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atlas-of-a-human-soul · 3 years

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Draw your swords

Summary: In order to keep Ravka intact, general Kirgan, the Darkling, must marry. Needless to say, he’s not happy about it, but neither is his bride.

Warnings: indicating smut, slight angst

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Standing at the altar, wearing his black kefta, the Darkling grinds his teeth at the closed door at the end of it.

Any moment now, the door will open and his bride will appear as an angel in white. Except, the Darkling preferred to think of her as devil incarnate.

Although her beauty is without faults, her mind is sharp and her tongue can be sweeter than honey, Y/N Y/L/N is everything the Darkling hates.

She's entitled, bratty, arguably manipulative and downright cruel. She's all that and more, at least to him. But the one thing he cannot forgive her for is her lineage. As a daughter of a man he sought to destroy, Y/N became general Zlatan’s bargaining chip.

“You must marry her and she must be included in all decisions concerning Ravka on my behalf, or we will declare independence.”

General Zlatan gave the emperor no room to argue on the matter, forcing the marriage onto them. As the emperor had no male descendants to marry off, the next in line was general Kirigan. And while the Darkling fought the emperor on this instance, he was given no choice – either marry Zlatan’s daughter or someone else will be ascending as a leader of the Second army.

"Is it too late to run?" Ivan turns to Kirigan and Fedyor with a breathless chuckle, earning a dirty look from the official Y/N insisted marries them. She caved on the Palace setting, but no one could bend her will on who it is that seals their marriage contract.

"You promised." Fedyor reminds him and Kirigan closes his eyes, letting out a heavy sigh.

"Maybe some promises are best broken. She'll be the death of Ravka." Licking his lips, the Darkling glances at the door as a faint noise is heard on the other side of the door.

‘Of me’, he thinks to himself, ‘She’ll be the death of me.’

“She is Zlatan’s daughter with no special powers”, Ivan scoffs, “What could she possibly do?”

"I'll make her just as unhappy as I am now. She's never going to love me and I most certainly will never love her," the Darkling huffs, straightening his back as his eyes narrow at the door. “Unhappy women are always dangerous.” He pauses, pursing his lips, “Even if they are just human.”

"You said this is a business deal, so think of it as such." Ivan raises an eyebrow, wondering why is love even on Kirigan’s mind. In all his time serving his general, Ivan never heard the word pass his lips before now.

"I will”, the Darkling rolls his tongue, focusing on Ivan and Fedyor again. "Tell me you’d fight with me to preserve Ravka if I walk away."

"Do whatever you want, but you better be fast because your bride is coming", Fedyor nods toward the grand opening of the grandiose door, revealing a vision in white and the veil covering her face.

"Fuck", the Darkling mutters under his breath, his heart jumping at the sight.

He watched her walk, his nerves gnawing away at him and all he could think about is why his heart is beating so fast. Why would he be nervous? She should be the one drowning in nerves instead of walking so confidently. Why is she not afraid of him?

Folding his shaky hands behind his back, the Darkling could have sworn every step she took closer made his heart drop further in his chest. It was only a matter of time before he had nothing left but to accept his destiny and take an ordinary woman such as Y/N as his bride. Oddly enough, he found comfort in her mortality. She would die eventually and he’ll be free of her. If she angers him or her father stirs up trouble, he’d make sure he’ll be free much sooner.

Finally in front of him, Y/N holds her breath as the Darkling reluctantly pulls the veil up, revealing her face.

When she first met him, it was on a field of scattered, mangled bodies. He looked at the sky like a man would look at a withered flower in which he no longer sees the beauty he plucked it for, thus destroying it.

And when he looked at her, Y/N forgot to breathe.

There are no traces of doubt, no evidence this isn't the happiest day of her life. If anything, the Darkling is in awe of her and her ability to maintain composure without showing the slightest inkling of her disdain for him. He’s looking for a weakness, studying her in order to find something, anything he could use to make her submit to him, but she’s not flinching. Her stare is unyielding, fierce, and she is unbowed, like a rose in the eye of a hurricane.

"You should have worn the white kefta. Black is for funerals", she notes, her voice low and cold and the Darkling can't help but scoff.

“Black is my color. Besides”, he leans in, pressing his lips against her cheek before whispering, "It is a funeral."

While the crowd whispered and awed over the little exchange, Y/N's lips twitched into a brief smile. Reaching out for his hand, she tilts her head to her left, hiding her face with the veil as she scowls at him.

The ceremony begins, but neither the Darkling nor Y/N can truly focus on a single word said. Y/N is busy wondering what she could do best to make his life hell. This isn’t exactly what she had in mind for her future either and being exchanged like a broodmare to delay a war is unforgivable. She couldn’t forgive her father for giving her over to a known monster, nor could she forgive her seconds-to-be husband.

He is cruel, manipulative, a beast hidden under a handsome built and he may be appealing to the eye, but she can feel he’s rotten inside.

The Darkling’s eyes are fixed on her, examining every single inch of her rather small sized body. Though her curves are undeniable, her height would leave him with a craned neck and back pain in the future. Inhaling sharply, he tried to understand why his thoughts of all the things he hates about her include ripping that wedding dress straight off her. She looks far too appealing in a dress for him to ignore and it sparks a fire to further fuel the flames of hate he’s tended to.

Either way, quicker than imagined, the Darkling found himself saying "I do", forcing a smile that matched the one she displayed. Unlike his cold smile that didn't reach his eyes, Y/N was capable of making her smile believable, enough for him to envy her acting skills.

"You may kiss the bride."

Licking his lips, Kirigan's eyes flicker to Y/N's lips. He never kissed her before, the human who perfectly portrayed an ice queen. It would be a lie if he said kissing her never crossed his mind, but it didn't feel like he'd willingly do so even if he had a chance. He didn’t desire her at all. He refused to allow himself as much.

Y/N glanced at the crowd, seeing their little whispers about how long Kirigan is taking and how they pity her for marrying someone like him – a dark shadow, an abomination even in their world.

She felt a shuddered breath pass her lips as Kirigan leaned into her, torturously slow and the worst part? He smells good, intoxicating kind of good. And whether she liked it or not, her heart fluttered as his lips grazed hers and his hand cupped her cheek.

The Darkling's heart quivered, his mind overflowing with frustration. He couldn't comply and kiss her wholeheartedly, but he found himself wanting to turn her over, to have his way with her.

She's infuriating, unlawfully cocky and unjustly stunning. No wonder hell is where most mankind would go considering the beauty of its tempting demons that poise as naïve angels.

Snapping out of the daze, she pulls back first, whispering against his lips. "Hope you enjoyed it, because it will be the last time you’ll ever taste my lips in your lifetime."

Blinking slow, the Darkling smirked, genuinely entertained. "We will see about that", and he took her words as a personal challenge.

He would melt the ice queen and have her on her knees, begging for his love before the year is done. He will demean Zlatan by turning his own daughter against him and he will do so with pleasure.

Part two

#the darkling x reader #the darkling #shadow and bone #aleksander morozova #general kirigan #the darkling au #aleksander x reader #aleksander kirigan #kirigan x reader #the darkling fanfiction

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vidalinav · 3 years

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Life’s a Beach (1)

I underestimated how long this fic was, so I smashed them together. I will continue just posting snippets and writing it like that (and then smashing them together), but since most of you will already have read it, I will include a bonus scene at the end. My thank you for putting up with my unconventional writing process.

Summary: Tarquin comes to town and Cassian is jealous.

Cassian doesn’t like when Tarquin visits.

Never mind the ban from the Summer Court or that at one point, blood rubies pilfer their court. Never mind that Summer crowns him holier than the seas and the sun. Cassian doesn’t like the ease in which he walks. He may not have his usual royal garb, but he glides along the Sidra. The mighty king out for a stroll.

Nesta looks like his queen.

His mate is bright and beaming, huffing laughs and smiling wide as she praises his ideas. Cassian has ideas, too.

But Nesta isn’t interested in his ideas as he follows them around. Nesta just continues smiling. Her skin glows with the sun, the apples of her cheeks turning a pretty shade of apricot as Tarquin notes the dying rays. Are you a poet Tarquin? Cassian wants to ask, but knowing the High Lord, he just might be and Nesta fucking loves poetry.

Her cheeks remain pink and Cassian resists grabbing her hand and dragging her back to the house. You’ll die of heatstroke; he might say if she protests. But no.

He won’t.

He promises to be on his best behavior.

Even so, Cassian can’t help eyeing buildings as they pass. Just break one, he urges. One and we can ban you from the Night Court. But that might mean, Nesta spending some time in Summer, with her good friend Tarquin, who makes Nesta beam like that, make her cheeks red like that.

All Cassian sees is red.

All Nesta looks at is Tarquin.

“You know, I never thought someone as young as you would be so conniving.”

Conniving? Cassian isn’t paying attention, but at the word, he’s ready to deem it insulting enough to fight Tarquin if Nesta so much as gives him a look. But Nesta only listens as Tarquin speaks. Cassian can’t even read her expression. It’s blank as she stares.

“I admire that quality,” The little high lord says.

Admire someone else, buddy.

Nesta only snorts, the words making her laugh.

The light plays with her eyes as she smirks. They look bluer today. Less silver. Cassian has to think that it has something to do with Tarquin. Tarquin who brings out the blue in Nesta’s eyes, who brings pink to her cheeks. Never mind that it probably has more to do with how bright it is today.

“You’re too smart,” he remarks, and Cassian wants to roll his eyes. Nesta is too smart, too smart to be hanging around with some pompous flatterer. “No wonder you’re good at this game.”

“What game?” She asks, lightly, but even Cassian can hear the caution. Her voice slowing as if coaxing an answer from his lips.

“The game we all play. These situations that have us playing with life whether we want to or not.” Nesta lilts her head curiously, waiting for further explanation and Cassian waits too, because he’s not sure he understands. Tarquin looks like he’d rather not speak of it, but he continues even so.

“Fae are good at games–invented them really. Court politics, morality, marriage, and bargains. I have to believe you’re good at them. Not just because I’ve seen you, but because I know what Eris offered as soon as he had you in his arms… It’s always the smart ones who win these games–the most clever.”

Nesta rolls her eyes as if his words offer no great importance, “It’s never the smart ones who win.” She counters. “Not the ones who are strongest or the most magically gifted or the one who smiles the sweetest while she glides across the floor. There is no game that you can win by being the most beautiful person in the room… No game I’d want to play anyways.”

“Then who does win?” He urges. Tarquin almost sounds desperate for the answer, and Cassian has to wonder if Nesta has woven a spell around him too just as much as Eris.

“Whoever’s luckiest,” Nesta shrugs simply, “So there’s no point in trying so hard… We all end up in the exact place we were always supposed to be in.”

She doesn’t sound happy about that either, and something about the tone makes Cassian want to hold her close. Make her remember that it’s a joy to be here. To be together, even if it is with another male who skin beams with the summer sun.

I’m lucky to have you.

He hopes she knows.

“Then you’re lucky,” Tarquin notes, “And blessed. You’re blessed and lucky. Smart and clever.” He laughs as if brushing the seriousness off, “Is that why you’re so good at cards? Azriel was moping last night. I thought that had something to do with you.”

Nesta lifts a casual shoulder, a soft smile playing on her lips. Cassian thinks even that is a play–some move she knows will help her counter his attack. “Azriel loses because he wants to win and it’s easy to win against someone who’s already shown their cards.”

“Motivations are everything.”

“Yes,” Nesta nods frankly, “so why are you here?”

Cassian wants to know, too.

Actually, Cassian wants to push him into the Sidra and see if pretty fishman can float, but he’ll take Nesta’s verbal spar in any case. If he runs back to the House with his tail between his legs, Cassian will consider it a win for the both of them. His lovely strategist.

But Tarquin doesn’t run. Cassian doesn’t think Tarquin will ever run from Nesta and that simple fact makes him furious. That there is another male in this world who will see Nesta and not balk, who will know Nesta and not grimace.

Cassian is not the only male who stays. Not for the power or the beauty or the poise, but because underneath all of that is a female who can conquer as much as she can tame. Whose voice sounds like the sea, whose eyes are crystal clear waters, whose mind rages against the tide.

Tarquin breathes in ocean air.

Every morning, he fishes on the coast. Every evening, he sleeps to the humming sea. Who would know Nesta better than someone who dreams of waves?

So, it doesn’t come as any surprise when Tarquin looks to him, as she asks her question. Why are you here?

“Because I want to know you.”

A fool’s choice.

“I’m not foolish enough to claim you,” He adds, “and I’m not foolish enough to think you’ll ever be claimed, even if you have a mate. No offense, Cassian.”

Offense taken.

“I’m not even foolish enough to think I can even begin to know who you are or what you’ve been through… But when you looked at me that day in the Summer Court, and asked me to help your family, offered me anything that you could give me alone.”

What? Cassian looks to Nesta, but she promptly ignores him, staring at Pompous Prince Tarquin.

“I’d never seen anyone want so badly. I wanted to know what that felt like. Know what stirred so deeply in your heart that you looked at me like you’d give me the entire world for just one yes.”

Tarquin raises a shoulder and Cassian tries not to swallow so loudly. He thinks he might have to shove a fist down his throat to stop his screaming, “You’re a question I keep mulling over and I’ve yet to figure out what the answer is. I don’t even know if I could know the answer if it stared me in the eyes, but I would like to learn. To feel half of what you feel, to learn how to love so truly.”

Cassian replays her answer as he sleeps. He goes over it and over it and over it again. At some point, he wakes her up in the middle of the night, shaking her shoulder.

“Nesta,” he whispers, “Nesta? What did you mean?”

His mate only groans, her brows furrowing, as she burrows further into blankets. Cassian knows he’s playing in dangerous territory, but he can’t stop thinking about. It’s driving him insane.

“Nesta, what did you mean?”

He says it once louder, shaking her again. Nesta only juts out her elbow, hitting him in the rib. Cassian holds in the heavy moan as he clutches his chest, and Nesta settles in her sleep.

Still, Cassian can’t give up now. “When you told Tarquin you’d think about it, what did you mean? Nesta?”

Cassian grasps her shoulder, shaking her lightly, “Nesta!”

“What?” Nesta yells, leaning up so fast, she almost hits her head on his chin. “What do you keep yelling about? I’m trying to sleep!”

Even furious and half-asleep, she looks beautiful. The strap of her nightgown slips down one shoulder, and he trails the movement as if his own fingers push it down. Nesta crosses her arms, and he swallows down the want. Not an appropriate time, Cassian.

She raises a brow, “Well?”

“I wanted to talk,” he says simply.

Nesta looks to the clock on the wall, glaring at him exasperated. “At two in the morning?”

“Good a time as any.”

She looks mad that much is true, and Cassian wishes to appease.

