

The High Septon made a steeple of his hands and raised his eyes to heaven. "Let the wicked tremble!"

Do you hear that, Lord Stannis? Cersei could not help but smile. Even her lord father could have done no better. At a stroke, she had rid King's Landing of the plague of sparrows, secured Tommen's blessing, and lessened the crown's debt by close to a million dragons. Her heart was soaring as she allowed the High Septon to escort her back to the Hall of Lamps.

But he never said anything about Stannis! THERE WAS NO MENTION OF STANNIS.

Tommen won't even get his blessing! THERE WILL BE NO BLESSING.

+.+.+

"The Warrior's Sons were an order of knights who gave up their lands and gold and swore their swords to His High Holiness. The Poor Fellows . . . they were humbler, though far more numerous. Begging brothers of a sort, though they carried axes instead of bowls. They wandered the roads, escorting travelers from sept to sept and town to town. Their badge was the seven-pointed star, red on white, so the smallfolk named them Stars. The Warrior's Sons wore rainbow cloaks and inlaid silver armor over hair shirts, and bore star-shaped crystals in the pommels of their longswords. They were the Swords. Holy men, ascetics, fanatics, sorcerers, dragonslayers, demonhunters . . . there were many tales about them. But all agree that they were implacable in their hatred for all enemies of the Holy Faith."

Holy shit, Lancel is going to kill Drogon.

No but really, is this important? I've spent all my research time looking for red flag gifs.

+.+.+

"We have been picking autumn flowers in the kingswood," she told them.

I know where you were, the queen thought. Her informers were very good about keeping her apprised of Margaery's movements. Such a restless girl, our little queen. She seldom let more than three days pass without going off for a ride.

[...]

Wherever she went, the smallfolk fawned on her, and Lady Margaery did all she could to fan their ardor. She was forever giving alms to beggars, buying hot pies off bakers' carts, and reining up to speak to common tradesmen.

Had it been up to her, she would have had Tommen doing all these things as well.

[...]

But the king was deaf to sense, thanks to his little queen. "If we mingle with the commons, they will love us better."

I can't believe this kid is smarter than the whole god damn family.

+.+.+

Every day in every way she tries to steal him from me. Joffrey would have seen through her schemer's smile and let her know her place, but Tommen was more gullible. She knew Joff was too strong for her, Cersei thought, remembering the gold coin Qyburn had found. For House Tyrell to hope to rule, he had to be removed.

A broken clock, yada yada yada.

+.+.+

It came back to her that Margaery and her hideous grandmother had once plotted to marry Sansa Stark to the little queen's crippled brother Willas. Lord Tywin had forestalled that by stealing a march on them and wedding Sansa to Tyrion, but the link had been there. They are all in it together, she realized with a start. The Tyrells bribed the gaolers to free Tyrion, and whisked him down the roseroad to join his vile bride. By now the both of them are safe in Highgarden, hidden away behind a wall of roses.

What are you talking about? The Tyrells pushed hardest for Sansa and Tyrion to be executed.

So close, yet so far.

+.+.+

In the early years of their marriage, Robert was forever imploring her to hunt with him, but Cersei had always begged off. His hunting trips allowed her time with Jaime.

Nice try author, but you're not going to convince me Robert was a decent husband.

+.+.+

Margaery smiled at Ser Loras; a sweet sisterly smile, full of fondness. "Your Grace is kind to fear for me, but my brother keeps me well protected."

Go and hunt, Cersei had urged Robert, half a hundred times. My brother keeps me well protected. She recalled what Taena had told her earlier, and a laugh came bursting from her lips.

"Your Grace laughs so prettily." Lady Margaery gave her a quizzical smile. "Might we share the jest?"

"You will," the queen said. "I promise you, you will."

Doesn't she abandon the Loras x Margaery fake news plans? Similar to the Jon Snow thing, it feels like this fizzled out.

Final thoughts:

Maybe arming extremists won't be a disaster? I can't wait to find out.

Hey, did you know, like, 28% of the fandom believes the High Sparrow is Howland Reed?

Is that the least surprising thing you've ever heard?

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #affc #cersei vi

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dragonmuse · 2 years

Note

I am so in love with the darkest timeline oh my god. Do the rest of the crew ever suspect anything is awry? And also... if Jim and Lucius snag Charlie and Alma, what about Read? Does she ever find her way into their web?

(I know I promised some Charlie , but you know i gotta get my girl in the mix. And soft request anon, I see you and you are valid and I will be back with some Whina content in the next few days too!)

On the mornings after nights when Lucius hasn’t come home, Izzy will go for a long walk. He knew Lucius has other things (other people sometimes) to do and he made his peace with that a long time ago. That didn’t mean he didn’t miss his company. So he went for his walks, paces out the neighborhood. Sometimes he'll run an errand, but the longer he settled into his semi-retirement, the less he felt the compulsion to make everything useful.

Lucius found this habit charming and would often ask Izzy where he went, so he tried to vary the route so he’d have something to tell him. Once, he worried he was boring Lucius.

