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warnersister · 9 months

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Oh, how you’d changed him

Tom Riddle x Reader

Summary: how you’d changed Tom and his life for the better, and how ridiculous his previous plans seemed after that.

Tom had carefully planned out his world domination, created his alias Lord Voldemort and the horrors that would go with him. He decided that he would single-handedly take over the wizarding world by any means necessary and reek havoc amongst the weaklings that surrounded him. This; a plan he had created since he was merely a boy, determined to return what this cruel world had forced upon him - sorrow and pain.

Until he met you. To Tom, you were like a breath of fresh air, an unbeatable presence with bright and hopeful features that offered a sense of peace in his life. You had been acquaintances since first year, however had become more familiar in sixth-year potions, just as he was plotting his first horcruxes along with the basallisk attack, you had been assigned as station-partners in the early September of that year.

When your names had been read Tom quirked a brow, however was not disappointed with the testily - having duly noted your previous achievements in the subject and feeling as though you could come in handy later down the line when his domination was more of a priority than his studies, but his world came crashing down when you turned in your seat to examine him.

Tom was lead to believe that he was incapable of love. A monotone psychopathic freak lacking human emotions, yet obtaining alien abilities. It when your eyes looked him over and your hair swayed behind your shoulders, he was unable to ignore the way his heartbeat quickened and breath faltered, in Tom’s eyes you were unfathomably gorgeous and he was unable to look away, a Medusa incapable of stoning her victims.

You held your hand out calmly and he admired the way your posture was straight and head held in a confident stature. “Y/n,” you said, lips soft and plump and voice soothing and gentle. “Tom,” he replied, voice failing him as he fumbled over his words with a stutter - something having never happened to him previously. You giggled at his mistake and he found himself enjoying the sound, instinctively making it his mission to hear it once more, unable to stop the smile appearing on his lips.

Tom also appreciated your knack for perfection. Your potions never failed to exceed beyond perfection and your applause was always deserved, taken with a humble nod to your peers before you set out defying the next odds in your path.

Naturally, Tom began to gravitate towards you outside of lectures, also. He’d find himself on the path to walk you to class or accompany you to the dinner table, or beside you in the library studying beyond the librarian’s patience and working hours. Tom found comfort in your presence and allowed himself to indulge regardless of what ‘Lord Voldemort’ told him to do.

Eventually, he’d offered his arm to stroll down with you to Hogsmeade on a chilly autum day, a few weeks before Christmas celebrations would commence and the winter solstice would turn the Scottish highlands surrounding you into an awe-worthy winter wonderland. “May I accompany you to Hogsmeade?” Tom asked with a small smile, holding his arm out to you while you friends giggled and pushed you towards him. You’d laughed with him as you threaded your forearm alongside his, joining you both at the hip while you replied: “yes, you may Tommy.”

Strangely, he never felt any kind of resentment to any nickname you’d give him other than his name. He welcomed your names with open arms and answered to nearly any plausible noun that passed his lips. He even bought you butterbeer to warm your frostbitten lips, sipping simultaneously while the barmaid offered a few obvious knowing glances.

You shivered as you walked on, the many layers you had adorned on top of your skin no match for the ever-growing cold attacking Hogwarts and found yourself struggling with chattering teeth. Tom immediately removed his long coat and wrapped it around you, admiring both the chivalry of his actions and the satisfied smile on your face when your body temperature started to rise. “No, no, Tom. You’ll get cold.” You said, a reluctant whine passing your lips to which he shrugged. With anyone else, he would’ve let you freeze to death, but not you. He would die for you, freeze to death if you will. “I’m fine, I’m more concerned about getting you back to the castle without hypothermia.” He says with a small chuckle, pulling you into his side by the waist. “I guess you aren’t so cold-hearted as you make yourself out to be, Tom Riddle.” He looks down at you and considers your words for a few seconds.

“You confuse me, y/n. I’ve never felt so warm and gleeful around a person yet you never fail to bring a smile to my face. Teach me how to do that.” I instructs but you shake your head no gently. “I cannot do that simply due to the face that you do it to me, also.” You reply, each exchanging knowing glances between each others eyes and lips. He leans down and traps your lips with his own, warming your body through a simple yet sophisticated gesture and from that day forward you were referred to as his girlfriend.

Of course, however he had also come clean about his upbringing and eventually the chamber and the basilisk. He had told you he was conceived under the influence of a love spell and believed that he was incapable of loving until he had met you. You laid on his bed as you talked; his head on your chest while you weaved your fingers thought his chestnut locks and listened to him. “I read a while back now about a recently investigated muggle issue called autism and it has occurred to me that you’re not incapable of love, you have asbergers Tom. I’ll read the passage to you later.” And all of a sudden all of his unjustified emotions and troubles made sense and he could finally find an unknowingly lost sense of peace within himself knowing what truly made him into the Tom Riddle he was.

When he took you into the chamber he’d told you all about his plan for domination and his large magical snake and how he had a few followers and you never judged him once. If anything you thought it was impressive that he yearned for revenge instead of acceptance but reasoned that perhaps an oversized snake and a killing spree were not the solutions he was searching for. The basilisk lived shrunken to normal size in a glass cage beside his bed after that.

And as the time went by and your relationship flourished, Voldemort seemed more like a past phase than a goal and was more focused on the life he going to create with you. He called his ‘followers’ pathetic and told them to get a life when they questioned his authority over their devotion.

Eventually, it came time for you to graduate and Tom’s hand was tightly clasped in your own as you looked at the castle for a final time. You were silent, acknowledging the end of this era and slowly coming to terms with it. After a while, Tom scoffed. “World domination.” He said with a smile shaking his head. “Who’s ever heard of such a thing?” He turned and picked up your bags along with his own. “Ready to go, darling?”

The two of you had shared your own compartment on the train ride home, others finding their own cubbies as Tom scared them off from sitting with you. Your head was rested on his shoulder as he read a muggle book to you that you had bought the previous summer ‘the great gatsby’. It was a deep and considerate book and made you think about your future, also.

“What’re we going to do now?” You ask out of the blue, interrupting his sentence as he simply closes his book and looks down at you, your face deep in thought. “Well,” he hummed, thinking for a moment. “We’ve booked that cottage in the Peak District for a few weeks, how about we think it all out then?” And you nod. “Sounds like a plan then.”

The next few weeks were spent waking together in the high peaks of the muggle countryside, simply talking and appreciating one another’s company and plotting your lives.

“Is it bad that I want to stay here forever?” You ask him, looking out at the sunsetting one warm winter evening. Tom thinks thoughtfully before saying “if it is then it’s bad that I want to stay here too.” As a pureblood witch you were born under the believe that muggle life was pointless and undeserving, and as had Tom - but together you realised you preferred the quiet and solitary, and not needing to use magic to do everything all of the time. It was a change. And it was nice.

One morning mid-august Tom was reading the newspaper and you were making you both toast. “Someone’s selling the property up the street.” He says and you sip on your drink and look out of the window. “What? The old farmhouse.” “No, the one with the long drive and vines up the side.” You sigh dreamily. “Oh, if only.” You say with a chuckle. “Darling we can afford it.” Tom says and you stay in silence for a moment, sharing the thoughts weaving through your minds. “It wouldn’t take up a large chunk of our savings.” He drops his reading glasses to the end of his nose and smirks. “We’re rich in muggle terms.” You laugh and shake your head at him. “You’re so humble, Riddle.” He stands up and slides his hands around your waist to hold you close as you share the view of the house in question. “We’re buying it.” He spoke after a while, finalising his decision. “What happened to the ‘I hate muggles and never want to be amongst them’?” You ask, turning to him with a cocked brow. He just shrugs. “They were Voldemort’s views. Not mine.”

