Sky

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[croquettish]

[skylling]

This is so true and important if you are a reader!

WARNING ARE THERE FOR A REASON! KINKS & FANTASIES ARE DIFFERENT FOR EVERYONE!!

Don't read it if it makes you uncomfortable or don't follow your fantasy!

Don't hate on the writer for that. Don't tell them they shouldn't write about it. Don't insult them. Just skip that NSFW, find one that you like.

[beloveds-embrace]

Duke(King)dom Fae AU

Beginnings

Continuation

Pets || oneshot + very beautiful art by @just-a-little-nut 💕🫶🏼 || Glowy the Moth + cutest glowy art by @grombs-blog

Jealousy

Bathtime

Adored Humanity

Softness (not canon compliant)

The Pets vs Queen Mother

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part forty —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3.4k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. menstruation. smut summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

Blue barely makes it to the stream before she's jerking onto her knees, black vomit clouding the water. 

"Shit."

You gather her hair as her stomach expels more of the water she inhaled. When her gags cease, you grapple for the canteen of water and press it to her puffy lip. 

"Swish, don't swallow."

She does as instructed, until her mouth is clear of mud, then she spits it out. You grab her by the elbow and guide her upstream a few paces to avoid the darkened water, then sit her at the edge and splash some on her face, neck, and arms, ridding it of grime to check for signs of bites. She was under the water for half a minute, more than enough time for one to graze its teeth. It doesn't matter how deep the bite is. As long as it skin is broken, the infection spreads.

"Lift your shirt. I'll be quick."

There is a delay in her hands' movement, as though she hears your words but doesn't process them, but then she finally peels up the sticky fabric to her collarbones. You keep your touch clinical despite the fear pooling in the tips of your fingers, cold and heavy, but nothing of concerns mars her fair skin except the bloom of gooseflesh as she shivers, wet.

"Good," you breathe out. She yanks the shirt back down. "Just your legs now."

You don't bother taking her jeans off when the fabric is thick enough to protect her, but you roll up the hem and scan her ankles, then brush your touch over her thighs and calves in search for any holes their teeth might've snagged. Nothing. Relief is palpable, and a fractured exhale spills from your mouth, only for the next breath to hitch at the dark stain you catch between the apex of her thighs, darker even than the soaked denim. 

"Twix." She stiffens. "What is it?"

"It's not..." The timing feels sick. Wrong. She's dirty, with you. Not in a clean bathroom with Sara. But fairness is never on your side. Words fail you. You try to grab for them in the cloud of heady adrenaline in your brain, glancing up at her. "You have your period."

"My—what?" She looks down herself, panic twitching in her hands as she grabs at her jeans. "I'm bleeding!"

"It's not a wound," you cut off her thoughts before they can fester. Focus. Rag. You swing of your backpack and dig around for one, ignoring the fact that half of your things got wet when you rushed to her through the water. "This is something your body does... it's natural. You're alright, okay?"

You place the rag in her palm and close her fingers over it, trying to think of what needs to be said. Does she even know what this is? 

"Did Ghost ever tell you?" The words slip out under your breath.

Her grip tightens on the rag. "I... I remember once. He said to tell him. If I ever..." Her thighs clamp shut, "Bled down there." Her molars grind together. "That's all he said."

"It happens to me, too," is all you can think to say. 

The panic in her expression drains, leaving her cheeks white as you explain what to do in fragments. 

"They smelled me, didn't they?"

"Nereida has herbs. They help." You retrieve the second pair of clothes from her backpack. "Change and we can ask her for it. Do you want me to, or you can—"

"I got it."

The only thing that offers some comfort is that when you turn to let her change, this truly seems to be the end of the marsh. Through the trees, you make out distant telephone wires. Once you find shelter, you can properly assess what the marsh ruined in your backpack. The deer meat is on top, so it should be fine. You can't remember what you had stuffed into the bottom. Whatever food Ghost and Blue had in theirs will be soiled.

When she's done changing, you ask if she's alright, and she nods once. Returning to the others a step behind her, you announce that she's clear. Kyle is out of sight, only to reappear through the brush a minute later.

"Intact houses not far off. No smell of Greys."

The shelter Prices decides on for the night is close enough to Hirson for you to see all the abandoned cars pointing out of the city in attempt to flee, but deep enough in the outskirts to feel isolated. It's a small house with a greenhouse beside it, though all that remains inside are flies and maggots and unkempt weeds. There is only one bathroom for everyone to take turns changing into clean clothes, but Blue first uses it to add the rosemary Nereida tucks into her palm. 

In the last bit of light, you and Kyle collect water from the stream to wash out the clothes. Ghost digs two shallow holes with a tunnel to manage the smoke of a fire, and when Nereida is done scrubbing the clothes you help her drape them over the embers for the night to dry. 

It was the seeds.

The small pouch of seeds that got the wettest in the bottom of your backpack.

Your hand closes around them, then releases, dumping what was left discreetly outside. 

It's your turn to take watch.

"Wake Simon up in a few hours," Price says.

There are no beds, only blankets on the floor. It’s no summer home, but it beats the windmill. You take post by the greenhouse with a handgun from Price. Half your arrows are lost to the marsh, so you cut a handful of shoots from an ash tree by the greenhouse, and lean against the glass as you whittle them down.

His appearance, cross-armed at the corner of the green house, is far from a surprise. Your knife pauses, and you meet his stare. A minute of silence before he closes the gap and grabs your wrist to lower the knife.

"Talk to me."

You keep your voice low. "She started her period." 

Surprise flickers across his face, shortly muted by understanding. 

"Her scent."

"Herbs. Covers it some." You press your wrist free from his hold. "We shouldn't go straight through Hirson with her. It'll draw out any Greys."

"Going around eats time."

"You heard Price. We can afford it."

His jaw flexes, thinking.

"I'll talk to him." You feel the raw worry in the warm exhalation that brushes your face. "What does she need?"

"She almost lost you... twice, really. She needs space to breathe."

"I'm trying to give it."

"You're trying to take away the one thing that makes her feel normal."

"I'm not taking it away. She's starting to think she's older than she is."

"Well, isn't she now?"

He stiffens.

Silence. You inch back, placing a hand on his chest. He looks down, then watches you return the blade to your half-formed arrow. This time it's a rough palm to your jaw that stops you, pulling your gaze back to his. 

"There's something else you're not telling me."

"Nothing." 

"I can't fix it if you don't tell me." 

"I don't need you to fix anything." 

"Twix."

"Ghost." Your stubbornness wanes beneath his gaze. "Nereida gave me seeds that help with... keeping us safe. But they got wet. I mean, I was running out anyway."

"Seeds," he repeats, slow, and you look down. "You're worried, still."

"Of course I am."

"I've been careful."

"It's not certain."

"It's unlikely."

Your eyes flit back to his. "Is that what you thought the first time around?"

Christ.

You're not sure what you expect, maybe him to get angry. But instead, his lips twitch. "Mouthy." A long, tired inhale through his chest. "No more sex, then."

Your palm drags over your eyelids. "Well, I mean, for now, at least."

"For now."

He doesn’t press further, but he keeps you there, irises sweeping over your face. When he looks at you like this, it itches. Like he can see every grain of dirt caught in your creases, each one you still feel grinding into your skin. Does he know what you looked at? Did you not put it back exactly how it was before? You can't bring it up. You won't. 

Then his hand lowers and wraps around the handle of your knife, easily taking it. 

"Go sleep."

"It's my turn. I haven't—"

"I'll go first. Wake you before dawn to take over." When you reach for the knife, he lifts it out of reach, adding, "She'll sleep better tonight if you're next to her."

You tuck the rest of the sticks in his hand. "Fine. Finish these." 

Deciphering which sleeping lump is Blue is difficult at first, until you find the one that is curled alone by the entrance to an empty bedroom. She might've appeared asleep if not for the finger poking under her blanket, picking at grains in the wood floor. You lower beside her, not bothering to take out your blanket. You don't want to wake everyone. Instead you shrug off the jacket and drape it over yourself. 

"What did you two talk about?"

She shifts to face you. 

"The plan for tomorrow," you quietly answer, laying on your side toward her. She's so close her breath hits your chin, much colder than her dad's. 

"You told him about my... my period. Didn't you?"

You tuck clumped hair behind her ear, whispering, "I had to."

"Guys don't get it, do they?"

"No. They don't."

"Seems unfair."

"Very." Your chin tucks to look down at her. "Is it hurting at all?"

She shakes her head. "Is it supposed to?"

"Sometimes."

"Is this how you have a baby?" she thinks aloud.

"That part comes when you're an adult."

She moves under the blanket, reaching for something: her wrist. The faded scab there. Tracing it. She still never fully explained what those had been for, but you connected enough of the pieces, and haven't pushed her to tell more. 

She suddenly whispers, "Do you trust him?"

You can't see much of her expression, but the question lands wrong between your ribs. 

"Yes," you reply anyway, "I trust him with our lives."

"I think he lies, Twix."

"You're mad at him—"

"No, it's not that. He just—he says things."

Your breath stills. "What things?"

"Things that don't make sense." Her hand rests back on the floor, knuckles slack. "Nevermind."

She rolls flat on her back, and goes quiet. 

Ghost never makes you switch with him.

You know this because you're still awake by dawn, and only manage a thin sleep just before everyone rustles awake. His heroic attempt at giving you a night of rest was in vain. Now both of you are tired. 

Trying to keep your eyes closed a moment longer as light burns the backs of them red fails quickly, and you peel yourself up to find Price outside, speaking with Ghost. You start toward them before even shaking the fatigue off, but stall when you see Blue lingering by the bathroom door.

"I think I—I need another rag," she whispers, fingers clutching your sleeve. 

You don't have another clean one, but you get one from Nereida along with a fresh clump of rosemary. 

"We'll need to find more," she murmurs. "That's the last I have on me."

You wash the soiled rag as she changes, and overhear Price speaking to Kyle.

“We’re going around Hirson."

“What? I thought we were taking the short way through—reach the A26 again.”

“We will,” Price says. “Just not straight on. There are train tracks running west."

It turns out less than a quarter of the deer meat got soiled. You have a light breakfast of jerky and burdock then leave. 

The rail tracks are elevated on a manmade embankment covered in ballast. The crushed rock pokes at a thin, worn patch on the sole of your boot, giving you a blister within an hour. Hirson is sprawled to the left of you, just close enough to detect the tops of buildings still intact. No doubt ridden with Greys. The ones stuck in the marsh probably wandered out of there.

The morning air is thick, heavy in a way heat alone doesn’t explain. You sip at your canteen methodically, swishing it by your ear each time to hear for empty space. Sweat cools quick on your neck. Oddly, the mosquitos are quiet. You would've had three new bites already any other day. 

A squinted scan of the sky confirms what the insects knew first. Swollen clouds gather to the east. You wouldn’t think much of them at this distance, but the last summer storm came fast enough to teach you better.

“It’s going to rain. We need cover,” you call, pitching your voice forward to Price.

Nereida catches his arm. “The food, John.”

Everyone pauses on the tracks. Quiet, empty land surrounds you. Hirson is out—not with her—and backtracking to the house would take too long.

Price tips his chin toward another set of rails cutting through the grass, a rusted switchbox hunched beside them.

“Station close,” he says. “Should have cover.”

His prediction rises soon in the distance: a mid-sized rural station, the tracks running parallel now between empty platforms. Thick ivy swallows the bricks archways. Blue-and-white cars still sit abandoned on the tracks, marred with black graffiti. A large sign reads TER, but the city names are scratched out below. The place is quiet, but you draw an arrow on habit just before the first stroke of thunder. It reverberates in the iron bars beneath your feet, then the drizzle begins.

"Move," Ghost calls, and you start running when the heavier rain starts not a minute later, swinging your backpacks to your chests in attempt to cover where the food is. Wet hair clings to your forehead by the time you reach the platform. Ghost grabs Blue by the arm to help her up, but she shakes him off and lifts onto the concrete. You have no choice but to stow the arrow and bow as you leverage yourself up.

The place smells like wet iron and old oil. Heady rust. A flat sheet of steel canopies overhead, but trickles of water leak through. Ghost motions his rifle to a door, a ticket office that should keep you dryer, but you make not even a step towards it before hearing the faint scrap of metal.

Ghost hears it too, pulling Blue behind him. You turn toward the sound. The train. Boarded-up passenger windows and chained sliding doors stare back at you. Then it comes again from inside, a distinctive rattle with the note of rot bleeding through the rain.

"Greys in there," your realization forms aloud. 

Price poises his rifle. "They're trapped."

The chains are thick and locked despite being heavily corroded. Secure. Then they can't reach her. You lower your bow a fraction and turn back toward the ticket office, where Ghost begins ramming his shoulder against the door.

The hinges start to give, groaning, when there is another sound you barely catch beneath it all—a sharp clatter skirting across concrete. The platform jolts. Then the world turns white. A distinct, shouted, "Down!" But the strong arm that reaches for you does little against the concussive blast.

You're thrown back, cheek scraping concrete, and a heavy weight crashing on top of your arm. For a moment, there’s nothing but ringing—no sight, no feeling, no sound beyond it. Then you're being hauled up, forced onto legs you can't control, and pressed down. A hand patting your face and chest. Ghost crouched before you, Blue at your side. Your vision returns in specks of color. His face, lips moving, shelves and a register snapping into place behind him. You're in the ticket office. A cloud of dust fogging the window.

Only when the shock wears off do you notice it, the deep pain in your skull—no blood on your fingers when you touch there, but enough throbbing to make your vision double unless you blink hard.

Blue.

She’s clutching her arm where shrapnel has buried itself in the flesh.

It’s just the three of you in there until Kyle shoves Ari inside.

“Price,” he says, breathless. “I couldn’t see—”

Price appears in the doorway with Nereida in his arms. She’s limp, head lolled against his shoulder. Blood curtains from her ear, dark against her neck.

"They know we're in here. Kyle—smoke."

The smoke bomb ignites with a hiss and is tossed through the doorway. Black floods the platform, thicker than the dust still drifting from the pipe bomb. It steals your vision. One hand grips Blue’s shirt, the other Ghost’s, as you force your legs to follow. A misfired round clangs off metal. Another door. Hands pulling you through.

It's a maintenance closet, cramped with seven bodies and electrical panels. Price kicks a mop and bucket over to lay Nereida down, cradling the back of her neck. Two bloody fingers press beneath her jaw and you kneel without thinking, ripping the backpack from her shoulders. 

"Alive," he says, gritted.

Somehow you manage coherence. "Keep her head up. Turn it to the side." 

You tear gauze and hold it against her ear, not packing it. 

“Price. Stay with them.” Ghost drops his pack, shoving cartridges into his pockets. Kyle mirrors him. “Three smokes left.”

Your brain catches up, blood-slick fingers snatching up a gun. "You can't go just the two of you." 

"Stay."

His voice, rough and final, and he's already slipping out the door. 

Then it's the five of you left behind.

You stash the gun at your waist and act on what you can. Blue. Her arm. You peel her fingers up. Blood, but not much. Ari. He leans on one leg. There's a shard of glass sticking out of his right calf. It's impossible to tell how large or deep, only that blood stains his jeans around it. You have him sit down with his leg up on a shelf the best you can in the small space, and tuck a wad of gauze in Blue's hand.

"Keep pressure on it."

She does. Back to Nereida. Price is speaking to her low, keeping her head off the floor. The blood from her ear has stalled some, but not enough to rule out the worst. At best, it's just her eardrum. When her eyelids flutter, he chokes on a breath and strokes her cheek, but then she's jerking, coughing, and vomiting onto his thigh.

He turns her head to the side and keeps it there while she retches.

“Duchess. Stay with me.” The faintest tremor in his jaw. “Look at me. Can you hear me?”

Her body goes slack. Her eyes slide, searching air that is not there.

“It’s quiet,” she whispers.

The gunfire outside comes sporadically. Single shots. Isolated. They found whoever it is. How many? Bombs—do they still have bombs? Your mind swims, struggling to latch onto anything solid. It’s hard to tell how long it’s been since they left, harder still to know if anyone has realized you’re hidden in here.

You slide, silent on your knees, to the door. It’s slightly warped around the hinges, just enough to give a crack to look through. You catch a sliver of the clearing smoke, rain cutting through it, debris scattered across the platform, and the train car sitting beyond it. No visible movement, except the deepened rattle inside the train's windows.

A crack of thunder. Then a faint, distant grunt snaps your vision up to the steel pedestrian overpass spanning above the train.

Boots.

Sliding in a struggle.

You can’t see much, but you know those are Kyle’s. Brown. Ghost’s are black.

There’s someone else.

A rifle flips over the rail. A shadow lurches. For a split second, there’s nothing but air where Kyle was. Then he's falling.

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-nine —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. menstruation. smut summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

The seeds are bitter. 

You swallow a teaspoon worth like Nereida instructed before slipping in bed, but some stick to your gums and you're forced to chew. It's an acrid taste that clings to your stomach during the brief breakfast at dawn, making it hard to manage more than a few bites. Then you leave, and the summer home fades at your backs.

The first five days of travel blur. Pieces glued together by sweat, mosquitos, and the subconscious urge to pull your hair over the bruise on your neck. You catch glimpses of it in your reflection during water stops. It starts as an angry red, then becomes marbled and distinctly mouth-shaped. But fatigue and hunger prevent anyone's attention from lingering on it. Your mind struggles to come up with entertainment during the long treks. The game of learning French has lost its appeal. Instead, you think about food, water, sleep. 

All of the prepped rations could only last so long between seven mouths. By the time you reach the Ardennes, a forested region not even halfway to the border of Switzerland, it's down to the last few pieces of jerky. There is only once so far you've encountered a group of Greys; they've been sparse here. But the game seems to be sparser when you, Kyle, and Ghost split the first hunt. Alone at dawn, you tie your hair up. It's too humid to care abut the bruise for now, and it's finally starting to fade last you saw.

The Ardennes curls around you in damp greens.

Nothing but squirrels.

That won't feed seven people on the road.

Finally, you find a stray doe drinking from a canal. You hide behind tall reeds and track the eye, the tension of the bow lost under the whir of insects. She lifts her head. You adjust aim. The still air between the cattails shatters at the cry of a crow, and the light scatter of hooves pulls a curse from your breath.

You shoot the black burst of wings out of spite.

You shoulder through the reeds, sticky earth sucking at your boots. An hour of following her and this is what you have to show for it. A beady-eyed crow whose corpse clings to your arrow as you wriggle it free.

"Are you pleased with yourself? Now I have to find where she went."

You boot the dead bird into the water. She can't have gone far, but she's skittish and knows you're following. You go back through the forest and spot tracks. Stalk them to a ransacked cottage. A flash of hide disappears behind stone. You draw the arrow again, but the ground shifts behind you, and again the doe bolts.

You swing in vain at the shadow who catches your wrist and pins you against the cottage wall. The scent of him quiets your struggle before his face even takes shape. 

"You ruined my kill," you hiss.

His mouth is on yours, the first stolen taste since you left. It's quick and starved, his wide frame sealing over your entire body. A bite at your lip, then he breaks away and drags a rough inhale up your neck. 

You fist his hair. "Not here."

"I know." He sweeps his gaze over your face, then down to your collarbones. He tugs at hem of your shirt, exposing a gash near your shoulder. "When was this?"

"Yesterday."

"One scratched you?"

"No, just—a broken window. Glass. When I was running."

A trace of his thumb around the reddened skin. "Cleaned?”

“Alcohol.” You jerk your wrist free and stoop to grab your fallen weapons.

He fixes the rifle around his elbow. "I got a buck."

"You're lying. Where?" 

"By the road." His chin tips toward the east. "Help me drag it."

The buck yields enough meat for five or six days. By the time you are surrounded by makeshift racks full of carved flesh, the windmill you've made camp in is a black shadow upon the hill. Kyle found a few poultry to cover the night. 

You climb up the frayed ladder, head poking up into the loft. "Come, children. Dinner awaits."

Blue lifts her finger from a dust-etched round of tic-tac-toe. "What's on the menu?"

“A full Sunday roast.”

Ari doesn’t look up. “Dessert?”

“Sticky toffee pudding.” You dip back down, then lift up again. “Shit. Chef says we’re out of everything, so geese and duck it is."

Blue drags a large C over the game. “Coming.”

Fingers pick meat down to the bones. The large wooden gear above your heads groans in the fall of night. 

“Meat needs a day to finish,” Ghost says to Price when the map is spread on the floor. 

“We’ve made good time. Ardennes puts us halfway to the border.” He taps the green ink, then drags his finger. “Next is the river. If we push like we did through Lille, we’re looking at two weeks. Three at worst.” A glance up. "Kyle. How are we on ammo?"

"Still sitting on a couple hundred."

"And four smokes," Ghost adds.

One used yesterday on those Greys. It confirmed that smoke disorients them like it does humans, long enough to have offered you the chance to scale up a building when they caught your scent.

“We might want to be conservative with wound care,” Nereida speaks up softly. “The gauze and alcohol are getting low. We had only a bit to begin with and… well, after treating Ghost’s back…” Her voice lowers. “I just think we'll have to save what we have for emergencies.”

You tug at the collar of your shirt. 

Sleep is difficult under the cacophony of frogs and insects. You shift under the thin sleeping bag, listening, and wonder if the German side of the forest is this vocal. When all the breathing around you evens, and Blue's shifting around stills, it does enough to hide the slide of your socked feet against the floor. You carefully shut the heavy door behind you.

He's on watch. Pacing the stone base. 

You have the mind to turn back. But he sees you, of course, and there's no chance to flee. Hooking the rifle on his shoulder, two long strides until he's close enough to smell.

"I just—let me see your back." You whisper. "I haven't checked it in a bit."

His brow lifts, then he complies. He turns his back to you. You lift up them all the way to the nape of his neck, fingers brushing the scabs. Moonlight highlights the ridges. They've healed well. Thick. But these are the kind of scars that won't be going anywhere.

"Good?"

"Yeah." You roll it back down.

"Okay for the backpack now?"

"Should be."

He adjusts the shirt, then faces you with a hand sweeping over your cheek. He pulls you closer, thumbing the corner of your mouth, before kissing you there. It's a different kiss from before; he's tasting you properly now. You are fatigue and hunger. A moth. And he's a flame. All warmth, that you can't stop yourself from pressing into, slipping your hands under the lapels of his jacket. The kiss breaks when he pulls you around the windmill, further from the door, then presses you against the wall and kisses you deeper.

There is no undressing. Just shimmying your jeans down around your ankles, unzipping his. The rifle remains on his back as he hikes one of your legs around his torso, enough to give him the angle to sink in with a fervent tilt of his hips. Pure, choked relief. Smothered by your palm. His face burrowing into your neck. Days without this have made the stretch almost unbearable, your pussy nowhere near wet enough to accommodate him until he touches his thumb over your clit the way you need.

"Easy. There." His voice is gruff at the shell of your ear. "Sucking me in now, yeah?"

He utters a few more words like that undo you, the sharp orgasm distracting you from the deep knots in your calves. Then you're spasming soundlessly, head falling onto his shoulder, freshly filled stomach frothing with heat. There is the faint recognition of him pulling out abruptly, spilling into his hand. 

You stand there, your leg sliding down to the backs of his thighs. He roughly wipes his hand on the stone, then on his jeans. His clean hand pets your hair blindly, finding a knot and absently working it smooth. 

"How did you meet him?"

His question tenses your brows. "Meet who?"

"The last guy."

A chuff from your nose. "Um. A pub."

"A pub."

"He came up to me."

He bends to start pulling up your jeans, then murmurs, "What'd he say to take you home?"

"I didn't go home with him. Not that night. We just—talked, actually." Your eyes drift, then you return the favor and tuck his softened cock back into the warmth of his briefs. "What would you have done if you saw me at a pub?"

You give him a squeeze through the fabric, then fix the button.

"Leave you alone."

Your hand drops.

There's been this silly, juvenile thought you've had before; that he desires you because you're simply the only option. That you wouldn't catch his eye among other women if he could choose. It weasels back in your mind until his voice dips. 

“You were young," he elaborates. "Clear-headed, I'd've left you alone. But a couple drinks might've altered my judgement."

Oh. You look down, even though you can't imagine it, a world and time where you would've met him there.

The world darkens back around you and you realize you can't stay much longer. It's risky, and you need sleep. Once you leave this place, it'll be days before you have another real rest point.

He grabs your chin.

"Go in my right pocket."

Confused, you obey anyway. Your fingers feel cool aluminum, and you pull out a tube.

You hold it between your chests and brush a thumb over the white letters. "Savlon." A sharp inhale. This isn't part of the ration Nereida carries. "Where did you—"

"On the cut. Just a bit."

You're frozen, until he digs a light squeeze into your shoulder, then you're tasting something bitter as you unscrew the cap and dab on a conservative amount beneath your shirt. Guilt. Confusion. Either he managed to keep this on him since you left the cabin, for him and Blue, or he found it somewhere. You can't decide which is more likely. Either way, he is sharing this secret with you now. And you know it's not meant to be shared with the others even before he takes it back, twisting the cap on, and speaks even lower: "For us."

Us.

The three of you, then.

You have no idea what to do with that.

He did say he would take care of you.

A kiss to your hairline, then he's slinging the rifle back into his grip. 

You push away from the wall.

Only when he's lost to the dark do you go inside your own pocket. The small pouch. A quick swallow of seeds. Then you feel what's left: two or three teaspoons at most. 

The following day is the slowest since you departed. All there is to do is tend the smoking embers. You and Blue sit by the canal and smother cool mud onto your mosquito bites. The notches in her spine poke your hand even more than the swollen, hot welts when you roll her shirt back down.

"I fucking hate mosquitos. Why do they need to exist?"

"Not sure. Let's ask them."

Tadpoles flee as you scrub your hands clean, catching your reflection. The bruise on your neck is still there, infuriatingly. But you check the gash: better. 

Your hands get dirty again when you dig up burdock with Nereida, not much but a few extra calories to take with you. 

"Have you seen any more of that, um, plant."

"Queen Anne's Lace?" You nod. "I haven't. You're running out?"

"There wasn't much to begin with." You rip at a stubborn root. "I know what you're thinking."

"What?"

"That I'm stupid and reckless and selfish."

"I'm not thinking that, Twix." She holds the little purple burdock heads in her palm, brushes them with her thumb, then lets them drop back to the earth. "I think it’s important to reclaim pieces of ourselves… in any way that we can."

Your hand ghosts your navel, then tightens. "I just—I can't get pregnant."

"Have you been tracking your period?"

"I know when I last had it. It’s just… irregular. Sometimes it doesn’t show up for months."

She sighs. “Don’t punish yourself for being human. I’ll keep an eye out. Just… be careful with yourself until then.”

The meat is done, and in the morning, the grace period is over. You pack. Kick dirt over the dying embers. Filter water for your canteens.

A voice breezes past your shoulder. 

“Put more.”

“It’s doing better,” you mutter.

“More. Before you’re sweating.” A discreet nod to his backpack by the door, gaze focused on the hands that restock his rifle. "Front pocket."

A quick glance at the others. They're distracted enough. You grab a wrapped piece of meat and pretend to tuck it into his pack, crouching as you unzip the front pocket instead. It’s quick, an even smaller dab than before. When you slip it back, something catches your eye. A bent paper tucked at the bottom below a switchblade, a brown stain of old blood on the corner. 

You can't be certain why you grab it, but you do, glancing back over your shoulder as you unfold it. It's not a paper, but a photo. The same one you saw months ago on top of his older dresser, one side showing a one-year-old infant and her mother. He brought it all this way. The other side... you never checked it. A yellowed white backing with inked writing. You decode the cursive with a single sweep of your eyes.

Simon,

I am willing to try again with you, for her sake.

Call me if you still want this.

—Sara

There is a strange second where sound narrows to the words in your head, the name you read three times over: Sara. Your fingers feel numb on the paper. Then Kyle's voice intrudes behind you, and you quickly shove it back and yank the pocket shut.

"Go on. Not time to be shy."

He approaches Ghost with Ari and Blue at his sides. Blue won’t look up. 

He shoves Ari forward.

“Sir, I didn’t mean to… I apologize for—” 

“Spit it out,” Kyle grits.

Ghost's voice is low and controlled when he asks, “What is it?”

Kyle digs into his pocket and pulls out a fistful of cigarette butts. “Found these up there." He nods his head toward the loft. "He was giving them to her, too.”

Ari tries to jerk out of his hold. “What does it even matter? It’s not like—”

“She’s a fucking kid, is what. Now apologize.”

Ari’s nostrils flare, eyes pointed to his boots. “I apologize for sharing them with her, sir. It won’t happen again.”

A fraught pause follows before Ghost responds—to Kyle. “Watch him.”

“I assure you, Lt. I will.” He pulls at Ari's jacket. "Come on. Go pack."

Blue remains by an old grindstone.

"Come here."

She obeys.

"Look at me," he speaks, lowering on a knee. "What else did he make you do?"

"He didn't make me do anything. He's just my friend."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not, I swear!" She wipes her eyes, hard. "I didn't even really use those things. It was just once because I couldn't sleep."

"Why couldn't you sleep?"

"Just... I don't know." 

"You should've come to me instead."

“What’s so bad about it? You used to smoke all the time.”

“I don’t care about that. It's—" His jaw works, then he lets out a long breath. "I’ve been patient because I know you need a friend, but that boy is too old for you.”

"He's hardly older than me," she argues, jerking from his touch. Her eyes flick over at you, and your nails catch your palms, then she looks back at him. “You’re older than Twix, and she’s still your friend.”

"Twix is an adult. You're a—"

"A what?"

"You're a child, Blue. My child." He lifts back to his feet. "You will sleep better with me, or with Twix. Not next to him anymore."

"But Dad, I really didn't—"

"Let's get your stuff."

Her hands curl as she turns.

The day is hotter than any before. Mosquitos grow bolder. The backpack heavy again with food. And Blue—more silent than usual. 

The southern Ardennes sinks into marshland, making all of you stay on the gravel road. The sweat becomes unbearable, so you finally tie your hair back. You focus on the ruins of industry that pass you in a quiet seduction of safety. Half-submerged cranes reach out of the canals. Empty warehouses groan in the temperature.

I am willing to try again with you.

But he said he was never with—

Something catches your eye in a narrow alley, but when you snap an arrow and flash aim, it's a doe. There's no chance it could be the same one you followed, but it resembles her: black eyes that watch you before she leaps over something on the ground. It's a skeleton. You've seen plenty of those. But this one is picked clean and crushed beneath a large iron rod, frayed rope still tied around it.

"Old trap," Kyle says.

“Someone’s territory,” you grit.

"Was, hopefully."

"Guard up," Price says over his shoulder.

You haven't seen any people yet. Price steers clear of cities the best he can. More traps appear as the interstate stretches on. Spiked barricades, bear traps, a shallow pit bristling with stakes. None of it looks recent, but you keep your eyes moving, muscles coiled.

The land turns swampier. Wetter. The calluses dug into your grip threaten to bleed when you pause for food. In every direction, the sun glints off pockets of murky water tucked between tall reeds. Price scouts ahead. 

"Interstate turns into a bridge," Price announces when your stomach is satisfied enough. "Broken."

"Then we find a way around," you say.

"Going around isn't an option." Ghost stares off in the distance. "It goes on for kilometers like this."

"We cut through the marsh." Price looks at the sky. "Beat sundown. Reach Hirson."

The swamp has a distinct smell. Not death, but something just as sickly sweet. Cattails flatten beneath your boots. Even the driest patches still cling to your steps. A deceiving piece of ground sinks up to your shin, the mud dense and cold, but a hand around your bicep yanks you out of it before you can face-plant into the water.

“Thanks,” you exhale to Kyle, his grip easing once you steady yourself.

“Don’t trust the flat parts. That’s where it settles. Edges hold better.”

“You sound practiced.”

“Iraq,” he says. “Lost a guy up to his waist once. Took three of us to get him out.”

"Death by mud would be a bit humiliating," you say under your breath.

"A bit."

He steps back, but his eyes drift. Down. For a split second they linger, and you don't realize what he's looking at until your throat begins to heat up. Fuck. The bruise. You instinctively cover it with your hand, which probably only looks worse, and his eyes flit back to yours. 

"Keep moving."

Kyle looks back at Ghost, then adjusts his rifle and pushes forward.

You yank up the hood of your jacket, zipping it all the way.

Edges, he said. You focus on finding them. Ghost moves in and out of your peripheral. The photo writhes back in your brain, like the bloodworm crushed beneath your boot. 

Sara.

It's funny because you haven't thought about Blue's mother in a long time. You used to wonder about her more before Ghost ever touched you. Maybe you accepted that neither of them like to speak of her, or maybe you just didn't want to know more. She's a ghost from the past, just like everyone else in your lives who's dead now, so it shouldn't matter. It doesn't. But what taunts you unwillingly is the image of him in that shed, lowered on his knees. He swore you could trust him: always. So why would he bother lying about whether or not he was with her?

Your fingers curl tight.

A dragonfly lands on a pocket of water, casting ripples. Your thoughts are smothered when a deeper tremor then makes it zip away. You halt. It's not a fish. There's a face staring up at you, rows of teeth and white eyes that don't blink. It doesn't move so you figure it's long dead, but then, a splash: cold fingers seize your ankle, bubbles of air erupting from its mouth.

"They're in the water!" 

You kick of it's hand and shoot an arrow into its eye. When you look up, Blue screams. She's grabbed, dragged into a black pool, swallowed by a splash.

You sprint toward her, but the mud loosens, sinking up to your waist. You're stuck. Knees trying to dig through it.

Ghost drops the rifle and dives after her. 

By the time you free yourself, scrambling on hands through the muck, you can't see either of them except for bubbles. Kyle points his gun and tries to track the water for Greys, but then the bubbles disappear. It's still. Ghost's name emerges from your throat, just before he rips up out of the water with Blue in his arms.

You can only make out the stab of his knife at skulls. He drags her back up onto the mud and rips off the bony hands clasped around her legs. She drives backwards on her elbows, gasping wetly, as more emerge from the opaque pool, grappling toward her. 

You shoot down two and Ghost fires at the rest, the swamp swallowing their corpses back in.

Then you rush to Blue through waist-high water. Nereida is already kneeling with her, wiping the mud from her face.

"Move!" Ghost barks, dirty water spit from his mouth. "There'll be more."

He hauls her onto his back. It's a fight between trying to move quickly and not trying to get sucked into the mud. Your body turns numb but alert of every shift below, water sloshing into every crevice. More Greys begin to burst up in fits at your passing scent, but most go straight for Ghost and Blue, jaws snapping at his legs as he keeps her anchored high on his back. You drop the ones he can’t reach. Others fail to break free at all, pinned where rocks or missing limbs hold them in place, their arms flailing at the air.

Another grabs your boot, but you slam the heel into its mandible. 

Price and Kyle cover the front, steering you toward the slow rise of firmer ground. The vegetation shifts to trees and short grass up on a bank. Ghost finally lowers Blue, his hands lingering at her arms to steady her shaking legs. 

"We have to check for bites," you say, winded, but he is already about to lift up her soaked shirt.

Her arms fly over her chest. "N-no!"

Her slit-coated cheeks flare.

"With me, Blue. Come on." You take her wrist. It sounds like there's a stream. You're dirty and wet, joints locked. “Just a rinse."

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-eight —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 5.4k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. menstruation. smut. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

You jump out of the bed at the sound of her voice, shoving at Ghost's arm. 

"One second," he calls back.

The closet offers refuge; you snatch your clothes from the floor and dart inside, sinking into moth-ball infested coats. You make your breaths as quiet as possible, pulling the door shut without making the faintest noise.

You peer through a thin sliver, catching Ghost as he pulls up his briefs and drags a hand through his disheveled hair. The door opens, but all you see of Blue are the tips of her feet, bare now and tilted onto their sides to keep pressure off the scabbed skin. You absorb their voices the way you used to in that shed, listening through planks of wood. He was the one you used to hide from. Now it's her, the girl who was your only friend. 

"You were out a long time," she comments, and you think she hands him water and his pill. "Thought you were feeling better?"

"I am." The backward tilt of his head as he swallows them down confirms it. "Worrying 'bout me?"

"In your dreams." Not able to see her, the slight shift in her voice stands out more, her usual petulance dimming. "Wasn't Twix here?"

"No, she wasn't."

"She hasn't come down yet."

"Still sleeping somewhere?"

Your gaze drops to your curled toes as you silently scold yourself for staying too long, knowing full well about Ghost’s antibiotics. The only saving grace is the size of this place. There is a slight shuffling of feet on wood before the subject is thankfully dropped.

"I guess. Price wants to talk plans. Come on. Your breakfast is cold, too."

Ghost dips out of view then passes a minute later fully clothed. You catch him bend to kiss her hair, and she lets him. When the door clicks shut behind them, you loosen a tight breath. Dust sits at the entrance of your nostrils as you debate the safest option here: go down now and it will look odd, but wait too long and Blue will surely search for you. The middle ground seems to be waiting a few minutes, so you take the time to find the least stale clothes and a new pair of underwear.

As you begin to dress, the raw skin between your legs flares. You wriggle your arms through an oversized tee that reads École Polytechnique in dark blue lettering when a warm gush slips down the back of your thigh; more of his cum, still half-warm. 

"Jesus, Simon," you whisper, reaching for your old underwear to wipe it off. Despite the embarrassed blush, you can't deny how your belly stirs as you recall how it felt for him to finish inside you. No one had ever done that back when you dated around. Condoms were always a must, and anal never sounded appealing. An ex once tried to convince you to try it while he was drunk, but the relationship didn't last much longer after that, and the idea soured then on. But with Ghost... the tight ring of muscle had felt the faint pulse and twitch of him, and the awful wondering of what it would feel like to take his cum in your pussy instead flickers through your mind.

You squander the thought before it can fester.

No.

Not happening.

“Shit,” you hiss when the trail slips too close to where it shouldn’t. You spread your ass and scrub quickly—hard—praying this is the last of it.

He should not do that again.

Why did you let it happen?

Damnit. You can't think clearly when it comes to him.

Ghost is a danger to your mental acuity, yet he is the one you’ve chosen to claim.

It has been a long time since you could even call someone yours. To him, it means protection. What does it mean to you? He is not like anyone you were with before, and you doubt he would want to be called your boyfriend. You consider how laughable, how futile, that title is in capturing what Ghost is to you as you try taming your hair. What is he, then? You cannot love him, but… you rely on him. Trust him more than anyone else here. You will put him first. That part is easy. His life is more important anyway, because Blue needs him.

A quiet voice chides both of you for pretending any of it matters, whether you are his or he is yours. If anything truly owns you, the answer is simple. Fear. 

You should be feeling it again, the fear, because the reality of what comes next presses in as you head downstairs, picking at a knot in your hair.

Everyone is gathered around the dining table, a map pinned by mugs between them, but your eyes go to Ghost first. The fear flickers, then wavers under the pull toward him. You only just left his bed, yet you still catch how stupidly attractive he looks freshly fucked, even if only you are aware of it, with his eyes still a tad glazed and his hair curling more at the places where your fingers had grabbed.

"Well," Price looks up from the map, clearing his throat. His voice comes tired but still carries warmth. "Glad you could join us."

Just how out of touch you've been becomes apparent when you see the dark under his eyes. You were out for two days; meanwhile, him and Kyle must've been the only ones keeping watch during the nights. 

"Where were you?" Blue quips lightly, gaze flicking from her nail she picks at to you. 

"I slept in the attic. Warmer there," you answer smoothly despite the fissure in your chest. "Sorry. I guess I was still beat."

"We need your input on some things," Kyle tells you, scraping the chair out beside him. It is directly opposite of Ghost, which doesn't help your resolve to readjust your focus as you sit down. 

"You need to eat more," Nereida fusses, placing a bowl of stew in front of you. "That's why you're so tired."

She's right. Fatty beef is ground between your molars as you listen to Price explain the plan. It's the old plan, really, except that time is a bigger issue now. The passes in the Alps could start freezing over as early as September. 

“We have two options,” he says evenly, tracing a finger over the faded ink. “Stick close to the roads like before. That’s the faster way. Or we move through the tree line. Less chance of an ambush, but it will take longer.”

“We’ve got smoke bombs now,” Kyle says low, assured. “That gives us some backup. Even if people come at us again, we can handle it. I say we get to the border as efficiently as we can.”

"Smoke bombs?" You drop your spoon into the bowl and swing your gaze to him. 

"I went back again the other day. While you were out." At the look on your face, his brow arches. "Greys mostly cleared, don't worry."