“Oh, darling,” Lucius kissed his knuckles. “It’s so restful to hear about your day. Never boring.”

It could still be hard to tell when Lucius was being sincere, but Izzy accepted it and if Lucius was actually bored that was on him now.

Today, he angled toward the park with the intent of crossing it and maybe hunting down the little cookies that they both liked to dip into their coffee after a heavy dinner. He made it two blocks down. There, in front of the bodega, was one of the kids he kept his eye on from time to time. Habit, tracking potential dangers.

Good thing because one of the ones he’d gotten sort of fond of (only in theory, they’d never said two words to each other) was in the middle of fighting for their fucking life. Izzy hadn’t really taken in the hour when he set off and it was still pre-dawn light. (Maybe he didn’t sleep that well without Lucius anymore. Maybe sometimes he sat up and nursed a single glass of whiskey staring blankly out the enormous window.)

He watched the kid fight back. They were scrappy and fast and bigger than their assailants, but they were also definitely losing.

Fire sang in his blood. With a surge of adrenaline, he waded into the fight, throwing punches, elbows and headbutting one guy hard enough to make his ears ring a little. It was glorious. When they were in a heap and he could catch his breath, he found the kid huffing right along with him, a fierce look on their face.

“You’re the brown bag guy,” they said like it was an accusation.

“What?”

“You’ve got that one reusable shopping bag. It’s brown. You’re always going out and coming back with it full.”

“Oh.” Izzy nodded vaguely. “Yeah. That’s me. Izzy. You?”

“Read,” they said. “Thanks. I could’ve...or maybe not. So. Thanks.”

“What’d they want with you anyway?”

“Just to roll me. I made some cash on my last job and they knew it. Not enough to make the fight worth it, but I get it.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I am?”

“And I think they broke your nose.”

“No,” they attempted to sniffle and winced. “I’m good.”

“Come back to my place, I’ll fix you up,” he offered.

“Uh, yeah no. Not going with a stranger to their place to get stabbed.”

“Smart. Generally. But right now you’re a walking mark for these assholes as soon as they get themselves together enough to try again,” he pointed out. “And I don’t need your money.”

Read wavered, he could tell.

“I’ll make you breakfast.”

“I don’t need your charity.”

“Everyone needs some fucking help sometimes,” he said gruffly. “It’s just life. Come on, if you’re coming.”

To his relief, Read did follow, trailing reluctantly behind him. The doorman was discreet and didn’t so much as give the kid a second look. When Izzy turned his key in the elevator so he could hit the PH button, Read snorted,

“What, you really live up there?”

“Why not?” He asked with a faint smile.

“Cause..I mean,” Read hesitated. “I just...you don’t look like a rich guy.”

“What do I look like?”

“Like you know how to punch someone.”

“Yeah, turns out rich people can do that too. Money just means we get away with it more often.”

The elevator opened into an entrance alcove. Izzy sat down to take off his boots. He didn’t have to say a word to Read, they just took off their shoes like it was old habit, then waited for him to lead them into the living room.

Read’s little gasp made him smile fractionally. The apartment was ridiculous, but it was home now and he was used to it. Nice to see it fresh through someone else's eyes. The two story windows that looked over the tops of many other buildings, high enough that the river was visible. The furniture was richly colored and laid out for maximum advantage of the views. The sweeping walls were painted a lush blue and hung with a dizzying array of paintings, some real and some Lucius’ clever work and still others his original pieces.

“Wow,” Read said quietly.

“Yeah, it’s home. Come on,” he led her into the closest bathroom. Their suite’s was enormous, but this more guest-friendly room was simpler. Toilet and sink. Spacious, but not particularly grand.

“Put the seat down and sit,” he instructed and got out his kit.

In twenty minutes, he had her patched up and ensconced at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee while he made them both breakfast. He usually didn’t eat much first thing, but the fight had him riled and hungry. He made a hash, mixing in vegetables and diced bits of bacon.

He didn’t ask Read questions while they ate, letting them concentrate on suctioning up the full plate of food. Phone in hand, he ran a few things and got back quiet pings. Mary Read, freshly twenty-one, and declared missing by someone that was likely her mother over three years ago. The name unspooled articles and while Read ate her toast, Izzy learned that she had put away a lot of bad people. He could guess why as she nimbly handled a fork in her prosthetic.

“I can make this disappear,” he set down the phone and let her see the missing persons listing.

“That’s not me,” she said, fork clattering to the plate.

“Yeah, it is. I don’t care. But you’re running from something that you don’t have to run from. You’re an adult. You’re not missing, are you?”

“I know where I am.” She didn’t pick the fork back up.

“Then I’ll get rid of it.”

“What do you want from me?”

Izzy picked up his phone and started moving the pieces around that he needed to move. It was a good question. He had no practical use for a Read. But...

“You’re a useful person. My husband likes useful people.”

“That sounds really ominous.”

“He has a company with a few holdings. Specialized security is the main thing, but he and his partner own a bar too. Practically always hiring.”

