Did I make a side-blog for the express purpose of sharing and praising fanfiction? You bet your ass I did. Master list pinned - fair warning, I am not hesitant about posting smut, so for those underage or just plain not interested, DNI! Fics come from my reblogs here (so no unnecessary scrolling) and my AO3 bookmarks. AUTHORS: For fics that haven't been pre-assigned titles, I have taken the liberty of assigning one, just for easier recognition on my lists. If you dislike this, PLEASE TELL ME, I will remove the added title IMMEDIATELY
summary- after years of war and a secret relationship with obi-wan, you discover you are pregnant. you decide to be optimistic, rumours say the clone wars are about to end.
but sometimes, love can't fix everything.
tags & warnings- graphic violence, major canonical character dead (not obi wan or reader), unplanned pregnancy, angst, smut (+18 mdni), order 66, death and blood, canon compliant, battle scenes, anxiety. (more to be added).
summary: A bit of an insight on things from Master Kenobi and another mission.
warnings/tags: Obi-Wan's POV, tension, angst, canon violence, war dynamic, terrorist violence, mentions of injury, death, soulmate dynamics, spelling mistakes?
word count: 6.7k
pairing: obi-wan kenobi x f!reader
author's note: back after a loong break from this one... taglist is still open! (i think i tagged all of you, if i forgot about someone i am terribly sorry)
masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter
The Force had been restless lately.
Obi-Wan Kenobi noticed it in the quiet moments most—those rare pauses between briefings, strategy sessions, and the endless cadence of war. It lingered in the hum of the Negotiator’s engines, in the soft murmur of the Temple corridors, in the way his thoughts refused to settle into their usual, disciplined order.
And, troublingly, it lingered in you.
He told himself it was nothing. A coincidence. A medic doing her duty with an intensity that bordered on insubordination—an intensity he should have reprimanded long ago. He had faced far stranger distractions during the war and mastered them all. This should have been no different.
And yet.
In the days following Coruscant, he found his attention drifting at the most inopportune times. During meditation, his focus slipped—not shattered, but softened, bending toward the memory of antiseptic and latex, of steady hands and a sharp tongue that refused to bow simply because he wore the rank of General.
You had knelt before him with a calm authority that unsettled him more than blaster fire ever could.
Most people, when faced with him outside the battlefield, became careful. Measured. Reverent in a way that created distance. You had done none of that. You had scolded him. Teased him. Taken his pain seriously without treating him as fragile.
Worse still—you had seen him.
Not the symbol. Not the Jedi General. But the man bleeding through his trousers in an alley, stubborn and tired and too accustomed to pretending wounds were trivial.
I don't like to see you hurt.
The words had been simple. Unadorned. Honest.
They had struck far deeper than they had any right to.
Obi-Wan exhaled slowly, opening his eyes as the meditation chamber resolved around him. The Force responded at once, steadying—but not erasing—the faint warmth that curled in his chest whenever he thought of you. It was not passion. Not desire, he told himself firmly.
It was… curiosity.
Concern.
Respect.
Still, he was not blind. He had noticed the way you avoided his gaze afterward, the subtle tightening of your posture whenever he entered a room. He had felt something flicker in the Force when you were near—something quiet, contained, like a held breath.
You were careful now. Guarded.
And that troubled him more than your defiance ever had.
He found himself asking Cody questions he pretended were casual. How were the medics faring? Was the rotation schedule sustainable? Were you resting?
Cody, irritatingly perceptive as always, answered honestly—but watched him with a knowing glint Obi-Wan chose to ignore.
There was something about you that did not fit neatly into his understanding of the world. You were disciplined but not rigid. Compassionate without softness. Emotionally intelligent in a way that Jedi training often discouraged rather than nurtured.
You reminded him—uncomfortably—of a life he had once imagined for himself and long since buried beneath duty.
That, he decided, was the true danger.
Not attachment. Not impropriety.
But the possibility that, in another life, under different circumstances, he might have allowed himself to wonder.
Obi-Wan Kenobi did not indulge in what-ifs. The galaxy had no patience for them.
The Council chamber shimmered into view, blue figures resolving one by one around the familiar circular dais. Obi-Wan straightened instinctively, spine aligning with years of habit, years of reverence. The faint echo of the Temple’s hum settled his thoughts—mostly.
“General Kenobi,” Master Windu said evenly. “We have received new intelligence from the Mid Rim.”
Obi-Wan inclined his head. “I’m listening.”
“A terrorist attack occurred on Gavos Minor,” Master Ki-Adi-Mundi continued. “Civilian casualties. Infrastructure damage. The attackers were not Separatists.”
That gave him pause.
“Not Separatists?” Obi-Wan repeated. “Then who?”
“The perpetrators remain unidentified,” Master Mundi said, ears drooping slightly. “But the Force around the event is… disturbed. Chaotic.”
Political. Unstable. The worst kind of mission.
“We believe the situation requires Jedi intervention,” Windu said. “Discretion is paramount. The Senate is already… uneasy.”
Obi-Wan folded his hands into his sleeves, considering. “Understood. When do you want me to depart?”
“Before the next rotation if possible,” Windu replied.
A beat passed. Then Obi-Wan spoke again, carefully.
“If I may... I'd like to request permission to select an additional individual to accompany me.”
The Council exchanged glances.
“Skywalker?” Ki-Adi-Mundi asked. “His presence could be useful should the situation escalate.”
Obi-Wan hesitated—just long enough for something to flicker in the Force.
“Respectfully,” he said calmly. “I had someone else in mind.”
That earned him their full attention.
“Proceed,” Windu said.
“The attack appears non-Separatist,” Obi-Wan continued evenly. “Which suggests internal unrest, possibly medical or humanitarian manipulation. Whoever orchestrated this wanted fear, not territory. I believe it would be… prudent to bring someone with specialized experience outside combat.”
Silence.
“A healer?” Plo Koon asked thoughtfully.
“A medic,” Obi-Wan corrected, and felt the Force stir faintly at the word. “One accustomed to battlefield triage, civilian crises, and… emotional intelligence.”
Yoda’s eyes narrowed, ancient and knowing. “Hmm. Unusual, this request is.”
“Effective,” Obi-Wan replied. “The situation calls for trust-building as much as lightsabers.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
At last, Windu nodded once. “Very well. You have permission to choose your companion. Ensure they are briefed and prepared. This mission may turn volatile.”
“Understood,” Obi-Wan said, bowing his head. “Thank you, Masters.”
The transmission faded, leaving the chamber empty and quiet.
Obi-Wan remained still for a moment longer than necessary.
He told himself this was strategy. Logistics. Pragmatism.
But the truth—quiet and insistent—was that when he imagined stepping into uncertainty, into fear and chaos that was not born of war, there was only one presence he trusted to steady the ground.
One voice he could already hear, sharp and unyielding.
One pair of hands he knew would not hesitate.
********
“General,” Cody said carefully, eyes following your movements through the transparisteel window of the Med Bay. You were mid-shift, sleeves rolled, posture intent and focused as you spoke quietly to one of the troopers. “You are aware that she might… not agree with you on this.”
Obi-Wan did not look away.
“Absolutely,” he replied evenly. “She is not, however, in a position to refuse when the orders come directly from a General.”
Cody hummed, unconvinced. “I don’t believe titles carry much weight with her.”
A pause.
Obi-Wan’s mouth curved, just barely — not quite a smile, but something warmer, more private.
“Yes,” he said softly. “So I’ve noticed.”
“You want me to tell her?” Cody asked, already halfway into duty mode.
“No,” Obi-Wan said without hesitation. “I’ll do it myself. In the meantime, ensure the ship and the necessary resources are prepared for departure.”
Cody inclined his head. “Yes, sir.”
As the doors slid shut behind him, Obi-Wan allowed himself a quiet breath. He had commanded armies, negotiated ceasefires, and stood before the Council without faltering — yet he was deeply, sincerely grateful for Cody’s presence. The commander was efficient where Obi-Wan was abstract, grounded where he was philosophical. A steady hand on the details, on the practicalities of war.
It made all the difference.
His attention returned to the Med Bay.
The doors parted with a soft hiss, and the familiar wash of antiseptic air greeted him. The room was alive with controlled urgency — monitors chiming, medics moving with purpose, the low murmur of voices stitched together by discipline and care.
And then he saw you.
You stood near one of the central beds, datapad tucked under your arm, sleeves rolled just enough to bare your forearms as you spoke to a clone seated on the cot. There was an ease to your posture that caught his eye — not relaxed, precisely, but confident. Present. As though you belonged to the chaos rather than endured it.
The Force shifted subtly around you.
Obi-Wan found himself slowing his steps without meaning to.
You looked… tired. Anyone with eyes could see that. There were faint shadows beneath them, a tightness around your mouth that spoke of long hours and short rest. And yet — there was something else, too. A quiet brightness, understated and unadorned. Not the polished beauty of holos or ceremony, but something real. Earned.
Somewhat pretty, he thought — and immediately corrected himself.
Entirely inappropriate.
Still, the thought lingered.
You finished bandaging the trooper, murmured a few final instructions, and turned — catching sight of him. For a fraction of a second, something flickered across your expression: surprise, perhaps, or wariness. Then it was gone, smoothed into professionalism.
“General,” you said, offering a small smile. It was restrained, polite — but not cold. “Can I help you with something?”
The words were ordinary.
The way they landed was not.
“Yes,” he said gently. “If you have a moment.”
He met your gaze then — really met it — and felt that same quiet pull he had been pretending not to notice tighten ever so slightly.
You fell into step beside him as he led you out of the Med Bay, the doors sealing softly behind you. The corridor was quieter here, the hum of the ship steady and familiar. You noticed, distantly, that your shoulders were not drawn as tight as they had been days ago. You were still wary — still careful — but not braced for impact.
Obi-Wan noticed too.
It was in the way you walked now, less rigid, more fluid. In the way your hands rested at your sides instead of clenched behind your back. A subtle easing, as though proximity no longer unsettled you quite as much as it once had.
He began without preamble.
“The Council has assigned me a mission in the Mid Rim,” he said evenly. “A planet called Gavos Minor. It recently suffered a series of coordinated terrorist attacks.”
You listened intently, eyes forward, mind already working through implications.
“But,” he continued, “the intelligence suggests the perpetrators are not Separatists.”
That made you slow half a step.
You absorbed the information in silence, then narrowed your eyes slightly — a gesture Obi-Wan had already come to recognize as dangerous, in the best possible way.
“There’s something else,” you said quietly. “Isn’t there?”
He glanced at you, just briefly.
“Yes.”
“I’d like you to accompany me on this mission.”
You stopped walking. He did too.
The words landed softly — but the reaction they triggered was anything but.
He felt it immediately. The Force stirred, emotions rising and colliding inside you: surprise, resistance, anxiety, a flicker of something warmer he did not name. It rolled through you like weather, sharp and restless.
You turned to face him fully now, jaw set.
“General,” you said, carefully measured, “don't get me wrong, I am grateful for this opportunity, but this is above my duties as Chief Medic. I’m supposed to stay aboard the Negotiator. I’ll be more useful here."
You spoke with conviction. With reason. With that stubborn sense of responsibility he had come to respect perhaps more than was wise.
“Useful,” he repeated softly. “Yes. You are extraordinarily useful here.”
You stiffened slightly, as if expecting dismissal.
“But usefulness,” he continued, “is not the same as necessity.”
You frowned.
“On Gavos Minor,” he said, “fear is the weapon. Not armies. Not droids. Fear works by isolating people — convincing them they are unseen, unheard, beyond help.”
He folded his hands into his sleeves.
“A lightsaber cannot mend that. Nor can strategy alone. What is needed there is presence. Someone who can walk into chaos and bring order without force. Someone who listens before they act.”
Your breath slowed despite yourself.
“You believe that’s me?” you asked quietly.
“I do,” he said, no hesitation in his voice or judgement.
You looked away, eyes tracing the length of the corridor, grappling with the weight of it.
“You once said that you wouldn’t be afraid to lose your position if it meant keeping people alive,” Obi-Wan added gently. “I respect that.”
Your head snapped back toward him.
“You would not be coming as a soldier,” he finished. “Nor as an afterthought. You would be there because your presence matters.”
Your silence stretched.
Obi-Wan did not need the Force to know you were afraid.
But it confirmed it all the same.
It brushed against him quietly, not sharp or panicked, but dense — a careful, heavy fear layered with responsibility. Not the fear of inadequacy. Not reluctance. Not even defiance.
It was the fear of consequences.
Of variables spiraling beyond control. Of timing being wrong by seconds. Of a choice made in good faith ending in blood on your hands.
He watched it settle in you as you stood there, arms folded loosely now, gaze unfocused as your mind raced several steps ahead of the conversation. You were already imagining scenarios. Already counting risks. Already bracing yourself for outcomes you believed you should have been able to prevent.
You weren’t worried you wouldn’t be able to help.
You were worried that something would go wrong anyway.
That someone would get hurt.
Perhaps because of you. Perhaps despite you.
Perhaps both.
Obi-Wan softened his stance, just slightly — not lowering his authority, but shifting its weight.
“You carry responsibility as if it were a debt,” he continued. “As though every life you touch becomes something you must personally answer for.”
You exhaled, slow and controlled, jaw tightening.
“That’s kind of the job,” you said quietly.
“No,” he replied, just as quietly. “That is the burden you’ve chosen to add to it.”
He stepped closer — not invading your space, but closing the distance enough that his voice did not need to rise.
"When we choose to care, we accept that harm may still come. You cannot protect everyone,” he said. “And you are not failing when the galaxy reminds you of that.”
For a moment, the hum of the ship seemed louder. Your shoulders lifted with a breath you’d been holding far too long, then fell again.
“You’re afraid someone will get hurt,” he said, not unkindly. “And that fear tells me exactly why I want you there.”
You finally met his eyes.
“Because you don’t turn away from that fear,” he continued. “You move through it. You act anyway.”
There was no judgment in his expression. No expectation.
Only trust.
“And,” he added, quieter still, “you would not be alone.”
The thought came unbidden—and unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
Leaving you alone.
Obi-Wan had sent others into uncertainty countless times. He had signed orders knowing full well the risks they carried. Duty demanded distance; the war required it. And yet, when he imagined you remaining behind—continuing your work amid the constant churn of wounded and dying, carrying that punishing sense of responsibility—something in him resisted with unexpected force.
He would not do that to anyone in this position.
Much less to you.
The realization sat heavily in his chest, unwelcome and persistent. He told himself it was logic: your skill set, your judgment under pressure, your ability to read situations before they turned volatile. All valid reasons. All sufficient.
Still, the unease lingered.
A faint heat flared at his wrist, sharp enough to draw his attention for a fraction of a second. Obi-Wan glanced down instinctively, fingers brushing the edge of his sleeve where the skin beneath prickled, warm and insistent.
A distraction, he decided at once.
Stress, perhaps. Fatigue. The Force had been restless of late; sensations arose and passed without meaning more often than not. He smoothed the sleeve back into place, steadying his breath, and dismissed the sensation as easily as it had come.
There were more important matters at hand.
He returned his focus to you—standing there, composed but fragile in the way only the most capable people ever were—and felt his resolve settle into something firm and quiet.
You stared at the deck plating as though the answer might be written there, fingers flexing once at your side, then stilling. Obi-Wan waited, deliberately giving you the space you seemed to need.
Then you looked up.
And for the briefest, most disarming instant, he lost the thread of the Force entirely.
Your eyes were searching—not fearful, not defiant, but cautious in a way that struck far closer to the bone. There was resolve there, yes, but it was layered beneath uncertainty, beneath a careful weighing of risk that had nothing to do with blaster fire or hostile territory.
“I’ll come with you,” you said at last.
The words were measured. Not eager. Not confident. Chosen.
Obi-Wan felt a quiet shift inside his chest—relief, perhaps, tempered immediately by restraint. He inclined his head in acknowledgment, careful not to crowd the moment.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
But you didn’t relax. Didn’t mirror his calm. Your gaze held his, steady but guarded, as if agreeing had not resolved the deeper question at all.
“I need to be clear,” you continued, voice even, professional—but there was an edge to it now. “I’m not agreeing because I think this is a good idea. I’m agreeing because I don’t think I can justify not going.”
He studied you, attentive.
“And,” you added after a pause, quieter, “because if something goes wrong… I’d rather be there than hear about it afterward.”
There it was. The truth beneath the decision. Yet he couldn't ignore the painful pinch inside of him when the words left you.
