post mortem #3
rating: t (for swearing)
wc: 2.5k
warnings: none for this snippet, however please be aware that the main work does have a non-con warning.
Seeing as no one in this partnership knows how to be normal, here's a deleted scene from JAWBREAKER between Feyre and the Hughes Twins.
Oscar flicks on the hall light on the way up, a sticky red smear left in his wake—another thing to clear up later. When they clear the doorway, stepping into the dark of the attic, their new bedroom stands on full display: one wardrobe, two dressers, a toy box that’s seen better days, an armchair, a bookshelf only half full, and a bunk bed. They’d begged for one at the old place. Seems they got their wish.
Oscar reaches for the lights but Ferye stops him. “No, it has to be dark.”
“But I can’t find my PJs!” Finn whines, flopping down on the bottom bunk. They’ll be under his pillow, where his mom always leaves them, but kids are kids and the tiredness is setting in, irritation along with it. Oscar, having had a little less sugar and a little more patience, reaches beneath his brother's head and pulls out the missing garments, flops them onto his face, and scrambles for his own before Finn can retaliate.
“You two go wash up and then we’ll play,” she says, dropping into the plush velvet armchair beneath the skylight. Oscar is already through the door, footfalls loud and quick on the stairs as he rushes to the washroom on the floor below. They creak with every step. Finn whines as he lifts himself from his bed, sluggish feet carrying him to the door. “And brush your teeth. I’ll know if you haven’t, stinky!”
He grumbles something to himself but he’s too far gone for her to make out the words.
The armchair is twice as comfortable as the couch downstairs, a million times more comfortable than the mismatched furniture back home. She leans back into it, legs propped up over one of the arms. It’s better than anything they ever had as kids. One giant bed and three gangly sisters sharing the one duvet, kicking each other, huddled closer on winter nights when the heat gave out. Getting her own space, her own bed, had been the peak of her pre-teen years.
She lets her head rest on the back of the chair, looking to the skylight above.
It would be a pretty nice view of the sky and stars if it wasn’t for the wayward branch of a neighboring oak obscuring it. Never having a tenant stay longer than a year, being on the housing market longer still, would do that to a place. Moonlight still made it to the attic though, filtered through the sparse leaves.
Her phone vibrates, probably Lucien trying to goad her into ditching again, or sharing the latest gossip in the group chat she hadn’t left yet. Not that Tamlin ever checked it. On Lucien’s last update, he was somewhere in Cambodia or Croatia or somewhere else beginning with a C, still trying to ‘find himself.’ Not like he needed to go that far to do it. Just look in the trash bin and there’s a dozen just like him.
Part of her—a smug, satisfied part—thinks he left because of what happened between them. Considering the only person he even spoke to anymore was Lucien and even that was via postcard, the evidence stacks up pretty well in her favor.
Good. Fuck him.
She pulls her phone out but doesn’t check the notification. Doesn’t have a chance to. The telltale whine of old pipes that she’s too familiar with cuts out, and the pitter-patter of bare feet taking the old stairs way too fast sounds after it. She turns on her phone’s flashlight.
“Will you tell us the game now?” Oscar asks, arms full of costume pieces he’ll likely have grown out of by next Halloween.
Finn does the same, barreling past to jump onto his bed. A breathless “Please!” as he lands in the bed face down. His twin sits beside him, legs folded criss-cross on the comforter.
Feyre takes a second to draw them closer, flipping her phone upside down so the flashlight shines upwards. By the looks on their faces—equal parts enraptured and terrified—it’s clear she has them right where she wants them.
“Boys.” Wind surges outside, rattling bare branches against the rooftop. It’s not quite lightning, but it’ll do. “We’re going to talk to spirits.”
Oscar’s awe turns to straight up fear. “Spirits? Like… ghosts?”
“Hey! Ghosts can’t get you if you’re in bed,” Finn chimes in. “Everybody knows that. Mom said so.”