Fuck. You really were out. You sink into the back of your chair, mulling over the choices. Your eyes study the shape of France, the distance you have to cross no matter which way you go. Then you steal a glance at Ghost. He is every bit the man you woke up to, yet, not quite. His jaw is set hard. A calm mask he wears well hiding the cracks you heard in his voice when he was...

"We can fight people. We can't fight freezing cold, or no food. We need to get to the foothills as soon as possible," his voice emerges as lieutenant. He taps a single finger on the surface of the table, and your eyes follow it, before snapping back up "Twix?"

"I..."

You feel it, face freezing.

Eyes drawn to you, it is now that gravity taunts another warm ooze of fluid into the back of your underwear.

So much. It spreads, coating the backs of your thighs. If it goes any further—

"I agree," you manage through your teeth as you subtly slip your hands under your thighs to lift your ass up an inch. The angle stops the cum from filling the front of your underwear, but a crack of worry still grips your stomach. 

At the prolonged silence, you look around the table, lingering a second longer on Ghost. His eyes are void of acknowledgement, but you catch it, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. He knows. He knows and he is pleased by it. Of course, he is. Your fingers dig harsher into your thighs, and you clear your throat.

"I mean, I agree that we need to go the faster way. All of this will be for nothing if we get to the mountains and die from the cold."

"I agree, too," Blue chimes quietly.

You relax—a little.

"I don't." Fortunately, the eyes snap away from you at the interjection of Ari's voice. "Why bother still? After all of us almost just got killed?"

"Ari," Kyle mutters in warning.

His nephew shrugs off the hand that touches his shoulder. "We should just stay here. We're fine here."

"We're not fine here," Price cuts in. "It is hardly safe. Flat land's hard to defend. We'll run out of food by winter." His voice etches a tad higher, wavering the calm you're used to. "If a horde comes, there is no running from it." 

Ari goes quiet, slumping back into his chair. 

Your fingers ease off your thighs as you look down at your food.

Nereida coaxes a hand over her husband's shoulder, and he rubs his jaw to loosen it.

Price speaks softer. "Plan A is still finding the others. That is our best chance at long-term medicine, food, and a real life. If they don't exist, or aren't the welcoming type, Plan B is finding our own spot in the mountains."

"Okay," Ari concedes in a murmur.

"We'll leave tomorrow. I'll finish the antibiotics on the road," Ghost says measuredly.

"We need to move, but we don't want you dead, Simon. She is the one who kept you alive." You glance up and meet Price's eyes. "Let her call it."

Ideally, Ghost would rest for another week, until the scabs were firm. But you understand why Price is getting uneasy; you've been staying in one spot for too long. 

“Tomorrow,” you say. “But he can’t carry weight on his back, and… and we shouldn’t push too far yet. Let him get used to moving again. And I'll keep watch tonight. You and Kyle need real rest before we go."

“I will, too,” Ghost says. “We’ll switch out, get some sleep."

That seems to settle things. A few more details pass between the men—the Doubs River you will eventually have to cross, mainly—and you listen idly while you finish eating, your mind already shifting to the other problem you need to deal with. You need a proper bath. And you need to be smarter about the real risk of continuing to have sex.

Everyone begins to disperse around the time you rise and go to wipe your bowl at the counter with a rag. Is there even a smart way of having sex? Every time he is bare inside you, you stand the chance of pregnancy. In uni, you used condoms and took the pill. You have access to neither. A memory touches you: the box you found at that market once. You didn't even think you'd be in a position to need them, but damn you wish you took them, no matter how expired or unfit for Ghost's girth they may have been. 

You need to talk to Nereida. 

Talk to her, then bathe.

No. Bathe first—

But someone grabs your arm and tugs you toward the archway into the living room, and it's not her.

"Are you feeling better?" 

Kyle keeps his voice quiet between you.

You blink.

"Oh, yeah. I apologize for being useless the past few days."

"Of course, you would apologize for passing out exhausted." He frowns, shaking his head. "Thought you were dead when you didn't wake up after a whole day."

"Sorry," you breathe, then fix it. "I mean, I'm not sorry."

He lets go of your arm, and you think you're free, but then he rubs the back of his neck. “There’s something I’ve got for you. Might be a nice pick-me-up for when we leave tomorrow. One second."

He leaves, and you awkwardly wait until he returns through the front door with something sizable in his grip. Curved wood that breaks through all your thoughts, and your lips part in surprise. 

"My bow," you whisper. His smile widens at your reaction, at the way your hands greedily reach for it. 

You smooth your palms over the familiar grain of oak, disbelieving, before you look at him. "How did you—"

"Went back again, remember?"

"Where was it?"

"In that barn," he says. "But the string was snapped in half." 

You pluck at it, noticing something's different. It's thicker, but just as pliant. 

"Dried tendons," Kyle explains with a chuckle. "Should make do for now until we can find something better."

"Thank you." You lace the words with all the gratitude that sweeps through you, and lower to bow at your side to loop an arm around his neck. "Thank you. For everything."

When you pull away, he stares down at you. "There." Then, he touches his thumb to the corner of your mouth, where it pulls into your cheek. "I was hoping for that."

"For what?"

"A smile from you. Rare thing."

That blush of yours returns, hiking up the shell of your ears. There is movement in the archway at your side, but when you steal a glance, it's gone. 

---

Cool, muggy air envelops your plum-stained hands as you strike your knife into wood. The pointed tip of the arrow digs into your thumb; the bite of pain attests to its completion, and you set it on the porch with the others. Four, now. You reach for another sturdy stick you collected before dusk and start over, carving off the bumpy outer layer. Splinters weasel into the skin around your nails, but you will leave them until you’re done.

Most of the afternoon had been spent with Nereida cutting fruit and vegetables, laying thin slices on scraps of metal to dry in the sun, then salting them. Keeping anything fresh will be a fight against the humidity, so the taste of salty plum will have to be tolerated.

You pause your knife, rest it on your thigh, and reach into your back pocket.

You pull out the small pouch she snuck to you, the fine grains shifting between your fingers.

“Queen Anne’s Lace,” she’d murmured. “The seeds used to be taken to prevent implantation. It’s not… it’s not guaranteed, though.”

“I know. Thank you.”

She had given you a gentle look. “You should tell her.”

You looked down. “I can’t.”

“She is smart.”

“I know. But she’s been through enough.”

Reading your mind, she sighed. “I won’t tell her.”

“Please.”

“I’ve known for some time, you know. The way you look at him when you think no one is watching.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “Does anyone else…”

“I’m sure John does.”

“Let’s keep it at just that.”

A warm squeeze to your hand, and she didn't pry further.

You slip the pouch back into your pocket, then notice a stray strand falling loose from your scalp. You untie the bit of yarn holding one braid together, unravel it, gather the stray piece in with the rest, and twist it back into a tighter braid. Hopefully, it will preserve your washed hair amid all the sweat tomorrow will bring.

"You used to wear those often."

The voice at your back nearly makes your fingers lose hold of the hair, but you keep it secure with the yarn and finish tying it off before glancing over your shoulder. 

"Missed them?"

"A bit."

Ghost leans against the screen door, arms crossed over his chest. He wears a black hoodie he found after scouring the rooms from clothes in his size. The fresh bandages you replaced poke out around the collar, though you plan to remove them after you make it to your next stop tomorrow, the scabs almost ready to breathe. 

There's something in his hand you can't discern in the dark, not until he pushes from the door and places a handful of arrows, better carved than the ones you've been working on, into your pile. 

"You made those?"

He doesn't answer your question simply for obvious the answer is. You grab one to inspect as he sits down beside you on the porch's step. The smell of him invades your air. Bitter from the charcoal he used to bathe in, but sweet from the natural musk built after the workouts he did to awaken his dormant muscles. You witnessed it in pieces; push-up's on the porch, climbs up the cliffside with Price, jogging the perimeter of the garden.

He reaches over after you set the arrow back down, and you flinch instinctively, expecting a touch to your face. But he goes for the braid, rolling the end of it between thumb and forefinger. You think he might say something else about it, but he doesn't.

"It's not your turn yet," you whisper, covering his knuckles with your palm. "You should sleep as much as you can."

"Like hell I can sleep." He releases a breath through his nose, eyes following his hand as lowers it. He reaches the hem of your sweatshirt, another piece of French university merch two sizes too big for you, and his callused fingers seek the flesh underneath, brushing your hip. 

"Did you wash me off?" he asks, lower, almost strained. Like the thought has been pressing into his brain since you parted.

You glance at the door. "I'm not—we're not talking about that right here," you hiss silently. 

"They're all asleep."

"Blue and Ari are in the living room," you remind him.

He drops your braid in favor of standing up, not even looking at you when he murmurs, "Follow me."

He’s a meter ahead by the time you manage to follow him, leaving your knife and bow behind. The outline of a gun in his back pocket is enough reassurance to abandon your post for the moment. The sky, wounded with purplish stars, throws just enough light to track where he’s headed: toward the garden, where the silhouette of a garden shed rises from the ground.

The door is parted open when he abruptly stops before it. He pulls you in. The smell of nitrates and rusted metal floods your nose as he kisses you, his hand sliding down the length of your back, somehow guiding you into the dark shed to avoid stumbling over the scattered tools beneath your feet. 

"Here?" he says into your mouth, and you don't register his voice at first, struck by how smooth his freshly-shaven jaw feels in comparison to the wild scruff he had this morning.

When you nod, he breaks from the kiss to hold your face. "Then tell me."

"Yes," you whisper, breath puffing white between you. Slivers in the plywood draw strips of moonlight over his face. "I didn't exactly want an infection."

There is a firm press of his fingers, but that's the extent of your punishment. "You don't know, do you?" he then questions, voice etched with curious frustration.

Your brows fall. "Know what?"

"How difficult you make it to think." His tone slides into the kind of murmur that secrets are spoken in, and his nose brushes the tip of yours as he huffs out a disbelieving breath. "Christ. I could think of nothing else today but my cum in your ass."

Your brows shoot back up. "Are you serious? You couldn't think? I'm the one who had to sit there next to everyone while it was all coming out"

There is not an ounce remorse from him; the breath of a smirk grows on his mouth, like the one you noticed across the table, and his hand lowers to your ass, giving it a light tap. 

"You're actually so full of yourself."

"You enjoyed it." He begins lowering to his knees before you, slow, touching his nose to your stomach on his way down. "Didn't you?"

You can’t quite process what he’s doing as your hand settles on his head, fingers brushing through the short tufts of hair left after Blue’s trimming, close enough to feel the warmth of his scalp.

"It doesn't matter if I did or not. We need to be more careful."

Fingers fumble with the button of your jeans. "We are careful."

"Ghost." You lose track of thought when he peels your jeans to your ankles, then tugs at your underwear with his teeth, breath fervent. He grips your hips and forces you around; your hands find the edge of a shelf blindly, splintered wood crying into your palms, and his mouth smears over one cheek while his hand kneads the other in rough marvel. 

"What are you—"

"You really don't know." Ghost mutters some unintelligible curse, drags his lips over the flesh until he plants a strikingly light kiss to the end of your spine, both hands now spreading and palming you.

You don't question what he means by that this time in favor of finishing the more serious thought before it disappears. "Ghost—Simon." You angle your neck to look down at him, heat stirring in your gut at the thought of what he’s wanting. "I'm serious. No more... no more finishing in me. Even there."

The whites of his eyes slide up to you, and his hands pause. "You're worried?"

"Paranoid, a bit," you admit quietly.

There is a wordless beat, then an exhale. "I should've asked you first. I don't want you paranoid."

"I liked it," you assure him again before he can believe otherwise. "But we shouldn't."

A nod that grazes his chin against your skin, and he kisses it tenderly again. "I won't. Swear." 

"Okay. Thank you," you mutter softly, and tension unwinds from your shoulders.

His left hand sweeps around to cup your belly, thumb circling your navel, hesitating a moment—just a moment—before creeping to your cunt. He is slower, more thoughtful, in the touch he presses to your clit, finding it with ease even with no view of it. A slow application of pressure draws a long breath from your throat, mixed with a sighed moan, and you melt into the familiar awakening of nerves beneath his touch. 

"You're wet." It's not teasing; observant, reverent. "Let me make you feel good."

Unspoken words follow his request: let this happen again before you're back to traveling. Before privacy is a luxury you can't afford. 

You lick your lips and swallow at the feel of his breath hitting the groove of your ass. When you flatten your back, pushing your ass out more in offering, he groans, shaky and hoarse with need, and nudges his mouth forward, but you latch a hand back into his hair and shove his face back before he can taste you.

"Wait."

You peer down at him, reveling in the rare sight.

Ghost on his knees.

For you.

A single brow arches as you scrape nails at his scalp and murmur, "Hungry?"

His fingers bruise the plush of you. A gritted: "Yes."

Your tongue caresses the roof of your mouth as your voice lowers even more. "The hungrier they are, the less you can trust them. Right, Simon?"

He doesn't understand at first; then the memory must hit him, and he laughs lowly. "Remember that, do you?"

"I remember everything."

He turns more serious. "I am yours now."

"Can I trust you, then?"

"Always."

The sincerity in that single word ignites a feeling more frightening than lust in your stomach, but no part of you is willing to examine it. You tongue your cheek, whispering sweetly. "If you're hungry, lieutenant, then beg."

You're not sure where the request comes from, maybe the version of you from the past that despised his power over you. His sclera slit, lashes appearing longer against them, and your skin prickles in anticipation. The two of you stare at each other for enough time for all the memories of the past, of how he first treated you, to yield in the silence. He yields along with them, tongue wetting his lip before he murmurs, "Please. Let me eat your ass."

"You need it?"

"I need it."

"You don't sound like you need it."

"Please, Twix—Christ, I fucking need it. I need you."

You bite your lip harshly. "How long have you needed me?" 

His hand runs up and down the side of your thigh. "Ever since you kneed me. Sooner, probably," he admits, voice gravelly and exposed and dangerously turned on.

The memory surfaces.

You suck in a breath and yank his head forward until his mouth wedges between your cheeks. Pure relief rumbles in his chest when his tongue touches the same skin he unnaturally stretched open hours ago. Still raw and tender, but humming with that disarming pleasure as he sucks and kisses and traces the rim like he’s truly starving.

His thumb works your clit—slick, just as he said—and the mixture of both sensations overwhelms you. You’re beyond sensitive. Your teeth sink into your forearm, your other hand locked in his hair, guiding him, forcing his tongue up and down in long, flattened strokes over your hole that hit something deep within you.

"That’s—that’s so good. Keep doing that."

He obeys. The sounds that ensue in this shed are pornographic. Tomorrow you’re supposed to walk kilometers through humid French summer, but none of that exists when he leaves your clit, slides a finger into you, and works your pussy in sync with his mouth on your ass.

A strong hand cups one cheek, then there is a sting; a smack. You choke on a muffled sound. The pain spreads low and white-hot in your spine. He must feel your breath stagger, because he jiggles the flesh, then smacks it again, harder.

You break quickly.

The orgasm rips through you fast—embarrassingly so—the clench of your cunt around his fingers pulling them deeper, milking them in tight, relentless ripples. There is shifting, another uttered swear, and the fingers leave you. You're pulled away from the shelf and turned back around on malleable legs. Then the ground disappears beneath you as you're lifted with ease, arms hooked under the crooks of your knees.

He must've unzipped his jeans without you realizing because he enters you like this, with only his strength to support you. It feels impossibly deeper from the angle of having your knees squished up to your chest. He kisses you with a puffy mouth, bouncing you against him like you are nothing, both of you halfway clothed. The ounce of weakness from last night erased. Your hands pet and claw at his chest in seek of some relief for what quickly builds up again.

"Watch," he says, a breathy command. 

Your eyes drift to the shadow of his cock disappearing in and out of you. 

His grip on your thighs tightens.

"You will remember what we said, no matter where we are."

"O-okay."

"Say it, and I will let you cum again."

You narrow your eyes at him briefly, before they are rolled back by a deep thrust that strikes the plug of your womb, making your stomach ripple. He holds you down for a moment, seated against him, to the point it almost hurts that he won't move. 

"I will remember... what we said," you concede, whining, wiggling your hips in vain. All it does it strike the head of his cock deeper. "Goddamnit, Ghost—wherever we are."

When he moves you again, it's more of a grind against him, clit dragged up and down his pubic bone. The small movements do just what he wants them to do; unravel you, until you're a mewling mess in his arms, walls threatening to flutter again, but you try your best to hold it off to enjoy this longer. He tugs at your braid and buries his face in your neck, latching his mouth to the exposed center of it. He sucks harder than you have the capacity to fight off, teeth grazing as he whispers.

"Tell me when you're gonna cum. I can't—I won't handle it."

You pant heavily. Not even a minute later: "I'm gonna—"

He rips out of you, drops you to the ground, and replaces his cock with his fingers. Within a second, you cum around them again, stronger, a small release of fluid accompanying the shudder that takes over you. You feel his knuckles and cock against your stomach in grazes as he strokes himself, pulling your sweatshirt over your bellybutton, and follows suit, spilling his seed over your skin as promised. He holds you against him as you both fill the small space with expended air, his other hand holding onto the shelf. 

The smell of layered sweat returns to you first, then the overpowering dust. 

Last, the throb at your throat.

Your brows furrow and you pull away from him to touch it: the sore skin yelps beneath your fingers.

"It's going to bruise."

He examines it with squinted eyes, a gentle brush of his thumb. "Just might."

He doesn't sound the least bit concerned.

"Why did you do it?"

"You can cover it."

"With what? A fucking scarf?"

"She won't notice. Relax."

You gradually ease against him and touch your nose to his underarm. The world feathers back around you, cold. You spend the next few minutes imagining where you might be the next time you get to have him like this.

"When was the last time you had sex? Before me." you ask him eventually, quiet.

He begins helping you redress, pulling your jeans back up your legs. "Before shit."

"Was it a hookup? Or something serious?" you question further, only feeling safe in wondering with how gentle his touch is as he rolls the large hem around your hips. 

"Inquisitive all the sudden." His fastens the button, then meets your eyes. "I was never with a woman seriously."

You blink. "What? Really?" 

He nods. 

"So you never had a girlfriend?"

Not Blue's mom, even?

"No." He works on his jeans now. He changes the subject. "Did you fuck anyone after the spread?"

You shake your head no. 

"The last guy, he..." you trail off, finding the words to share with him. "I lost contact with him when the cell service went out. I don't know whatever happened to him." At the unreadable way he tilts his head, staring at you in silence, you add, "I didn't have feelings for him. I mean, I did, but I didn't love him. Not that I have feelings for you. Not like that." You curl your hands into the oversized sleeves of your sweatshirt. "Just, remember what I said, too, right?"

"I remember, Twix." His brow lifts in tandem with his thumb, which sweeps back another piece of disobedient hair, behind your ear, where his touch lingers. "No love."

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-seven —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3.4k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. menstruation. smut. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

T

The world is orange light and the faint smell of damp earth drying under summer heat.

Humid air hums through the curtain over the bed. There is an ache in your ribs from where his body half-lays on top of yours, the other half propped up on his elbow. His stare is almost bored as if he has been watching you for a long time, intrigue only flickering when he realizes you are awake, head cocking subtly. You're not sure what to make sense of first, the rawness between your thighs or the distant voices you hear outside the window.

"How late is it?" 

"Before noon, likely."

There is some consolation to this. Not quite late enough for anyone to barge in and check if the two of you are still alive. You try to inhale, but it's a challenge with the weight of him. You feel sticky, the shirt still clinging to you. Your lips are swollen when you run your tongue over them. 

A long quiet follows where you let your eyes wander. It is hard to believe the man you've woken up to could barely eat some days ago. Hair falls messily over his face, the lips beneath his stubble holding more color after you bit at them. If it weren't for the fine lines etched by his eyes and mouth, he'd almost appear boyish. Relief fills you when you notice the bandages are still safely secure around his shoulders, your claw marks purposely placed on freed skin. 

Your actions from the library come back to you all at once, and you want to squirm, but even your bare legs are trapped by his. Instead, you clear the grit from your mouth, only able to withstand the silence for so long, and ask, "Do you plan on getting off of me?" 

"Eventually," his tongue rolls over the word. "Dreaming again?"

"Why?"

"You were making faces in your sleep."

"I do that often, apparently." 

No part of you wants to mention that it was his daughter who last said that. And no part of you is able to move when his hand ghosts up your stomach, stopping at the top button of the flannel neither of you cared to remove last night. A breath stops in your throat when he pinches it between thumb and forefinger, beginning to idly undo it without his gaze ever wavering from your face. You feel exposed, skinned, even though you are still half-clothed, and all you can do to soothe it is turn your cheek against the pillow because he seems uninterested in allowing you any personal space.

"How did you do it?"

"Do what?" you mumble, barely moving your lips. 

His fingers stop at the second button to turn your head back toward him by the chin. "Escape."

His collarbone seems like the safest place to look if you are being forced to choose, so you keep your eyes there. It takes a moment to catch up to his question. You consider lying for a moment but quickly remember how transparent everyone claims you are. “I threatened a pregnant woman and took her clothes.”

The second button gives way. The wrinkled fabric parts between your breasts and the tail end of his breath skates over the exposed skin there. Your chest heaves. He appears wholly unfazed. You want your arms. But both are sandwiched between him and the mattress, so you dig your fingertips into the plush of it.

His brows lower thoughtfully. "And the medicine?"

"I..." You grapple to maintain the strength in your voice, feeling a perceptible flush seize your neck as you quietly mutter. "I followed a bird."

He finally makes some sort of reaction, a disbelieving sound etched with amusement vibrating in his chest. He lowers his eyes while fumbling with the third button one-handed. When it submits to him, he bends his first two knuckles and traces them so lightly over your skin that it almost tickles. Then he wedges the fabric further apart, bunching it around the mounds of your breasts. 

"You are..." The change in his voice as he mutters to himself makes your hollow stomach spasm. A genuine look of frustration cuts across his face when he seems unable to find the word he seeks, but it disappears right before he lowers his mouth to your right breast, hot breath hitting the skin first, then a firm kiss. Your eyes slide to the ceiling and the pulse in your neck thickens.

"I answered your questions. Can you let me breathe now?"

Ghost lifts his head and eyes you warily, but eases up most of his weight a second later, unused muscles straining as he does. The moment your arms belong to you again, you don't think twice. You shove at his chest to push him further away, then roll out from beneath him, flinging your feet over the bed. A grumbled swear sounds from behind you as you bolt for the door. But you don't make it very far. A hand grasps the half-done shirt still on you, tugging you backward, hard, onto someone's lap. 

His lap. 

“Let me go,” you hiss, knotted hair flying into your mouth as you writhe. It’s all in vain when he seizes your other arm, pinning both behind your back, and you realize you’re only fighting yourself. Defeat settles with every breath you swallow until your body stills, and you’re left bracketing his thighs with your own, panting through your nose. The flannel awkwardly sits halfway down your arms, your breasts to the air, and your underwear has ridden up in the struggle but you are helpless to fix it. 

"I prefer you bed-bound."

"No, you don't." A barely-there smile tugs beneath the shadow on his jaw, but it straightens when he firmly covers your cheek with one hand, now holding both wrists together. "No more running from me."

Your head lulls forehead, hair curtaining your face. You close your eyes for a moment. "What do you want?" 

"I want you to remember what you said."

"It was just sex talk. A distraction."

"It wasn't."

Your eyes reopen to flit a glare. "You're the one who said—"

"I know." He squeezes your wrists gently. "And you're the one who said you're mine."

"You fucking forced it out of me."

"It needed to be said."

"Why?"

"So you understand."

"Usually, it's two people agreeing on it. Not one person making the other 'understand'."

"You agreed to it the moment you begged for me inside you."

"I didn't beg."

His brow lifts. "No?"

You rip your eyes towards the closet a moment, fingers curling before spreading out. "What exactly does it mean?" You look back at him. "That I'm yours."

A tangled piece of hair is brushed behind your ear, and his thumb rests on your temple. "I take care of what's mine."

"I don't need to be taken care of."

He nods. "You don't. But I still will."

You study his face, the hard set of his jaw. You try to think back to the creek when he washed you off, to the questions you had about what this was and what he wanted from you. But now, as you sit helplessly on his lap and the faint voices of your awakened companions bleed again through the window, there are no questions left in you. For a moment, your mind opens to a wide sky, and your dead loved ones fly above as birds. Soaring, always, quietly calling to you as they did that week when you were alone and ready to die.

Then you're back in the room with him and you're not trembling as you were last night. Your voice is clear, accepting. "I need you to promise something, then."

His callused fingertips fall across the canvas of your cheek, then hold your jaw. "What?"

"You won't love me."

The stare you share is extended for what should feel like an unnerving period of time, but you feel an unsettling calm envelop you. He finally nods, grip easing off your arms. "Alright."

"And we don't tell her."

Surprisingly, he seems less certain about this. "For now," he gives. 

The answer satisfies you enough. Where there was guilt before about hiding from Blue, understanding seeps in its place, that this game of survival is different now, that you’re pitifully aware she isn’t the only one you hate the idea of losing. Some part of you belongs to him, whether you want it to or not. And what you need, more than anything, is for them both to make it there alive.

That piece of clarity does some to turn your limbs compliant, so that when he fully lets go, testing you, you don't run for the door again. 

"Good girl." 

The rumble of his praise comes with the brush of his mouth on yours, filling the hollow of your belly with that same heat only he can summon. It’s tentative at first, two animals unsure which one is meant to draw blood, far slower and heavier than the frantic way you kissed in the library. You decide there is no harm to be done in allowing this to happen, the pull between you clearly inevitable against the weight of the world that enslaves you both. It is the only thing you can trust not to wither. 

His tongue slides past your teeth, tracing the ridges on each of them, then entangling with yours. You forget how to move your mouth until he gives it a small nip, then you ease back into the instinct of kissing him. It takes great effort to remember not to loop your arms around his back, so you place your hands flat on his pectoral instead. Bits of coarse hair tickles your palms, and beneath them, his heart thuds a languid pace. 

"I still owe you," he murmurs against your mouth, licking a hot circle around the shape of it as he threads a hand in your hair. "For saving my life and hers."

"It's a pretty steep debt."

He breaks away to laugh quietly under his breath, then lowers his eyes to the buttons of your shirt. He undoes the rest of them, finally freeing you of the thing with a tug off your shoulders, so now you're only in your underwear that is stained with your dried cum.

"How many orgasms will cut it?"

You almost snort, quiet. "Are you my whore now?"

"If you want me to be."

You're wet already when he peels the white fabric aside to bare your pussy to him, brushing his index through the tuft of curls there, then applying pressure to your clit knowingly. It would've embarrassed you before for the evidence of his effect to be on display, but now you don't really care, lifting your hips up an inch for him to reach more of it. 

"Tempting," you mumble absently. "Though, I don't think orgasms alone are enough."

There is an audible sound when two of his fingers slip into you smoothly. He may have caught you in a moment of pleading last night, but now you are more aware, meeting the steady thrust of his fingers with controlled circles of your hips. He watches you through hooded eyes, hard beneath you inside his boxers. You try not to dwell on how he watches you as if you are something he's never seen before, instead focused on how the pleasure that froths up is a better feeling than anything else.

"What else? Name it."

Of course, his request is futile given the fact there is nothing he can give. Not out here. 

But you let yourself answer something ridiculously impossible. "A library." A purposeful wave of your hips grazes his clothed erection against where his fingers disappear inside you, leaving a wet smear on the fabric. "With books... in English."

You're almost certain he isn't listening because a low, fractured hiss bleeds through his teeth. He recoils his hand. His hips twitch upward, now grinding himself against you. White frays along the edges of your vision, narrowing everything to him. You can have this, for now. You let yourself have it, let your mouth hang up in a silent gasp as the feeling burns deeper. 

You get off his lap.

He growls. 

"I said no more—"

But you sink to your knees before him, peel back his underwear, and take him in your mouth.

The success of it doesn't quite live up to your air of confidence. The head of him is fat and swollen, and it's a struggle to get it past your teeth unscathed. But you are a rewarded with a choked sound in his throat, and his hand pressing into the mattress as he holds your hair. 

"Christ."

It's been a long time since you've done this. You try to follow instinct, swept up by how good his velvet skin feels against your tongue as you drag it over him. The veins bulge into your tastebuds, and the shaky breath above you promises that you're doing something right. The control at your fingertips increases the ache between your legs tenfold, and you slip a hand between them to keep touching yourself. 

You smear your mouth up the side of him then stop at the top, saliva weeping, mixing with the salty precum. "And you're mine."

His chest expands over rough breaths. His cock bobs, seeking your mouth. 

"Say it," you pull away. 

His shoulders shake as he stares down at you. For a moment, a finger presses at the wound in your confidence, and you wonder if he won't say it, if this ownership only exists in one way. You are the one who cast aside love as an option here, so why would he owe you himself? You swipe the back of your hand over your wet mouth and are ready to hide under your hair again, when he swears under his breath and lifts you back up by your underarms. 

"Yours." He speaks roughly, claiming your mouth again. A blind hand rips down your underwear, past your ankles, and he fits you back on his lap as though you are skin and bones again. 

"I'm yours." His mouth finds the hard part of your throat, and bites here, a gentle capture of his teeth as you're forced to sink down on him. "It's yours."

Whatever 'it' he refers to doesn’t seem to matter compared to the familiar stretch. It’s a little painful at first, still sore, but that only makes you want more. You stay seated against him for a moment, addicted to how deep he reaches, teeth grazing his hair since you’re perched taller than him. He presses his nose to your breasts, the tip flattened as he breathes you in deeply as if to memorize your scent, before cupping your ass and forcing you to rock against him.

You continue like this until the flame almost consumes you, having to bite into his scalp to keep yourself quiet. It feels so good that you don't notice his hand moving until it thumbs between your cheeks, touching part of you that makes your eyes flash.

"What are you—"

"Mine here, too."

He holds you still at the top of his cock for a brief pause so his thumb can dig deeper, slow, giving you an opportunity to stop him. But you don't, biting hard on your tongue as a new feeling wracks through you, making your forehead fall onto his. The stretch is uncomfortable and strange but all the more thrilling, brimming your veins with an even whiter fire. In the back of your head, you realize how insane it is that he's touching you this way inside this dusty old room where he laid in bed, feverish. But the more his thumb wedges inside, the more you forget about that.

"Ghost," your eyes roll back, and you pick up the pace he left off on, now baring down on his cock and finger. You feel filthy and depraved and void of all reason. You want him completely. 

He seems to be feeling the same way. He opens his mouth to your breast and sucks on it unabashedly, groaning against it. "Wanna cum inside."

"You can't," the words press at your teeth, and you scratch the top of his chest. "I just had my..."

The thought trails off weakly, cut by a small sound you make when he pulls his hand from your ass and suddenly flips you over onto the bed. The next thing you know is your face is squished into the mattress, ass perched up in the air. You pant hard and glance behind you, where he kneels and slips back inside you like this. Your hands twist around the sheets from the force of the new angle, barely able to adjust before he's spreading your ass apart and touching your hole again with a wet finger he must've put in his mouth.

"Fuck."

It's a few clumsy thrusts later that he pulls back out, nudges just the fat tip inside you there, and digs his fingers into your flesh as he cums. The sensation is impossible to wrap your head around; the raw strain of your body making way for him, the hot seep of fluid inside you. Through it all, he slips his other hand back between your legs, long fingers circling the swollen, slick flesh he just abandoned.

You mewl into the mattress, having to fling your forearm between your teeth to suppress the string of noises you make. The combination of everything robs you of whatever control you thought you had. The orgasm hits you harder than last night. Fire that scorches you, turns your knees wobbly, the collapse of your body only stopped by the strong thighs that press in from behind you.

"Atta girl," he whispers in praise again, panting, and leans his chest down over your back as the two of you recover. You feel limp and useless. As if all the bedrest has been voided within a few minutes of exertion. His arm winds around your waist to help keep you up, and he presses a kiss to a notch in your spine as he carefully eases the head of his cock out of your ass. A trickle of cum seeps out, but he catches it with his fingers before it can make any threats that neither of you can afford to deal with. 

Carefully, he pulls out your knees to make you flatten onto your stomach, then lies directly on top of you. The two of you curl together like this for some time, the room orange and buttery with light. You close your eyes and see nothing on the backs of them. But you hear his breath in your hair, the birds outside the window that have returned after the downpour, and feel him tracing the dips in your ribs idly. 

Then he is murmuring. 

"What books?"

He asks you this as his cock softens against your leg, your holes still sore from his possession. Your brows pinch, then lift. A small laugh slips out. 

"The classics, please."

His touch finds the end of your ribs, then rolls around it, as if to gauge how much weight you have on you. "Dickens?" 

"Hemingway."

"Ah. The Old Man and the Sea?"

You nod against him, eyes trying to fix on a loose yellow thread in the quilt. "That, The Sun Also Rises, A Farewell to Arms..." you trail off.

"Austen?"

"Her, too."

He hums, absorbing the useless information. Then a knock at the door lifts him onto his elbows. The quiet breaks—soft knuckles turning into a firm fist, followed by the rattle of a near-empty vial.“Ghost? You need the morning dose.”

[moonlitstoriess]

Heyyy so I saw you wanting to write more for Kallias, and idk I just saw this soul shattering tiktok and the winter faerie actually reminded me of Kallias (yk because.. winter.. yh) … this is not a direct ask but maybe it can inspire you for further Kallias fics https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNeoxbvYr/ much much love, I really enjoyed your latest work with Kallias, you portrayed him so beautifully 🫶🏼

When the Ice Cracks- Kallias x fem!reader (oneshot)

Summary: Y/N, a bubbly healer, is summoned to treat the cold, brooding High Lord of Winter. Determined to befriend him, she pushes past his icy walls—until he finally breaks her spirit with cruel words. When she withdraws, Kallias tells himself it’s for the best… until he realizes he misses her warmth. Now, he must mend what he shattered before it’s too late.

Warnings: angst, mentions of injuries, fluff in the end, also I apologize in advance if you do not like my writing in this one cuz I am currently dealing with a painful eye infection which caused me to delay everything and idk if this will live up to the expectations you guys😔

See masterlist

A/N: Hi! The video was really something, the pain I felt as I watched it…😭 but it did give me an idea, although a different one but with enough angst loll. Also, thank you for the love, it makes me truly happy knowing my work is being appreciated<3

The apothecary chamber was warm, despite the eternal cold of the Winter Court just beyond its frost-laced windows. The scent of crushed herbs and simmering tonics swirled in the air, wrapping Y/N in a comforting embrace as she worked, carefully grinding a handful of dried roots into a fine powder. The mortar and pestle moved rhythmically in her hands, the familiar motion grounding her as she hummed softly to herself.

Healing had always been her purpose. From the moment she discovered her gift—the ability to soothe pain with a touch, to knit together flesh and bone with her power—it had felt like breathing. But talent alone was never enough. She had clawed her way through the ranks, training tirelessly under the best healers of the Winter Court, proving herself again and again until there had been no choice but to acknowledge her skill. Now, she was the youngest to ever hold the title of Master Healer, a position of high honor within the court.

The title had come with its share of challenges. The Winter Court was not an easy place for someone like her—a female who spoke too freely, smiled too easily, and refused to be swallowed by the cold, unspoken rules of the icy kingdom. She knew she was different from the others who served in Kallias’s court. Most healers were quiet, composed, reserved. Y/N? She talked too much. She got too close. She teased the soldiers she patched up, fussed over the sentries when they neglected their wounds, and made even the gruffest warriors crack a reluctant smile.

Warmth had always been her way. And warmth was not often welcomed in a place ruled by ice.

But she had earned her place. Through skill, through sheer willpower, through proving time and time again that she belonged.

She exhaled slowly, tipping the powdered root into a steaming vial, watching as the tonic darkened into a rich amber hue. This one would be useful—an enhanced healing elixir, meant to speed up the mending of deep wounds. She had been experimenting with stronger potions lately, determined to push the limits of her craft.

She reached for another vial, about to measure out the next ingredient, when—

“Y/N!”

The sharp call shattered the quiet, making her jolt so hard she nearly sent the entire potion spilling across the table. She twisted around, heart hammering, to find Healer Maerith standing in the doorway, her usually composed face drawn tight with urgency.

Y/N frowned, wiping her hands on her apron. “Maerith? What—”

“You are needed,” the older healer interrupted, breathless, her thick furs rustling as she strode into the room. “Immediately.”

Y/N straightened, brows knitting. “Needed for what?”

Maerith’s icy blue eyes met hers, and when she spoke, Y/N’s stomach dropped.

“The High Lord has been injured.”

For a moment, she could only stare. The words didn’t make sense. Kallias? Injured? The High Lord of Winter was a warrior, one of the most powerful High Lords in all of Prythian. She had never—never—been summoned to treat him before.

“I—” she started, struggling to process it. “What happened? Is he—”

“There’s no time for questions,” Maerith snapped, already moving toward the door. “Gather your supplies and get to his chambers. Now.”

Y/N barely hesitated. Years of training, of discipline, took over. She grabbed her satchel, shoving in every tonic, poultice, and salve she could think of—something for pain, something for wounds, something for internal injuries in case it was worse than they were letting on.

Her mind raced as she slung the heavy leather strap over her shoulder and sprinted out of the room, Maerith’s words echoing in her head.

The High Lord has been injured.

Her boots pounded against the marble floors as she tore through the palace corridors, weaving past startled servants and guards. The familiar halls felt different now, heavier, filled with an almost suffocating tension.

How had it happened? A training accident? An attack? Was it serious?

The thought made her pulse stutter. She had treated hundreds of warriors, seen males with grievous wounds, but this—this was different. This was the ruler of their court, their kingdom. And she had no idea what to expect when she reached his chambers.

One thing was certain, though.

She was about to come face-to-face with the High Lord of Winter himself.

Pain throbbed in his side, deep and unrelenting.

Kallias sat stiffly in the high-backed chair near the roaring fireplace of his chambers, his jaw tight as he pressed a cloth against the wound that refused to heal. Blood had long since soaked through the fabric, staining his fingers a deep crimson, but still, the gash remained. Even with his Fae healing, even with his magic, the injury lingered—mocking him.

He exhaled sharply, tilting his head back against the chair, ice creeping along the edges of the wound in a feeble attempt to numb the pain. How had it come to this?

A routine patrol beyond the palace walls, that was all it had been. He had been investigating strange reports near the northern borders when a group of rogue Fae attacked. Rogues. In his court. It infuriated him. They had been strong—trained, even—but not stronger than him. Kallias had made quick work of them, his ice shattering bones, freezing bodies where they stood.

But one had gotten close. One had touched him.

A poisoned blade, slashing across his ribs before he cut the male down where he stood. He hadn’t felt it at first, the cold consuming his rage, his focus on eliminating every last one of them. But then, as the bodies lay frozen at his feet, the pain had set in. The wound had burned, spread, and despite every attempt to use his magic to seal it, it would not close.

He clenched his teeth, fingers curling into a fist as frustration curled in his gut. He loathed being touched, and now his own mistake—the one moment he had let his guard slip—had left him with no choice but to endure it.

A healer had to see to him.

Kallias could hardly stomach the idea. He was High Lord of the Winter Court, the most powerful male in this palace, and now he sat injured like some weakling in his own chambers. It should have healed by now. But it hadn’t. Which meant he had to tolerate someone else's hands on him.

He exhaled sharply, preparing himself. At the very least, he knew the healer would be professional—quiet, efficient, distant, like all the others who served under him.

Then, the doors burst open.

"Master Healer Y/N, my lord," a voice announced before the heavy doors shut once more.

Kallias barely had a second to process the name before she stepped in.

His first thought was that she did not look like a healer. Or at least, not like any healer he had encountered before.

The female before him—Y/N—was not reserved. She did not carry the cold demeanor of his court. No, she radiated warmth.

Bright eyes, a quick, eager smile. Her hair was slightly tousled, a satchel slung over her shoulder, filled with an assortment of tonics, bandages, and salves. She was smaller than he expected but walked with a confidence that somehow filled the room.

And then she bowed—deeply, properly—before flashing him that same, blinding smile.

"My lord! An honor, truly. You’re my first High Lord patient, you know? What a milestone! And what a lovely room—I should’ve guessed it would be grand, of course, you’re the High Lord, but still! Very cozy for such a serious place."

Kallias just stared.

She moved toward him with an energy that was… unnatural for the Winter Court. His people did not behave this way. Healers did not behave this way.

Was she… babbling?

She reached his side, dropping to a crouch beside his chair. “Now, let’s see—oh! Wait. Sorry, my lord, I got ahead of myself. Where was the injury again?”

Kallias blinked at her.

What. The. Hell.