Obi-Wan nodded slowly. “That is… fair.”
You drew in a slow breath, grounding yourself, then lifted your eyes back to him.
“When do we depart?”
Obi-Wan did not miss the way your shoulders squared as you asked it—as though you were bracing for impact. He answered honestly, as he always did.
“Within six hours,” he said. “The Council wants us en route before the next rotation. We’ll be taking a light transport. Minimal visibility.”
The color drained from your face—not dramatically, but enough that he noticed. Your jaw tightened. Your fingers curled around the datapad you were holding as if it were suddenly the only solid thing in the room.
“I see,” you said, too quickly.
He felt it then—fear, sharp and sudden, flaring beneath your practiced composure. Not panic, but the kind of fear that came from running through scenarios faster than they could be spoken aloud. Casualties. Unknown attackers. Limited intel. Too many variables and not enough control.
And beneath it all: the quiet terror of proximity. Of being pulled closer to the front lines than you ever wanted to be.
He shifted his weight, softening his tone. “If you need more time to prepare, I can request a brief delay. The Council may be persuaded.”
You shook your head immediately. “No. Don’t.” A pause, then more quietly, “Delays cost lives.”
That answer—so very you—landed heavily in his chest.
He had no immediate answer to that.
So he did the only thing he could—he inclined his head, giving you space once more.
“I’ll have Commander Cody forward you the mission brief and transport details,” he said. “Take whatever you need. No restrictions.”
You nodded, already retreating behind professionalism again.
“I’ll be ready.”
As you turned away, Obi-Wan watched you go, a heaviness settling over him that had nothing to do with the coming mission.
********
The ship lifted from the hangar with a low, steady hum, repulsors easing them free of the deck before the stars stretched into luminous lines ahead. Obi-Wan guided the vessel with practiced ease, hands sure on the controls, posture relaxed in a way that came only from countless departures like this one.
You sat in the co‑pilot’s seat beside him, silent.
Not rigid—just… still. Your hands rested in your lap, fingers loosely interlaced, gaze fixed on the forward viewport as Coruscant dwindled into a scatter of distant lights. The glow from the console washed your face in muted blues and golds, catching the faint tension in your jaw, the shadow beneath your eyes that even rest never quite erased.
He felt your unease like static in the Force. Quiet, persistent. Controlled.
After a few moments, he spoke, voice gentle over the soft whine of the engines.
“You should try to get some sleep,” he said. “We have several hours in hyperspace. Even a short rest would help.”
You didn’t look at him when you answered.
“No amount of sleep will put me at ease any time soon.”
It wasn’t said bitterly. Just… factual. A statement delivered with the same calm certainty you used when delivering bad news to a patient’s commander.
Obi-Wan glanced at you then, really looked. The way your shoulders were slightly drawn in. The way your breathing was steady but shallow, as if you were holding yourself together by will alone.
“I suppose that was optimistic of me,” he admitted.
You let out a quiet breath, almost a sigh. “You’re not wrong for suggesting it. I just…” You trailed off, then shook your head. “My mind won’t slow down. Not when I know what we’re heading into.”
He nodded, understanding more than he said.
“Hypervigilance is not a failing,” he offered. “It is often the mind’s way of preparing itself.”
You finally turned your head, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “Is that Jedi philosophy, or medical advice?”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “A little of both.”
That earned him the faintest smile—brief, fleeting, but real. It disappeared just as quickly as it came, replaced by the same thoughtful seriousness.
The ship jumped to hyperspace, the stars collapsing into a tunnel of light. The sudden shift made the cockpit feel smaller somehow. More intimate.
Obi-Wan adjusted the controls, then settled back into his seat.
“If it helps,” he said quietly, “I will be right here the entire time.”
Your gaze returned to the viewport, watching the impossible colors slide past.
“I know,” you said. And after a pause, softer, “I just wish knowing that made it easier.”
He had no clever reassurance for that. No wisdom that would neatly untangle fear from duty.
So he remained where he was—steady at the controls, a constant presence beside you—silently resolved that whatever awaited them at the end of that jump, he would meet it head‑on.
For both of you.
****
The transition out of hyperspace came with a low, resonant shudder that seemed to pass through bone as much as hull. Stars snapped back into their proper places, the familiar streaks collapsing into pinpricks of light as the planet bloomed across the forward viewport.
It was beautiful.
Obi-Wan reduced speed, his hands steady on the controls as the world turned beneath you—an expanse of deep emerald continents veined with rivers that caught the light like molten silver. Thick cloud bands drifted lazily across the atmosphere, soft and unhurried, as though the planet itself had never known fear.
You leaned forward despite yourself, eyes tracking the surface scans as they resolved into data. Population centers. Infrastructure. Damage reports—red markers pulsing faintly against the green.
So much life. So much quiet. And somewhere within it, violence had split the illusion cleanly in two.
The ship angled toward the primary spaceport, its towers rising from the landscape like polished spires. Everything about the approach was deliberate: clean architecture, symmetrical landing platforms, banners unfurled in ceremonial colors that fluttered gently in the breeze. A performance, you thought. A careful first impression.
The ship touched down with a controlled hiss, landing struts locking into place. The engines powered down, leaving behind a charged silence broken only by the soft hum of systems cooling.
He rose immediately, tugging his robe into place with practiced ease. He looked every inch the General now—composed, distant, the weight of command settling visibly onto his shoulders. You followed, medical satchel secured against your side, fingers brushing its worn strap out of reflex. Habit. Grounding.
The ramp descended.
Warm air washed over you, carrying the scent of flowering trees and sun-warmed stone. It was almost intoxicating—sweet enough to be disarming. Almost enough to make you forget why you were here.
Almost.
A delegation awaited at the foot of the ramp, arranged with careful symmetry. Officials in fine garments, faces arranged into welcoming expressions that had likely been rehearsed in front of mirrors. At their head stood a woman with silver threaded through her dark hair, posture impeccable, eyes sharp.
“Master Kenobi,” she said, inclining her head with measured grace. “We are honored by your swift response. Your presence alone brings reassurance to our people.”
Obi-Wan returned the bow. “We are here to help in any way we can.”
Her gaze slid to you next—assessing, curious. “And you must be the Chief Medical Officer. We have prepared private quarters for you both. You’ve had a long journey. If you’ll allow us, we would be pleased to escort you so you may rest before—”
“I’d like to see the bombing site first.”
The interruption was gentle, almost apologetic in tone. But it cut cleanly through the air.
For a fraction of a second, no one spoke.
You noticed it immediately—the way the woman’s smile stiffened, the way a few of the officials exchanged glances. The practiced warmth faltered, revealing something closer to unease.
“General,” she said carefully, “the area is… difficult. We thought it best you settle in first, perhaps meet with the council, take time to recover from—”
“With respect,” Obi-Wan replied, voice calm and unraised, “whatever happened there has already taken lives. If this attack was not the work of Separatists, then we are dealing with an unknown threat. Time is not a luxury we can afford.”
His presence seemed to anchor the moment. The air felt heavier around him, charged—not with Force, exactly, but with certainty. You had seen this before: the quiet gravity he carried when his mind was set.
The woman studied him for a long moment, then inclined her head once more. “Very well. We will take you there at once.”
Her eyes flicked to you again—something unreadable crossing her features. Perhaps surprise. Perhaps concern that a medic had been brought so close to the heart of an investigation. Or perhaps she recognized the same thing you did: that whatever awaited at the site would not be easily contained.
You met her gaze without flinching.
As the delegation turned and began to lead the way, the path drew you away from the manicured gardens and polished stone, toward narrower streets and darker avenues. The air changed as you walked—the sweetness thinning, replaced by something metallic beneath the floral notes.
You fell into step beside Obi-Wan, lowering your voice.
“No preliminary briefing?” you asked.
He shook his head slightly, eyes forward. “I prefer to see the truth before I’m told what it should look like.”
Your lips pressed together in quiet approval. “That explains why you don’t treat symptoms.”
His brow lifted just a fraction.
“You go straight for the cause,” you said.
He glanced at you then, something thoughtful flickering across his expression—an almost-smile, restrained but sincere.
Ahead, the streets darkened. The banners disappeared. The careful order gave way to hurried repairs and subtle signs of damage half-hidden beneath fresh paint and reinforced barriers.
Your fingers tightened on your satchel strap, heart beating a little faster.
The air changed before you ever saw it.
The streets thinned, the stone beneath your boots fractured and uneven, as though the ground itself had tried—and failed—to heal. The scent hit next: scorched metal, dust, something acrid that clung to the back of your throat. No flowers here. No warm stone. Only the lingering echo of violence.
The bombing site opened before you like a wound.
An entire plaza had been carved out of existence, its once-smooth expanse now reduced to a jagged crater rimmed with shattered architecture. Buildings leaned inward at unnatural angles, their facades split open to reveal empty rooms frozen in the moment they had been torn apart. Windows yawned like broken teeth. Durasteel beams jutted from rubble at sharp, accusing angles, twisted as though wrung by an invisible hand.
There were no bodies.
That, somehow, made it worse.
Clean-up crews had already come and gone, leaving behind an emptiness so profound it felt deliberate—as if the space itself had been hollowed out and scrubbed of all evidence that life had once existed here. Scorch marks marred the stone in dark, uneven blooms. A child’s satchel lay abandoned near the edge of the cordon, its strap half-burned through, contents spilled and trampled into the dust.
Silence pressed in from all sides.
You stopped without realizing it.
Your breath slowed. Not shallow—measured. Controlled. You took the scene in with the same focus you brought to a triage ward, eyes moving not in panic but in careful assessment. Blast radius. Directional damage. Points of impact. You crouched near the edge of the crater, fingers hovering just above the ground before you thought better of it and pulled them back.
Obi-Wan noticed everything.
He stood a short distance behind you, hands folded within his sleeves, posture still and composed. To any observer, he would have appeared untouched by the devastation—a Jedi General surveying a battlefield long after the fighting had ended.
But within the Force, it was chaos.
Grief lingered here, thick and shapeless, like smoke trapped in stone. Fear clung to the broken walls. Rage had scorched its way through the plaza and then vanished, leaving behind an ache that had no name.
It should have unsettled him.
It usually did.
Instead, there was you.
Your presence moved through the Force like a steady current—quiet, grounded, unwavering. You did not push against the pain of the place, nor did you recoil from it. You simply existed within it, offering no judgment, no resistance. Acceptance without resignation.
It was… calming.
Obi-Wan hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding himself together until that tension began to ease, thread by thread. The constant vigilance, the weight of command, the endless anticipation of what might come next—all of it softened in the wake of your proximity.
He watched you carefully.
The way your shoulders rose and fell with each breath. The way your gaze lingered not on the destruction itself, but on the spaces where people must have stood. Where they must have laughed. Where they must have believed they were safe.
You swallowed, once.
“They didn’t even have time to run,” you said quietly, voice barely carrying over the stillness.
It wasn’t a question.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting the Force confirm what he already knew. “No,” he said. “They didn’t.”
Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t look away. You never did—not from suffering, not from truth. He had seen that in the med bay, in the field, in the quiet moments when exhaustion threatened to swallow you whole and you refused to let it.
He felt a subtle shift within himself, something loosening that had been knotted for far too long.
If he were wiser—or perhaps more cautious—he might have stepped back then. Created distance. Reasserted the boundaries he was meant to keep.
Instead, he remained where he was, anchored by you.
In the midst of ruin, amid the silence and the scars, your presence steadied him in a way meditation never quite managed to.
Obi-Wan turned back to the delegation, the calm mask of the negotiator settling fully into place, though his eyes remained sharp.
“Minister,” he said, addressing the woman who had greeted them at the spaceport, “I will need a full accounting of the casualties.”
She hesitated.
That pause—brief, involuntary—told him more than any words ever could.
“…As of the latest confirmed reports,” she began carefully, “the number of deceased stands at four thousand, seven hundred and twelve.”
The words landed like a physical blow.
Even Obi-Wan felt it—an unmistakable ripple through the Force, a collective echo of lives cut short all at once. The air seemed heavier, as though the planet itself bowed beneath the weight of that number. Around them, several officials lowered their gazes. One man clasped his hands together so tightly his knuckles blanched.
Four thousand.
Obi-Wan drew a slow breath through his nose, steadying himself before the grief could calcify into anger. “And the injured?”
Before he could continue, you stepped forward.
“How many survived?” you asked, voice calm but taut, as though pulled tight around a fragile core. “How many are wounded?”
The minister turned to you, something like relief flickering across her expression—relief that someone had asked the other question. The one that implied help could still be given.
“Most of the injured were evacuated within the first hours,” she replied. “The central hospitals were overwhelmed almost immediately, so we relocated them to the older districts of the capital—areas with infrastructure better suited for large-scale temporary shelters.”
She gestured vaguely eastward, toward a cluster of distant spires barely visible through the haze.
“There are twelve medical camps in total,” she continued. “Each is housing approximately three hundred to three hundred and fifty patients. Many are suffering from blast trauma, internal injuries, severe burns. We are doing what we can.”
Twelve camps.
Three hundred each.
You closed your eyes for half a heartbeat, already calculating triage priorities, supply chains, staff rotations. The numbers stacked atop one another in your mind until they felt suffocating. You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself before the weight of it could crack something open.
“That’s over three thousand injured,” you said quietly. “Likely more, once late reports come in.”
“Yes,” the minister said, her voice faltering now. “And our medical personnel are exhausted. Some haven’t slept since the attack.”
Obi-Wan watched your hands curl into fists at your sides.
Through the Force, he felt the shift—your fear not for yourself, but for strangers you had yet to meet. For overworked healers. For patients lying on thin cots in makeshift tents, waiting to be seen, waiting to be saved.
He recognized that feeling.
He turned back to the dignitaries, posture straightening as authority settled into his voice. “I will continue the investigation here—interviews, forensic analysis, security review. In the meantime, I want the Chief Medic escorted to the medical camps in the eastern districts. Immediately.”
The minister blinked. “All twelve camps?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “She will assess conditions, coordinate care, and report shortages. You will give her whatever she requires.”
You opened your mouth to object—but he was already looking at you.
Not as a General now. As something quieter. Intent.
“May we speak?” he asked, and before anyone could interject, he inclined his head toward a fractured colonnade a short distance away.
The moment you were out of earshot, your composure cracked.
“I don’t like this,” you said, low and sharp. “Splitting up. This wasn’t the plan.”
He studied you for a moment, eyes thoughtful rather than defensive. “It is now.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“You will be surrounded by local security and medical personnel. The camps are stabilized zones.”
“Stabilized doesn’t mean safe,” you shot back. “If this wasn’t Separatist work, then whoever did this is still out there.”
He didn’t disagree. That, more than anything, unsettled you.
Obi-Wan reached into the folds of his robe and withdrew a small comm unit, already tuned. He placed it in your hand, his fingers brushing your palm for just a second longer than necessary.
“This is my personal frequency,” he said. “Direct line. If you see anything out of place—anything at all—you contact me immediately. No hesitation.”
You looked down at the device, then back up at him. “And if I think something is wrong but can’t prove it?”
“Especially then.”
There was no condescension in his tone. No dismissal. Only trust—clear and deliberate.
It made your chest tighten.
“You’re very sure of yourself,” you murmured.
“I’m very sure of you,” he replied.
The words landed heavier than they had any right to.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The Force stirred between you, subtle but insistent, like a held breath.
“Go,” he said gently. “They need you.”
You nodded, reluctantly, and turned toward the waiting dignitaries. As you walked away, the comm felt warm in your hand—far warmer than it should have been.
Behind you, Obi-Wan watched until you disappeared down the street, a strange unease settling in his chest despite every assurance he had given.
Everything is under control, he told himself.
He only hoped the Force agreed.
****
The vehicle trundled down the narrow, rubble‑lined streets, the hum of its engines low and steady beneath the oppressive quiet of the city’s wounded. Dust rose from every step, settling in fine layers across the cracked stones, catching in the sunlight and sparkling faintly like embers from some long‑forgotten fire. Each turn brought a new tableau of devastation: buildings sliced in half, walls leaning precariously, smoke curling from areas where emergency fires still smoldered.
Through the open sides of the transport, you could see them: the injured. Rows of makeshift cots lined the streets, tents pitched wherever there was space, dust swirling around them like restless spirits. Limbs bandaged in tight wraps, faces pale or streaked with ash, eyes distant or squeezed shut against pain. Every moan and cry punctuated the thick, heavy air. The smell of antiseptic and scorched stone stung your nose. You pressed a gloved hand to your mouth, swallowing hard against bile and grief.