His mate is tired, so he’ll fluff her pillows, rub her shoulders while she relaxes enough to tell him exactly what she means when she tells Tarquin she’ll think about it. As if his I want to get to know you is an offer she can’t refuse.

But as he fluffs her pillows, Cassian can only think of Tarquin.

He would have waited to speak to her, prioritizing Nesta’s health over his wants. Just this morning… or yesterday morning, the High Lord of Summer makes sure to ask Nesta if she’s eaten as she reads her book on the couch–a fact he finds rude to say the least–and when she says no, he offers to make breakfast for her. Oh, so generous of him. Never mind that they have a House who cooks their meals.

Cassian scoffs as he thinks about it. What High Lord plays chef? And who is he to ask if Nesta’s eaten as if his mate isn’t being taken care of?

He yanks at the pillow, beats at it, punches it. He can’t help but imagine Tarquin’s face. He can see feathers jutting from the cushion, and still he hits. The cloth lays in the cinders on the bed before he stops.

Nesta sighs at the mess, grabbing one of the pillows from his side, clasping it to her head.

“What are you doing?” Cassian asks.

“Hoping I suffocate enough to pass out.”

Her voice is muffled, and he grasps at the pillow. Her hair is a ruffled mess. It splays out on the pillow in waves. Cassian can’t help but breathe at the sight of her and the sound is a sigh of relief.

She’s his… Or as much as Nesta can be his.

She chose him.

Nesta with her matted hair, the side of her cheek pink from where she pushes up against the pillow, her silver nightgown making her skin glow in the light of the moon, chooses him.

Shouldn’t that be enough?

Cassian rubs at his face, feeling all too shameful. “I’m sorry. I just–” He takes in their bed, feathers littering the duvet. Suddenly, he feels like a little kid. What was he doing beating a pillow like that? Waking Nesta in the middle of the night?

“You’re jealous,” Nesta says.

Her voice echoes in the room, and Cassian frowns at the words. Of course, he’s jealous. That much is obvious. He’s always jealous.

Nesta is beautiful and powerful and smiles like she grants the sun its light, and males flock to her like moths. Not just any males either but stupid princes and arrogant High Lords and stupid, arrogant Tarquin!

Nesta only grabs at the pillow in his hands, setting it under her head as she closes her eyes. He waits for her to speak, but he can only hear the ticking of the clock, on and on as time passes.

Nesta doesn’t say a thing.

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say. You’re jealous and you go back to sleep.”

The pretty pink of her lips purse, but she doesn’t even open her eyes as she says, “If you were looking for comfort, you shouldn’t have woken me up at two in the morning.”

Well… damn.

Cassian settles back at his side, crossing his arms as he stares at the ceiling. He’s one less pillow down, but that doesn’t bother him much. It’s the thoughts that don’t quiet even for a second. Stupid mating bond.

That thought though has him looking to Nesta. No, he loves that mating bond. He loves her. And even if Tarquin wants to impede himself like a wall between them, Cassian will still love Nesta Archeron.

He closes his eyes repeating those words as if they’re a lullaby that will let him drift off to sleep. I love Nesta Archeron. I love Nesta Archeron. I love Nesta Archeron.

The words don’t comfort him even a little.

But Nesta sets her head on his chest. She tucks herself in to the crook of his arm and Cassian squeezes gently–he tries not to hold on too tight.

She must sense his surprise. Whether that be from the bond or because Nesta knows him like that back of her hand, he doesn’t know. But she blinks one eye open, looking at him with bright grey and all his fears are assuaged.

“You should hold me since you woke me up.”

Cassian can only blink, nodding his head as she wraps his arms around her, and he settles in. He can hear her heart beating and he can hear her soft breathing and Cassian can go to sleep to this. He can.

Cassian will hold her until she tells him let go. Cassian will not let go.

Still… he can’t help it.

“I bet Tarquin can’t hold you like this.”

Cassian only gets mouth full of feathers.

Tarquin tells Rhys that he’s going to stay for two weeks. During this time, they’ll talk of treaties, draw up some plan of trade, some easy comings and goings of Night Court and Summer Court residences. Cassian tells Rhys that they don’t need a treaty. Throw him out now, he thinks.

“Is something going on with you?” Rhys asks, leaning back in his chair, ever the High Lord. Cassian is starting to hate High Lords.

Cassian crosses his arms, grinding his teeth. He’s in the sitting room in the estate. Amren solves a puzzle as if nothing about this meeting is important at all. Mor talks to Feyre by the dining room, gossiping rather than listening to Rhys moan about Tarquin and peace treaties. Nesta, not that she goes to these meetings, is out doing gods know what with Tarquin who wants to view the city.

Take me to all your favorite places, he says. Cassian rolls his eyes just thinking about the way Nesta’s light up. Bookstores and restaurants and museums. She knows them all. Nesta goes with him, first. Why does Tarquin care? Is he planning on buying a winter house in Velaris?

Cassian’s blood runs cold at the thought.

“He’s jealous,” Azriel says, throwing a scroll at Rhys which he easily catches.

Mor’s head jerks up at the word, even Feyre smirks with interest.

“No,” Cassian dismisses, but he’s never been a good liar. His voice pitches high and Rhys eyes him with humor, “I… just think that we don’t need Summer Court resources, when we have an abundance of them already.”

“You’re also banned,” Amren comments helpfully, “I would say that makes you the most biased towards these dealings.”

“Your boyfriend is from the Summer Court; wouldn’t that make you the most biased?” Mor asks. Amren simply shrugs.

“I mean have we considered that. That male banned me and now we’re opening our borders?”

“Our borders have always been open,” Feyre says, not so helpfully. The look she gives him has him sinking in his seat. “Also, you wrecked the central magistrate.”

“They’ve rebuilt it,” Cassian argues.

“You mates are all the same,” Amren groans loudly, “She’s not going to fuck Tarquin.”

“Shut up Amren!”

“That’s the best you can do? I’m sure Tarquin’s more eloquent.”

“Amren,” Feyre says, giving her that motherly reprimanding look. An expression that Cassian supposes comes with the motherhood package.

It does the trick.

Amren sneers, but she settles back where she sits on the floor, picking at her puzzle. Cassian has the sudden urge to knock the pieces off the table, just for the comment alone.

“Nesta loves you, Cassian,” Feyre says, her voice light and calming. Too bad it doesn’t calm him, and he doesn’t want to talk about this now even if she goads. “What’s there to be jealous of?”

Cassian already knows this answer. He knows this answer this morning, the other night, the minute summer enters Velaris spring. It’s not that Nesta loves him. Cassian knows Nesta loves him. It’s that he lets his guard down. He forgets the most crucial information of all–

Nesta is easily lovable.

Sure, she might give a sneer or two at someone who annoys her well enough or beat the living daylights out of someone who threatens those she loves, but Nesta is an easily lovable dork.

She laughs at stupid things and it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. She’s a goofball! He swears she knows every book in that library. She absorbs information like a sponge, will rant for hours about everything she learns. Her thoughtfulness knows no bounds. They’ll be off at the market and if she sees something that looks like Gwyn or Emerie or himself or whoever, she has to have it. She has to give it to them. They go to get cinnamon buns and she orders enough for the priestesses. She remembers everyone’s birthday. She learns the name of every patron and their families and their language and their holidays. It’s not hard to love Nesta.

Who would not love Nesta?

So yes, he has something to be jealous of.

“You look stressed,” Mor notes, her eyebrows raising.

Amren nods, “You look like you’re going to fight someone.”

“Or puke,” Azriel adds.

“Just don’t fight Tarquin,” Rhys concludes, “I can’t ban you from the court, but I can certainly make sure you’re away in Illyria while he’s here.”

“You guys are really supportive, you know that?”

“Well at least we’re not trying to steal you’re girl,” Mor teases.

“Yet.”

Cassian gives her a glare, but she only laughs a bright sound.

“I’ve never seen you jealous,” she says.

“I’m not jealous.”

Azriel raises a pointed finger, “what about that one time you threw that rock at that window?”

“Or when you broke that male’s nose,” Rhys suggests.

Amren rolls her eyes, setting down a piece of her puzzle, “How about the last time we all went to a bar.”

Mor, Azriel, and Rhys look to each other, contemplating the words. Cassian watches as they nod their heads slowly.

“Oh yeah.”

“You’re right.”

“You were jealous then, too.”

“I was not jealous,” Cassian insists.

Thankfully, Feyre–sweet Feyre offers him relief. She raises her hands, and Cassian thinks he’s glad to have such a loyal sister-in-law. “Guys, he was not jealous.”

Thank you, Feyre.

“He was territorial.”

The others voice their agreement before Cassian has a chance to speak–to defend himself from this defamation of character.

Not that he can defend himself.

He remembers that day all too well…

It’s the first Nesta goes to a bar with them. The first time she goes to a bar in a while, and she’s nervous. But she looks beautiful. So damn beautiful that he thinks he might suggest staying in. She has on a black dress with these tiny straps and a necklace that makes him want to trace her neck with his tongue until she’s mewling and soft and pliant. But she’s nervous, so he only kisses her forehead.

We don’t have to drink he says. I won’t drink either, he promises.

Cassian turns out to be a bold-faced liar.

He’s drunk by the time the first band plays. He keeps gobbling down the drinks. Nesta gets them for free. Martinis, vodka sodas, gin, and whiskey. All manners of shots. Every alcohol keeps floating her way. The males seem to think they only need to find the right one. The one Nesta prefers and they take it as a challenge. He remembers asking if she even needed their money all those months ago, and she only shrugs a shoulder. Haughty and much, much too beautiful.

Nesta offers to send them back, but Cassian gulps them down one by one before she can even call over the waitress. I can take it, he says.

Once again, Cassian is made a liar.

They have to carry him out of that bar. At some point, he remembers flying over the city as Rhys and Azriel chase him through the streets.

The only way they get him down is by Nesta calling for him. An easy trick, he thinks. If they asked him, they should have tried that first. Of course, he answers his mate when she calls.

When he meets her, crawling back with his wings drooping to the concrete, Nesta only opens her arms as if she wants him to hug her. Cassian hugs her. He… climbs on top of her, really.

But she combs her fingers through his hair and Cassian hunches over to lay his head on her shoulder and the next thing he knows… he’s lying in bed, a glass of water and some headache powder on the side table.

She’d hit that nerve in his neck.

Cassian wants to scoff just thinking about it.

“Where is Nesta anyway?”

The question has Cassian grinding his teeth, he can hear the noise in his ears. With fucking Tarquin.

“She’s out,” he says instead.

“Out where?”

“Out to museums,” He lists thinking of all the places Nesta enjoys. “Or picnics.” All the places that Nesta will smile at. “Or restaurants.” All places Nesta will bubble up with laughter, that she’ll blush with glee, that she’ll gaze at wistfully with that bastard Tarquin. “Or maybe romantic boat rides. The one in that fucking swan.”

Cassian doesn’t even know he grabs on to the throw pillow, but the next thing he knows the cushion is torn in half and the stuffing falls out like billowing snow.

The others look at him strangely, but it’s Feyre who takes a cautious step towards him, taking the pillow from his hands.

“And when will they be done?”

Cassian rolls his eyes, looking to the clock. “I meet them in a half an hour. We’re getting lunch,” he mocks in a voice that doesn’t sound anything like the High Lord of Summer.

Feyre hums in answer, her eyes widening innocently. Cassian stares in suspicion.

He watches as the others look to each other, too. Azriel to Mor. Mor to Rhys. Rhys to Feyre. Feyre to Amren. And then all of them look back to him.

It’s Mor who bounces brightly, “I want to go!”

“I’m going, too,” Rhys announces.

Feyre crosses her arms, “You can’t go. I’m going! Someone has to watch the baby.”

“Let Nuala and Cerridwen watch the baby! I’m supporting my brother.”

“I’m supporting my sister!”

“Oh, for cauldron’s sake,” Amren groans, “just bring the boy!”

Cassian frowns as they start packing up around him, yelling at each other for their coats and… baby carriers.

Amren only pauses to laugh at the look on his face.

“It could be worse, you know,” She says, her voice something she probably thinks sounds soft and comforting, “Tarquin could have already made some move. What do males say these days? Oh right, I want to get to know you or something equally as vomit inducing.”

Cassian simply picks up the throw pillow to his left and screams.

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BONUS SCENE 1:

The evening of their first outing, Cassian can’t button his shirt. He should've taken that as his first sign that things would inevitably go wrong.

“Are the buttons winning?” Nesta asks lightly. Cassian huffs a curse, hiking the shirt over his head. It gets stuck around his neck and he groans out a response.

Fine, he thinks. I give up.

Nesta laughs at his slumping shoulders.

“It’s the wings,” He says, muffled through the cloth. His wings drift up and down as if huffing themselves, showing her that they too are thoroughly annoyed. “This shirt isn’t made for Illyrians.”

That’s a lie, but Nesta only hums.

“Well... as much as I like you topless and I do like you topless.” Cassian can feel her hands trailing up his ribs and he squirms at the ticklish touch. “I don’t think it would be appropriate for public outings.”

“You mean you’d be jealous,” He breaths. Nesta pulls the shirt down, unbuttoning and buttoning it again. His mate makes it seem far too easy, and she smirks up at him when the shirt is fully on. Her lips painted in red.

The fresh air is cool in his lungs without the noose of dress ware, and he winds his arms around her, breathing in her scent. “All those females looking. Males too. What would you do if they propositioned me?” He urges, holding her closer, bringing her hips to his. “Cassian, Cassian, take me in your arms.”

He dips her low as if they’ve finished some waltz, and lifts her high until her leg is around his waist. That’s when he notices the slit in her gown, running all the way up her thigh.

“They’ll chase me through the streets, you know. I’m a very hot commodity.”

Nesta doesn’t even laugh. In fact, she merely lifts her eyes, her expression blank in that very Nesta way of hers.

She fingers the collar of his shirt and Cassian can’t help but follow her hands. He thinks of every place those fingers can touch. “You wouldn’t be so difficult to catch. All it’d take is some buttons.”

Cassian roars with laughter and Nesta smiles at that. A small turn of her lips.

She turns back to the vanity, though he can’t say she’s not already perfect. He’s about to say so too, but that’s when he notices the dress.

It’s hugs her every curve... the way Cassian only wishes to hug her. The black brings out the gold in her hair, in her sun-kissed skin. There’s a slit, Cassian knows, and tiny, tiny straps.

Cassian moves towards her without a second thought. How anyone can think when they look at Nesta Archeron, he doesn’t know. He grasps her arms, dipping his head low. He places a reverent kiss on her shoulder and Nesta looks at him through the mirror, blinking up at him with those big, magnificent eyes.

They’ve never fucked in front of mirror before.