For a long moment, he didn’t respond, only studying her as his brain tried to process what had just happened. No one had ever spoken to him like that. Not a courtier, not a soldier, and certainly not a healer.

She didn’t cower, didn’t hesitate, didn’t treat him like some untouchable force of nature.

And gods help him, a part of him almost found it… endearing.

He shoved the thought away immediately.

Wordlessly, he lifted his hand from the wound, exposing the long, deep gash along his ribs.

Her eyes widened.

A gasp left her lips, so dramatic it made something in him twitch. "By the Cauldron! This is terrible. Absolutely terrible. No wonder your magic isn’t closing it—look at that! That’s not just a wound, my lord, that’s a full-on crisis!"

His nostrils flared as he tried not to react.

She was already rummaging through her bag, muttering under her breath. "My great-great-grandfather had a wound like this once, you know? Not poisoned, but deep enough that it wouldn’t close—granted, he was a fisherman, not a High Lord, but still. Oh! And this reminds me of that soldier from the southern border last spring, nasty gash, nearly lost his whole side—poor guy, cried like a baby, but don’t worry, my lord, I’m sure you’ll handle this much better than he did."

What. The. Hell. Was. Happening.

She was still talking as she placed a warm, gentle hand over the wound. He barely had a second to brace himself before power pulsed from her palm.

White-hot pain lanced through him, burning from the inside out. A sharp hiss escaped through his teeth, his body instinctively jerking at the sensation.

“Oh! Sorry, sorry! I know it hurts," she said quickly, not stopping. "It’s the first part of the healing process, the pain means it’s working—”

“Just do your damn job,” he snapped.

Her hands stilled for a second.

Then—to his utter disbelief—she laughed.

A bright, unapologetic laugh.

“Alright, alright, High Lord of Impatience, I’ll be quick,” she teased, carefully pressing her hand back to the wound. “No need to get all grumpy.”

Kallias barely managed to bite back his shock.

No one. No one spoke to him that way.

Yet this strange, bubbly, utterly unafraid healer did so without hesitation.

He didn’t know whether to be infuriated or intrigued.

She worked efficiently, despite her chatter, cleaning the wound, applying some sort of cooling salve before carefully wrapping the bandages around his torso. Her touch was gentle, careful—not the cold, clinical detachment he was used to.

When she finished, she straightened, brushing her hands off and nodding in satisfaction. "Alright, my lord! You’re all patched up. Now, since this wound is serious, I’ll be checking on you daily to ensure proper healing. You’ll need to rest, no strenuous activity, and absolutely no magic use on the injury—magic interference could worsen the effects. Take this tonic twice a day, avoid anything too cold—oh wait, your whole court is cold, hmm—well, maybe don’t sit in the snow for too long. And—”

She paused, realizing she was still talking.

She gave him a sheepish smile.

“Oh. Uh—sorry, my lord.” She bowed deeply. “I’ll… take my leave now.”

And just like that, she whirled around and left as quickly as she had come, the door clicking shut behind her.

Silence settled in his chambers.

Kallias just sat there, stunned, trying to process what the hell had just happened.

His gaze flickered to the door, as if expecting her to burst back in with another round of chatter.

She didn’t.

And yet—for some godsdamned reason, his chambers suddenly felt much colder.

The soft sound of the door clicking behind her echoed down the empty hallway. Y/N let out a long breath, her fingers trembling slightly as she straightened her robe and took a moment to steady her thoughts. The High Lord's chambers were eerily quiet, and now that she was outside, the weight of the moment hit her. She had never, in all her years as a healer, been summoned to tend to a High Lord—especially not Kallias, Lord of Winter.

She had always heard the rumors: Kallias was cold, distant, and completely unapproachable. His icy powers were a reflection of his personality—a male who trusted no one, who allowed only the bare minimum of interaction. She had always thought, maybe even hoped, that she wouldn’t be the one to face him. But here she was, having just treated his wound, with nothing but the cold, sterile scent of the palace halls to remind her of it.

It was strange, really. She had been nervous walking in, of course—who wouldn't be? But when she saw him, sitting there, with that sharp, regal posture, she couldn’t help but feel an odd sense of calm settle over her. She had seen plenty of injured soldiers and nobles in her time, but Kallias was different. His gaze had been piercing, his silence unnerving, but she had managed to push past it. Maybe it was her natural exuberance, or maybe it was the quiet desperation inside of her that made her speak to him so freely. But once she started talking, she couldn't stop. It was as if she couldn’t help herself—he was so cold, so distant, that she wanted to break through that ice, even if it meant talking his ear off.

Her stomach twisted as she walked down the hall, the heels of her boots clicking softly against the stone. The image of him—his sharp, icy eyes, the tension in his posture—kept replaying in her mind. And yet, despite his cold exterior, she found herself thinking about him. Was it the way he seemed so unaffected by her? Or was it the strange feeling that had settled in her chest when she’d touched his skin to heal him, when his sharp hiss had cut through the silence?

She ran a hand through her hair, sighing. She hadn’t intended to make a spectacle of herself. She had never acted so loosearound a patient before. But something about Kallias had made her lose her usual professionalism. She had simply been… herself. And she couldn’t decide if she regretted it or not.

As she reached her chambers, Y/N quickly removed her healing satchel from her shoulder, placing it on the small table by the window. Her mind was still buzzing, and her hands itched to keep busy. She grabbed a small vial of herb tonic from the shelf, staring down at it for a long moment. The liquid inside shimmered in the low light, a soft blue-green glow. She started preparing another tonic to keep herself distracted, her movements swift and practiced as she crushed the dried herbs. But her mind was elsewhere.

It was silly, really. She had treated countless soldiers, nobles, even the occasional member of the court. But something about Kallias was… different. The way he’d stared at her when she had walked in—no one looked at her like that. It was the look of a man who had lived through decades of isolation, someone who was both imposing and dangerous, but there was also something else. Curiosity, perhaps? Or maybe it was just her imagination running wild.

She cursed herself for allowing her thoughts to wander back to him. Why was she even thinking about him? It wasn’t like he had shown her any kindness. In fact, he had barely spoken to her. That bitter coldness had wrapped around him like a blanket, and she had been the one to dive right into it. It was foolish. But then again, maybe she hadn’t been entirely wrong in doing so. He had let her heal him. He hadn’t called for another healer, and he hadn’t thrown her out. Maybe that was something, wasn’t it?

Y/N suddenly stopped mid-motion, her eyes wide. Was she sighing over Kallias? Her face flushed with embarrassment as she forced her mind back to her work. She would need to check on him tomorrow—his wound was deep, and it was going to take more than just a quick treatment to heal.

She gathered her thoughts, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling swirling in her stomach. Tomorrow would be another day. The High Lord was injured, yes, but he was just another patient. Another patient she needed to focus on. And when she went back to see him, she would keep things professional. No more talking, no more trying to break through his icy facade. She needed to be a healer, not a friend.

Her stomach twisted again as her mind flashed back to the way he had hissed when she touched him, the sharpness of it cutting through the air. It was as if she had momentarily crossed a boundary—one that he hadn’t allowed anyone to cross for a long time.

Y/N bit her lip, pushing the thoughts away. Tomorrow, she’d focus on the wound. Tomorrow, she’d make sure it healed properly, and nothing more. That was the job. That was what she was here for.

Y/N walked briskly down the palace corridors, the scent of morning dew still lingering in the air despite the heavy chill that seemed to follow the Winter Court even in the early hours. Her thoughts were consumed by the High Lord’s injury and how her treatment of it had left a curious impression on her. She had not expected the wound to be so severe, nor had she anticipated the subtle tension that had grown between her and Kallias during their brief interaction.

She had been awake since the crack of dawn, preparing her usual healing supplies, trying to find a quiet moment to gather her thoughts. But now, here she was, making her way to the High Lord's chambers to check on his recovery. She couldn't shake the nagging feeling that she had missed something. She had treated him with care—surely he would be resting. It had been such a deep injury after all.

But when Y/N arrived at his chambers, confusion struck her first. The door stood wide open, the room empty. The bed was unmade, the thick blankets thrown aside as if he had not even been there. A cold shiver slid down her spine, a strange sense of panic washing over her. Why isn’t he here?

Her brows furrowed. She stepped closer to the window, looking out at the stillness of the courtyard, but there was no sign of the High Lord. Her eyes darted around, searching the rooms for any clue. The last time she had seen him, he had been wounded, fragile, and now—now he was gone.

A sinking feeling settled in her gut. The hell is going on?

With determination, she turned on her heel and began walking quickly down the hallway, calling out to a few servants along the way, trying to catch wind of any gossip or movement that might explain where the High Lord had gone. No one seemed to know anything.

Her steps became quicker, her thoughts swirling with concern. She wasn't worried about his safety—no, she knew Kallias was more than capable of taking care of himself—but the fact that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be nagged at her. He should be resting. He shouldn’t be out there, moving around so soon. What was he thinking?

After a few more moments of searching, she found a servant outside a side door, speaking with another. She stopped in her tracks and approached him.

“Excuse me,” she asked, trying to keep the sharpness from her voice, “Have you seen the High Lord this morning?”

The servant blinked, pausing for a second before bowing deeply. “Ah, Lady Healer. The High Lord is not in his chambers this morning. He’s in the training grounds.” He quickly added, “He insisted on continuing his training despite the injury.”

Y/N felt frustration claw at her throat as she nodded curtly. “Training grounds, you say?” she muttered under her breath. She didn’t have to be told twice. Without another word, she turned and stormed off, her boots slapping against the stone floor with every furious step. She was angry, worried, but mostly, she was disappointed. After everything I said last night, he’s still going out there to train like this?

The more she thought about it, the more infuriated she became. What kind of fae would ignore their own orders, their own well-being, just to look strong?

As she neared the training grounds, the cold, crisp air hit her full force, but her temper kept her warm. She was already fuming by the time she stepped out into the open field. The sight before her was more infuriating than she could have imagined.

There, in the middle of the training grounds, stood Kallias, half-naked, his broad chest exposed to the biting cold. His chest and torso were rippling with muscle—sharply defined, each movement a testament to his power. But what struck Y/N the most was the wound—still visible, still raw, bandaged and still not properly healed despite her efforts.

Her heart raced for a moment as her eyes lingered, taking in his impressive form. But she immediately shoved those thoughts away—there was no time for that. No time to think about how attractive he looked standing there.

“Damnit, Lord Kallias!” she muttered, her voice low but seething with irritation.

She stormed toward him, her anger propelling her forward, and the soldiers training around them watched her approach, their eyes widening at the sight of the healer marching directly into the middle of the field. Y/N didn’t care. She didn’t care about the stares or the whispers that followed her. She didn’t care that all of them were staring in stunned silence as she pushed through their ranks.

Kallias, however, did care.

He turned just in time to see her standing there, arms crossed in front of him, a deep frown etched on her face. For a split second, she thought she saw surprise flicker in his eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced with that same cold, steely expression he always wore.

“Miss Y/N?” His voice was laced with confusion, his posture stiffening.

But before he could say another word, she reached out and pinched his arm, hard.

He shifted away from her with a low growl, his icy gaze snapping to hers. His lips curled in irritation as he finally spoke through clenched teeth. “What the hell are you doing here, miss Y/N?”

Y/N didn’t back down. She stood tall, chin lifted, her eyes filled with both exasperation and frustration. “Me? I should be asking you the same question, my lord!” she snapped, her voice carrying across the training grounds.

The soldiers exchanged stunned glances, some of them gasping at her words. Kallias’s expression shifted to one of cold indifference as he grasped her arm and began pulling her away from the field, his fingers biting into her skin.

“Keep the work going,” he ordered his second in command, who nodded and continued the training as Kallias led Y/N to a quieter area on the side.

Once they were far enough from the soldiers, Kallias let go of her arm, stepping back, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at her. “Listen to me and listen very well, because I will be saying this only once, Miss Y/N. I don’t know what gives you the confidence to act this way, but you may do this to anyone, anyone but me. I am your High Lord, not some sleazyfriend of yours. I demand a professional, respectful approach. Understood?”

Y/N stared at him, her face unchanging, before letting out a long, exasperated sigh. “No.”

Kallias’s icy demeanor faltered for a second, his eyes flashing with disbelief. “No?”

“No,” she repeated defiantly, crossing her arms over her chest. “You got injured just yesterday! And today you’re up and training? Have you no care for your body?”

Her voice cracked through the air as she stepped closer, her anger bubbling over. “Didn’t you hear my orders last night?! On top of all this, you’re training shirtless in the cold! You’ll make the injury worse!”

Kallias raised an eyebrow, his gaze darkening. “Shirtless? In the cold?” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Miss Y/N, look around you. We’re in the Winter Court. I’m the gods-damned High Lord of Winter. The cold doesn’t affect me in the least.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed, her frustration reaching its peak. She marched right up to him and pointed a finger at his chest. “So what?” she hissed. “It still has negative effects on the injury! The wound could get worse! You could develop an infection or—”

Kallias interrupted her, cutting her off in an exasperated tone. “Alright, very well. Cauldron boil me—just shut your mouth!” He rubbed his forehead, clearly trying to hold back his own rising temper. “Wait for me to put on a shirt, and then follow me to my bedchambers.”

Y/N, caught off guard by his sudden change in tone, found herself beaming. “Alright, High Lord,” she said, her voice lighter than it had been all morning.

But before Kallias could even blink, Y/N squealed in delight and threw her arms around him, pulling him into an unexpected hug.

Kallias’s eyes widened, his body tensing as he let out a sharp hiss of surprise. “Don’t ever touch me like that again,” he muttered coldly, pushing her away with an icy shove. “Unless it's for healing purposes.”

Y/N stepped back sheepishly, a flush creeping up her neck as she muttered an apology. “Sorry…”

He shot her a glare, the frost in his gaze never faltering. “Let’s go,” he ordered, turning to lead the way.

Y/N followed, still smiling faintly, the words of their exchange dancing in her mind. The day had barely begun, but she had a feeling it was going to be a long one.

Kallias walked beside Y/N, his movements brisk, and his mind occupied with the tumultuous thoughts that seemed to swirl in the wake of her presence. He kept his gaze forward, trying to block out the sound of her incessant chatter, but it was impossible not to hear her. She was speaking—again.

“I still don’t get why you’re so stubborn about it, my lord. Yesterday, you were practically on the verge of collapsing, and today, you’re already training like nothing happened! Like you’ve never even had a wound.”

She paused briefly for a breath, and Kallias’ lips twitched slightly in irritation. He could feel the weight of her words pressing against him, and even though she didn’t mean to, her concern did something to him. Something he could not afford to acknowledge.

“You’re lucky I’m not treating you like a child, My Lord,” she continued, oblivious to the narrowing of his icy eyes. “I mean, how do you expect to heal if you keep pushing yourself? I’ve heard of high lords being stubborn, but you—”

“I didn’t ask,” Kallias interjected in a clipped tone, his cold eyes flickering toward her for a moment, his breath steady despite the frustration rising inside him.

Y/N, undeterred, responded with a casual shrug. “Well, you should have, because it’s ridiculous, really. You’re supposed to be healing, not playing soldier, and—”

“Miss Y/N,” he growled, his patience starting to thin like ice cracking beneath the weight of her words. “I’m well aware of my body’s limits, but you don’t need to remind me every minute.”

She glanced up at him, eyes full of defiance as always, but he noticed the slight shift in her expression when he didn’t break eye contact. She was starting to pick up on the tension between them, even if she didn’t fully understand it.

The cold silence that followed didn’t last long. She had a tendency to fill it with more chatter.

"Anyway, I’m just saying, if you’re not careful, you might aggravate the injury even more! Did you know that could lead to—"

“I did not ask,” Kallias repeated, his words colder than before, his tone carrying a warning. “Do you ever stop talking, lady Y/N?”

For a brief moment, she seemed to consider his words, but the inevitable happened. “Well, I just think—”

“Enough,” he snapped, not bothering to hide the edge of his irritation any longer. “Please, for the love of the gods, can you hold your tongue for one minute?”

She looked taken aback but held her silence, the stubbornness in her gaze still present, and he couldn’t quite decide if it annoyed him or intrigued him. It wasn’t often that someone dared to speak to him this way. His gaze flickered over her, eyes narrowing as he noticed how she still walked so determinedly at his side, as though everything in the world could be solved by her prattling. It was infuriating, yet... somehow, it wasn’t.

A tinge of something unfamiliar stirred beneath the icy surface of his thoughts, but he pushed it aside, burying it in the deep recesses of his mind. He would not indulge these feelings. Not for her.

When they finally reached his chambers, Kallias stepped forward, opening the door for her without a word, his mind already working on the next set of instructions he would need to give her. He just wanted to get this over with quickly—have her do whatever healing she thought necessary, and then let him be.

Y/N walked inside with a quiet hum, her energy filling the room as she made her way to the table to prepare the healing supplies. Kallias couldn’t help but glance at her again, the way her hair swayed with every movement, the soft curve of her figure, the subtle grace with which she moved. It was like a goddamn pull on him, but he couldn’t understand it. He shouldn’t feel it. And yet—

He forced himself to look away, his thoughts twisting and his mood darkening.

“I’m glad you’re being so cooperative,” she murmured as she gathered her supplies, giving him a teasing smile. “Now, just sit back, will you? I promise I won’t bite.”

Her light tone irritated him more than it should have. His jaw tightened, and without thinking, he sat down on the chair she had indicated, his hands resting on the armrests. He felt her gaze on him again, heard her soft breathing as she moved around him, preparing everything with a hum of concentration.

“Alright, now let’s talk healing,” she began, her voice soft yet insistent. “Tell me if it still hurts, any sharp twinges, discomfort, anything. I need to know how your body’s reacting so I can better gauge what’s wrong.”

Kallias clenched his jaw, staring ahead as she moved closer. His thoughts were fighting him now, the fluttering feeling in his chest rising again as she stood over him, examining him with that endless curiosity in her gaze. His eyes flicked to her hands, noting how carefully she began to touch his shoulder, working her fingers over the injury. He winced slightly at the pressure.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, his voice rougher than usual.

“No, you’re not,” she shot back, her tone serious now. “You’re hurt. I saw it yesterday. Don’t lie to me, lord Kallias. I’m here to fix this, not let you ruin yourself.”

The way she said his name, the way she took charge without asking for permission—it rattled him, more than he’d like to admit. He clenched his hands tightly, but the knot of frustration in his chest only tightened.

“Stop pushing yourself so hard,” she continued, her voice softening. “You’re not invincible, you know.”

But Kallias wasn’t about to let her know how much her words affected him. He wasn’t about to let himself think of her as anything other than an irritating healer who needed to leave. Now.

Yet still, there was something in the way she touched him—so unexpectedly gentle, yet firm—that made his heart flutter.

He squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling sharply as he focused on the icy indifference that had long been his armor. He would not break. Not now.

And when she finally stepped away, satisfied with her work, he sighed heavily, leaning back into the chair with a cold expression. “Is that all?” he muttered, his voice low and rough.

She nodded with that damnable grin of hers. “For now. I’ll check in on you later, but don’t try to sneak off anywhere, okay? You’ll be back in here again soon.”

He barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn’t need her worrying about him. He didn’t need anyone.

“I’ll be fine,” he muttered again, though his heart wasn’t entirely convinced of that.

Y/N sat in the bustling dining hall, the scent of warm bread and roasted meat filling the air as she absently stirred her tea. She was seated at a long wooden table with two other healers—Eira and Lillian—both of whom had been working in the palace for years. The conversation had been lighthearted at first, filled with chatter about the usual daily struggles: difficult patients, the upcoming winter solstice celebrations, and the latest gossip about court politics.

“I swear, if I have to deal with another whiny noble complaining about a bruise,” Eira sighed dramatically, dragging her spoon through her soup. “Like, Cauldron forbid they suffer an actual wound for once in their pampered lives.”

Lillian chuckled, shaking her head. “Oh, please. The nobles are nothing compared to the warriors. Those brutes act as if they don’t need healers. I had to physically restrain one the other day just to keep him from walking off mid-stitching.”

Y/N hummed in agreement, sipping her tea, until Eira suddenly turned to her with a smirk. “Speaking of stubborn warriors… I still can’t believe you were the one chosen to heal the High Lord.”

Y/N nearly choked on her tea. She coughed, placing her cup down carefully, trying to appear unaffected. “Oh, well. I am a master healer, after all,” she said, waving a hand as if it was no big deal. “It’s just my job.”

Lillian snorted. “Just your job? Please. Do you know how many of us would kill to be in your position? The High Lord of Winter, alone, in his chambers, letting you touch him?”

Y/N stiffened. “It’s not like that.”

Eira sighed dreamily. “Gods, I would give anything to see him up close and personal. Just once.”

Lillian nudged her playfully. “Oh, don’t act like you’d be able to do anything if you were chosen. You’d probably faint the moment he looked at you.”

“Excuse me,” Eira said with mock offense. “I would not faint. I’d just… appreciate the moment. His eyes, his voice… that body.”

Lillian let out a snicker. “And his temperament?”

Eira winced. “Okay, fair point.”

Y/N stayed silent, feeling an unusual warmth creep up her neck. She had never been the shy type—she could hold her own in any conversation, throw sarcasm and wit as easily as she wielded her healing magic—but there was something about the way they were talking about Kallias that made her… uncomfortable.

“I heard he hates everyone anyway,” Lillian added after a pause, leaning in slightly. “There was even a rumor once that he probably doesn’t have a mate because of how distant he is.”

Eira hummed thoughtfully. “Yeah, I mean… I can’t imagine him actually loving someone. He’s like an icicle brought to life. No warmth, no softness. Just duty and power.”

Lillian nodded. “Exactly. It’s like… he was made to rule, not to love.”

Y/N remained silent, staring at her untouched plate of food, her thoughts a tangled mess.

She had only known Kallias for a short while—had only spent a few hours in his presence, really—but something about what they were saying didn’t sit right with her.

Yes, he was cold. Yes, he was distant. But there was something else beneath that icy exterior. Something she couldn’t quite place. A weight he carried, a loneliness he hid behind sharp words and an even sharper gaze.

She thought about the way he had looked at her earlier, how he had reacted to her presence, how his irritation had flickered into something else before he had swiftly buried it away.

She shouldn’t care. She didn’t care.

And yet…

“…Y/N?”

She blinked, realizing that Lillian and Eira were both staring at her, waiting for a response.

“Oh,” she said quickly, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. I suppose he is quite the mystery.”

Lillian shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe one day we’ll get an answer to that mystery.”

Eira scoffed. “Unlikely. The High Lord doesn’t let anyone close enough to find out.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around her cup as her mind continued to swirl with thoughts she definitelyshould not be having.

By now, she really shouldn’t have been surprised.

And yet, when she stepped into Kallias’ chambers only to find them empty once more, a frustrated sigh tore from her throat before she could stop it.

Cauldron damn him.

She had explicitly told him to rest. He had agreed—or at least hadn’t argued against her orders when she’d last left him. And yet, here she was, standing in an empty bedroom, staring at the neatly made bed that had very obviously not been used.

Her thoughts churned as she whirled around and stormed out, flagging down the first passing servant she could find. “Where is he?” she demanded, not even bothering with pleasantries.

The servant, a young fae male, blinked at her in surprise. “Who, my lady?”

She narrowed her eyes. “The High Lord,” she said through gritted teeth, though she was this close to just calling him that infuriating man who refuses to listen to basic healing instructions.

The servant quickly dipped his head in respect. “He’s in his study, my lady.”

The tension in her shoulders eased—just slightly. At least he wasn’t outside aggravating his injury further. She nodded in thanks before making her way toward the study, still brimming with frustration.

By the time she reached the grand doors, she had almost convinced herself to be patient. Almost.

But the moment she stepped inside, the cool, indifferent voice that greeted her immediately shattered whatever patience she had managed to gather.

“Another checkup?”

Kallias didn’t even look at her as he spoke. His attention remained fixed on the papers in front of him, a single candle casting flickering shadows over his sharp features.

Y/N’s irritation flared all over again. “Well, it’s not like I enjoy chasing after you across this entire palace just to make sure you haven’t bled out somewhere,” she snapped, shutting the door behind her. “But seeing as someone is incapable of following simple instructions—”

She marched closer, and it was only then that she noticed what he was doing. His fingers were smudged with ink, an elegant quill in hand as he moved it across parchment in sharp, fluid strokes. He was writing something—letters, perhaps, or reports. His focus was unwavering, the crease between his brows deep with concentration.

“And what are you even doing here?” she went on, glancing at the neatly stacked piles of paper surrounding him. “Shouldn’t you be resting? I mean, really, you barely listen to anything I—”

She stopped mid-rant, her hands already moving on their own. Before he could protest, she reached forward and gently lifted the hem of his shirt just enough to check his wound.

A quick glance told her that, despite his recklessness, the injury hadn’t worsened. The healing process was slow, but steady. Still, she muttered under her breath as she pulled out the soothing balm she had brought with her, rubbing a generous amount between her fingers before applying it to his skin.

She could feel the way his muscles tensed slightly under her touch, but he didn’t say a word. Didn’t react. Just sat there, the same cold, indifferent mask on his face.

Fine. If he wasn’t going to talk, she would talk enough for the both of them.

“You know, most people actually listen to their healers,” she grumbled as she worked. “Most people don’t make their healer’s job ten times harder by actively ignoring the most basic instructions.”

Silence.

She huffed. “At this point, I should start charging extra for how much trouble you’re putting me through.”

Still, nothing.

She narrowed her eyes, pausing for a moment to glance up at his face. “Are you always this difficult, or do you just save it for me?”

That earned her a flicker of something in his eyes, but he still said nothing.

She sighed dramatically. “You know, a normal person would at least say thank you for all this.”

His only response was an unimpressed glance.

Y/N rolled her eyes and finished up, wiping her hands on a spare cloth before gathering her things.

“There,” she said, standing up and dusting off her hands. “You’re good for tonight. Try to actually stay put this time.”

She turned toward the door, ready to leave and get some well-earned rest, when—

“…Is it true you have no mate?”

The words were out before she could stop them.

Y/N froze.

Cauldron damn her mouth.

Slowly, hesitantly, she turned back around—just in time to see Kallias’ head slowly lift. His eyes locked onto hers, cold and unreadable, as one elegant brow arched ever so slightly.

She went scarlet.

“I—I mean—” She let out a nervous laugh, waving her hands in front of her. “Not that it’s any of my business! It’s just—um—I heard something, and I didn’t mean to say it out loud but then my mouth just—”

She saw the sharp way his jaw tightened, the way his expression became even icier, and she instantly knew she had made a grave mistake.

“Leave.”

Her breath caught. “I—sorry?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Instead of asking questions that don’t concern you in the tiniest bit,” he said, his voice like cutting ice, “do me a great favor by excusing yourself.”

Oh.

Oh, she really screwed up.

Her heart pounded as she quickly bowed her head. “Of course. I—my apologies, my lord. I didn’t mean—”

“Leave,” he repeated, his voice final.

She didn’t need to be told again.

Without another word, she turned sharply on her heel and all but fled the study, cursing herself all the way down the dimly lit hallways.

It was two days later when the harsh blizzard finally descended upon the Winter Court. It wasn’t unusual—if anything, it was tradition. Towards the end of each year, without fail, the worst storm of the season would roll in, blanketing the land in thick, unforgiving snow. A storm that lasted precisely three days, as if the Winter Court itself abided by a law older than time.

For most, this meant retreating into the warmth of their homes, waiting out the storm beside crackling hearths, wrapped in thick furs with a cup of steaming tea in hand. For Y/N and the rest of the healers, however, it was hell.

The worst time of the year.

Unlike the palace, the healers’ ward was situated a little away from the main estate, standing separately within the court’s walls. Usually, it wasn’t a problem. The short walk from the palace to the ward was a simple, if not refreshing, journey. But during this storm? It was nothing short of a nightmare.

The winds howled like raging beasts, slicing through even the thickest of layers. The snow came down in sheets, covering everything in sight, and with each gust of wind, it felt as if the world itself were screaming. And Y/N—idiot that she was—had to trek through this chaos twice a day.

For the past two days, she had been cursing everything and everyone—including herself. Because despite the storm, despite the fact that she could barely see two feet in front of her, she still found herself trudging her way to the palace. The howling winds deafened her ears, the ice clung to her skin, and she felt like she might actually die before reaching her destination.

So when she finally, finally stumbled past the palace gates, nearly collapsing against the guards stationed there, she could’ve kissed them both in gratitude.

She was frozen. A literal icicle. She barely registered the concerned murmurs of the guards before they reached for her, offering warm cloaks, offering to guide her to one of the fires so she could thaw.

She shook her head, her voice crackling with cold. “W-Where’s the High Lord?”

The guards exchanged a glance before one of them hesitantly answered. “In the sitting room, my lady.”

Y/N barely nodded before setting off, her limbs trembling as she forced herself forward. Every step felt heavy, her soaked boots dragging against the marble floors as she made her way through the palace halls.

By the time she reached the sitting room, her entire body ached—her fingers stiff, her face numb. She had half a mind to collapse right then and there, but she pushed through, willing herself to move.

Slowly, she pushed the doors open.

And there he was.

Kallias sat in one of the cushioned chairs, a book in his hand, his expression cold and unreadable. His focus remained entirely on the page before him as he turned it, his voice carrying through the room, sharp as a blade.

“I told you, Talen, I don’t want anyone coming in—”

He cut off mid-sentence.

His gaze snapped up, locking onto her, and she watched as his expression shifted—his usual coldness melting into something sharper, angrier.

Slowly, he shut his book. Set it aside.

Then, in a voice laced with fury, he asked, “Why the hell are you here?”

Y/N tried to speak, but her lips barely moved. She was so cold, her breath uneven as she forced herself to answer. “I—I had to check up on you—”

She yapped on, explaining how she had to come, how his injury needed proper tending, how—

He cut her off, stepping closer, his sharp eyes scanning her from head to toe. “In this weather?” His voice was dangerously low. “Couldn’t you have waited for the blizzard to end?”

She surprised even herself when she answered, her words quiet but firm. “I could have waited, but the injury couldn’t. If it doesn’t get treated daily, it could fester—”

A frustrated sigh left him. She watched as he turned around, striding towards a nearby chair, grabbing something before—

A thick, fur-lined blanket was thrown at her.

“Sit,” he ordered.

She blinked at him, her frozen hands clutching at the warmth now draped over her shoulders. “N-No need,” she stammered. “I just need to check—”

“Miss Y/N,” he said coolly, his eyes flashing as he moved past her, yanking the door open. “Just sit, will you?”

She clamped her mouth shut.

The servants outside barely had time to straighten before he commanded them to bring in warm tea. And then, just as quickly, he shut the door again, turning back toward her.

His gaze locked onto hers.

“Now,” he said, his voice like ice, “let’s get one thing clear, alright? You do not, ever, risk your life for me. No one does.”

Her brow furrowed. Confusion flickered across her face before something else settled in its place. Anger.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she said stiffly, “but it’s my job. My duty. Your health, and the rest of our people’s health, is always my priority—”

He stepped closer.

His presence loomed over her as he looked down, his gaze cold as he cut her off.

“I don’t need your death to then be a burden on my shoulders, alright?” His words were quiet, but they were sharp, unwavering. “So keep the hero complex to yourself and stop risking your life for every damned thing or one. Includingme.”

Y/N opened her mouth, ready to snap back, but before she could, the door opened once more.

The servants entered, setting down the tray of steaming tea before stepping back.

Kallias barely spared them a glance before dismissing them with a nod.

And then, with a firm voice, he said, “Drink.”

She stared at him, bewildered.

“The checkup can wait,” he added, moving back to his seat, picking up his book once more. “You’ll do no healing if you freeze to death first.”

Silence settled between them.

Y/N sat there, the warm blanket wrapped around her, her fingers stiff as they reached for the tea.

She didn’t speak—not yet.

Instead, her mind churned with thoughts, with feelings she couldn’t quite place.

And across from her, Kallias simply turned a page in his book, as if nothing had happened at all.

The warmth seeped into her fingers first, then her limbs, then the rest of her body as she slowly nursed her tea. Each sip melted away the ice that had settled deep in her bones, thawing her from the inside out.

By the time she placed the empty cup down on the small table before her, she felt somewhat herself again.

She sighed, stretching out her fingers before rubbing some feeling back into them. Then, with a quiet exhale, she straightened and—almost like an announcement—sighed, “Alright. Let’s see how your injury is doing.”

She stood, her movements still a little stiff as she reached for her supplies. But when she turned back toward him, she nearly froze again.

Kallias was already shirtless.

Without a word, without even acknowledging her statement, he had discarded his layers, revealing the lean, sculpted muscles of his back and shoulders. The light from the nearby hearth cast shadows along his frame, emphasizing the tautness of his muscles, the pale stretch of his skin, the deep gash along his side that she had been tending to.

But he wasn’t looking at her.

His head was turned slightly to the side, his book still in his hands, his expression unreadable as he continued to read, as if this was all just routine. As if he wasn’t half-naked in the middle of a dimly lit sitting room with a woman standing behind him, staring.

Staring.

Y/N swallowed. Goddess above.

She wasn’t unused to tending injuries—far from it. She had seen countless wounds, countless bodies, countless scars in her years as a healer. But this?

This was different.

Because it was him.

And it was just them.

She forced herself to move, her boots barely making a sound against the floor as she stepped closer, her eyes flickering to the injury on his side.

It had healed well. The once-raw wound had closed significantly, no longer angry and inflamed. But it was still tender, still prone to irritation if left unchecked.

She reached out, gently pressing her fingers to the unbroken skin around the wound. His muscles tensed under her touch, a barely noticeable shift—but she felt it.

“The healing is going well,” she murmured, focusing on her work rather than the way the heat of his skin radiated beneath her fingertips. “No signs of infection. But you still need treatment for a few more days.”

He said nothing.

Didn’t even glance at her.

Only turned another page in his book.

Y/N shook her head to herself, pulling away to grab the salve from her kit. Silently, she worked, smoothing the mixture over the injury with practiced, delicate movements. And the entire time, he remained completely still—silent and composed, as if her touch, the cold ointment, the entire situation, meant nothing.

By the time she finished, she was still half-convinced she had imagined the subtle tension in his frame, the brief flicker of his fingers gripping the book tighter.

She stepped back, wiping her hands on a cloth before beginning to pack her supplies. But before she could finish—

“You’re staying in the palace tonight.”

The unexpected words cut through the quiet, and she stilled.

Blinking, she turned toward him, confused. “What?”

Finally, finally, Kallias shifted his gaze from his book, his cool, sharp eyes landing on her. “You cannot withstand another blizzard,” he said simply. “You’re not leaving.”

Her lips parted slightly. “I—no, it’s fine. I can make it back.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“Are you disobeying my orders, Miss Y/N?”

The way he said it—low, quiet, unwavering—made her pulse stutter.

A test. A challenge. A command.

Her breath hitched slightly before she exhaled in defeat, her hands clenching at her sides.

“…Fine.”

Clearly satisfied, Kallias inclined his head slightly before shifting his attention back to his book. A few moments later, a quiet knock came at the door, and he barely glanced up as he said, “The servants will escort you to your quarters.”

Y/N turned, seeing one of the waiting staff standing at the entrance, head bowed.

But instead of following them, she hesitated.

Then, before she could even think about what she was doing, she turned away from the door and walked back into the room, back toward the sofa.

She sat down.

And stayed.

For the first time since she arrived, Kallias actually looked surprised.

His cold, unreadable expression flickered ever so slightly as he turned his head toward her, his brows lowering in silent question.

She settled deeper into the sofa, ignoring the clear expectation that she would leave. Instead, she tilted her head, studying him as he resumed reading.

“I figured I could ask you some questions.”

Kallias didn’t even look up. “No.”

She huffed a small laugh. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t entertain meaningless conversations.”

She shrugged. “I don’t think it’s meaningless.”

He sighed quietly, flipping a page in his book.

Unbothered, she pressed on. “How long have you been High Lord?”

Silence.

Then—

“…A while.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s not an answer.”

“I believe it is.”

She shook her head. “Alright, let’s try this. Were you trained for it your whole life?”

This time, there was a longer pause. Then—

“Yes.”

Progress.

She settled in further, warming her fingers against the fading heat of her tea. “And did you ever want to be something else?”

That got his attention.

For the first time since the conversation began, he glanced at her, his pale blue eyes assessing.

She held his gaze, waiting.

But after a moment, he simply turned back to his book.

Interesting.

She continued, undeterred. “I wasn’t trained to be a healer, you know.”

He didn’t respond, but she caught the way his fingers stilled slightly against the book’s spine.

“I wanted to be a scholar,” she admitted. “A historian.”

This time, his gaze flickered back to her, his expression unreadable.

“…Then why didn’t you?”

She exhaled quietly. “Because people needed me. My family, my friends, my court—they needed someone to tend to them, to make sure they lived.” She offered a small, wry smile. “So I chose healing.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then, to her surprise, he murmured, “I see.”

Encouraged, she tilted her head. “And you? Did you ever want something else?”

Nothing.

She gave him a moment, then tried again. “Come on. You must’ve had some kind of dream when you were younger.”

Still, he remained silent.

She sighed dramatically. “Alright, fine. If you won’t answer that, then let’s go simpler. What’s your favorite season?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “You do realize where you are, don’t you?”

She grinned slightly. “So… winter, then?”

He shot her a look but said nothing.

She decided to push a little further. “What about books? You read a lot, clearly. Do you have a favorite?”

His fingers tightened on the pages ever so slightly.

But he still didn’t answer.

Her grin widened. “Are you just refusing to speak now out of sheer stubbornness?”

No response.

She sighed again, feigning disappointment. “Fine, then. I’ll guess.”

She tapped her chin dramatically. “You seem like the type to prefer strategy books. Maybe war tactics? Or—no, wait—ancient philosophy.”

Nothing.

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Don’t tell me you secretly enjoy romance novels.”

His sharp gaze snapped to hers.

And that was all the confirmation she needed.

A slow, delighted smile spread across her face.

“Oh,” she breathed. “You do, don’t you?”

His expression darkened. “I do not.”

She grinned. “Right. Of course. The icy, brooding High Lord of Winter doesn’t secretly read tragic love stories.”

His glare was withering. “You are insufferable.”

She shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”

Still, she could see the subtle tension in his shoulders now—the faint stiffness of someone unused to being the center of such questioning.

Good.

She adjusted her position on the sofa, tilting her head again. “Alright, I’ll stop pestering you about books.”

A long exhale left his lips, as if he’d won a battle.

But then she added, “Instead, tell me about your family.”

His body went still.

That was different.

It was a shift, a crack in the cold, unaffected mask he had been wearing.

She watched as his fingers curled just slightly around the book, his shoulders stiffening—not with irritation, but with something else.

He didn’t look at her.

Didn’t even blink.

The tension was different this time.

And she knew, knew, she had finally pushed too far.

Before she could say another word, Kallias abruptly shut his book with a decisive snap.

“The servants will show you to your room,” he said coolly, rising to his feet. “Good night, Miss Y/N.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift.

But before she could protest, he was already heading toward the door, already moving past her as if the conversation had never happened.

And just before he left, his voice—quiet, controlled—echoed one last time.

“…Get some rest.”

Then he was gone.

Leaving Y/N staring after him, her mind racing with everything unsaid.

After that night—the night she had stayed in the palace—her days followed a routine.

Every afternoon, she would make the long trek from the healers’ quarters to the palace, the Winter winds biting at her skin. Every afternoon, she would be granted entrance, and every afternoon, she would find Kallias in the same spot—seated in his chair, a book in his hands, his icy demeanor never thawing.

And every afternoon, without fail, she would talk.

Not because he ever encouraged it. No, Kallias had made it very clear from the beginning that he had no interest in conversation. But that never stopped her.

She spoke of her past, of her childhood in the harsh winters of their court, of the first time she had ever seen magic and how it had terrified and mesmerized her in equal measure. She told him of her first patient, a boy who had nearly lost his hand in an accident but had left the healer’s hut grinning, whole and healed. She told him about her mother, who had always scolded her for not dressing warmly enough, and about the first time she had snuck out during a blizzard—how it had been so terrifying, so exhilarating.

Kallias never responded.

Or, at least, not in words.

He would sit there, book in hand, casting her the occasional sharp glance. When she asked him questions—How old were you when you first used magic? Did you always want to be High Lord? Do you have any hobbies besides glaring at me like I’m a pest?—he would shut her down with silence, or a curt, That is none of your concern.

Still, she pressed on.

She asked about his court, his people, his childhood. She made comments about how the palace had the most ridiculously large fireplaces she’d ever seen, about how the food was much better than what she usually had at the healers' quarters, about how he really should get a dog.