Then you saw the children.
Small forms curled under thin blankets, little hands clutching at the sides of cots as if they could hold the world together by sheer will. One girl with hair matted with dust and soot had a scraped cheek, the skin pink and raw. Another boy clutched a bloodied tooka mascot, too young to understand why the world had suddenly turned so cruel. The sight struck you like a physical blow; tears sprang unbidden to your eyes, hot and relentless. You blinked, willing them back. You had to be strong.
A voice called softly behind you—measured, distant, almost dissonant against the chaos.
“Miss” the dignitary said, gesturing with careful precision toward the far end of the camp. “Please report to the leader of the response team. He will provide you with the full overview of each sector and assign your tasks.”
You nodded mechanically, stepping through the tangle of cots and wounded. Your boots scuffed the ground, each step echoing faintly in the open space, a reminder of the fragile order imposed over the wreckage. You passed families huddled together, medics moving like shadows, pulling stretchers, stabilizing those too injured to move on their own. Every face you passed left an imprint, every scream tugged at the corners of your soul.
At last, you reached the leader of the team. He was standing straight, surveying the rows with professional detachment. You approached, bracing yourself for the torrent of information that would follow.
And then you froze.
Recognition hit like a physical wall, sudden and disorienting. The air seemed to thicken around you. Heart hammering, you swallowed and took a hesitant step closer. Every rational thought recoiled as your mind refused to reconcile the image before you.
“Bryce?”
The man’s head turned slowly toward you, eyes widening—first in surprise, then a flicker of recognition that mirrored your own. For a suspended heartbeat, the chaos of the camp, the cries, the dust and the blood, faded into nothing. All that existed was the shock of the moment, the raw pull of memory, of history, of the fragment of a life you thought had been left behind.
There is a forbidden type of magic out there. It isn’t forbidden because it’s inherently evil, or forces you to lose your humanity, or requires human sacrifices - it’s just forbidden because it’s annoying as heck to fight against.
“Ma’am, I really must insist that you pay for the room and board I’ve been giving you! It’s been a week!”
“Fine, fine,” I grumble. “I have a few options for payment: I could give you paper money, cheap gaudy jewelry, chocolate coins, spiders, some pretty seashells-”
“Spiders????” he repeats, baffled.
“Spiders it is, then,” I agree equitably, and with a wave of my hand the bed I’ve been sleeping in for the last week turns into a writhing mass of various spiders.
Worth it.
—
“Stop right there! You’re under arrest for fraud, destruction of property, and-!”
I yawn. “Didn’t ask, don’t care.” A few gestures, and the guards’ swords are all transmuted into spiders, and then they’re too busy to worry about little ol’ me.
—
“You have insulted my honor and humiliated me in front of my children! I demand satisfaction! I demand a wizard’s duel!”
Shrugging, I say, “Sure, okay, whatever. Right here and now okay?”
The pompous wizard-noble blinks. “I- you don’t want to prepare? Get your wizard’s staff or anything?”
“Nah, I’m pretty good with somatic gestures.”
“Well, if you’re sure… here and now then! Have at you!” He slams his staff down on the ground dramatically, a small shockwave of fire radiating out from the impact.
So of course, I turn his staff into spiders.
“AHHHH WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK”
“So if you’re too busy screaming to cast spells, does that mean I win?”
“AUGH ONE OF THEM BIT ME”
“I’m taking that as a yes.”
—
After that, they start coming at me in waves, with cheap wands and staves and swords and bows bought in bulk, hoping to exhaust my magical reserves so they can get close enough to put a magic inhibitor on me.
They did not expect my reserves to be as vast as they were, not did they expect me to be able to transmute the inhibitors themselves into spiders.
“Didn’t you take Magic Basics in wizard college?” I yell at the panicking mages. “Inhibitors aren’t immune to magic until the moment they activate! Serious weak point in the design, tell your magitechnicians to fix that!”
—
So of course they try assassins next.
Poison fails, because I transmute any food and drink I get into spiders and then transmute them back. Pretty easy way to get rid of poison.
So then they try knives in dark alleys. The knives bruise through my full-body spider-silk outfit, but do not penetrate, and they only get one shot before they have bigger problems.
Next is killing me in my sleep. None live to report back that the human-shaped lump under the blankets is actually a mass of highly venomous spiders.
The kingdom throws everything it has at me, and I continue to walk away, heralded by the chittering of spiders and the screams of everyone else.
—
Finally, I stand before the king himself in his overly opulent throne room, and by now he is a broken shell of a man in the face of my unorthodox tactics.
Good.
“What do you want?” he practically sobs. “You’ve singlehandedly redirected the entire crown’s budget for the next three years into replacing every weapon you’ve turned into spiders. Much more and we’ll be invaded by our neighbors! We wouldn’t be able to resist being annexed! So what can I give you to make you stop doing this?!”
I pause and pretend to consider, tapping a finger against my chin thoughtfully. “You know, you sent my brother off to war a few years back. That conflict with the Yughs up north, I believe. He didn’t want to go, so your guards forced him at spearpoint. I haven’t seen him since.”
He seizes on that, as I expected. “Yes, yes, I’ll have him returned right away! Tell me his name and I’ll honorably release him from duty and have him escorted safely home!”
“Oh?” I raise one sardonic eyebrow. “Are you able to bring back the dead now, oh wise and glorious king?”
He pales, and it’s the most satisfying thing I’ve seen in years.
“You have nothing I want,” I growl, letting the anger slip through for the first time in years. “You cannot bring him back, you cannot make up for my loss with all the riches in your kingdom. The only thing I want is to take everything from you, the way you did to me. Your kingdom will bleed out of resources, one of the neighboring countries you’ve been trying to conquer for decades now will take advantage and annex this place, and you will either be executed or forced to work for a living for the first time in your life.”
I glare at him, and he refuses to meet my eyes. “You will lose everything you ever cared about in your life. One spider at a time.”
I transmute his throne and crown into spiders (non-deadly; he doesn’t get to escape my wrath that easily), then turn and walk away, ignoring his screams and sobs.
—
And that’s why, when the Yughs finally annexed the kingdom I grew up in, they preemptively made Transarachnomancy a forbidden magical art. Not sure how they intend to enforce that, mind, but I’m not looking to challenge that. I’ve gotten what I wanted; if some other aspiring mage wants to try and follow in my footsteps, that’s not my problem.
Besides, in terms of magical skill, I’ve always been an outlier anyway. Most mages would be lucky to turn just one knife into a spider at a time; I can turn ten thousand with a few gestures. I doubt anyone will outdo my legacy.
But hey, if you want to try and surpass Georgia of the Spiders? Feel free. I’ll welcome the competition.
If you would like to be added to the taglist, please leave me a comment!
Image owned by Bookart by Amai.
To see more work by this artist, join Patreon and become a member of this artist's collections!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
*****
Chapter 5
The anticipation had been unbearable.
All day, you had tried to focus on your work, had tried to keep your hands steady as you molded clay and painted delicate designs onto ceramic, but your mind had refused to cooperate.
Lucien is coming tonight.
The thought had nestled itself deep inside you, distracting you, making your heart race at the most inconvenient moments.
You had tried—gods, you had tried—to convince yourself that this was simply two old friends catching up.
But was it?
Would two friends walk the quiet streets of Velaris together, just the two of them, lingering in conversation, stealing glances at one another when they thought the other wasn’t looking?
Would two friends share an embrace so familiar, so achingly intimate, that it made you feel as though you had stepped back in time?
Your hands trembled slightly as you closed the shop for the night, locking the door and letting out a slow breath to steady yourself.
You had spent the entire day trying to bury the nerves fluttering in your stomach, trying to push away the thoughts of him, of what his presence meant after all these years.
Because there was still a wound inside you, still a scar that had never fully healed.
Yes, you had loved him.
Gods, you had loved him.
And you had known—known—that he had loved you, too.
But if he had loved you so much, why had he left you behind?
Why had he not given you a choice?
Why had he been so willing to walk away, to leave you to Beron’s cruelty, to suffer for years while he built a new life without you?
You had spent decades wondering if you simply hadn’t been enough.
If he had looked at you and thought—she will slow me down, she will be a burden, she is not worth the risk.
You had believed, back then, that Lucien would have fought for you. That he would have protected you from his father with everything he had.
But he hadn’t.
Instead, he had walked away.
And now, here he was, slipping back into your life as if time had never passed.
As if his absence hadn’t broken something inside you.
"You’re overthinking," you muttered to yourself, exhaling sharply as you turned back toward the street, brushing your hands down your apron as if that would settle your nerves.
And then—
"Y/n."
You froze.
Lucien stood just a few steps away, dressed in his usual dark tunic and leathers, his red hair glowing under the soft lantern lights that lined the street.
His amber eyes swept over you, something warm flickering in his gaze, something unreadable.
"You ready?" His voice was steady, but you thought you heard something else beneath it.
You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak just yet, and fell into step beside him.
*****
Lucien still couldn’t believe you were here.
Even as he walked beside you, his hands tucked into his pockets to keep himself from reaching for you, it still felt unreal.
Velaris.
You.
After a hundred years, after everything that had happened—what did this mean for you both?
Did it mean anything at all?
Or was fate simply playing a cruel joke, dangling you in front of him just to remind him of what he had lost?
He stole a glance at you beneath the soft glow of the Sidra’s moonlight.
Gods, you were breathtaking.
The years had not taken a thing from you.
You still had those same beautiful freckles dusted over your nose, over your cheeks as your auburn hair cascaded over your shoulders in soft waves, the deep reds and warm golds glinting under the streetlamps, reminding him of autumn leaves scattered over the forest floor. He had spent years running his fingers through those strands, tangling them in his hands, watching them fan across his chest as you moved above him, your body warm and pliant in the firelight.
And your eyes… gods, your eyes.
They still held the same depth, the same intensity. But now, there was something else—something quieter, something more guarded.
Lucien wanted to believe he could still read you the way he once could. That he could look into your eyes and know exactly what you were thinking, exactly what you were feeling.
But too much time had passed.
Too many words had been left unspoken.
So instead, he listened.
As you spoke of your work, of your art, of the landscapes you had captured in clay, Lucien simply listened.
You talked about the courts you had visited, the places you had seen, and he told you of the work he had done as an emissary. The way he had traveled between courts, negotiating treaties, handling disputes, learning how to maneuver through political webs as if they were second nature.
The conversation flowed as easily as it always had between you.
Effortless.
Natural.
Like no time had passed at all.
And yet—it had.
The pain from the past remained, lingering between you, though neither of you spoke of it.
Not yet.
And maybe that was for the best.
For now, at least.
But gods, as he walked beside you, he ached.
Because he still remembered.
He remembered everything.
A memory surfaced, unbidden, flashing through his mind like fire racing through dry leaves.
The two of you, in the clearing deep within the Autumn woods—the place that had been yours.
It had been late, the moon high overhead, the night quiet except for the rustling of leaves and the occasional chirping of crickets.
You had been beneath him, your body warm and soft against the blanket he had brought, your hair spread out like wildfire around you.
And he had made it his mission to kiss every single freckle on your body.
He had started at your forehead, his lips brushing over each delicate speck on your nose, your cheeks, your shoulders. Then lower, lower, kissing his way down your arms, down your stomach, over your hips.
You had giggled at first, squirming beneath him when his lips found the sensitive spots just above your ribs, the ticklish place along your hip bones.
"Lucien!" you had laughed, trying to push him away, your hands weak from how much you were shaking.
But he had only grinned against your skin, pinning your wrists above your head as he continued his task.
"You have too many freckles, my love," he had murmured against your stomach, "but I’ll kiss every single one of them."
And he had.
From head to toe.
The giggles had soon turned into something else—something deeper, something desperate—when he had reached the places where your skin was most sensitive, where he knew exactly how to touch you, exactly how to devour you until you were gasping his name.
At one time, he had known every inch of you.
Had known your body as intimately as he had known his own.
And gods, he missed that.
Missed you.
He missed the way you had fit so perfectly against him, the way you had tangled your legs with his, the way you had clung to him in the dead of night, whispering his name like a prayer.
That connection—the one he had once thought unbreakable—was now a chasm between you.
And he had no idea if it would ever be bridged again.
However, weeks later…walking you home in the evenings had become a routine.
It had never been planned, never been discussed, but after that first night, Lucien had simply returned.
Every evening, when you locked up your shop, he was there.
Waiting.
And you never turned him away.
You simply let him walk beside you, let the conversation flow as it always had.
He learned more about your travels, about the places that had inspired your art. And he told you more about his life as an emissary, the work he had done, the people he had met.
But neither of you ever spoke of the past.
Of the pain that lingered beneath the surface.
Lucien knew it would come eventually.
That one day, you would turn to him and ask the question that had been festering inside you since the moment he left.
Why didn’t you take me with you?
And when that moment came, when the past finally caught up to you both, he didn’t know if he would have the right words to make it better.
Because the truth was—
There were no right words.
*****
Lucien couldn’t stay away.
At first, it had been the walks home.
A simple routine, a quiet moment shared at the end of the day.
But then—he found himself wanting more.
He started making excuses to come by your shop earlier before closing, showing up under the pretense of being in the neighborhood, taking care of something or another.
Or he’d claim he just wanted to admire your work, though his eyes always lingered more on you than on the pottery.
Every time he arrived, his chest tightened with anticipation, wondering if you would welcome his presence, if you would look up at him with that soft, knowing smile that still made something deep inside him ache.
And you never turned him away.
That was how he found himself outside your shop again this evening, just as you were locking up.
You glanced up as he approached, the faintest smile tugging at your lips. "You’re early."
He grinned, leaning against the doorframe. "I had a feeling you wouldn’t mind."
You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "I don’t. But I do want to finish a piece on the wheel before I go. Do you mind waiting?"
Lucien shrugged easily. "Of course not."
You led him back inside, flipping the sign to Closed before moving toward the enclosed pottery area. He followed, standing just beyond the glass partition as you settled onto the stool and set the pottery wheel spinning.
The moment you placed your hands on the clay, he was captivated.
"You were always the most talented person I knew," he murmured, watching intently as you shaped the clay with effortless precision.
You smirked. "I was the only artist you knew."
Lucien chuckled, but there was something deeper in his gaze, something heavy with admiration.
"What’s it like?" he asked after a moment, tilting his head.
"What’s what like?"
"Using the wheel. Creating something from nothing."
You considered his words before glancing over your shoulder, nodding to the stool behind you. "Come find out for yourself."
Lucien hesitated only briefly before stepping forward, lowering himself onto the stool behind you.
His thighs pressed against yours, warm and solid, caging you in without even trying.
"Here," you said softly, reaching for the bowl of water beside you. You wet your hands, then took his, guiding them over the spinning clay.
Lucien inhaled sharply as his hands slid over yours, the slick, cool texture of the clay beneath his fingers sending a surprising jolt through him. He let you direct him, his palms resting against the backs of your hands, his fingers mirroring yours as you shaped the piece together.
But soon—too soon—Lucien’s touch became his own.
His hands moved more deliberately, his fingers pressing into yours, shaping the clay with slow, sensual precision.
The rhythm of it—the way his body molded against yours, the way his breath fanned against your ear—sent a shiver racing down your spine.
The friction of his fingers against yours sent sparks shooting up your arms, his touch becoming more assured, more intimate.
His scent—sunlight, spice, and autumn leaves—wrapped around you, suffocating in the most intoxicating way.
Then, slowly, his hands began to move away from the clay.
Lucien’s fingers trailed up your arms, featherlight, lingering where your skin was most sensitive.
You sucked in a sharp breath as his thighs squeezed around you from behind, his presence overwhelming, commanding.
His lips hovered near your ear, so close you could feel the warmth of him.
"Lucien…" you whispered, your voice trembling.
He exhaled, his breath caressing your skin.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured, his voice low, deep, hungry. "If you want me to stop, say the word."
His lips brushed against your neck first—soft, lingering—before trailing lower, his stubble scraping deliciously against your skin.
Your heart pounded.
You didn’t say the word.
Instead, you leaned into him, your body instinctively seeking his heat, his touch as you turned your head towards his.
Lucien took that as all the encouragement he needed, his lips brushing against yours in a tentative kiss that quickly deepened into something more. His hands left the clay, instead moving to your hips, pulling you even closer to him.