Cassian makes a note.

“You know, we can always skip this... thing. Who would even notice if we're gone?”

“Considering it’s for us, I’d say plenty.”

She says the words with enough disdain that Cassian frowns at the tone. She looks away as he catches her eyes.

“Do you not want to go?” He asks, dropping his hands.

“I want to get this night over with,” she says, with a certain bite that has him backtracking. He runs over the day and all things she can be mad at him for, but he finds nothing, so he doesn’t understand.

The night is for them.

To celebrate her more than anyone. There’s been so many celebrations for her these past months as if they’re making up for lost time. Cassian doesn’t mind. Nesta should be celebrated. And Nesta doesn’t seem to mind, though she’s rather quiet during those outings.

That’s not unusual.

He used to think Azriel was the most introverted of them all. But Nesta beats him by miles.

“Why--”

“I just don’t like that we always have these. Why can’t everyone just leave us alone?”

Cassian stares at her reddening skin. The way her eyes dart back and forth, trying not to look to him. His frown deepens at the way she hides.

He thought they were past this.

Cassian is the first person to admit that he doesn’t know Nesta. Not in the way he wants to and Nesta seldom tells him much. But he at least knows her well enough to know that when she gets upset, it’s rarely what she says it is.

So Cassian takes inventory.

They’re going to a get-together. They’ve done that before. They’re wearing formal clothes. They’ve done that before. They’re meeting the same people. Yes, that’s correct. The only thing that’s different is... the location?

“You have a problem with the restaurant,” he guesses.

Nesta merely lies her chin on her palm.

“It’s new... they have good food... so I hear. It’s got great music, which you like. It’s got a bar,” Cassian’s gaze whips to her, “Is it the bar?”

Nesta rolls her eyes, but he can see the way her cheeks flush a bright pink. The color softens something inside of him, makes him want to hug her and hold her and get rid of every bad thought in her head.

The bar. Of course. He sees the way she cringes at alcohol, the way she shifts in her seat when a dinner turns into an after party. She doesn’t even like most of their holidays for that reason, because they all get drunk and she sits in the corner not knowing what to do. Nesta hates being embarrassed.

She can drink if she wants, he tells her, it’s her choice. They won’t judge her for it, he affirms, but... Cassian can’t guarantee that and Nesta knows that’s a lie. Nesta doesn’t even touch liquor.

Cassian feels his chest start to sink and he must show it on his face, because she scoffs.

It’s bad enough she doesn’t want to go to the city most days. She’s told him it’s because she’s scared to face who she was, afraid that she’ll be back there soon enough. Cassian can’t reassure her well enough. We can face it together, he says. We can face it all. But it’s been baby steps and these outings are the only times she pushes her limits.

Cassian shifts her around, laying his hands on her cheeks, rubbing at the heated skin. “We don’t have to go if you don’t want.”

“I don’t want to be a coward.”

Cassian shakes his head, “you’re not going to be one if you go and you’re not going to be one if you stay.”

Nesta sighs, and Cassian kisses her forehead because he doesn’t know what else to do. He doesn’t know how to instill in Nesta that she’s the strongest, bravest person he knows. How does he convince her of a truth that’s so obvious?

She isn’t going to change her mind that much he knows, but damn him if he let’s her wallow alone.

“I won’t drink,” He offers, “We can play cards, dance a little... I promise I’ll try not to step on your toes again.”

“I want you to enjoy yourself,” She says, her lips pouting in that way that makes him want to kiss her nose and her cheek and every place that he can touch. “To have fun.”

“You are fun and I enjoy myself plenty with you.”

Little does Cassian know that the enjoyment of the night is him knocking back barrels of drinks, stripping to his underwear, and running head first through the streets.

To be continued...

LOL. This fic is insane. Because not only do you get snippets before you get the final chapter, you get snippets in the final chapters. Snip-ception.

Tagged: @my-fan-side, @sophilightwood, @nestaarcher0n, @duskandstarlight, @soitsgorgeous, @ekaterinakostrova @swankii-art-teacher, @lordof-bloodshed, @arinbelle, @thewhelk, @daisy-in-danger, @highqueenevankhell, @lovelynesta, @sirendeepity, @champanheandluxxury, @ladynestaarcheron, @moodymelanist, @teagoddess99, @spoilersteph, @angelicvoice19, @bo0kmaster69, @drielecarla, @generalnesta

I think that’s it. Also know that if you asked to be tagged on snippets, I am going to tag you MANY TIME throughout the day... so be cautious about that.

#Life's a Beach #my generic a** title #whatever I had to move on from it #nessian #nessian fanfiction #cassian #vidalinav writes #vidalinav #Nesta archeron #Tarquin #my Tarquin fic

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fandom-space-princess · 2 years

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Point of View

--- POV: your name is Isaac. Right now, the sum total of your existence is this: a sunburned neck from days spent climbing the mountain. Splinters, one in your shoulder and several in your arms, from carrying wood. A sore back. You built that wood into a pyre, side by side with your father, expecting a lamb to appear.

POV: your name is Claire Novak. Right now, the sum total of your existence is this: a bruise on your cheek, where the thing that wasn’t your mother hit you. Arms sore from being held, then tied. The father-shaped space that has been vacant for one-twelfth of your life has suddenly been filled again, but the man who filled it is bleeding out at your feet, and he is begging something that might be (but probably isn’t) the God you learned about in Sunday school to appear and save him, save you all.

POV: your name is not yet—but will one day be—Lucifer. As you are torn from the only home you have ever known at the behest of your Father, you begin to realize that you never had choice, not in the way you imagined you did. These are the things you thought you were building: a relationship, family, trust. These are the things He was building: a narrative.

POV: your name is Sam Winchester. You are twenty-five years old, and your body has never been your own. You were conceived in the light of this knowledge, and you have lived with it, and died for it; and though you do not yet know this, you will live and die for it again and again. And as you listen to the Devil confide that you were meant to be the vehicle for the end of the world, you wonder if anyone is ever going to stop and ask you how you feel about it. ---

--- POV: a knife is poised above your throat. The sun reflects off it, blinding you to all else. Your father looks down at you, but he isn’t seeing you, not really; his mind is lost to devotion. Later, as you bind the ram and draw that knife across its throat, he’ll tell you that he knew God would stay his hand. That’s what faith means, he’ll say; I knew He would not take you from me. His smile, like the knife, will be blinding as he tells you: stories will be written of this day.

POV: a demon dies under a hand that isn’t yours any more. The thing wearing your face is explaining to your father that he’s done now, that he can rest, and all that will cost him is: you. If he were destined to have a later, if that chance had ever come, you can imagine him saying that he and the thing possessing you both knew what choice he would make.

POV: the only available blueprint for Paradise calls for your bones to be laid into the foundations. And—as everyone keeps telling you—that's the best-case scenario.

POV: you can wrench your body free of the forces controlling it, and all it will cost you is your life. Standing at the edge of the abyss, you see for the first time what true freedom looks like. If you’re going to be damned, it will be on your own terms. ---

--- POV: your name is Isaac, and there will never be a single story—no parable, no holy writ—dedicated to how you felt as you lay on that pyre.

POV: your name is Claire Novak, and you were a child. What consent could you meaningfully offer to a servant of the Divine? Your body or your father’s—but that choice was never yours to begin with.

POV: your name is Lucifer, and to the one Being you ever truly loved, your presence was never important. It was merely a necessary precursor to your absence.

POV: your name is Sam Winchester, and this is the way you will save the world: by grabbing hold of the story with bleeding hands. Stop and look, you’ll command. Just this once, you will recognize the autonomy of the sacrifice. ---

--- Anyway. POV: the story is the altar. You are the lamb. ---

#hi i'm sorry for this #this fic just Happened to me. i had absolutely no control over the process. brainworms were 100% driving i'm just working the keyboard.#claire novak #jimmy novak #lucifer #sam winchester #spn #ficlet #my fanfic

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kyn-lyn-blog · 3 years

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Race for the Crown

Okay so this is going to be a story about my interpretations of Jude and Cardans kids. This is not really about them but they are obviously in it. I will put the list of their kids here just so everyone can get an idea that this is a long project! FYI the last three children are triplets and with them being so young they won’t be involved like the rest but maybe in the future I might write something (a little blurb on them as they are older!

Jurdan Kids:

Ben / Ezren (horns)/ Liriel (Bee wings/controls bees) / Aimon (tail) / Elluin (snake skin patches/forked toungs) / Cohlan (tails and claws) / Lixiss / Finnea (butterfly wings) / Finneus (moth wings) / Echo / Echibod / Echian

words: 3025

The intro basically explains the plot but i will say this: It is about the Greenbrier/Duarte children’s fight to the crown and their struggles, strengths and ambition

I do not typically post fics or stories but I am hoping to start, All questions, feedback, and statements are welcomed

There were twelve children, nine chances, eight competitors, three who cared too much, three who weren’t sure, and one who did not want it all. All fighting for the throne and crown. The current King and Queen grew tired of ruling, and many thought choosing an heir would be no problem with all the children they had and yet, though the numbers where high, problems came with every one of them. The only children who were for sure out of the running were the triplets, the youngest who were barley three. Every child had a story and something keeping them from the crown from the oldest to the youngest and none of them seem to have shown what it takes to have the crown. In the end it was decided that all children must be watched closely and deliberately in order to make the best decision. Oldest to youngest every child fought, unknowingly, for the power of the land.

BEN

Ben’s story was the strangest to the people of the land. Some did not even feel he should be considered for the throne due to him not being blood. Ben was abandoned as a child by his father and the queen took him in secretly, having been friends with the child’s father. She took him in at 7 years old and he instantly loved her more than his own family. She showed him love and kindness, while being firm and fair. She did not have a child of her own, so she was often hesitant to officially call him hers, but after the king heard news of the boy, he was elated to help his wife raise the child. The King gave the boy and the Queen the push to officially create and start their family even if the child was not either of their blood. The Boy grew into a man and a charming one at that. With his birth father being a sorcerer, he was able to perform magic the land had never seen. He treated the other siblings as his own even if some did not see him in the same light. He did his responsibilities with ease and poise.

As he grew into a man and a noble, the land became split when rumors of his crowning came to surface. Half the land saw him as the perfect contender for the role of king. He was good to the people but firm in his beliefs of what is best for the land. He dished out judgement in a way that seemed regal and fair, even when he was sentencing someone to death, there was an air of calm finality around him and his subjects. He stood tall, his sandy gold hair standing out against the dark of his siblings, and his face showed no cruelty, but he looked as if he was made to be a king, instead of an abandoned child taken into a new world. The term golden boy seemed coined just for him.

However, there were others, the countering half of the land that fell into the arms of tradition. Him not being related in blood seemed to create a bigger problem than expected. People felt he couldn’t rule a land he wasn’t born in or born to understand. The cursed his name whenever people even mentioned his status to the throne. These objectors weren’t silent either, they loudly jeered and scorned him with distaste. When his name was called at revelry’s and royal events underneath the cheers and praise were the boo’s and hateful jabs. He took them with a smile. He was approachable and while some saw that as a sign of good fortune for the land others saw it as disrespectful and the acts of a common man instead of a king. For yes there was a no, for every good dead there was a twisted scandal behind. Prince Ben could not breath without someone begging for his fortune and attention or trying to trap him into a wrong word or step. When he started to notice the small seeds of him being king start to get planted by the council he started to panic. He knew many would never accept him as king, and if half the land won’t accept him how was he supposed to rule with a knife at his neck at every turn. He decided to take matters into his own hands the day he found out the whispers were growing into assumptions.

Ben knew he would do whatever is best for the people, but he had to keep himself alive and in the land’s good favors in order to do so. He had to step away from the throne for awhile but in a way that wouldn’t make him look like a cowered or as if he was running away. He prepared for the party that was going on that night with shaking hands. He decided to dress in lavish gold and baby blues, With a swirling patterns of the colors on his vest with a white frilly shirt underneath and breeches to match. He wore golden boots that reached just underneath his knees and a gold cape held to his right side with a lion head brooch that had diamond eyes to match the teeth of its roar. He placed the silver ring of a crown on his head indicating his title of prince. The royal family would wear their weapon of choice to these events as an accessory, but since he relied on magic as his weapon he settled on a pair of gold gloves that had diamonds accentuating his fingertips where his nails would be seen. He made sure his hair stood up above his crown, his signature quieff hairstyle on display, the golden strands slicked up and shining. As he looked at his work in the mirror, he couldn’t help but frown. He liked what he saw he just didn’t like how much he looked a king waiting to accept his crown. He had a split second where he considered changing into something less but voted against it. He had already made himself up he wasn’t going back on that now.

The merriment of the party was in full swing as he entered, his name and horns blaring in his ear upon announcement.

“I present to you” The royal guard announced while giving him a wink, she had once set him up with her daughter and still held hope he would find some interest once again, Ben knew he wouldn’t but smiled at her anyway, “Prince Ben, Oldest of the high queen and king, Prince of the court of Mystics , runner up to the throne” Ben cringed deeply at her last statement, those kinds of titles and statement were only spoken by those who have already pledged their loyalty, and he was sure she would be disappointed once he made his announcement and proposal to his mother and father, the king and queen. He heard whispers and saw glares and adoring eyes. He saw the ears of his siblings raise, their noses twitches and their eyes look at him in accusation. They would disregard him soon enough. He kept his head high and smile easy as he sauntered over to the golden dais that held his family. As he walked, he could feel everyone’s gaze it didn’t matter that he came later than the others. The way he was dressed, the way he walked, and his demeanor all suggested he was on time and that everyone else was just early for his arrival. He stepped up to his mother and kissed her cheek lightly. He turned to his father and gave him a fist bump (which Ben had started doing after one of his visits to the mortal world). He took his spot closest to the throne next to his brother Ezren who did very little to hide the distaste from his curled lip.

“That was quite the introduction” Ben did not even bother to look over to his sister Liriel, she never liked being outdone or outshined and Ben was certain she did not like his name being followed up with ‘runner up’ when it came to the throne. She wanted the choice to be unanimous when it came to who should be crowned and she wanted the unanimous decision to be her. She had always considered Ben beneath her. It did not matter, however. Soon enough she’d be one step closer to the crown. As final announcements and introductions of other courts were finished the king and queen began to greet subjects who felt their problems were big enough to bring to the throne. The princes and princesses began to depart and get lost in the crowd of guests and nobles. Ben could handle his drink, he was, after all, no mere mortal but one with great power and lineage, even if that lineage left him to die. Still some tried to get him eat strange drinks and powders and fruit that should make him loose his mind. Ben never minded, he became used to the folk underestimating him, it was how he preferred it so he would often eat it anyway and just pretend to be mad with happiness and giddy joy. This made his nights more interesting and more of a time to collect secrets rather than a time for parties, however tonight he kept his lips and tongue clean. His siblings all had fun with their groups and newfound strangers. All except Ezren. Always so serious. He kept his eyes on Ben a jealous fire in his eyes as ben kissed hands, twirled maidens and laughed with nobles. Ben had always told Ezren he’d be more favorable for the crown if he spent more of his time with the people rather than watching his siblings every move. But Ezren didn’t trust any of them except Liriel. So, he sat and watched ready to intercept at any time his siblings make a fool of themselves. Ben never truly cared however, he could hold his own and then some.