“Who said I want a job?”

He gave her a bland look, “I can’t guarantee he’d hire you, but I know he won’t if you’ve got police looking for you.“

“...please get rid of it,” she slumped, picking the fork back up. “And please don’t make me regret it.”

“No apologies,” he typed quickly. “No regrets.”

Izzy: I brought someone home. not for sex. She needed some help.

Lucius: A stray? Really?

Izzy: I’ve had some good luck with strays.

Lucius: Cute. Fine. I’ll bite. Why did you bring them home?

Izzy: why do I bring anything home?

Lucius: A gift for me? Fascinating. I’ll be home by five.

Read had taken to the second floor living room better than the grand one on the first. It was cozier, mostly big couches with lots of blankets thrown everywhere. It was where Lucius and Izzy spend much of their downtime and it was nice to know someone was rattling around in there as Izzy went into this office and got some work done.

He gave her lunch hours later and let her help put dinner into the slow cooker, so she could feel useful. By then, she had unwound enough that she accepted his offer of some of Lucius’ old sweatpants and sweatshirt and the use of the guest bathroom. The things would be a little on the small side, but at least they’d be clean. He threw her old things into the washer.

The smell of caramelized onions filled the downstairs by the time the elevator monitor alerted him to Lucius’ arrival home. He made it a point to leave Read lounging and going down to greet Lucius on his own.

“Darling,” Lucius smiled wide when Izzy reached him. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too,” he tilted up his chin and was rewarded with a kiss, Lucius hand cupping the back of his neck, fingers flexing there. “How was your day?”

“Mm, middling. We’re in the middle of the planning phase and you know how Jim gets in the middle of planning. Every other idea I have is the worst thing they’ve ever heard. We wound up taking a break and walking to get lunch,” he went on strumming his fingers over Izzy’s vertebrae. “It evened out in the end. But tell me about your day?”

“Come meet her.”

“Mm, all right, show me your find.”

Read stood up as Lucius entered the room. There was fear in her eyes, but she’d been afraid of Izzy this morning too.

“Read, this is my husband Lucius. Lucius, this is Read.”

“Nice to meet someone who looks better in my clothes then I do,” Lucius put on his warmest smile for her and Read hesitated then smiled back ever so slightly.

“Thanks for the lend. I told Izzy I didn’t need anything, but he said you wouldn’t mind?”

“How could I mind?” Lucius shook his head. “It’s fine. I’m glad you got some food in you too. Come, sit, let’s talk a little.”

Izzy hovered until Lucius turned his hand palm up, an open invitation. He settled beside him, slid his fingers through Lucius’ and relaxed into the grip on his hand. Vaguely, he followed the conversation between them only vaguely after a while. Lucius was rubbing slow circles over the top of his hand and all his concentration had narrowed to that small touch.

“Darling?” Lucius nudged him.

“Mm?”

“Ready for dinner?”

“Yeah, of course.”

He found out over dinner that Read has tentatively agreed to training under Fang for some security gigs.

“She’ll have to get licenced if she wants to pursue anything, of course,” Lucius said solemnly, but Izzy heard the wink in his voice. Returned it with a small smile. “But that’s a later conversation. For now though, she’ll be staying here tonight.”

“I will?” Read’s forehead wrinkled up. “I have a bed.”

“And we have a better one,” Lucius said in a tone that brooked no argument. “You’ll take the guest room.”

Read didn’t push back, but she didn’t talk much at all. IT was only when Izzy started loading the dishwasher and Lucius went back upstairs to change out of his work clothes that she sidled up beside him.

“You know he’s...” she trailed off, fidgeted.

“He’s what?” Izzy asked, and he kept his voice soft.

“Will I be okay? Will you?”

Izzy scrapped scraps of vegetables into the garbage disposal. He reached out an pushed the button that ground everything into a pulp and whisked it away. No matter how much money one put into a garbage disposal, it was still loud. He let it run as he turned to her.

“If you listen, if you learn, you’ll never have another hungry day in your life and he’ll take good care of you. So will Jim. Or you can walk out of here right now, try your hand with other fates.”

“But what’s the cost?” She demanded.

“Compromise.”

“Of what?”

He reached for the button. “Everything.”

She stayed the night. He expected her to be gone in the morning, but when he woke and went downstairs to start coffee, he found her at the windows. Even at her height, she looked small against the backdrop of the city.

“I’m so tired,” she muttered as he came up beside her. “And that bed is amazing. I feel really cheaply bought.”

“It’s an expensive mattress,” he snorted. “And you aren’t bought yet.”

She stayed in the apartment another two days, getting fed back up and healed. Then she went with Lucius to work. Returned with him that night, bubbling over. She liked Fang, who had apparently doted on her, and Ivan, who had been impressed by what she could bench despite her claiming to be out of shape. She liked the idea of sweeping perimeters and playing chauffeur to rich clients.

“And Jim is...” she searched for a word. Lucius was tapping away at his phone, but by the slight smile, Izzy knew he was listening. Waiting. “Really fucking cool.”