The sensation of his hands, still slick with clay, sliding under your shirt and up your sides was almost too much to bear. You moaned into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair as you kissed him back with equal fervor. His touch was everywhere, overwhelming, consuming, and yet you couldn’t get enough.
“Lucien,” you breathed against his lips, your voice trembling with need. “Please…”
He didn’t need to be told twice.
His hands moved with purpose, exploring every inch of your body, leaving trails of fire in their wake. His lips found your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, and you shuddered, your head falling back against his shoulder.
“You’re still so godsdamned beautiful,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire. “I’ve been waiting for this moment again for so long.”
His voice was low, like velvet, and it wrapped around you as tightly as his arms did.
You tried to focus on the spinning wheel, on the clay beneath your fingers, but it was impossible. Your hands slowed, the rhythm faltering as Lucien’s palms pressed flat against your stomach, sliding upward to cup the curve of your breasts.
You gasped, my head again tilting back against his shoulder.
Your mind was a haze of pleasure, every thought, every sensation centered on him. The world outside the studio had ceased to exist, leaving only the two of you, lost in each other.
His hands, his lips, his body—everything about him was intoxicating, and you never wanted it to end.
“Let me take care of you,” he murmured, his lips trailing down the column of your neck.
His words were a promise, a seductive offer you couldn’t refuse.
Your hands fell away from the clay, letting the wheel slow to a stop as you surrendered to his touch. His fingers found the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, exposing your skin to the cool air of the studio.
You shivered, but not from the chill.
Lucien’s hands were warm, calloused yet gentle as they explored your body. He tugged your shirt over your head, tossing it aside without a care. His lips followed the path of his hands, kissing every inch of skin he uncovered.
His tongue traced the curve of your collarbone, and you moaned softly, your hands gripping his thighs where they pressed against the sides of your thighs.
“You’re exquisite,” he breathed, his voice rough with want.
His hands moved to the clasp of your bra, unhooking it with practiced ease. The fabric fell away, and his palms covered your breasts, his thumbs teasing your nipples into hard peaks. You arched into his touch, your breath coming in shallow gasps as he whispered filthy explicit promises in your ear.
His fingers pinched and rolled, sending waves of pleasure crashing through you.
One hand slid lower, dipping beneath the waistband of your pants. You bit your lip, suppressing a whimper as his fingers found your wetness, stroking you through the fabric of your underwear.
“I love how your body is still so responsive to me…after all this time,” he teased, his voice thick with satisfaction. “You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?”
You couldn’t deny it.
Your mind had been filled with him since the moment he’d walked into the studio.
His presence, his touch, his scent—everything about him consumed you.
Your body responded to him like it had been waiting for this moment, craving it in ways you hadn’t fully understood until now.
Lucien’s fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, finding your core. He stroked you slowly, teasingly, his other hand still working your breast.
“Let go,” he urged, his lips brushing my ear. “I want to hear you.”
You couldn’t hold back.
A moan escaped you, low and desperate, as his fingers moved in steady, deliberate circles. Your hips rocked against his hand, seeking more, needing more. Lucien’s breath hitched, and you felt the hardness of him pressing against your back, a silent confirmation of how much he wanted this, too.
“You’re making it so hard to wait,” he growled, his voice strained.
His fingers pushed inside you, and you cried out, your body clenching around them. He moved with a rhythm that drove you wild, curling his fingers just right, hitting that spot that made your vision blur.
“But I’m going to take my time with you. I want to savor every second.”
His words sent a thrill through you, his promise of pleasure stretching out before you both like a deliciously torturous road. His thumb found your clit, rubbing in tight circles as his fingers thrust deeper. You were falling apart, your hands gripping his thighs, your breath coming in ragged gasps.
“Lucien,” you whimpered, his name a plea on your lips.
“I know, baby. I know what you need. Ride my hand,” he coaxed, his voice dark and possessive. “Let me feel you come.”
You couldn’t hold back.
The pleasure built, tightening in your core until it exploded, wave after wave crashing through you. Your body shook, your cries filling the studio as you came undone in his arms. Lucien held you through it, his hands never stopping, his lips pressing soft kisses to your shoulder as you rode out the aftershocks.
When you finally stilled, your body limp and spent, Lucien withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his lips. He sucked them clean, his eyes locked on yours, and the hunger in his gaze reignited the fire in your belly. “You taste incredible,” he murmured, his voice dripping with desire.
This wasn’t just lust.
This was years of longing, of aching, of wanting.
This was everything you had both tried to bury, resurfacing all at once.
And gods—
You didn’t want him to stop, but the feelings of abandonment came rushing to the surface.
The moment shattered.
One second, Lucien was kissing you like he had been starving for centuries—touching you, holding you, pulling you back into the gravity of him. And the next—
You jerked away as though burned.
Your breath came in ragged gasps as you quickly turned from him, hands fumbling to hook your bra back together, yanking your shirt over your head with shaky fingers. Your skin felt too hot, your heart thundering so violently you thought it might crack open your ribs.
"What was that?" Your voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it still cut through the air like a blade.
Lucien, still breathless, still looking like he wanted nothing more than to close the distance again, hesitated. His golden eyes were wild, his lips swollen from the way he had kissed you only moments ago.
But the space between you now felt vast.
"Why did you do that?" you demanded, wrapping your arms around yourself, as if you could physically hold together the storm raging inside you.
Lucien’s jaw tensed. He took a step forward, then seemed to think better of it. "I—" he exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his long red hair. "I don’t know. I just—"
"No," you interuppted, shaking your head. "That’s not good enough, Lucien. You don’t get to walk back into my life and expect me to just—just forget what you did."
The words hit him hard.
He flinched, the hurt flashing across his face before he quickly masked it. But it was there.
You weren’t done.
"You left me," you whispered, your voice shaking, all the raw, buried pain clawing its way to the surface. "You left me in that court. You didn’t even give me a choice."
Lucien’s throat bobbed, his golden eyes dark with something agonizing. "I thought I was protecting you—"
"No." Your voice was sharp, your breath ragged. "You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to stand here and make excuses. You decided for both of us, and I had no say. You left me to suffer alone, Lucien. And you—" Your voice broke. "You broke me."
Lucien sucked in a sharp breath, his whole body going rigid.
"Do you even know what it was like?" You took a step closer, shaking with fury, with pain. "Waking up every day in that wretched court, always wondering why I wasn’t enough for you to take me with you? Why I wasn’t worth fighting for?"
Lucien’s face crumbled.
"Y/n—"
"No." You let out a hollow laugh, blinking against the burning behind your eyes. "You don’t get to say my name like that. Not after everything."
The silence was deafening, filled only by your ragged breathing, by the weight of everything you had never said.
Lucien took a step forward, his voice raw, aching.
"I never stopped loving you."
Your heart lurched.
You wanted to believe him. Gods, you wanted to.
But…
"I don’t know what to do with that," you admitted, your voice breaking.
Lucien exhaled, looking pained. "Leaving you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done."
Your breath hitched. "You say that now. But you still left. And no matter how much I loved you, no matter how much I still —"
You stopped.
The words had been unguarded, had almost slipped.
Lucien’s eyes flickered with something deep, unreadable.
He waited, watching, waiting for you to say it.
But you didn’t.
"No matter how much I loved you, it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough," you finished instead, your voice barely above a whisper.
The pain in his eyes was unmistakable.
"I’m sorry," Lucien said, his voice breaking. "I am so sorry for hurting you. If I could go back and change it, I would."
You swallowed hard. "But, you can’t."
The words hung heavy between you, undeniable.
Lucien let out a slow breath, his hands clenching at his sides. He looked down, as if gathering his thoughts, before glancing back up at you.
"What did you expect to happen tonight?" you asked, your voice quieter now, but no less sharp. "With the kissing, the touching—what did you think was going to happen?"
Lucien shook his head, exhaling harshly. "I don’t know."
"That’s not good enough, Lucien."
His amber eyes flickered with frustration, with longing, with something desperate.
"Since I found you again," he admitted, "I can’t stay away. No matter how hard I try, I can’t help myself from wanting to touch you, to kiss you, to hold you in my arms again." His jaw tightened, his voice dropping into something hoarse, something reckless.
"You may regret what just now happened between us, Y/n. But I never will."
Your breath caught in your throat.
"I have waited forever to have you in my arms again," he murmured, stepping closer, his voice low, thick with hunger, with need. "To watch you fall apart while moaning my name."
Heat coiled in your stomach, unwanted, unbidden. Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, torn between fury and longing, between wanting to shove him away and wanting to pull him closer.
Because Mother above, you still wanted him.
But you also wanted him to hurt.
To feel every ounce of what he had put you through.
The war waged inside you, neither side winning.
You let out a shuddering breath and took a step back. "I’m going to walk home by myself tonight."
Lucien stilled.
A flicker of hurt flashed through his eyes before he quickly masked it. But you saw it.
"Y/n—"
"I need time. I need space."
Lucien swallowed hard, nodding once. "I understand."
He turned toward the door, but before he could open it, he turned slightly back to you, gazing into your eyes.
"I know I don’t deserve it." His voice was rough, raw. "But if there’s any part of you that still cares for me, even a little—" He hesitated, then exhaled. "I’d like to try and earn back your trust. To show you that leaving you was the worst mistake of my life."
The words gutted you.
Because Mother help you, some part of you did still care.
You closed your eyes briefly, forcing down the storm inside you.
And then he opened the door and stepped into the night, leaving you standing in the dim light of your studio, staring after him with eyes full of longing and hurt.
AU where Katara finds unknown man on the shore, not far from the Northern Water tribe village. No one is speaking truth, bending is forbidden and Katara questions many things that seemed certain.
Summary: Desperate to reunite with Lucien since his exile to Spring, you find yourself paying an unexpected price to his older brother.
Eris Vanserra is everything you despise—arrogant, cruel, and far too clever for his own good. Yet, you find yourself catching flickers of something else—something unspoken, something almost tender. And the more time you spend with him, the harder it becomes to ignore.
Now, you’re forced to confront the rumors and realities surrounding the male everyone loves to hate. But the closer you get to the truth that he hides, the more you're forced to confront your own.
Overview: angst, best friends older brother, slight enemies to lovers, forced proximity trope in a way (aka forced bargain), canon typical violence, murder, political scheming, animal death, mentions of child/spouse abuse. eris & reader learning to trust each other, hea!! check the part warnings for specific triggers
Made as a mini-series for Eris Week 2024.
⟢﹒Part One ┃3.2k
Desperate to reunite with Lucien since his exile to Spring, you find yourself paying an unexpected price to his older brother.
⟢﹒Part Two ┃ 3.1k
Eris Vanserra carries a legacy of cruelty, a reputation forged in whispers and fear. But something doesn't quite fit anymore. You’re beginning to think that the male doesn't truly match the legend he's left behind.
⟢﹒Part Three ┃2.3k
Despite wishing he weren’t, Eris Vanserra is a creature of habit. A mask is easier to put on, easier to wear than to remove. When you confront him about a recent deception, you’re faced with that reality first hand.
⟢﹒Part Four ┃3.5k
The Autumn Equinox Ball is a tradition of royalty, an event to symbolize the growth, prosperity, and power of the court. This year, Eris has set his sights on having you at his side.
⟢﹒Part Five ┃5.1k
Since the moment he first tasted hatred, Eris Vanserra has harbored one relentless goal: to rid the world of his father. Now, the time has come to wage the war he's been preparing for his entire life—the war against his own blood.
⟢﹒Part Six ┃4.6k
Severely wounded after the fall of his father, Eris slips into a deep sleep, only to wake in an alternate world—one where he was the kind brother, the male who made all the 'right' choices.
⟢﹒Part Seven┃3.3k
Eris wakes up as the newly crowned High Lord with a multitude of responsibilities ahead. Yet, there is one essential matter he must resolve before he can truly claim his throne.
hey I was wondering if you could write a harry x reader fluff (maybe takes place during hbp? that’d be cute) where they are dating and just chilling out in his dorm and Harry tells her how much he loves her and he’s just all fluffy adorable kisses pecks all over the face cuddles yk what I mean. only if you want to tho I just think it’d be cute <3
Hiya! I adjusted it just a tiny bit, I hope you don't mind. I had a lot of fun with this request, so thank you!
It's May, Potter
Pairing: fem!reader x Harry James Potter
Content: Fluffy Cuteness
Word Count: 1.5k
Summary: You're suprised by Harry after feeling pushed away in favor of a bloody potions textbook.
___
He didn’t have that blasted book.
That was the first thing you noticed. After months of feeling confusingly jealous over a study implement and then worried when any mention of it led to defensive behavior, it took less than a second to recognize the worn fabric wasn’t anywhere on the boy’s person. An unbidden sigh of relief swept out of you.
Only after the waving of a hand in your face did you realize that Harry had spoken and expected a response. His dark eyebrows were lifted over the rims of his glasses, leaving him looking both shocked and offended.
“Hi- hi Harry.” You blinked.
“Hi,” He responded, scouring your face for any indication that you were going to answer him. A soft smile quickly replaced his flustered expression. “You look surprised to see me. So much that you, erm, didn’t hear me.”
The heat of embarrassment filled you to the brim. Suddenly, the library felt much too crowded. You strode past the boy with purposeful steps, ignoring the snickering gazes of other people looking through texts and making progress on homework.
“Where- wait!” His harsh whisper cut through the air, nearly hooking you.
“I was actually just going for a walk. Trying to decide where when you showed up. So, yes my mind was elsewhere. As I must now be too,” Your quick, clear, and quiet words flew over your shoulder as you pressed through the library doors and started off in a completely random direction.
“Wait.”
“I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Please wait.”
“I’m sure Ron is looking for you right about now anyway.”
“C’mon.”
“Or you might need to run off and sneak after Malfoy some more. Sure he’s up to something right about now.”
“Stop!”
“What is it Harry?”
You turned around to face him with force, the wind whipping your robes and your shoes squeaking ever so lightly on the stone floor. The broken echo of your voice teased at you. It revealed too much, mocked your pain.
Harry held up your bag, sheepish. “You left this.”
“Oh,” You swallowed hard. The steps back towards the boy only filled you with guilt and bone crushing embarrassment. It was nearly impossible to look him in the eye. “Thank you, Harry.”
“Did you hear what I said?”
He’d pulled the strap just out of reach. A peachy glow seemed to illuminate his face, the apples of his cheeks warm as he hesitantly caught your eye. You shook your head, uncertain if your voice would betray you if you tried to speak. Who knew if words would appear - any attempt could possibly just turn out to be a squeak.
“I was wondering if you had any plans on Friday? Maybe we could go to Hogsmeade?”
“Oh. Oh, do… do you need help keeping an eye on Draco or something?” You ventured a guess, knowing that you’d find some sort of sick consolation prize out of being right.
“No?”
“Oh.”
“You know, saying ‘oh’, isn’t exactly the response I was hoping for,” Harry chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I don’t understand,” You admitted. Deep in your psyche the thoughts argued, previous experience and social clues pummeling one another and leaving you helpless to decipher what in the world Harry Potter would want your company for. Your initial thought, though hopeful, had been rightfully sacked by multiple instances of the boy’s previous unintentional let-downs. Well, you had denoted them as unintentional at least.
You watched the boy ahead of you glance around the corridor, green eyes nervous. With a gentle tug he stowed the two of you in an alcove away from the ever growing number of students. He shot a look over his shoulder and you could help the bubbling up of concern.
“Harry what is going on? You’ve been bouncing back and forth between arrogant prat with no regard to the feelings of those around you to a paranoid little puppy that bites anyone who gets near him. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’ve been worried about you for months. I miss laughing with you and making awful jokes and, bloody hell, even just doing homework. Harry, that blasted book is-”
Harry kissed you.
It was sudden, all rash and not thought out like most of the boy’s plans. Before the next word could leave your lips, there was the thud of your bag hitting the ground, the desperate reach towards your face that ended in a cradling hold, the light press of his lips against yours that told you he’d recognized his own recklessness too late to truly stop.
Somewhere in the beginning your long, partially practiced, speech, Harry’s green eyes had returned to you. They were void of shame or awkward hesitance, filled with something else. You should have noticed the change, but you were determined to let him have the piece of your mind you’d been trying to give him.
Then he had kissed you.
And now, no matter how confused you were, you couldn’t help but kiss him back. Your fingers dug themselves into his sweater and you nudged yourself closer to him. Harry smiled against your lips, pressing quick pecks to appease your chasing. Your heart pounded in your chest and you let him wind you up in his arms before letting the kisses deepen.