And every time, he would just look at her, cold and unimpressed.

She knew he hated it—her endless chattering, her insistence on filling the silence. But the strangest part?

He never told her to stop.

Not once.

Even when he glared, even when he shut her down, even when he looked like he would rather be anywhere else in the world, he never told her to leave.

And that was enough for her to keep going.

But then—

Then the injury started healing.

And with every passing day, the realization settled heavier in her chest.

Soon, she would have no reason to see him again.

It was a ridiculous thought. This was her job. She had done this with countless patients before—treated them, helped them heal, and then moved on.

So why did the idea of moving on from this patient feel… wrong?

Why did it feel like a loss?

She tried not to dwell on it.

Instead, she continued her routine—her visits, her stories, her relentless attempts to break through the ice.

One afternoon, as she checked his wound, she found herself grinning before she even realized she was speaking.

“So,” she said lightly, wrapping fresh bandages around his torso. “Now that I’ve been tending to you for nearly three weeks, does this mean we’re best friends?”

She had meant it as a joke.

A small tease.

But when she looked up, she found his cold gaze locked onto her, unreadable.

And then—

A sharp, quiet No.

The word cut through the space between them like a blade.

And even though she had meant the question as nothing more than a playful jab, the answer—his answer—stung more than she expected.

She let out a small, breathy laugh, trying to shake off the odd ache in her chest.

“Well,” she said, forcing a smile. “That was unnecessarily harsh.”

He didn’t respond.

Of course he didn’t.

But for the first time since she had started tending to him, she found she didn’t want to keep talking.

For the first time, she wondered if she had imagined it all—if she had imagined the progress, the tiny cracks in his walls, the way he never told her to stop, the way he let her speak, even if he never contributed.

Maybe she had been a fool.

Maybe Kallias really was just as cold as everyone claimed him to be.

And maybe—just maybe—she cared more than she should.

But did that stop her? Hell no. If anything, it just encouraged her stubborn self more.

The palace glittered with ice and silver, chandeliers casting cold light across the grand ballroom. The music wove through the space like a delicate snowfall, each note crisp and elegant. Nobles in their finest attire swayed in effortless dances, their laughter and conversation blending into the background hum of aristocratic life.

She wasn’t here as a guest.

None of the healers were.

Dressed in her best gown—her only luxurious dress—she stood at the edges of the hall with the others, waiting in case their services were required. It was a simple thing, her gown. A soft, glittering silver that caught the candlelight whenever she moved. Nothing extravagant, nothing adorned with jewels like the noblewomen who glided across the floor, but beautiful in its own quiet way.

Not that it mattered.

She wasn’t here to be seen.

And yet, she still found her eyes drawn toward him.

Kallias stood at the head of the room, exuding that same untouchable air, dressed in regal white and deep winter blue. He was everything a High Lord should be—cold, composed, a vision of power and control.

It had been weeks since she had first begun tending to him. Weeks of sitting by his side, pressing salves into his skin, wrapping fresh bandages, filling the silence with stories about herself while he listened in his usual silence.

The wound was nearly healed now. Soon, she would no longer have a reason to visit him.

That thought had settled uneasily in her chest all evening, but she had shoved it away, refusing to dwell on it.

She had no reason to.

And then—

Her breath caught.

From her place near the back of the room, she watched as a noblewoman—tall, poised, with pale silver-blonde hair—approached Kallias.

And Kallias… looked at her.

Not in passing, not with the cold indifference he usually carried.

No, he took her hand.

And then, with a faint smirk—a smirk she had never seen directed at herself—he led the woman onto the dance floor.

Her world tilted.

She should have looked away. Should have turned her attention elsewhere. But she couldn’t.

She could only watch.

Watch as he placed a hand on the woman’s waist, as they moved together with effortless grace. As the world around them blurred into nothing.

It was the kind of dance meant for lovers.

Slow, intimate, a silent conversation spoken through the closeness of their bodies.

And Kallias—so often cold, so often distant—allowed it.

Welcomed it.

The realization slammed into her, sharper than any winter wind.

She felt the sting behind her eyes before she even understood what was happening.

A foolish, ridiculous pain bloomed in her chest, spreading through her like ice cracking beneath the weight of something unbearable.

It made no sense.

She had no claim over him.

No reason to feel this way.

And yet—

Why does it hurt?

The thought sent her reeling, her breathing suddenly uneven.

She needed to leave.

“I—excuse me,” she murmured, barely even aware of who she spoke to as she turned, walking swiftly out of the ballroom.

The moment she was out of sight, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

The air outside was cold, the night wind biting at her skin, but it did nothing to dull the ache in her chest.

She pressed a hand to her ribs, as if she could hold herself together.

Idiot, she cursed herself. Fool.

What did you expect?

Had she really convinced herself that these weeks had meant something?

That she had mattered to him?

A bitter laugh slipped from her lips, and she tilted her head back to the sky, blinking rapidly, forcing the tears down.

She would not cry.

Not over this.

Not over him.

And yet, the thought of facing him again tomorrow, of pressing her fingers to his skin, of pretending that none of this mattered—

It made her feel like she was unraveling.

Taking a shuddering breath, she straightened.

And then, like slipping on armor, she schooled her features into something unreadable.

The fakest, brightest smile she could muster.

Because this was who she was.

Someone who put others before herself.

She was fine.

She was fine.

She was fine.

Or at least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

Y/N sat beside Kallias once again, her hands methodically unwrapping the bandages from his injury. She had done this countless times before—press, check, apply, rewrap. But today, it felt different.

Because you’re an idiot.

The words replayed in her mind over and over again. She had barely slept the previous night, her thoughts filled with the image of Kallias on that dance floor, his hand resting so easily on that noblewoman’s waist, the way he had smirked at her.

Had he ever smirked at her?

No.

The thought shouldn’t sting, but it did.

So she did what she always did. She talked.

She talked, and talked, and talked, desperate to fill the silence, to cover up the ache in her chest.

“Oh, and did I tell you about the time I accidentally healed a sprained ankle instead of a broken rib? You should’ve seen the poor man’s face—he looked so betrayed. Honestly, I don’t blame him, but in my defense, he was very unclear about where the pain actually was, and—”

She glanced up at Kallias, expecting the usual impassive look, the distant, unreadable gaze. But instead, she found him… tense.

More so than usual.

His jaw was clenched, his shoulders taut beneath the loose fabric of his tunic. Every word she spoke seemed to wind him tighter, like a string about to snap.

She swallowed, but forced a laugh.

“Anyway, he ended up having to go to another healer because I was so embarrassed I refused to fix my mistake. You should’ve seen my mentor’s face—gods, she was furious—”

“Gods,” Kallias suddenly snapped, his voice low and rough, “do you ever shut up?!”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

Kallias had risen abruptly, turning to her with a sharp, ice-cold glare. His usual controlled demeanor was gone, replaced by sheer exasperation—by anger.

“It’s always talking and talking with you,” he continued, his tone laced with venom. “You never stop to consider whether I even want to hear you talk. I tried, for the past month, I really fucking did, Miss Y/N. But I am at my tipping point with you and your useless babbling.”

Her heart stopped.

“This is it,” he bit out. “You may leave. And don’t think of coming back tomorrow because I will have another healer replace you. One that is more quiet.”

The room felt suffocating.

Her ears rang.

She just sat there, frozen, her eyes locked on his face as the words—every single one of them—settled deep into her bones, into the very marrow of her being.

Useless babbling.

Do you ever shut up?

It was like someone had taken a knife and sliced straight through her, splitting her open for the world to see.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, gaping at him like an idiot.

Her throat was so tight it physically hurt.

Then—she forced herself to move.

Forced herself to swallow down the burning sting in her chest, to keep her face as neutral as possible even though her heart felt like it had just been crushed.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, smoothing out her skirts as she bowed her head deeply.

“I… I’m sorry, my lord,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

She bowed lower.

“It was an honor serving you.”

And then, before she could completely break, she turned and darted out of the room.

She didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t let herself think.

Her vision blurred at the edges, but she refused to let the tears fall.

Not here.

Not now.

Gods, do you ever shut up?

She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth.

And finally, when she was alone—when there was no one around to see—

She let herself break.

The new healer arrived promptly the next morning. Kallias did not bother to glance at her, merely gave a curt nod as she set down her supplies and began tending to his wound.

It was silent.

For the first time in over a month, the room held nothing but the distant crackling of the fire and the occasional sound of bandages being unwrapped. No rambling. No unnecessary commentary. No her.

Kallias exhaled slowly. This is better.

The healer finished and stepped back. “Your recovery is progressing well, my Lord. I will return at the same time tomorrow.”

He gave a dismissive nod, watching her leave.

The door clicked shut. The silence stretched on.

This is what I wanted.

He told himself that again.

Then again.

Then again.

And yet, as he sat there, the silence pressed in—thicker, heavier than it should have been.

It started with the small things.

Passing by the dining hall and hearing a burst of laughter—one that wasn’t hers. It was softer, quieter. Not the kind that filled a space effortlessly, not the kind that made his head snap up in exasperation and… something else he didn’t want to name.

Sitting in his study, book in hand, expecting an interruption that never came. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. He turned a page but read nothing. His eyes kept flicking to the door, as if expecting her to come waltzing in with some nonsense observation or another pointless story.

She never did.

The snowstorm outside raged on, swirling in thick flurries. He stared at it for a moment too long before catching himself.

She got home safely, he told himself. She must have.

And yet—

He caught himself glancing toward the healer’s wing when passing through the halls, his steps slowing despite himself. The air was always still there. Orderly. Lacking the warmth of an insufferable voice filling the space with chatter.

During court meetings, he almost—almost—looked toward the doors, expecting her to be lingering outside, waiting for his schedule to free up so she could tend to him.

But there was no one there.

And the unease settled in his chest like frost, refusing to thaw.

Five days passed. His wound was nearly healed.

The new healer was efficient, competent. There was nothing wrong with her work.

And yet—

Kallias tensed when she touched his arm, entirely too aware that it was the wrong hands. The wrong voice telling him his recovery was progressing well. The wrong presence in the room, one that did not fill the silence the way she had.

The healer worked quickly, adjusting the bandages with careful precision. He barely felt it. She was gentle—too gentle. Measured in a way that did not demand his attention, did not poke and prod at the edges of his patience with endless chatter.

He should have been grateful.

Instead, he clenched his jaw.

The healer hesitated slightly, sensing his stiffness. She withdrew her hands and stepped back, lowering her head.

“Forgive me, my Lord,” she said softly.

It was polite. Respectful. Exactly as a healer should address him.

But it wasn’t her.

The realization struck deeper than it should have. He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulder once as if testing the strength in it. Almost healed. Soon, there would be no need for a healer at all. No reason for anyone to linger in his chambers, filling the space with warmth and words he had never asked for.

For the first time since that night, the truth slithered into his mind like a sharp-edged blade.

I should not have sent her away.

Kallias moved through the days in a way that should have been normal. Should have been routine.

Except nothing felt normal.

Nothing felt right.

He told himself it was better this way. That the quiet was long overdue. That his chambers, his halls, his life had returned to the way they were meant to be—undisturbed, controlled, peaceful.

And yet—

When passing through the halls, his gaze flickered toward the healers' wing more often than he cared to admit. It was instinct, unconscious, a part of him still expecting—hoping—to see her. To catch a glimpse of her moving between rooms, head held high, determination set in her every step.

He did not linger. Would not. But the urge to was there.

During court meetings, when his mind drifted for even a second too long, his lips nearly shaped her name by mistake. He caught himself just in time, swallowing the slip before anyone noticed.

But he noticed.

The weight of it settled in his chest, unwelcome and unrelenting.

It was not just a passing thought. Not just a moment of fleeting habit.

He was thinking about her.

Too much.

Far too much.

And that was the most dangerous realization of all.

The ball was in full swing.

Laughter, conversation, and music wove through the grand hall, filling it with warmth and life. Goblets clinked, skirts swayed, gloved hands brushed in elegant passes across the dance floor. It was a celebration, a night of indulgence and revelry.

Kallias barely heard any of it.

His eyes drifted—automatically—to the corner where the healers usually stood on standby, their presence a mere formality.

She was not there.

She should not have been there. There was no reason for her to be present. And yet, something in him had expected her, had searched for her, had been waiting to catch a glimpse of silver and frost.

His jaw clenched as he forced his gaze away. It does not matter.

He did not care.

But when a noblewoman approached, hand brushing his arm in polite greeting, he nearly flinched. The light, easy conversation around him faded to a distant hum, drowned out by the weight settling in his chest.

When someone spoke to him, he did not hear them.

When a toast was raised, he did not lift his goblet.

And when he caught himself looking toward that corner again, some stubborn, unwelcome part of him refused to let go of the hollow absence he found there.

The music swelled, laughter rang out, and yet—

With quiet, shattering finality, the truth settled in.

He had made a mistake.

A grave one.

And now, he did not know if it was one he could ever undo.

Kallias did not look for her.

That’s what he told himself, at least.

Yet, somehow, his feet carried him toward the healers' wing more often than before. A habit, he reasoned. He had spent a month there—of course, it made sense that his body still followed the familiar route.

And yet, every time he passed by, he felt it. The wrongness.

The quiet was different now. Not the comforting kind, but the hollow, lacking kind. He found himself listening, waiting—for what, he did not allow himself to answer. But the realization always came in the same, bitter way: she was not there.

He should not have cared.

And yet, one day, he caught a conversation between two healers in the hall.

"She’s been taking on extra shifts in the lower wing."

"I heard she even requested to transfer out of the palace soon."

The words nearly made him stop in his tracks. Leaving the palace? The thought sent an unfamiliar, unwelcome sensation curling through his chest.

But he forced himself forward, forced himself not to react.

She was free to do as she pleased. He had dismissed her. Pushed her away. He had wanted peace, had wanted her endless talking to stop, and now he had exactly that.

So why did it feel like he had carved something out of himself in the process?

The court had begun to notice.

Kallias was sharper these days. Impatient. The weight of his words heavier, his glares colder. The council meetings, the daily court affairs—none of it held his focus the way it should have.

The worst part?

It had been days since he had last spoken to her, and yet she was everywhere.

A joke someone made at a meeting—something ridiculous, something lighthearted. He had almost glanced toward where she should have been, where she would have been grinning at him with that look in her eyes, waiting for his reaction.

She was not there.

She would never be there again.

When the letter arrived, Y/N almost didn’t open it.

A small, plain envelope had been slipped beneath her door, its presence silent but insistent.

She stared at it for a moment, unease curling in her stomach. No messenger had knocked. No one had called for her directly. Just this—this single piece of parchment, waiting for her to acknowledge it.

Slowly, she picked it up, feeling the weight of it in her hands before breaking the seal.

The message inside was brief, written in a careful, deliberate hand.

Your expertise is needed in the royal gardens. Do not delay.

No name. No explanation.

Y/N frowned. Healers were rarely summoned without specifics. If someone had been injured, there would have been details—a location, a name, something.

And the gardens? At this hour?

It made no sense.

Her first instinct was to ignore it. To toss the letter aside and stay where she was, safe within the walls of the healers’ quarters.

But—

What if it was real?

What if someone did need her?

The doubt, the nagging uncertainty, was enough to push her into action.

So, she wrapped her cloak tightly around her shoulders, braced herself against the cold, and stepped into the night.

The gardens were empty.

Silent. Still.

A frown pulled at her lips as she stepped further in, glancing around for any sign of movement. No one was here. No patient. No suffering figure waiting for aid.

She exhaled sharply.

This was a mistake.

She turned on her heel, ready to leave—

"Wait."

The voice—deep, familiar, unmistakable—halted her steps.

Her breath caught. She did not turn around.

A part of her screamed to flee, to walk away, to pretend she had never come here in the first place. But her feet remained rooted to the ground, her hands clenching into fists.

She knew that voice.

And she hated that she still recognized it so easily.

"Please."

Not an order. A request.

She swallowed hard as she heard the quiet crunch of boots on gravel. Slow, measured steps.

He was moving—around her, toward her.

She could have walked away. Should have. But she didn’t.

And then—

His chest was right in front of her.

Her eyes stayed fixed on his tunic, on the rise and fall of his breathing. She did not dare look up.

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

Then—

"I regret it."

The words were rough, like they had been torn from him unwillingly. As if they hurt to say.

She said nothing.

"I was cruel," he continued, voice tight. "I—" A sharp exhale. "I should not have spoken to you that way. I should not have sent you away."

Still, she did not speak.

He shifted, uneasy. Kallias, the untouchable. The untouchable, now desperate for words.

"I am not—", he hesitated, his voice quieter now. "I am not accustomed to...to this."

She finally looked up.

His eyes—icy blue, usually so cold, so distant—held something else now. Something raw, something unguarded.

She could forgive him. Right now, she could let it go. She could tell him it was alright, that she would return, that all was well—

But it would be a lie.

A bitter, burning rage stirred in her chest.

"No."

One word. Sharp, final.

Kallias’s brows pulled together, as if he had not expected the rejection.

Good.

"No?" His voice was measured, but she could see the tension in his jaw.

She stepped back, just enough to breathe.

"Do you even understand?" she demanded, voice trembling with frustration. "Do you understand what you did to me?"

His expression darkened slightly, but he said nothing.

So she let the words spill out.

"You humiliated me. You made me feel—like I was nothing. Like I was annoying, like I was some burden that you just had to tolerate." She shook her head. "I served you. I cared for you. And you threw me aside like I was disposable."

Silence.

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t excuse himself.

Instead, after a long, agonizing pause, he said—

"I know."

She faltered.

"I know," he repeated, his voice quieter now. "And I am...trying." He exhaled. "Tell me what I must do to make this right."

She studied him carefully.

He was genuine. Perhaps clumsy in his attempt, hesitant in his words, but genuine.

Still—

"I want actions, my Lord."

He stiffened slightly at the title.

"Not words."

A beat of silence.

Then—

"Kallias."

She blinked.

"What?"

"Call me Kallias."

His voice was quiet, almost pleading.

Hesitantly, barely above a whisper—

"Kallias."

His eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment, as if he was reliving something.

But she did not let him sink into it for long.

Her voice cut through the night, sharp and cold.

"I want you to prove your sincerity to me, Kallias."

His eyes snapped open.

"Only then may I consider forgiving you."

And before he could say another word, she turned sharply on her heel, moving to leave—

Only to pause at the last second.

She spun back around, meeting his gaze with one last piercing look.

"Oh." She tilted her head. "You only have two weeks."

His lips parted slightly.

"I will be leaving after that."

And before he could argue, before he could try to stop her, she disappeared into the night, leaving Kallias alone in the garden, the weight of her ultimatum pressing down on him like an unforgiving storm.

Kallias did not seek her out again the next day. Or the day after.

But something had shifted.

At first, it was subtle.

When Y/N entered the healers' ward one morning, she nearly tripped over a stack of wooden crates lined neatly by the entrance. Frowning, she crouched down, fingers trailing over the stamped sigil on the side. The insignia of the Winter Court’s official supply chains.

Inside, she found expensive salves imported from distant courts, fresh linens, new sets of surgical tools wrapped in pristine cloth. Even additional firewood to warm the rooms as the cold deepened.

Her fingers curled over the edge of one of the crates.

They had needed these supplies for months. Had been told there were delays, that their requests were lower priority than the military or the palace.

Yet now, all at once, they had everything they had asked for.

Y/N’s eyes darkened.

This was not a coincidence.

She turned sharply, scanning the ward, looking for the head healer. “Who brought these?”

The older healer glanced up from her records, expression tired but pleased. “An order came from the palace. Directly from the High Lord himself.”

Y/N’s chest went tight.

She said nothing as she turned back toward the crates.

This was not an apology. This was not a request for forgiveness.

This was something else entirely.

The second time, she saw it.

She had been passing through the main halls of the ward when a flicker of white caught her eye beyond the archway leading into one of the recovery rooms.

She stopped.

Through the partially open door, Kallias stood before the head healer.

And he was listening.

Not speaking, not giving orders, not ensuring his presence dominated the space.

But listening.

His arms were crossed, posture rigid as always, but his brows were furrowed in concentration as the head healer spoke. Her words were quiet but firm, explaining in detail what the ward required—not only in supplies but in structure. How they needed more hands, how the new allocation of funds should be distributed, how the growing needs of the people could not be ignored.

Kallias did not interrupt. He did not challenge her. He simply nodded once, asked something in return, and listened again.

Y/N’s breath hitched.

This was not for her.

This was not a calculated move meant to draw her back in.

She swallowed hard and turned away before she could hear more.

Then, that night—

It was late. Too late for anyone to be awake.

Y/N had been tending to a restless patient, checking their fever one last time before slipping out of the ward’s main rooms. The halls were quiet, dimly lit by the soft glow of faelights.

But then—

A voice. Low and quiet, nearly swallowed by the silence.

“… I was cruel to her.”

Y/N froze mid-step.

It was Kallias.

She pressed herself against the wall just beyond the archway.

“She did not deserve it,” he continued, his voice wrong somehow—too raw, too open. “And I do not know if I can fix it.”

A pause. A long, heavy pause.

Then, another voice—low and steady, belonging to one of his closest advisors. “You wounded her deeply, my lord. That will not be undone with gestures alone.”

A sharp inhale. “I know.”

Something in his tone made Y/N’s stomach tighten.

The advisor exhaled slowly. “Then what is it that you want?”

A longer silence.

And then, so softly she barely heard it—

“… I want her to stay.”

Y/N gripped the fabric of her sleeve.

Her heart pounded against her ribs, breath coming a little too fast.

She did not stay to hear more.

She turned and left, barely aware of her own steps.

Because for the first time, a sliver of doubt crept into her anger.

Maybe, just maybe… he truly meant it.

The knock was soft but firm, barely audible over the crackling of the fire in the corner.

Y/N frowned, setting down the bandages she had been carefully sorting. It was late—too late for anyone to be delivering messages.

“Come in.”

The door creaked open, revealing a young servant girl clutching a bundle of parchment to her chest. She hesitated in the doorway, cheeks pink from the cold. “These are for you, healer.”

Y/N wiped her hands on her apron before taking the pages. “Who sent them?”

The girl only dipped her head. “I don’t know, my lady. I was just told to bring them to you.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes slightly but nodded in dismissal. The girl quickly turned and left, closing the door behind her.

Silence settled over the room once more as Y/N sat at the small wooden table, smoothing out the stack of documents.

Her gaze flicked over the first page—and then she went very still.

It was a funding request. Her funding request.

One she had sent months ago, listing all the resources the healers' ward desperately needed—better equipment, fresh linens, a steady supply of medicine for the winter months.

Her fingers tightened around the parchment.

She flipped to the next page. Another request—approved. Then another. And another.

She inhaled sharply, flipping through the entire bundle with growing urgency.

Every single one of them.

Approved.

Stamped with the official Winter Court seal.

Her heart pounded against her ribs.

This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t how these things worked. Approvals took months, often years. The process was slow, tedious. But this—this had been done overnight.

A pit formed in her stomach.

And then, at the bottom of the last document, she saw it.

A single note.

Elegant, precise handwriting.

You will have everything you need.

No signature.

None was needed.

She knew who had done this.

Knew exactly whose hand had made this happen.

Kallias.

Y/N set the parchment down carefully, staring at it for a long, long moment.

She should have felt relieved. She did feel relieved. This was everything she had fought for, everything she had begged the court to consider.

And yet—

Her fingers curled into a fist.

Because this wasn’t just a gesture. It wasn’t just aid.

It was him.

Trying.

Fixing things.

For her.

She exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to her temple.

This was not what she had expected.

Not what she had wanted.

Because now—

Now she had to ask herself a dangerous question.

Was she still angry at him?

Or was she just afraid to let go of the anger?

She should have ignored it.

Should have ignored him.

But when she entered the ward that evening, she saw him.

Kallias stood at the far end of the room, speaking to a young healer. His hands were clasped behind his back, posture as regal and composed as ever—but he was listening.

He was learning.

For a long moment, she just… watched.

Then, before she could stop herself, she turned and walked in his direction.

Their eyes met.

The conversation around them faded.

His lips parted slightly, as if about to speak.

She did not let him.

Instead, she brushed past him, deliberately distant, and kept walking.

But something in his gaze, in the way he looked at her, stuck with her long after she was gone.

She found a small package by her bedside that morning.

Inside—

A pair of gloves.

Finely made, lined with soft fur, enchanted to keep her hands warm even in the coldest temperatures.

She swallowed hard.

She should not accept it.

And yet, later that evening, when she stepped outside into the snow, she wore them.

She returned to her chambers late that evening, exhausted.

And nearly tripped over another package.

This time, it was books.

Her breath caught as she picked up the first one, fingers running over the leather binding. Medical texts. Some of them rare, some of them from distant courts. Books she had wanted, but could never afford.

She exhaled sharply, gripping the book tighter.

She should not have opened them.

Should have ignored them entirely.

But that night, she sat by the fire, book in hand, and read until the candles burned low.

The palace gardens were covered in frost when she passed through them, heading toward the ward.

And then—

A presence behind her.

She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

He didn’t speak at first. Just walked beside her, their steps crunching against the frozen ground.

Finally, after a long silence—

“You wore the gloves.”

Her fingers twitched.

She exhaled slowly, watching her breath curl in the cold air.

Then, quietly—“Yes.”

He didn’t say anything more.

But for the first time in weeks, they walked side by side, no longer strangers.

Y/N had been walking through the palace gardens, checking on some of the herbs they had been growing for future treatments. A gust of wind chilled her, and she pulled her cloak tighter around her, turning to head back inside.

The sky had darkened ominously as thick clouds rolled in. Within moments, the wind had escalated into something more furious, rattling the palace windows and sending the trees into a wild dance. The storm was coming.

As Y/N approached the palace entrance, ready to make her way back to the healers’ ward, a sudden calm washed over her. The wind stopped. The heavy air, so oppressive moments ago, suddenly felt lighter. The storm outside, now loud and angry, remained locked in the distance as if the walls of the palace itself were holding it back.

Her footsteps slowed as she glanced around in confusion. She felt… strange. Like something was different.

A deep, familiar voice broke the silence, and she turned.

Kallias stood nearby, hands clasped behind his back. The corner of his mouth twitched, just barely a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes fully. His gaze held a quiet intensity.

“You... you stopped it?” Y/N asked, blinking.

“The storm? Yes,” Kallias replied, stepping closer. “It seemed fitting. You should not have to endure the chaos of the world when you are already fighting your own battles.”

Y/N glanced around. The stillness was almost eerie, the absence of wind and thunder filling the space between them.

“You—this is… too much, Kallias.” Her voice faltered, unsure of what to make of the sudden shift in his demeanor.

“It’s nothing,” he murmured, but the weight of it hung in the air. “I just wanted to give you peace. To show you that you don’t always have to face the storm alone.”

Her chest tightened at the sincerity in his voice, but she said nothing more, lost in the quiet beauty of the moment.

The storm raged outside, but here, in this small, still bubble, there was only calm.

Y/N had spent her evening sorting through medicinal herbs when a knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. She opened it to find a small basket of flowers waiting on the doorstep, along with a note.

I thought you might like something fresh.

The handwriting was unmistakable. Kallias.

Curious, Y/N made her way to the designated location that evening, a part of the palace gardens she had never taken the time to visit before. She had always assumed it was just an old, neglected corner, left to decay.

As she approached the garden’s entrance, she felt something shift. The air felt warmer, and she noticed a soft, faint glow just beyond the archway. The entrance was framed with vines and wildflowers in full bloom, each one shining as if touched by magic.

She stepped inside, eyes wide in awe.

The space had transformed. Where there had been an overgrown, abandoned patch of earth, now there was a garden in full bloom. Trees heavy with fruit glistened under the moonlight, their leaves rustling gently in the breeze. Every flower seemed to dance in the cool night air. The place was alive, vibrant.

Y/N turned slowly, meeting Kallias’ gaze in the center of the garden. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his presence commanding yet gentle in this new, serene environment.

“You did all of this?” she asked, breathless.

“Not all of it,” Kallias replied with a quiet smile. “But I thought it might be a place you could call your own. A place where you can find peace, when the rest of the world is too much.”

Her eyes lingered on him. “Why? After all the damage…”

His smile faltered for a brief moment, but he held her gaze.

“Because I owe you that much. I owe you more than that.”

The space between them seemed to narrow, the moment stretching as he waited for her response.

“I—thank you,” she whispered, almost unable to speak at the beauty of it all, but more so at the sincerity behind his words.

Y/N had been on edge all day. The tension had been building in the air, the weight of the impending departure pressing on her chest. Each moment, every encounter with Kallias, had felt more and more charged with something she couldn’t place. She had tried to ignore it, but it was becoming harder.

When the note appeared—unsigned, as usual—her heart had skipped a beat.

Meet me at the edge of the northern terrace. There is something you must see.

She couldn’t ignore it. Not this time.

With a mix of reluctance and curiosity swirling in her chest, she donned her cloak, its fabric brushing softly against the stone floors as she made her way to the northern terrace. Her footsteps were steady, yet something inside her fluttered, as if she was walking toward a moment that could change everything.

When she reached the edge of the palace grounds, the familiar sight of Kallias waiting for her did not disappoint. He stood near the stone railing, facing the horizon, but something in the air felt different. A quiet intensity lingered, something almost tangible, weaving between them without a word spoken.

Y/N hesitated, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. “Kallias,” she said, her voice soft but steady, “You’ve… been waiting for me?”

He didn’t turn to her immediately. Instead, he stood there for a long moment, as though savoring the distance between them. And then, finally, he spoke.

“Always.” His voice was quiet, deeper than usual, a note of something almost raw underneath. “Always.”

She felt the air around her shift. Not just the cool evening breeze, but something else—something electric, something that had been building for days. But she didn’t know what it was, nor did she have time to think about it as she stood there, facing the man who had changed everything she thought she knew about forgiveness, about trust, about herself.

The moment stretched, and then, without warning, the ground beneath their feet trembled ever so slightly. Y/N looked up instinctively, her breath catching in her throat.

And then, the sky exploded.

The northern lights. They burst to life in the heavens above them, spreading across the canvas of the night with an intensity that took her breath away. The lights shimmered in vivid shades of green, violet, and gold, swirling and twirling like a dance, as though the stars themselves had come alive. The air around them hummed with magic.

But it wasn’t just the lights. The stars above, too, seemed to rearrange themselves, forming patterns she had never seen before—constellations that were new, foreign, like they were being painted just for her, just for this moment. The lights stretched farther, brighter, glowing in every direction, encircling them, filling the sky with a breathtaking display of color and light.

She couldn’t take her eyes off of it. It was impossible. It felt as if the universe itself had shifted, bending and molding the world around her, all for this one instant.

And in that moment, Kallias finally turned to her. His face was bathed in the soft glow of the lights, but it was his eyes that caught her attention. His eyes, dark and stormy just days ago, now held something vulnerable—something sincere.

“I thought… if I could show you something beautiful,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper over the hum of the magic, “something just for you, you might understand that I’m trying.” His gaze softened. “I’m trying, Y/N.”

Y/N felt something inside her stir—a warmth, a flicker of hope, that she hadn’t felt in so long. Her chest tightened as she looked at him, the storm of conflicting emotions within her slowly beginning to settle.

“You don’t have to try so hard,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, as if the air itself held its breath. “I—” She didn’t know what to say. How could she? He had given her the impossible—an entire sky lit up just for her.

“I do,” he said, stepping closer. “I do have to try. I have to make you see that I regret everything. All of it. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to prove that to you.”

His words hit her like a wave, and for a long moment, she couldn’t speak. The magic in the sky above them seemed to intensify, swirling faster, becoming more vivid as if responding to his words. The aurora painted the sky with such beauty that it was almost overwhelming, a brilliant tapestry that filled the night.

Y/N’s hand trembled as she reached out toward the sky, the shimmering colors reflected in her eyes. “How… how did you do this?”

His hand, almost without thinking, reached for hers. His touch was gentle, his fingers brushing against hers like he was afraid to break the moment.

“I have my ways,” Kallias said with a small, self-deprecating smile. “But it’s nothing compared to the things I should have done for you.”

Y/N turned to him, and for the first time, she really looked at him. The man who had tried to push her away. The man who had hurt her. But also the man who was here, standing before her, now pouring all his regret and all his hope into this one gesture.

“You’ve done enough,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, as she took another step closer to him. “This… this is enough.”

He was so close now, she could feel his warmth, his presence enveloping her, the faintest trace of his breath on her cheek.

The night sky seemed to fade into the background, the northern lights themselves dimming just enough for them to focus on each other. And in the silence, with the magic of the world swirling around them, Kallias leaned in, just barely, his voice a hushed murmur.

“Y/N… I’m not asking you to forgive me. Not yet. But I want to earn it. I want to prove to you that I am worthy of your trust.”

For the first time, Y/N didn’t feel the need to pull away, didn’t feel the walls she had spent so long building. She was still scared, still uncertain of the future, but something inside her softened—something that had been hard and bitter for so long.

“I’m still not sure if I can forgive you,” she whispered, the vulnerability in her voice almost shocking. “But… I want to try.”

Kallias smiled then, a slow, genuine smile that reached his eyes. “That’s all I can ask for.”

And as the northern lights swirled around them, filling the sky with a breathtaking, magical glow, they stood there together—two souls caught in the same moment, a moment of tentative hope, of second chances.

And for the first time in a long time, Y/N allowed herself to believe that maybe—just maybe—there was something worth believing in again.

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Taglist: @slytherin-pen @buttpoltergeist @tooexhaustedsstuff @aliceinwondwonderland

[ruinsofthedawn]

The Pain of Falling for You - Part 3

Azriel x F!Reader

Summary: Following the disaster that was the family dinner, you still find yourself at Valkyrie training the next morning. What could go wrong?

A/N: Okay, so, this part was supposed to be a shorter part, some fluff, the calm before the storm type thing. But then I started writing and the training scene became… well, not that. I ended up splitting what was part 3 into two parts, so now, we're up to 6 total with the epilogue. We still get some fluff, just with a bit more angst to go along with it. (This tends to be what happens when I write fluff, so I'm not sure why I am surprised). Thank you so much for all your support. I never would have guessed this fic would garner so much attention and you all mean the world to me.

You would think someone who does martial arts knows how to write a training scene, but here we are. I also made some decisions about some of Reader's favorite foods; I was hungry while writing and didn't want to change it. I will not be apologizing.

Also, something random I noticed while writing this part: the Night Court doesn't seem very… nocturnal to me. I'm sure other people have said something along these lines in the past, but it does kind of bug me that everything in the Night Court happens in the day. I noticed it when I was almost done with this part and I wasn't about to rewrite it to fix it, but… will probably try to incorporate that more in future fics set in the Night Court.

Word Count: almost exactly 9K

Warnings: Reader has chronic pain (I'm trying to keep it accurate, but just in case: any medical inaccuracies are due to the fact that Reader is fae and not human and should be attributed to the biological differences between the two species), semi-unreliable narrator, feeling insecure, not as much angst, talk of pregnancies and complications during pregnancies (see previous note about medical inaccuracies, but with more fae and magic nonsense), discussions of money using a made up monetary system (just go with it, for all our sakes), Rhysand means well, sort of

Part 2 | Part 4

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The bag felt heavy in Azriel's hand, his shadows swirling restlessly around him like they had all night. Staring at your door, he takes a deep breath, feeling like a juvenile again, working up the courage to knock on your door. He had remained outside all night, watching from the roof of the neighboring building, a spot specifically chosen so he could see through the window above your counters; he can see almost your whole apartment.

By the time he returned, you were already curled up in your bed, sobs still wracking your body, the few shadows Azriel left behind caressing your skin, trying to comfort you. He longed to go to you, to hold you in his arms and tell you it would all be okay. He wanted to be the one to comfort you, instead of his shadows, and assure you that he wasn't going anywhere. But you made your decision clear earlier, and he wasn't about to cross any of your boundaries. So, he sat and kept guard even after the lights in your apartment flickered off.

He had only left his spot when the first rays of the sun touched the horizon, sending a few more of his shadows over to you, quickly making his way to the House of the Wind. Unsurprisingly, Cassian was the only one awake; as much as he complained about sleep, he is still a soldier and the three of them spent years in Windhaven waking up before the sun, the routine a hard one to break. The general straightened, slowly looking up from the report spread out on his desk. "Az," he breathed, pushing his seat back to stand. "We are so s-"

"Y/N is coming to training this morning," Azriel interrupted, muscles taught.

Cassian stilled, studying his brother carefully. "Oh, that's–"

"Not because she wants to," Azriel continued, taking a step into the office, "but because she said she would after you pressured her. And she keeps her promises, even when she would rather do anything else."

Sucking in a breath, Cassian moved around his desk, raising his hands. "I know I messed up," he admitted, "I'm sorry, even if that wasn't my–"

"This is your second chance," Azriel growled, shadows rising around him. "You and Nesta. Don't even think about telling the others."

Azriel didn't wait for a response before making his way out of the House, brushing past a freshly awake Nesta, not acknowledging her when she calls his name.

His next stop was a local restaurant, one closer to your home, that was open for a few more hours to serve the few fae in Velaris that are up during the day. He knows your order by heart, your favorite dish, drink, and pastry. The two of you had only gone to this place twice before, with you noting it as your favorite, even if it was smaller and less fancy like places Azriel normally goes to with his family. Owned by a family who makes simple food from scratch, Azriel had come to like the place, despite his limited number of visits.

The bag is warm in his hand, the dishes carefully balanced with the drinks resting on top. The shadows curl tighter around him when he lifts his hand, the knock echoing through the small hallway.

Something tumbles on the other side of your door, a small gasp barely heard through the wood. Feet shuffle against the floor, pausing just past the door. Azriel loosens the leash on his shadows, allowing some of them to slide under the door, announcing his presence. The door unlocks a moment later, and it takes a few seconds for you to open the door as the hinges stick despite all of the lubricant Azriel's shadows had added to them the past few months.

The door only opens a crack, just enough for you to peak through. "Hi, sweetheart," he says gently, trying to smile, ignoring the thunderous beat of his heart. "Would you like some breakfast?" he asks, gesturing to the bag slightly with his head.

Even through the small crack, he can see how you keep your eyes lowered. Pursing your lips, he catches the way your nose twitches, taking in the delicious smells, and your stomach rumbles quietly in response. His shadows grumbled most of the night about how you never ate dinner, not that Az had either. His smile softens watching the flush creep up your next as you nod. It takes another minute for you to get the door all the way open so Azriel can get inside with his wings.

Azriel's breath caught when it is, finally able to fully see you. Dark bags fill the space under your red rimmed eyes. A grey shawl pulled taught around your shoulders, holes littering the fabric, over your soft green dress, the hem fraying. Hair pulled back in two braided plaits that become one swaying at your back. You are beautiful, the most beautiful fae he has ever seen.

Arms hugging yourself, you step aside, sitting on your bed just beside the door. Keeping his wings tucked in tight, Azriel ducks his head, slowly entering the small apartment. It wasn't even a proper apartment in Azriel's opinion. Just a single room with barely enough space for a bed, a chest for your belongings, the smallest table Azriel has ever seen, a small counterspace that 'counts' as a kitchen despite the barely functioning stove top and the lack of an oven and sink, and a toilet tucked in the corner. Not that the toilet works, since the building doesn't have running water; you have a jug leaning against the counter that needs to be filled at the local well a few blocks away.

Keeping his head down to not hit the ceiling, Azriel silently begins unpacking the food on the table, handing you the cup of tea.

Azriel hates this place. The building isn't far from where Nesta's old apartment once stood, but even that was infinitely better than this. He so desperately wants for you to move somewhere better, somewhere safer. With him or not, he doesn't care. He hinted at it a few times, but it wasn't long into your relationship that he noticed how insecure you were about… well, everything when it came to him. He had yet to find a good way to bring it up without you taking it the wrong way.

Carefully, Azriel hands a container with lemon rosemary chicken with roasted sweet potatoes. It wasn't a dish that Azriel typically associates with breakfast, but with the smile tugging on your lips when you take the first bite he finds he doesn't care. With no chairs in your apartment, he slowly sits down next to you on the bed, the edge of his wing brushing lightly against you. You shiver at the touch, eyes closing in a wince and you take a few breaths before opening them again. You don't pull away though, and Azriel doesn't either, even as he tenses next to you.

The shadows spill from Az after he settles, his food, a hearty wrap of eggs, potatoes, cheese, veggies, and sausage, in his lap. You chuckle lightly as they wind their way up your body, simply lifting your arms to grant them better access. Azriel smiles, watching fondly. "Let her eat," he commands softly, but he makes no effort to actually pull them back. They slow slightly, allowing you to lower your arms, but do not part from you, not that Az blames them.