They bicker back and forth about the logistics of whether it has to be your bed specifically or if just any bed will do. Finn concludes that the best place to be during a ghost attack would be a mattress store. Oscar counters with but how are there so many haunted hotels? which only serves to lead them down a different path of how does he know that and who has been sneaking off to watch Most Haunted reruns even though Mom said they shouldn’t. Feyre lets them argue, for the most part, only jumping in when it seems things might come to blows.
“Did I say anything about ghosts?” she says.
Finn shakes his head, but Oscar—oh, poor baby.
“Anyway,” Feyre continues, “I put some salt on your window when you were getting cleaned up. Totally ghost-proof, I promise.” A lie, obviously, but she’d seen it in a TV show somewhere and, by the way Oscar’s shoulders retreat from beside his ears, it convinces him well enough. “Do you want to play or not?”
“We want to play! Right, Ozzie?”
“Right.” Although, Oscar seems marginally less convinced.
“If you say so,” Feyre shrugs. She hands her phone to Oscar who, in typical kid fashion, twists it so the light shines under his chin, but jumps at the glare. She grabs his wrist, gently turning until the light faces down at his blue green comforter instead. “It’s super important that you hold this still. That keeps us connected to the spirits.”
A purple velvet bag, in all its faded filigree beauty, sits between them.
It’s been too long since she’d last done a reading, usually only reaching for them on the off chance she remembered, or if she’d had a particularly bad day. She doesn’t believe in all the witch stuff like Elain used to, the full moons and incense and tea blends made from garden herbs. No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just… nice to think that there’s a connection to something bigger out there, even if sometimes it takes a pile of old paper for her to realize it.
Her skin prickles as she touches the velvet, pulling the worn cards from their home.
“These—” she starts, spreading the deck between her fingers so the boys can see the pictures. Bright and bold and dark and faded all at once. “—are Tarot cards.”
“Tarot cards?” Oscar wavers with her phone, light dipping but Finn steadies his brother’s hand before she can chastise him for it.
She nods. “That’s right, and they’re going to help us ask the spirits a question. The cards are a conduit–uh…a tool, I guess? You ask a question in your head, focus on it really hard and pick the card that calls to you. I have to shuffle them first though, mix them all up.”
“They speak?” Finn asks, as she does her best to shuffle the deck. He’s sat so close to Oscar now, knees touching in the dark like that extra point of contact can offer comfort in a way words cannot. Even like this, they’re inseparable.
“Not with words. You’ll feel it in your heart, or your head, maybe your toes. It’s different for different people.” Feyre keeps her words calm, soothing. It’s not meant to be a spooky exercise. It’s not. God, if they wake up in the middle of the night with bad dreams—no, she keeps it cool, smiling a little as she spreads the cards face down atop the bedspread. An arc before all three of them. “To me, it feels warm. Like the sun.”
Oscar lets the phone droop a second time, and when Feyre looks up to him, his eyes are a little wet. “I don’t think I want to play this game.”
“Ozzie, please!” Finn pleads, taking his twin's free hand between his own.
Feyre takes a second, watching as Finn soothes his brother’s hand. It's the type of thing Nesta used to do for Elain, when storms blew out the breakers and left them in the dark, their father nowhere to be seen. Maybe once she yearned for that kind of connection with someone. It had never been there in her sisters—not that she blamed them, anymore—but she found it in her friends. She found it in her part time jobs. She made it her mission to be that person when she could. Her hand dwarfs both boys’ clenched palms. “It’s gonna be okay, I promise. Do you want me to get the lights?”
Oscar, looking at his brother then back to the faded gilding of the cards, shakes his head.
“You sure?” she asks.
He nods once.
“Since you’re being so brave, do you want to take the first card?” Feyre offers.
It’s with a trembling hand that Oscar reaches for the cards, letting his fingers slip free of his brother’s grip. He hovers a palm above them, moving left and right across the deck, pausing in certain spots like he’s considering taking one, but never staying in a place for too long. Like weaving between invisible strands of magic, sensing the cards and their meanings.