“Yeah,” Izzy huffed a laugh. Not sure if he was relieved or devastated. “They can be.”

She stayed in their guest room for a month or so before Lucius was clearly fed up with having another body around. To Izzy’s surprise though, he just handed her a key.

“There’s an empty apartment on the floor below us. It’s yours as long as you work for me.”

“Why?” She asked, bewildered.

“You’ll be on call from now on. Sometimes I need a bodyguard.”

“You?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Sometimes I’m a little too busy to watch my own back,” he sniffed. “Yes or no?”

“Yes, all right.”

But Izzy figured out the real motive not long after that. Lucius packed for a trip and said casually,

“You should have Read over for dinner.”

She was a gift for him. A companion when Lucius was away. Izzy slid his arms around Lucius’ waist, rested his forehead to his shoulders. With a chuckle, Lucius rested his own hand over Izzy’s.

“Thank you.”

“Of course, darling,” Lucius turned to kiss him. “You deserve anything you want. But when you can’t have it, you know I’ll make sure you at least have what you need.”

Read sank into the business inch by inch, but it didn’t touch her core the way it did some others. She stayed an essentially happy person and having her around made Izzy happier too. Which of course pleased Lucius and made him reward Read all the more. It was a good loop. And it mean that when Read met Anne, Jack disappeared as if he’d never even been.

Anne was good with paperwork. Izzy didn’t mind training her to replace more of his labors. It meant they were both around the house often. It filled the tall ceilings with laughter.

#leda house and the kraken verse #ficlet #I may be bad but I'm perfectly good at it

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trashywormeateroffics · 2 years

Text

The right universe.

Summary: After Y/N's life turns upside down, she's full of grief. Somehow, one day, she manages to travel to the MCU, where she meets her favorite characters, including a certain god who seems willing to establish a friendship with her. Suddenly she's enwrapped in this new world, where everything she loved in a screen is now reality. How will she react? Will she be able to deal with the ghosts that haunt her? Or will she let them consume her? Will she be open to accept the love she is offered? Read to find out!

Read this on AO3!

Category: F/M.

Relationships: Loki/reader.

Characters: Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Sam Wilson (Marvel), James "Bucky" Barnes, Vision (Marvel), Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Stephen Strange, Nick Fury, Maria Hill, Bruce Banner, Thor (Marvel), Clint Barton, Steve Rogers, Peter Parker, other minor appearances of other characters but these are the main ones, Pepper Potts, Loki (Marvel).

Additional tags: Loki/reader - Freeform, Avenger Loki (Marvel), Loki & Tony Stark Friendship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Fluffyfest, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Pining a lot because we love to suffer, Domestic Avengers, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark is a parental figure, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Everyone is a good bro, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, y/n, After Infinity War but no one died and the purple bitch was defeated, Missions, Y/N is a universe traveller, Grief, Therapy, Protective Loki (Marvel), Loki in love.

MASTERLIST OF THE STORY

Chapter 15: Things that shouldn't be said.

Y/N woke up to the sounds of the birds and the river and found herself sitting between Loki's legs, his arms around her and her back against his chest. She turned her head and looked up at his sleeping face. The back of his head was against the tree, and from that angle his jawline looked as sharp as a kitchen knife. She sighed and admired him for a bit. It had been a while since they met, a few months, but she felt like she had known him all her life. Yes, she knew him before she knew him, but it was different. It was different to see him on a screen and dream about him, knowing deep down that he was just a fictional character, than to have him there in the flesh. She tended to forget the times when she was a fan of his, only remembering when he teased her about it. He was just Loki, her best friend Loki. Did she just call him her best friend?

“You are staring,” he said, his eyes still closed. Y/N blushed.

“I am not.” He slowly opened his eyes, without letting go of her.

“No?” He asked. “Then why are you blushing?”

“Ugh, shut up.” She told him, trying to get up, but he held onto her waist tighter.

“Good morning.” He said in a raspy voice. God, it was the sexiest thing she had ever heard.

“Good morning Lokes.” She smiled and fixed a loose hair that was falling on his face behind his ear. He stilled for a moment because of the gesture, unnoticeable to anyone but him. They stared at each other's eyes, feeling like the other was reading their soul, for a while. For someone watching from the outside, it must have looked weird, but they liked those moments of intimacy, of closeness.

Y/N cleared her throat.

“We should head back, they're probably worried about us not coming back last night.”

“They must be worried about you. As for me, they probably suspect I kidnapped you.”

“Little do they know, it was the other way around.” She said playfully, winking.

“I came here willingly,” he retorted.

“Only because I charmed you, Your Highness.” He let out a laugh.

“I can not be charmed by a mortal.”

“Yet you already have been.” He looked at her, smiling softly.

“That I have.”

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

“Where the hell were you?!” Tony shouted the question as soon as she put a foot in the living area. Y/N looked at him, wide-eyed.

“I was… in the woods.” As she was finishing her sentence Loki came out of the elevator and stood beside her.

“What were you doing in the woods alone with him?” He asked in confusion and anger.