As the party died down, and that means people were beginning to fall over drunk and delusional, Ben made his way to the dais where his parents sat whispering and laughing to each other. His dad’s tail flicked back and forth for a bit then came to wrap around his mother’s wrist. Ben knew what that meant, when his father’s rail started wrap around his mothers limbs, either he was nervous for her or he was getting ready to bed her and from the look on his face Benn had a good idea it was the latter. He rushed to the top before their thrones and both the king and queen looked up in surprise at his sudden rush towards them.

“Mother, Father” he gave a short bow with each greeting.

“Ben, what is this, is something wrong, shouldn’t you be enjoying the revilers?” That was his father’s code for ‘Unless someone is dying you better make this quick’ and not in a ‘I can’t be bothered way’ but a ‘I’m gonna fuck your mom so make this quick’ sort of way.

“Yes, everything is fine but I wanted to make an announcement, a proposal of sorts, to the two of you and I feel everyone should hear too” His mother side eyed him, unsure if his plans. It was no secret Ben loved Jude the most since he was young. When he was seven and first came into her care, he’d sing her name at night and cry when she had to leave for royal duties and no nanny could console him until her return. His mother knew him better than anyone and he told her everything, everything except his plans for tonight. It made since she was suspicious, since that has always been her nature anyway.

“Does it have to be right now-“Jude elbowed cardan interrupting him.

“Of course you can give your…announcement” His mother trusted him, she just didn’t like not knowing what he was planning. Ben smiled at them and his father gave a slight eyeroll as he kicked his legs up on the side of his throne and waved his hand as a gesture saying ‘get on with it’. Ben took a step down from the dais so that he was in between steps. He turned to the crowd and spread his hands gaining the attention of few but not nearly all.

“High courts, gentry, royals and friends!” he shouted merriment laced in his voice. “I, Prince Ben, Oldest son of the High King and Queen” he looked at Ezren as he spoke those words, smirked then looked back at the crowd “Have an announcement, a proclamation for my parents and the high court,” He turned towards the thrones where the king and queen sat, but his voice resonated as if he was speaking to every single person in the room individually. “Mother, Father, all of Fae knows of the rumors of your choosing for the throne, I am not here to throw my hat in the ring, as the mortals say, but to instead withdraw myself from the line” Gasps fill the room and cries and uproars, he feels someone might have even fainted. “Instead I ask you give me another role, a new role, title, that I have made for myself. I wish to travel the lands of Fae, sea, mortal lands, and the unknown in search of allies, magic, emptied lands, treasures and advances. I wish to not own the crown but help it thrive and advance. I swear my service to it and my loyalty.” By the end of his proposal he is down on one knee head bent to the ground. He raises his eyes and sees his mother is shocked but hiding it with a steady look. His father has a smirk and looks as if he trying to keep from laughing meaning he either sees this as some joke or is nervous about what his son’s statements mean. Ben always had a feeling His mother saw him as one of the main royals reaching for the throne and probably assumed that that was what Ben had wanted. Ben just hoped she wasn’t upset with his decision. The room was silent awaiting The High King and High Queen’s reaction.

His father broke the silence with a laugh “Blood or not you definitely got the dramatics of this family, here we thought you were about to announce some coup or something, pull a Balekin part two!”

“I didn’t think that” His mother said with a smirk, low enough only Ben and Cardan could hear. Cardan whispered something to his queen as Ben stayed on one knee. He saw from the top of his vision Jude give a curt nod, and His father stood up.

“My son,” he said with a sigh “Your proposal sounds…exactly and perfectly fit for you” Ben stood up as an uproar went up filled with cheers and surprised shouts. He looked over and saw the head of the guard look at him with betrayal on her face. Seems she realized she backed the wrong prince. “However,” The High King continued “I don’t know where all this talk of crowning a new ruler came from, but perhaps…” Cardan turned to look at Jude then back at the crowd “It might be time to consider and keep watch of who that will one day be, and keep in mind Ben, just because you want withdrawal now doesn’t mean you can’t come back to reconsider before it’s too late” Ben could feel the eyes of all his siblings even the ones who care far less about these ordeals. Ben had just moved a piece in an eight-player game of chess, the piece that not only started the game but caught the attention of the other players. It didn’t matter to Ben; he was taking himself out of the game enough to still come back a hero if he really wanted to, and according to his father, still a chance to come back as king if he ever changed his mind. Ben had all the freedom to do what he wanted, and none of the others could do the same without looking like followers to him, and they all knew it. None of them could pull off what he put in motion, now that it was already done. Ben turned to his father.

“Thank you, I will remember your words as I begin and endure my travels, but for now I plan to enjoy my first night with my new title and status and worry about the details tomorrow”. The high king smiled and nodded, then step back to his wife. Ben turned to his mother and her eyes questioned him while her lips pulled into a smirk. She rose from her throne and stood in front of him and gave him a seemingly innocent hug, but Ben knew better when she pulled him down to whisper in his ear.

“For once I don’t know what you’re planning, but remember this, the throne, this new title, your siblings’ ambition, are nothing to play around with, you’ve always been smart Ben don’t let this battle change that.” She pulled away and looked into his eyes, probably hoping to find some genuine emotion there in them.

“Don’t worry about me mother” he kissed her cheek “I know my place” with that he stepped down from the dais into the crowd with his head high and gold cape flowing behind him, yes, no one could deny he looked like a king that night, the same night he seemingly gave up the throne. Ezren watched from afar eyes secretly filled with unnerving satisfaction. Ben ignored him and the questions of the nobles that approached him and grabbed a drink he knew was supposed to make him crazy with faiery lust, he downed it feeling nothing. He was never the trickster type but he did have his secrets, secrets he would take with him on his upcoming travels, secrets that would only be reveled upon his inevitable return.

#the folk of the air #Jude #Jude Duarte #Cardan #Cardan Greenbrier #Cardan Duerta #Jurdan #Jude X Cardan #Cardan x Jude #Holly Black #The Race to the crown #Taryn Duarte #Court of Shadows #how the king of elfhame learned to hate stories #OOC

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missdawnandherdusk · 3 years

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A Bad Day

Draco X Reader

Requested: @eve-mal1 Can you do a fluffy Draco where you’ve had a rly bad day and he comforts you x💕

A/n: Okay, so Draco might be the cause of your terrible day, but he had good reason okay? Post-War fic and some forbidden love sprinkled in there as well. Love you guys lots, let me know that you think.

I walked out to the top of the stairs and a large round of applause erupted. I took a deep breath and smiled softly, putting on a charade. I could do this. Everyone staring at me as I descended the stairs, putting in all of my effort not to fall flat on my face.

Ron came up beside me, to escort me. “Harry canceled last minute, he sends his regards,”

“What?” I squeaked. “But... he was supposed to...”

Harry was the reason that I had even allowed this stupid Gala to take place. He was the one who convicted me that I deserved it. Or at least that everyone deserved a bit of a break and to celebrate whatever they could. It was the reason I was in this constricting dress and pinching shoes with a hairstyle that could only induce a migraine.

“I know, but we need to go before people begin to get worried,” Ron urged.

“Right,”

Taking his arm, we mingled.

“This is... ridiculous,” I decided, among the throng of people, all congratulating and thanking me and Ron for our efforts in the war.

“Why do you think I’ve avoided them for so long?” Ron muttered.

The night was a blur for the most part, there were warm smiles and dancing, most of which I avoided for quite some time. Ron and I had gotten separated after a while and I was left alone. He no doubt went to find Hermione, and I didn’t blame him in the slightest.

“Miss Y/l/n,” A warm voice welcomed me.

I was met with dark brown eyes and a charming smile.

“Just Y/n, thank you,” I offered a polite smile.

“I came to congratulate you. You are a brave woman,” The man took my hand and kissed it.

“Thank you, I just did my job, that was all,” I blushed and looked down, feeling awkward.

“Do not downplay your achievements, it truly remarkable what you’ve done for this country,”

“Thank you,” I felt the blush on my face grow stronger and the need to flee growing stronger. For better or worse, I was given an out.

The glass of the great hall shattered black robes and masked figured flooding into the Gala. Amongst the screams and chaos, I drew my wand, ready. My eyes met Ron’s from across the way the same determination in his eyes. I lost him in the fray, throwing hexes and spells to take down as many black cloaked figures as I could. Yet, with each Death Eater I took down, five more took its place.

Caught off guard, I was grabbed from behind. One hand covering my mouth, another grabbing the wrist of the hand that held my wand. The vice grip didn’t let me protest or break free.

“Come with me quietly, or your friends die,” There was something in his voice that I couldn’t place.

But I had no choice. We had just gotten through a war alive. I wouldn’t let their deaths come as a cause of my stubbornness. I went with the cloaked and hooded figure.

The assailant took me with him while Apperating. I barely found my bearings before I fell to the floor. The first thing I did was ditch the death traps that were my shoes. Then I turned on my aggressor, who had made the mistake of letting me go, wand still in hand.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you!” I shouted, my wand poised and aimed at him.

My kidnapper laughed, throwing down his hood, taking off his mask. I gasped. Silvery blond hair and cool grey eyes greet me. Grey eyes that held mischief.

“That reason enough?” Draco chuckled, throwing his mask onto a nearby bookshelf.

“You,” I growled, tightening my grip on my wand. “You...” There wasn’t an insult large enough to the anger I was feel.

“Put down the wand Y/n, you’re not going to hurt me,” Draco raised an eyebrow at me, his black cloak shrugged off and cast aside.

“But you! And the Gala! My friends! Those people!” I yelled.

“Are all perfectly fine.” The glint in Draco’s eye let me know that he knew something that I didn’t. It aggravated me to death.

“What game are you playing Malfoy?” I hissed. “We agreed,”

“We did,” He made his way toward me, taking the wand from my hand. “I missed you too,”

Sighing I gave in, allowing him to pull me into an embrace. It felt good to be home in his arms. It had been too long. I could feel his chest rise and fall with each breath he took, reminding me to steady myself.

“What were you thinking?” I whispered into his shoulder. “All of that for a few moments together? They’re going to come after you. You’ll have to hide again, and it’ll be even longer until we can see each other,”

He drew away, cradling my face in one of his hands. “No, I won’t,” A smile rested on his lips.

“What do you mean no you won’t?” I demanded, pushing out of his reach. “Death Eaters just attacked a post-war Gala! You kidnapped me! Merlin, they’re going to think I’m in actual danger!” My voiced reached a point of hysterics. “Draco what the hell were you thinking!?” The gravity of the situation weighed on me heavily.

“Hey, will you calm down for two seconds?” Draco took a step toward me.

“No! I will not calm down!” I shouted at him, “Of all the stupid, reckless, idiotic things you could have done!”

“I told you she would yell,” A new voice chimed in and my eyes met amused green ones and a tangle of raven curls. “We should have told her,”

“We needed to make it look real,” Draco refuted. “And she never would have agreed.”

“Harry?” I sputtered. “But... you... you ditched me!” I was back to yelling, jabbing a finger accusingly at him. “And you seriously let him go through with this plan!? I know you’re both daft, but this is low for the both of you!”

“She’s got quite a mouth on her,” Harry chuckled.

“Give her a minute, she’ll come round,” Draco grinned, looking at me, expectant.

“Refer to her in third person again and you’ll have bigger problems than my fury,” I hissed. “Now what the hell is going on!?”

“Are you ready to listen?” Draco asked, calmly—condescendingly.

“Don’t patronize me,” I snapped, crossing my arms.

“Oh good,” Ron burst through the door, “Hermione and I are in, everything else is taken care of.”

“Ron knew!?” I demanded. “Did everyone but me know!?”

Ron slowly backed away, and Draco chuckled, coming toward me again, with no fear that I might take a swing at him. It was a serious consideration.

“Harry, leave us for a moment?” Draco requested softly. The chosen one left without another word.

“Draco, what’s going on?” My anger had passed, and now I was scared and confused with more questions that loomed with the weight of the world than answers.

He took a deep breath in and pulled me to a loveseat in the sitting room we were in. I laid my head on his shoulder and his arm wrapped around me.

“I don’t want to lose you again.” I whispered. “Just tell me what’s going on,”

“Harry and your other friends decided to help me getting back to you in a safe way that wouldn’t threaten either of our lives,” Draco began, shushing me when I began to argue back. “The Gala was put on with a few strings pulled from Harry and Hermione. Some of the attenders will remember the Death Eater attack, but most won’t. Those who do remember will test as if their memories had been altered, not the other way around,”

“Hermione?” I mused.

“Yours truly,” He grinned. “Give me a little credit, there’s only so long that I can stay away from you before I start to get creative. I figured out the spell a week ago. Hermione and I tested it on Ron and Harry. It worked.”

“You... created a spell for me?” I gaped up at him, settling into a warm smile. He pressed a kiss to my forehead and continued. Wandless magic began to undo my hair, and I could only guess that Draco was the cause.

“So, all we needed was you there and ready. Those who do remember would have seen kidnapped by yours truly, the other will think you’ve moved to America to escape the horrors of war,” He gestured here and there with his words.

“But that would mean that some wizards are thinking that I was kidnapped by a Death Eater,” I pointed out the flaw.

“Well, until it comes up in the Daily Prophet that you’re in America safe and sound, putting the entire thing to rest.” His victorious smile made me give up on the notion of any argument against his plan. If he believed it would work, then so would I.

“Any other questions?” He mused, standing.

“Why didn’t Harry show?” I pondered, letting him lead me down the halls of the Manor to our usual shared room.

“Because his word would be the end all be all. And it would create more rumors and conspiracies, and it was easier for him to miss the event all together,”

Draco opened the door to the en suite bathroom, revealing a warm bath and a dozen lit candles. The warm atmosphere wrapped around me like a thick blanket. Draco pressed a kiss to my temple.

“Go ahead and unwind. I’ll be waiting,” He promised, leaving me alone.

Scrubbing off the makeup and washing the hairspray and gel from hair, I felt a bit more like me. The bath must have been charmed to stay warm because though I spent quite some time processing and unwinding, it remained warm. But there came a time that I had to leave the warm silky water and make my way to Draco.