You eat in silence, Azriel watching each bite from the corner of his eye, something in him easing the more you eat. It is comfortable, something you both grew used to through the months, these moments of peaceful silence. There was still a tension in the air, it had Azriel clocking every movement, every sound, every breath, but you both settle into the familiar quiet between you.

It's not long before both of you finish food, the shadows quickly whisk away the containers before encompassing you again as you take the last sips of your tea. "Thank you," you say quietly. For a moment, Az thinks you're speaking to the shadows, until your eyes catch his.

It’s the first time this morning you let yourself look at him, truly look at him, and Azriel's face warms, a smile pulling on his lips. Slowly, he reaches a hand around to settle on your waist and gently pulls you to his side. A giggle escapes your lips, a hand reaching out to steady yourself against him, your tea disappearing into the shadows. One of Azriel's wings extends around you, the tip of his wing resting near the edge of the bed. Relief floods through Azriel when you lay your head on his chest, your body melting into his as easily as breathing, tension leaving both of you. The shadows swarm over both of you, sighing contently. "Of course," he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head, letting his lips linger there for a second.

He lets out a long, quiet breath, burying his nose in your hair, taking in your scent. The fear gripping his heart slowly melting away. You had let him in, let him feed you, let him touch you, and now you let yourself rest and mold into him like you belong there. And, by the gods, you do, if Azriel has anything to say about it. "Gods, I love you," he breathes.

You stiffen for just a moment, but he can feel it. Closing his eyes, Azriel kisses your hair again, soft but insistent, fingers tracing soft patterns on your side. You relax again just as quickly, pressing your head harder into his chest. "Please, don't leave," you breathe, so softly Azriel would not have heard it if not for his shadows, your voice thick with unshed tears.

Azriel's arm tightens around you slightly, keeping you tucked into him, a wave of dread crashing over him. After spending all night scared you would leave him… of course you would have the same fear. It was his family, his brother, that treated you so terribly. Not just his brother, but the High Lord who made such vile accusations against you. He mentally kicked himself for not realizing sooner, the words you said last night suddenly feeling like the twisting of a knife.

"Never," he assures you, pushing past the lump forming in his throat. The single word hangs heavy in the air, an oath wrapping around the two of you, engraving itself into Azriel's very soul. A promise not compelled by magic, but just as binding. "Not until you ask me to."

A sound escapes you, a half laugh, half sob, as your hand comes up, grabbing a handful of his shirt. Az is distantly aware of the wet patch on the fabric from your tears, but he doesn't care. He shushes you gently, continuing to trace soothing circles along your side. His free hand gently untangles yours from his chest, allowing your fingers to interweave. Placing a gentle kiss on the back of your hand, he lets them settle over his heart, still beating a bit too quickly in his chest.

Your tears subside, but neither of you move, content to just be in each other's arms for a little while longer. The world seems to fade away, Azriel barely aware of anything that's not the feeling of you in his arms, against his side, the sounds of your breath, or the shadows swirling around whispering of your every move.

"You don't have to come," Azriel whispers into your hair, opening his eyes, a part of himself hating to break the tender peace surrounding you, "if you don't want to."

You stiffen again, lifting your head slightly to turn to look at him. Azriel's breath hitches, your wide eyes still red and cheeks stained with tears, yet your beauty still takes his breath away. "I said I would," you say.

A small smile pulls on Azriel's lips, his heart tightening at the words, even if he knew you would say that. "I know, but no one will blame you if you change your mind, my love," he encourages gently. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

Your brows furrow, eyes drifting down. He can see you thinking it over and a part of him prays that you will take the out, not because he doesn't want you there, but because you would have never agreed on your own. "But I said I would," you repeat in a whisper. Your eyes drift up to his, uncertainty shining through as your hand tightens around his. "Unless… I'm no longer welcome."

Azriel's heart cracks at the waver in your voice. "Of course you are welcome," he promises, his own hand tightening for just a moment. "But you don't need to worry about them. What do you want to do?"

"I–" you start, licking your lips, eyes searching Azriel's as if they would give you the answer. Azriel forces his face to remain neutral, with just a small encouraging smile, even as every part of him wants to keep you here in his arms, away from anything that could harm you or make you vaguely uncomfortable.

Slowly, you turn your face from him, settling your cheek against the wet fabric on his chest once more. You take a slow breath and Azriel can feel the resignation overtake your body as you rest against him. "I promised."

Hot tears burn behind Azriel's eyes as they flutter shut. Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he nods despite the pit forming in his stomach. "Okay, my love," he breathes, leaning down and placing another soft kiss to your hair. "Okay."

—

Azriel has always been observant, the natural consequence of having shadows whispering in his ear for as long as he can remember, but he doesn't think he's been this aware before. Aware of everyone, every move they made, every whispered word. He tries to focus on the small group of Priestesses he is working with as they finish their stretches and begin to pair off to begin the first of the combinations they go over, aimed to help them get used to moving their bodies and maintaining balance. Still, he cannot stop himself from glancing to the side every few minutes, eyes catching on where you sit on the edge of the training ring.

You wrap the shawl around you tighter, arms hugging your middle tightly. He can almost feel it, the quick pace of your heart, the thoughts swirling through your head, the emotions roiling through you, inadequacy, shame, and a deep sorrow. Mostly, you keep your eyes down, or away from him as you watch the priestesses carefully.

A few times he caught your eyes flickering to where Cassian and Nesta stood on the other side of the courtyard. They only smiled when Azriel arrived with you in his arms, Nesta already talking intently with Gwen and Emerie. Az was thankful they didn't try to talk or come up to you. He wasn't sure if he can contain himself if this went badly too.

His shadows whisper of everything in the courtyard, every word, every breath, every movement of a leaf. An overwhelming amount of information Azriel had learned to shift through centuries ago. Even without them, he could feel the eyes of many of the priestesses as they watch him, smiling sweetly at him, sneaking sly glances when they thought he wasn't paying attention, and sharing quiet giggles. It was something that happens at each of these training sessions he helps with; some of the more bold would even try to flirt with him, not that he ever returned their advances, but he always thought it was harmless.

He curses himself for the thought now, their quiet laughter burning his ears, each of their too-kind smiles seem to dig him deeper into a hole of his own making. He knows you see it, can hear it all. Thank the Mother none of them had tried to come up to him today. Maybe the Priestesses can feel it too, the tension lining his muscles, the unnatural jerkiness to the shadows' movements, or perhaps they see how some of his shadows refuse to leave you, gently swirling up your back and playing with your hair. Or it might be the way he angles himself to keep you in his line of sight, the way his eyes constantly flicker to you.

Azriel tries to coach the Priestesses, but everything in him keeps drawing him back to you. You shift against the hard stone bench, shadows swarming to apply pressure on a particular point of your back, some even maneuvering their way beneath you, to act as a cushion. Azriel purses his lips, wishing he had thought to bring out a better place for you to sit other than the cold stone. The shadows hiss in his ear relaying your discomfort, the pit in Azriel's stomach only growing.

Several choice words come to mind for his brothers, for himself; all of this could have been avoided if he never brought you to that dinner. He had known, on some level, that it was a disaster in the making, but he had wanted so badly for all the people he loves to get along he had ignored it. He never wanted you to feel pressured into doing anything for him, and yet you had gone to the dinner, and was humiliated by his family. And now, even after that, you forced yourself to come to another thing you never would have agreed to on your own, an invitation you had denied initially, because it's what you thought his family wanted from you.

Maybe is something you believe he wants from you. Something inside of him twists at the thought.

"Um, Azriel… sir." Azriel's gaze snaps to one of the newer priestesses, having joined the Valkyries only a few weeks ago. Juliana smiles sweetly as she approaches, her eyes raking over Azriel. He suppresses a shiver, stomach souring under her gaze. He doesn't respond, just nods, trying to make himself relax slightly, despite the shadows continuing to whisper in his ears. "Can you please help with this move? I can't seem to get it right."

Stiffly, he nods, silently ordering his shadows away, not needing any more distractions. They skitter away, almost gladly if Azriel didn't know any better, all quickly making their way to engulf you, preening at your small smile as you watch them flock to your rigid form.

Julianna's eyes flicker, following the retreating shadows, her smile dropping for a moment when she sees their destination. A snarl builds in Azriel, he has to fight to keep it contained. Instead, he clears his throat, drawing the priestess's attention back to him, lifting an eyebrow. "Go on," he says simply, forcing his tone to remain neutral. Julianna's smile returns, gesturing for him to follow her to her partner, Mica.

Azriel keeps a respectful distance, clasping his hands behind his back, wings drawn in tight, forcing his gaze to remain on their forms and not sneaking back to you. He corrects with a low voice and gentle directions. Despite what she may think, Julianna is not subtle in her attempts to get his attention, purposefully fumbling through the moves.

Carefully, Azriel side steps Julianna's attempt to fall into him, barely catching herself from crashing into the ground. Crossing his arms, Azriel takes a controlled breath. "If you are not going to take this seriously, then I suggest taking a step back and let me focus on those who are," he says, voice struggling to remain respectful.

Julianna turns to him, dusting off her clothes. "You think I'm not?"

"Yesterday, you completed the sequence perfectly fine multiple times, and now you want me to believe you cannot keep your balance?" Azriel responds, raising his eyebrows. Distantly he is aware of how still you are, watching the exchange, and can see Mica shifting uncomfortably a few feet away.

For a moment, Julianna gapes at him before straightening, flicking her braided hair over her shoulder with a scoff. "Well, if I had known weak, helpless females are what got you going, I never would have joined," Julianna retorts.

"Juli!" Mica gasps. Around them, movement stops, turning to stare at Julianna, wide eyes flickering between her, Azriel and where you sit on the sidelines, the shadows hissing loudly as they engulf you further.

"Excuse me?" Azriel growls, taking a step towards her, hands coiling at his side. Behind him, gravel crunches and Azriel has just enough awareness to recognize Cassian and Nesta's footsteps.

Julianna rolls her eyes. "Don't deny it, we all see the way you look at her," she sneers, gesturing in your direction. "You deserve so much better. The strongest warriors need an equally strong partner. I mean, just look at the High Lord and the General. Do you really think she could be that for you? She didn't even do the basic stretches."

For a moment, the training ring was silent, Julianna's words echoing off the walls, shadows seeping through the stonework, eerily still. A snarl tears from Azriel's throat, Julianna's eyes going wide as he lunges for her. Cassian's moves quickly, stepping in front of his brother, holding him back. Azriel struggles against him, pure anger and instinct begging to be free, to tear into the being who insulted you.

Cassian curses, eyes widening on the shadows slinking their way across the floor, his grip loosening just enough to let Azriel slip free. "Move!" Cassian bellows to the priestesses, who quickly run to the walls of the training ring. Nesta grips Julianna's arm, dragging her out of the ring and out of Azriel's eyeline. Wildly, Azriel's eyes search for her, but Cassian is faster, keeping himself in Azriel's vision, arms once again reaching out to his brother. "Az, you need to calm down."

Azriel just growls, charging at Cassian. It wasn't much of a fight, the two Illyrians grappling each other on the ground. The general pins Azriel to the ground quickly; despite his rage and strength Azriel isn't thinking clearly enough for a proper fight, especially when his brother is not the cause of his ire this time. "Az," Cassian tries again, teeth gritted, blood streaming from his mouth. "Y/N doesn't need this."

At the sound of your name, the world slowly began to come back into focus. His grip on Cassian's leathers loosens, his breathing ragged. Azriel growls weakly, but takes a deep breath, forcing himself to let go of Cassian, letting his head drop to the stone ground, cursing hoarsely.

A part of him can hear Nesta's yelling. "How dare you? In what world would any of that be an appropriate thing to say?"

Julianna scoffs. "I just said what we're all thinking?"

Cassian's grip tightens on Azriel, but Az doesn't move, his eyes fluttering closed. Anger still burns in his chest, quickly overcome by a flood of guilt. Eyes snapping open, Az quickly scans the edge of the training ring, heart dropping when you are nowhere to be seen. "Y/N," he rasps, hands moving to push himself up.

Brows furrowing, Cassian follows his gaze, cursing softly. Slowly, the general moves, watching Azriel carefully as he stands. Shadows tug at Azriel's wrists, guiding him through the training ring, barely aware of the eyes on him as he stumbles forward.

"We are not going to put up with this." Nesta's voice echoes around the space, everyone else quietly watching. Azriel hears the words, but they might as well be a foreign language. "You are no longer welcome."

"What?" Julianna asks with a disbelieving breath. "You can't do that."

"Yes, I can," Nesta retorts as Azriel rounds a corner, unable to hear the rest of her reply.

Azriel's mind swam, letting his body be led by his shadows, not paying attention to where they were taking him. Some part of him is aware that Cassian stops following when he leaves the training ring, he can distantly hear his brother's voice agreeing with his mate. But none of that matters, not now. Not when you disappeared.

A hand rakes over Azriel's face, hot tears burning behind his eyes. This was all his fault. First last night, and now this. Gods, how could you want to stay with him after this? He brought you into two aspects of his life and they both reject you quickly, on no uncertain terms, making their dislike of you painfully obvious.

Or worse, you might think he doesn't want you anymore. His chest aches at the thought.

He wants to kill them, Rhysand, Julianna, everyone who speaks ill of you. He doesn't care. But he needs you; needs to see you, touch you, assure himself you are okay, needs to assure you that he's not going anywhere. His heart cracks thinking back to only an hour ago, with you wrapped in his arms and wings, and you begged him not to leave. Your voice, so quiet and uncertain, echoes in his mind.

Stumbling again, he steadies himself along the stone wall, struggling to breathe. He can't lose you; the very thought threatens to rip his heart from him. He would rather kill everyone, burn the court to the ground, before he ever lets you go. And if you leave, if that's what you truly want, he will let you go, of course, but gods, he doesn't know if he will survive.

Azriel is only vaguely aware when the tunnel the shadows led him through opens up into a vast garden, one he has not visited in centuries. The shadows hiss in his ear, but he can't make out the words over the sound of his blood rushing. They lead him through a winding path surrounded by carefully maintained trees and flowers. In the center, water flows gently from a grand fountain, and you sit on the edge, hunched over, body shaking with quiet sobs. Shadows swirl restlessly around you, desperately trying to calm you, comfort you.

A quiet breath leaves Azriel, just the sight of you sets his world right again. He breathes your name and you stiffen at the sound. Slowly, he approaches, breath still uneven as he kneels before you, the shadows quick to wrap around him, nestling you both in their soft embrace, keeping the rest of the world away. Hot tears burn Azriel's cheeks, scarred hands shaking, reaching out to grab yours. When you don't pull away, Az lets out a breath that might be a sob, bringing them up to his lips, placing a long, reverent kiss on each.

"I'm sorry, my love," he breathes into your skin. You gasp, gently pulling one hand away and Azriel grasps the one remaining tighter, not enough to hurt you, never to hurt you, but to keep it in his hands, against his lips. "I am so, so sorry."

Your body shakes, free hand sweeping through his hair. "Y- you're bleeding," you whisper through your tears. "Oh- oh, gods, you're hurt, you're–"

"I'm fine," he cuts you off softly, looking up, forcing himself to take a deep breath at the sight of your tears. He places another tender kiss to your hand, watching your eyes remain on the cut, your thumb gently rubbing his temple. "I'm fine, beloved. I promise."

You shake your head, hand dropping, your body shakes even more. He inches forwards, causing your knees to part to make room. His eyes close, content to be surrounded by you, leaning his head slightly into your hand still held by his cheek.

Azriel's brows furrow, something cold and wet pressing gently to his temple. Reluctantly, he opens his eyes, breath hitching. You hold your shawl, wetted by the fountain to his forehead, gently cleaning away the blood. "Oh, sweetheart," he whispers, one hand moving to gently hold your wrist, but he doesn't stop you. "You don't have to do that."

Your breathing stutters, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks. "You're hurt because of me," you breathe, a sob almost cutting you off. "Because I am- I'm not–"

"No, please," he begs, carefully moving your hand away from his temple, his own tears returning. "Please, don't finish that sentence. Whatever you are going to say, it's not true," he insists, placing a soft, adamant kiss to the wet shawl still clutched in your hand. "You are everything, Y/N. Completely and utterly perfect. Don't believe a word they say."

Your face contorts with another sob, head shaking again. "No, no I'm not. I- I–"

Azriel surges forward, unable to hear you utter another self-deprecating thought. His lips slot between yours, soft and gentle despite his speed, one hand resting on the back of your head to keep you steady, but you can easily pull away if you want. You gasp, body stilling before a whimper escapes you, your lips slowly moving with his. He slows too, matching your pace, pouring all of his reverence and adoration into the kiss, his both hands slowly moving to cup your jaw.

He moans at the feel of your lips against his, at the taste of your tears, but beneath it something so distinctly you it makes his knees weak. You sob into the kiss and Azriel starts to pull away, but your hands grip his leathers, keeping him close, and shifting closer to him. He obliges, letting you direct him, until he's sitting on the ground, back up against the wall of the fountain, and you're straddling him, his wings wrapping lazily around you. The shadows encircle the two of you until there is nothing else, even the sounds of the fountain are muted, a few directing one of hands to rest on a specific point on your back.

It wasn't exactly what Azriel had in mind for your first kiss, having kept himself relegated to your hands and forehead before now. But it is perfect, to be completely surrounded by you, the feel of your body, your taste, your scent.

Panting, you pull back, sucking in lungfuls of air. Azriel doesn't stop, cannot stop, now that he has got a taste of you. His lips gently trail to your jaw down to the curve of your neck. You moan softly, something in Azriel warms at the sound, a smile pulling on his lips as he continues. Slowly, your body melts into him, head tilting ever so slightly to the side, resting in the hand still resting along the opposite side of your jaw.

"Oh, gods, Y/N," he moans between kisses, finding a spot on the juncture of your neck that has you gasping. "Love you so much," he breathes.

"Azriel," you whisper, burying a hand in his hair, leaning to rest your cheek against his ear as he continues to lap at your skin. "I- oh, I love you, Az."

He groans into your skin, slowly moving back up your neck, kissing the underside of your jaw. "Perfect," he mumbles, nipping gently causing your hand to tighten in his hair. "So perfect, my beloved. Never leaving you. I'm yours, always," he promises, lips slotting back between yours, your head still tipped, nearly laying on his shoulder.

"Mine," you murmur against his lips and his smiles into the kiss, his hand pressing firmer into your back. "My m–" You gasp, cutting yourself off, but it sounds different, lower than your previous ones had been. Azriel feels your face scrunch as your body stiffens against him.

Stop! The shadows scream in his ear.

Immediately, Azriel pulls back, brows furrowing. Your head drops, resting your forehead against his shoulder, taking long, slow, measured breaths.

"Y/N?" Azriel asks, panic rising in his chest. The shadows swarm closer, moving Azriel's hand from your back to your waist, and the other from your cheek to the back of your head. They cluster around you, softly massaging along your spine and neck. "Sweetheart, what's wrong? Did I hurt you?"

You don't respond slowly relaxing back into his arms, letting out a soft whimper. "I'm sorry," you breathe softly.

"Sh, sh," he hushes, gently pressing a kiss on your head. "You have nothing to be sorry about," he assures you softly. "Are you hurt? Do we need to get Madja?"

Taking a deep breath, you shake your head, just barely but enough. He nods, laying his cheek on your head. "What do you need, my love?"

Your breath stutters, arms slowly encircling his neck. "Just you," you admit quietly.

Warmth floods through Azriel's chest, the hand on your waist tightens gently. "I'm not going anywhere."

The shadows continue to gently swirl across your body. They force Azriel to let go for a moment, and Az has half a mind to growl at his own shadows. Cautiously, they move your legs, until you are sitting sideways across Azriel's lap, your head resting against his shoulder. You whimper again as they move you, Azriel's heart twists, brows furrowing in confusion. You said you aren't hurt, but it sounds like you are in pain. Still, he only whispers quiet assurances in your hair as the shadows settle you back into his lap.

The shadows move his hands again, one resting on your hip, the other wrapping around your middle. Gently, they hiss. Azriel glances at them, frowning. One of your hands rest on Azriel's chest, above his heart, flexing against his leathers as you melt back into him, the pained look on your face softening.

Azriel doesn't know how long the two of you sit there, the shadows constantly hover over you. He continues to whisper gently into your hair, even after your breathing has evened out, exhaustion over taking you.

Reluctantly, the shadows disperse after you fall asleep, slowly returning to hide in the plants. Azriel keeps his wings gently wrapped around you, a soft warmth radiating from the membrane. He tries interrogating his shadows, to learn more about what happened, why you suddenly tensed and looked like you were in pain, but they remain quiet, whispering of other, inconsequential things instead.

Quiet voices float on the wind and Azriel tenses, even if the House of the Wind is one of the safest places in Velaris, it was the very people who have access who hurt you.

"–know this place existed," Nesta's voice drifts in, awe filling her voice. Azriel relaxes slightly, even as his wings wrap tighter around the two of them.

Cassian chuckles lightly, but tension lingers in his tone. "We haven't come back here in a long time. It was Rhys's mother's private garden. There must be some sort of magic taking care of it."

It is only a moment later when the two of them come into view, Nesta's arms wrap around herself, eyes drifting across the trees and plants, Cassian walks in step with her, a gentle hand resting in the small of her back. Cassian sees Azriel first, shoulders relaxing slightly, his face softening. "There you are," he sighs, relief clear in his voice.

Nesta's gaze snaps to Azriel, letting out a quiet breath. "Is Y/N okay?" she asks, softly.

Azriel scans the two of them, and the surrounding gardens, some part of him waiting for a threat to emerge. After a brief moment, Azriel unfurls one of his wings, letting them see your sleeping form, his other wing acting as a blanket. "Don't wake her," he demands quietly. "She didn't sleep well last night."

They both nod, Nesta leaning into Cassian a bit more. "Understandable," she says, glancing up at her mate. "We were hoping to apologize, for… well, for everything. And maybe speak with her a bit more."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Azriel says, fighting to keep the growl out of his voice. "Not today, at least."

"Of course," Cassian responds quickly, a small smile pulling on his lips. "We don't want to pressure her."

They stand in awkward silence for a bit, Azriel's gaze returning to you, your brows furrowing slightly, your body shaking with a deep shuddering breath. Azriel kisses your forehead, barely a brush, and your features smooth again.

"We are sorry," Nesta whispers, watching Azriel, but his eyes never leave you. "For last night, for… for Juliana. I never thought one of the priestesses would say something so cruel."

Azriel doesn't answer, jaw clenching, one hand gently rubbing your arm. His eyes drift up, watching the shadows of the leaves blowing in the wind, loosening his arms when you shift slightly.

"She's gone," Cassian says gently, Azriel's gaze snapping to him. "Julianna."

"Well, she's still in the library, not much we can do about that," Nesta clarifies with a nod, "but she's no longer welcome with the Valkyries or at training. And Gwen made sure Clotho was informed of what happened."

"W-what?" your voice is hoarse, head lifting slightly, eyes still dazed from sleep.

Azriel shifts, hands rubbing circles on your arm and hip. "Hey," he murmurs, leaning in to press a soft kiss on your hair. "We didn't mean to wake you." Some of the shadows curl around you, weaving in your hair and between your fingers, before moving to swirl along your back and your neck.

Shakily, you push yourself off of Azriel, just enough for you to move and sit next to him, his wing reluctantly getting out of your way. Azriel misses your warmth and the weight of you against him the moment you leave, he gently entwines one of your hands with his, the need to touch you still humming beneath his skin. "You- you didn't have to do that," you say, pulling your knees up to your chest. "Not for me. I- if she wanted to- to train, you don't need to…" your voice trails off.

Nesta takes a careful step forward, away from Cassian. "If anything, we did it for her safety," she admits with a soft chuckle, glancing over to Azriel. Your gaze flickers to him for a moment, eyes wide. "Besides, like Cassian tried to say last night—"she shoots her mate a playful glare"—being Valkyrie is about helping each other to become stronger, in whatever way most suites them, whether that's training to be a warrior or… well, anything else. If she cannot respect that, then she has no place there. Simple as that."

Your brows furrow. "But–"

"It's the consequence of her actions and her words," Cassian tries gently, "not yours."

Azriel watches you intently as your gaze darts between Cassian and Nesta, your lips pursed, before you nod. Not because you agree with them, Az knows, but because you know they will not change their minds.

Nesta smiles gently, glancing back at Cassian for a moment. "We, um. We actually wanted to ask you a question, if that's okay."

Azriel can feel you stiffen, your hand tightening around his. Even now, with you sitting next to him, he can feel the exhaustion pulling on your mind, and the fear running down your spine at that simple request. "You don't have to answer," Cassian explains, stepping up to his mate, hand returning to her back. "We're just curious, that's all."

Your eyes flicker between them, brows furrowing. Azriel brings your entwined hand up to his lips, kissing the back of your hand softly. "You can say no," he offers gently, casting a glare towards his friends, who just nod in response.

Still, your gaze rakes over them slowly, noting Nesta's arms around her front and Cassian's gentle hand on her back, the shifting of both their feet. "Oh," you breathe, sitting up a bit straighter. Azriel's gaze returns to you, your body relaxing slightly as you smile. "Okay, what's the question?"

"How-" Nesta starts, chuckling nervously, "How do you know so much about Illyrian pregnancies?"

A growl rumbles in Azriel's throat, but you laugh softly, nodding. The sound stops him short, head turning towards you, brows narrowing. "Oh, that," you say, letting your legs stretch out slightly in front of you. "Um, so… when the previous High Lord met his mate, he immediately hired a midwife from Velaris to care for her during her future pregnancies."

Cassian eyes widen. "Priya," he says quickly. You nod slowly, smiling softly. "I remember her, she was around for Selene's birth."

Az nods too, licking his lips. "Yes. Rhys tried to contact her when they first learned of Feyre's pregnancy, but he couldn’t find her."

"She died," you say simply, voice lowering slightly. "During the attor attack." Cassian hums thoughtfully. "But when she was first hired by the former High Lord, he sent her to live in one of the Illyrian camps for almost a year to learn from the midwives there," you explain softly. "And when she was done, he had her spend a few months in each court, I think a little longer in Dawn, to learn from midwives who work with different types of magic. He even sent her to travel the continent for almost a year to learn some techniques that aren't known to Prythian. It was about five years in total, I think. According to Pryia, the High Lord didn't even think about having an heir until she had returned, ensuring that his mate would have the best care possible for her pregnancies."

You pause for a moment, swallowing thickly. "She was bound by a pretty strict bargain to never discuss details of the former Lady of Night's pregnancies, but she was able to teach her students everything she learned in her travels. I studied under her for almost four decades and since the High Lord… um, that is Lord Rhysand, is half-Illyrian, she made sure that her students were aware of the anatomy of Illyrian births. Especially after the complications of the former Lady of Night's pregnancies."

Cassian's brows furrow again, matching Azriel's. "I don't remember Nyssa having any complications during her pregnancy with Selene," Cass mutters.

You shrug. "That's all I know. The bargain Priya was bound with… it remained intact after the Lord Laris' death according to her. That was all she was able to tell anyone."

You blink a few times, leaning into Azriel's shoulder slightly, eyes drooping. "I have her journals though. She left them with me before her death. She made it sound like they have all the information about the Lady Nyssa's pregnancies."

Azriel frowns, studying you carefully. "She wasn't able to tell anyone because of the bargain, but she left you her journals?" he asks gently.

Your eyes widen slightly, color draining from your face, eyes flickering between Azriel, Cassian, and Nesta. "Yes, um… she- she knew that I- that if she left the journals with me, they would never be read. Not- not by me at least. Since you are Nyssa's family, or… um, family adjacent, I don’t see why you can't have them."

Nesta nods eagerly. "If you don't mind, I would love to read them. I can give them back once I'm done."

You smile softly. "No need. Priya taught me all the practical lessons that could possibly be in there. I don't need to know the personal details." Azriel smiles fondly at you, squeezing your hand slightly in his.

Cassian and Nesta share a glance, the shadows whispering of the nervousness flowing through them, as if Azriel couldn't see their shifting hands and the uptick in their breathing. "We have one more question to ask of you," Cassian begins slowly. Azriel stiffens, gaze hardening as he turns to them. "And, of course, you can refuse," he prefaces.

"You see," Nesta begins, eyes shifting to her mate. "Well, we… I mean, the reason we are asking… uh–"

You smile softly as Nesta stammers, inclining your head slightly. "Congratulations," you say quietly. Azriel's eyes narrow at you, before rounding to Nesta and Cassian again, eyes widening in understanding.

Nesta gapes at you for a moment, Cassian staring wide eyed before laughing lightly. Nesta chuckles breathily. "Is it that obvious?"

Slowly, you shake your head. "Only to someone who does this for a living," you admit softly.

Azriel smiles widely, watching his brother and friend carefully. "You will be amazing parents," he says gently.

Nesta leans more fully into Cassian, both of them smiling widely. "Thank you," she breathes out, nodding to Azriel. "Both of you. But the reason we're asking is, um…"

"We want to hire you," Cassian finishes for his mate.

Azriel brows furrow slightly, but his smile widens, glancing over to you. Your smile faulters slightly, mouth opening as you sit up straight again but, for a moment no sound comes out. "You- really?" you breathe.

Nesta nods. "Of course," she insists. "How much do you normally charge?"

"Oh, um…" your gaze flickers to Azriel. "Well, I- it's, um, about 5 copper marks per appointment."

Azriel's smile fades, head tilting slightly. In the corner of his eye, he can see Cassian and Nesta exchange a look, brows furrowed. "What?" he asks.

Azriel hears your heartbeat pick up, blood draining from your face. "If-if that's too much, I am always willing to negotiate," you respond quickly, voice wavering.

"No, love. That's not what I meant," he starts, wetting his lips.

"We just," Nesta cuts in, forcing a smile on her face, "thought it would be more. That seems much too low for you to make a living."

Heat rushes to your cheeks, head ducking slightly. "It's what I've always charged," you explain softly. "I never want someone to be without care because they couldn't afford it."

Azriel smiles sadly, letting go of your hand, to wrap around your shoulders. Drawing you into him, he places a long reverent kiss on your head. His chest stirs, with love and adoration for your caring and selflessness, but something twists right next to it, thinking of your apartment, of your threadbare clothes, of the times you eat far too quickly.

"Okay," Nesta says softly, eyes locked on her mate before turning back to you. "Well, we would love to hire you. Only if you are willing."

You lean into Azriel's warmth, offering them a tight, controlled smile. "Of course. It would be an honor." The line seems a bit too rehearsed for Azriel, but he doesn't argue.

Nesta lets out a sigh, smiling brightly. "Thank you!" she says, pulling away from Cassian. "Do you mind if we step away for a bit. I have a few questions not for…" she pauses, gaze flickering to Cassian and Azriel, "wondering ears," she settles on.

Chuckling breathily, you nod, the shadows and Azriel helping you to stand. Nesta quickly links her arm in yours leading you deeper into the garden, despite neither of you knowing where you are going.

Cassian comes up to Azriel, gently putting a hand on his shoulder as they watch the two females walk off. "Thank you," Azriel says softly, "for doing this for her."

Cassian's hand tightens on Azriel's shoulder, turning to look at him with furrowed brows. "We're not doing this for Y/N," he says simply. "Nes and I talked about it last night. She showed more knowledge of Illyrian reproduction off the top of her head than Madja had after months of researching for Feyre," he explains. "Nes has an Illyrian womb, so we need someone who knows exactly what that means and how that would affect the pregnancy."

Cassian pauses, turning to his brother, face hard as stone. "We asked her because we think it's what's best for Nesta and the baby. Who she is to you played no part in that decision."

Azriel studies Cassian for a long moment, his wings twitching against his back. Before he can think, Azriel reaches out, pulling Cassian into a tight embrace. Cass stills for a moment, before his arms encircle Azriel just as tightly. "Thank you," Azriel says again, "for everything."

"Always," Cassian responds, pulling back with a smile. "And we are going to be paying her more than 5 coppers an appointment. You don't even need to ask." A knot in Azriel's chest loosens.

———

"Do you mind if we sit?" you ask Nesta quietly, as you pass by a bench. The two of you have been walking through the gardens for about a half hour. The eldest Archeron had explained her true bargain with the Cauldron during the young princeling's birth, which resulted in a change to her reproductive system, before asking the myriad of questions every first-time mother asks. Your back aches, knees beginning to wobble beneath you; after your hard day yesterday, lack of sleep, and the amount of crying over the past day or so, your body was ready to collapse.

"Oh, sure," Nesta agrees readily, gently steering you to the bench.

You smile softly, eyes roaming over the various flowers before you, many of which you never would have thought could grow happily side-by-side. "You know, you don't need to ask me all of your questions today. We can set up a proper appointment where I will have my supplies. That will probably help ease your mind a lot."

Nesta offers you a tired smile, nodding. "I know," she sighs. "It's just… after Feyre's pregnancy. I think we are all going to be on edge."

"That is completely normal," you assure her. "Obviously, I cannot speak to human standards. But let me assure you, complications like the one your sister had are extremely rare for fae. Complications, in general, are rare, and, more often than not, both mother and child make a full recovery given enough time." Nesta purse her lips, but nods.

You turn towards her slightly. "My turn to ask a question. Have you already been looked over by a healer?"

"Yes, by Madja. About a week ago," she answers. You nod, biting the inside of your lip gently. Madja will not be pleased that the Lady of Death will be going to someone else for her pregnancy, but you'll cross that bridge later. "She didn't see anything to be concerned about, according to her. But she said it is still too early to see if there are wings."

Again, you nod, pursing your lips. "Well, that's good to hear," you say with a smile. "But for my peace of mind, would you be okay if I did a check during that appointment?"

"Yes, please," Nesta says, nodding eagerly. "I would have asked you if you hadn't offered."

Chuckling lightly, you reach out, grasping Nesta's hands. "It's okay to be nervous. All mothers are, no matter if it's their first pregnancy or their tenth. Even more so in your case, after the High Lady's. But, for now, enjoy it. Let me worry about those things, and you focus on these moments with your mate. Because in a few short months, everything is going to change. Even if it's for the better, it has been known to knock the wind out of people."

Laughing softly, Nesta nods, a hand moving to rest over her stomach. She looks over at you, smiling softly. "I see why Azriel loves you," she says simply. Your smile faulters, brows furrowing. "You're kind and caring to a fault, just like him," she explains gently. "You offer a peace the rest of us could never hope to bring him."

A lump forms in your throat, eyes darting to the path in front of you as you pull your hands back. "I- I don't know about that."

Nesta hums, leaning back on the bench, eyes closing as the mid-day sun warms her skin. "But Azriel does," she insists gently. "He was about ready to burn Rhys alive last night."

Eyes widening, your gaze snaps to hers. "What?"

She nods, smiling despite herself. "After you both left, he came back and tore Rhys a new one. I don't think Azriel has ever pushed back against him before, not like that at least. Rhys didn't know what to do with himself after Azriel left again." She chuckles lightly.

Your mouth opens, eyes blinking rapidly. "I- I didn't ask him to do that."

"You didn't have to," Nesta says head turning to look at you. "That male will burn the world down to keep you warm if you ask."

The bond pulls in your chest, rough and jagged, begging to be acknowledged. Your eyes close, taking a deep breath, coaxing the festering bond back into dormancy. The bond had soared in you earlier, when Azriel kissed you. It was the first time the bond didn't radiate any pain, even if your muscles had raged against you during the kiss. It tore through you now, crying out to be known.

"Why me?" you ask, barely a breath.

Nesta's brows furrow, leaning forwards, this time taking your hand in hers. "Because it's you," she answers, certainty ringing through her words. "And that is enough."

You shake your head softly, vaguely aware of the shadows emerging from the plants around you. Their presence has become so normal the past few months, twining around your limbs and fingers, playing with your hair, you barely notice them at first. Gently, they whisper against your skin, as if trying to convince you of Nesta's words. But it doesn't make sense, not truly. You have never been enough before, not to your parents, or friends, or other romantic partners. Especially not after they found out. How could you be enough now?

"Come on," Nesta urges, gently pulling you off the bench, leading you back the way you came. "We should find our way back to the males before they send a search party after us."

————

Thank you so much for reading!

Super quick little outline for the next few parts if you're curious: Part 4 will be a more private conversation with Az and Rhys wanting to talk more with Reader; Part 5 is the reveals (very chaotic, very fun😉); Part 6 is (supposed to be) a fluffy epilogue. About half of part 4 is written already, and was supposed to be in part three, but it got to be too long and I didn't want to keep you guys waiting for too much longer. No promises on when it will come out though, but hopefully it won't be as long as it has been

Taglist: (It's a bit longer now, so if any don't work, please let me know)

@insomniac-astronomer @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @theadharablack @littowl @emochosoluvr @littlepippilongstocking @0-beemzy-0 @byunniebaekhyunnie @thegoddessofnothingness @throwing-up-butterflies @dreaming-softly-in-the-night @alexof90s @mis-lil-red @blueeclipsepaperstudent @the-massive-simp @antonia002 @plants-w0rld @emneedshelp @moonbeamruins @lreadsstuff @writtenbypavani @avengersbtch @acourtofbatboydreams @lilah-asteria @itmekelpy @mellophoned @kittiness12 @gemini-196 @anthonys-viscountess @esposadomd @thirstyroses-world @asfkoie @samustar @prettylittlewrites @ollieolive @giovax @whoreforfictionalmen18 @azrielsmate3 @jchameleon @deeshag @wilksing @napzalot @cityofgloom @jjjullliettte @do-nut25 @chaosabroad @tanyaherondale @drifting-through-space-and-time @hfeee-42 @shinyghosteclipse @emerald-xcd

[ruinsofthedawn]

The Pain of Falling for You - Part 2

Azriel x F!Reader

Summary: You and Azriel have been seeing each other for a few months now and it's time to introduce you to his family, which doesn't exactly go… well.

A/N: Oh, wow! Hello again, everyone! I don't know what I was expecting when I posted part 1, but 500 likes in 3 days was not it, and only continuing to grow. And over 130 followers! Thank you all so much. You have been amazing. I tried to get this out as soon as I could, but I don't write fast and the dinner scene was fighting me on this one. I'm not entirely happy with how it turned out, but I'm tired of wrestling with it and I love the ending so... here you go! There will definitely be at least 4 parts (maybe a part 5, or at least an epilogue, we'll see).

This is my first time using links, so if they don't work, please let me know. Also, I'm trying out the taglist thing, so, we'll see how that goes.

Word Count: a little less than 9K

Warnings: Reader has chronic pain (I'm trying to keep it accurate, but just in case: any medical inaccuracies are due to the fact that Reader is fae and not human and should be attributed to the biological differences between the two species), semi-unreliable narrator, feeling insecure, more angst (my fav!), talk of pregnancies and complications during pregnancies (see previous note about medical inaccuracies, but with more fae and magic nonsense 😊), Rhysand means well, sort of, but… well, you'll see 😉

Part 1 | Part 3

————

Azriel stares at the empty hearth in the main sitting room at the River House, seemingly unaware of his knee bouncing. Shadows swirl around him restlessly, his thoughts drifting back to you, as they often had these past eight months. The time flew by, feeling like only yesterday he had first met you in the waiting room of Madja's clinic, yet, at the same time, he felt like he has known you his entire life.

He spent every available moment with you, taking you out to dinner or coffee if your schedules allowed, but mostly just… being with you, whether in his apartment or yours, it didn't matter.  Just being around you lifted something inside him, eased an ache he never knew existed before, and he couldn't get enough. Your quiet presence is a balm he didn't know he needed, your voice a melody he longed to hear.

Still, it wasn't always blissful; your silence often speaking more than your words ever could. The shock on your face when he would arrive at your place with dinner, at the small gestures that came second nature to him, spelled out a rocky romantic history, with those who, Az had concluded, did not treat you like you deserve. The subtle shifts of your body, a flash of… something across your face as you moved, told him you were uncomfortable most of the time. Why, you had yet to tell him, but Azriel wasn't going to push, as much as he longed to. Your trepidations about this relationship was clear with each shift of your eyes to him for approval and your hesitance over simple decisions. He was taking this at your pace, determining that you would tell him when you were ready.

Azriel smiles faintly at the hearth; he was happy, happier than he's been in his long life, and in love. He knew from the moment he laid eyes on you that there was something different. He knew when you first walked into his apartment that you would have him wrapped around your finger in no time, even if that wasn't your intention. It wasn't until three months after you met, he realized he loves you. But it is different from the love he felt for Mor or Elain; it grows somewhere deep within him, fast and unyielding until it consumed him whole. It took root with a fierceness that could never be destroyed, not fully, even if he didn't fully understand.