“I want this one,” he says, pulling a card from the dead center of the arc. What remains of the gold around the card’s edges catches in the flashlight. Feyre doesn’t even realize she’s holding her breath until Oscar flips his card over, revealing an upside down King of Swords.
Finn almost knocks his twin over trying to see the design on the front. A king alone, sat atop a throne, holding a giant sword. Well, it wouldn’t be her first choice, but it’s not a bad card. “Feyre, what does it mean?”
“Oh, you would get the King.” She smiles a little. “That’s very you, Oscar.”
Oscar, eyes still a little wide in panic, seems to relax a little at that. “Why is he upside down? Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. He means something different if he’s upside down is all!” Feyre places it in the space between them, separate from the face down cards, trying to rack her brain for a way to phrase its meaning. Manipulation is such a harsh word. Inner truth, perhaps? Hidden strength? “What do you feel when you look at him?”
“He looks… cool.”
“Yeah, but how does he make you feel?”
“Like… Like I want to play again! Can I have another turn?”
Finn, eternally impatient, balks at that. He doesn’t have the same restraint his twin has. He leans over Oscar, swiping the first card his fingers touch, swishing it into the air before Feyre can remind them to be gentle. He doesn’t even let her see what he pulled, squinting at it for a second, before he pouts and lays it face up next to the other card.
“At least yours was someone cool! Mine’s just some building.”
The Tower. Oh fuck.
“Some building?” Ferye starts, nudging so the cards are aligned. She hadn’t been expecting to see the Tower, not really, but hey! These things happen. Chaos? Pride? That’s kinda Finn’s thing so it makes sense. He commands that kind of energy. “That’s the tower! One of the most powerful cards in the Deck.”
“Really?” Finn’s eyes light up at that, looking again at the card between them. “I guess the lightning storm is kinda cool.”
“I’ll bet.” She nods. “I’ll ask you the same question, Finn. What do you feel? What does it remind you of?”
“I don’t know. It’s like when dad used to let us smash sand castles after a beach day. What does it mean?”
Feyre hushes him and, thankfully, he sits back in his place, enraptured as she takes the time drawing her fingertips over the facedown cards. “We haven’t got the full story yet. It’s my turn.”
There isn’t a specific question in her mind; nebulous thoughts of school and work and home and the two boys only minutes away from sleep, parties she hasn’t been to, assignments she hasn’t done—phantom warmth pricks her index finger. Despite her belief in the metaphysical being skeptic at best, she puts trust in that little spike of warmth, pulling out the final card.
Speak of the devil and he shall appear.
“The Devil?” Oscar shrieks, leaning closer whilst simultaneously cringing back. “I thought you said this game wasn’t scary!”
Finn leans into his brother, trying his best to see the goat-headed figure on her card. “That’s awesome! That’s gotta be the coolest one yet! Why is he furry?”
“Hey, the Devil isn’t as bad as everyone thinks!” How do you even begin to explain the intricacies of obsession, passion and sexuality to kids? That’s way above her pay grade. Not a chance. “He gets a bad rap. Not all bad things are really bad, you know? Like… chores! You hate doing them at the time but once they’re done everything feels better, right?”
Oscar fixes her with a look, dark hair flopping in front of his eyes. “Feyre, it’s the Devil.”
“To me, this means I have an assignment due tomorrow and I need to knuckle down.” Not a lie, but not a full truth either. She does have an assignment—one she hasn’t even started yet—but seeing The Devil tugs on a different part of herself that's probably best kept under wraps. She likes this job. It would be a shame if she scared the kids too much and never got invited back. “It means I need to focus on a few things.”
“That’s kinda… boring.” Finn says, fighting off a yawn. “Can we talk to the spirits now?”
“We just did, dummy.”
Oscar, seeing his brother fight the clutch of sleep, fails in his own battle. “That was it? What did they say?”
“They say it’s bedtime. Now.” Feyre collects the unused cards, slotting in the three they chose throughout the deck. Only once they’re all safely in their little velvet pouch does she raise from the bed, letting Finn crawl beneath the comforter. Oscar follows suit, the allure of sleep near irresistible. She lets them get comfortable, standing by the skylight, looking up at the branch blocking most of the view.