In one of his old t-shirts and sweats, I wrapped a house coat around myself and ventured out. Though, he wasn’t waiting in the bedroom like I thought he would be. Frowning I padded out into the hall, leaning over the banister, searching for some sign of life in the large house. And it proved useful because I heard the faintness of music coming from the great room. Making my way down the stairs I found Draco at the piano, playing softly. A melody that belonged to me. With the hearth ablaze and candles lit, the scene was enchanting.

“Dray?” I asked softly, not wanting to scare him.

“Have a nice bath?” He asked, coming over to me, his attire close to mine. I nodded.

“Did everyone leave?” I asked, looking at the large empty warm room.

“They thought maybe we’d want some time to ourselves.” He smiled leading me to the large sofa where blankets and pillows greeted us.

“They’d be right,” I smiled, curling up with him.

His arms wrapped around me, one hand drifting to my hair and running through the damp tresses. I laid my head back on his shoulder.

“You really put me through a hell of a day,” I muttered.

“I know, I’m sorry,” He murmured, kissing the top of my head. “But it had to work. I couldn’t stand another moment without you,”

A smile touched my lips. A house elf came with mugs of warm tea and assorted biscuits and sweets. I raised an eyebrow and Draco smiled, switching on the large TV that I had convinced him to install as a familiar melody of a favorite movie of mine began to play.

“Really laying it on thick, are we?” I laughed, settling down into the comfort of his arms and the pillows around us.

“You said it, I put you through a hell of a day. I figured I’d have to make it up to you,” With ease Draco pulled me into his lap, holding me closer.

“Even without all of this, you did manage to get us safe and sound together and I owe you a lot for that,” I intertwined my fingers with his. He held to my hand tightly.

“I had at least three ulterior motives,” He smirked down at me, causing me to roll me eyes.

“Well, I’m glad you did it regardless,”

“Anything to get back to you, my love.”

As the movie progressed, I sang softly to the songs on screen, eventually hearing Draco faint baritone harmonize with my gentle melody. And for that moment, I was certain, no matter what the day threw at me—be it Death Eaters and a stuffy Gala—I’d go through it all for Draco.

masterlist

more like this:

beautifully beastly

a death eater and a dancer

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crimsonwolfie · 4 years

Text

Best Mistake Part 2 — Hamish Duke x Reader

Requested by @shania122600 and many more!

Prompt: The Reader (a Succubus) returns for her love, Hamish Duke, for one steamy night ;)

I haven’t proofread this as it’s 2am and i knew y’all wanted this, i kept you waiting long enough (really sorry!!) but i hope this makes up for it 🥺👉🏼👈🏼

Warnings: smut and fluff :)

Word count: 3.639

Masterlist

Best Mistake Part 1

Tossing and turning, Hamish Duke kicks his legs out from under the duvet cover. Sweat beads drip from his forehead as his grey T-shirt sticks to his hot, sweaty body. Murmuring and groaning, he fidgets from side to side, clearly in and out of sleep.

The window is opened slightly, letting the white netted curtains to dance delicately in the breeze of the wind. Hamish stirs as the breeze hits his scorching hot skin, invigorating him. His lashes flutter as his eyes open gently, squinting as the moonlight shines a beam so bright onto his face. The covers are a heap and the air is thick, muggy with heat...evocation. Hamish sits up with one hand holding his head, rubbing his eyes, whilst leaning on the other hand that holds his weight.

The room is cold against his skin as shivers run up and down his spine like a marathon. He sighs, looking around the almost empty room that surrounds him. The room has an antique tone to it; walls painted an off-white with a singular wall painted a brewing crimson colour, with an unusual tile bordering of moons, stars and other symbols of some sort lining the top of the walls. A window, rectangle and fairly big, is seen beside Hamish. With nothing but the bed, a small wardrobe, a thin nightstand and an armchair in the corner (which is covered in clothes), the room seems fairly new...cosy. It’s minimal, but just right.

Although it’s summer, there’s still a bitter coldness in the air. Not just in temperature, but in ambience. An indescribable coldness that’s descended from somewhere unknown, somewhere utterly dark and unwelcoming.

Hamish wipes his forehead of sweat, pushing his ever-growing hair out of his eyes as it sweeps back effortlessly. His crystal eyes gleam in the moonlight as his skin reflects like milk off a silver tray. His palms are sweaty mom’s spaghetti haha as he grips on the bedsheet, arching his back as he stretches.

He stays still for a second, in a sort of sleepy daze, eyes fixated on the foot of his bed. Head tilting, he quickly snaps out the trance and reaches his arm to his bedside table, picking up his phone. The screen lights up full beam, causing Hamish to squint his eyes in instant regret as he scrambles to lower the brightness.

3:29am

“Great” Hamish mumbles with a croaky voice, laced with exhaustion. He sighs loudly, flopping back onto the bed, his head compressed in the pillows. This is the second week of restless nights he’d had - and they’re getting worse each night. At first, it was only a couple of broken sleeps...you know...nothing too dramatic. Then, it developed into vivid dreams which startle him and disturb him. Now...he hasn’t slept in a week, in order to avoid... them. His body wants to, so badly...but his mind isn’t having it. And it shows. Deep, dark bags surround the sockets of his eyes as his body grows weaker and feeble. His skin loses it’s glow and his mind is scattered. Everyone who sees him notices how much he’s let himself go, and they worry about him. Hell...he’s worried about himself.

Hamish throws his hands on his face, rubbing at his eyes hard, in an attempt to exhaust himself out. He kicks the covers off himself completely, revealing his loose knee-length shorts and bare feet. His mind wanders occasionally wanders to dark places from time to time, however lately it’s been happening a lot more. And every time, it’s the same place. A dark, painful place that he wishes to forget only for the reason that it brings him sadness, a nostalgia that he cannot get back. And what is that memory that his mind wanders to? Well, Y/N of course.

The truth is...every time he’d fall alseep, he’d dream of her. Vivid, realistic dreams of touching her, kissing her, being with her. Any other person would die for dreams like these with the person they loved, but Hamish...he didn’t. For him, it was a constant reminder that he’d lost another love that fulfilled his soul. It reminded him that he would never see her again, and he couldn’t handle that heartbreak.

He would reminisce about when he met Y/N, the Succubus, for the first time. Her beauty, elegance, poise, that mischievous glint in her eye which Hamish couldn’t tell if he was turned on by it...or threatened by it. He was infatuated by her, as if she held his soul in the cage of her heart.

It’s been 3 months since he’d last seen her. 3 months which felt like 3 years. Before he met her, he felt a hole in his soul. Ever since Cassie’s end, he’d never experienced something so true to ‘love at first sight’, he’d never believed he’d be truly happy again, or that he’d ever fall in love again...that was...until he met her. It was short, too short, but it gave him that electrifying feeling of wholesomeness again. Of happiness, love, euphoria. In those moments they had together, it was like he’d been hit by a century’s worth of feelings that he had lost. Both him and Tundra felt it...and she did too.

A single tear trickles down his pale, cold cheek at the memory of her. Lips quivering slightly, he bites down on his lower lip, scrunching his eyes shut tightly. He sits up gently, walking over to the open window for some air.

There’s something about nighttime that is so soothingly calm to him, almost as if he’s free. The silence that echoes around the clearing, the darkness dimly lit by the stars in the sky, the bitter sweet breeze smacking your rosy hot cheeks with an immense feeling of coolness.

Hamish rushes towards the window in desperation as if he cannot breathe, before inhaling deeply, releasing a hot breath into the night air. His head is stuck outside the window as his forearms lean against the windowsill. That familiar scent of fresh grass and slightly damp air surround him, leaving him feeling relaxed and at ease, until he feels the panic and sorrow leave slowly.

Part of him wishes his memories of her would disappear, so he can feel normal again...feel human. Although, part of him wishes they’d stay. Because she made him feel human. She made him feel alive, in ways he never thought possible.

He stares up to the moon, smiling softly.

“Hey, Y/N,” he begins with a voice barely above a whisper, “i miss you. And i know you probably can’t hear me, or see me for that matter...but you’ve messed with my head.” He grins, cheekiness glowing across his face. “I wish you were here, you know that. Well..i- i hope you’d know that...a..anyway”

He brings his hands to his face, cupping it whilst leaning on his elbows. “I think...i love you. And that scares me...really. Because the last woman i loved left me, and i....you know what nevermind. Anyway i uh...i guess i’m just saying hi, and that i miss you...” he looks down, a sad smile across his lips, but sadness painted across his expression. “Yeah...i really miss you.” he sighs “but please...Can you just let me slee-“

“-Only if i’m next to you”

Hamish’s eyes widen at the voice from behind him, as his body whips round and jaw drops at the sight in front of him. His eyes light up, his heartbeat quickens and races rapidly. His body shakes...is he hallucinating? Is this what happens when someone hasn’t slept for a week?

From out of the shadows, Y/N appears. Her beauty as astonishing as ever and her pace is slow, gentle. The gentle breeze pushes her hair from her shoulders as it flows through effortlessly. Hamish is frozen, he wants to touch you to make sure you’re real...but he can’t move.

You smile sweetly, lips berry red and cheeks lightly blushed pink. You take in the view in front of you as you slowly take a step closer to him, your sweet scent knocking him back to reality.

“Y/N...i...how are you here?” His voice cracks mid sentence, his arm barely lifted from the side of his chest. You laugh softly at his astonishment, thinking of how cute he was and how deeply you missed his face.

“Hey, cutie” you sigh, “i missed you, too.”

“I...” he begins, only to stop and rush his hands towards you, gripping you tightly as he lifts you up in the air for a hug, your legs wrapped around his torso and hands around his neck. You smile into his neck as his familiar scent of coconuts and musk fill your senses. He squeezes your body against his, almost as if he’s scared to let go again. Not again. Not ever again.

“How are you here?” His eyes are glossy with emotion and his voice is wobbly. His hands cup your face, as his thumbs rub against the sides of your cheeks softly. Your big Y/E/C orbs locked with his own, softness and comfort hidden deep within each other’s eyes.

“I made my way back to you, like i told you i would” you smile, bringing your hands to his own, which cup your face still, intertwining your fingers into his.

“But i...i thought you had to be summoned?”

“No, well...yeah,” you whisper “but i sort of made a deal with these dumb ass kids...they give me my freedom in exchange for A+ in all their classes-“ you roll your eyes playfully

“That’s not that bad!” Hamish interupts, his face blushing at your touch and his smile bright.

“-for the rest of their time at Belgrave.” you finish, nodding your head down at Hamish, who understands what you’re about to say next.

“Oh...i see...so you...exp..?” He hints, squinting as he looks for confirmation in your expressions

“...i gave them 3 weeks before they’ll be expelled” you smirk, head up whilst looking directly at Hamish’s eyes.

Hamish smirks back, knowing your mischievous side when it comes to making deals...you are a demon at the end of the day!

“They should have known better” he quietly murmurs with a smirk planted across his face. “Well, i’m glad they gave you your freedom. Very, very glad.”

With that, Hamish strokes your face as he brings his fingers to your shoulders, then to your arm. Electrifying shocks run through your body as butterflies roam freely in your stomach at his touch alone. Blood rushes to your cheeks, heating them up with a perfectly pretty pink shade. From the window behind Hamish, a breeze gusts through the room, sending your hair flying back effortlessly. You lean your forehead on Hamish’s, as he leans down slightly to reach you. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull him down and place your lips on his. Passion, lust, desperation and pleasure coat the kiss as the world comes to a stop. Euphoria explodes in your mind as his soft, luscious lips compliment your own perfectly. Ham gets deeper into the kiss, slipping his tongue in between your mouth whilst gripping your waist and pushing it harder into his own body, completely breaking any distance between you both. His hands roam your curves and every part of your body, pushing your head deeper into the kiss. Lightly, you bite onto his lip which causes him to smirk into the kiss, moaning ever so quietly.

“You know that turns me on,” Hamish whispers in a husky tone, a light growl evident in the back of his throat.

“That’s my intention...” you hum on his lips.

Your hands leave his neck and lead to his hair, gently pulling every time the butterflies invade your stomach. Even as a succubus, you’ve never felt this turned on by anyone. And THAT is saying something...

“We have-“ he stutters out of breath in between your kisses, “-have to be quiet-“ your hands roam down to the rim of his shirt, causing Hamish to get a little too excited, “-others are here.” He takes a deep gasp of breath whilst looking up to the ceiling, then looking you up and down.

“Then we’ll be quiet.” A devilish smirk appears on your face, as you lock eyes with Hamish, then look down to his lips...faces barely apart.

Hamish bites his lip, attacking your face once again. Only this time, he pushes you to the wall, pressing your back into it as his body presses into your front. You moan in euphoria with your arms up above your head, hands and fingers intertwined with Hamish’s as he breaks the kiss, leaving a trail of hot and wet kisses on your neck. As he brings his hands down, he knocks one of your horns gently...to which startles him,

“Shit, I’m so sorry” he apologises, concern on his face as his brows and eyes crinkle in fears of him hurting you. Sweetly, you laugh whilst shaking your head and drawing over his features with the tip of your finger,

“Hey, it’s okay,” you reply sympathetically, tone soft and delicate, “you could never hurt me.”

Hamish takes a moment to soak in your beauty in front of him; the way your dark, bold wings form the most magnificent silhouette, how your clothes hug your perfect figure and curves irresistibly, the way your wide Y/E/C doe eyes captivate his soul in the way that he forgets how to breathe, your smile...so bright, contagious and exquisite. With skin as soft as the clouds above and lips as dreamy as sunsets in the heavens, you couldn’t have been more perfect to him.

“You’re so beautiful,” Hamish mouths into your skin, causing shivers to run through your body, “i never want to let you out of my sight again”

“Then don’t let me go”

“You can count on it, darling.” He brings his head back up to face you, mischief and adoration in his orbs. He stands there sandwiching you between the wall for a long few seconds, staring deep into your own eyes.

“Hey, carry on kissing me!” You huff, desperation lacing your voice.

“I can do one better” he pipes up confidently, as he begins to untie your blood red, laced top...slipping his fingers smoothly under the straps, letting them fall off your soft, delicate shoulders. As a sudden urge impulses you, you rip his top completely in half, revealing his toned chest. A low growl escapes his throat as he throws his lips back onto yours, fingers working tirelessly at the straps on your top, whilst yours work at his sweat-shorts. You throw your head to the side whilst soaking in the allure and pleasure before you. Before you know it, Hamish removes your top, leaving you in your bra and tight leggings. He picks you up, letting you wrap your legs around his torso as he carries you to the end of his bed...his lips never leaving yours.

Hamish lets you down gently, being careful to not hurt your wings, as he continues to undress you...you vice versa.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” He whispers for consent, being the true gentleman he is.