When finally the two of you pulled just enough apart, airy snickers escaped between you. Harry was nearly crimson up to his ears. The mischievous twinkle was back in his eye and left you smiling like a fool.
“What was that for?” You giggled.
“I’m in love with you.”
The words hung in the air, a halo circling your head and making you question if you were dreaming. Harry’s thumb was rubbing along your waist still - not a dream.
“Well,” You smiled, unable to hide your glee despite teasing him, “You couldn’t have said something earlier? It’s May, Potter.”
“Didn’t I?” He played along, brushing a strand of hair off your face and letting his fingers linger, “I’ve been telling everyone we’re dating since the start of term.”
You laughed, “Oh, really? Is that why I couldn’t get a date to any of Slughorn’s parties? So we could, how did you put it… Oh yes, go ‘as friends’?”
“Well I couldn’t have you going with anyone else. My girlfriend on a date with another bloke?” He beamed. It was almost as if the label gave him extra satisfaction when you didn’t shy away from it. “People would think you were available.”
“And, I’m not?” An eyebrow raised appraisingly.
He dipped down, pressing his lips to yours and letting you savor the languid movement. A smirk was on his lips as soon as he broke away, “Nope. Not at all. You, darling, are completely taken.”
“And you, Mister Potter?”
He brushed his nose against yours again, eyes alight as if enchanted. His smile was warm and lazy. Behind his glasses you watched as he scanned every inch of your face. The boy was turning pink again.
“I’m besotted. Unchangingly spoken for. I’m in love with a girl who rightfully bosses me around, tells me off on a daily basis, and lectures me when I deserve it, but still offers the kindest of looks and the loveliest of smiles. And all it took for me to get my bloody head out of my arse was a thundering screaming match that I’ve mulled over in detention for the past few days whilst enduring the severe lack of said girl who was avoiding me for sound reason.”
Your cheek muscles ached with all the smiling. Two sweet pecks slipped in between the boy’s words, nearly throwing him off course. But you couldn’t help it.
“So, you love this girl?”
“Deeply.”
“And what have you done about it?”
“Finally followed her totally accurate advice. I… got rid of that bloody book,” He winced a bit with chagrin. “And it seems that I’ve made a rather bold move.”
“How bold?”
“Straight out declaration. But that’s because she seemed to miss my obvious attempts at asking her on a date.”
To his statement you both fell into bubbling laughter, no longer worried about keeping your little alcove or conversation a secret. Harry pulled you tighter and rested his head against yours. Pressed into his chest, you could feel his heart hammering in a similar way to your own.
“Well, Harry Potter,” Your grin took over your whole face, “Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”
Harry nodded. “Can I copy your potions essay?”
You slapped his arm, unable to hide the chuckles that were escaping but shaking your head at him nonetheless. “Bloody hell. How did I fall in love with a fool like you?”
“I’d say love potion, but we both know I’m only good at potions when I get help.”
The bell rang, corridors emptying as another class began. You didn’t hear it. Neither did Harry. You shook your head and pulled him back to you. Too lost in caresses and the sweetness of kisses, you forgot all about classes and homework and horcruxes. Kisses were exchanged, stories were told, laughter shared, and promises freely given in the ever lengthening beams of afternoon sunlight.
“Love, will you accompany me to Hogsmeade this Friday?”
hey so when ur talking about omegaverse but espesh a/b/o yous need to leave the slashes in a/b/o if u have to use that term. bcos without the slashes, ur just putting a slur against my ppl (racists shorten the Aboriginal in Aboriginal Australians) all over my dash where i have to constantly see it and that fucking sucks, my guys
and i know most of yous didnt know this and thats fine! no need to apologise im not trying to make u feel bad, im just trying to navigate fandom and this website without being constantly exposed to a really awful racist slur
if u have to use that specific term, at least keep the slashes between the letters. it still sucks to see tho ngl. even better! stick to omegaverse or instead use aob (alpha-omega-beta) (imo its also nicer to pronounce; ay-oh-bee. ayo-bee)
anyway, pls spread awareness and (nicely) let ppl know when theyre using a racist slur for a fandom term
Summary: Before Neville goes back to Hogwarts, he helps Y/N plant a garden. When he returns everything is in full bloom.
A/N: Written for A Very Harry Potter Summer with the prompt ‘garden work.’ Special tag for @lupins-sweater happy birthday! 🎁 (Be sure to send her lots of frog pictures and or Remus fan art!) @eleven-times-lively you are not on my tag list but still wishing you the happiest of birthdays!
Masterlist
You first notice Neville Longbottom at age five. He’s been your next door neighbor for just as long. Despite his grandmother’s wariness, the pair of you are drawn to each other like a moth to flame.
Neville is special. Although the thought never really occurred to you, until his eleventh birthday.
When he pulls you aside to say he won’t be returning to school with you in the fall. This, of course, shatters your heart into a million pieces.
You were going to lose your best friend. In a mix of anger and shock, you don’t wish him safe travels. How could he leave you for a stupid boarding school anyhow?
Despite yourself, when he returns, you can’t help peeking between the slots in the fence. Catching him reading over a newspaper that appears to move by itself.
As the years go on, Neville begins to open up a bit more. About magic and Hogwarts, the special school only wizards can attend. Naturally he’s not supposed to share any of this with you; and could get in a fair bit of trouble for doing so. But you’re very persistent and above all else, Neville knows he can trust you.
You’re sixteen when he finally kisses you, only goodbye and only on the cheek. But you swear you’ll never want to kiss anyone else.
There are other boys. Normal, available, boys, who don’t leave for part of the year. Only none of them are Neville, therefore none of them are good enough.
Three years imagining a life together
Love your family more than we loved each other
I said I’d keep in touch and I did
But the more we keep in touch, the more I miss him
The second she enters her small flat she can feel her entire world shatter around her. Leaning her back against the door as she sinks to the ground, head dropping into her hands as she wipes furiously at her eyes, trying to push the tears back in.
Once a week she had attended dinner at the burrow, it was nice, good to see Molly and Arthur and whichever kids were around, of course George was never there, the date marked in his calendar in a red pen reminder to not go home that day. To sleep and eat at the flat.
The family had been heartbroken to hear that he had broken up with his girlfriend, after the war he had committed all his time to helping Fred. His twin needed every last bit of his attention, helping with his physical therapy and his dwindling mental state and so George’s relationship had taken a back seat. She hadn’t minded, in fact she had understood, she even committed herself to helping too.
But a year after George decided to call things off, Fred was better, he was walking and he was happier and he was working again. It was the perfect time for him to focus on his relationship, after all the girl had proven herself time and time again. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Maybe it was that he felt like he needed a minute alone.
Maybe it was the feeling that she was so much better than him. Maybe it was his mother’s constant talks of rings and weddings. He wasn’t quite sure but all of a sudden he felt like he was suffocating.
He sat her down in his bedroom in the flat. Explained that she wasn’t the one and it didn’t feel right anymore. He had watched as she cried and had attempted to comfort her only for her to push him away, fleeing his flat leaving a baffled Fred on the living room sofa, television on in front of him, wondering why the girl who may as well be a sister just left the flat in floods of tears.
George still visions his mother’s face when he closes his eyes, the look on her face when he told her he ended his relationship. He remembers her disappointment. He remembers his brothers shock. He remembers his dad’s sad sigh. He remembers his sister’s passionate rant about how he never deserved her anyway.
As the girl cries on her hallway floor she vows that she will stop. Stop seeing the Weasley’s. Not because she doesn’t love them with every fibre of her being but because she couldn’t handle the heart break. Couldn’t keep sitting at their dinner table without his hand on her knee. Couldn’t keep sitting on the swing set without him laughing and pushing her. Couldn’t keep helping Molly clean plates without him sat on the counter teasing her.
Tell your sister if she hears from her ex
I can’t be the one that she calls
And as much as I love talks with your dad
I need him to leave me alone
Cause I can’t find the words to express
The way that I wish I was the one
But friends don’t bring friends to family reunions
Her resolve to stop seeing the Weasley’s was gone by the next morning.
She woke up to a missed call from Charlie and called back, chattering away about his upcoming trip home as she got ready.
She arrived at her job at the ministry and met up with Hermione for coffee, deciding that when she eventually cut her ties she would keep Hermione. The girl was like a younger sister, although so was Ginny, but she figured one last tie to the family, someone to hear their news from would do no harm.
Arthur knocked on her office door in his lunch break, bringing with him sandwiches made by Molly and asking her to eat with him and she didn’t have the heart to say no, so instead they ate in her office and talked merrily about the infestation of singing sunglasses he was dealing with today.
As she left her office she received a phone call from Ginny, who ranted about how annoying Harry was being and how now she had graduated and was training she felt like she had no time to focus on her relationship.
It was after she assured the girl that her and Harry were meant to be as she walked through the Leaky Cauldron she knew what she had to do.
She got a flat above a bookshop on Diagon Alley simply to be near George and now everyday, walking past his store, felt like torture. She hadn’t been in the store, she’d avoided it like the plague even when Fred asked her to come and hang out with him and George wasn’t working. So as she walked into the atmospheric shop her heart felt like it was sinking in her chest.
“Hey sweetheart, you all okay?” Fred asks with a bright grin, he’s leaning on his cane for support and eyeing the door.
She could cry looking at him. Not just because he looks identical to the man who fell out of love with her and she still pined desperately for. No. Today the tears she blinks back are practically grief, she knew that, realistically, she would see Fred around, but she wouldn’t be able to call him a friend anymore.
“I uh- could I speak to George?” she questions, Fred smiles gently, noticing her pained tone.
“Yeah, of course, you can go on up,” he assures. She nods shooting him a small smile, but pauses on the stairs.
“Hey Freddie,”
“Yeah,”
“I want you to know that I am really proud of you, of the shop and of how much better you are and I mean when I first met you who’d have thought you’d end up here. I just-well I love you and I am really proud,” She blinks back tears as she speaks, almost wishing she would get a chance to say a goodbye to all the Weasley’s.
Fred smiles gently, somewhere in him he can tell, tell that this is goodbye and he’s about to loose a friend.
“I love you too sweetheart, just remember no matter what that I am always going to be here for you,”
They share eye contact for a moment, both knowing and not saying it. Fred understood, he can only imagine how hard it must be to still be a part of his family’s lives after George. He knew the girl in front of him loved his twin brother more than anything, he knew that deep down George loved her just as much, and yet here Fred stands, a silent goodbye hanging in the air.
You run a Bakery, just a normal bakery, the only problem is that your customers at midnight to 6AM are mythical creatures who pay with gemstones and ancient gold and silver coins
“My guy, you are overpaying for your bread.” I tell the being in front of me, getting a hissed out sound that could be a laugh, could be a death rattle. There are six sourdough loaves on the counter, unbagged and still a little warm from the oven. It’s four-forty-five AM, and sunrise is in thirty minutes.
“Unless this is a trick coin that disappears when the sun rises.” I muse, looking down at the very suspicious *solid gold* coin sitting on my counter. It’s happened before. “I’ll go get the scale I guess.” I say, resigned, and head back to the office where I keep the box of jewelers-grade tools for this kind of thing.
If the coin is real, it certainly is heavy enough to be Significant. It’s nearly two ounces of solid gold.
“Look.” I say, sighing as I look up the days gold prices. “If I take this coin as a solid piece, *and* it’s genuine through a year and a day, I’ll take the value and set you up a tab so that you don’t have to pay every time. Human money isn’t worth as much as this any more, and it’s not fair to overcharge you for *bread*.” I tell it.
The coin is worth over five thousand dollars in modern human American currency. That’s absolutely going to be a pain to explain to the IRS.
A chittering sound like birds in the dark. Agreement, probably. Should be anyhow, my refusal to cheat anyone has been the reason these strange beings show up more and more often.
“So I can’t make change for this.” I tell the being. “I’ll add it to the Vault, get it appraised once I’ve got it authenticated, and in the meantime you can have as much bread as you want.” I say, and the bread vanishes into the things robes, to a very loud chirping storm that is silenced when the robes fall back into place.
“Pleasure doing business.” the being says in a voice that isn’t human, is very much *not* human and I don’t want to ask further. “We will return. The wild seed rolls are delightful.” it says in six different voices, and I grin and nod.
“Come back on Thursday.” I tell them. “I’ve been experimenting again, and I think the sunflower and pumpkin seed rolls are ready to go live. We’ve got the drop scheduled on instagram and tiktok!” I tell them, and they whistle a chirpy tune as they pull a cell phone out of nowhere and scan my code that I had etched into the counter so that I didn’t have to make business cards. Even the eldrich have smartphones these days, and it’s just easier to have something available that they don’t have to touch to get what they want, since some rules still say that they must offer something of equivalent exchange and cannot take gifts. Like a business card.
It’s not easy running a bakery, and nobody else will work the witching hours, but it’s a lot of fun. I’d had no idea that so many *interesting* beings also loved bread as much as I do. I turn from waving to the strange being, and I move to check out my next customer.
Who is absolutely not three gnomes in a trench coat. Absolutely not. That would be absurd. They want three sandwiches, three giant cookies, and three coffees. Can’t be three gnomes in a trench coat though.
The rubies they pay with are very pretty though, and I consider again how hard it would be to find a jeweler who didn’t ask questions. A ruby necklace would be a lovely way to turn the gems and gold into cash for the business account.
I reload the gnomes tab, and they leave with their sandwiches and coffee and cookies, and I throw in a pack of ginger snap cookies for them to try too, since they always leave me good reviews on the local facebook pages.
You were absolutely right to tag me in this, this is phenomenal! Fun and fresh and endearing! The gnomes in a trench coat has my cry-laughing after the day I’ve had. Thanks so much for sharing your writing @jazzybot4
Eris’ mate decides to get rid of her father-in-law.
Also known as: If Eris Vanserra married a very bloodthirsty Margaery Tyrell.
Warning:
Plotting of Murder, Poisoning, Mention of domestic violence and parental abuse, Beron ends up dead?
(Lovely dividers thanks to @tsunami-of-tears!)
The moment Wisteria Abinac met her future husband…her future father-in-law was a dead male.
Beron Vanserra should have simply known better than to ever have laid a single finger on her mate.
It was an open secret in the Autumn Court, after all, what exactly he did to his lovely wife and his sons. The High Lord was known for his cruelty.
So really…she was doing everybody a favour if she killed him.
Wisteria decided two things during that Masquerade Ball where she first danced with Eris Vanserra and the Mating Bond decided to snap for her: Beron Vanserra was a dead male and Wisteria Abinac was going to marry her mate.
That marrying her mate was going to make her the next Lady of Autumn…well, that was just a happy coincidence. (Her grandmother would be very pleased indeed. This was what Begonia Abinac had always strived for, after all.)
Wisteria wasn’t going to protest that particular title in any way. She had not been named Wisteria for nothing. Wisteria was named after that sweet-smelling vigorously climbing plant: She was rather good at climbing, especially the social kind.
That was what she had been raised to do, hadn’t she? If the bumbling male idiots in her family couldn’t manage it, the females did.
So at that Masquerade ball…it had been the touch of a hand, calloused from sword fighting and one look into a pair of amber eyes and the Mating Bond had decided to snap for her.
It hadn’t snapped for him.
At least, Wisteria didn’t think so, because he spent the rest of that Masquerade Ball utterly ignoring her.
Oh well. That only managed to light a fire under.
Wisteria was going to procure herself the Heir to the Autumn Court as her husband. Even when it was the last thing she did. Thankfully, the situation didn’t turn out to be quite as dire.
Actually…it was laughably easy. Wisteria had expected it to be more difficult.
A few words to her father at dinner one evening of how her older brother should really marry and finally procure an heir to their duchy…Thanks to the cauldron, her father had the High Lord’s Ear. (The fact that her family kept most of the Autumn Court provided with grain, was useful for once.) She knew that he would mention something to the High Lord about finding his eldest son a wife….and once he did…the seeds were sown.
Then, a few words to her grandmother of how cunning and handsome the eldest son of the High Lord was…Wisteria didn’t need to say more to make her intentions clear. Begonia Abinac just patted her hand and congratulated her for setting her sights on such an ambitious target…
And once Wisteria had these two in her corner…well, then she only needed a few other well-placed words to a few other well-placed people and the next letter that fluttered into the Abinac family manor… that was all about how High Lord of Autumn had decided that his eldest son should also really get on with that heir business and that the daughter of one of his most needed allies was going to be just a good pick as any...