Matter several months going back and forth with the previous owners and settling on an asking price, you were standing in front of the house- your house, beside tom, exactly how you had when you were leaving Hogwarts. “This is our house.” You say, not taking your eyes off of the scenic view before you. Tom takes you into his side and rubs your arm comfortingly before kissing your temple. “Our home.”

Tom became an Auror, acting as an undercover wizard in the muggle setting catching and reporting any source of dark or unrightfully used magic. You took up being a healer, training in the wizarding world but practising in your home village, being known as a respectable young doctor who all the elderly or adjacent citizens resided in to get treatment - and anything you gave them always worked.

It was a spring morning when you were down at the bakery picking up a loaf of bread for your dinners. “How’s that fella of yours?” The lady asked with a smirk. “Oh Tom’s fine, just left for work.” “Popped the question yet?” The old woman asks, elbowing you slightly. “We’re only twenty Agatha!” You say with a laugh. “Well, Arthur and I were married when we were nineteen.” She crossed her arms. “I thought you were telling me how much you hated him?” You laugh. “Oh he gets on my wire, but we were still married!”

That left you with the thought in your mind for the remainder of the day - you’d decided that Tom Riddle was the man you wanted to spend the rest of your life with and then some.

In February you both took a trip down to the Lake District and rented a boat house with a large lake, your jobs and ‘trust funds’ inherited from family members allowed you to do this rather frequently and easily, nothing out of the ordinary to take a trip for a long weekend.

It was at sunset, rather early due to daylight saving hours when you rowed out onto the lake to just sit in tranquility for a little while, appreciating the quiet time together. You’d rose to your feet, sure that you had seen an owl fly by and when you turned around, Tom was on one knee, box in hand. In the box, the ring of Salazar Slytherin himself with a bunch of roses in the other.

“Agatha told me today is Cupid’s holiday.” He say, voice just beyond a whisper as a smile grew on your face and tears formed. “You know, until I was sixteen I was asphyxiated with the idea of taking over the world, finding a victim to take the pain that I felt. But those silly little thoughts were gone when I met you, the only person I live and breathe for. I never thought I could, however I love you, yn ln. And it would do me great honour if you would be my wife.”

You’d kissed and hugged him and wept into his shoulder as you happily embraced - ready to start the rest of your lives together. There were no other young women in the village and your parents had practically alienated you when you went to live with muggles so the ladies who attended your doctors practise took you shopping for your wedding dress - Tom insisted on paying.

Dolly was brutally honest and Susan started crying, Agatha kissed you and called you her daughter and it was certainly a day to remember - a gorgeous fitting dress, white and highlighting your features gracefully.

You’d gotten married in the village church, an audience of your neighbours and close friends and a few companions from school, Agatha was your maid of honour and Greta your flower girl, gleaming smile on her face while her husband rolled her down the isle in her wheelchair while she sassily threw rose petals. And Dumbledore was sat in the front row, a smart suit on while he smiled at the man the little evil boy turned out to be, and the gorgeous woman you had flourished into.

It was a beautiful ceremony and a beautiful day. And you were now the beautiful yn Riddle.

In September, Abraxas Malfoy and his wife wanted to celebrate their wedding anniversary and asked if they would drop their son, Lucius off for the week so they could go away. You and Tom decided to take the week off work and look after him, after all, the young lad needed to be accustomed to his god parents!

One evening Lucius had pleaded with you to go sit in the garden and paint together and of course you complied, taking the supplied and the young boy on your hip, and headed for the grass to make a mess. And make a mess you did, there was red in your hair and blue on his white libel shirt, and hardly anything on the page. Tom watched from the window sipping on a cup of tea, watching as you interacted with the young boy so naturally, tickling his stomach and laughing as you played hidey-boo. It created an odd twang in his stomach, the same he had felt when he had first laid eyes on you.

One day when the boy had been reunited with his parents, Tom had been sent on a mission to retrieve an escaped boggart. During his time at Hogwarts, his biggest was recognisably his own dead corpse, but when he approached the creature, it’s form was your grave with him sat looking deathly ill beside it weeping. Your headstone read ‘a loving wife and doctor, no children’ his stomach dropped when he realised what he needed. What he needed right now.

He got home that night and held you close and cried, feeling you warm and full of life. You caressed his shaking body as you soothes him, and when he had calmed he had taken your face into his hands and cradled it, telling you suddenly “yn I want a baby.”

Throughout your pregnancy, Tom was tender and reluctant to let you move without him being beside you. He became more protective than he already was an even took an extended paternity leave just before your due date.

Prior to that however, he worshiped you like a goddess. He would make you decaf tea - something you grumbled about but he refused to listen. He stopped smoking his pipe inside the house, instead taking it to the end of the garden while he and Mr Garson next door chatted about his wife and you. He made you lay on the settee and sat on the floor beside your growing stomach while he read old wives tales from a book inherited from his mother. He even sang to it once or twice. After the sixth month mark when your belly was becoming noticeably plump to the point you could rest your tea cup upon it without it falling off, he began carrying you everywhere. Regardless of how far the distance, and the fact you were carrying another human, he acted as though you were a feather that needed assistance and carried you the way he did on your wedding night.

When you took your own maternity leave, he was even more pleased - before he’d sit beside you in your doctors office and never took his eyes off of you, now he needn’t a reason to why. In his eyes, his love was pregnant and needed tending too. He’d shower with you and lift your stomach until he saw the face of satisfaction he knew well and loved. And he’d be lying if he said the breasts you were growing didn’t make his mouth water, as well as the fact there was a possibility that he could impregnate a pregnant woman - a thought that drove him wild but alas after many attempts, it was eventually an unsuccessful mission.

And in the next July, Tom was sweating as he held your hand and felt a great pain as you cried in agony beside him. You were in a muggle hospital, Agatha had awoken in the middle of the night and heard your pained cries and ordered her husband, Mr Garson to drive you to the hospital which he did, adjusting his thick-lenses on his glasses and having to be awoken a few times at the wheel from Tom’s furious barks, but you made it on one piece, and at quarter to ten, you produced him a son, deciding on naming him Mattheo Riddle.

After giving him a bath, the midwife’s tried to take him away ‘give you a break’, but you refused. Groggily saying “I’ve only had him ten minutes why would I need a break.” And Tom soon shooed them off, getting into the bed beside you and holding your son skin-to-skin as he slept on his fathers chest, and you on his shoulder. When you drifted off he kissed the top of your head gently and whispered sweetly “well done, mummy.”

Tom was determined to be the father he didn’t have. And a good one at that.

Mr and Mrs Garson cried when you asked them to be the godparents, you would’ve appointed the role to everyone in this village if you could - your own little family larger than it seemed.

The newborn stage went by awefully fast and you and Tom self with every hurdle and hiccup together, all the nappies and sick, and the 3AM walks when baby Matty would not settle. It was gone and soon you had a walking talking toddler of whom you were both awfully proud of.

The chilly autumnal eves suddenly turned into even colder winter morns, Christmas was making its rounds in the muggle world and you and Tom had became accustomed to it. You decorated the tree, hung candles, sung carols, gave presents and ate specialty meals on the 25th. Tom sat in his armchair, Mattheo on lap, reading glasses down to the end of his nose as he read A Christmas Carol to him.