“Of course. I want everything with you” you chirp “do you want it?”

“Why wouldn’t i?! You’re everything to me,” his smile speaks a thousand more words, but right now...you want nothing more than for no words. Just action. Smiling back, you wrap your hands around his neck, before snapping out of the moment,

“okay now carry on. Please.” You beg, pulling him forward from his neck. He crashes his body on yours after removing his sweat shorts impatiently. Skin to skin contact sends waves of pure electric through both your veins as hormones and pleasure flying through the roof. Your skin burns under his as he buries his head in between your shoulder, whilst slowly but firmly thrusting in. His hands search the bed for yours, intertwining as soon as he finds them. With your legs wrapped around his torso, you push yourself closer to his body, deepening the feeling inside you as simultaneous moans can be beard from the both of you, complete euphoria filling your senses.

A single beam of moonlight illuminates the room directly on Hamish’s face, allowing you to admire everything about him; the way his dimples show when he’s either concentrating or happy, how his cheeks are chiseled and his jawline is sharper than thousands of knives put together. His perfect skin complexion soft to the fingertips and his ocean eyes full of hope and life...and how his irises have a black lining around them, which follows the legend of how if one has a black line around their eyes...then they have a soul. Sure you’ve had your fair share of experience, of lust and hopeless devotion...but It’s little things like this that make you realise that love can be real...and that Hamish has truly captured your heart. Succubus’ are notorious for their seduction and willingness to draw emotion to their pray, without having to actually experience any their-self. However...every succubus has their one love, their power source for love, their anchor. Hamish is yours, and it took you until this long to realise.

Squirming under his weight, you bring your mind back to the present. His breath is rigid and his skin is sticky with sweat. Swiftly, you bring your hands to his hair and roughly tug at it, causing Ham to push himself deeper into you. You moan in satisfaction as you crash your mouth onto his with sloppy, wet kisses. Hamish returns your kisses with equal passion, occasionally biting your lip and tugging it with a small amount of force, leaving you to scratch at his back with your nails. As soon as you do so, Hamish’s claws make a quick appearance, gliding over your skin before he shakes it off and yearns control again. Due to your abilities of super strength, you manage to slip from under Hamish’s weight and flip your positions, so he’s now under your weight as you cradle his body with yours on top. It takes him a hot minute to notice, but when he does...he just get even more turned on.

You start to move your hips lightly forwards and backwards, leaving Hamish to squirm under you before moving in synchronisation to your movements. Easing into it, you both move in a delicate and ever so tender fashion, more intimate than sexual.

Hamish’s large hands position themselves on your hips, his thumbs drawing little circles around your skin as his grip tightens, meaning only one thing.

As you begin to feel the hot sweat on your body, you start to slow down, legs shaking upon reaching your climax, Hamish too. You take a deep breath and flop in his chest, your forehead on top of his. With your eyes closed, you think to yourself ‘i have never felt more alive than when i’m with him’ whilst Hamish tenderly kisses both your eyelids in pure devotion. You look up to him, forehead still resting on his, and smile. You lean forward and leave a final kiss on his perky lips before climbing off and lying on the bed, wrapping the sheets around your naked body.

The silence in the room is interrupted with the sound of rapid heartbeats and heavy breathing. Hamish turns to face you with his hands stretched out to rub your skin and one arm holding his head up.

“That was...amazing,” he kisses your nose “you’re amazing”

“I love you” you suddenly blurt out, almost as if it felt natural to say. After realising what you said, your eyes widen and cheeks blush immensely...instantly thinking you’d moved too fast

“I...i mean i uh...i” you stutter trying to save yourself, until realising that you can’t save yourself from something like that. ‘Nice one, Y/N’ you curse to yourself

“Hey, it’s okay” Hamish reassures you, his forefinger drawing small circles on your skin as his other hand runs through your hair

“I love you too, Y/N”

Your heart stops beating all of a sudden. Did he just say he loves you? You’ve never heard that before. You’ve never had someone love you - YOU before. In your eyes, you weren’t worthy of love. That you weren’t worthy of...him.

“I love you and i want to spend every night falling asleep by your side and every morning waking up to your face as the first thing i see when i open my eyes. I don’t care about realm rules or anything like that...all i care about is you.” His face is inches away from you at this point.

You’re left speechless at his declaration, but your eyes say everything you can’t say. Tears begin to drop from your eyes as your lips curl into a heartwarming smile. You pull Hamish into your face, kissing him passionately and intensely.

“No one’s ever made me feel the way you make me feel” you hush, your voice wobbly with emotion. “Thank you for being everything i wanted” Hamish grabs your hand in his, bringing your body into his for a warm snuggle. He brings the covers over you both as you nestle your face into the crook of his neck, your cheek flushed against his skin.

“So urm...was it just like how you dreamt?” You mutter curiously

“Yeah it was act...” his smile drops suddenly in confusion “...how did you know i had dreams of you...of this?”

You laugh playfully as you bring your hands to your face, covering your blushing cheeks from the man beside you “i maaayy have caused you to have those dreams...” you trail off, leaving Hamish to figure it out for himself

“You did dream-walking on me!” He gasps, eyes widening in surprise

“Hey!” You shush him with a finger to his lips “i couldn’t let you forget me could i?!”

I don’t know if i’ll write any more smut as it just felt ✨dirty✨ writing this idk, i have much respect to those who are able to write it 😂 let me know what you thought of this!

#hamish duke #the order #randall carpio #the order netflix #hamish duke x reader #jack morton #lilith bathory #the order season 2 #alyssa drake #x reader #the order fanfiction

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sophi-s · 3 years

Text

After three days. Three freaking days.

It is finished.

A kiss to die for

By: sophi-s (me)

Words: 4,531

Franchise: Darksiders video games

Characters: Fallen!Astarte, Abaddon

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence, blood and gore, near death experience, angst, necromancy, I changed the storyline just a tiny bit for the purposes of this, Abaddon gets his ass handed to him by his ex :P.

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Eden. The first gift from the Creator himself to the Humanity. A home for the First Ones. Once, an indescribably beautiful place full of grand trees and fresh, soft grass, flowing with cool, crystal clear waters. Colorful fruits growing in the trees, a delight to eye and tongue. Within, no danger could reach Humanity's ancestors. Truly a paradise the first humans rightfully called it. But now, after a great war that took place here, seemingly not that long ago, the great garden was left scarred and burning. Made into a tomb for those who sought to claim it. Bodies of Nephilim were left to burn and decay, forgotten and abandoned.

However, something has changed. A dark shadow passed over the sacred graveyard, leaving only madness and corruption in its wake. Those who perished picked themselves up from the ground and lashed out at Eden's guardians. Surprised and unable to respond with a coordinated defensive, the Faneguard had to call for retreat after their leader, Malahidael fell to the blades and arrows of the living dead. Amongst the scattered angels was the general of Heaven's Legions. Trying his best to keep his brethren focused and plan a tactical escape.

At least that's what he was trying before. Before he saw the cause of this nightmare. Now, outstretched on the ground in the dust, he forced himself up onto his elbow as he crawled towards his discarded blade, clutching at his chest that felt as though it had been caved in after a charging monstrosity trampled him in full speed.

How could this happen?

Fighting with his chaotic thoughts, he finally got a hold of the hilt but when he turned around, it was already too late. A large paw armed with razor-sharp claws landed on him, pinning him down and successfully immobilizing his lower half. And then his own blue eyes stared up into a pair of white ones, the same eyes that doomed him from the moment he met their gaze for the first time. The eyes that occupied his thoughts when he was awake and his dreams while he slept. Eyes of Astarte.

But what stood above him… this thing, this monster was Astarte no longer. From the waist up, the woman was stunningly beautiful as she always was, with her pale white eyes and long flowing, platinum blonde hair. But her legs have been replaced by a body of a feline beast with wings coated in blackness of corruption, feathers shimmering with red glyphs. A wicked smile was twisting her petal like lips and wherever her clawed paws fell, the dead bodies shivered and rose, called back into the accursed unlife. Utter insanity shone in her eyes.. Keeping his stone façade was no longer possible as inwardly he was falling apart. Astarte. The same Astarte who would kill and die for him, the same who he trusted more than anyone. The same Astarte he dared to love. Her smirk grew wider as she chuckled.

"Who do we have here? The great general of Heaven's Legions Abaddon himself!"

The unfamiliar taunting tone of her voice sent a shiver down his spine, as did the way she bared her teeth in a disturbing grin. Giving the large paw a tug to try and wriggle free, quickly realising it's pointless as the damned thing didn't even budge, Abaddon took a struggling breath, pretty sure his sternum was damaged if not broken.

"Astarte…"

His voice came out as a broken, pleading whisper. He still couldn't… or maybe he didn't want to… cope with what he was seeing clearly like on the palm of his hand. Astarte, his most formidable soldier, the strongest of them all, and the only woman in the Universe he felt something special for… Fallen into the vice-like grip of Lucifer's corrupting influence. Gone was the gentle smile that crawled its way up onto her face whenever she spotted him. Abaddon swallowed thickly when he noticed the spear in her hand poised to strike and carve his broken heart out from his chest. Astarte would never harm him…

"I was wondering when you'd show up."

She scoffed and used her other paw to press his right arm to the ground should he try to take a swipe at her. But they both knew far too well that he couldn't have, even if he wanted to. Astarte leaning over him was still the one his heart yearned for, still beautiful just… in a different, more horrifying way. Through the ringing in his ears after his head cracked against a rock, he could hear someone call out to him but whoever it was, they were successfully pushed back by the horde of undead Nephilim.

"Astarte, don't do it.."

He quietly begged, even though he never begs. Seeing her like this, twisted and bestial, did something to him he couldn't quite comprehend. Touched that part of his soul he didn't even know about. Strangely enough, even in her madness, Astarte must've sensed something in him that gave her a pause as she curiously tilted her head to one side. All the moments, even the shortest ones, he'd spent with Astarte in the past were flashing before his eyes. Every time they had one another's back in battle, every time one saved the other's life, every time they spoke about the things they would never tell anyone else whenever they were alone. And that memorable moment when they stood together, away from the prying eyes that moonlit night. Abaddon was listening to her as she asked him if what she feels is right, if there's any possible way he feels that way as well. He almost laughed at her obliviousness and the fact that his love was there before she even realised her own. Of course.. He took her hands in his and gazed into her eyes, absolutely mesmerized, waiting for permission to finally grant her the proof of his love and devotion, one which she silently gave him with a nod and a smile.

"I would walk through the fire of Nine Hells for you."

He said before leaning down to place a chaste kiss on her lips. A kiss, stolen kiss he was dying to receive. It was very brief but still felt like his first flight over the White City. Liberating, wonderful and equally as intoxicating. Those were the most beautiful memories he'd ever made but now they were like a parasite buried deeply into his brain, one that refused to leave his head, reminding him of better times and cackling maniacally at him as the present was coming undone before his very eyes. He wanted those memories to go. But there was no escape. Neither from them nor from Astarte herself.

"Look at me.."

"I am."

"Please, come to your senses. It's not you.. You need to fight it, I know you have it in you. Don't leave me like this… Don't you remember everything I'd done for you? Everything you'd done for me ?"

For a second, Astarte's grin fell, making place for a thoughtful expression and for this short second Abaddon dared to hope that there's still light in her. That he somehow managed to get to her. But all these hopes were taken away when she shook her head and looked at him… not with anger. It was pity, plain and simple as she spoke in a condescending tone.

"Fool. So loyal and righteous. Look around! The war had ended long ago, yet we remain stranded in this forsaken tomb! We've been abandoned and no one will set us free if we don't do so ourselves! Don't tell me you cannot see it."

He couldn't believe his ears. It wasn't the honorable and just angel he used to know. The Astarte he knew was gone. This was a twisted monster bearing the visage of his dearest, taunting him with her beauty that was always keeping his hand paralyzed whenever he tried to strike her even though his life depended from it.

"I have chosen my path, Abaddon. And you can walk it with me.."

Abaddon eyed her hand warily as she stretched it out to him, offering him help in standing up. He was torn. On the one hand, he so, so wanted to accept and be with Astarte as he used to. No one would take her from him ever again. But taking her hand would also mean slipping into the hateful darkness. Welcoming the sullying blackness inside and succumbing to madness. Straying from the light and forsaking his duty in favor of the same accursed power that destroyed her.

It was a dangerous thing, this love.. Pushing even the most reasonable people to do unthinkable and dangerous things in the name of it. More often than not at costs that rarely make it worth it. Lucifer knew this. And he used it as a weapon against Abaddon by turning Astarte. He knew not what the Dark Prince offered her but it must've been worth losing oneself. Astarte was now Lucifer's servant, not the love of Abaddon's eternal life. He couldn't… he couldn't end up like her. His already bleeding heart screamed out with anguish when he finally gathered himself to speak.. and refused.

"I… can't do this, Astarte. Not even for you…"

"That's a pity…"

Abaddon grunted in pain when the pressure on his wrist increased to the point when he could feel his bones beginning to crack. And then as suddenly as it appeared, the crushing weight was gone, both from his arm and his chest. But he wasn't free. His breath was abruptly cut off when Astarte's slender fingers, which often fiddled with his hair when he had a moment to lie down and rest after a hard day, looking up at her sitting beside his head, before all this, mercilessly curled around his throat and lifted him up to her eye level until his toes could no longer reach the ground. She was strong. Stronger than he remembered. His left hand grasped Astarte's wrist as he tried to struggle free while he raised his sword to attack. But… looking deep into her eyes, at her face, mouth curved in a poisonous sweet smile, the silken skin of her cheeks… His hand trembled. Once again he proved her and himself he doesn't have it in him to do this. Damn it all. This one, seemingly harmless emotion was what ultimately led him to his own doom. If he'd never fallen for Astarte he wouldn't be here, flapping his wings madly in an attempt to wriggle out of her hold. But he couldn't command his heart. It would not listen to him.. Abaddon couldn't simply stop loving Astarte. Her eyebrows furrowed in a gentle frown and he felt the tip of her gilded spear press insistently against his abdomen, right under his ribs. Cold sweat began to bead around his brow. Oh Creator…

"Fret not, love.."

Astarte purred, making him finally stop beating his wings and look her in the eye again only to see an unsettling spark in there. Despite the obvious danger, hearing her call him her "love" in this deceivingly sweet voice still made his racing heart skip a beat.

"It won't be long.. And when you die, you'll be forever at my side. Just as you desired."