“Do you like it?” Finn asks, sounding so much smaller, already halfway to sleep. “Dad says he’s gonna build us a treehouse next summer. We’re gonna have sleepovers and everything.”
Feyre starts towards the door, slowly waiting for creaks of the old floor to announce her slow departure. “For real? Am I invited?”
Finn shakes his head, or snuggles down further into his comforter. Oscar peeks over the edge of the top bunk, eyes half shut already. “No girls allowed.”
“Figures.” She reaches the door, pulling it just enough to slip through. One last look over her shoulder confirms what she already guessed. “Night, boys.”
ao3 link | playlist | detailed content warnings | masterlist
parts: 𝐈 𝐈𝐈 𝐈𝐈𝐈 𝐈𝐕 𝐕
pairing: feyre/mor
rating: explicit
wc: 7.9k (pt 1)
warnings: major character death, cannibalism
Self-proclaimed 'BFFs' and high school seniors Mor and Feyre have definitely had fights before, but none as bad as the night at the bar when Mor is forced to leave Feyre behind in the rather dubious hands of her distantly related cousin and wannabe rockstar. Mor fully expects to make it up to Feyre the next day, except her best friend doesn't show. Nearly one full week later, Mor is so overjoyed to see Feyre again that she is blind to all the strange new things about her crush--er, friend. Namely, that Feyre suddenly seems to have developed some rather peculiar tastes. That, and she's hot as hell.
[FREAK WEEK DAY 3 - PART 1]
read on ao3 or proceed below for small snippet.
“You think he’s bald?”
The paper straw flattens between the press of Feyre’s lips, half soggy from how she keeps worrying it between her teeth. That, or the fact that it's been soaking up the same offensively flat Diet Coke for the last half hour since the band finished their set. They tried for something stronger, but the black crosses emblazoned on the backs of their hands were unfortunately doing their job of signaling to Jurian not to slip them any vodka, this time.
They’ve been watching the band pack away their instruments and file into the lounge behind the bar, a pitcher of beer and three pint glasses set out for them in a corner booth. A folded sheet of paper reading RESERVED in blocky script, sitting limply on the table.
Mor looks up from her phone, Instagram promptly forgotten in favor of whatever the hell caused Feyre to ask that question. “What?”
Rolling her eyes, Feyre nudges her chin towards the bar. The delicate twitch of one eyebrow has Mor turning, more bodily than she might like. There’s no such thing as subtlety in places like these. The guy in question looks even bigger up close—broad as he is tall, with arms thick as tree trunks and swirled with tribal tats. Mor struggles for his name, despite having just sat through their entire discography in a room with worse acoustics than their high school bathroom and blown-out speakers.
“Under that beanie,” Feyre says, by way of explanation. The straw bypasses her lips entirely, and she irritatedly flings the limp wet thing from her glass to discard it on the sticky table. Probably not the worst thing that’s ever been placed on it. The nachos here have food poisoning written all over them. “He looks like he could be bald. Seems the type, you know? Like, did too many steroids on the high school wrestling team and now he’s paying the price?”
A reminder suddenly pings from her phone on the tabletop, interrupting a reel of someone from their year showing all the Homecoming dresses she decided not to buy. They’re all ugly, the dresses. Not that Mor’s is any better—the only one her dad had allowed her to buy.
Ten minutes. Fuck.
“Feyre, for one second, can you be serious? My curfew is at eleven.” She doesn’t mean to snap, but Feyre knows how her dad gets. How strict he can be about grades and curfews. How little fucks he gives about everything else.
“I don’t want to go just yet,” she whines, eyes following the unfathomably buff drummer back to his table and the two other guys sitting there. Mor watches as the big dude lines a shot in front of each of them, layered liquors starting to merge into a brown mush. They knock them back without so much as a wince. Mor is suddenly very grateful for her soda, even if it’s lost all the carbonation.