You were making dinner, Mince Pie was on the menu that night in particular, and you smiled as you notice the snow falling. You wiped your hands and leant against the doorframe watching your two boys in awe, just memorising the picture for a moment. “Are you alright, my love?” Tom asked, smiling up at you. “Just admiring the picture.” You say, mirroring his grin. Then you turn to your son. “I’m awfully sorry to interrupt, master Riddle. However, so I do believe it is snowing.” He gasped dramatically when he heard the news. “Snow! But we’re reading! But snow!” You both laugh at his dilemma then suggest “how about we eat dinner, then we’ll read out in the snow and make a snowman.” The young boy squeals in delight and runs to the dining room to eat, sitting ever so patiently yet with an impatient smile on those cheeky lips.

That evening you built a snowman, read the last part of the book, and put your son peacefully to sleep in his bed after singing ‘Silent Night’ to him. You and Tom basked in the sight for a moment, just taking in the calmness of the setting.

And as Tom looked down at you, he thought of how you’d changed him.

*scoff* Lord Voldemort, who’d ever heard of anything so ridiculous?

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munchkinfold · 1 year

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thebookshopofnightingales · 4 months

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in the backseat of his car

Aziraphale x reader (x Crowley at the end)

summary: a quick trip to Scotland to retrieve a book quickly turns into something a little less innocent...

cw: 18+ only!! smut asf, dirty talk, the Bentley being used for unholy reasons, thigh riding, reader pronouns not specified but 'good girl' is used, very slight hair pulling, switch!Aziraphale and switch!reader, dom!Crowley, handjobs, hickeys/bruises

word count: 1.1k

A/N: my first fic! (on this account, anyway) and we're straight into the smut hehe. I may or may not have started a part 2 so let me know if you wanna read that too. happy reading😈

You and that sweet-talking Angel of yours have somehow managed to convince Crowley to let you borrow his beloved Bentley to the Scottish highlands. Aziraphale caught wind of a particular first-edition that he just had to get his wings on. He was practically begging Crowley to take his car, and you have never been to Scotland so hoped to accompany him. Needless to say, after some heavy praise and the two of you worshipping him in bed, he reluctantly agreed.

You admire the hilly landscape on your left, and the angelic being on your right.

“Darling, you’re staring again.” His eyes don’t leave the road as he speaks. Such a soft voice, you think. But only you know just how filthy his mouth can get.

“I can’t help it,” you coo, “you look so good driving Crowley’s car.” You bite your lip, of which Aziraphale catches a glimpse of. You know the smallest gestures that get him shifting in his seat. You smirk to yourself. Slowly, your hand caresses his gorgeous thigh, moving ever so slightly higher and higher, until-

“Oh-” Aziraphale releases a heavy breath once you reach his crotch, palming him over his trousers as you feel him beginning to harden under your touch.

“My sweet Angel is already getting hard for me.” You purr into his ear. He whimpers, and writhes in his confinements, groaning at the friction.

When he has become completely hard, you lick your lips and remove your hand. He audibly whines at the loss of your touch.

“God, what are you doing to me?” You’re not sure if he said ‘God’ because he hears you say it so much, or because he’s actually asking, but there are times when Aziraphale becomes so worked up that a blasphemy or two will escape his sweet lips. And you’re not complaining.

You leave Aziraphale high and dry for the rest of the ride, eager fantasising about what’ll happen once you arrive, every so often sneaking peeks at his full blown erection from within his trousers and the way he has a light shine of sweat over his beautiful face. You squeeze your thighs together in anticipation.

You shift over to the driver’s seat while Aziraphale is retrieving his book, watching him through the window with your bottom lip between your teeth, ready to pull off as soon as he sits down. With so much energy and excitement pulsing from your head down to your core, you need him here and now.

Except it can’t be here.

“My dear, why are you sitting in the driver’s seat?” Aziraphale asks through the window. “You know I’m a much safer driver. You drive like Crowley.”

“Oh, my angel, you’ll be fine. Now get in the damned car.” You reply with a knowing smirk.

You whiz through the roads, barely sparing a couple of oblivious pedestrians. Aziraphale hides behind his book.

Finally, you find a secluded parking area overlooking a beautiful Scottish view just as the sun has set. As the sky is growing darker, so are your eyes.

“Get in the back seat.” You order Aziraphale. He can’t help the twitch of his cock at your tone and does as you say. As you climb over to straddle his lap, he moves your hips so you're just straddling just one of his thighs. Your eyes widen with lust and you let out a small moan just at the idea of what’s about to happen. He leans his lips to your ear as he pulls your hair back slightly.

“I’m in charge now, my dear.” He whispers, before moving to kiss and nibble at your neck.

“Fuck, yes Angel.” You moan breathlessly as your head falls back. With a snap of his fingers, you are suddenly left in just your underwear. He grips onto your hips and begins guiding your heat over his thigh. The friction is delicious and you begin to grind harder against him, moaning at the sensation. Aziraphale lets out a groan at the sight of you like this, beginning to leave your wetness on his trousers. You can see the tent beginning to form, so you run your fingers over his clothed crotch and let them slide beneath the waistband. This time Aziraphale lets his head fall against the back seat and you descend your lips to his neck, sucking just under his ear enough to leave a mark. You kiss the bruise you’ve left and hum at the sinful sight of a hickey on your Angel. His grip gets tighter on your hips, surely leaving bruises of his own.

You begin stroking his length faster as you begin to reach your climax. He tenses his thigh more to intensify your pleasure. It’s all breathy moans and each other's names on your tongues.

He pulls your hand from his cock and leans it on his shoulder. He’s always enjoyed being able to truly bask in your pleasure with no distractions.

“Fuck, Aziraphale, this feels so good, I’m so close.” You’re breathless and moaning as you grind harder and faster. Aziraphale, one hand still on your hip, takes the other to lightly brush your hair behind your ear.

“Come for me, my dear. Fuck, that’s it. Good girl.”

His dirty words send you over the edge and have you coming undone hard on his thigh.

“Aziraphale, Angel, fuck!” You almost scream it feels that heavenly. You ride out your orgasm with your mouth wide and face contorted by pleasure. You collapse against his chest, lazily reaching back down for his still aching cock. He groans and deeply chuckles, and you can feel the resonance from his chest.

“I like when you let sin fall from your lips, Angel.” You purr, using your thumb to lightly tug on his lower lip. There’s so much lust in his eyes that you would never be able to tell that he’s one of Heaven’s ones.

“It’s because you tempt it out of me.” You feign shock at his remark. “Oh, come on, darling, you can’t pretend that you don’t have a little of the Devil in you.”

You bite your lip. “And you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

A crackle of the radio interrupts the moment. Except you’re not expecting Crowley’s voice.

“Well, aren’t you two a salacious pair? Remember, I can feel everything that happens to and in this car. So imagine my surprise when I’m locking up your bookshop and suddenly I’m hard as a rock.” His words surprise you and your hand comes to your mouth, failing to hide your grin of excitement from your Demon’s words.

“Oh. Oh dear.” Aziraphale musters.

“Oh dear indeed, Angel.” You can hear Crowley’s gritted teeth through the speaker of the car and you chuckle with your lip between your teeth. “And don’t think I can’t tell that your hand is still wrapped around Aziraphale’s cock, my love.”