As a monster, not unlike her. A living corpse that defiled the natural order by its existence itself. He didn't want to go like this. What an end it is for a general of Heaven? Killed by his own lieutenant and brought back to life as a shambling husk of what he used to be? Preposterous. Cold lump of fear settled into the pit of his stomach. He could only count seconds. One.. two… it didn't even come to three when the blade sunk deeply into his flesh, piercing the armor as though it wasn't even there in the first place and running him through. After all, the spear was created specifically to fight armored opponents… Abaddon wanted to scream out in pain but the wail of agony was cut short by the firm grasp on his throat that stopped the air escaping his lungs. Pain clouded his vision but did not silence his racing thoughts. He was weak. He couldn't strike Astarte down as his enemy, denying her the well deserved rest and falling to her blade like a fool he felt like. He struggled to breathe and keep his eyes opened when he felt Astarte loosen her ironclad grip on his neck and move her hand to his face, oh so gently pulling the strands of his hair, matted with sweat, to the side and behind his ear before placing the same hand on the back of his neck to keep his head still. He gasped for air through his opened mouth as blood was beginning to well up in his throat and dribble down his chin. And then Astarte unexpectedly leaned in and decisively captured his lips with her own, granting him the final kiss for a farewell.

Abaddon's eyes widened in fear and shock but even though the pain of the spear through his side, he found himself going slack in Astarte's arms. His ornate blade clattered to the ground when his fingers unfurled and let it slip out. No strength remained within him to even try and respond to Astarte's lips, even if he wanted to. But what he hoped to be his last comfort turned out to be nothing more than a cruel torment with how cold and meaningless the kiss felt. It was nothing like the one back in the White City. Hollow seconds ticked by. It tasted only of the blood flooding his tongue and the bitter defeat. No love, no passion and no feelings remained in her black heart. Only the empty void and tasteless ashes… Monster. Astarte no longer… She would never hurt him…

Astarte knew him and all of his weak spots all too well. She knew how and where to strike to make it hurt. And this last kiss was only a tool to her. There wasn't any physical pain anymore when she finally pulled away with his blood painting her lips in deep crimson and let his body slip down the spear to collapse onto the shriveled grass. The last thing Abaddon saw before numbing darkness swallowed him was Astarte delightedly licking his scarlet life essence on her mouth and teeth before she hummed contentedly

"Farewell, my love. I'll see you again soon enough…"

She stood close, gazing at the distant stars shimmering in the black sky.

"The night sure is beautiful."

"It is. Even more so with you around."

"Tsk. Sweet-talker…"

In the impenetrable black, Abaddon heard nothing, saw nothing and felt nothing aside from the dull ache within his chest. Betrayal… Every beat of his heart was a torture. He couldn't even tell if it was really beating or not anymore. It bled ceaselessly. Craving for the lost love. Crying out to Astarte as something started to tug at the strings of his very soul. Trying to pull him free from his still body that refused to move no matter how much he wished to stand or at least sit up. Memories were passing all too quickly through his head. Eyes shining with uncertainty, a relieved smile as he staggered upright with a pained grimace that was supposed to be a comforting smile..

" Are you certain everything is alright? For a moment there I was afraid you were gone.."

"Never, my light. I would never leave you."

He wasn't going to the Kingdom of the Dead, he was certain. Astarte would make sure of it.. Curse Lucifer.. curse this wretched feeling still coiled in his chest, like a festering plague. Warriors of Heaven are people of unbreakable steel. Calm and collected beings of logic. But when it comes to honest feelings, there's nothing in between. They either don't care or love to the death. And when they love and it all falls apart, their hearts break like no one else's. No, they don't even break… they shatter to a million pieces like a frozen flower. And even if they are ever put back together, they're never the same. Those scars run too deep to ever disappear. Curse everything… Soft hair he tangled his fingers in, a heartbeat right beside his… warm presence next to him and a misleadingly delicate cheek pressed to the skin on top of his chest..

"What happens now then?"

"Doesn't matter. As long as we stay together."

"We will, Abaddon…"

He tasted the copper tinge of blood again as Astarte's voice echoed in his head when she swore to him. When he believed her..

I P R O M I S E .

Those two words… They meant a world to him. Even after he saw what Astarte had become… Abaddon desperately clung to those words like a drowning man holds onto the final breath until the very last second. And that was his downfall. She promised me…

The last memory of Astarte before all this chaos wormed its way into his mind. A less pleasant one. He could see there was something wrong with her back then. This was the first time they had a true falling out. Well.. can this really be called a falling out if it was just him being yelled at? Astarte was changed already. Something happened to her after the Nephilim slaughter. Something he had foolishly overlooked. Maybe he was just too preoccupied with his own grief? Blood tumbled down from her wound, painting both her and his armor in vibrant red from where a crude spear met her body…

It didn't take long for the last of the Nephilim to fall when this happened. She held onto life tightly as he led her deeper into the garden where healers would take care of her. Abaddon waited outside the tent, pacing back and forth until Azrael, who'd been tending to Astarte himself, walked out. A slender hand fell onto his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks and making him look at his old friend bearing a sullen expression. He'd never been so terrified in his life like in this short moment when he waited for Azrael to inevitably tell him that it was too late to help her but he merely asked Abaddon to come with him inside. Somehow, it was even worse. He saw her sitting on the edge of a cot, face pale, lips pressed into a thin line, staring at nothing. Eyes of other angels were on the three of them as the two archangels walked in. It was a relief to see her alive but there was no doubt that something was wrong. The patches of fresh crimson staining her trousers on her inner thighs only confirmed his suspicions. And Azrael didn't keep him waiting for an explanation.

"She was with child.."

The news hit him like a slug to the face. With a sack of bricks no less. Astarte, his beloved, bearing his blood in her womb. By all means he should feel ecstatic. He should rejoice. But this one word, this tiny word filled him with absolute dread. Was.

"The blade went deep.. There was nothing I could do. I'm sorry."

Who knows how long he stood there like a wooden stake? There was nothing I could do. Azrael was inarguably the best healer in the White City. He knew what he was saying. And yet… Abaddon found it difficult to believe his words. A child. His child. Died before they even had a chance to live.. It hurt more than any wound he'd ever received. When he finally could move, he approached Astarte and sat beside her, reaching for her hand to give her something to hold on to. But her violent reaction caught him off guard. She jerked away, her words dripped like acid.

"It's your fault. Get away from me!"

"Astarte, listen.."

"No! It never should've happened! Why would you do this to me?!"

This was the first time she called him per "you" in the presence of other angels. He knew not what she was truly going through but if his own sorrow was any indication, it must've been a nightmare. They'd lost something they didn't even know they had and it felt like the end of the world they'd built together. In a way, it was... Abaddon tried reaching out again but Astarte batted his hand away and leaped up to her feet despite the pain.

"Don't touch me! Do not speak to me, get off!"

"Astarte!"

He managed to call out before she stormed out of the tent, wrapping her wings around herself as a barrier that could protect her from the world around. Were it not for a firm grip on his arm, he would've gone after her. It was Nathaniel who stopped him. Abaddon looked at his friend, the right side of his face wrapped up in bandages just like his side he was keeping his hand over.

"It's not going to help. Let her go for now."

It's been a long time since he felt this lonely. He left the tent without another word, ignoring whatever it was Azrael was saying, and walked away from the camp like a wandering spectre who lost its way to the Well. And when he was far enough, he found himself collapsing on the ground, angrily hitting it with his fist as though it was the culprit here. They died without so much of a name.. Abaddon knew that what Astarte said wasn't true. He had no idea, it can't have been his fault… and yet this thought kept bothering him.

I should've protected you better. I have failed you.. both of you…

It took a couple of shaky breaths to collect his thoughts. Unable to do anything else, he pulled himself to his knees, clasped his hands together and started to whisper a prayer, seeking compassion in the Creator and his silent presence.

Astarte was already slipping after that and the prolonged stay in Eden only made it worse. She became distant and irritable, constantly itching for a fight, be it with words or blades. He thought she needed time to grieve. But this was something else. Something more sinister. Perhaps if he noticed it earlier.. done something… If only…

The odd tugging suddenly ceased and moments later a wave of comforting warmth washed all over him, gathering in his side where he was impaled. Deep within his chest, he felt his heart quiver, desperately fighting to keep beating. At first he thought he was merely waiting for Astarte to pull him back into the land of the living as a detestable abomination but no.. He yet lived. His thoughts were abruptly dispersed when he heard voices, very familiar and concerned voices, break through, the buzzing in his head.

"Did that do it?"

"Is he even alive ?"

"Hard to tell. It doesn't look good.."

"No, it doesn't.. Do you think we got to him on time?"

"I do not know. I'm not even sure if- Wait, I think he moved."

Abaddon indeed stirred, prying his eyes open with no small effort, immediately regretting his choice after a far too bright light intruded underneath his eyelids, and descending into a fit of uncontrollable coughs, spitting out all the blood that remained within as soon as he took a deeper breath. Pain. Horrible, excruciating pain filled his chest. He had been right. His sternum was definitely broken.

Damn all of it. Damn Lucifer, damn the Nephilim and damn the blasted air that hurt his lungs with every breath. Mist eventually fell from his sights, revealing to him familiar, tired faces of angelic soldiers leaning over him with distressed looks. His men. The Faneguard. They survived. Some of them at least… Malahidael wasn't so lucky.. One of them, Fariel if his memory doesn't deceive him, was holding up Abaddon's hand in his, and held between his curled fingers, Abaddon noticed an emptied crystal, a used up healing shard glimmering in the sunlight as the energy that was channelled into his body began to close the torn blood vessels.

"Lord Abaddon. Can you hear me?"

Gasping for another bit of air, horribly weakened but still very much alive and likely to stay that way, Abaddon gurgled out a disturbing sound that was supposed to be a miserable chuckle. In honesty, it sounded more like a dying demon than a laugh.. It only served to agitate them even further until he breathed out with relief and nodded as no coherent word could form in his mouth. What happened to Astarte when he was on death's door, he could only guess. But one thing he was sure of. She was still out there. Raving mad and dangerous to all who step into Eden. The law was clear. Astarte had fallen into darkness, defiled the dead and raised her weapon against her brethren. This was not an easy decision but after what he'd seen and lived through, Abaddon was certain now. He tried to bring her back, save her from the hate that grew within her like a malicious weed. But she was clearly too far gone. He couldn't help her.. Too late. As always, he was too late. Whether Abaddon likes it or not, Astarte needs to die. There was nothing more he could do for her. But he won't be the one to play the executioner and the hand of justice. He knew he couldn't. He'd failed twice already.. It will be done, just… not now.

Perhaps another time… They were safe for now. And he needed to think… Abaddon lifted his free hand to his mouth. It was still there, this horrid sensation.. and he knew it won't go away for a long, long time. Resting his head against the ground, he exhaled heavily as blessed unconsciousness started to take a hold on him once more. He needed to rest. They all did…

Even as he was falling into the dark again, he could still feel Astarte's venomous kiss upon his lips. Burning like fire and sinking cruel claws into his chest. Would he ever forgive her for tearing his heart apart? Probably. It wasn't her fault after all. It can't be, can it? Would he ever forget, though? Unlikely.. Abaddon couldn't help but wonder… if it was all his fault? He couldn't command his feelings and order them to leave him. But still, he felt guilty. Not even for Astarte's fall anymore but for ever letting this infatuation control him. That's where this love had gotten him so far. It left him weak and vulnerable. It was beautiful while it lasted but now? Only suffering remained.

No wonder Heaven has such a disdain for love. It causes naught but misery and ruin. A dire thought invaded his hazy mind. It matters not what Astarte had done. He still loved her. Soon, she will be put to rest. And him? Well.. Every, even the greatest warrior has to fall in battle. Eventually… And when that day comes, he will be ready to embrace his end. When that day comes.. they will meet again. Maybe... But until then… His heart hastened even still as he took another breath and silently told himself…

…Never again…

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It.. it was supposed to be short? I did say short fic, didn't I? Uhh.. Whoops 😓

Also, Gimp 2 has nearly succeed in driving me nuts. In Poland we say "stand on eyelashes and clap one's ears" when something is nigh impossible. Yeah. That was that.

Btw, I take back everything I said about Abaddon's shoulder pads , they're mf'ing gorgeous 👌

#darksiders #darksiders fan fiction #darksiders genesis #my fic #darksiders astarte #astarte #darksiders abaddon #abaddon #here I go writing about that arsehole again XD #idk #I can't tag properly :P #my art #fan art #darksiders art #also .I.. Gimp #it's so hard to do decent stuff #it's not even that good :/

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dilfbane · 3 years

Text

Koschei - Dhawan!Master x Reader - Part I

Summary: On the streets of London, you find a notebook. And you see the Master, there in the darkness. He teaches you how to be God. Doctor Who x Death Note crossover.

Pairing: Dhawan!Master x Reader, minor/implied Dhawan!Master x Thirteen

Warnings: Death and descriptions of death, darker tone, and liberal reinvention of some of the main mechanics of how Time Lords and Death Notes work.

Word Count: 1.4k

Prologue

A/N: Wanted to get the first chapter out today since yesterday’s prologue was super short, and also didn’t have much to do with Death Note. This chapter will serve as set up for the whole premise/jumping off point for this story, and I will be posting the second part later this week, where we’ll finally get to see the Master and the Death Note in action! Hope that you all enjoy.

Part I - Midnight

You were almost twenty-one years old, the very first time that you saw him. It’s always better to start at the beginning, he’d told you, once - So, when you think your life over, and the lives of the ones who have died, you do your best to go back to that sweltering night with the Doctor, all of those long years ago, when you were only a child, and Kira only a ghost. You were twenty years old, threaded over with Cyberman nightmares and faded Silurian scars, your mind full to bursting with visions of Davros and creatures you could not remember, and the Doctor had worn a man’s face and tuxedo, black pockets lined with red velvet; sharp eyebrows, and, somehow, a much sharper tongue.

You had never known him to be scared, before, but that night - hot with threat, and with foreboding - he had been, and as you had wound your way through grimy nightclub back alleys, he had cursed under his breath.

“Don’t touch anything,” He had told you, in that way that he did; the one that reminded you what, exactly, he was, and how human you’d seemed to him. You’d followed him silently, knowing not how to argue, or what he was funning away from, and the world had seemed to exist behind you - some alternate plain of muddled dimension to which you’d no longer belonged, hurtling towards its doom. You had heard a drum beating, then, loud in the night air, and frantic, matching the thrum of your pulse.

“It’s my last chance,” The Doctor had said, collapsing onto his knees in a labyrinth of busted cartons and dirty brickwork. “Rassilon,” He’d said, “I’ve failed you.”

You hadn’t known what he’d meant when he’d said it, but the lights from seedy massage parlors had spilled out of open windows, yellow and filthy on him, and you had seen he was crying, suit pants smudging with dirt.

“Go back to the TARDIS,” He’d told you, “Now,” He had said, “That’s an order,” When you’d opened your mouth to protest. The tears had gleamed on his cheeeks, and your bones had ached in raw terror, but he had been the Doctor, yet, and eep in your heart, you had known.