The next court occasion brought with it a lovely new dark green dress that fitted beautifully with her dark hair and eyes, a gold tiara woven in her hair that looked like gold encrusted leaves and fat emeralds dripping down her throat…She already looked like the Lady of this Court, even when she wasn’t. Not yet, at least
And once Wisteria had her in…it was even easier.
She knew what the High Lord liked. Wisteria had perfected the mask of a simpering, submissive girl. Nothing that Beron would find threatening in any way. Just about magically powerful enough that he thought she was worth it to give birth to his heir’s heir, but weak enough that he wasn’t worried that she would start a rebellion or anything like that…
A fun plaything. Nothing more. Nothing less.
She did make sure at that ball that she caught the eyes of every available male. Waving a bright red flag in front of them that she was available, from good breeding stock and clearly knew how to behave. She knew that she was playing with fire.
Oh well. Wisteria had always adored flames.
She was counting on the Mating bond-induced jealousy. Expected it in fact.
No other male would be stupid enough to get in the way of a Prince if he did make his interest clear...and it seemed to work. After about an hour of simpering conversation and wrapping a curl of dark hair around her finger…, there he was...the Autumn Prince himself.
He came to stand next to her, a glass of wine in one hand as he leaned casually against the wall. Wisteria took a moment to study him closer. Gods, he was certainly easy enough on the eyes. "Enjoying yourself, Lady Wisteria?" he asked a moment later, his voice casually polite, a hint of a smirk on his lips.
She turned her head to look at him fully, a polite smile on her own lips in return as she met his gaze. "Of course, milord," she said back, her own tone just as polite, even as her own eyes slid down over his body as she spoke. "I always did enjoy a good dance."
Eris chuckled and took a drink of his wine, his eyes watching her with an expression of interest. "You certainly seem used to them," he said, his tone still casual, but there was a slight hint of a question to his words. "You've already shared a dance with half of the available males within the room."
She giggled back, lifting a hand and toying with a strand of her hair. "You exaggerate, Milord," she said back, her voice still casual, keeping her mask of polite innocence on. "I think it's only been one-quarter of the available males in the room."
"Searching for your long-suffering future husband?" he asked her. There was something sharp in these words, but she didn’t let that stop her.
"Oh, I already found him," she gave back drily.
That got him to pause, and she silently noted how his golden eyes flashed with something like surprise at her words. There was a hint of a frown on his lips for just a moment before he smoothed it back out, but he was clearly thinking furiously. "You have?" he asked his tone back to being casually polite. "Who is the lucky male, then?"
She lifted her head a little more and tilted her head to the side with a smile of innocent satisfaction on her lips. "Why, you, of course, milord," she said like it was just the most obvious thing in the world.
There it was again...that flash of surprise in his gaze, his eyes sharpening just a fraction. She wondered if he was going to brush her off as some silly, foolish, simpering female...or if he was going to take the bait...
It...it took all her willpower and hard-won experience to keep that polite, innocent smile on her lips and not smirk in victory as she watched him consider his words, his golden gaze on her face never wavering for a moment...
"...Is that so?" he eventually said, his tone still casual and polite, as if he was discussing the current weather and not her stating that he was already her future husband. "And why, exactly, am I your chosen future husband, Miss Abinac? You don't even know me."
The corner of her lips tugged up, just a fraction, at the question, the first crack in her mask, but he was sharp, his eyes noticing that, of course. "That may be true, Milord," she gave him a smile back. "But I could say the same the other way, too. You know nothing about me either...and yet, you approached me all the same."
"I do know that you are a very good dancer," he said calmly, offering her his hand.
Once more, Wisteria hid a victorious smirk, her own hand placing itself in his, her fingers curling through his. "I do like dancing, Milord," she replied calmly. "And I do pride myself on not trampling on my partner’s toes."
Her mask didn't even slip once as he led her out to the dance floor, the two of them began to dance, and it took every ounce of control in her body not to smile in sheer satisfaction at the feel of the Mating Bond in her chest burning brilliantly, as if to mark the moment as something...momentous.
He proposed 3 days later.
She knew that Eris didn't propose to her because he wanted to. His father ordered him.
A fact that Wisteria knew and thoroughly loathed and which gave her all the more motivation to make sure that she would be the one truly pulling the strings come the day she married him.
Eris may not want to marry her, but he was her mate.
And Wisteria had secured that ruby ring set into gold...well, she could have laughed at how easy it was to get what she wanted. Her entire engagement to the High Lord's son had been as simple as a flutter of her eyelashes and a few choice words.
Actually marrying Eris...well that was another thing entirely.
He seemed utterly uninterested in her. Which stung and made her seethe more than a little if she was being honest with herself. After all, he was her mate...and yet, he gave her nothing. Not a hint of the bond between them...not an inch past polite courtesy and duty.
Granted, he didn’t treat her badly. Wisteria just was certain that there were inanimate objects that got more of his attention than her. Not even to speak of his whole horde of dogs.
Well, at least the dogs liked her, she supposed. Probably helped by the fact that she was not above some well-intentioned bribery and fed them bits of her breakfast.
(Though if she had hoped that maybe once the dogs liked her, Eris would warm up to her…well, that did not come to pass. He was more likely to glare at the dogs than he was to look at her when they played with her.)
It had been nearly three months. And her husband had not given her a single damn thing to work with…
In fact, he hadn't touched her at all. Other than that one kiss at the altar to seal their marriage, that was.
Eris had not shared her bed once. Had never even tried to touch her at all.
How exactly was Wisteria supposed to give him an heir, if he didn’t lay with her?
Her mate was infuriating.
Eris was her mate for Cauldron’s sake...he should want her, should seek her out...so why wasn't he doing that? It was making her furious.
And when Wisteria was furious…she did one thing and one thing only: She plotted.
In this particular case, Wisteria plotted the downfall of her father-in-law.
Beron Vanserra was a brute of a male...and yet, it was laughably easy to figure out how to manipulate and play him. After all, he wanted the same thing all males like him wanted.
He wanted to be flattered and praised, to be told that everything he said was correct and he was doing the right thing. It was all just a matter of careful flattery, of sweet words said at the right moment, and it was all too easy to gain his ear and attention...
Beron Vanserra was not only a dead male, but a stupid one, as well.
And that…that suited Wisteria’s plan just so well.
Just as she had plotted to marry Eris…she plotted to make Eris High Lord.
After all, Beron was doing nothing more than slowly destroying the strength and power of Autumn. He was destroying the lands...he was wasting all the resources that the court had...and he was doing all of it as he drank himself into oblivion on a nightly basis. The whole thing was an excellent opportunity for her to carefully slip a few words into the right ears, to whisper about better ways of doing things...to suggest Eris as a better leader...
And well, if she joined her parents-in-law at their nightly dinner, with a bottle of Apple Cider in tow...a wedding gift from the ancient Duke Hector who sadly died just days after their wedding...that was simply what a good daughter-in-law did, right?!
(And if that meant that she gave the long-suffering Lady of the Court a break from having to soothe some of Beron's...tempers...well, even better. Amara had always been lovely to her after all. And Eris did adore his mother, seemingly the only person who managed to make him show any feelings at all.)
Amara, in turn, had seemed to grow quite fond of Wisteria, taking it upon herself to teach her the way of the court, who to turn to for what…for a girl that hadn’t had a mother since her own had succumbed to illness when she had just been a toddler…it was foreign to have that again. Wisteria’s grandmother had never been particularly maternal. But Amara was.
And just because of that, Wisteria wanted to shield her from Beron’s outbursts and his tempers.
It was a good thing for the Lady of the Autumn Court to catch a break from Beron on some level, and if it helped to strengthen Wisteria's bond with Amara and Eris, well, all the better.
(Or at least, Wisteria told herself that that was the only reason why she enjoyed spending time with Amara.)
Wisteria knew two things: One, in a match of magic, she would utterly lose against any High Lord. And two...Beron was stupid to actually drink that damn apple cider every night.
(Thank god, the late Duke Hector had been gracious enough to give them three whole boxes of it to their wedding…nobody would notice if she started…adding something to the last batch of it…)
Wisteria hadn't been born an Abinac for nothing. Her knowledge of botany was...extensive. Extensive and well-known.
Well known that she tended to the Palace Gardens and even planted medicinal herbs to stock up the infirmary of the Forest House guards…
The knowledge of herbs, plants, and nature in general had certainly helped Wisteria a great deal, in all sorts of different ways. The knowledge of some particularly useful plants and herbs...well, the knowledge had certainly come to good use. After all, it was only sensible to try and learn how to better aid her people...
And it made for some rather handy tools to have at her disposal...should the need for them ever arise.
And if she snipped off a few sprigs of hemlock every day...oh well. Nobody needed to know.
She wasn't stupid enough to only poison the High Lord‘s glass. She would be found out in a heartbeat.
Wisteria poisoned that whole box of Apple Cider.
She was also very careful to build up an immunity to Hemlock for both her and Amara over three months. There was no antidote for Hemlock after all…
Like any good planner, Wisteria played the waiting game, playing the dutiful new wife and daughter-in-law by day, planning and plotting for her husband's coronation by night.
Safety first. Making sure to cover her tracks.
She wasn't stupid enough to take the risk of being found out. The poisoning of the High Lord needed to be done, but her own safety and the safety of Amara needed to be considered first.
And when Eris told her that he would be away for a week or so, tending to Autumn’s army...well...
Wisteria decided that Beron's time had come.
She behaved just like she had done for three months. Following the routine she had established.
Wisteria played her part as perfectly as always, her routine just as precise and on point as it had always been. Just that the drink she poured her father-in-law that night…it was lethal. (For him.)
It was so easy to keep the mask of the dutiful daughter-in-law on as she made sure that Beron's meal for that evening was prepared on time, and she even kept it in place as she followed the long-established ritual of handing Beron his nightly drink afterwards, a kind smile on her lips.
Granted, her own drink was just as hemlock-infused. As was Amara's.
There was to hope that she didn't absolutely fuck this up.
Wisteria was careful, after all. She wasn't taking any chances, not by a long shot. Beron, for a High Lord, was surprisingly stupid in so many ways...
As he took his first drink, she brought her own glass to her lips, not drinking a single drop.
The sudden gasping after breath...the fact that his whole face turned purple...The panicked scrabbling at this face and neck as he tried in vain to get anything, any air at all, into his body...Beron Vanserra...he didn't even manage to take a single step in her direction, or to even reach for the magic...he fell dead before he could even make a move to reach her.
He just fell to the floor, dead before her eyes as his own wife watched on in shocked horror as the life left her husband's eyes, but Wisteria didn't allow herself to look at Amara, keeping her eyes fixed steadily on her father-in-law as his final breath left his body.
And then she started screaming for the guards.
(Really, her acting performance was on par with the Royal Theatre, if she said so herself!)
Her performance was perfect, her screams and sobs of horror were enough to draw a great many guards, several of them coming running into the room quickly, clearly alarmed at the loud sounds, their eyes turning to look at the scene in the room in front of them.
They froze in place for a moment as they took in the sight of the late High Lord on the floor, his face a purplish shade of colour and his dead, unblinking eyes staring up at them, but their attention then turned to the sobbing, hysterical Wisteria, who was in the middle of sobbing and crying as her trembling hands clutched at the fabric of her dress...
And Amara, who just stared, shocked into silence.
Wisteria did feel horrible for traumatising her like that. But it was the best way to make sure that the Lady of Autumn would be seen as innocent.
Amara’s usual gentle and kind demeanour was nowhere to be seen at this moment, her face utterly pale and her dark eyes as wide open as they could go, her hand clutched tight against her chest as she stared down at her dead husband, her mouth moving as she tried to speak, tried to say something, anything...and yet, she was still too shocked to make a single sound beyond a strangled gasp.
The guards that answered Wisteria's screams and came rushing into the room stood there for a moment in shocked and horrified silence, their eyes frozen on the body and the sight of the High Lord dead on the floor, dead by...he was poisoned.
And then, as if on cue, they all as one seemed to realize that Wisteria and Amara were still alive and standing in the middle of the room, and their gazes moved to look at the two females, their eyes taking them in and trying to assess the situation.
She had counted on them thinking that females were weak.
She had been right to count on that. The moment she started stuttering about the apple cider that had been a wedding gift from a dead male...they had found their culprit.
Too bad for the late Duke Hector...but then, the male had hated Beron with a passion, so Wisteria thought that he probably wouldn't feel too bad that she used him as her scapegoat.
Her stuttering and sobbing were enough to confirm the guard's belief that the late High Lord had been poisoned by the apple cider...and not a single one of them thought of any other culprit than the late Duke Hector. After all, he had given the gift, and he was dead.
The perfect crime.
Wisteria was sobbing loudly the entire time the guards were in the room, her expression one of perfect distress and shock as they all discussed the 'crime', and it was only after the guards had picked up Beron's body to take it away and prepare it for the funeral rites, that Amara finally seemed to regain herself.
She turned her head to look at Wisteria, her face still deathly pale and one hand moving to clutch tightly at the younger female's arm. "You're unharmed...?” she whispered, her voice trembling from the shock.
"I'm alright," Wisteria replied shakily, her own voice trembling just as much as she turned her head to look back at her mother-in-law, her eyes red from the sobbing, a very convincing picture. "I'm alright...thank the Mother," she whispered, her voice still shaky as she took a few steps closer to the Lady of Autumn Court and gripped the older woman's hand in hers.
"I am so sorry," Wisteria apologised. She wasn't. Not really.
"It's alright," Amara whispered, her hand squeezing Wisteria's own hand so tightly they felt as if they were crushing her fingers. "You're...you're alright," she repeated again, as if the words were a mantra to comfort herself. Wisteria squeezed Amara's own hand back, her other hand moving up and wrapping around the older female's shoulders, hugging her.’
Poison was found in the glasses of all three and in the bottle. Clearly Duke Hector had wanted them all dead.
The guards had bought it, hook line and sinker. After all, the duke was dead...there was no need for further investigation beyond that, and the belief that the Duke had wanted to poison everyone present during the meal was more than enough for them. They were just so sure of themselves after all, and the case was wrapped up neatly, and nobody was going to bother to investigate further beyond what appeared to be the obvious conclusion.
Her plan…it had gone off without a hitch.
Now to deal with the fallout.
"Let's go sit down," Wisteria told her mother-in-law softly. "Why don't you come stay in Eris and I's rooms tonight?"
Amara shook her head faintly, but it was more of an instinctive, thoughtless action rather than an answer to the suggestion, and after a moment she whispered out a weak, "Please." It was the most vulnerable that Wisteria had ever seen the older female act as they began making their way towards the Heir's room.
She kept an arm around Amara at all times, murmuring gentle reassurances as she led her towards her and Eris' room, doing her best to reassure her mother-in-law as best she could. Amara was in shock, that much was obvious.
She helped Amara sit down on an armchair once they reached the room, one of her own hands moving to take the older female's hand again and holding hers in hers, gently rubbing her thumb across Amara's knuckles in what she hoped was a comforting gesture.
"Just try and take a few deep breaths," she spoke in a gentle, soft murmur, her eyes watching the older woman closely as Amara sat there, all too aware of the fact that it could very easily go downhill if Amara didn't get herself back in control soon. "I'm right here," she reassured. "You're not alone. You'll be alright. Just try and breathe."
Amara obeyed, or at least, she tried, taking in a few shaky, gulping breaths that shook her body as Wisteria continued to speak in a soft, gentle voice, the young, inexperienced Lady of Autumn Court doing her best to help her in-law and maintain her own mask of concern and distress, all too aware that if her mask slipped even a little...if Amara so much as suspected something, her meticulously planned charade could come tumbling down around her.
It took a few minutes, but eventually, Amara finally managed to get herself a bit more together, her own grip on Wisteria's hand loosening and her breathing becoming less shaky and ragged as Wisteria continued to hold the older female's hand and murmur soft assurances to her, taking her time and letting Amara calm down at her own pace.
"I never thought..." Amara said, shaking her head.
"Nobody could have predicted this," Wisteria murmured back, squeezing Amara's hand gently. "It can't have been easy for you," Wisteria told the older woman gently. "Dealing with him, I mean. You're a much better wife than he ever deserved," she continued, squeezing Amara's hand in her own. "You're strong...and good," she continued, her voice soft and gentle, her expression one of sympathy and concern over what she was saying. It was the complete and total truth, after all, which made it all the easier to act like she was feeling bad for the older woman's plight.