His family noticed, of course they did, how smiles grace his face easier, how much looser he carried himself, how he sneaks away early to head into the city. They made comments of the female that had stollen the stoic Shadowsinger's heart, joking about it often the past few months, but they let it be, knowing Azriel would bring the mysterious female around when they were ready.

But, that didn't stop Rhys from extending an invitation to bring you to family dinner, and he did a double take when Az said he would ask. Azriel was just as surprised the night before when you had agreed, quietly, hesitantly, but seemed to gain some confidence when you reaffirmed. You had an appointment with a patient that afternoon, the same couple you had interviewed with the day you met Azriel for a drink, now in the final few weeks of getting ready to greet their babe, so you agreed to meet him at the River House.

Dinner is still a few hours away, but the excitement in the house is palpable ever since Az announced that you are coming. Azriel's heart beat erratically in his chest, one leg still bouncing, staring intensely at the masonry around the unlit fireplace. Feyre sat across from Az, with sixteen month Nyx sitting on her lap, staring intently at his mother's necklace, chain now dangling from his palm.

"I don't think I've ever seen you like this," Feyre comments, amusement filling her voice.

It takes a conscious effort for Azriel to still his leg, turning to look at his High Lady, at his friend. Sighing, Az leans back in the armchair slightly. "Don't tell Rhys," he mumbles dryly, "or Cass."

"I'm pretty sure they already know," Feyre says, shifting Nyx on her legs. "You don't need to be nervous, Az. She's important to you, so she's important to us."

Az nods, he knows that, he really does, but it doesn't stop his heart thundering, or the pins prickling beneath his skin. There are just so many things that could go wrong, and he wants so desperately for his family to like you and for you to like them. You who are so much like him, preferring the quiet, the shadows, to blend in with the background, and his family who are loud and boisterous and will certainly make you the center of their attention. He's not sure how the two will mix.

"I know," Az says instead of voicing his concerns, looking back at the hearth.

Feyre sighs, recognizing she's not going to get much more from the Spymaster. Az watches her stand out of the corner of his eye, gently pulling the necklace from Nyx's grasp as she walks over to him. "Here," she says, plopping Nyx in Azriel's lap before he starts whining about losing the necklace. The shadows instantly surround Nyx, his little eyes widening, watching them swirl up his arms. "Play with your nephew, you need the distraction," the High Lady orders leaving the room.

The hours pass only slightly faster with Nyx scrambling after the shadows, his laughter filling the sitting room.

—

The knock is gentle, barely heard outside of the empty foyer, but the shadows hear and Azriel is at the door a few seconds later. The tension in his shoulders melts slightly when the door opens revealing you shifting on your feet in a simple blue dress, your work bag clutched tightly in your hands. "You made it," Azriel breathes, stepping aside to let you in.

Your eyes flicker around the entry way, a hesitant smile gracing your lips. "You sound surprised," you remark softly, slowly handing over your bag when Az offers.

A light chuckle escapes him, placing your bag on a nearby hook. "Just glad you're here," he admits, resting a hand on the small of your back, drawing your attention to him. You flush lightly as he leans down, placing a faint kiss on the top of your head, his smile growing at the sight. "Everything go okay?"

"Um… yeah," you answer, absentmindedly picking at one of your fingernails as you look around again. "As well as can be expected." You pull away from him slightly, the blush still gracing your neck and cheeks. A small flash of hurt washes over Azriel, his brows furrowing for a moment before he wipes it away. Even now, without his family present, your discomfort is evident, and the last thing he wants is to make it worse.

"That doesn't sound very promising," he comments, shifting subtly drawing your eyes back to him.

Your tight smile falters for a second, eyes catching his. "You- you know that's all I can tell you," you remind him quietly. He nods, having figured out early on you take your patients privacy very seriously.

"I know, love," he assures gently, a small sigh of relief escaping you at that. "It just doesn't sound like a good thing, when you say it like that," he explains.

Tilting your head slightly, your brows furrow. "Well, I-"

"Azriel!" Cassian's voice echoes down the hall cutting you off. Az forces himself to take a slow breath, watching your eyes widen like you were caught doing something wrong. "I swear, if you snuck off again…" his voice trails off once he rounds the corner, his eyes wide and locked on you.

You take a step closer to Azriel, one hand reaching for his, your body stiffening. A part of Az is ecstatic that he is the one you go to for comfort, for safety, while the other part of him desperately wants to throttle his brother.  "Cassian," he says, throwing the general a glare, "this is Y/N." His voice softens when he says your name and Cassian's eyes darts between the two of you.

Cassian breaks out into a grin. "So you are real," he says, walking towards you. Azriel can hear your heart thundering in your chest and you struggling to keep your breaths even. He extends a wing behind you, barely unfurling it, just enough to provide another form of comfort, enough for Cassian to catch. He stops in his tracks, his smile never faltering even as his eyes widen slightly. "We were starting to think he made you up," he quips.

"Hello," you say quietly. Azriel squeezes your hand, adding just enough pressure to ground you, to remind you he is there. Your breathing begins to even out slowly as you continue to shift on your feet.

"Cassian, you better not be terrorizing the poor girl already. We want to make a good impression," Nesta snips, pushing past her mate with ease. "Feel free to ignore him."

"This is Nesta," Azriel introduces quietly. You nod slowly, eyes tracking the eldest Archeron who seems to not notice the exaggerated offended look Cassian gives her.

Taking a deep breath, you force a small smile toward the Lady of Death. "Nice to meet you," you say, removing your hand from Azriel's to offer to Nesta.

The grin that spreads across Nesta's face is just shy of predatory. She loops an arm around yours rather than shaking your hand. "It is so nice that Azriel is finally comfortable enough to bring you around," she starts, leading you to the dining room.

You quickly glance over your shoulder, wide eyes catching with Azriel. He sends you a reassuring smile, following a few paces behind while Nesta continues to talk, Cassian coming up to him. "You really love her."

It wasn't a question, even with Cassian's brows furrowing. "Yes," Azriel answers anyway.

Nodding, Cass looks back in the direction his mate disappeared. "You deserve a little peace, Az. Cauldron knows you don't get enough of that around here." Looking over at his brother, Azriel just nods.

The two males approach the entrance of the dining room, where you and Nesta stand facing each other. Nesta's brows furrow while your eyes are fixed to a point on the floor, face flushed as you once again pick at your nails. "Hmm," Nesta hums, eyes flickering to Azriel. "Well, we would love to see you there one of these days."

"See her where?" Cassian asks, moving to stand beside his mate. You jump slightly at the sound of his voice, eyes snapping up to Cass.

Azriel's eyes furrows, stepping up to your side, gently resting his hand in the small of your back once more. He feels the tension in your muscles loosen the smallest amount as you lean back into his hand. His shadows swirl around your feet, dancing up your legs and torso to play in your hair. They congregate at specific points along your legs and spine, subtle enough that no one other than Azriel notices, he's not even sure if you notice, and it almost looks like they are supporting your weight. They had started doing it on the third time the two of you met, and when he asked why they do that the shadows just replied: Beloved likes it. It helps her. Although Azriel has the suspicion they know as little has he does as to how it helps.

Nesta angles her body to Cass, but keeps her eyes on you. "I invited her to Valkyrie training," Nesta says simply. Your shoulders creep up a bit, eyes refocusing on a spot on the floor. "She says that it's not for her," she continues, shrugging.

Cassian eyes widen, looking over you again. "Oh, you should definitely come. We always welcome those who want to better themselves and become stronger."

Azriel glares at Cassian, your body tensing beneath his hand, his shadows redoubling their efforts around your body. Even Nesta turns her steely gaze on her mate, eyes narrow. Slowly, Azriel leans down, whispering in her ear. "Ignore him, love. You do not need to join." You shift, just enough to look over at him. He can almost feel your embarrassment and shame over his brother's words, tears beginning to line your eyes. "Or, you can come and just watch. See what the fuss is about," he offers instead, giving you a small, reassuring smile, "but you don't have to."

"Just watch?" you repeat, the question barely a breath.

Slowly, Azriel nods, forcing his face to remain neutral. A small knot begins to form in his stomach at the look of dread and guilt shining behind your eyes. "Only if you want to," he stresses softly, only vaguely aware of Cassian flinching at something Nesta says.

Taking a shaky breath, your gaze drops to somewhere along his chest, blinking rapidly, nodding slightly. "Okay," you agree, resignation filling your tone, "but just to watch."

"If you're sure," Azriel reiterates, letting out a long breath, the knot in his stomach quickly souring to disappointment. Not disappointment towards you, of course; it had been obvious from the start that your previous relationships had not been the most healthy ones. The need for his approval was painfully obvious at times, so he is not surprised that you agreed to come, he already knew you would agree after Cassian made his comment. But still, a part of him hoped you would say no when you clearly were uncomfortable with the prospect. You were already stepping out of your comfort zone to come to this dinner, it wasn't fair for any of them to pressure you to do anything else. 

Still, you nod slowly, refusing to look up at him. Cassian clears his throat weakly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it… like that," he says sheepishly. You nod again, remaining still, while Azriel's gaze snaps to Cassian, glaring at him.

"And this is why you can ignore him," Nesta mutters, walking into the dining room, dragging Cassian behind her.

Neither you nor Azriel move for a long moment, his eyes scanning your body like checking for wounds. Eventually, he lifts one hand to rest on your cheek, gently guiding you to look at him, your head leans into him on instinct and you blink back something that Azriel can't quite catch. "We can leave," he whispers, "whenever you want. Just say the word."

"Wouldn't that be rude?" you ask, eyes widening.

Azriel shrugs, running his thumb across your cheek. "I don't care about that," he admits, taking a half step closer. "If you want to leave, we leave."

Your brows furrow, lips pursing, but you nod. "O-okay."

Slowly, he leans forward, placing a soft kiss on your forehead, lingering for a bit longer than necessary. "I love you," he breaths against your skin.

Your face flushes, a small gasp escaping you at those words. They were still new; while Az knew he loved you only a few months in it has still taken him some time to actually say it, only starting a few weeks ago and only in soft, quiet moments of them alone. He knows you don't believe them yet, not fully, but he is determined to remind you.

"I-I love you," you whisper back, the words more shaky, trailing off at the end. Azriel smiles against your heated skin, the words sending a rush through his body, and he places another kiss to your temple.

———

The High Lord's table is covered with meats, salads, fruits, and dishes you don't know how to describe. You're not sure you have ever seen so much food in one place, except maybe at the markets. Around you, Azriel's family talks amongst themselves, piling their plates high from the assortment, while you sit quietly, back straight, a small polite smile gracing your lips. They had all paused when you walked in, Azriel gracefully guiding you to a seat, effortlessly introducing you to his family.

Once they joined you at the table, they easily slipped into their normal casual conversations, giving you a moment to acclimate, not paying you any mind yet. Still, you could feel their eyes flicker to you every so often, curiosity lingering in the air.

Pursing your lips, you lift a hand to fill your plate, a sharp twinge in your back protesting the movement, your hand shaking slightly. Azriel gently reaches, bringing you hand back down with a smile beginning to fill your plate for you.

You haven't told him of your condition. You are sure he already suspects something, with his sharp eyes and his shadows constantly observing and swirling around you, but you haven't brought yourself to tell him. Each time you consider it, fear grips your heart, memories of past relationships, some romantic others not, flood your mind. People don't tend to stick around long after finding out.

You haven't burdened him with the knowledge of the mating bond either, not willing to trap him in a relationship he would not want. He claims to loves you, and a part of you believes he means it, but you had heard those words before from people who left. And there is a part of you that thinks you could not live with his rejection, especially not after having him these past months. So, you don't tell him, letting the bond fester angerly in your chest, begging to make itself known

After a moment, Azriel angles the plate towards you slightly. "Anything else you want?" he asks softly, unheard by the rest of the table. The plate is filled with your favorite dishes, a small flush creeping up your neck at the thought of him making sure they would be served for you.

Slowly, you shake your head, offering a small smile, careful not to further aggravate your already flaring muscles along your spine. Today had been hard; the patient you were seeing had developed a heart condition during her pregnancy and required more frequent check-ins with both you and a healer. It was a rare condition, but not unheard of. One that the healer you are working with from the Dawn Court, Sira, had delt with a few times and believed the mother would make a full recovery in the years following the birth. But, it meant you were running around more than normal on the days of your check-ins to escort the healer through the city, and your body was rebelling against you as a result.

Azriel puts the plate back in front of you before filling his own and pouring a glass of water for each of you. "No wine tonight, Az?" Morrigan teases, taking a sip of hers. Your flush grows, eyes dropping to your plate. Whether it's because he wants to keep his wits about him or because he doesn't want you to feel alone not drinking, he wasn't drinking wine, or any alcohol, because of you. You never asked him to, and you would be fine if he does, but the guilt over his decision worms its way inside your heart anyway.

The male in question doesn't dignify the ask with a response, just raises his eyebrows and taking a pointed drink of his water. Nesta scoffs across the table, taking a drink of her own glass, while the High Lady chuckles lightly, placing a torn up piece of bread in front of the princeling.

"So," Amren speaks up, swirling the red liquid in her glass, her silver eyes locked on you and you fought to withhold a shiver, "how did you two meet?"

The discussions around the table tapper off as everyone turns to watch you and Azriel. Looking to the male out of the corner of your eye, you gently place the still clean silverware back in their places, hands clasping together in your lap. Azriel glances your way, a gently smile pulling on his lips and one of his hands reaches out to grab yours. "We took over her appointment in Madja's clinic," he explains simply, gesturing vaguely towards the High Lord and the General, but his eyes remain on you. "I offered to buy her a drink to make up for it." His voice softens as a small smile pulls at your lips, your eyes dropping to your untouched plate.

A hum echoes through the room, the High Lord's head tilting slightly. "How long have you lived in Velaris?"

You swallow thickly, trying to keep your heart steady and your focus on Azriel's thumb moving absentmindedly against the back of your hand. "Sin- since I was a child, High Lord," you answer softly.

"Oh, you can call him Rhys," the High Lady says gently. "No need to be so formal and he certainly doesn't need the ego boost." You look up hesitantly to see Feyre gently elbow her mate, who smiles fondly back at her. There's a shift in his eyes, when he turns back to you, a hardness creping in that makes your skin crawl.

Smiling weakly, you just nod, opting to look back down at your plate. Carefully, you squeeze Azriel's hand, the rough texture grounding you and the shadows immediately swarm up your legs and into your lap, twirling around your hands, offering their quiet support. A few wrapping around to your back, placing gentle pressure on a particularly sore part of your lower spine, and you extend the fingers of your freehand, twining with them in gratitude.

"You're a healer too, right?" Nesta asks, pushing the food around her plate. Your brows furrow, eyes flickering to hers. "Az mentioned you were seeing one of your patients today," she explains quickly, offering a reassuring smile.

"Oh," you breathe, glancing to Azriel, who nods. "No, not exactly. I, um… I'm a midwife."

The table stills, an uneasy silence falling over the room, broken only by the prince's giggling, throwing some of his bread and cooked carrots onto the floor. Your heart thunders and you force yourself to not shift in your seat, the ache in your back already starting to build. Azriel squeezes your hand, leaning just fraction closer to you. Amren hums, taking another up of her wine.

You are aware that the High Lady had… complications during her pregnancy. Almost all of Velaris had heard of how she died, or nearly died, giving birth to her son, only to be saved by her eldest sister negotiating with the Cauldron itself to save her life and that of the young price.

"A midwife?" the High Lord asks, voice dropping slightly.

You couldn't stop yourself from shifting this time, your eyes closing at the sharp pain shooting up your spine. "Yes," you confirm in a whisper.

Rhysand's eyes narrow, looking you over. "And you have been in Velaris since you were a child?" he clarifies, not impolitely, but there was an edge to his voice. A lump catches in your throat, eyes once again locked on your plate as you nod. The High Lord hums thoughtfully. "I don't remember speaking with any midwives in Velaris during Feyre's pregnancy."

"Oh, um…" you start, gaze flickering to Azriel and he nods again, eyes staying on you as Feyre shifts uncomfortably in the corner of your eye. "We- we weren't consulted," you admit softly, eyes lowering again. "I offered my services to Madja when I heard she was researching for the High Lady's pregnancy, but she refused my assistance."

Morrigan leans forward. "Why would she do that?"

Pursing your lips, you straighten in your seat, hoping to ease the sharp ache in your lower spine that continues to grow despite the shadows gentle massage. "I- uh, I don't know," you answer softly. You weren't lying, not really, but there was a reason you no longer consulted the old healer for your patients, even if you were stuck seeing her for your condition. "She just said that she had it handled and refused to hear of it again." Her angry words still echo in your head somedays.

Leaning back in his chair, the High Lord studies you, wine in hand. "And what would you have done?"

"W-what?" you ask, brows furrowing, slowly looking towards him, while keeping your eyes respectfully low.

"Rhys," Feyre murmurs gently, a warning in her voice.

"You claim you offered to help," the High Lord says, not taking his eyes off you. "You obviously heard something about the pregnancy, so what would you have done differently if we had hired you?"

An uncomfortable silence blankets the space, even Nyx quiets, his big blue eyes looking around the room confused. "I- I wasn't there," you attempt to reason, eyes flickering between the High Lord, High Lady, and Azriel. "I don't know all of the… uh, the details. I won't be able to say with any certainty."

The High Lord simply shrugs. "To the best of your knowledge," he prompts.

Azriel leans closer to you, his thumb tracing soothing circles on the back of your hand, the shadows swirling up and down your back lightly. You look to him, eyes wide, heart pounding. "You don't have to answer," he says gently, but loud enough for the table to hear. Your mouth opens, drawing a shaky breath while Azriel's gaze flickers to the High Lord and hardens. His hazel eyes are soft when they meet yours again and you can see the sincerity behind them, but also his curiosity. And, honestly, you are a bit surprised he hasn't asked sooner.

"Okay," you breathe shakily, licking your lips. Eyes falling back to your place, but you barely see it as your mind combs through all the information you heard about the High Lady's pregnancy, separating facts from fiction from rumors, most of it rumors. Your eyes close, a wave of pain emanating from your lower back rolls through your body. "Okay," you repeat slightly louder, eyes opening again, trying to ignore the scrutinizing gazes surrounding you. 

Taking a slow, deep breath, you let yourself fall back on your decades of training. "From what I heard, it sounds like the majority of the complications were from… um, from the wings, is that correct?"

"Yes," Rhysand answers taking a sip of his wine.

"Okay, um…" you take a second, recalling your mentor's teachings on Illyrian pregnancies and anatomy. "How far along did you find out about the wings? If you don't mind me asking?"

"About two months," Feyre says, voice almost as soft as yours.

Nodding, you lick your lips. "And, uh, I also heard you have the ability to shapeshift in a way similar to the noble fae of the Spring Court, is that right?"

"Yes," Feyre replies slowly.

"No," Rhysand snaps loudly. You flinch, eyes closing again as another wave crashes over you your empty stomach roiling with nausea. Azriel's shadows rise around you and his grip on your hand tightens, your freehand moving to cover his, keeping him from pulling away. "Madja said any alterations to Feyre's body could've put Nyx at risk."

Your mouth parts slightly, shoulders dropping barely an inch from where they had curled into your ears. Brows furrowing, your eyes open, moving over the table, thoughts racing through your head. "Madja has experience with the pregnancies of shapeshifting fae?" you whisper, more to yourself. There aren't many shapeshifting fae in Velaris and, to your knowledge, they all come to either you or Eda for their pregnancies, or to Priya before her death.

You are only vaguely aware of the looks being shared around the table before the attention returns to you. "Do you?" Nesta asks.

Slowly, you nod. "There are many species of fae who can shapeshift to some degree, with the way the magic changes the body different for each. If Madja is unfamiliar with any shapeshifting pregnancies, or only has experience with some of the more… well, violet shapeshifting magic that's native to the Night Court, I can understand her concern. But, if the High Lady's is more similar to those High Fae in Spring…" you trail off, pursing your lips.

"All magic has its risks, shapeshifting is no different," you conceded with a small nod to the High Lord, but you barely register the action. "Even under the best circumstances, there's always a risk, however small. That early on in the pregnancy though, with the more fluid change of the Spring Court's magic, especially changing into a similar form, the additional risk would have been minimal to both mother and child," you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Several sharp intakes of breath echo around the room. You glance over to Azriel who's watching you, eyes wide in awe. "I- uh," you stammer, a flush rising on your cheeks. "I would have consulted with a midwife native to Spring, since they deal with this type of magic more often," you continue, eyes returning forward. "After confirming with them, assuming they agreed, I would have had the High Lady shift as early in the pregnancy as possible, in a controlled environment, with both myself and a healer present in the unlikely event of a complication."

"And," Feyre begins quietly, "you're sure it wouldn't have harmed him?" she asks, a hand resting on the princeling's back.

"Um," you purse your lips again, eyes dropping to your lap, brows furrowing as possibilities race through your mind. "Sin-since you would have been shifting from High Fae to Illyrian, that in and of itself lowers many of the risks of the shift. The same magic that keeps your heart, brain, and other organs functioning through a shift would have been employed to protect the child, even without conscious effort. And the shift would have resulted in more room for the child to develop. So, if my understanding of the Spring Court's shifting magic is correct, then the likelihood of any harm coming to you or him, my lady, would have been very low."

Azriel squeezes your hand lightly, an uneasy silence filling the dining room. Slowly, you turn back to him, your eyes wide. His lips twitch into a soft smile, even as you watch a war of emotions behind his eyes. Anger, confusion, and grief all seem to try to make a home there, but all outshone by a look of awe, wonder, and price as he looks at you. Your flush deepens, head ducking to look back at your lap, your own smile pulling at your lips.

"If that is the case," the General asks slowly, breaking you out of the quiet moment, "what do you think caused the early labor?"

Your gaze flicks up to him, your smile fading. "Oh… um. There are three main differences between the reproductive systems of a female High Fae and a female Illyrian," you recite. "The pelvis is larger to accommodate the wide birth canal. The womb itself is larger as well, for the wings, and…" you trail off, looking around the table. "Um, as the wings develop, the bones, including the talons, are some of the first parts of the appendage to form, and the talons form… sharp. Illyrian females have multiple additional protective inner linings along their wombs and birth canal to protect against them."

Your eyes landed back on your plate, fingers tangling in the opposite sleeves. Azriel's finger flex in your hand, and the small amount of magic you have rises without prompting. There is no glow to your healing magic, it's not strong enough for that, but it is enough to ease the stiffness in his muscles, to soothe the tender nerves. His fingers relax in your grip, his thumb beginning its soothing circles again. The shadows curl around you in gratitude.

"If I had to guess," you continue softly, "the High Lady's womb was not large enough to hold the wings and with the lack of the protective linings the talons would have been rubbing against the walls of the womb, likely causing no small amount of tears. The body would have known something was wrong and did what it could to get whatever was harming it out, triggering the early labor. Then the wings got stuck in the birth canal and it just made the problem worse."

"So," Morrigan starts, voice low, a dangerous edge lurking in it, "theoretically, if Feyre had shifted when we first learned about the wings…" she trails off, eyes locked on you.

Taking a deep breath, you nod. "Theoretically," you say so quietly it's almost a whisper, "she would have had a normal pregnancy."

The air in the room stilled at the pronouncement. The only movement comes from Nyx twisting in his chair and the shadows. Your lips purse, hands tightening around Azriel's. A part of you wishes you hadn't said anything, had let them believe that what happened was the inevitable. To forget the conversations whispered between you and Eda after one of the few times you worked together to help with a delivery. But, at the same time, you know lying wouldn't help, it would have only made whatever this meal is becoming something far worse.

Your heart beats wildly in your chest, your body begging you to shift in your seat, to find a position to ease the pain licking its way up your spine. You stay still, years of experience teaching you that moving won't help much, if at all, instead possibly making it worse. The shadows rush along your back, placing gentle pressure along the worst of the pain,  while others tangle themselves with your legs and finger, a few running up your arms to play with your hair.

Azriel shifts closer to you, the warmth of his body, from a wing partially extending behind you, is grounding, comforting. His body is stiff, tension spilling from him, and everyone else in the room.

You can see them all in your periphery, but you don't dare to look. Amren regards you thoughtfully, her glass of wine resting against one of her cheeks. Morrigan purses her lips, eyes focused on you, taking long slow breaths. Nesta grips Cassian's hand tightly, her knuckles white, but her mate doesn't seem to notice. Feyre reaches for Nyx, hugging him gently in her lap. And Rhysand…

The High Lord glares at you, a quiet fury burning in his violet eyes. "Liar," he hisses, putting his glass down with a deafening thud. You flinch, forcing your eyes shut, your back flaring as your muscles tense. "You're lying. If the solution was really so simple we would have known."

The High Lord's anger fills the room, the glasses and plates shaking. Your breath comes in short shallow breaths, shoulders coming up to your ears as you curl in on yourself. Azriel moves closer to you as the High Lady says softly: "Rhys." Her voice hard, condemnation echoing in her single word. Gently, Azriel pulls his hand from yours wrapping his arm around you, the shadows moving frantically over you.

"I don't think she is," Morrigan says quietly, the words ringing through the room.

The High Lord stiffens, gaze flickering between his cousin and you. His chair creaks as he leans back. "Fine, you believe you're telling the truth," he concedes, words clipped. "But, what of your relationship with the Dawn Court?"

The tension in the room eases, slightly, your eyes opening, brows furrow along with everyone else. Amrem scoffs, rolling her eyes. "All healers have a 'relationship' with Dawn," she drawls into her wine. "An occupational hazard. It shouldn't be surprising if a midwife does too."

"Not all healers have private meetings with the High Lord of Dawn, and certainly not all midwives," Rhysand pauses, watching the blood drain from your face, eyes widening. "Did you think I wouldn't remember, or just wouldn't realize?" he taunts.

Pain rushes through you, your body shifting before you could think and gods everything hurts. Your shake your head, hands coming to pick at your fingernails again. Azriel tenses next to you, adjusting in his seat to face the High Lord. "Rhysand," he warns lowly.

"What are you talking about?" Cassian asks at the same time.

Rhysand smirks. "Was it three weeks ago, when I went to Dawn to renegotiate the trade deal for copper? They had me wait because Thesan was already in a meeting—"

"Gods forbid," Nesta mutters, taking a sip of her water, hand still clutching her mate's.

Rhysand continues like he didn't hear her. "—and when he was done, he was accompanied out of his office by you. Looking like you were having a very serious discussion."

Your heart pounds in your ears, gaze flickering to Azriel. You remember that meeting, of course you do. You had gone to Dawn for only a few hours to speak with Sira, wanting to get more information about a specific side effect plaguing your patient. And while you were there, you asked if they had any information on your condition. Word spread fast in the archives of Dawn and before you really understood what was happening, High Lord Thesan had come to speak with you, taking you back to his office to have a more private discussion.

"I- I was in Dawn seeking advice on a condition for one of my patients," you manage to say, voice barely above a whisper, eyes focusing on where you are picking at your nail beds.

"And that got the attention of the High Lord?" Morrigan asks, doubtfully.

"It- um, I," you stammer, glancing at Azriel who is staring daggers at Rhysand. "The condition I was looking into is very rare. Only six recorded cases… or, um, seven now. It caught the High Lord's—"your eyes flicker to Rhysand, his body tense"—I- I mean the Lord Thesan's attention."

A careful hum echoes through the room. "And what condition is that?" the High Lord asks.

You take a shaky breath. "I- I can't… I'm not supposed to say," you whisper, glancing at Azriel again. Gods, this is going to be how he finds out, isn't it? Then, of course he'll leave; to have a parter perpetually broken was bad enough, but to find out about it in this humiliating way? He will never want to see your face again and a part of you wouldn't blame him.

"Because Thesan told you not to," Rhysand concludes, his tone final.

"What? N-no!" you breathe. A painful shiver begins in your stomach, your breathing shallow as it spreads through your body.

"Rhys," Azriel interjects with a growl, voice hard. "That's enough."

"If she's having secret meetings with a foreign High Lord I have every right to question her," Rhysand declares.

Azriel's wings flare, one wrapping protectively around you. The shadows flicker, rising to encompass you, to protect you, but you barely feel them with your pain-filled shivers. "Why? Because you think she's a spy?"

"Maybe," Rhys responds with a shrug.

Your vision blurs, the edges darkening as you gasp for breath. "But- but I'm not. I- I would never- I just went to research–"

"Why should we believe you?" Morrigan asks, her voice gentle, but aloof. "If you can't tell us what you were researching."

Your shaking hands come up to your neck, applying a slight pressure you are barely aware of. "I'm sorry," you whisper. "I- I can't…"

"Rhys, stop," Feyre orders shakily.

Hot tears spill over your eye line, burning your cheeks where they fall. "I'm sorry," you repeat, looking over to Azriel who was still staring down Rhysand. "I-I don't understand. What did I do wrong?" you breathe, because you had to have done something wrong; why else would the High Lord be after you like this? The only things you can think of is not telling them about your condition or the mating bond, but it wasn't wrong to keep those to yourself, was it? No, no they were right; you should have told Azriel right away so he wouldn't have wasted his time on you. It was stupid and selfish and wrong, wrong, wrong–

Azriel's head jerks to you, your body curling forward, sobs wracking your frame. "No, no. Y/N," Az breaths, quickly getting out of his seat and kicking it away so he can kneel next to you. Pulling your chair out, the shadows bracing you so you don't fall, he turns the chair to face him and he gently grabs your hands. "You didn't do anything wrong," he whispers softly.

You shake your head, your whole body screaming, the pain only making the tears come faster. "I'm s-so-sorry. I'm sorry," you continue to breathe.

Gently, oh so gently, arms wrap around you, gathering you into his firm chest, the scent of mist and cedar filling your lungs. The feel of your mate's arms and his scent around you instantly calms your tears, even as you continue to shake in his hold. "You didn't do anything wrong," he repeats, voice thick. Slowly, he stands, his shadows swirling restlessly about him, itching to get you out. "We're leaving," he says simply, walking towards the door.

"Az, you can't shield her from this," Rhysand calls, his chair screeching against the floor as he stands. "She needs to answer–"

A low growl thunders through the room, cutting off the High Lord. Azriel turns to face his brother, baring his teeth. You whimper softly, some residual anger flowing down the mostly dormant bond. Azriel stops at once, dropping his nose to the top of your head, shushing you gently and leaving tender kisses against your hair, continuing through the River House.

He stops only once to grab your work bag before walking into the night-chilled spring air, letting the shadows surround you both.

You are only somewhat aware when the shadows deposit you and Azriel outside of your apartment building. A small, run down place, one of the units has a hole in the wall from when the attors attacked the city that was never fixed. It was a miracle the building was still standing, much less has people living in it, but it was the cheapest place to rent in the city and all you could afford.

Shame washes over you as Azriel enters the building, keeping his steps light, as it always does when Azriel visits your apartment. You knew Azriel hates this place, that you live here, but he never mentioned it to you, not directly. Just another reason the bond had to be a mistake; how could the Spymaster's mate live in such a place?

Climbing the stairs, Azriel whispers soft words into your hair, but you can't make out the words. Hot tears burn your cheeks even through your sobs have subsided. Azriel's arms tighten around you when one step creaks dangerously beneath him.

It does not take long for him to reach your door, gently setting you down, his hands remain, one on your waist the other your arm, to steady you on your wobbling legs. Clasping your work bag in shaky hands, you slowly move back a few steps, out of his grasp, fixing your eyes on the floor in front of him.  Still, you don't miss the hurt and panic flashing across his face.

"I am so sorry, my love," Azriel whispers. Your arms wrap around your middle, Azriel's shadows slowly approaching you. "I'll talk with them."

"It's okay," you respond shakily. Your body tense to keep the pain-filled shivers at bay, which just aggravates your muscles in a different, but more familiar way.

The shadows lunge for you as Azriel's face crumbles. "No," he says fiercely, taking a step towards you. "No, it's not." You take a step back, against every instinct in your body begging you to go to him, you keep your distance. Azriel stops immediately, wings twitching at his back. "Y/N, look at me," he pleads, voice breaking, "please."

You take a shuddering breath, your mind at war with itself. You have no right to, you know that. Why should he want you to, a pour, barely educated female who can barely afford one of the worst apartments in the city. Weak, both physically and magically; how could you possibly be his mate, his equal? He should want nothing to do with you, even before knowing about your condition. You barely deserve being in the same room as him. But, at the same time, he was your mate and there have been a few occasions after a bad day that just seeing him made you feel better. And he was asking, that has to count for something, right?

Slowly, you look up, forcing your eyes to meet his, blurry through your tears, breathing sharp. "You didn't do anything wrong," he assures you, voice so gentle. "I promise. Not today, not in Dawn." you nod jerkily, wincing at the sharp pain shooting down your spine, a constant reminder of your unworthiness.

"I- I love you," he breathes, conviction filling the words, his hands flexing at his sides, one almost reaching out. The shadows curl around you, whispering in a language you will never know.

Your eyes shut tight, forcing fresh tears to stain your cheeks, lips pursing as your head falls forward. Stifling a sob, you force yourself to nod again. There was no way he meant it, not truly. How could he after the way his family, his brothers, reacted to you.

The lump in your throat kept you from saying anything for a long moment and you slowly fish you key from your bag. "You- you should go back," you breathe, fiddling with the key in your hand, turning to unlock the door, "be with your family."

"What? No. And leave you alone?" Azriel asks, brows furrowing, wings twitching as he glances around the hallway.

Your door opens with a loud creak, heat rushing to your face as it sticks at several points until the opening is large enough for you to slide through. "Yo-you will have a better time with them than with me," you insist, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. It had to be true, you were just going to down one of Madja's potions that do next to nothing and lay in bed, ignoring your hunger, and praying for sleep to take you away. His family would be much better company, even on your best day, especially without you there to ruin it.

"Y/N," he breathes, taking a single step forwards before stopping himself. "I want to be with you," he argues. "If… if you don't want me here, I'll leave, but," he swallows thickly, "but, I don't want to go."

You shake your head, turning towards him through the opening of the door, keeping your eyes on the floor. "Please," you beg, voice tick with tears, "don't lie to me."

"I'm not," he says quickly, panic setting in and you can see tears lining his eyes in your periphery. "I swear on my shadows, on my life, I'm not lying. Please."

Biting the inside of your cheek, more tears fill your eyes. Slowly, you inch the door closed. "I'll, um… I'll see you in the morning for the Valkyrie training," you say softly. Best to get it over with, not that you will be welcomed there anymore, not after the dinner. "Good night, Az."

It takes a few seconds for you to close the door all the way and slide the lock into place. Leaning your head against the door, a sob escapes your lips. Your body finally giving out, it was all you could do to control your fall to your knees, the landing jarring every bit of pain in your body. You bring a hand to your mouth, smothering the sobs.

Through the door, you can hear Azriel, his breath stuttering. "Good night, beloved."

———

Azriel always prided himself on control; over his body, mind, magic, shadows, especially over his emotions. After spending the beginning of his life with no control over anything, it is not something he takes for granted. After five hundred years, Azriel considers himself a master. But, hearing you fall to the ground, sobbing on the other side of that door, his control snaps.

Leaving a few shadows to watch over you, he recalls the rest, wrapping them around himself to step through and back to the front door of the River House. He marches inside, anger boiling beneath his skin, his shadows screaming at him to make the people who hurt you pay.

He enters the sitting room in a storm of shadows, the same one he had spent hours in earlier, anxiously waiting for your arrival. Now, it’s the room his family had moved to, their conversations ceasing when he enters, not that he'd be able to hear any of it over the roaring in his ears.

They watching him carefully as he takes them in. Nesta sitting on Cassian's lap in an arm chair, his arms wrapped around her. Amren sitting across from them, wine still in hand. Mor sits perched on the armrest of the couch while Rhys and Feyre stand closest to the doorway, Nyx sat on Feyre's hip. Azriel is just barely able to keep his shadows from strangling the High Lord, barely.

"Az–" Rhys starts.

"Tell me, Rhysand," Azriel interrupts, voice low and deceptively calm, "do you think me incompetent?"

Rhys' brows furrow, inhaling sharply. "What? No, of course not."

Azriel takes a careful step forward, hands clenching into fists at his side.  "Then did you think that I was not aware of her visit to the Dawn Court? Or of her meeting with Thesan?" Rhys opens his mouth to respond, but Azriel cuts him off with a snarl. "Did you not think that there was a shadow with her the entire time?" His shadows grow around him, swirling frantically, the faelights seeming to dim in response.

Rhys freezes, eyes widening, bringing his hands up in a placating gesture. Everyone stares at Azriel, eyeing the shadows carefully. They have only rarely seen this side of their Spymaster, he knows, and never directed at them.

"She told me about her trip to Dawn days before it happened. She told me she met with Thesan when I first saw her after she returned. And my shadow confirmed their conversation," he growls looking around the room. It is a slight exaggeration; while the shadows did confirm the reason Thesan sought you out was in regards to a condition you were researching, they kept the confidentiality that you always stressed, keeping both the specific condition and the patient's identity from him, but Azriel didn't mind. He trusts his shadows will tell him any information that could affect or jeopardize the court, and he trusts you implicitly.

"Do you think I don't know about Thesan's spies in this court? In this city?" he continues, voice dropping, taking another step towards his brother, wings flaring wide. "I know their names, their aliases, their movements, what they ate for dinner, what they are doing this very moment. Did you think I would bring one to the very heart of this court?" The room is silent, no one dares to draw a breath, save for Nyx, watching his uncle with tear filled eyes, burrowing into his mother's chest. "I'll ask again, High Lord. Do you think I am unfit for my job?"

Azriel's heart pounds in his chest, his skin tight. Eyes locked with Rhysand's, he forces himself to take few deep breaths through his nose. His wings twitch where they are extended, jaw clenched. Rhysand doesn't move, blinking slowly, licking his lips, looking as calm and composed as normal. But, Azriel knows his brother better, he can hear Rhys' thundering heart, can see the small bead of sweat forming on his brow.

"She didn't tell the truth though, Az," Mor says quietly, as if speaking to a dangerous animal.

Azriel's gaze snaps to where she's perched, his lips pull back in a snarl. "But she did, she just didn't tell you everything, which is her right," he spits, hands clenching and unclenching at his side. "She agreed to come to a nice cordial dinner. She did not agree to be questioned about her work, her expertise, and certainly did not agree to be interrogated about a research trip she took, one I had full knowledge of! Why should she have told you anything?"

"Az–" Rhys tries.

"I have spent the better part of this past year trying to convince Y/N she's worth my time. That she deserves love and attention, and something good. And now… now she won't even look me in the eye because she doesn't think she has the right to." Azriel's voice cracks, the worst of his anger bleeding out as he speaks, wings sagging. The shadows slow, returning to dance around him in an attempt at comfort. "Now, she won't let me stay and comfort her because she doesn't feel worthy of my presence." He whispers the last bit, a part of him can still feel her insecurity, her self-deprecation, like it is his own.

No one responds as he looks around the room, meeting each of their eyes. "I trusted you, all of you." The words are whispers, but they land hard. Rhysand stumbles back a step. Feyre takes a shaky breath, tears lining her cheeks. Cassian and Nesta hold each other tighter.

Scoffing, Azriel turns to the door, to head back to you. You might not want him there, might not feel worthy, but something in him needs to be near you, to know you are safe. Even if that means keeping quiet vigil outside through the night.

He pauses at the threshold, turning his head slightly, enough so his words will carry through the room. "If I lose her because of this," he says softly, raising his eyes to Rhysand's, the promise echoing through his words, "I will kill you."

————

Taglist (I hope this works!):

@insomniac-astronomer; @starswholistenanddreamsanswered; @theadharablack @littowl; @emochosoluvr

[speaknowgirl3184]

What The Stars Forgot To Save

Rhysand x female reader (Post-war, after ACOWAR)

Rhys discovers a truth you've hidden, that you've slowly been dying since the war. You didn’t tell him to spare him the pain. Instead, he finds out when it’s already too late to stop it.

Warnings: ANGST, major character dealth, illness, grief. (Let me know if I forgot anything).

Word Count: 3.5k

Masterlist

There were some things even starlight couldn’t fix. Not even the High Lord of the Night Court, mighty and terrible and beautiful as he was, could touch them. Could reach inside and pull the rot from your veins, could save what the war had already claimed.

You knew that the moment the Cauldron went still. The moment its pulse faded from the earth, from your bones, and left behind silence and ash.