The way back, it had been harder. You hadn’t remembered where the Doctor had parked, and the night’s shadows had lengthened, reaching out for you with sharp and steely fingernails, tearing at your calm like thorns. There was a time when such things would not have frightened you, but it had been long past by then - You had known the Doctor too long, and too well, to ever truly feel safe. Sometimes, when you’d closed your eyes, the intricate lines of the Pandorica’s coding would flash, neon, onto the screens of your eyelids, and the piercing pain of the handcuffs punched new marks into your wrists; for a moment, it was easy to see the universe, and when you had, it was on fire, the sound of harsh laughter afore you, the Doctor nowhere in sight.

That night, caught in the web of your fear for yourself and your worry for him, the only thing that you’d really seen had been the notebook, black leather corners poking into the caustic flourescence of spill-over lights, sinister letters cutting into your mind as it had beckoned to you. You had stared at it for a moment, feeling some dark, foreign emotion suffuse you, and despite feeling eyes on your back, you had found, when you turned to look, that you’d been completely alone. Your feet, your gaze, had gone frozen.

What would the Doctor do?, You had asked yourself, in that instant of nerved time, suspended, as if you could ever have known. You’d taken one step forwards, then another, and the front of the notebook had swung into bright and clear focus, written in a lattice-work of circular motions that you had been unable to decipher. A new fear’d come over you, then, as your traitorous hand had reached out for it against your will, and a voice in your head that shifted and changed had said, frowning, This isn’t right. You’d seen one last glimpse of the Doctor as you’d first known him, when you were stupid, and young - Spiky hair untameable, coat tails flapping as he ran; a man who sat in front of monitors all night long, never needing to sleep, and took thirteen sugars in his tea - before your fingers brushed the skin of the notebook, feeling the slick, supple leather. The world had unfolded around you, and the dead things had metastized into unloved, solid forms. Somewhere to your left, through the din of a million people squandering their fragile, soon-ending lives, you’d heard a stone angel weeping, pouring its vitriol into the churned, bloodied earth.

You’d felt him, before you’d seen him, a shape in the darkness too near you. All of your bad dreams, and every pani; each jump at an unexplained noise, and you had imagined what he must look like - yellowed and crumbling bones, black eyes and long, tattered robes, ripped full of holes by the pleading, scythe a devastating harbinger fashioned from polished and rippling metal. You’d imagined how his voice would sound, and wondered, Why me, Doctor? Why now?

“Oh,” Said the Time Lord whom you would know as the Master, “This is going to be fun.”

The being whose name is written in this notebook shall die.

If cause of death is specified within six minutes and forty seconds, such a death will occur. If time of death is unspecified, the chosen being will die of a heart attack, or nearest equivalent, after forty seconds have passed in the current causal nexus.

A being who uses the Death Note can go neither to Gallifrey, nor to Skaro, upon the moment of their death.

He’d told you that it was a Death Note, and you had not looked at him.

“You can’t go back to the TARDIS now, love,” He had told you, with that too-human,m too-cold, too-amused tone in his voice. “If you want to see the Doctor again, I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me.”

“Who - who are you?” You’d asked, hand still clutched in a vice around the notebook, its front cover soft and warm. His cruel smirk and glinting gaze had been audible in the silence; you had not turned around.

“If you must know,” He’d said, “I’m a Time Lord. You may call me the Master.”

A wave of revulsion and shock had torn through you, and in it, you’d told him, “You can’t be,” From somewhere far outside your body. “You can’t be a Time Lord, the Doctor said they were all gone.”

“You’d heard, and felt, his malicious grin widen, your ears picking up on the sound of the night breeze rustling fabric.

“Rule number one,” The Master had told you, “The Doctor lies.”

“No,” You had said, “Not to me.”

“Mm,” He had told you, dripping with anger and spite, “Is that what you think about him? Do you think that he cares about you? The Doctor has lived for a very long time, love. He knows better than to care. Still, I have to applaud him for getting his hooks into you. It really is an impressive feat, considering you’ve found my Death Note.”

“Who are you?” You’d asked him, voice cracking, limbs shaking, night cold. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Me?” The Madter had asked, with a twinge of steely amusement, “Consider me to be… a friend. That’s not the right question, you know.”

“Sorry?”

“Who I am. That’s not the right question. You should be asking who you’ll be.”

“Who will I be, then?” You’d asked him, and his voice had gone low and deceptive, silky as a stranger’s touch.

“Look at me, love,” He had told you. “Look at me, and I’ll tell you.”

You still remember how he had looked, when you think back on it all now. How he had been beautiful, all dark eyes and purple jacket, lapels embroidered with gold. All rough sideburns and inky, mussed hair, every joint and muscle deadly, elegantly poised.

“Y/N,” He’d said, and nothing had been in his eyes but the sight of a planet aflame, a symphony of drums beating and shattering glass, “With my help, you’ll be a God.”

#dhawan!master x reader #death note #dhawan!master #the doctor #au where some time lords are shinigami #i don't know why either but screw it #we die like men

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imagine-loki · 4 years

Text

Pride and Prejudice

TITLE: Pride and Prejudice CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 57 AUTHOR: wolfpawn

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki was raised on Jotunheim as Laufey’s son after the war, but an agreement was then made that he would wed Odin’s daughter so Odin could secure the alliance of Jotunheim through the marriage. Loki, in turn, was raised to be king of Jotunheim, but how he views Asgard is far different from how Odin’s daughter is raised leading to a clash of cultures as well as uncertainty between the pair of betrothed youths. RATING: Mature NOTES/WARNINGS: Forced Marriage, not all fun and games. My first real step back into the Loki scene in over a year.

Tags - @skulliebythesea @asimovethroughthisworld @blackcherry26-blog @we-shadowhunter2901

“My King.” Loki forced himself out of his thoughts and looked around at his mate. Seeing the polite and kind smile on her features, he smiled back slightly. “What is worrying you?”

Loki sighed. “It is all under my watch now. Anything that happens, I must oversee it, work those it affects through it.”

“You do not have to do it alone, you have your brothers by your side, Arden, your father, and if all else fails, you perhaps can resort to talking to me.”

Loki could not prevent the little huff at her comment. “You know you are at the top of any list of those I would rely on.” He looked over at her again. “Though I don’t think I will have to look far, will I?”

“I will be where you need me to be.” She placed her hand on his arm reassuringly. “It is my duty to assist you as much as I can.”

Loki’s brow knotted slightly at that statement. He wondered if she only wished to help him because of a sense of duty to the fact he was her mate. “Which duty is that?”

“The one where I do not want to be the one they all point the finger at when you turn into some power-hungry brute who thinks he can take on a Bigelsnipe barehanded and win before being gored to death.”

Loki’s face turned to one of horror at such a thought, he stared at Ella whose face was one of poised calm for all of a moment before she laughed. “I am jesting.”

“You are the picture of royalty the majority of the time, then you do that,” Loki growled.

“I like to keep things interesting,” Ella commented playfully. “I finally got to speak with my mother again.”

“I thought you said you were conversing with her through everything?”

“I was, but face to face is far nicer. She finds the difference in customs so difficult to grasp sometimes.”

Loki noted the change in Ella’s tone even before she did. “What concerns does she have?” In truth, Loki wanted to say something far more clipped about the Vanir born Aesir monarch but he remained neutral, knowing that by the manner in which Ella was speaking, she accepted the differences and arguing them on behalf of Jotunheim.

“About childrearing and childbirth mostly. In Asgard, the father being present is not the norm, you see.”

Loki knew that and found such a thought repulsive. Not assisting your significant other through such an even was too foreign for him to comprehend. “It is overseen by a Healer, like that one that came to attend to you when you were ill?”

“Correct, yes. To ensure both mother and child have immediate medical attention should they require it,” Ella explained.

Loki noted the apprehension in her features. “You wish for such?”

“No, I do not require such, I have learnt every spell I could to safely assist our child from me if things were to take a sudden turn for the worse.”

Loki shuddered at such a thought. It had, of course, occurred in the past that some dams died in childbirth but the size of Jotnar females to the size of infant’s birthed made it something of a rarity. Going by Ella’s comments and indeed the size of her growing stomach, it was clear that the child she bore was of considerable size and she was indeed lithe in comparison. “You fear something happening to you?”

“I just consider everything so that I am prepared for anything.”

“Your preparations for the more negative side of things always unsettle me.”

“Then my request for you to have a measure in place as a last resort in case all else fails is not going to go down well either,” Ella looked at Loki’s eyes to show her seriousness.

For a moment, Loki could not think of what she could see as a last resort, but then her eyes flickered to his wrist for a moment and horrified realisation came to him. His head shook side to side before he could even find his voice. “No.”

“Yes. if it’s me or him, choose him, please.” Ella’s voice, though small was filled with certainty. “Cut him out if you have to.”

“But you…?”

“I am talking the worst-case scenario, if I have something prepared for that, then I feel I can concentrate on more likely and important matters,” Ella explained. “I have no plans to die any time soon, especially when I have a son to raise.”

Loki studied her features. “You wish to raise him? I thought that on Asgard…?”

“Do you know what made me actually look forward to starting a new life here, away from everything that ever made sense to me?” Loki shook his head slightly, he had never figured out why she had been so willing to come to Jotunheim. “I was reading about how family units are here. I was startled by the multiple mates part at first, obviously, but then I read something that caught my attention and made me look forward to the life I was to lead. I read that the moment a child is born, it is held by its father who cuts the cord and holds it to his chest so it can learn his scent before being brought to its mother and is not taken from her. The only time they are parted is so the father can tend to it and give her some rest, but all three remain together for a time until the other mates are introduced and assist also, but she remains the primary caregiver.”

Loki did not say anything, this was by no means news to him, he knew full well what she was saying was entirely true of the ways of the realm.

“The thought of such, it sounded idyllic. Too good to be true. Even at the beginning, when you loathed me, when we only did what was required to create a child because it was demanded, the one thing that gave me comfort was that I would be the caregiver for the child that would come to be. That I would have them if I had nothing else.”

Loki felt his throat tighten at that confession. He never thought she would think in such a manner. He also recalled his thoughts at the beginning, when he forced himself to couple with her, how any child that came from such a union was to be removed immediately from her presence because of some preconceived notion in his mind that she could not possibly care for a child. Now, he realised that if that had occurred, it would truly have been a fate worse than death for her. “I thought initially that you would not be interested in such a role as a dam.” He felt it right to confess such, even if it led to something uncomfortable.

“Initially, we both thought a lot of things that were entirely wrong, didn’t we? Thankfully, with time and effort to look past such, we learnt that we were both wrong and we are all the better for it now. Or I think at least.”

“Are you admitting that you have been wrong in the past?” Not wanting to focus on the negatives of the past, Loki tried to lighten the mood once more.

“I am rarely wrong but I can be and more importantly, I can admit to such.” She smirked.

“I can admit to my wrongs,” Loki argued.

“Under pain of losing your position of heir to the throne and when you put another on their deathbed, perhaps. Try not to make them the only times you such. A good king admits his faults...in private only for the most part, of course.” She winked as she stated the last part.

“And only then to his closest confidantes, of course.” He smirked.

“But of course.” Ella smiled in return. Seeing the stress in his features fall slightly, she walked behind him, causing Loki to look at her curiously before she put her hands on his shoulders and dug her fingers into the muscles there.

At first, Loki found her actions hurt but when she continued, he realised that she was alleviating the tension in them, the tension that had been building for longer than he wished to admit to. His moan at her actions was somewhat guttural.

“Better?”

“Incredible,” Loki did not even attempt to say anything but the truth.

“You are not required for anything for a time. Lie on the bed and I will see what I can do to help with that.”

Though his shoulders were tender from her actions, Loki could not decline such an offer. He did as instructed and went to the bed where Ella instructed him to lie on his front before she got onto the bed behind him. Loki looked around worriedly but his worry was quickly removed when she placed her hands on his back and began to rub into the muscles there, her hands magically becoming lubricated with some sweet-smelling and soothing liquid while she did so. Loki wondered where Ella had learned such witchcraft. Her hands were soft and relaxing as they pushed into his aching muscles. He loved every moment of it as she focused on each area, the feelings of tension dissipating as she did so.

When Ella finished, she proudly looked at her mate resting comfortably and contently on the bed. “Better?”

“Much better.”

Ella laughd at Loki’s muffled voice as a result of his face being into the pillow. “Good, you are not needed anywhere so just relax.”

“If I am, send one of your doppelganger things.”

“Naughty, that is not how you should be thinking,” she admonished. “You are king now.”

“All I wish to think about right now is to rest with my mate by my side for a time.” He reached around until he felt her hand before urging her gently to lay onto the bed beside him. “That is even better.”

“Get some rest.” Ella urged. After a few moments, when Loki’s breathing was steady and it seemed like he was asleep, Ella studied his features carefully. Partly because she was studying them as she did their child’s to see what one’s he would inherit from his father, the other part because she simply liked acknowledging her mate was indeed quite handsome, if not slightly peculiar in relation to what she was used to from growing up. But in thinking that, she also knew part of his appeal was in his personality. Behind the austere man she met the day she was brought to Jotunheim, a caring and selfless creature resided, one who put his realm before himself. Smiling, she toyed with his hair for a moment before leaning over and pressing her lips gently to his temple. She was unsure why she did it. When she pulled back, she was startled to see Loki studying her face curiously, his eyes confused having been woken from his slumber by her.

She was about to apologise when he pulled her close to him, pressing their foreheads and noses together and sighing contently.

#loki #others #submission #Submitted fic #chapter 57 #wolfpawn #Pride and Prejudice

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wolfpawn · 4 years

Text

Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 57

Story Summary - Based on an idea I had that I submitted to Imagine Loki. Imagine Loki was raised on Jotunheim as Laufey’s son after the war, but an agreement was then made that he would wed Odin’s daughter so Odin could secure the alliance of Jotunheim through the marriage. Loki, in turn, was raised to be king of Jotunheim, but how he views Asgard is far different from how Odin’s daughter is raised leading to a clash of cultures as well as uncertainty between the pair of betrothed youths.

Chapter Summary - Loki and Ella speak in private about some matters and Ella alleviates some of her mate's tension.

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Tags - @peppermint-j @damalseer @perpetual-fangirl @tinchentitri @inspired-snowflace @raphaelaisabella @alexakeyloveloki @caffiend-queen @devilbat @nonsensicalobsessions @skulliebythesea @majoringinlife @salempoe @lotus-eyedindiangoddess @rookienumber98 @ivytoh @agarwaeneth @rosierossette @arch-venus25 @nessamaurice @winterisakiller @black-ninja-blade

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