“Crowley, don’t be so- oh, Heavens.” Aziraphale moans as you suddenly tighten your grip and work your hand faster.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

#good omens #aziracrow #aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale x reader #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x reader #good omens smut #aziracrow x reader #aziraphale smut #good omens fanfiction #aziracrow smut #crowley's bentley #ineffible husbands

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the-goddess-of-mischief-writing · 6 months

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Random Soap MacTavish headcanons {2}

sfw and nsfw

pairing: sgt. Soap MacTavish x reader (cod mw)

tags/tw: domestic stuff, fem!reader, smut, creampie, oral kink, groping, fingering, twt links (straight up porn)

a/n: if I have not seen the scene when Soap floats to he Scottish Highlands, it haven't happened. yes I'm in denial and will re-watch the mw2 campaign religiously, while living in my bubble, I shall feed all of those who wants to join me

Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish MASTERLIST

sfw

-god this man chews gum a.fucking.lot, Soap always have a pack of gum in his pocket or bag

-sometimes you send him a look when he starts chewing with the front of his teeth and the sound gets just a tad bit too obnoxious, he always notices but there's two ways he reacts

-either he gives you a bashful smile and shrug before going back to whatever he's doing, mindful to not disturb you again

-or, he simply meets your gaze with arched brows, white gum on full display between his teeth as he offers you a boyish smile, that reaction always precedes his playful mood of teasing you with his chewing, a sharp pop sounding every now and then as he somehow manages to create little bubbles with a simple

-although Soap may be the shortest out of 141, this man is far from small, just put him in a setting where everyone isn't Ghost and he towers over most and it just so happens that you get reminded of it while almost every time you catch him working out

-you just throw him a glance and get kinda stunned when seeing the way your hulking powerhouse of a boyfriend beats the punching bag or throw around weights as if they weight absolutely nothing

-he loves swimming and water

-like, this man wants to go to any body of water at least once on his leave, sometimes just to sit and watch the wave crash against the beach, or the soft clucking of a lake

-sometimes he even takes a quick dip despite being in Scotland and the water impossibly is above 11

-you just watch him in disbelief as he strip and wades into the water until it reaches the middle of his thighs and he submerges himself, you blame it on the military for frying his cold-receptors, but he argues he's been likes this since being a wee lad

nsfw under the cut

-this mf is nasty, Soap loves to see his cum drip out of you and if you’ll let him, he’ll never want to prove his pull-out game is as strong as he boasts about

-sometimes, he is so in his head that he can’t rid himself of his boner until he can shoot his load inside you, jerks himself off with his tip resting just inside your pretty cunt

-ohmygod I just imagined Soap having an oral kink, but more so watching your lips wrap round things, your tongue running over whatever is sealed within your mouth

-of course he loves when you give him oral, having you sink to your knees before him with a football game in the background after a stressful day, he can see heaven the way his head cranes backwards

-but, it doesn't even need to be anything sexual, you can be licking an ice cream, a lollipop, Jesus Christ your fucking fingers from the sauce when you cook, he can't take his eyes off of you

-Soap is sweat in the bedroom, adores making you feel good and reach your high enough times until you push his hands away and lay there with a drunk smile, limbs slack, eyes half-lidded as they meet his adoringly

-however, sometimes he touches you because he wants to play

-you can be laying in bed, short tank top and panties on as he relaxes in joggers, and his fingers just starts running up and down your scantily clad bottom half

-it starts with Soap just running his hands over your arse, lower spine, until they dip again and he toys with your underwear, fingers occasionally slipping over your clothed pussy, pressing into the seam of your cunt before going back to groping your cheeks

-then he pushes it further, dipping his fingers beneath your panties to toy with your cunt, only to take your panties off altogether to lazily finger you

-he plays for a long time, feeling how you grew wetter and squirm all the more, in the end breathing a desperate pleading 'Johnny' and he knows it'll come because he never stops until it does, just wanting to see for how long you'll let him run his hands over you before getting to needy

#soap mactavish #soap cod #soap mw2 #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod mwii #call of duty #john soap mctavish x reader #soap x fem reader #soap x fem!reader #soap call of duty #soap x you #soap headcanons #cod headcanons

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wastelandmoony · 1 year

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Things We Lost in the Fire

Characters: Sebastian Sallow x Reader/f!MC

Summary: Sebastian Sallow was many things: your dueling partner, former friend, object of your secret desire. But most of all, he was a pain in your ass.

Going practically M.I.A. since the Battle of the Repository, you hadn't spoken or seen him since the end of your fifth year. As a new school year begins, you'll need to come to terms with his overbearing presence around the castle...and his new relationship.

Warnings: language, allusions to smut, mild violence?

Word Count: 6K+ (oopsie)

A/N: This idiot has been living rent free in my brain for over a month. After finishing the game and being less than enthused by the culmination of his storyline, here we are.

Sebastian Sallow Playlist

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The Great Hall was buzzing with excitement; the electricity crackling through the air was palpable. September 1st was always an exhilarating day, but this year even more so. The promise of a new school year, a new start; the feeling was invigorating. After the events of last year everyone was in an elevated state of elation to be back amongst friends, nestled within the fortified stone walls of the castle that had become home to them all.

As you strode through the large oak doors, the empty seat amongst the faculty table shot a dagger straight through your heart. From the dais, Professor Hecat wore a small sympathetic smile, one reserved specifically for you. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you shook off the visions of Professor Fig, of the faces currently staring back at you fighting alongside underneath the castle. You weren’t unsure what sort of unseen force was propelling you forward, subconsciously managing to make it to the Hufflepuff table.

For being as tiny as she was, Poppy practically body slammed you onto the floor with the velocity of her hug. Though the two of you had kept in touch over the summer, you hadn’t seen her in person since last year.

You hadn’t seen anyone since leaving Hogwarts in June.

Last Spring had been a bit of a blur. After defeating Ranrok in the bowels of the castle, your body had shut down, completely going into autopilot as you navigated the remainder of 5th year. Classes had resumed like nothing had happened, but the whispers around the school eventually changed to shouts, and everyone became fully aware of how close they (and the rest of the Wizarding world) had come to complete destruction. Word quickly spread of your unique abilities, and how you were able to defeat one of the strongest uses of ancient magic known to history. The notoriety was overwhelming, and frankly uncomfortable. So much had been lost, and you didn’t have the strength to put on a happy face for all of the well-wishers and nosy students that pestered with questions in the halls.

Once the snow melted and the Scottish Highlands were beginning to bloom with color, a ceremony was held in the Great Hall, including a memorial for those lost. Headmaster Black requested you speak in honor of Professor Fig, but the thought made you violently ill. How do you sum up the life of a man that took you in when no one else would? Who taught you about the special powers that laid dormant inside your soul? The man who fought beside you until the very end?

Professor Weasley took over the task, understanding the desperate look in your eyes when you had asked. She had taken to watching over you in Fig’s absence, scheduling weekly tea times to check in on your wellbeing. She was the lifeline you needed, but frankly not the one you wanted.

Poppy stuck by your side for the remainder of the year, trying her best to keep your mind off the trauma of everything. But she wasn’t there when you were asleep; she couldn’t keep the nightmares away. The screams were the worst, echoing in your subconscious with no escape until you woke up violently thrashing. You heard Ranrok’s cold laughter; the crack of dark magic; the screams of your friends.

You heard Sebastian.

You heard Anne’s scream.

When you woke, a flash of blinding green light shot across your vision each time, one single phrase playing over and over: “I had to do it—“

The greed in Sebastian’s voice plagued you, long gone was your cheeky dueling partner from Crossed Wands, the one that confided his darkest secrets while exploring hidden rooms throughout the school. The two of you hadn’t spoken since the memorial ceremony, he had all but become a ghost. Occasionally you’d see him in the halls, walking with a dead-eyed stare that never seemed to land on you. Ominis kept you informed about Anne; she wasn’t speaking to Sebastian, going as far as to banish him from attending their uncles funeral altogether. According to his best friend, the news didn’t surprise him in the slightest, but the lack of communication with Anne was eating Sebastian alive.