The skies over Velaris had bled gold and fire. The city had held its breath, a trembling heartbeat waiting for word, had you survived? Had he?

You had. But just barely.

You stumbled from the wreckage of the battlefield with lungs burning like smoke-choked chimneys, with blood crusted in your hair, with magic hanging around you in tatters. You had used everything, everything, to shield a line of young Illyrian soldiers when that blast hit, too fast and too strong to redirect. You remembered the pain, then the numbness. Then nothing.

And when you woke in the healer’s tent, surrounded by murmurs and antiseptic magic, the only thing you felt was cold. A deep, marrow-soaking cold that no warmth ever fully chased away.

The Healers didn’t meet your eyes at first.

They were careful. Gentle. Their hands were warm, their voices softer than starlight.

But nothing could soften the truth.

That magic had carved through your insides like a blade dipped in poison. That your body was still here, still breathing, but it had begun unraveling from the inside out. Slow. Irreversible. Inevitable.

You had fought like a god. And the war had claimed its toll.

You had, maybe… a year. Two, if the Mother was feeling cruel.

They asked if they should summon Rhys.

You said no.

Because the very thought of telling him, of watching that beautiful, beloved face crumple beneath the weight of a grief he couldn’t stop, was more terrifying than death itself.

You remembered what it had done to him before. When Feyre died. When Cassian was almost lost. When Velaris was nearly torn from the map. You had seen Rhysand at his lowest. Shattered. Gutted. Hollow-eyed and haunted.

And you couldn’t… gods, you couldn’t do that to him again.

So that night, when he found you wrapped in blankets and sitting in your favorite chair in the House of Wind, pale, trembling, but smiling, you looked up, and said, “I’m okay.”

You let him gather you in his arms. Let him press his lips to your temple and whisper, “I was so scared.”

You lied.

Because that was easier than breaking his heart. Easier than watching him try to rearrange the universe for you, to drain the stars of their power, to strike bargains with the Cauldron long dead if it meant keeping you alive.

You didn’t want your last days to be spent watching him bleed for something he couldn’t save.

So you smiled. And kissed him like nothing had changed.

And you lied.

From that night on, your entire life became a performance, a delicate, devastating waltz between truth and love.

Rhysand, with all his power, all his centuries of knowing people and dissecting lies, didn’t see it. Because he didn’t want to. Because he saw the woman he loved still smiling at him, and he believed that was enough.

And you let him believe it.

Because he had finally found peace again. He had you.

And if you had to burn from the inside out to keep that peace for him a little longer, so be it.

You laughed through the nights, even as your lungs rattled like broken glass. You kissed him like you weren’t counting every heartbeat. Like you weren’t memorizing the feel of his hands, the rhythm of his laugh, the way he whispered your name like a prayer.

He’d pull you into his lap on the balcony overlooking the Sidra, warm wings curled around you, and you would press your ear to his chest, listening to the life you couldn’t hold on to, couldn’t share forever.

And when he asked, “Do you ever think about the future?” You smiled and said, “All the time.” You just didn’t tell him your version of it ended far sooner than his.

-----------

Rhysand noticed, of course.

How could he not?

He was the most powerful High Lord in Prythian’s history. He could command the skies to open, bend shadows to his will, feel the tremor of a heartbeat across an entire continent. He could read a court full of scheming monarchs with a single glance.

But when it came to you, his mate, his beloved, Rhys saw only what he wanted to see.

Still, the cracks had begun to show.

First, it was the mornings. You used to rise before him, brush your fingers through his hair and whisper sweet nothings as the sun gilded the curtains. Now, you slept long after he stirred, curled on your side, lips slightly parted, brow furrowed with pain even in dreams.

“Rough night?” he’d murmur, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

You’d yawn, stretch, wince, but only for a moment, and smile. “Just tired,” you’d say. “My body’s still catching up from the war.”

At first, he accepted that. Cauldron, how could he not? The war had cost everyone something. And he knew how hard you’d fought. He’d seen the bruises, the blood. You were allowed to be tired.

But then came the flinches.

The way you subtly tensed when his hand brushed your ribs. The quick, barely-there hitch in your breath when he pressed too close. The way you shifted in his arms like you were trying to shield him, not from an enemy, but from the truth of your body’s betrayal.

He asked you, one night, after catching the flash of pain in your eyes as you shrugged off your dress. His voice low. Gentle.

“Are you alright, darling?”

Your eyes didn’t quite meet his. “Of course,” you whispered. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

But there was something wrong in your voice, like the edges had been worn thin. Like you were holding the words together with sheer force of will.

His gaze searched your face, full of stars and suspicion, and something else, something raw, something afraid.

“…Are you sure?”

And you, Cauldron, you were so good at lying, leaned in, pressed your lips to his, and murmured against his mouth, “Just tired. That’s all.”

That damned phrase became your shield. Your mantra. Your mask.

Just tired.When your hands shook holding a teacup. When you nearly collapsed on the balcony stairs. When you refused to join training with the Valkyries, not once, not ever, though you used to love the rush of it, the laughter, the power.

You avoided the Healers like they were ghosts. Refused to step into the training fields, even on your good days. You said the wind hurt your lungs, too sharp, too cold, but you never explained why. Never said what it reminded you of.

He chalked it up to trauma. To war wounds. He didn’t push.

Because deep down… some part of him knew.

And some part of him couldn’t bear it.

But he believed you. Because he wanted to believe you.

Because he had to.

After everything, the pain, the loss, the impossible resurrections, Rhys needed one truth to be simple.

He needed you to be okay.

He needed to believe that the happiness he’d found in your arms wasn’t built on a fault line. That the joy that bloomed between you in those rare, quiet moments, tangled limbs, whispered jokes, sleepy kisses, wasn’t just a beautiful illusion doomed to crumble.

He couldn’t see it. He wouldn’t. Not until he had no choice.

And Cauldron, Cauldron, if that didn’t make it worse.

Because every time he let it go, every time he kissed your forehead and whispered, “Rest, my love,” and walked away without pressing further…

He was unknowingly letting you slip through his fingers.

-----------

The night you collapsed in the foyer of the House of Wind was the night everything, every lie, every whispered half-truth, every smile you wore like armor, unraveled.

It was a quiet evening. The kind you once lived for.

The wind was gentle through the open archways. Moonlight painted soft silver on the floor. You’d lit the candles yourself, humming softly through trembling lips as you arranged the plates, knowing Rhys would return within the hour.

A diplomatic visit to the Day Court, only a couple hours. You could hold out two more hours.

You’d kissed him goodbye at the winnowing circle, fingers clenched tight in his hair as if your body already sensed it was your last goodbye. He’d teased you for being so dramatic, eyes twinkling, brushing a kiss over your brow and saying, “It’s only a few hours, my love. I’ll be home before the moon is full.”

You had smiled.

And prayed the mask wouldn’t slip.

Because your hands were shaking, not from nerves, not from some innocent flurry of anticipation, but from the storm clawing its way through your insides. The pain had worsened. You could feel it now, pulsing beneath your skin, dragging your heartbeat out of sync, thinning the thread that tethered you to this world.

You only needed to last a little longer. Just a few more weeks. Maybe days. Enough time to write the letters you’d been putting off. To memorize Rhys’s scent in your pillow one last time. To make your peace.

But death did not care for your timing. For your dignity.

It came swiftly. Cruelly.

You were halfway across the foyer, holding a tray of wine and figs, you’d wanted to surprise him, greet him with softness and sweetness, with the illusion of normalcy, when your knees buckled.

There was no time to cry out. No warning. Just the sensation of your legs vanishing beneath you and the sound of glass shattering as your body crumpled to the floor.

And then, darkness.

-----------

When Rhys returned an hour later, smiling from the adrenaline of flight, a gift in his pocket, your name on his tongue, he didn’t expect to find the House silent. He didn’t expect the wine to be spilled across the marble like blood. He didn’t expect you, his mate, his light, his world, sprawled on the cold floor, lips pale, skin clammy, your chest barely rising.

He didn’t remember screaming. But the walls remembered. Velaris remembered.

And when the Healers came, when Azriel arrived white-faced and shaking, when Cassian knelt and whispered, “Please, please don’t let this be happening,” Rhys just stood there.

Frozen.

Like if he didn’t move, this moment wouldn’t be real.

Like he could stop time and change the outcome with sheer will alone.

He fell to his knees beside you as they lifted your body from the floor. His hands hovered over yours, but he didn’t touch you.

Couldn’t.

As if afraid that even a single touch might break what was left of you.

-----------

You awoke three days later in a healer’s tent, the world muted and too bright all at once. Your body felt like lead. Breathing was a chore. Your veins were fire.

And beside you, sitting like stone, unmoving, unmoved, was Rhysand.

His face was bone white. The shadows under his eyes were cavernous, like something had been hollowed out from within him. His hands rested on his knees, clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned a sickly blue.

And his eyes…

Gods, his eyes.

They weren’t full of rage. Not even heartbreak. Not yet.

They were full of silence. Of knowing.

You tried to speak, but only a broken breath escaped.

And still, he didn’t touch you.

Not your hand. Not your cheek. Not the bond that pulsed faintly between you.

Because he knew.

Because everything he was, everything he believed in, was you, and you had lied to him.

-----------

“You knew,” he said at last. Not a question. A quiet, lethal statement. His voice was low, too low. Velvet and ice. The kind of tone that came right before storms.

You’d heard him speak to kings like that. Enemies. But never you. Never you.

You tried to sit up, gods, it hurt, tried to reach for his hand, for the bond that still pulsed faintly between your ribs, a final tether.

“Rhys…” you rasped. “Please…”

He stepped back.

The rejection was a blade. It cut cleaner than any battlefield wound.

“How long?” he asked.

You hesitated. He saw it. His jaw clenched.

“…Since the war,” you whispered. “Since that blast. The Healers—”

“Since the war.” He repeated it, hollow. Like the words had punched the breath from his lungs.

And then silence fell.

The kind of silence that stretches and stretches, until it screams.

You saw it all on his face, the unraveling. The horror, the disbelief, the betrayal.

For all his power, all his cunning, he’d never seen this coming. He hadn’t even known there was something to look for. And now, all that was left was the wreckage.

“You were dying,” he said finally, eyes burning with something ruined, “this whole time, and you didn’t think I deserved to know?”

Tears broke past your lashes before you could stop them. You reached for him again, shaking, fingers trembling with weakness. “I didn’t want to hurt you…”

His laugh was nothing like the one you loved. No warmth. No joy. Just bitter, broken frost.

“Don’t you get it?” he snapped. “You did hurt me. Everyday. Every godsdamned day you smiled like nothing was wrong, while you were dying right in front of me.”

You looked away, the shame catching in your throat. “I didn’t want to make you carry that weight,” you whispered. “Not after Feyre. Not after the war. I just wanted… peace. For you. Even if it meant—”

“Lying to me?” he cut in. The words hissed from his lips like venom.

And then. “If you loved me…” His voice cracked. “…you wouldn’t have lied.”

The room seemed to go still. Even the candles stilled, their flames pulling inward.

You flinched.

He saw it.

And for one fragile, flickering moment, he looked like he might break. Like the weight of those words had finally reached him. Like he wanted to take them back.

But the damage had been done.

The lie, the one you’d carried like a crown of thorns, had shattered everything between you.

And now, your body was already fading.

Your magic waned with every breath. Your bones ached with goodbye. Your heart, the one that had always beaten for him, was winding down like the last hour of a dying star.

And he couldn’t stop it.

All the power in the world, and he couldn’t save you. Couldn’t go back. Couldn’t undo the secret that had cost you both everything.

-----------

He stayed with you, in the end.

Even when you told him not to. Even when the pain took your voice, your strength, your dignity. Even after everything, the lie, the silence, the breaking, he stayed.

He sat at your bedside as the days dwindled. As your skin grew paler, your breaths shorter. As the light behind your eyes, the spark he’d fallen in love with, dimmed with each setting sun.

He didn’t speak much. Not at first.

What words could he offer that wouldn’t turn to ash on his tongue?

Sometimes, he just watched you, like if he memorized every detail again, he could etch you into time. The way your lips curved when you smiled, even weakly. The shape of your hands in his. The sound of your heartbeat, flickering through the bond like a dying candle.

He held you through the worst of the pain. Let you bury your face in his chest when the spells wore off. Pressed kisses to your brow while your body shook from the agony.

You still apologized.

Still whispered, “I’m sorry I lied.”

And Rhys, your Rhys, your mate, your moon and stars, broke every time.

Because he wasn’t angry anymore.

He was grieving you while you were still breathing.

“I dreamed of a future with you,” he whispered, voice cracking as he threaded his fingers through your hair.

You were curled against him, barely strong enough to lift your head.

“I saw us,” he continued. “In the townhouse, old and ridiculous. You scolding me for tracking shadows into the kitchen. You holding our child for the first time. I saw the years, all of them. I thought we had time…”

A tear slipped from his cheek and landed on your skin.

You brushed it away with a trembling finger. “You did. You had me… for a while.”

“I wanted forever.”

“I know,” you breathed. “So did I.”

And you meant it. Gods, you meant it.

But some stories weren’t meant for happy endings. Some hearts didn’t get the luxury of growing old together.

Some were destined to break, beautifully, tragically, like stars burning out before their time.

-----------

The morning you stopped breathing, the skies over Velaris broke.

Not softly. Not gently. But with fury, with a kind of rage that only grief could conjure.

Clouds rolled in from the sea, black and churning. Winds howled like mourning spirits through the Sidra’s valley. The river surged past its banks, flooding the lower cliffs with salt and sorrow.

The sky wept, and somewhere in the heart of the storm, the world itself shuddered.

Rhys was holding you when it happened.

He’d barely slept in days. Hadn’t left your side. He’d clung to hope longer than even the gods might deem merciful. Every breath you took, every twitch of your fingers, he watched with the desperate reverence of a man begging the stars not to abandon him.

That morning, your skin was cold. Too cold.

Your lips parted once, as if to say his name, or maybe just breathe, but no sound came.

And then… You were still.

Your chest stopped rising.

Your body, already fragile, already fading, finally let go.

But Rhys didn’t.

He pressed his forehead to yours, arms tightening around you as if his hold could anchor you back to him.

His magic flared, uncontrollable, wild shadows and threads of starlight lashing the air. He called your name. Not aloud, but through the bond. Over and over again.

He poured everything into you. His power. His soul. His heart.

He tried to restart what had already stopped.

Tried to breathe for you.

Tried to will your spirit to stay.

But even High Lords couldn’t command the dead to return.

When he realized you were gone he didn’t scream.

There was no roaring. No thunder of wings.

Just silence.

A silence so sharp, it carved into the seams of the House itself.

The bond between you, once full of light and love and laughter, went quiet. Not like a flame blown out.

Like a star collapsing in on itself.

Like the end of a song that would never be played again.

-----------

Velaris remembers you in flowers.

Not statues. Not songs. But in petals that bloom in the cracks you left behind.

They grow in the gardens you once tended, vines curling around stone archways like your laughter still lingers there, like the soil itself remembers the shape of your hands.

They grow along the Sidra, where you used to sit with a book in your lap and sunlight in your hair, where the city still leaves offerings without realizing they do. A cup of tea left on the bench. A folded blanket. Petals, always petals.

And on certain days, when the wind is soft and the stars are shy, the scent of ink and starlight drifts through the streets, the scent he wears now like mourning, like memory.

Rhys never took another lover.

Not because he couldn’t.

But because he already gave away every piece of his soul, and when you left, you took the best parts with you.

He still speaks to you. Sometimes in dreams. Sometimes aloud, in that quiet voice he reserves only for ghosts and prayers.

He keeps your favorite book by his bed, worn and marked with the little notes you used to scribble in the margins. He’s read it so many times, he’s memorized the words… but he still turns the pages, just to feel like you’re near.

He hasn’t touched your side of the bed.

No one goes in your study.

Your mug still sits by the sink, your coat still on its hook.

And every night, without fail, he climbs the rooftops of the House of Wind, alone, wings tucked in, heart bare, and gazes up at the stars as if they might answer him.

He doesn’t cry anymore.

There are no tears left to give.

Just silence. And the bond, now hollow, echoing with all the things he never got to say.

And every year, on the day the world lost you, Rhys returns to the river.

He comes at dawn, before the sun has the nerve to shine. Dressed in black. Alone. Unseen.

He kneels at the water’s edge where the Sidra runs quiet, and lays down a single white lily.

It’s always a lily. Because you once told him they meant “returning to innocence.”Because he couldn’t save you. But maybe… maybe he can keep your memory untouched by the tragedy.

And then, he whispers the same words he’s whispered every year since you left:

“If love could’ve saved you, you would have lived forever.”

The lily floats downstream.

And he watches until it disappears.

Until there is only the river and the wind.

And the ghost of you still etched into every star.

--------------

a/n: I hope you guys are crying like I am rn. Anyways If you guys have any recs for fic ideas plzzzz let me know I cause I am runnings out!!

[nestasblade]

Casual

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

WC: 4.4k

Summary: Azriel and you have been friends for centuries. For just as long, you’ve hid your feelings. But a recent development slowly pushes you to your breaking point. Azriel calls it casual. To you, it’s everything

Warnings: ANGST, allusions to sex, Az is a bit of a bonehead here but we’ll fix it dw.

Azriel rolled off you, landing on the empty spot next to you in the bed. You looked over to him, catching your breath, the rapid rise and fall of his chest matching yours. His eyes met yours, and you felt a blush creeping up on your cheeks, as if he was a small crush in the marketplace rather than someone who had just made you see the heights of pleasure.

“Had fun?” You asked, a smile creeping up on your face.

He looked over at you, rolling his eyes.

”Wonderful, as always.” He teased. His eyes trailed over the length of your body, covered only by a thin layer of your sheets. The sunlight of the late morning crept in from your balcony window, illuminating the twinkle in his eyes. You had to look away, entranced by the beauty of him. Here, in your bed. Lying here with him like this, it was easy to pretend. The world narrowed to the two of you in this room, together. Here, your past no longer haunted you, there was no trauma, no secrets, no pain. If you closed your eyes and focused on the way his bare arm brushed yours and the breathing from right beside you, it was as if all was as you imagined.

“I have a light workload today. I was thinking I could take Elain to the marketplace, or through the River House’s garden for a walk.”

The cocoon shattered. For just a moment, your breath caught in your throat, and a surge of shame and embarrassment rushed through you, down to your fingertips. Quickly, you grabbed a hold of yourself.

“Are you…sure that’s a good idea?” You asked, trepidation heavy in your tone.

“Why not? I’ve been busy recently. I’m sure you’ve noticed,” he justified. “I wouldn’t want her to feel neglected.”

Ugly jealousy coursed through you, and you had the sudden urge to be alone.

You took a deep breath, willing your racing heart to control itself. “It’s just that Lucien will be in the city for dinner in two days.”

Defensiveness filled his expression, and you feared that perhaps you had made a mistake.

“So?” he started. “I’m not afraid of Lucien, Y/N.”

“I know that, but he’ll likely want to see her. You don’t want to start anything. Rhys will be unhappy. Maybe wait until after his visit.”

“Why are you being like this?” He asked. “Lucien can’t force her into anything, and I’m not going to refrain from seeing her just because of her so-called ‘mate’ visiting.”

You forced a teasing tone into your voice, trying to keep the mood light in spite of the knot in your stomach. “Az, he is her mate.”

He was silent for a moment, contemplation heavy in his voice. He rolled over onto his side, facing you. His wings shifted, and the sheet covering him from the waist down moved slightly. You forced your eyes up to meet his.

“What if…what if the Cauldron was wrong? What if he isn’t her true mate?”

Your eyes widened slightly. “Azriel.”

“I know. I know what you’re going to say, Y/N. But I just can’t help but feel like he doesn’t deserve her. She’s a Cauldron-made seer. He’s just an emissary.”

That sent a jolt through you. Just an emissary. In the logical part of your brain, you already knew that you weren’t necessarily special. At least, not in comparison to your chosen family in the Night Court. Feyre the Cursebreaker. Lady Death. The Shadowsinger. The Seer. And you were just an emissary. To your home court of Day that you once fled in fear, no less. You tried not to let that comment simmer in your brain for any longer.

“Doesn’t it make sense that she should be with someone else, someone who’s as exceptional as her?” he continued on. “She deserves better.”

He didn’t even seem to notice the effect those words had on you, the shock they sent through your system. For someone so observant, he never seemed to notice such things about you. Not with the comment he made, and certainly not with the fact that he was lying naked next to you, lamenting about his desire for another woman. You used to think him lowering his inhibitions so fully around you was a sign of his comfort. His innate relaxation in your presence, reflecting your own feelings. Recently, you’ve wondered if it was just a manifestation of how little he cared.

But Azriel loved you. If not in the way you’d hoped for, then as a friend. As a member of this family.

Didn’t he?

”Azriel, she has a mate.”

“I know that, but…”

“But nothing, Az,” you stressed. “You may want her, but it’s not a mating bond.”

Azriel remained still, but his wings shifted slightly. A tell of his exasperation. You always knew of his tells. You knew him better than anyone.

“Y/N, you wouldn’t understand. Mating bonds are difficult,” he sighed. “I should go.”

Azriel shifted up into sitting, silently as ever. The mattress dipped slightly as he turned his back to you, his wings dragging off to the side of your bed. He stood, and the emptiness of the other side of the bed was reflected in your chest.

“You’re right,” you said quietly.

But you knew about mating bonds. Knew them quite well, really. You knew what a mating bond felt like when a mate didn’t want you, and you felt for Lucien. He would take Elain any way he could have her, just as you did for your mate. Even if it hurt, even if it left your insides bleeding and yearning.

He paused his motions just slightly, as if sensing the poorly masked fatigue in your voice. Your gaze fixed on the sheets twisted between your fingers, unable to look up at his form moving about your space.

”I’ll see you later. Family dinner, tomorrow night?” he asked.

“Right. See you then.”

_____

You couldn’t really pinpoint when it started. The physical affair between you and Azriel had been unexpected, and you didn’t know exactly what it stemmed from. Loneliness, maybe. At first, you held out a little bit of hope that it would grow into something else.

“You’re not being serious, you did not.”

“I am not. I spilled wine all over him. It was mortifying!” You burst out laughing, and Azriel followed suit, the drinks flowing between you.

The two of you sat in the House’s study, illuminated only by the hearth in front of the room. The untethered mating bond hummed in your chest, filling you wholly with warmth. On a night like this, laughing with him sitting so close, it almost seemed silly to keep it a secret from him. He felt like home. Like the two of you belonged.

“I’m lucky that the High Lord of Day is such a flirt. He took no offense, and instead offered that I assist in bathing him.”

Azriel let out a barking laugh, inhibitions down in a way that made your cheeks heat. “Of course.”

The laughs died down, and for a moment the two of you just stared at each other, smiles lingering on your face. You couldn’t recall who moved first, but after another breath his mouth was on yours, and his hands wandered in places he had never dared touch before.

Through the haze of it all, a spark of joy burst within you. The mating bond sung within you, and fulfillment took over you in a way you’d never known before. It was happening, you’d thought. Finally.

Afterwards, the two of you lay in his bed, your head on his bare chest. His wing was underneath you, and warmth engulfed you from the tips of your fingers to your toes.

He was with you, and he was happy. It was an unconventional start to a relationship, but nothing about you and Azriel had ever been normal.

“I’m glad we can be like this, Y/N. Some…relief. No strings.”

Something within you broke, and the warmth of the mating bond grew cold.

“What are you thinking about?” A voice came from behind you, breaking you out of the memory.

You turned in your seat in the House’s kitchen to see Rhys approaching.

“Nothing, really.” You replied, taking a sip of the tea in front of you, Rhys taking a seat in the chair to your left. “Just thinking.”

”Hmm.” The High Lord started. “Does this have anything to do with a certain spymaster escorting my sister-in-law to the marketplace?”

You shot him a warning look. That bastard. “Rhys.”

“You can’t keep it a secret forever, Y/N. It isn’t fair to either of you, and I can only warn him off Elain for so long.”

Rhys learning of your mating bond had been a freak incident, the result of him catching onto a longing gaze last Solstice. He had agreed to keep it a secret, and to let you deal with it in your own way. You’ve had more than your share of men taking choice from you, and Rhys was not inclined to add to that list.

However, that didn’t stop him from meddling. He took every opportunity to encourage you to shout your bond from the rooftops, whether mentally at family dinners or through surprise check-ins. More recently, he had been more active in his intervention, barring Azriel from pursuing Elain. He claimed it was to prevent the Blood Duel. But from the moment Azriel relayed those events to you, you had seen right through it.

“I do not need you to warn him off Elain for me, Rhys. A mating bond will hardly change who he wants.”

“How do you know that?” Rhys stressed. “It can change everything. He deserves to know.”

The two of you have this conversation at least once every fortnight. It always ended the same way.

“Things would not change, and there is no point burdening him with a mating bond he will surely abhor.”

”It is not a burden. And you must know Azriel would never see you that way. It is a gift, to be mated to someone who is already so dear to your heart. One kiss, Y/N, could change everything.”

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath and counting to ten. Letting the silence sit for a moment, you prepared yourself before speaking again.

“We have…done more than kiss.”

A beat passed between the two of you, before you spilled the details of the last eight months to Rhys, who watched with poorly contained shock. His eyes sat wide, and his mouth hung open. For the most powerful High Lord in Prythian, one could observe his ability to resemble a fish.

“This has been going on for nearly eight months,” Rhys repeated slowly, “And still he chases after Elain so brazenly?”

”He has never led me to believe this would grow into a romance. Any hopes are my delusion.”

Rhys covered his face with his hands, letting out a deep sigh, “It is not delusion. It is a natural response to a mating bond.”

“Perhaps, Rhys. But there is nothing I can do.”

Your fingers curled around the warm porcelain of your teacup.

“Nothing I wish to do,” you corrected, tone softening. “I do not want a mating bond that exists solely because he feels obligated to me.”

”You cannot truly believe that Azriel would see you as an obligation.”

”I think,” you said, “that if the Mother had some plan for him to joyously accept our mating bond, he would not leave my bed in the mornings with plans to pursue another female.”

—-

Family dinner was delicious, as always.

The aroma of perfectly roasted lamb and beautifully seasoned potatoes lingered throughout the River House, as empty plates signalled a meal well-enjoyed. Elain’s cooking was wonderful, but an ugly part of you couldn’t help but feel the weight of envy taking root in your chest.

Is there anything she can’t do?

Around the table sat you, Rhys, Amren, Cassian, Feyre, and Mor. Wine flowed generously as you discussed plans for a meeting with Lucien and Eris tomorrow. As a fellow Court emissary, you would be in attendance, so you did your best to focus on Rhys’ talking points despite the wine buzzing in your system. Luckily, your two most likely distractions were not here. Elain had excused herself to bed hours ago, and Azriel had left just moments ago to recon with some spies he had placed in Autumn. The table felt lighter without them here. All night, you had sat through Azriel sitting to the right of you, staring holes through Elain. It had been an effort not to burst out sobbing right there in front of everyone.

Recently, that had become a familiar feeling.

After seemingly hours of listening to Rhys drone on, making mental notes for later, you excused yourself to your room. You opted to crash at the River House, too weary to winnow to the House of Wind. Besides, you figured that a change of scenery might do some good. A futile attempt to chase the peace that had evaded you all week.

It didn’t matter that you’d be down the hall from Elain. You had no reason to be angry with her. Not really. She didn’t control Azriel’s overwhelming indifference to you. If he wasn’t focused on her, it would be Mor. Or someone else who met his standards. Someone special and outstanding and worthy.

Just an emissary.

Walking down the halls of the River House, you pondered on a future for yourself. Would you spend the rest of your life pining after a man who would never view you romantically? Would you ever tell him about the bond, wrecking a 200 year friendship and tying him to you in a way that could only lead to his misery?

The thoughts ruminated in your head until you heard the unmistakable rumble of Azriel’s voice.

Soft and low. Gentle in the way he speaks to you when you lay beneath him and you could pretend.

You looked up, eyes setting upon a slightly ajar door, moonlight filtering through.

Azriel’s room.

Your feet moved before your brain caught up to you. Rushing towards the doorway, you stood in the space of the open door before you truly knew what was happening. There stood Azriel and Elain, his arms just barely grazing upon her waist. They stood close, lips about to touch in a stance that you had been in with him just two nights prior.

Something was tearing in your chest. You tried to keep quiet.

But Azriel was an observant male. It was his job. Maybe not in the sanctuary of your bed, but certainly when he was tasked with protecting something as precious as Elain. His head snapped towards you in the doorway as if a fawn coming upon a faelight. His eyes widened slightly as he met yours.

The moonlight caught the gold flecks in his brown eyes, and the sight of them made your own vision blur with sudden tears. And all Azriel did was stare.

One moment he stood frozen, his form blurry through your watery vision. The next, he jumped back from Elain as if her touch had burned him. His gaze never left yours, though his expression shifted to something raw, something almost terrified. It was a jarring change, especially for a male so stoic and controlled. Some instinct deep within you recognized the strangeness of his expression.

His shadows surged forward from the corner of the room, wrapping around his form. They curled up his back, peering over his shoulders towards you. His gaze never left yours, and Elain’s eyes shot rapidly between the two of you, confusion painting her beautiful face.

It was then that you felt it. A tug deep within your chest, reaching down into a place that you knew all too well. Something strong and ancient thrumming within you. Light surged in your soul. Never in your life had you imagined a fulfillment like this. As if the centuries of your life had been black and white, and now you’d seen the colors of the sky for the first time.

The sensation flooded your body, bright and overwhelming, dimmed only by the absolute fear and shock that spread throughout your body. The look on Azriel’s face matched the war happening within you.

Oh gods. He knew. He knew.

Another tug pulled through you. Then another. The silence of the room was overwhelming, and you willed him to say something. To get it over with. To reject you. To end it. But all he did was stare.

“Y/N,” he rasped out, voice heavy. “You…”

You couldn’t do this. Couldn’t bear the words he would inevitably say. The disgust he would regard you with.

The bond tugged once more in your chest. Azriel’s wide, wild eyes were on you.

You turned and ran.

—-

Two weeks.

You’d successfully avoided Azriel for two weeks before the inevitable confrontation. For his part, he had stayed away from your meeting with Lucien and Eris. Immediately afterward, you had left for Dawn to meet with Thesan. An emergency alliance negotiation.

In your mind, it was a blessing from the Mother. Perhaps a small act of repentance after the stunt she pulled revealing the bond to Azriel.

The journey back to Velaris felt far heavier than the one that had taken you away. Dawn had been bright, orderly, predictable. Everything that Velaris couldn’t be until you had settled this with Azriel.

Winnowing to the House of Wind, you headed straight for the kitchen, intending to grab a cup of tea and hide away in your room.

”You’re back.” The voice came from behind you.

The male had an innate talent for silence.

Mother help me.

You took a slow breath, then another. It was time, you supposed. You turned to look at him, wanting to memorize the exact details of his beautiful face. Once he rejects you, would you ever see him this closely again? Could you bear it?

“I’m back,” you said, keeping your voice light, moving towards the kettle on the counter.

Azriel stared at you intently, unspoken emotion deep within his eyes. As if he too, had been anticipating this moment. Dreading it.

Neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you, thick with everything that had gone unsaid for two weeks. His eyes stayed heavy on you.

He finally broke the silence, tension laden in his voice. “You knew. Didn’t you?”

Your eyes slid shut “I did. I’ve known for almost a hundred years.”

The memory hit you hard.

“How’s the lemonade?” Azriel asked, taking a sip of his own in the chair across for you.

“You were right, this is delicious. Best I’ve ever tasted,” you took another sip of the sweet liquid, “How did I not know about this place?”

“It’s one of Velaris’ many hidden gems. You could live here for years and not know of every treat.”

“Well, I suppose I have much to learn.”

A laugh burst out of him, and you his eyes. It was full and deep and brought heat to your cheeks. His large form, wings brushing along the floor, seemed almost comical in this small, intimate cafe. For a moment, you just watched him. His beauty.

Warmth filled you, and you felt something snap within your chest. Like a key slotting into a lock, something had slid into place within your soul. Your mouth dropped open slightly, and all you could do was blink.

“You ok?” He teased. “Missing the Day Court?”

Your hands trembled slightly from the shock of the revelation. “I’m fine. Just…enjoying the lemonade.”

You gazed up at him, and his expression held shock, betrayal, a hint of anger. “A hundred years? You have known of this for that long?”

You nodded once, fixing your gaze somewhere over his shoulder.

Azriel leaned back slightly, as if the distance might help him process what you had just said. If anything, it only heightened the tension between you two.

“I-” he paused, swallowing before continuing. “Why have you not told me, Y/N?”

“I wanted to, at first. I didn’t wish for you to be disappointed, I suppose.”

He gawked. “Disappointed?” He took two steps closer to you, a smile barely there on his face. “Y/N, I am far from disappointed. I am…elated. But I cannot understand why you’ve hidden this so long.”

Your breath stopped. He took another step toward you. You tried to calm the panic in your brain. This is not what you were expecting. Not how you’d envisioned this moment at all.

”You don’t understand?” You parroted, a mocking tone creeping into your voice. He stood so close to you now you could see the faint crease between his brows, the tension in his jaw.

Something soft crept into his voice. “You truly believe that I would be disappointed to learn that the Mother chose you for me?”

Your laugh came out brittle. Disbelief flooded through you at his words. “The Mother may have chosen me for you, but you have never chosen me, Azriel.”

”What?”

You laughed again. Surely, anyone walking by would think you mad.

”When this bond snapped for you, you were ready to kiss another female, Azriel!”

”So this is about Elain?” He exhaled slowly. “Y/N, that was a misunderstanding. I believe she might be my mate.”

”She has a mate!” You were shouting now, your voice rising despite yourself. An overflow of emotions betraying you. In the past, you’d always thought this moment would be defined by his anger, his emotions towards such a disappointing pairing by the Mother.

“I understand the timing was awful. I’m sorry.”

”You’re sorry,” you deadpanned.

Azriel shook his head, speaking slowly. “I know…I know that I have failed you in many ways. And I can understand why you wouldn’t have told me.”

He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. It was a stark change from his usual directness. Your hands shook slightly, tears welling up in your eyes.

”Please. Please don’t cry, Y/N.” He sounded desperate, pained.

“So what happens now?” You posed. “Elain is not your mate, which anyone with half a brain could have told you.”

”Now you are my mate. Everything has changed, darling.”

”Don’t call me that.” Gods, why couldn’t you stop the tears? They streaked down your face, staining your cheeks. “Nothing has changed.”

Azriel only gaped at you. “How can you say that? We are mates. Elain does not matter.”

”Doesn’t matter?” It was your turn to stare at him like a fish out of water. “You have no feelings for me. And I am not interested in you pretending to care for me.”

”I- I would not be pretending.” He stuttered.

You stepped back immediately.

“Yes, you would,” you argued, insistence heavy in your tone. “Two weeks ago, you lay with me in bed and told me that you wish to be mated to another!”

You had to shut your eyes before continuing. “Do you think that I don’t know you? I have watched for two centuries how you look at women that you actually want.”

“I want you.”

”Because of the bond,” you shot back.

”No,” he said without hesitation. “Don’t say that.”

A bitter breath escaped you, “What would you have me say, Azriel? For hundreds of years, you have looked at every female but me. And when you finally-“ a sob cut through your words. “When you finally touched me, and I had hope, you broke that trust. Stress relief, isn’t that what you said?”

He flinched at the words. “I did not mean to imply-“

”You implied nothing. You said it quite clearly.”

”I thought you were happy with our…arrangement. You never asked for more.”

”So you assumed that I was happy with just sex while you pined for another?” You let out a scoff at that. You were being petty, you knew. But you found that you didn’t care. This was uncharted territory.

You’d never imagined that you’d be the one with the power in the situation. Here he was, and he seemed as if he wanted you. Desired you. But that couldn’t be right. There was no way. He was only trying to do right by you.

“Azriel,” you continued, “You have never desired me romantically. Physically, clearly. But do not stand here and lie to me.”

His shadows peered at you from over his shoulder, and his brow creased slightly with effort. As if he had to work to hold them back from you. “I am not lying to you. I have never lied to you, Y/N.”

“But you still do not love me.”

Azriel huffed. “How can you say that? You are my mate!”

”But you do not love me!” Your voice raised again. “This is why I never told you about the bond.”

”It isn’t like that,” Azriel tried, anguish heavy in his voice. “Please, let’s sit and we can talk about this.”

”There is nothing to talk about.” You sniffled, hand moving to wipe a tear from your cheek. “And we’re stopping our little…arrangement, if it wasn’t clear.”

”Ok,” he nodded, frantically. He moved to take your hands into his. “How about this? We’ll start over. No past.”

You shook your head, sniffling. “No, you don’t understand.”

His expression fractured. “Tell me then. Help me understand how to fix this. We’re mates. And that means something to me, Y/N. It can mean something to both of us. We just need time. I know I was awful to you. And inconsiderate.” He lowered his forehead down to yours, and you felt a tear drop from his cheek to yours. “Let me fix it. I’ll do whatever you want.”

For years, you dreamed of this moment.

”We cannot be together, Azriel. I won’t be your second choice.”

”You would not be my second choice. Never. We are mates.” He stressed.

”But that is the problem,” you stressed. “The bond has chosen me for you. But you would never do so.”

“That isn’t true, Y/N. The Mother has linked us. And that means something to me. We can figure this out.”

Gods, you couldn’t do this. Couldn’t face him as he attempted to placate you.

Here was Azriel, a male that you had dreamed of loving you since the day you met him. And now he was telling you he wanted you. As a mate. As a lover.

You broke out of his hold, maneuvering your hands away from him, “I spoke to Rhys before I left for Dawn. I’m moving back to Day.”

He froze. A beat of silence passed between you, then another. “What?”

A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Let me know what you think! :)

[sayonara363]

When that mf Jinwoo is getting a bit too confident (Igris has to show who is the boss around these parts):

Reference:

[ottervii]

🧢🚿

[leonsleatherjacket]

shy! leon's assistant! reader x re9! leon

Summary: Leon takes you to his place after you get an extreme fever at work and over the weekend, he nurses you back to full health. However, there's a consistent underlying problem that takes the form of a golden liquid.

part 5 of this

The nurses said you would be fine if you went home and rested over the weekend, but if it got any worse, immediately to go to the hospital due to the possible risk of it being an infection.

“C’mon, just one foot in front of the other, you’ve got this,” Leon reassured you as he had your arm slung over his shoulder, and his hand firmly steady on your waist. If someone looked from afar without context, it would look like you were a total drunk.

“I’m trying,” you mumbled, your voice whining. Every step you took made the world crash and blur, a sickening pulse in your head.

“You know what,” Leon sighed and bent his knees, one arm scooped the back of your knees and the other scooping up your back, “this is easier.”

You leaned your head against his chest, unable to find the energy to protest to this. His chest was warm and firm, his shirt smelling of laundry detergent. It was hard to imagine him slaughtering infected in his usual violent, apathetic way when he was holding you so gently.

He struggled to open the car door with you in his arms, but he managed to do it anyway. He slid you into the passenger seat and as your head lolled to the side, he clipped you into the seatbelt.

 Something made him pause just to look at you for a second, not really to admire but to reflect on his life choices.

You pressed your head against the cold of the window for just some sort of relief, squeezing your eyes shut. In your dizzied state, you watched him walk around to the other side of the car and place himself in the driver’s seat with a huff. He secured himself in and placed his hand on the steering wheel before turning his head in your direction.

“Are you still sure that you don’t want me to take you home?” he asked, looking at your slumped posture, his hair messily out of place. You despised how stressed you were making him.

“Don’t take me home-” your phone rang. Your head hurt too badly to even want to look at the bright screen, but the words ‘Mom’ pierced through your eyes, and you saw the 7 missed calls and the other 10 threatening messages that she sent you.

It was enough to snap you out of your delirium.

Eyes widening, your phone slipped from your hands, and you shook Leon’s arm.

“I forgot about- fuck I forgot about dinner. Leon, you have to take me to my parents’ house,” you pleaded, hoping that you could just miraculously bottle the fever up.

“Are you insane?”

“Leon,” you stared at him with all the determination in the world despite your eyelids slowly sliding downwards and your head swaying a little, “Leon.”

“Yes?”

Your eyes eventually closed and your head fell back onto the headrest.

He tutted, turning the engine on, “You are certainly not going to dinner.”

And that’s how you ended up in your boss’s guest room bed.

You woke up in a sweat, nausea now clambering in your stomach and uncontrollable shivers shooting through your body. A little lost to where you were, your eyes scanned around the room, because the ceiling definitely wasn’t yours.