“I wanted to show him something. A place...” Y/N hated being yelled at, she could take anything mostly, but someone yelling at her, especially Tony, paralyzed her.

“Tony.” Steve said, noticing Y/N's state. Tony seemed to snap out of his angry daze and looked apologetically at the terrified girl in front of him. He sighed.

“I'm sorry kid, I was worried. You can't leave and not let anyone know. Especially not with him.” Y/N's fear quickly turned into anger.

“Oh so if I had disappeared with Peter you would have been calm?”

“More calm than if you were with him? Yes!” He raised his voice on the last word.

“He's my friend Tony!” She equaled his tone.

“Don't say that.” Iron man said, sternly.

“No, you can't tell me what to say and who my friends are.” Y/N said, firmly. “He is my friend, whether you like it or not.”

“He's still the man who tried to take over New York a few years ago! He's insane!” He told her, yelling now.

“What is happening here?” Thor entered the room alarmed and saw an angry Tony, an equally as angry Y/N, and a worried soldier and god.

“He's not!” She answered, her voice loud as well.

Loki noticed that the conversation was not going to end well, so he put a hand on Y/N's shoulder to calm her down. But Stark saw it and was about to push it away from her when she grabbed it and twisted it.

“Don't touch him.” No one had ever heard Y/N so angry. Her voice was low, venomous and threatening.

“Or what?” He asked.

“Do you really want to know Stark?” She responded, preparing her magic around her hands, but Thor got in the middle of the two.

“Lady Y/N, it is not wise to do this. And very unlike you.”

“See? She's met him, for what? Four months ago and now she has anger issues!” Tony said. “And let's not forget about how childish she is acting.”

“You are talking to me about childishness? Please,” she laughed.

“Yes, I am talking to you about childishness. You left the whole night without letting anyone know and now you come here and instead of building a case for yourself, you destroy it to defend the war criminal who-”

“Stark,” Thor said, warningly.

“No, let him finish his monologue.” Loki spoke this time. He had his arms crossed in front of his chest, an unbothered expression on his face being threatened by the stress on Y/N's one.

“No,” she told him, softly and he turned to her. “You don't have to go through that.” His eyes softened.

“Oh, but I have to go through nightmares almost every night from his attack? Is that what you're saying? I didn't think you were this selfish…” The billionaire said.

“No!” she choked out. “That's not what I-”

“Maybe it was a bad idea to let you join the team.” Everything went silent. Y/N felt as if the world was moving in slow motion. He didn't want her there. He had gotten to know her, and the first time she showed anger he didn't want her anymore. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she didn't spill them. Not in front of them; so she ran to the stairs, unable to wait for the elevator and locked herself in her room, where she broke down, but not before running into Nat and Bucky who were entering the living area and were too shocked at her state to be able to stop her.

“What the hell just happened?” The supersoldier asked when she was gone.

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

“Why did you tell her that?” Nat asked, angry.

“I got upset, it just came out. I didn't mean it!” Tony answered.

“You shouldn't have even thought about it.” Steve said, serious.

“She doesn't know that you didn't mean it, since she can't read your mind.” She sighed. “God, Tony, you have to be careful with what you say, especially to her!”

“Why especially?” The billionaire asked, confused. Loki rolled his eyes. After Y/N left and Natasha and the Metal Armed Man entered he didn't know what to do, so he stayed there, listening, and, if necessary, telling the spy to go check on her, since he didn't know if she'd want him there. After all, the fight happened because of him.

“Stark,” Thor said. “Lady Y/N is very kind and very brave, yet one is blind if they do not see her fear.”

“Fear of what?”

“Of us, of everything.” Bucky said. He didn't know what Y/N had gone through, but he knew the look on her face all too well to not recognize it.

“We don't know what she went through in the other world, but she's no stranger to pain, you can see it in her eyes.” The spy said, making everyone silent. Loki got up and left.

In his room, he paced from one side to the other, thinking of Y/N, of what Natasha said, of the implications of Stark's phrase. He knew Y/N had been hurt by people in her past, but he did not know how and he did not know who; but it was not important now, since he had already ruined everything with her. She probably did not want to speak to him ever again, and he would understand, but it would break his heart. A heart he doubted sometimes he had, until he met her.

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

Someone knocked on the door. Y/N didn't answer but they entered anyway. It was Nat, and after entering, she sat herself on her bed.

“Hey ˈzajkə,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

“Great!” Her friend said, sarcastically.

“Y/N/N.” Their code. She knew what she was doing. Y/N sighed.

“Bad, Tasha, he…” she started to get choked up and the redhead grabbed her hand. “He is someone I…” A tear escaped her eye, and then another one, and another one, and soon enough, she was a puddle of tears.

“It's okay,” Nat said, rubbing her back.

“It's not, he said he doesn't want me here.” Her eyes went wide. “Is he going to kick me out?” She asked, terrified.

“What?! No!” The spy told her, flabbergasted. “He would never do that, he adores you Y/N.”