You tried to forget about your former friend, the one that you had lost to the lure and power of dark magic. Regardless of his original intentions, Sebastian had strayed too far from the help he had set out to find. You weren’t innocent in this either, utilizing dark magic throughout the struggle to defeat Ranrok. The difference was, that you knew when and where to use it, Sebastian was drunk on the power.

Ominis kept in touch over the summer, writing occasionally to check-in and talk about your respective breaks and desire to be back at school. He never mentioned Sebastian in his letters, a deliberate choice and something that you were grateful for.

You hadn’t been excited to leave Hogwarts, with nothing and no one to go home to. Professor Fig was the only guardian figure you’d ever known, having been the one that retrieved you from the group home in London over a year ago. You refused to go back there, to the never-ending list of asinine rules and an overbearing matron hell-bent on keeping an oppressive eye on your every move, so in exchange for working at the Three Broomsticks you were able to rent a room for free from Sirona until September. She understood better than most what you had been through, and also knew that no one else would possibly rent to an underage witch with little to no means of supporting herself. When you weren’t picking up shifts in the pub, the massive amount of books you’d amassed kept your mind occupied. Even after cramming all year and having multiple professors offer extra assignments, you still felt behind. Any free time was spent pouring over ancient spell texts and potion recipes, eager to come back to school feeling confident in your abilities as a 6th year witch (and not as the hero you had been portrayed as by everyone else).

———

As you sat down with Poppy at the Hufflepuff table, you were greeted loudly by a few other housemates, their welcoming nature warming your heart. After the opening remarks from Headmaster Black and the sorting ceremony, the feast commenced with the entire hall erupting into the boisterous sounds of students laughing and reacquainting.

Taking a sip of pumpkin juice, you were suddenly startled by two cold hands covering your eyes.

“Guess who—“ a low voice sounded in your ear.

“Ominis!” You whipped your head around to see his sly grin as he sat beside you on the bench. Without hesitation, you embraced him, wrapping both arms around his thin shoulders, “I’ve missed you.”

You felt him smile against your shoulder, “Likewise—how was the rest of your summer?”

“Uneventful…thankfully,” you laughed, pulling back from him, “How about yours?”

Ominis shrugged, “Nothing grand, I did visit Anne a few weeks ago though.”

Your eyes widened, “Oh! How is she?”

“She’s doing well…at least, as well as can be expected…” he trailed off, and she knew it was because there was more to the story. His milky eyes traveled over in the direction of the Slytherin table briefly, hers following on instinct.

He came into sight almost immediately, you’d recognize those freckles anywhere. He was laughing at something, a true, jovial laugh that you hadn’t heard since Crossed Wands. Even from three tables over, you could pick it out of the crowd; the sound igniting the very blood in your veins. Sebastian’s eyes creased as the laughter died into a genuine smile; he looked good, he looked—happy. You watch as he leans over and places a kiss on the cheek of—wait.

“Imelda?!” You choked, forcing your mouth closed to avoid looking like a heartbroken sod. The fire that his laugh had set was now turning into a thick sludge in your gut, bubbling and seeping into the very essence of your being.

Ominis cringed, turning towards you with visible sympathy written on his pale face, “Yes, they began seeing each other over the summer. It’s been…rather insufferable if I’m honest.”

You shook your head, unwilling to believe the sight in front of you. Out of everyone at Hogwarts, he had to choose her? Imelda was insufferable on the best of days; brash, loud, and incredibly boastful, she was the antithesis of yourself—maybe that’s why Sebastian liked her.

“How…?” Your attention was pulled back to Ominis, brows furrowed as your lungs constricted.

He shrugged again and shook his head in disbelief, “After everything that happened, he became distant as you well know, he barely spoke to me even. Imelda, being a fellow Slytherin, is incredibly ambitious and when she sets her mind on something, there’s nothing that will stop her. She saw a lonely, lost boy in need of guidance and support, and she struck.”

The room was beginning to spin.

You’d be lying if you said the feelings you harbored for Sebastian didn’t exist. The two of you had been through unspeakable things together, leaning on each other through it all, until he decided to take a path you couldn’t follow. Even after everything, he was still your Sebastian, and the hope that one day he would come around stuck firmly in your heart. You loved him, more than just as a friend and dueling partner.

You were in love with Sebastian Sallow, you had been for a while.

Eventually, Ominis returned to his house table, promising to meet again the following morning for breakfast to compare timetables. You glanced over as he sat back down amongst his fellow Snakes, and were caught in the unwavering stare that Sebastian had set directly on you. Averting your eyes as a deep blush creeped up your cheeks, the thought of sinking through the flagstone floor seemed very appealing. That wasn’t an accidental glance, he was fixated on you; eyes boring into yours while he sat beside his girlfriend. The expression on his face was unreadable, something you’d ruminate on later.

The moment Professor Black dismissed the houses, you sprinted to your dorm, eager to be as far away from Sebastian Sallow as physically possible.

———

The timetable for this term wasn’t awful; you had been able to choose which classes to pursue in accordance with which career path you planned on taking after Hogwarts, swapping the least attractive (a.k.a. impossibly boring and rather useless) courses for more riveting subject matter. After witnessing the corruption and insolence displayed by Officer Singer and her colleagues last year, becoming a member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was the only logical path for you. The overarching desire to create fundamental change department-wide, and actually be able to help citizens and prevent unspeakable tragedies, consumed you. Poppy had tried to convince you to pursue a career in the Department of Magical Creatures like her; something that did in fact greatly interest you, ultimately pacifying her by taking another year of Beasts classes. The one course you were looking forward to, Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts, was going to be a struggle.

It was the one class you shared with Sebastian.

Professor Hecat was a welcome sight, smiling at you as she walked towards the front of the classroom.

“Good morning everyone, and welcome to another year of Defense Against the Dark Arts! At this point in your academic journey, you should be well versed in most defensive spellwork, including protective shields and disarming maneuvers. Let’s do a little ‘welcome back’ warm-up, shall we?” Her eyes swept over the room, the majority of students returning eager expressions.

“I’ll split you all into pairs, line up on either side of the classroom and begin trying to disarm your partner,” Professor Hecat began to rattle off names, and the further she ran through the roster, the lower your stomach sank. Gaze falling to the floor as she called your last name, you knew exactly what was about to follow.

“—and Sallow. Have at it!” She motioned for the start of the duels.

You slowly pushed the chair back, refusing to even look in his general direction as you lined up against the wall.

It’s just a duel, you’ve done it a million times.

Picture him as just another foe.

Taking to the proper stance, you exhale slowly, trying to welcome in any semblance of calm. Finally looking up at your partner, his gaze was already glued to you. The vacant eyes that you saw last year were gone, replaced by the original brown, cozy warmth you had fallen in love with. It should’ve made you happy, the fact that he seemed to be doing better (at least on the outside), but all you felt was your heart sinking into your stomach. Sebastian raised his wand and narrowed his eyes, a look you knew all too well from fighting alongside him last year. He knew your exact style of dueling, he was your partner from the beginning, your right hand man; a fact that would only work to your detriment.

“Expelliarmus!” You flicked your wand towards him, a spark of exhilaration shooting up your arm.

“Protego,“ he growled, casting an immediate shield and blocking your test shot. The timber of his voice gave you goosebumps, it had been so long since you’d heard it. The two of you watched each other intensely, the air around you thick with everything unsaid.

“Stupefy—“ he shot back. You expertly dodged the stun and instantly cast another disarming spell. It hit Sebastian in the arm, wand leaping out of his hand, only to be quickly grabbed mid-air before it could be lost entirely.