Beron had been a brute and an ass...and it had made it so much easier to poison his drink. "All he ever did was hurt and belittle you," Wisteria continued softly. "Nobody deserves to be treated that way, certainly not by one's own husband...especially not one as gentle and kind as you," she said, one of her thumbs rubbing slowly over the top of Amara's knuckles. "All he ever did was hurt and belittle you," Wisteria continued softly. "Nobody deserves to be treated that way, certainly not by one's own husband...especially not one as gentle and kind as you," she said, one of her thumbs rubbing slowly over Amara's knuckles.
She was supposed to be naïve, inexperienced, clueless...yet it seemed she had outplayed them all...and she had won. With her mask in place and Amara starting to pull herself together more with each passing moment, it was starting to look like she had gotten away with her planned crime...
Now...the only thing she needed to do was wait until Eris came home so she could start the second phase of her plans.
"What did you use?" Amara asked her, her voice even.
Wisteria blinked a couple of times, surprised by the blunt question. From her experience, Amara had never asked a question so bluntly before...or a question with such a dark and difficult topic. "Pardon?" she asked, her head tilting to one side as her own fingers continued to gently rub at the top of Amara's knuckles.
"To poison him," Amara clarified, looking directly into Wisteria's own eyes as she squeezed back the younger female's hand in hers. "What did you use?"
Wisteria's eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, she didn't know what to say, her hand tightening around Amara's own as her mind worked desperately to find a believable answer, a lie that sounded plausible. And then, her eyes dropped down to stare at Amara's own hands, and a thought came to her mind.
“I have no idea, what you could possibly mean,” she said carefully. “But it did look like Hemlock poisoning to me.”
Wisteria felt her heart rate quicken in her chest, but she forced herself to remain outwardly calm, her eyes lifting up so she could look at Amara again. Amara was looking straight back at her, her own eyes sharp and perceptive, the older female's expression carefully neutral. She could see that she had caught on to something...had perhaps even caught on to the truth. But Wisteria could deny that, she could deny it, and she could play it off.
Amara just huffed.
“Why?” Amara asked her. “Why take that risk?”
Wisteria swallowed hard, her heart racing even faster in her chest, but she forced herself to keep her face calm and neutral, her eyes still fixed on Amara's own.
She couldn't falter, or make any kind of mistake. If Amara decided to pursue this, if she continued to pry...her entire plan could be destroyed, all of her work and planning for nothing.
There was no mistaking the question. Despite her mask, and her neutral expression, there was something in Amara's eyes, something in her tone that made it clear to Wisteria that she knew. Amara had guessed what she had done - and she most likely suspected even more besides.
And now, Wisteria needed to answer her, and she needed to answer in such a way that would make the Lady of Autumn Court stop asking further questions about what had truly happened in the dining room tonight.
“Nobody lays a finger on my family without answering to me,” Wisteria said simply.
***
“Are you sure?” Villard, one of his commanders, asked him quietly.
Eris was standing by the tent doors, one hand bracing himself as he silently stared out over the field in front of him.
Was he sure? No. He was not sure...but he was very much afraid.
But fear, just like any other emotion, was useless to him. He clenched his fingers briefly before he spoke, his voice quiet and controlled. "I have to be sure," he said to the General.He could be afraid. He could be full of dread...but there was no turning back now.
His men, along with the men of the Autumn Court army, were waiting at camp for orders. They were waiting for him to give the orders to march. The entire army was relying on him.
He could not show them any fear. He could not show them any doubt.
And so, he took in a slow, deep breath and tried to force himself to appear as if he was completely confident in what he was about to do...even if he was far from confident. It was a risk. A gamble. He knew that.
But he needed to make it.
He needed to. The clock was ticking.
Ever since three months ago.
Since he had stood in that temple and married his mate and had pretended that she wasn’t that. He pretended that she was the wife his father had forced onto him, that he wasn’t interested in the slightest. Which was a lie. It was the biggest lie of his whole existence.
Pretending that he wasn't interested, pretending he didn't care for her...every day had been getting harder and harder.
These dark brown eyes looked at him, belying shrewd intelligence and he often wondered if she didn’t know much more than she let on.
He closed his eyes briefly and clenched his jaw, a sharp pang of pain shooting through his chest at the memories...but he could not think of that now. He had more important things to focus on.
“Yes,” he answered, grounding out the words. “I am sure.”
Sure to carry out the plan they had made…sure in the military coup he had planned. Sure to show up at the forest house gates with an army in tow and kill his father, take that crown that was his by right through blood.
“But it feels like a mistake.” He admitted, his voice just loud enough for the commander to hear his words. “That I'm leading us all to our deaths.”
His head turned slightly, enough so he caught a glimpse of the expression on Villard’s face while still staring out over the field.
He saw worry, and concern...but he also saw loyalty and determination. Loyalty to him.
"You're overthinking this, General," Villard said, and the firm, quiet tone in his voice caused Eris to turn his head fully and look at him. "You're leading your men into a battle. You're preparing yourself for a war. Any General in your position would feel the same as you do. This is how it's supposed to be. But this coup is our best, our only option. And you've never gone into a fight scared before-" because he had never had anything to fear at all before, "...and you're not going to start now.
"But I-" Eris tried to speak, but his protestation was cut off by Villard’s next words, as blunt and serious as always.
Villard didn't bother to mince his words. Never had. "If you continue to doubt yourself and hesitate, then you're going to get your men killed, General," he said bluntly. "Your army is waiting for you to lead them. You are one of the best Males I have ever served under, and I have faith in you...and they do, too. Do not make me doubt my faith in you."
Villard was right.
"Tomorrow," Eris finally said. "Tomorrow at dawn."
Villard nodded his head once in agreement.
Tomorrow at dawn. Tomorrow, they would be marching. Tomorrow, they would be riding to the Forest House...to confront Beron.
Eris took in a deep, shuddering breath as if he was trying to convince himself that he was really going through with it. He could not back down now. He couldn't second-guess himself anymore. They were doing this, they were actually doing this.
And then...then he felt it.
Felt the whole foundation of Prythian shudder and shake...could feel the magic in the air.
The High Lord's Magic fell onto his shoulders like a ton of bricks.
The reality of what had happened, of what this meant hit him, and for a moment, he didn't breathe.
His father was dead. The power and the magic that came with that fact were now his. That crown that he had dreamed about for so long, that crown that had eluded him for centuries was now sitting on his head.
Eris Vanserra was the High Lord of the Autumn Court.
He tried to breathe, tried to make himself feel steady again. He couldn't falter. Not now.
He clenched his hands briefly, his shoulders rolling back as he tried to adjust to the new, sudden power that he could feel thrumming inside him, the magic flowing through him in a way he hadn't known was possible.
It was both thrilling and terrifying. Thrilling in the power itself...and terrifying for what it now meant.
He had no time to adjust, though, and no time to marvel. They had to ride. They had to get to the forest house and get there now.
"You felt that," Villard spoke beside him, a near imperceptive shake in his voice "Didn't you?"
The question caused Eris to snap back to the situation.
His eyes met Villard’s own for a brief moment, his head moving down in a short, nearly imperceptible nod. “I did,” he spoke, his voice just loud enough for the man next to him to hear.
There was little point in trying to hide the fact that he had just felt the power that came with becoming High Lord. There was little doubt that the whole army had...that the entire forest had just felt that sudden change.
A murmur ran through the army behind them, an ever growing, steady hum of voices and whispers, a murmur that had started the moment the shockwave of magic had raced through the camp.
There could have been no doubt who that earthquake of magic had been. Nor who had just become High Lord as a result of it.
"High Lord," Villard murmured, dropping to his knees before him.
All around them, the entire army was dropping to their knees, the soldiers in the army lowering themselves onto the ground as the murmur of voices became a steady, quiet chant of the title.
High Lord. High Lord. High Lord…
Eris stared out over the camp as his men, his soldiers, knelt before him.
High Lord. High Lord. His mind repeated the words as he swallowed hard.
He felt a little like he was floating. A little like this was all a bad dream, and that any moment he was going to wake up and find it all a lie.
High Lord of the Autumn Court. This was the dream that he had longed for. This was what he had been working for, planning for...and it was here, now.
It was time now. Now. They wouldn't wait until Dawn.
That first action of that High Lord's magic thrumming underneath his skin was to winnow a whole legion of warriors straight to the doorstep of The Forest House. It was a drop in the sudden ocean of power at his disposal…to winnow a group of his most trusted soldiers.
The Wards bend for him with nary a thought.
They and Eris himself appeared at the entryway of the Forest House, standing in front of the imposing building as his eyes immediately shot to the top of the building as if trying to spot a light in a window, or a silhouette behind the window panes of the second floor.
He wondered if she could feel it if she was watching from a window.
He turned and looked at Villard - his General now - and gave a short, sharp nod. The first step in this coup was to secure the Forest House. And then, the rest could happen.
There was no time to linger. No time to look over the house or let the enormity of the situation hit him. They had to move now. Every second counted.
The army rushed forward, the legion splitting up through the doors of the house. They needed to secure every room in the house. Every hallway, every room, every possible place his brothers could be hiding in, preparing for a fight.
Eris stayed behind in the main hallway, staring up at the grand staircase in front of him as his magic thrummed in his veins, waiting for one of his brothers to try and do something stupid.
None did.
It was actually...surprisingly easy.
Servants and staff fell down to their knees as they passed him, as he made his way upstairs...
Hemlock poisoning, one servant had blurted out. The healer are already seeing to…the body. The poison was in the Apple Cider you received as a wedding gift from Duke Hector, High Lord…
Eris tried not to let the easy way in which everything was working out bother him, tried not to let the calm and quiet of the house make him more suspicious...and tried to not think about the easy death his father had ended up having.
Hemlock poisoning.
He clenched his hand into a fist at his side, the only outward sign he let himself show as he headed up the stairs to the second level of the house.
His wife and his mother were sitting in their living room. Having tea. Like they hadn't just witnessed the death of his father not even an hour earlier.
Eris paused in the doorway, a frown on his normally impassive face as he took in his mate and his mother - sitting on opposite couches in the living room with tea between them.
There was a calm air about both of them as if they hadn’t just felt the house shudder from the death of his father, as if they hadn’t sensed the change of High Lord.
A faint sense of bemusement filled him as he watched her move, as Wysteris' dark red dress swished around her legs as it nearly skimmed the floor.
Wisteria's head snapped towards him and she gained her feed. Long brown hair fell down her back, pins straight as usual, a golden crown weaved during the chocolate tresses. Dark brown eyes were mustering him, the dark red velvet gown she wore contrasting sharply with her ivory skin.
And then his wife, his mate, sunk into a picture-perfect curtsy. "High Lord."
She had been beautiful the very first time he had seen her, at that Masquerade Ball. One dance… one dance and he had felt the Mating Bond rippling through him. And at that moment the only thing on his mind had been that he needed to protect her.
He had utterly failed at that.
Because Wisteria Abinac, his mate, had been offered to him by his father on a silver platter as his future wife.
He had tried everything to get out of marrying her. Everything to keep her as far removed from himself as he could. And he had failed. Failed, because fundamentally, Eris was a selfish male. He had told himself that disagreeing too much was just going to result in people giving Wisteria a second look, and so had only groused and complained enough not to have it be completely out of character.
And then he had married her.
Eris had married her. And he had known that if anybody found out that Wisteria was his mate…she was the easiest way straight to him. The easiest pressure point to exploit.
Eris couldn't have that. Not right now. So instead of actually being a proper husband to his mate…he had just started plotting right then and there to finally get rid of his father.
Wisteria didn't look surprised to see him here or to see the army of soldiers that filled the halls behind him. No, when she had turned to look upon him, all he had seen in her eyes was knowledge. She knew exactly why he was here.
"Wife," he answered her, a quiet acknowledgement of her words and her curtsy, his own eyes sweeping over her form. "Are you...well?" he asked her. It wasn’t everything he wanted to ask her. It was so far from what he wanted to do.
What he wanted was to sweep her up in his arms and whisper apologies against her skin, admit everything to her and… He couldn’t do this right now.
"I didn't drink any of the Apple Cider," she answered. "It was a wedding gift from Duke Hector...apparently seasoned with Hemlock. Thank the cauldron that neither Amara nor I drank any of it."
Hearing that his mate and his mother hadn't drunk any of the Cider was pure relief. His shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, and the tension that had been wound tightly in him began to loosen just a little.
"Thank the Cauldron," he murmured quietly, taking a few steps into the room. Behind him, the army was still swarming into the second level of the house. As he moved further into the room, his eyes swept over to his mother, taking in the picture of calm she presented as she sat sipping her tea from the couch.
"Mother," he greeted her, a slight incline of his head to the female. "Are you unharmed?"
The older female nodded at his question, sipping her tea again before she spoke in a calm, measured tone. "I didn't drink any of the Cider either," she told him, and the knowledge that she hadn't had a sip of the Hemlock-spiked drink helped set his mind at ease, at least somewhat. Even when she seemed nearly…absent. At least she was alive. At least she was safe.
Everything else…they could deal with everything else.
It was probably the shock, he reasoned. It was probably…
Eris inhaled a breath, trying to take a moment to steady himself. He needed to be calm, he needed to be emotionless. Which was seemingly impossible, because Wisteria grasped his hand in hers.
"You will need to appear in the Throne Room," she said calmly. "For the proclamation. Let me find you something to wear."
He paused when she grasped his hand, his eyes flickering to her face with a bewildered expression for a moment before he managed to shove that expression away behind his mask again. Wisteria seemed all too calm for the circumstances as if everything going on was a minor event instead of what it really was.
"Throne Room," he confirmed, squeezing his wife's hand back once before releasing it. "Yes, I need clothes."
Wisteria let go of his hand, and he mourned the loss of her touch, as she headed towards the bedrooms, probably to rummage through the clothes in there.
Meanwhile, his mother continued to sit there, sipping her tea like nothing was happening at all.
Eris paused, standing in the middle of the room and staring at her for a few seconds. Something was off...there was something odd about how she was sitting there like she wasn't the least bit bothered by the fact that there was an army in her house and her husband had just died. Did she...did she know what was happening?
His mother raised her eyes up to meet his gaze, a hint of sadness in her eyes to tell him that she did, in fact, know what was happening. Of course, she was sad...and yet, there was a slight sense of understanding as well.
"Go," his mother said, resting her cup on the saucer as she spoke. "Let Wisteria get you ready. Your brothers will soon realise what is going on. You don’t have time to linger here."
Eris’ eyes flickered back to where his mate had disappeared. Wisteria reappeared moments later. She moved efficiently, seemingly uncaring about the fact that an army was in the house, or that her father-in-law was dead. That she had watched him die.
His mother didn't move, didn't even rise from her spot by the couch, continuing to sip her tea as if it was a normal afternoon.
Eris forced himself to turn, his teeth clenching together tightly.
His wife held out the jacket for him to slip into. She had chosen a deep red brocade jacket for him to wear, one edged with golden thread at the wrists and the collars. He was quite certain that he had never seen it before.
Wysteria slipped the coat around his shoulders, pulling the jacket around his form and buttoning it closed. Her touch was grounding, even as he needed to hold himself back. It was the most intimacy he had ever allowed himself to have with his mate.
The brocade was heavy, the cut of the material clearly made for a High Lord. His wife fussed with the jacket for a few moments as he stood and watched her, before she stepped back with a small nod, looking him up and down.
"How do I look?" he asked her, a note of dry humour in his voice even as he spoke the question, even as he allowed a small, sardonic smirk.
He was to go and make his formal proclamation as High Lord, and here he was with his wife fussing over him, straightening his collar, adjusting the way his jacket sat on his shoulders, pulling at the end of his sleeves to adjust the fit. He could almost say the situation was bizarre if it wasn't so damn serious.
Wisteria tilted her head to the side lightly, her lips tilting up in a small smile that damn near took his breath away as she took him in from head to toe, looking him over.
"Like a High Lord," she finally spoke. Wisteria took a step in closer to him, reaching up and tucking a loose piece of hair back into his hairstyle. "Like you were always meant to be."
She took his arm before he could offer it, the perfect Lady at his side.
She was the picture of a perfect wife as she moved to stand at his side, and as he looked down at her, he knew that they would look every bit the High Lord and Lady as they strode through the hallways.
This was where they were both meant to be. This was who they both were, down to their bones.
That proclamation went painlessly.
He had expected something....but nothing happened. Absolutely nothing.