“But what if he changed his mind? What if he doesn't adore me anymore?” She asked, still scared.

“That's not possible. Family doesn't just change its mind.”

“My family tended to change their minds a lot.” She said in a low voice.

“We are not them. We don't leave anyone. We won't leave you, ever.” Y/N took a deep breath and blew her nose before speaking.

“Thank you Natty,” she said and the redhead just dried her tears with her thumbs and smiled softly at her. “I love you.”

“I love you too Y/N/N.” She told her. “Now, where is Loki? Is he hiding in the bathroom or did he leave already?”

“What are you talking about? Loki never came here,” Y/N paused. “Could you do me a favor?” She asked, and her friend looked at her with a questioning look.

~taglist~ @mischief2sarawr @midnights-ramblings

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ladyelissarose · 2 years

Text

Warnings: bad dream, mentions blood, fire, trauma, strangling, lots of angst.

”The Secrets of Gotham-Unmasked”

Chp. 17

Bruce’s POV

Bruce and Alfred tried to help Y/b/n remember Y/n but he couldn’t think of anything. Bruce was getting frustrated so he offered,

“Let me bring Y/n, where is she?”

“I’m not sure Bruce, call her.”

Bruce took off his suit and went up the elevator to the Manor, he saw how Y/n’s motorcycle keys were on the table in the kitchen, so he figured she was home already,

‘She must be upstairs.’

Bruce began to walk up the stairs and saw his bedroom door was opened, he peeked in and didn’t see her in there,

‘Is she in her room?’

Bruce walked to her room and went inside to see it empty, her stuffed hadn’t been touched in a while sense she had been staying in Bruce’s room, but the room still held her scent, the scent Bruce always found comfort in and familiarity. He saw how a letter laid on her desk, he didn’t recognize the writing, so with curiosity he lifted it and read it,

‘Oh, this is Y/b/n’s writing... he’s got nice handwriting.’

Bruce entertained himself for a few moments as he read the letter Y/b/n had left Y/n in his personal items, she found that letter after the fire at the Orphanage, and Bruce sat on the floor and read every single word and pinned them on his heart, it did hurt him to know that the boy Y/b/n once was wasn’t in that body anymore.. now he was cold, hurt, broken, and a killer. And Y/b/n refused to remember who Y/n was at all.

Y/n’s POV

Y/n opened her eyes and looked around somewhat confused for a second, until she realized that she stood in the garage fixing her dads BMW when she heard a voice call out,

“Y/n/n!! I need your eyes for a second!!”

It was her father calling her, she smiled warmly at being able to hear his warm voice call out to her,

“I’m coming Dad!! J-Just give me a second!”

Y/n tightened her wrench on a loose screw then ran out of the garage to the dining room. There her father sat in the flesh at the dinner table spreading out files and papers all over, he turned to look at her and smiled as he offered,

“I’ll give you.. hmm.. $15 if you can tell me who’s fingerprints are these..”

He pointed at 3 photos of 3 different men, each with their names and separate fingerprints, then on the side was another photo, but of the evidence that held a single fingerprint. Y/n sat down and carefully grabbed the photos as she examined them carefully,

“So basically this single fingerprint is from one of these 3 men?”

“Exactly.”

She sent him an innocent smirk and challenged,

“Give me $20 and you’ll have your answer?”

“Bet.. but if you get it wrong I take the first spin when we finish up Bullet.”

Y/n gasped as she held her hand over her heart in an offended manner,

“You wouldn’t. I HAVE to drive your BMW first.. Bullet has my name!”

“Then tell me who it is.”

Y/n quickly looked over them and in a matter of seconds, thanks to her determination and smart eyes, she had her answer, matching the fingerprints to the suspect she slid both photos next to her dad as she proudly stated,

“These fingerprints match suspect #2.. why? Because look, turns out that he supposedly burned his fingertips while working in the kitchen, only leaving his fingers with a partial print.. all the others have the full print while his doesn’t.”

Her father lifted his hand and held it up gesturing a high five,

“That’s my partner!! Look at ya... I’m proud of you kiddo.. I already knew the answer, I just wanted to see if you did.”

Y/n went passed his hand and hugged her dad tightly instead, sinking into his embrace, in the back of her mind she knew something was off, but she couldn’t pin it. But she enjoyed the moment as her father began to say in a loving tone,

“I’ll always love you Y/n.. no matter where I am.. or where I go. I just need you to remember.. remember that you’re strong and capable of anything. Don’t let the world change that. Fight and stand for what you believe in.. and you’ll get your prize. I know you will.”

Tears began to brim in her eyes as it clicked in her mind,

‘It’s a dream Y/n... no no.. stay here in the moment.’

Y/n then replied, as she separated herself from her father and sat back in her chair,

“I’ll always love you too Dad.. b-but I’m scared... I really am.. I think about you every time I try to go on but it’s hard. It really is. I want to do this for you.. but I don’t think I’m up for the job-“

“You are! And you want to know why? No no honey don’t cry.”