“Shit…” you whispered under your breath, trying to think of another game plan.

He smirked as you repositioned yourself, “You’re rusty.”

You shot an angry look in his direction, shooting an even quicker levitation spell that he avoided with a shrug of his shoulder.

“Oh come on, I know you can do better than that,” he sent a stinging hex your way, something you both knew wasn’t allowed in Professor Hecat’s classroom.

“What’re you playing at?” You threw both hands out in disbelief, while Sebastian grinned. He was doing this on purpose, he wanted to get a rise out of you.

Sticking to Hecat’s dueling rules, you sent a quick succession of spells forward, mixing both disarming and stunning, knowing that Sebastian lacked the speed to block each one. To your surprise, he managed to avoid them (you briefly wondered who he’d been practicing with), casting a perfect protego shield and firing another fierce stupefy in your direction followed by one single bolt of confringo.

The heat of the blast burned as it shot past your head, making you gasp at the aggression. Snapping your head around, he had a shit eating grin on his smug face.

“What’s wrong? Hogwarts’ Golden Girl doesn’t want to fight back?”

“Fuck you, Sallow!” You spit, casting depulso and throwing him backwards into the wall.

As his body slammed into the stone, Professor Hecate yelling your name out.

“—DETENTION. MR. SALLOW, YOU AS WELL!”

As Sebastian sat against the wall, rubbing the back of his (now bruised) head, you quickly snatched your bag off the floor and stalked out of class early before saying something regretful.

———

Ominis had found out about the incident in Defense class later that same day, the entire school was talking about the former friends turned bitter enemies. He was less than amused by the outburst on both of your parts, chastising you for losing your ‘sense of decorum and grace at Sebastian’s childish antics’.

“You can’t let him get to you,” Ominis shook his head as he sat down with you and Poppy in the Great Hall for lunch.

Letting out an exasperating groan, you buried your head in your hands, “I know, I know. I’m not sure what came over me…”

Poppy and Ominis began to chat about their shared Charms class while you ate in silence, trying to keep your thoughts from reverting back to the tiny spark of mischief you saw in Sebastian’s eyes earlier, or how you wanted to trace every single freckle on his face—no. Stop it.

“—want to check out the newborn Kneazles that Professor Howin told me about after lunch?” Poppy chimed, looking at you eagerly over her sandwich.

It snapped you out of the daze, “Oh? Oh! Sorry, I can’t—quidditch try-outs are this afternoon.”

“You’re trying out for the team?” Poppy sat up straighter in excitement.

You nodded, taking another bite of food.

“Good for you,” Ominis nudged your arm gently, “from what I’ve heard, you’re a pretty exceptional flyer.”

Blushing, you pushed him back playfully with your elbow, “Thanks, I guess we’ll see how I fare on the quidditch pitch though.”

———

Later that day, you sat mid-air on your broom in the warm September breeze, inhaling the early scents of oncoming autumn. The trees of the Forbidden Forrest rustled just off the side of the pitch, a grouping of Jobberknolls cresting over the tops. All four houses were holding try-outs simultaneously, organizing short scrimmages of inter-house players both prospective and permanent. So far, you were one of the strongest contenders from any of them.

Except for one.

Imelda turned the pitch into her own personal showcase, making an extra effort to show off for anyone watching; anyone, including a specific Slytherin 6th year in the stands below. You had flown low over the spectators earlier in order to avoid an incoming bludger, noticing Ominis seated next to your former partner-in-crime. As you looped around, you caught Sebastian’s brown eyes fixed on you, muttering something to your mutual friend beside him.

Another Hufflepuff hopeful named Charlie thew the quaffle to you, signaling a turn to traverse through the other players and attempt to score. Weaving, diving, and dodging through the multitude of brooms, the bronze goalposts were within range; that’s when you saw a flash of green descend rapidly in front of you, blocking the path to victory. Imelda smirked, swaying as you attempted to maneuver around. She was fast and knew this game like the back of her hand, something you were already keenly aware of.

Suddenly she shot forward, kicking roughly with her boot to try and knock the quaffle out from under your arm. Making contact with your elbow, you wince at the pain, narrowing your eyes at her sinister grin. The sight of her kissing Sebastian in the Great Hall flashed before your eyes, mocking you.

Imelda pulled back and lined up to charge again. To the right, you saw a Hufflepuff beater square up with an incoming bludger. You whistled to get their attention, signaling with your eyes to help out. They smacked the bludger in your direction, and you quickly spun to hit it with the tail of your broom, redirecting it straight at Imelda. It made contact with her ribs, knocking her off the broom and sending her careening towards the ground.

Madam Kogawa shouted from the field below, “ARRESTO MOMENTUM!”

Upon seeing the interference, you rocketed towards the goal posts, tossing the quaffle through the ring effortlessly. As the Hufflepuff captain flew over to congratulate you, your eyes focused on Imelda being carted off to the hospital wing below, Sebastian following close behind.

———

On Friday night, you trudged to the Defense Against the Darks tower for detention. The thought of spending an entire night doing mindless tasks beside Sebastian made you want to vomit. All of this was his fault: the detention, the animosity, the…feelings. Everything could have been avoided if he wasn’t such an insufferable little twat.

Turning the corner, you saw him leaning outside of Professor Hecat’s door, arms crossed over his chest. Even alone he looks utterly smug and pretentious, though the words crossed your mind, your stomach (which had now suddenly taken on the form of a dozen angry billywigs) had a differing opinion. Upon hearing your footsteps, his eyes snap up, features softening slightly as you drew closer. Completely ignoring his presence (and absolutely stupid looking smirk), you breezed past through the open door. You heard him follow behind, shutting the heavy wooden door as Professor Hecat looked up from her desk.

“Good evening,” she said calmly, “as your punishment for using aggressive spells during a non-offensive lesson, you will each be writing an essay on how to best defend yourself against three types of beasts, each one without using a single attack spell.”

Sebastian groaned from the back of the room, and you fought the urge to roll your eyes at his typical dramatics.

Taking a seat close to Professor Hecat’s desk, you got to work outlining your main points. Dugbogs, Acromantulas, and Mongrels; three beasts you were (unfortunately) very familiar with. Luckily, your combat experience with numerous different magical creatures enabled the essay to practically write itself. Across the room, the sound of Sebastian tapping his quill against the desk was driving you insane. You shot him an angry look as he put his hands up, mouthing a snarky “what?” back at you.

Just ignore him, you thought, like Ominis said, he’s just trying to get a rise out of you.

Surprising absolutely no one, you finished your essay before Sebastian, rising gracefully from your desk and handing the roll of parchment to Professor Hecat with an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry again, Professor. I promise I won’t lose my head again.”

She returned the smile, “You’re a brilliant witch, my dear, I expect great things from you. Don’t disappoint me.”

The hallways were deserted as you emerged from the classroom, curfew had passed a few hours ago so you would be in for a quiet walk back down to the dormitory. As you descended the main stairs, an insufferable voice came from behind, echoing through the vacant corridor.

“I expect great things from you, don’t disappoint me!”

Sebastian was sauntering down the staircase, a mocking grin on his face. You rolled your eyes and continued on, ignoring him just like you did Peeves.

The twin footsteps followed the corridor leading towards the bottom floor of the castle, Sebastian making an annoying point to whistle a jaunty tune the entire time that was grating on your nerves. The realization finally dawned on you that he had completely bypassed the staircase that led down to the Slytherin dungeons. Whipping around, he stopped short as to not walk directly into your body.