The only guy she recognises, Rhysand Sterling, catches them staring and waves. That quick flick of his wrist turns into a come over type gesture. Two fingers beckoning them forward.
“You know him, right?” Feyre poses the question as if she doesn’t already know the answer. As if she hasn’t seen the one picture her father has of her in the living room. Taken at one of his firm’s Christmas parties, of course. Rhysand, a couple years her senior, had gone by Rhys back then.
“Feyre, we have to go,” Mor reminds her, grabbing onto her wrist. She stares dejectedly at the side of Feyre’s face, deflating when she notes the way she seems to have perked up, eyes constantly flitting to the guy sitting at the table. Mor’s cousin. Twice removed, or something.
“It’s fine! We should just say hi!” She stands, neatly pushing in her stool but still well within Mor’s reach. She slips her hand into Mors, using it as leverage to tug Mor behind her, and crosses towards the booth. Maybe she notices how reluctant Mor is by the way she drags her feet, and Feyre offers the incentive, “Besides, it’ll drive Eris crazy.”
ao3 link | playlist | detailed content warnings | masterlist
pairing: gwynriel
rating: explicit
wc: 19k
warnings: major character death, cannibalism, dubious consent
A casket is delivered to the cemetery to be buried, left in the care of Azriel, its lonely custodian. Against his better judgment, he opens it only to find the face of his long unrequited infatuation. Outside, a ghoul prowls the grounds, watching, and waiting for the moment to make him hers. The girl in the box serves as the perfect distraction, her cries a siren song to lure him out into the night. It’s a wonder that Azriel has managed to escape her thus far, but it comes as no surprise that he sinks so readily into her claws, now.
[FREAK WEEK DAY 2]
read on ao3 or proceed below for brief snippet.
“Brain hemorrhage,” Greg says finally, after an uncomfortably long pause. He steps back from the casket, staring down at the surface. Azriel’s fingers twitch, and he allows his arms to fall back down to his sides instead of reaching for it.
Greg catches the movement out of his periphery, turning his head to study Azriel. Without any further question, or warning, he leans over and flips open the lid to the casket. Hands curved around the edge, peering in at the figure draped in white. Azriel reels, taking half a step back at the sight of brilliant, copper red—her hair—and he closes his eyes, just for a moment.
When he opens them again, there’s Gwyneth Berdara lying cold in the box before him. Autumn honey curls left loose around her shoulders, shorter than the last time he’d seen her. She’d worn a yellow dress then, warm mustard yellow like the tail end of summer. Now, they’ve wrapped her in the same lace dress they give all the women whose families never provided specific requests. Sizes 0 through 30, and bought in bulk. When her body rots, the ill-fitting polyester will remain.
A silver chain, twisted slightly and just off center, lies against her chest. Next to one of the buttons of her dress, there’s a simple cross charm. Scratched and worn, as if from constant wear.
“Damn shame, isn’t it?”
Azriel lifts his chin without taking his eyes off that cross. “Depends,” he says.
Greg furrows his brows in a look all too familiar. Concern, but only at the superficial level, and not enough to say a word about it. His yellowed fingers scratch at unkempt stubble, sniffing sharply and the way he so casually does so, especially in the presence of the body atop the altar, sparks abject revulsion in Azriel. Everything about this man lends to discomfort, but catering to the sensibilities of others is not Azriel’s job, and therefore not his problem.
He looks back to Gwyn, or the body that used to be her, and allows his gaze to fall to the soft curve of her cheek, makeup separating. To the silver studs in her ears, the lipstick painted on her dry bottom lip. Small details, now that he’s able to stomach the entire image. Details imperceptible to those disquieted by the dead, but not to someone like Azriel who doesn’t mind paying careful attention.
“Right,” Greg says. He adjusts the clipboard in his hands unnecessarily, and pointedly steps back from the altar, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Look, I have another delivery to make tonight.”
“Okay,” Azriel says.
“The, uh…” Greg pauses, as if waiting for Azriel to look at him. He doesn’t. “The chaplain will be by later. Far as I know, he’s gonna meet the family here.”