He wiped the falling tears from Y/n eyes as he added,

“You can because you’re my-“

Then in his mid sentence it all blurred away and she appeared somewhere else.

Y/n ran as fast as she could in a room full of raging flames, the heat burned her skin and the smoke made her feel suffocated. Y/n couldn’t find her way out and panicked,

‘What the fuck just happened?!’

she ran in and out of every room she found but always made it back to the same place, her old home back in D.C.. In the distance she could hear a voice call out for her, but she couldn’t see where it came from, until she saw a tall figure standing close by yelling for her,

“Y/N!! RUN, COME OVER HERE!!”

It was her father, tall and strong, with his arms wide opened for her, he beckoned her to come to him.

“DADDY!!!! WAIT FOR ME!!!”

Just as Y/n was about to take the first step she felt someone grab her arm and pull her back yanking her to the ground, she cried in pain as she fell into a batch of fire, and when she looked up she saw Mackenzie. He held a devilish gaze full of hatred, he got down and held her arms down with his hands and with his knees he held her legs as well, Y/n began to scream for help,

“DAD!! DADDY HELP ME PLEASE!!”

Mackenzie began to laugh loudly as he mocked,

“He’s not here Y/n, wake up.. it’s not real.. he’s dead.. and so are you!!!”

She spit in his face which made Mackenzie remove his hands to clean his eyes, she took that chance to choke him with her bare hands as she felt the heat getting stronger, she flipped him over so now she was above him, but when she looked at his face it was Y/b/n now, she removed her hands and grabbed his face,

“Y/b/n?! Y/B/N!! Hey honey wake up I’m so sorry, I don’t now what I was thinking-“

As she tried to wake up who now was her brother under her she was grabbed by the hair and lifted off the ground, when they turned her head to face them she was met with Stewart’s bloody face. And she held a wide wicked grin, it brought chills all over Y/n’s body as she tried to release herself from the tight grip that held her,

“Let me go!!! DAAAAD!!! I know you’re here!! Help me!!!”

Tears streamed down her face as she kicked and screamed, but she suddenly couldn’t hear her voice, it was quite, all she could hear was the flames cackling and Stewart’s laughing as she said,

“Take her Bock... finish her.”

Mackenzie grabbed her once again by the waist and whispered in her ear,

“You are nothing Y/n.. nothing. You’ll never solve the case, never get back what you lost.. you’re a failure just like your father.. scream Y/n.. scream all you want no one will hear you.. no one. Maybe then you’ll realize how powerful your voice is until you’ve been silenced.. and I’ve just silenced you.”

Y/n tried to scream her lungs out to block out every venomous word he said as she kicked harder against him, but he wouldn’t budge or move, and she couldn’t hear her screams. Mackenzie was rock solid and never moved, she kept screaming for her father but she never saw him again. So she tried calling for Bruce though she still didn’t hear her voice, it was only in her mind she could hear herself attempting to scream,

‘BRUUUUUCE!!! BABY!! PLEASE HELP ME!! SOMEBODY!!’

She felt her blood raise to her head and tried to think,

‘WAKE UP!! WAKE UP WAKE UP Y/N!! ITS JUST A DREAM!! AHHHH!!!’

“Y/n wake up!!! Y/n it’s me Bruce it’s just a dream!”

Y/n jolted awake screaming and to Bruce shaking her in his arms, she stopped screaming but them began to let out choked sobs loudly. Bruce held her head against his chest and rubbed small circles on her back as she continued to cry loudly, her breaths were shortened and very shallow, Bruce let her go and grabbed her face in between his large hands and calmly said,

“Baby.. baby can you hear me?”

While sniffling and shaking tremendously she managed to shake her head slowly, still unwilling to speak, Bruce tried to coax her into talking,

“I need your words honey, are you ok?”

Y/n let out a sob and buried her head into his chest tugging her hands on his shirt harshly and went on to cry again. Bruce didn’t push her more and lifted her off the bed, he carried her bridal style into his room and placed her on the warm comforters. He shifted her so she would be on his lap as he had his back towards the headrest of the bed. After 15 minutes of being held Y/n finally spoke in a broken whisper,

“I-It was so- so real.. all of it. Mackenzie, Stewart, my brother and father, the flames j-j-just everything!-“

As she spoke Bruce could feel her getting more and more shaky as she tried to take in breaths and talk at the same time, so he stopped her,

“Shh sh I know.. but you’re safe now.. I’m right here... later we can talk about it, just focus on my breathing and look at me.”

She tried to protest but Bruce didn’t want her to escalate into another panic attack as she spoke so he pressed his lips softly to her trembling wet ones from her tears, he then went to wipe her cheeks and kissed them too softly, he now held her like you would hold a baby while feeding it, her legs were laying across his lap and his arms holding her back up, he had her face looking up at his as they held eye contact. She got calmer by the second and just stared into Bruce’s beautiful orbs, Bruce held the gaze and spoke softly,

“I love you Y/n. I’m right here.”

“I-I love you m- more Bruce.”

He gave her a small smile and pressed his forehead against hers, she closed her eye and focused on his calm breathing, soon matching hers with his.