Even his brothers behaved. Though that may was thanks to Wisteria’s eyes that were keeping them pinned in place as she sat on the throne beside him. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes, at his wife, his mate, at the long, pin-straight hair, her spine held straighter than a rod of iron, the elegant arch of her neck and cheekbones. She looked so regal, so composed...She was beautiful.
The dark red velvet sharply contrasted with her skin, with the flowers that grew up in gold thread over her skirt and sleeves...
Flowers. Flowers. Flowers for a female who had been born into the Abinac Family. Known as the Grain Keepers of Autumn. Known as...known for their keen interest in botany. The garden that Wisteria kept...the garden she kept to have medicinal herbs grow, all tucked away in the little glasshouse that had been his wedding present for her…
The one thing he could give her that...that was just a hint of his feelings for her. For this beautiful being that had come into his life when he had least expected it.
But the herbs…the…
She wouldn't have done this…Right?
She wouldn't have. There was no...Just because his father had been poisoned by Hemlock...that wouldn't...
A frown pulled at his lips as he took in the serene expression on his wife's face, the soft smile that was there as she sipped on her drink.
She was calm, composed, and perfect. Just like the Lady of the Court was supposed to be.
Hemlock Poisoning…Hemlock Poisoning in the Apple Cider that had been a wedding present to them…From the Ancient Duke Hector that had ended up succumbing to his fever weeks after their wedding…
That…
Duke Hector had disagreed with his father politically on numerous occasions. But he had been a good male. Too good a male for the treacherous Autumn Court…He wouldn’t have….Eris could simply not imagine that he would attempt an assassination.
But apparently he had.
His mother. His mother knew. She was too calm. Too collected. Too…
His wife was too relaxed. She was too at ease. She had seen his father die in front of her, yet there was barely a flicker of emotions on her face.
But why. Why would...
But that was the question, wasn't it? Why would his wife conspire to kill his father, the High Lord? Only to put him on the throne?
And it had been stupidly dangerous what she had done. Hemlock was fatal. There was no antidote. If she or his mother had drunken even a drop of that Apple Cider…they would have both died.
Why take such a risk?!
That was the question, wasn't it? That was the question that was running through his mind, over and over again.
Why?
Why had Wisteria done this? Why had she poisoned the Apple Cider, knowing that all of them would be drinking it? That she herself had almost drunk from it?
Why.
There was no clear reason, no possible answer that came to mind...unless...
It made him want to get up from her throne, scoop her in his arms, and get her as far away as he could.
Unless this wasn't because of a clear-cut desire for power. Unless this was something more personal, more...driven. Unless there was a deeper motive behind this.
He kept his mouth shut.
Eris waited until the night wore on until the night was late when they retired to their room for the night. They had always slept in separate rooms, a custom that they had followed even when they had shared a bed the night of their wedding.
Tonight, however, he had no intention of following that custom. He was going to find out why his wife had poisoned the cider, why his mother seemed so unsurprised at his father's death, and why everything had been so damn easy for him to become High Lord.
He followed her to her room, and if she was surprised by his act...she didn't show it.
They had never shared a bed. He had never laid a finger on her. There were some lines that even Eris wasn’t willing to cross. Not when she didn't even know that they were mates. Not when...
He threw up a shield, encompassing just the two of them and then grasped her hand tightly, pulling her to him so that she needed to face him.
Her dark eyes widened, the first sign of surprise he had seen on her face in hours. The look of surprise didn't linger for long as a mask of composure slipped back into place, and the calm gaze was back on her features, watching him emotionlessly.
Still, he had to give her credit for managing to school her expression so quickly.
"You killed him."
He wasn’t quite sure what he had expected. Wisteria to stare at him wide-eyed, for her to become hysterical, for her to assure him that she hadn’t…
But he hadn’t expected the confirmation. “Yes,” Wisteria said, meeting his eyes, her chin held high. There wasn't even the slightest hint of remorse on her face, not a sliver of guilt anywhere in her features as she confirmed his accusation. “And I would do it again.”
"You poisoned the Apple Cider," he half-snarled at her, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "You poisoned it with Hemlock."
She shrugged her shoulders lightly, almost like this was a normal conversation to her.
"I did," she answered his accusation. No excuses, no explanations, just flat confirmation.
Eris gritted his teeth together, his muscles tensing with barely concealed anger as he listened to his wife speak with such a calm tone.
"Why," he bit out in a low, strangled voice. He needed an explanation, a reason, anything that might give him some idea as to why his wife had murdered his father.
She looked him in his eyes again, her gaze unwavering as she stared at him unblinkingly. For a moment, he thought that she wouldn't give him an answer, that she would simply stand there, staring him down in her usual, calm manner.
But she spoke, her voice as emotionless as her expression.
"Because you were too sentimental," she said. "He was bleeding our court dry. He was hurting your mother. He was hurting you."
A shocked breath left him. His hands relaxed slightly, the muscles in his shoulders loosening a little as the rage within him simmered. "What if my mother had drunk that apple cider?" he hissed at Wisteria. “What if you did? You could have killed both of you! There is no antidote to Hemlock.”
"There isn't," Wisteria agreed. "But you can grow an immunity to it."
"Are you telling me that you have been slowly poisoning yourself and my mother for the last 3 months?!?!" He asked incredulously, disbelief and horror colouring his wife. She had knowingly poisoned herself?!
She had...she had slowly been building an immunity to Hemlock.
"You were poisoning yourself" he managed to croak out, disbelief and anger mixed in his tone. "You were poisoning both of you!”
Her lips tugged into the hint of a smirk at his words, a reaction she never showed usually.
"Yes." Her voice was as emotionless as ever as she spoke. She could've been talking about the weather, it was almost eerie. There was no hint of regret for poisoning her and his mother, not a hint of remorse for the way she had planned his father's death. "I fed your mother and me tea spiked with a tiny amount of Hemlock so if we ingested a bigger amount, nothing would happen.”
"Why, in the Mother's name, why would you do that," he managed to half-yell out, his hands clenching into fists again.
"Well, only like that I could fault Duke Hector for it," his wife answered, like the answer was obvious. "He's dead, so nobody will get his head cut off for treason.” She said that, like clearly that was the perfect, reasonable answer.
Eris stared at her, dumbfounded, trying to string together everything she had just told him, trying to make sense in his head.
She had poisoned his father, using a method that only she could survive, and then left a paper trail to frame Duke Hector for the murder. It was...it was brilliantly done.
The level of planning, of patience, it had to have taken her months to plot all this out.
And she had been quicker than him. He wasn't sure if he should be furious at her, or impressed.
It was a perfectly executed, perfectly planned scheme. She had poisoned his father, knowing that she and his mother were the only ones who could drink the poisoned Apple Cider and survive it, and had set up the path so that it ended in Duke Hector being framed.
"Why," he asked her in a strangled tone, his tone strangled with conflicting emotions as he desperately tried to make sense of what had happened. "Why go through all this trouble? Why, in the Mother's name, why go through all this? Why kill my father?"
She just looked at him for a moment. "There is nothing I wouldn't do for you, mate."
His breath stopped in his throat as he stared at his mate in shock, his eyes widening as she spoke.
"What did you just say?" He asked her, half-expecting her to change her answer, to give him a different response.
Her lips tugged up in a slight, crooked smirk as she looked back at him, her eyes flickering with a hint of...something that he couldn't put his finger on. "You heard me, mate." She stepped in, moving closer towards him, her footsteps silent against the carpet. "There is nothing I wouldn't do for you, even if it meant killing your father."
"You knew," he croaked out.
Wisteria knew. She had known...since gods only knew when. When he had tried to keep away from her...when he had tried to get out of that arranged marriage…
His back tensed and his muscles clenched as he stared at his wife, every single moment he remembered of the two of them from the last three months running through his mind as he listened to her words.
Wisteria had known. The whole time, she had known that they were mates.
"Since that Masquerade Ball, actually," Wisteria admitted brightly. "I decided that I was going to marry you then."
The words stunned him, the statement stealing the breath from his lungs and causing his muscles to tense with surprise.
She had known.
Since the moment they met…it was…She had planned and plotted out everything since then. And he had had no idea.
"You knew." Eris could only stare at her in wonder.
"I knew I was going to marry you and that I would kill your father," she said with a shrug. "He deserved worse."
"Why," he asked again in a strangled tone, his mind still reeling, trying to process the information that she had given him. "Why, in the cauldron’s name, would you go through all this trouble, all this damn planning, simply because you knew that we were mates?"
***
It had been a long time since she had seen him look so...baffled. She always enjoyed it when she managed to get a reaction out of him, and this was the best one to date.
Wisteria reached forward, resting her hand on his chest, feeling the hard muscle under his shirt, feeling the steady thump of his heart. She could feel the tension in him, the way his muscles were tensed as he stared down at her with an expression that was so deliciously lost.
"I told you, there is nothing that I wouldn't do for you."
Her fingers curled slightly against his shirt, resting atop his beating heart, feeling the steady thumping of his heart against her palm.
"You were too sentimental." She reminded him, staring up into his eyes, into his beautiful, green orbs. "You wanted to spare your father, despite all the suffering he put you through. You wanted to let him live, despite how he had made your and your family's lives a living Hel."
"You were being too damn soft, too nice." She told him with a slight, crooked smirk, pressing her body closer to his, closing the gap between them until their bodies were pressed together. She could feel the heat of his body against hers, feel the way his muscles tensed as he stared back at her. "That is what made me decide to murder that worthless bastard."
"I was going to slice his throat tomorrow," Eris said suddenly, catching the back of her head, making it impossible for her to get out of his grasp. "I was planning a military coup. It would have been perfect. If somebody didn't decided to ruin it for me."
Her lips twisted into a smirk at his words, her dark eyes flashing with a hint of challenge as she looked up at him. She didn't try to struggle or break free, enjoying the feel of his fingers digging into the back of her hair, the warmth of his body as he kept her from escaping.
"Like I said, too sentimental," she drawled at him, her smirk widening when she saw his expression flicker.
"Says the female that said she would do everything for me," Eris disagreed. "Who killed my father because she didn't like the way he talked to me in public."
She arched her eyebrow at his words, her smirk widening yet again when she saw him grit his teeth together in irritation. She leaned in, her body flush with his chest, her nose almost touching his chin as she looked up at him.
"That's because you're mine," she told him fiercely. "You don't think I would kill him for insulting you? For the way he abused both you and your mother?"
Her breath brushed against his chin, her body pressed tight against his, feeling his fingers dig into her scalp as he held her tight.
"What, do you think I'm just going to sit there and let somebody insult my mate?" She asked him in a tone that was barely above a hiss, her eyes narrowing slightly in irritation.
He growled, the low sound echoing through his chest, and she couldn't help but shiver involuntarily in response. The sound he made was deep, primal, possessive, and it made her shiver all the way down to her core.
"I'll kill anybody that ever insults you," she told him in a low tone, the words almost a promise, and she felt his body tense even more in response to her vow.
It was a true statement too. She fully intended to kill anybody that insulted him. Her mate. She would tear apart anybody that put even a single, verbal finger on him.
His fingers tightened yet again against the back of her head, his hold on her almost painful. She didn't try and loosen his grip, but instead, her lips tugged up in a crooked smirk as she angled her chin up to look into his eyes. Her whole body was pressed against his, her skin burning wherever his hard chest pressed against her.
Their faces were only mere inches apart, her breath brushing against his chin, her mouth a hair's breadth away from his. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her body tingling wherever he touched her, wherever his body was pressed against hers.
It was a wonder that her legs didn't give out under her. She was burning, her body practically buzzing with heat, her blood singing with something primal, something almost feral. Everything about him in this moment seemed to overwhelm her, seemed to consume her.
"If you ever, ever do anything as idiotic as dosing yourself and my mother with Hemlock again, I'll kill you," he breathed.
Her breath caught in her throat at the low threat in his voice, her heart pounding in her chest as she looked up into his eyes. There was a dark, almost dangerous look in his eyes as he stared down at her, the threat in his voice sending a shiver down her spine, making her breath catch yet again in her throat. It was enough to make it feel as though she were drowning in something almost primal, something that she had never felt before. Her whole body was thrumming, her muscles tense, her blood singing.
"You are my mate." And finally he said the words she had longed to hear from him for months. "You are my mate. The next time you plot to kill anybody, you'll come to me so I can help you hide the body."
Her heart thundered in her chest at his words, the possessiveness in his tone making her head swim, making her body burn as a shiver ran down her spine for a completely different reason.
And for the first time in her life, she actually felt like the world paused for a moment, like time itself had froze around her, as she looked up at her mate and her mind struggled to process the fact.
She had, actually managed to make her mate declare her as his.
Her plan had worked. "Do you understand me, Wisteria Vanserra? You are my wife, my mate, the Lady of this Court. You'll come to your High Lord and you'll tell him all about your homicidal plans."
Her mind was still reeling from his words, her eyes wide as she looked up at him, but she managed to nod in response to his order. Her muscles trembled slightly, her heart practically hammering in her chest.
"Good."
The praise made her breath catch in her throat, her body trembling slightly as she stared up into those beautiful, green eyes of his. Her blood was singing, her body practically trembling with the need to get closer to him, to feel his hands, his body against her own.
And then he kissed her. There was nothing sweet about the way he kissed her. It was teeth and tongue and heat and...
Yes. This was what she wanted, what she had been aching for months to feel. His mouth on hers was like fire, his tongue hot and desperate against hers as they kissed each other. It was like a dam had broken, like all the tension, all the frustration was finally being released through this kiss.
The world melted around them, the world faded into nothing, all her senses, all her focus zeroing in on the feel of him, of the hard planes of his chest against hers, of her own body feeling like it was vibrating, like she was burning up from the inside out. Everything faded away into this burning, beautiful, heat with his hands on her, with his mouth against her's, nothing mattering but the two of them.
The world melted around them, the world faded into nothing, all her senses, all her focus zeroing in on the feel of him, of the hard planes of his chest against hers, of her own body feeling like it was vibrating, like she was burning up from the inside out. Everything faded away into this burning, beautiful, heat with his hands on her, with his mouth against her's, nothing mattering but the two of them.
A gasp escaped her as she felt his mouth on her throat, his tongue tracing over her, burning a trail down her skin as he spoke against her. She arched her neck instinctively, letting him have better access to her neck, her breath catching as he spoke.
Her fingers reached out, desperate, her hands grabbing at his shoulders, his back, her fingers digging in and curling, grasping at him, trying to pull him even closer to her, trying to feel more of him, more of his hard, muscled chest, more of his hot skin against her's.
She was drowning in him, in the heat that was burning them both, in the fact that he was actually holding her, actually holding her like this, that he was actually her's just as much as she was his. Her mind was practically incoherent, her whole body burning, her blood singing in her veins with a primal, possessive need.
And the look in his eyes as he looked at her...he was beautiful, he was wild, and he was hers. And she would slaughter anybody that got in their way.
“Are you the witch who turned eleven princes into swans?”
The old woman stared at the figure on the front step of her cottage and considered her options. It was the kind of question usually backed up by a mob with meaningful torches, and it was the kind of question she tried to avoid.
Coming from a single dusty, tired housewife, it should’ve held no terrors.
“You a cop?”
The housewife twisted the hem of her apron. “No,” she muttered. “I’m a swan.”
A raven croaked somewhere in the woods. Wind whispered in the autumn leaves.
Then: “I think I can guess,” the old woman said slowly. “Husband stole your swan skin and forced you to marry him?”
A nod.
“And you can’t turn back into a swan until you find your skin again.”
A nod.
“But I reckon he’s hidden it, or burned it, or keeps it locked up so you can’t touch it.”
A tiny, miserable nod.
“And then you hear that old Granny Rothbart who lives out in the woods is really a batty old witch whose father taught her how to turn princes into swans,” the old woman sighed. “And you think, ‘Hey, stuff the old skin, I can just turn into a swan again this way.’
“But even if that was true – which I haven’t said if it is or if it isn’t – I’d say that I can only do it to make people miserable. I’m an awful person. I can’t do it out of the goodness of my heart. I have no goodness. I can’t use magic to make you feel better. I only wish I could.”
Another pause. “If I was a witch,” she added.
The housewife chewed the inside of her cheek. Then she drew herself up and, for the first time, looked the old woman in the eyes.
“Can you do it to make my husband miserable?”
The old woman considered her options. Then she pulled the wand out from the umbrella stand by the door. It was long, and silver, and a tiny glass swan with open wings stood perched on the tip.