“Why are you following me?” You demanded, keeping your voice steady. The low lights of the torches lining the hallway flickered in his dark eyes, reminding you of the countless nights dueling down in the Undercroft together. The hanging braziers would always cast a halo effect onto his hair, looking almost angelic as he would reach out a hand to help you up after a particular strong blast. “Not bad—for a Hufflepuff,” he would chuckle, brushing the dirt from your hair. In those moments, it didn’t matter that Ominis was across the room listening, it didn’t matter that you weren’t any closer to curing Anne, it didn’t matter that the fate of the Wizarding world was weighing on your shoulders; it was just you, and him, two sides of the same Galleon, the rest just melted away.

He pushed past, cocking his head to the side as he approached the portrait leading to the kitchens.

“Promised Imelda I’d grab her something from the kitchens on my way back—they don’t serve dessert in the hospital wing, apparently…”

Mouth pressed into a tight line, you nod. The upwards inflection at the end of his statement gave you pause, it almost sounded…amused? The sight of the large barrels at the end of the hallway was a welcome sight, and you picked up the pace towards the common room entrance, desperate to get away from Sebastian and the aggressively thick tension. Tapping the second to last barrel, you stared at the wooden entrance as it slid open, allowing passage through. Before stepping over the threshold, you could’ve sworn the sound of your name was whispered quietly from down the hall; when you glanced back, the kitchen portrait was just snapping shut.

———

Avoiding Sebastian was becoming almost impossible; for as large as the castle was, it seemed like the two of you kept running into each other at every turn. Defense class was honestly the easiest place to avoid him, surprisingly; after the incident at the beginning of the year, Professor Hecat knew better than to pair you together. He sat close to the back every week, an opposing position to your front row seat. Outside of the classroom was an entirely different story. In the Great Hall, you would always be within eyeshot of him, and whenever Ominis would stop by your table to chat, you could feel his gaze on you from across the room.

“—I just don’t know how I’ll manage to keep up with it. I still have three essays for Magical Theory, Charms, and Arithmancy, how can I possibly find time to write another for History of Magic?” Ominis ran a hand down his pale face. Sixth year was giving everyone a run for their money; you had never seen Ominis this frazzled about school before. As he continued to whine, you glanced up from your lunch to see Sebastian sitting at the far table, staring directly at you with an expression that could only be describe as longing. Holding his eyes for the briefest of moments, his attention was quickly torn away by the arrival of Imelda, who flopped down on the bench rather dramatically. Her scowl was prominent, and you silently thought about what trivial occurrence had set her off this time. The contents of your lunch threatened to expel themselves as you watched Sebastian throw a protective arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to begin a vicious assault on her mouth. The call of your name snapped your attention from the gruesome display of affection.

“—are you even listening to me?” Ominis whined, face contorted with mild annoyance.

You hummed, the display you just witnessed seemingly burned into your eyes, “Yes, sorry, Ominis. I’m just…”

“Distracted?” His voice was laden with accusation as his eyes drifted over towards the Slytherin table. Your eyes refused to follow, knowing exactly what scene they’d be met with.

“Yes…there’s a lot on my mind between school, and quidditch, and—”

“—and our old friend, Mr. Sallow?” Ominis remained fixated on his house table, voice monotonous as if he were stating a well-known fact.

You choked audibly, eyes about to leave your skull as Ominis’ face remained stoic.

“He asked about you the other day, you know.”

The sentence knocked the wind out of you.

“…o-oh?” Your stumbling voice was a traitor, “and what did he want, exactly?”

“To know how you were.”

A volatile swirl of emotions happened simultaneously. As your heart did somersaults in your chest cavity at the thought of Sebastian giving even one iota of a damn about your wellbeing, the deep rooted hurt and anger from his actions began to courses through your veins like poison; threatening to consume the delicate fluttering between your ribs.

“…and what did you tell him?” The question came out as a barely audible whisper, the hurricane still raging inside of your body, each emotion vying for control.

Ominis slowly panned back to your pained expression, “I told him to ask you himself.”

———

Last winter was brutal, but this years was shaping up to be even worse. The castle grounds had been perpetually blanketed in heavy snow for almost two months straight, so much that you had frankly forgotten what grass looked like. On top of that, the wind whipped violently across the lawns and swirled around the courtyards, making it almost impossible to be outside between classes. The majority of the time you were comfortably resigned to lounging in the Hufflepuff Common Room, the warmth and coziness of the underground burrow breathing some much needed life back into your bones. You and Ominis had begun swapping books as entertainment; once the two of you had completed your respective novels, you’d switch them in-between classes or drop them off at breakfast. Sometimes Ominis would write little notes and stick them in the pages of chapters he found very interesting, so you began to copy the sentiment, making notes in the margins on lines that particularly moved you. Afterwards, deep discussions would be had in the Undercroft about each story, coming up with theories and breaking down each plot point. It had become a hobby you truly enjoyed, and it brought the both of you even closer together.

Ominis had been on a big muggle literature kick lately, opting for recommending ancient greek texts for this cycle of book-swapping. He dropped off a small, leather-bound copy of The Odyssey one morning at breakfast, raving on and on about how much he enjoyed it and being extremely anxious upon hearing your thoughts once finished. His excitement had you beaming, genuinely for once, a smile that made your cheeks hurt slightly. You hadn’t felt that since…well, since last year.

The anniversary of the Battle of the Repository was approaching, something that refused to leave the forefront of your mind. The book-swap with Ominis had been helping slightly, giving you at least a slight reprieve while reading about far away places and fantastic adventures, but you couldn’t stay stuck in the pages forever, and the reminders would always creep back quickly.

Double Potions that morning led into a free afternoon (thank Merlin, you could only take so much of Garreth Weasley in one day), meaning that the rest of the day could be spent curled up by the fire in your common room reading without distractions. The thought of the gentle heat warming your frozen body is what got you through the dreary hours-long dungeon class (the lack of feeling in your toes stealing most of your attention, allowing you to completely shut Garreth’s incessant talking out). At Professor Sharp’s grunt of dismissal, you practically flew from the dungeon, taking the steps two at a time back up to your warm, golden oasis.

The best couch was unoccupied as you walked through the wooden tunnel, tossing your bag onto the rug and flopping down amongst the floral embroidered cushions. You stretch your feet out towards the fire, feeling the blood begin to flow back to your soles and wiggling each toe inside your boots.

The spine of The Odyssey cracked as you pried it open, relishing in the feeling of the parchment on your fingertips. As you worked your way through, a small piece of parchment slid out from the back of the book, landing directly into your lap. A small note was scrawled onto the torn paper, and you instantly recognized Ominis’ posh handwriting (the way he flourished the last letter of each word was a dead giveaway).

Meet me in the Undercroft after curfew tonight.

Tonight? There’s no way you’d be able to finish this book by tonight, it was already almost—shit, it was almost dinner. Sighing, you began to tear through the pages, deciding to skip dinner entirely in lieu of attempting to finish by this evening. You’d just pop by the kitchens on the way to the Undercroft, Ominis was always welcoming of midnight snacks anyway.

The clock in the common room chimed at 10pm, signaling that curfew had officially begun. After a quick pit-stop in the kitchens (you grabbed Ominis and extra dessert hoping it would make him less annoyed that you hadn’t been able to finish his book that day), you snuck silently towards the Defense Tower.

The gate to the Undercroft groaned as you lifted it, stepping through and looking around the dim area for any signs of life.

“Ominis?” You call into the room, “I’m sorry—I really tried to finish but I ran out of—“

A shuffling in the corner caught your attention. Ominis never remembered to light the torches if he got there first, something you really needed to remind him of.

“Incendio,” you ignited one of the braziers by a nearby pillar, illuminating Sebastian’s face.