“How long?”
Greg deflates. “How long what?”
“How long until they arrive?” Azriel asks. Finally he looks up, at the far less appealing and noticeably twitchy face of the funeral assistant.
Greg scrubs his hand over his face, likely an attempt to hide the eye roll Azriel has no trouble noticing. It doesn’t bother him nearly as much as the sight of Greg using the casket as something to lean on.
“Look, I don’t know,” Greg says, and finally a bit of his frustration leaks out into his tone. He gestures vaguely to the casket, eyes already set on the door. “Just sit tight. She’s not gonna get up and walk away.”
ao3 link | playlist | detailed content warnings | masterlist
pairing: feysand
rating: explicit
wc: 23k
warnings: non con
Feyre’s a big fan of scary movies. So much, in fact, that Halloween night spent curled up on the couch and watching Poltergeist while the kids she’s babysitting sleep upstairs doesn’t sound so bad, even if it means missing out on a party or two. It’s a relatively boring night, until a real ghost appears. Rhysand, in the shittiest costume she’s ever seen, picked the wrong house to trick or treat... but scary movies aren’t scary until they’re real.
[FREAK WEEK DAY 1]
read on ao3 or proceed below for small snippet.
The movie is better than Feyre remembers it, which isn’t exactly a surprise. The first time she saw it, her sisters stole dresses from Mom’s room and dressed Feyre up as E.T. so they could stuff her in a closet. They’d instructed her to hide, and after too long spent in the dark, Feyre eventually wandered out on her own. She found her sisters downstairs, seemingly having forgotten their little sister, with the credits already rolling on the TV.
By contrast, the boys let her have her own blanket, and laugh along with her even when they don’t get the joke. They leave the last bit of popcorn for her, and even though it’s hard in the middle and the chocolate’s gone, it tastes good. There’s fifteen minutes left in the movie when Feyre’s phone buzzes in her pocket, and she’s more than a bit disappointed when she gets up to answer it.
“Be right back, boys,” Feyre sighs, flinging the blanket off her lap.
She stands in the foyer, where she can see into the living room to keep an eye on the boys and the movie, and brings the phone up to look at the screen. FaceTime Video. Lucien Vanserra.
“Hey, Lucien,” Feyre says, a bit distracted. What greets her in full and glorious outdated iPhone resolution, is half an opera mask, an open dress shirt, and the smug grin of her best friend.
“Sing, my angel of music!”
Her thumb hits the end call button before Lucien can embarrass himself further.
She doesn’t get the chance to roll her eyes, let alone head back to the boys and their movie. Before she’s even lifted her thumb from the red reject call button, his picture flashes across her screen again. Against her better judgment, her thumb slides across to green.
“Why are you such a bitch?” Lucien asks by way of greeting.
“Mind your manners, potty mouth. Tiny ears present,” she warns, turning her back to the living room as if to shield the kids from his bad language.
He snorts, shooting back something from a red solo cup. “Oh yeah? Fu—”
“Shut up!” She snaps. Her shitty phone speaker is no match for surround sound, so it’s unlikely the boys can hear from the other room, but Feyre doesn’t want to be the reason they learn their first swears. “You look like a loser.”
“What do you mean?” He lifts the mask, revealing his scarred cheek, and half a smirk. Usual golden prosthetic eye switched for a scarlet alternative. “I’m told it plays to my strengths.”
He’s gorgeous. Unfortunately, he is very much aware of that. Scars and all. Chicks dig it, she’s told. Feyre takes the last few steps to the kitchen, dropping a couple of stray candy wrappers in the garbage on her way past.
“What do you want?” she says. “I’m working.”
“Yeah, about that,” Lucien says, his tone dripping with the promise of trouble. “Ditch the kids! Come play!”
And lose the easiest hundred bucks of her life? No way. Yeah, seeing Lucien in his element, chasing the highs of what little nightlife there is to offer, flirting with boys, dancing with girls—
“Negative.” Feyre inspects her cuticles. “This is easy money.”
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