It smelt familiar, like coffee and leather. A scent that belonged in the office. In Leon’s office.

“Leon?” you mumbled out, pushing yourself upwards with your elbows. You were still in your office clothes from yesterday, but your heels had been slipped off, and a cold cloth was pressed on your forehead. At the end of the bed was clean, fresh clothes.

Slumped in a chair next to your bed was Leon. His face was softer when he slept, holding a youthful look to it as the usual tense knot in his face had loosened. You always wondered what his resting face looked like after seeing the pure adrenaline, predator scowl he had etched into his face.

The room held plain, cream-coloured walls with long windows from the ceiling to the floor that looked over a forest. The curtains cast ripples on the carpet as a window was left open to keep fresh air channelling through the room.

However, as soon as his name slipped from your mouth, he stirred immediately. His eyes shot open and his posture snapped into shape. He was still wearing the same navy suit from yesterday, just a few buttons undone at the top and his hair was dishevelled like he had run his hand through it a hundred times.

“Hey,” he said softly, “take it easy.”

He carefully removed the cloth from your forehead and pressed the back of his hand against your forehead.

“Better than yesterday.”

You weren’t sure if he was talking to himself or you.

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” you croaked, pushing his hand away and slipping your feet out of the duvet to stand up.

“What are you doing?” he questioned sternly, the crease in his eyebrow deepening.

“Am I not allowed to get up…?” you stared at him, your eyes cringing at the bright light that slipped through the curtains and shone blindingly around Leon’s figure. From your point of view, he looked like an angel.

Sweat still clung to your face, a heat itching at your cheeks.

“You need rest,” his deep voice smoothed the throbbing bumps of your mind.

“I’ve rested.”

“You passed out. There’s a difference. You’re still hot and sick,” he said as he patted the damp cloth on your face, gently moving aside the hair that was stuck to your face.

You flopped back onto the bed, “you suck as a doctor.”

He let out a hum as he pushed a glass of water into your hands, and then two pills in the other.

“Drink,” he demanded, his eyes flicking to his watch and then back at you.

“Still bossy.”

“Funny that, because I’m your boss,” he said it with a small laugh, but then his expression flickered into something with regret.

The words floated awkwardly in the room like they didn’t belong there.

Because they were true, but also weirdly false at the same time.

He is your boss, but the typical boundaries of an employee and their boss had been totally blurred by the two of you.

Bosses didn’t sleep in a ridiculously uncomfortable chair all night and keep their employee in their guest room to look after them.

“What’s the time?” you asked, wiping the water on your lips with your sleeve.

“Four pm.”

“Four?! The presentation- oh my god my parents-,” you shot up out of the bed, feeling your chest twist in that unpleasant way all over again, pain coming in waves of sharp volts.

“Hey-“ he grabbed you before you toppled over.

“No- I forgot about dinner with my parents; I needed to be there- where is my phone?! And head office! I don’t have the presentation I won’t be able to present it-,” your head frantically turned left and right, your wrists still being held by Leon’s hand.

“You were unconscious,” he said monotonously.

“Where’s my phone?”

“You passed out mid-sentence in my car,” he continued in the same, slightly frustrated tone.

“I need to call them.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” he declared.

“Leon,” you head snapped to him, tilting your head a little to give him puppy-eyes.

He sighed, letting go of your wrists, “your phone is right here. On the bedside.”

You picked it up and stared at the phone screen. 10 missed calls. 13 messages. Your eye twitched, a dread taking root in your body.

“I’m done for. She’s going to skin me alive and serve me as a meal for her next dinner!”

“I think that’s slightly excessive.”

“You clearly haven’t met my mother.”

Your phone began to buzz. Your fingers were shaking. For the first time, you felt like you couldn’t deal with anything, which was strange, because you always dealt with everything no matter the condition you were in. Stopping was never allowed.

“I- I can’t do it.”

“Then you don’t. Focus on resting,” he said, holding up the duvet so you could slide back under it. He said it so effortlessly, like resting was just second nature to him. You hesitantly laid your back onto the mattress, letting him fuss over you. “Sherry stopped by and dropped some clean clothes off for you,”

You hummed something unintelligible deliriously as exhaustion crashed over you, the softness of the pillows catalysing this.

He sat in his chair and paused on your face before standing up.

“I’m gonna get some coffee.”

“Leon,” you reached out and grabbed his hand, and his head snapped back to you, your pleading eyes staring back into his icy ones, “don’t leave.”

He stilled, but placed himself back on the seat, watching your face instantly relax as you succumbed to exhaustion, as if it was his presence that let you fall asleep.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mumbled to himself, rubbing his mouth. But his thumb was absently rubbing gentle circles into your palm.

He tried to imagine the DSO without you, and suddenly all the color was drained from it. Your withdrawal from him, the resignation letter, the collapse in the elevator – it all scared him in ways he didn’t think was possible. This wasn’t him. He was used to dealing with fear on the field but losing you would be a type of fear that wouldn’t let him get out of bed without a struggle.

You looked smaller when you slept. Less guarded, like you were no longer waiting for someone’s criticism. The usual determination that sat in your expression was softened by exhaustion.

You trusted him enough to fall asleep like this. In his house, holding his hand.

He couldn’t mess this up.

When you woke up, the soft glistening glow of the moon swept through the curtains. Leon was sat at the bed, his reading glasses reflecting the glow of the laptop that was on his lap. His suit jacket was draping over the chair; he was only in his button up shirt. His collar hung lazily around his neck and his sleeves were rolled up. Veins on his forearms were dimly lit by the lamp on the desk, and they tensed every few seconds when his eyebrows furrowed deeply.

Your fingers were loosely clinging around his hand, while his other hand was scrolling through emails. He clearly hadn’t moved it since you fell asleep.

“Hi,” you said awkwardly as you pushed yourself up, your hand letting go of his, embarrassed.

“Hi,” he said back, just as awkwardly. “Not to suck but I got an email from Head Office.”

“W-What did it say?” you stuttered, every possible scenario rushing through your head, studying his face for any hint of disappointment.

“That you and I need to come in on Monday to discuss your position at the DSO,” he replied, predicting what you were going to say next, “you’re not getting fired.”

“How do you know?” you said instantly, ready to shoot him with another million questions.

“Because you’re my assistant. I’m not letting it happen,” he shook his head, then shut his laptop and stood up, quickly shutting down any possible idea of you not being in his office. “Would you like me to run you a bath?”

A subtle blush crept onto your cheeks. Was he crazy? Or were you crazy? You had to both be crazy.

You nodded, feeling like the shy assistant that walked into his office for the first time.

He petted your head, then he quickly retracted his hand, regretting what he just did, and disappeared into the ensuite, the sound of water splashing into the tub echoing around the room.

A small exhale left your nose as the corners of your mouth curved upwards, finding his awkwardness slightly endearing.

You began to explore his apartment as he fussed around your bath.

It seemed that his leather jacket collection extended into his home, because they were all neatly hanging up in a dark oak closet by the entrance. There was a brown battered one with a cream-colored fur snugly attached to the collar, a black one with two grey stripes circling the sleeves and another black one with an exaggerated collar that had an even fluffier fur.

It was strange that none of his usual weapons were visible, even though he typically showed them off to you before missions with a toothy grin. But this thought was quickly shut down after you opened a door to a room that had guns displayed on walls from ceiling to floor like paintings. Axes and knives and many other weapons that you couldn’t even name were all hanging there, polished and sparkling. There was gym equipment set up- too many weights on that pole, you thought. You decided it was best to keep that door closed.

He had a very clean alcohol cabinet with fancy bottles, some in languages you couldn’t even begin to read. Most of them were almost empty.

You came across picture frames, photos of him with Sherry and a woman in a red leather jacket. Another photo of him with a different blond woman, he was different here. Blonder, not a hint of a wrinkle or a grey hair. None of the frames matched with the rest of the decorum in his house- these must’ve been gifts.

The silver clock ticked away in the background.

A record player was neatly tucked in the corner, with shelves stacked full of vinyls. Your fingers flicked through all the different albums, ranging from 70s to 90s. There was The Police, Alice In Chains, Nirvana, Violent Femmes, Rage Against The Machine, Screaming Trees and many, many more. You snickered when you found Duran Duran. Rolled your eyes when you found Radiohead.

There was a lace of coldness that draped over the apartment. The pillows weren’t worn, the kitchen looked far too clean, there was no dents in the furniture or stains – nothing that signalled the presence of someone. Everything was in perfect (expensive) condition, apart from the dead plants in the corner.

He was haunting his own apartment.

“Baths ready.” He was dressed out of his office wear, and in grey sweatpants and a loose black t-shirt. Your eyes widened like you had seen him naked. You had never seen anyone wear casual things. When you lived with your parents, they expected nothing less of you. It was either on your best form or don’t be here at all.

“Uh- thanks- thank you,” you stammered, walking past him rapidly so you didn’t have with bear with your awkwardness any longer.

You clicked the door behind you and leant your back against it, pressing a hand to your face.

Your face was warm and you couldn’t tell if it was the fever or something else.

Steam swirled from the bath; he had almost filled it to the brim.

You peeled your office clothes from your body and lowered yourself into the bath and a quiet sigh escaped from your throat.

There was an assortment of soaps that had been placed on the side. Again, they were all in different languages, seemingly different soaps from all the hotels he stayed at on his international missions. It felt weird to look at these, it was all a life he had before he met you, you felt like a stranger despite spending so much time with him.

A heat crawled up your neck as you thought about the way he never let go of your hand and imagining him carrying you into your apartment. You sank lower into the bath. He had seen you at your most disgusting, raw and worst yet he was running you a bath and making you dinner in the kitchen.

You tried your hardest to remember what happened in the elevator.

The rough sensation of his stubble, his hands holding you and his panicked face quickly flooded back, and it was enough to send you into a flustered coma.

You were sat at his kitchen island, on those long stools, with your hair twisted in a towel and wearing the pyjamas that Sherry left, a very nice baby-blue matching set.

“Food.” He placed a plate of pasta in front of you.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to… do all of this for me,” you thanked him, grabbing your fork and refusing eye contact with him.

“Well, I didn’t really have a choice when you passed out in my car. I couldn’t leave you alone like that. You need to stop running yourself into the ground, it doesn’t help anyone.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, staring at the pasta in front of you.

“Hey, don’t apologise,” he said softer, his voice deepening, “Your only job right now is to get better.”

Both of you went quiet; the ticking of the clock and your fork clunking against the plate were heard. He then poured himself a drink, whiskey. There was something restrained in the way he poured it though, like this was less than he usually drank.

“So, did I ruin any of your weekend plans?” you broke the silence, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Didn’t have any, luckily for you,” he said, a small laugh laced in his words, leaning against the counter.

“Leon S. Kennedy doesn’t have any weekend plans?”

“You sound surprised,” he crossed his arms.

“Yeah, you know, I’d be thinking you would be saving the world by breakfast or something.”

He huffed, “how did you know?”

“Just had a hunch,” you winked, very badly, at him. Cringing at yourself, your gaze fell down back to your plate.

You felt his burning gaze pierce right through you.

“You’re staring,” you called him out, pushing your pasta around like it personally offended you.

“Just making sure you’re eating,” he muttered, putting his arms up in surrender.

“I am eating.”

“You’re prodding at it as if I fed you worms,” he sighed, pushing your drink towards you. “Drink too.”

The two of you ended up on his couch; Leon demanded you have a blanket spread over your legs.

You sat on one end. He sat on the other.

You were watching this stupid movie; you had hardly even kept up with plot because you kept drifting off to sleep and you didn’t know why but you felt like every time you opened your eyes, Leon had shifted himself closer to you.

You noticed his sleepy state, his half-open eyes reflecting the blare of the television. His hair looked so soft you just wanted to run your fingers along it over and over again until they were numb from the feeling. His fingers held loosely around his glass containing a little amount of that golden liquid.

It wasn’t fair that you collapsed in the elevator. You wanted to take care of him too. Just because he was better at keeping himself together didn’t mean he wasn’t as equally exhausted as you were.

He had been lapping up his whiskey all summer like a dehydrated plant, and it was often he stayed longer hours than you did. Once you caught sight of a long scar across his abdomen when he was getting patched up after a mission that involved many losses. It was hard to fathom how he coped with it all, but the answer was clearly staring right back at you from his glass.

Now you were worried that you added even more stress onto his conscience. He already had to deal with so much and now collapsing on him in the elevator felt selfish and stupid.

“Leon,” you whispered.

“Yes,” he whispered back, his eyes still glued to the screen, but he tilted his body towards you subtly.

“Did I scare you?”

His fingers stopped rubbing his glass.

“A little,” he admitted, not telling you that he would’ve literally torn the whole DSO building down to make sure you were okay.

Your stomach twisted with guilt.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t have to stay with me all day.”

“Yes I did,” he said firmly, his face finally turning towards you with a small smile. The same reassuring look he gave you when you told him you were nervous on your first day as his assistant.

Silence settled between you again.

Your eyelids felt heavier with every passing second and so did your head as it tipped to the side and then rested against something solid and warm. You stilled. He froze.

Your head was resting against his shoulder.

Heat shot through your face, and you pulled your head away immediately, “Sorry-”

“It’s fine.” He said quickly, extremely quick in fact. You paused. Everything in you craved to rest your head back on him, to feel safe next to him and to know that this actually means something to him.

You always held yourself back from getting the things you wanted because your mind restricted everything you did. You were a coward. The fear of being rejected had pulled you around on strings for so long, you felt childish.

So, you slowly leaned back again with more care. He didn’t move or shift away. His body relaxed slightly under the weight. Neither of you said anything. He only pulled over the blanket for it to cover his legs too.

Eventually, your breathing slowed as your body subconsciously shifted itself closer to him. He glanced down, muttered “Unbelievable.” and turned down the volume of the television before stretching his arm around you.

Sunday morning came quickly, and you were pleasantly woken by the sound of something sizzling. There was a dip in the sofa where Leon was resting, and now you could hear his humming from the kitchen. It felt odd to not immediately open your laptop or start reading through files, but just this once you allowed and embraced the absence of it.

“Morning,” you croaked, rubbing your eyes and placing yourself on one of the stools.

“Morning. Feeling better?” he asked, pushing a glass of water to you and then returning to the eggs that were frying and bubbling in the pan. It annoyed you how the morning seemingly didn’t affect Leon in the same way it affected you.

“Yeah… I do,” you realised that the pounding, stuffy feeling in your mind had disappeared, but wrecked your body in the meantime, because everything ached. He leaned over the island and pressed the back of his hand against your forehead.

“I swear if you do that one more time-” you swatted his hand away.

“You look better.”

“Wow. Thank you, Doctor Kennedy,” you rolled your eyes, “Seems like you’re chef Kennedy too. What’s for breakfast?”

He wanted to say that you had a lot of sass for someone who could hardly form a sentence when they first interacted with him. But he decided to keep his mouth shut. Minus the teasing, he felt strangely proud, and happy even that he made you comfortable enough to laugh and tease him in his own home.

“Eggs on toast,” he then felt the presence of your stare. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

A huge smile was stretching across your face, your eyes reflecting the morning light. His cheeks felt warm.

“It’s funny.”

“How?” he questioned, genuinely confused, shaking his head as if he could shake the blush off his cheeks.

“Well, when I first joined the DSO everyone said you were scary. And now you’re cooking breakfast for me,” you explained, gesturing at him as he held a spatula.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he muttered, turning back to the eggs with a smirk tugging on his lips.

“You were even humming!”

“Drop it,” he grumbled, buttering your toast.

“Kennedy is cooking and humming for me!”

“Quit it or I’m revoking breakfast privileges,” he threatened as he placed the eggs on top of your toast and sliding the plate over to you. “There’s salt and pepper on the side if you want it.”

You grinned and took a bite.

It was a quiet ride home, you were still in your pyjamas embarrassingly, but Leon lent you his hoodie to ‘help’. The radio blurred into the background as long, towering trees passed you by.

“Tomorrow’s gonna be fun,” you sighed, your hands fiddling on your lap, his sleeves so big only your fingers points through them. Dread felt heavy on your chest already.

He hummed in agreement, “it’ll be fine though.”

Leon always had a great habit of reassuring people even when he wasn’t even sure of the outcome himself.

“What about the possibility of me being fired?”

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

“You’re not getting fired, how many times do I need to say this?”

“But how do you even know that?” you turned to him, your eyes desperately searching for reassurance in his.

“You’re my assistant.”

You huffed, sinking further into your seat.

“Like that’s a good argument.”

“It is to me,” he said, seemingly calm. He smiled a little, proud of his answer.

He stopped outside your house, your sprinklers showering the colorful tulips that sat sweetly in pots.

“Thank you, Leon. I’ll see you tomorrow,” you thanked him, and then paused, your hand hovering over the handle.

You had far too many impulsive thoughts that weekend.

He was looking at you patiently, like if you wanted to stay in his car and do absolutely nothing, he would let you.

You had paused too long to not say something now. But what do you even say? Thank you again?

His head tilted, “You okay?”

“Yeah- I, uhm.”

Maybe you should wave. but people don’t wave inside of cars.

He took care of you all weekend, cooking, running you a bath, just making sure you were okay. And you were just going to thank him and leave?

But you didn’t owe him anything. Not like that. Don’t be a disgusting perv.

Your brain settled on leaning over and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before your consistent anxiety could stop it.

And by the time his brain had caught up, you were already scrambling and running into your house before either of you could confront the feelings that had intensified over the weekend.

Note: That was probably the longest chapter so far, and I deleted a whole scene so it took me way longer than expected. This was definitely a struggle to write but I hope you guys enjoyed it... I'm kind of worried about my writing becoming sloppier and repetitive so the next chapter might take longer to ensure only the highest quality!!, we will see. Thank you so much for reading this series has totally changed my blog, I'm having so much fun interacting with you all!! Also I did make myself laugh when I made a salt and pepper reference.

much forgotten taglist:

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[multi-fandom-imagine]

This is Fine || Chris Redfield ||

A/n: Here is the fic I promised about Chris getting a boner for the reader.

If you want Pt.2 with the team's reaction and a 3rd part with smut let me know 👀

The training room at the base was quiet that afternoon, the dull hum of fluorescent lights and the faint smell of rubber mats and metal equipment filling the air. Chris Redfield stood with his arms crossed near the center of the room, broad shoulders squared, watching the door like he was preparing for a mission briefing rather than something as simple as defensive training.

He had insisted on it earlier that day with complete confidence.

“Everyone on my team knows basic defense,” he’d said firmly, leaning against the table in the break room. “You work around us, you should know how to handle yourself too.”

It had sounded perfectly reasonable at the time.

Chris trained everyone.

It was normal.

Professional.

Responsible.

Then the door to the training room opened.

Chris glanced over casually at first, expecting jeans, maybe workout clothes, something practical.

Instead, you stepped inside wearing soft gray yoga pants that hugged every curve of your hips and thighs, the fabric stretching over your body in a way that made Chris’s brain completely forget how to process oxygen for a moment. A dark sports bra hugged your chest, supportive but leaving your midriff bare, and your hair was tied loosely back like you had just thrown it up without much thought.

You looked comfortable.

Relaxed.

And completely unaware of the effect you were having him as Chris felt his entire body go rigid.

Not the disciplined, soldier kind of rigid.

The very unhelpful kind.

He cleared his throat roughly, dragging a hand down his scruff as he forced himself to look anywhere except directly at your chest.

“Uh… good,” he muttered, nodding once like this was all perfectly normal. “Workout clothes. Good. Makes it easier to move.”

You smiled shyly, stepping onto the mats.

“Claire said this was fine,” you said softly, tugging a little at the waistband of your pants. “I don’t really own… tactical training clothes.”

Chris made the mistake of looking again.

Your curves were soft but strong, your stomach plush, your hips wide and solid, and your chest....

Jesus Christ.

Chris snapped his gaze toward the ceiling like it had personally offended him. “Yeah,” he said gruffly. “This is fine.”

Training.

This was training.

He could do training....he could do this.

The first twenty minutes went well.

Suspiciously well.

Chris kept things structured and professional, showing you basic stances, how to shift your weight properly, where to place your hands when blocking. You listened attentively, nodding along, occasionally biting your lip when concentrating.

“You’ve got good balance,” Chris said, adjusting your foot position with a quick nudge of his boot.

You laughed softly. “Years of tripping over things taught me to recover fast.”

Chris snorted. “Fair.”

He moved behind you to demonstrate a hold, carefully guiding your arm.

“Alright,” he explained calmly, his voice dropping into instructor mode. “If someone grabs you from the front, you pivot your hips like this—”

You followed the motion.

Perfectly.

“Good,” he murmured, impressed. “Now we’ll practice breakaway holds.”

He stepped forward and gently grabbed your wrists. “Try to pull free.”

You tried.

You failed immediately.

Chris smiled faintly.

“Okay, so what you do instead—”He stepped closer, demonstrating how to twist your body and shift leverage. You tried again, laughing breathlessly when you managed to slip out of his grip.

“Oh!” you said brightly. “That worked!”

“Yeah,” Chris chuckled. “You’re getting the hang of it.”

He meant it. You were quick and eager to learn.And really...Really—

He shook that thought away aggressively.

“Alright,” he said, clearing his throat again. “Last thing. Ground pin escape.”

You blinked. “Oh.”

“It’s simple,” he assured you, already stepping closer. “If someone tackles you, you need to know how to get out from under them.”

Before you could overthink it, Chris moved.

In one smooth, controlled motion he caught your arm, shifted his weight, and gently lowered both of you onto the mat.

You landed on your back with a soft oof.

Chris braced himself above you, one knee planted between your legs, one hand pinning your wrist.

“Okay,” he said calmly. “So from here—”

That was the moment things went wrong.

Because you shifted.

Instinctively.

Your hips moved beneath him as you tried to follow his instructions, your thighs pressing around his leg for leverage.

Your chest brushed his torso.

Your soft body shifted under his weight.

Your breasts pushed against him again as he felt your leg slip between his legs.

Chris froze.

Oh.

Oh no.

You wriggled slightly, trying to mimic the motion he’d shown you earlier.

“Like this?” you asked innocently.Your hips rubbed against him.

Chris’s brain short-circuited.He felt it happen instantly. There was absolutely no stopping it, the very obvious, very inconvenient reaction building in his pants.

Chris’s eyes went wide.

Oh fuck.

He jerked upright so fast it looked like the mat had shocked him.

You blinked up at him in confusion.

Chris stood.

Very abruptly.

Very stiffly.

His face had gone slightly red.

He turned around immediately, walking toward the door like the room had suddenly caught fire.

You remained flat on the mat, staring after him in bafflement.

“…Chris?” you called hesitantly.

He didn’t stop walking.

He didn’t even turn around.

“I need water,” he muttered quickly, already halfway out the door.

The door shut behind him.

You sat up slowly on the mat, completely confused, brushing some hair out of your face.

“…Did I do something wrong?”

Outside in the hallway, Chris Redfield leaned heavily against the wall, dragging a hand down his face as he stared at the ceiling.

He took a long, slow breath.

Then another.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

Because after years of bioweapons, military operations, and near-death missions…

He had just been defeated by a pair of yoga pants and the sweetest woman on base.

And his own goddamn boner.

[leonarchive]

☆ hot milf finds her first gray.

☆ summary : the title says enough diva! ദ്ദി◝ ⩊ ◜.ᐟ

☆ caution : none really, female reader, marriage, mention of kids.

you’re standing in the bathroom mirror when you find it..

one single gray hair.

it’s right at the front of your hairline too, completely shameless about it! catching the light like it wants to be noticed! the audacity? you pinch it between two fingers and lean closer to the mirror, squinting like maybe the lighting is playing tricks on you.

it isn’t. that’s the gag.

“oh my god,” you mutter.

leon’s is sitting on the edge of the bed in the next room pulling his boots off after work, hears the tone more than the words. “what?” he calls.

no answer and a minute passes.

then another before finally, you walk into the bedroom looking like you just received life altering news. “leon.”

he looks up. “yeah?”

you hold the strand up like evidence in a courtroom or something. “i found a gray hair.”

leon blinks then he leans back slightly, squinting at it like he’s trying to see the problem— he grabs the reading glasses from the crown of his head and puts them on like that will help. “…okay?”

“okay??” you repeat, scandalized. “leon! that means i’m aging! i’m getting old! this is what society taught me to fear the most! this is it! you’re gonna leave me for a hot twenty six year old!”

he lets out a small breath through his nose. “you’re forty-something, not.. decomposing.”

“that’s not funny,” you say immediately, already spiraling a little as you run a hand through your hair like there might be more hiding in there. “what if this is the start of it? what if in like two years i’m completely gray?”

leon watches you for a moment, clearly trying to figure out how.. this became a crisis. but he knows you had always been a little.. high strung. it keeps him on his toes still to this day. he reaches up and runs a hand through his own hair, tilting his head slightly. a few silver strands catch the light at his temples.

“look at me,” he says.

you glance up. “what am i looking at?"

“i’ve got gray hair,” he continues. “do you think i’m not attractive anymore?”

your reaction is so immediate. “what?! no!” and you say it so fast it almost overlaps itself.

leon raises an eyebrow. “so why would that suddenly apply to you?”

you open your mouth.

then close it.

then opens it again.

“…that’s different.”

“how.”

“because—” you gesture vaguely at him. “you’re.. leon.”

he stares at you for a second before letting out a quiet laugh and he reaches over to hook an arm around your waist. he pulls you closer until you're standing between his knees. “c’mere, mama.” he murmurs.

you still look mildly offended at the gray hair but he gently takes the strand between his fingers.

“for the record,” he says, “you’re still the hottest woman i’ve ever seen.”

you narrow your eyes suspiciously. “even with the gray hair?”

he nods. “especially with the gray hair.” he presses a quick kiss against your stomach as you huff dramatically above him.

“also,” he adds, “you gave me three kids. you’re allowed one gray hair.”

© leonarchive

[leonsleatherjacket]

shy! leon's assistant! reader x re9! leon

Summary: A week after your intense argument with Leon, all those late nights overworking yourself, the pressure from your parents, the guilt from hurting Leon over your mistake, and the grief of your brother finally makes you crash. Unfortunately for you, it's when you get stuck in an elevator with your boss, Leon S. Kennedy.

Song: Someone Great - LCD Soundsystem

part 4 of this

Leon S. Kennedy’s office was silent the entire week. He dumped files on your desk, less than usual because he didn’t want to be too mean, but there was an overall lack of warmth in his demeanour towards you. You didn’t care anyway. What were you thinking, having a silly crush on your boss? It was probably the fact that you had to spend pretty much all day with him, just a small crush to keep you sane in this grey building.

It wasn’t the way his stubble messily dragged around his jaw and that leathery smell that followed him everywhere, the scent that made you instantly relax. It wasn’t his salt and pepper hair that floppily hung around his face. It wasn’t the way he made you feel so confident in yourself or the way he made sure you were comfortable in every sense possible.

You began to stutter through your sentences, running into the same obstacles you used to, all over again. For some reason, it felt like you were crumpling and twisting back into yourself, and all the blossoming and growth you made in your time with Kennedy had withered away. Just the same shy, awkward girl you were before. Did your growth become stagnant, or had you reached a peak and now you were rolling back down the hill again? Good things don’t last forever, and you learned that the hard way. You had felt weak and vulnerable for allowing yourself to develop an attachment to Leon and working for him. You hadn’t even notice that you allowed yourself to do such a thing.

“Don’t forget about dinner tonight,” your mother said through your phone that was sitting between your ear and your shoulder as you sorted through the files in the archive room.

“I won’t,” you mumbled, frowning at the labels on the files. Every other week, your parents demanded a Friday night dinner. Sometimes there were guests, sometimes they tried to get you with sons of old business bores, sometimes it was just you and them.

“It’s important you come this time, the girls from my charity are coming over and they’d love to see how much you’ve grown up. Your father’s co-workers are coming too, very important men from his firm,” she told you. You gave up searching for the warmth in her voice, because it had frozen over after the storm of your brother passing away.

“I’ll be there,” you said absentmindedly.

“Yeah. Maybe it’s best you don’t wear that white blouse you were wearing last time. Your father found it rather casual.”

You looked down at your white blouse, and cringed, “I won’t.”

“You can finally say you’re doing something serious with your degree now. Isn’t that great, sweetheart?” she asked, and you found it hard to tell if she was being sardonic.

“I’ve always been doing something serious with my degree, mom.”

“Well, I can’t say it did to me and your father. But this job sounds like real responsibility, something we can actually talk about over dinner,” you heard her ushering her cleaners around in the background.

“Yeah.”

“And don’t be shy. You always had a bad habit of that, ever since you were a young girl.”

“I won’t,” you replied, hoping that she could get the hint to leave you alone with your increasingly monotonous tone.

“Alright then. Try to look presentable. See you tonight honey.”

“Bye mom.”

The call ended. Somehow, she always made you feel like you were sixteen again. Sixteen and stupid.

You stared at the phone for a split second before you shoved it back in your pocket. It was hard to tell whether this splitting headache came from your mother’s voice or the presentation that needed to be finished by tonight.

Bringing back files to the office swiftly, Sherry walked up to you, her eyes lighting up as soon as they landed on you.

“Hey, y/n, I need to talk to you about something,” she pulled you aside, her light blond hair looking white and halo-like under the harsh office lights.

“Yeah?”

“First of all, are you okay? You look… horrible,” she murmured, her eyes worriedly darting around your face.

“Thanks,” you said sarcastically. Understanding sarcasm was a lesson taught by Kennedy.

“I’m being serious.”

“I’m fine. What did you need to talk to me about?” you questioned, suspicious of her beaming grin.

“Well,” she led you out of the office area and into the quiet corridor that led down to the toilets. Her head turned from side to side before she leant her neck towards you, “I’m getting married. And I want you to come to my wedding.”

“Oh my god! Sherry! I- Oh my- I’m so happy for you!” you gasped, squealing quietly, bouncing on your heels.

“Shhh! I want to keep it quiet. It’ll be small. Just a few friends,” she smiled, the two of you giggling like schoolgirls. “Leon is coming too.”

The sound of his name was strange, not the familiar warmth that you used to feel when you heard it. Instead, it was cold and slimy.

“Oh… that’s nice,” you said, discovering your old interest in the floor.

“That’s nice? Did you two fight?” she asked and then paused, “honestly, that makes sense. Leon has been miserable all week.”

“We didn’t fight.”

“Look. I’m not gonna pry, but maybe fix it before the wedding?”

Be a grown up, was basically what she was asking the two of you.

“There’s no fixing needed. We’re fine,” you insisted.

“Alright. I really want, even need, the two of you there so, please,” she begged, holding your hands.

“Of course, Sherry. I would never miss your wedding,” you gave her a reassuring smile, straightening your posture.

You sat back at your desk, the lines of data slowly swirling and dancing around the screen. Head throbbing and uncontrollably shivering, a tense heat burrowed itself in your forehead pulling and twisting. When you wiped your forehead, sweat glided across your hand. It’s just the summer, that’s all. But does the summer make your eyes burn every time you blink, make your body feel unbelievably heavy and make you sway when you walk?

As you stood up, a pounding feeling circled your head, and you grabbed the edge of your desk. You wiped away the hairs that were slicked to your face and drifted your fingers across your desk as you walked over to Leon’s desk, placing your finished report on it.

His pen stopped moving across his paper and he paused before looking up at you. You looked hollow. Your forehead was glistening with sweat and your eyes struggled to focus on him, like you were trying to stay present in the room that was spiralling out of your control.

“You look awful,” He remarked, raising an eyebrow. You just wanted to slap the cocky look off his face, how dare that be the first three words he said to you all week. But you could feel a stone forming in your throat and you internally cursed yourself for being such a big crybaby.

“Full of compliments,” you mumbled, turning around to go back to your desk, stumbling clumsily in your heels.

“You’re sick,” he observed, immediately standing up from his chair. Oh, so he has decided he cares now.

“I’m not,” you denied, having the same tone of a toddler beginning to have a tantrum.

“You are,” he said firmly, a temper beginning to boil.

“It’s just the summer. I’m a bit hot,” you dismissed him with your hand.

“You’re pale and sweaty,” he insisted, “sit.”

“I’m not a dog,” you retorted, your eyebrows furrowing, your breathing becoming uneven and hard to control.

“You’re going home.”

“I am not. You know I have that report and presentation for your mission due in tomorrow,” you told him, stepping forward.

“You’re going home,” he repeated, walking over to you, but you stepped back, swaying. He grabbed your wrist to make sure you didn’t end up on the floor.

“No! Everything is unfinished, I’m going home after they’re finished,” your voice raised, jerking your wrist away from him.

“What is wrong with you? Just take the damn day off,” he shook his head, your stubbornness had him in disbelief.

“I’m not letting the team down!” your voice was raised, feeling the same anger you did in the car park.

“You’re letting me down by coming into my office barely conscious and pretending you’re fine!” he hissed, gesturing towards you.

“I just-“ you stammered, trying to remember everything you needed to complete, “I need five more minutes,”

“What you need is a bed.”

“What I need-,” you were becoming out of breath, “what I need is to finish my work!”

He pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. You weren’t warm, you were literally burning. Your flushed cheeks and glassy eyes stared at him, slightly out of place. For a split second, you could feel his breath on your skin.

“That’s it. You’re going home,” he said with a finality and unplugged your computer. He had never been forceful like this before.

You let out something between a whimper and a cry, “I can’t rest unless it’s finished.”

“Jesus, y/n, I’ll do it myself. I’ll do anything for you to be at home and resting right now,” he sighed, his eyes drifting back up at you, the limp wire in his hand, “You are not being very professional right now. Look at you.”

“Oh please, when has this ever been professional?” you scoffed, crossing your arms. Who does he think he is to start lecturing you?

He ignored you.

But he couldn’t ignore the grave of the office goldfish outside the building, he couldn’t ignore the fixed shower head, he couldn’t ignore the anger he felt when he heard your mother on the phone, he couldn’t ignore how hearing your laugh eased something in him, he couldn’t ignore the way he chased after you when he found your resignation letter.

“Elevator. Now,” He demanded, grabbing your bag and then holding your shoulder to keep you upright.

“I don’t need an escort.” You mumbled, bringing your shoulders up to your ears to inch away from his touch.

“You do when you come into my office like this.”

You didn’t respond.

The elevator doors shut.

The two of you stood next to each other, a very clear, clean space between you. He stood there in his navy suit, no tie due to the heat. You stood there in your white blouse and black pencil skirt. His eyes flickered to the necklace that shimmered alongside the beads of sweat that clung to your collarbone. Your eyes flickered to his hands that were tightly clenching onto your bag.

The elevator began to hum, and that weird tickly feeling in your stomach occurred whenever you got in the elevator.

Silence fell.

But of course, Leon Kennedy can never keep his mouth shut.

“I’ll finish your presentation,” he started, shoving his other hand in his pocket.

“No- you won’t understand where I left off,” somehow, you still had enough fumes to argue with him.

“It’s fine. I’ve got this,” he reassured you, softening his tone.

“I’ve got it! I had it but you’re sending me home!” you turned to him sharply, your head spinning in response.

“Because you’re-,” he was going to continue arguing back, but the elevator had enough of your bickering and shook and lights flickered. It wasn’t moving downwards or upwards. This threw you further into your disorientation and your body swayed backwards.

 “Woah,” he grabbed your arm, his other hand dropping your bag and instinctively held your waist to steady you.

“Leon-“ you said, your voice thinning as you tried to balance yourself.

“Hey, I’ve got you,” he held you firmly, "the elevator has really chosen the wrong time."

You were fighting a pointless battle. The last time you got home before the sunset was a month ago. You spent your weekends restlessly finishing off other department’s work. The fridge hadn’t seen real substantial food for a while. Your parents just kept demanding and demanding, and you felt as if you were being eaten alive by the two of them. A machine is what you were to them. When you thought you were growing away from the shy, perfection-hungry teen, one mistake detonated the bomb inside of you.

What would your brother think? The way he tore your family apart. Left you all alone. Suddenly you were the one experiencing everything first, without an older brother to guide you through it. He would probably call you an idiot for behaving this way, that you were being silly, that you looked terrible before laughing and giving you a hug which always made you burst out crying.

Your body couldn’t keep up with the rate at which you were abusing it.

Your knees buckled and Leon fell onto his knees, trying to catch you before you hit the floor.

“Told you I wasn’t good enough,” you murmured into his chest, shivering and trembling in his arms. His hand was holding your shoulder, his other hand firm around the backs of your knees.

“You just collapsed and I have to hold you in my damn hands to keep you upright and you’re telling me you’re not good enough?” he lets out a short, breathy laugh, freeing his hand of your leg and moving the hair out of your face.

“I messed it all up,” you said hoarsely, your trembling fingers holding onto his jacket, just to ground yourself.

“Yeah, you did,” he sighed, “you’re scaring the shit out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, “just wanted to earn my place in your office.”

“You earned it the minute you got the job. Quit needing to prove yourself all the damn time,” he whispered back. “You’re killing yourself.”

“I just wanted to be good enough,” you mumbled, half delirious, staring up at him with glassy eyes.

He was there, his eyes darting all over your face as if you were going to shatter at any second.

“You already are. You’ve always been good enough for me, the minute you walked in with those color-coded folders,” he let out another small laugh, his thumb rubbing circles into your shoulder. You squirmed, trying to keep your head up right and your eyelids open.

“Leon,” you croaked, fingers tightening around his collar, “don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he murmured, his gaze flickering to the closed doors of the elevators and then shooting back to you as if looking away from you for a second could make you disappear alone.

Your eyelids were heavy, succumbing to your utter exhaustion. Leon shook you gently,

“Hey-,”

“Tired,” you barely made out the word as your grip loosened.

“I know,” he said, “but I need you to stay awake until we get out of the elevator.”

“Demanding… so much,”

“Well, you collapsing in an elevator is kind of forcing my hand right now,”

“Are you still mad at me?” you asked, your eyebrows furrowing weakly and then relaxing again, like the small movement required all of your effort, “the car-park argument.”

“That is something for later. All I need you to do right now is to keep looking at me.”

“Still demanding.”

“You’re the one who chose the demanding boss,”

“…..didn’t.”

“Did.” A smirk was tugging on his lips until your eyes began to close again, and it vanished off his face. “Hey- keep arguing with me- just keep talking.”

“Trying…always trying so hard for you,” your words dragged and slurred.

His jaw tightened. He knew you had family problems, but he didn't want to believe that you were pushing yourself to your very limits because of him. You were meant to be safe in his office, in the DSO building and supported. That always eased something in him, knowing you don't have to deal with the physical horrors he faced.

But this wasn't safety. Had he pushed you too hard? Did he make you feel like you had to earn you place every day?

You walked into his office with those stupid folders and your stupid stuttering sentences and he immediately knew you were the best person for the job. You weren't meant to go almost unconscious over it.

“Hey. You’re not ruining yourself to keep up with me. Hell, you’re not even keeping up with me- you’re overqualified for half the bullshit I throw at you.”

“Never feels like it."

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” he grabbed your drifting chin softly, tilting it to face him, “Hey. Eyes up. You promised arguing.”

“Tired,” your voice died out, alongside the flame inside of you. You were left shivering, teeth clattering softly.

“Hey, hey- no, no, no,” he started to shake you again but with more desperation, panic creeping into his voice, “Stay with me y/n. I'm not leaving your side.”

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused before smiling a little when you saw that familiar face.

“Here,” you slowly lifted your hand and gave him two little taps on the side of his cheek.

“Good, just, keep talking,” he said quickly, “I’m gonna take you to medical, and then drive you home, okay?”

You shifted and squirmed in his grip.

“No- don’t take me home- my parents,” you groaned, feeling like a teenager who was about to get scolded for being out late. You knew your parents were going to publicly execute you for bailing on them on their Friday night dinners.

He shook his head and hesitated for a second.

“Fine. Then I’m taking you back to mine.”

“Unprofessional...” you murmured, your weight sagging against him, your fingers lazily dragging themselves along his stubble, totally delirious. He could feel how hot you were through your clothes.

“So is dying in the elevator.”

“Not dying.”

“You’re doing a pretty good impression right now.”

The elevator jolted back to life, descending with a graceful hum.

note: the climax of the series is here. thank u for all the kind comments, it really encourages me. i'm surprised by how many people love my silly office fic. sorry if the ending was a little sudden for this chapter i realllyy didn't know how to end it. next chapter will be leon taking care of us yaaaayyy. the next chapter will be more fluff, and more leon focused. also im super super tired rn so if theres any grammar mistakes u didnt see them

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