RedHood’s POV

Alfred still tried taking him into accepting Y/n but he wouldn’t have it,

“Stop talking about her like she’s some hero, i killed Stewart, not her. And that was her job-“

“Y/n did the right thing by turning her in, she almost died Y/b/n-“

“STOP CALLING ME Y/B/N!! IM JASON TODD.. Y/b/n died.. remember? He’s never coming back.”

Alfred shook his head no,

“That’s not true, you’re alive-“

“Ok maybe I’m alive. But I’m different now.. and you can’t change that Alfred.”

“I’m well aware Jason.”

Y/b/n looked at Alfred and saw how he was genuinely trying to help him, but he didn’t want to be helped at the moment, he just wanted to leave. So he began to try and get off, only making Alfred run to him to stop him,

“You are in no state to be leaving-“

Y/b/n frustratedly yelled trying to push Alfred away,

“YOU HAVE NO CONTROL OF ME ALFRED!!-“

Alfred became strong and shoved Y/b/n back on the table onto his back and reminded him in a strong tone,

“I damn well do Jason, right now I can have you turned in with the police, and they’ll ruin your life more than I possibly can. Now, you stay here or I’ll sedate you until I’m ready to deal with your attitude any further young man. Your life is in my hands and I only saved you because I love you son and you deserve a second chance. Maybe I can’t change you, but I’ll break you if you push me.”

Y/b/n eyes were wide open with shock at the way Alfred spoke to him, and soon they swelled with tears that he fought so badly to hold back but they still slid down his cheeks. At first, Y/b/n wanted his pride to get the best of him and leave, but after the way Alfred spoke to him all he wanted to do was crawl into his arms and cry like a baby, but for now he chose to go back to sleep. He tugged the blanket to cover himself fully and mumbled a quiet,

“ok.. I’ll go to sleep here... but don’t tell Y/n anything about me, I-I’m not ready to see or talk with her yet.”

Alfred sent him a tight lipped smile,

“Very well.. You have my word.”

Alfred began to walk away but first warned him,

“I do not one thing out of place, Bruce takes his material items seriously. As well as his privacy... get some sleep, I’ll be upstairs. Goodnight Y-Jason.”

Y/b/n closed his eyes as Alfred switched the light off,

“Goodnight.”

Alfred’s POV

Alfred soon made it upstairs and heard soft crying noises from Bruce’s room, he thought it was Bruce at first, so he went to check, and went he peeked in he saw Bruce holding Y/n very closely to his chest. He could now see that it was Y/n that was crying. He didn’t want to interfere so he left them there, Alfred was glad though to see Bruce handling it well, for Bruce wasn’t always the best with handling emotions, but Y/n had changed that. Alfred went to his room and soon went to asleep after doing his nightly routine.

Y/n’s POV

Y/n still felt Bruce’s tight hold on her as he swayed her back and forth gently, the way she would do to him when he needed it. She loved him so much but was still so scared to tell him what had gone down at the Arkham Prison with Mackenzie. It more than anything humiliated and embarrassed her to think that Mackenzie had his way with her, and how she was now terrified of him. It also scared her more to know that she was the one for the job when Gordon will ask her to go undercover. Y/n didn’t want to go, she felt that it’ll just be a lost cause or she would end up like her father. It was either she won or lost, and at the moment it was too risky to tell how she’ll go down first. Y/n shifted herself and Bruce to where they were now laying side by side holding onto one another. Bruce kept his eyes focused on Y/n’s lips and features, the moon light hit his eyes perfectly bringing out the most beautiful shade of blue and grey, it also brought out the dark circles under his eyes. He then offered,

“Do you want to change? You’re still fully clothe.”

Y/n remembered that she’d probably have choke marks in her neck under her sweater from Mackenzie’s hands, so she shook her head no,

“No.. it’s ok.. I don’t want to move.”

“Ok.”

Y/n then brought up her hand and closed his eyes with her fingers and held them there, and whispered into the night softly,

“Go to sleep baby... you need it.”

“What about you.. are you going to be ok?”

Bruce could feel her head nodding as she responded,

“yes.. as long as you’re hear holding me I’ll be ok..”

“ok.. goodnight Y/n, I love you.”

“Goodnight Bruce, I love you more.”

In the morning.

Y/n woke up early and checked the time, it was barely ‘8:24’. She lifted her face from Bruce’s chest and saw how he was still asleep, she got up carefully and pecked his head before going off to get a quick shower. Soon Y/n dressed into her simple jeans and wore a turtleneck and Bruce’s sweater as a blouse tucked into her pants, making sure that her neck was out of sight from any attention. She clicked her gun to her belt and added the taser gun as well, when she put on her boots she slid a pocket knife inside her socks. She fixed her hair into a simple low bun. And grabbed her bags. She went back to the bed and saw Bruce still sleeping, she left him a small note and kissed him one more time on the head. Y/n then left the room and began to walk downstairs, Alfred wasn’t around to stop her so she left quickly.

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