“What’re you doing here?” Your voice was accusatory as you gripped onto your book.

“Me?” His brows raised incredulously, “Need I remind you, this was my secret first. If anything, I should be asking why you’re here.”

Prick.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m supposed to be meeting Ominis.”

Sebastian hummed in acknowledgement, “I don’t think he’ll be making it.”

A pit of fear began to form in your gut, an unintentional mechanism put in place after everything that happened last year.

“What’re you talking about? Is he okay?!” Your voice began to raise as panic shot through every cell in your being.

He raised his hands in a calming manner, “He’s fine, last I saw he was heading up to bed.”

…What? Ominis knew you had a meeting tonight, he’s the one that bloody sent the invitation! You pulled out the torn piece of parchment from the pages of the book, examining the words again to see if maybe you had misread it.

Sebastian chuckled darkly from across the room, “Impressive, isn’t it? I think I’m getting rather good at imitation charms.”

Your eyes slowly raised to his smug face, “…you? You wrote this? Why—“

“I—wanted to talk to you,” his voice faltered slightly.

Your eyes widened, “Now you want to talk? It’s been months, Sebastian…”

The blood in your veins was beginning to heat up, all of the anger that had been building since last winter coming back to the surface.

He sighed, “How are you?”

The cackle that left your mouth was accidental, “How am I? Is that a joke? You’re joking, right?”

He sat stone-faced as you raised both eyebrows at him incredulously.

“You’re unbelievable…” you grumbled, turning towards the gate to leave.

“Wait!” He rushed forward grabbed your wrist. The touch sent electric shocks through your arm.

“Please—I—I’m sorry,” His voice was low, eyes pleading with you to stay, “I just, don’t know what to say.”

“An apology would be a fantastic place to start,” you retorted rather rudely, earning a sideways glance from him.

“I’m trying—”

“—No you’re not.”

“Well, maybe if you let me get a word in—“

“—go ahead then, tell me what you’re ‘trying’ to apologize for,” you crossed your arms over your chest.

Sebastian backed up slightly, “…Everything. I’m sorry for dragging you into this, I’m sorry you had to see me at my worst—“

“—at your worst? Sebastian, I lied for you, shit—I cast unforgivables for you. I convinced Ominis to keep everything a secret so you wouldn’t be sent to Azkaban. And what did you do? You disappeared—“

“—I know, I’m sorr—“

“No!” Your voice was growing louder as you felt the tears start forming again, “You don’t get it! We went through hell together, I fought beside you while you took advantage of me and my powers. You used me, Sebastian…you used me and threw me away when you saw nothing left to gain…”

“Is…is that really what you think?” He whispered, eyes full of a sad desperation that you couldn’t place.

You sniffle, avoiding his gaze altogether, “I needed you. After Ranrok…after losing Professor Fig…I was so alone. All I wanted was to see you, to talk to the one person I loved the most.”

You watched as Sebastian’s eyes glassed over.

“I couldn’t face you, not after everything you saw, everything that I put you through. That day in the Scriptorium, when I—“ His voice cracked, wet eyes glancing up at the ceiling,”—when I cast crucio on you, I thought I’d lost you. I had promised myself to never hurt you again after that night, and I…I failed. I failed myself, and most importantly, I failed you. I didn’t use you for your powers…I needed you beside me because you’re—you’re the only person besides Anne that I can’t live without.”

He drew closer, his soft freckles becoming more defined as he inched forward. Your breath hitched as he grabbed your wrist again softy, tracing down until his calloused fingers intertwined with yours. It was intoxicating.

“…I’ve missed you,” he whispered.

As you met his eyes, he closed the remaining space, crashing his lips to yours. All of the tension and emotions from the past year surged through your body, pushing against him as he wrapped an arm around your waist. Mouths moving in perfect tandem, he kissed you with a soft, longing passion that stole the breath from your lungs. He began to trail down your jawline, pressing delicate marks into your skin that threatened to burn you alive.

“What about Imelda?” You exhaled, his deft fingers gripping onto your backside as he wedged a knee between your legs.

You felt him smirk into your neck.

“…who?” He whispered into your ear before pushing you against the cold stone of the Undercroft, the devilish grin still evident as his lips found their home against yours.

#sebastian sallow x you #sebastian sallow fic #sebastian sallow imagine #sebastian sallow x mc #ominis gaunt #hogwarts legacy fanfic #hogwarts legacy fic #Sebastian Sallow angst #Sebastian Sallow fluff #Sebastian Sallow smut #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow fanfiction

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brewed-pangolin · 2 months

Text

Broken Memories

cw: mentions of loss, angst no comfort, continuation of Evie MacTavish

All his senses seemed to disappear the moment he caught a glimpse of the emerald light in his periphery.

A discarded and broken beer bottle, deep green muffled by a thick layer of war that culminated into dust along its glimmering finish.

He crouched down, careful to avoid its sharp edges as he grasped the tattered glass within the palm of his calloused hand.

Soap sat quietly, pushing all thoughts of current events aside to study the shattered random piece history that somehow echoed his own broken psyche.

Dragging his thumb over a section of its smooth surface, peeling away the veil of sanity and exposing the deep pain of heartache that festered within his chest like a morbid disease.

His jaw clenched. A sudden wash of memories of her played over the revealed portion of the shimmering vessel within his hand.

Her laugh. Her smile. Her adventurous vitality that mirrored the green yearning of the Scottish highlands within her enigmatic and emerald eyes.

Soap tightened his grip around the jagged thing with a mournful scowl. Ignoring the pain as he broke the skin, cursing the gods above under his breath for taking such a vital part of his being with no thought or remorse.

His eyes began to glisten and his chest burned. Only the sudden call of his name pulled him out from the depths of growing prisonment and silent melancholy.

"Soap. Ya good, mate?" Gaz asked from the within an adjacent doorframe. His casual friendliness washing Soap's pain away as he tossed the broken bottle to the floor and wiped the layer of crimson along his panted thigh.

"Aye. We done 'ere?"

"Yeah. Place is clean."

Soap nodded in acknowledgment. His bright blue eyes dimmed with the pain of loss as he crossed the room to make a hasty exit from within its tight confines.

Gaz stepped aside, letting Soap retreat from the flood of memories leaching out within the walls around him as he made his way towards the freedom of the outside.

He vanquished all thoughts of her back to the deep recesses of his mind with a cleansing breath. The fresh air soothing his tormented soul, calming his psyche and focusing his mind once more back to the task at hand.

"What was her name?" Gaz's voice echoed from within the vacant foyer as Soap stood outside the crumbling front entrance.

Soap narrowed his eyes. Jaw clenched, and his fists turned into tight knots as the memory of her name danced along the tip of his tongue.

"Evie." He replied. Her name lost to the wind like a forgotten dream as it drifted into the cacophony of violence and chaos around them.

"Who was she?" Gaz pressed on, stepping out beside him while expertly griping his rifle within his hands.

Soap remained silent. Eyeing his surroundings, debating whether to answer or move on and forget this conversation in its entirety.

He inhaled sharply, gaining the composure needed to complete the mission with a clear head and a steady hand.

As he stepped off the landing, he answered. Implicating his will to continue this discussion had ended as he walked straight into the next simulated battlefield.

"My sister."

Premise Here (Her story breaks my heart. But I'll continue it nonetheless)

#my beloved evie mactavish #such a beautiful soul #need to bring her back #even if her story breaks me #soap squad™️#johnny soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #john mactavish #call of duty #cod

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bookishfreedom · 5 months

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so, i went to scotland. yes, it was life changing

the entire trip felt straight out of a fairytale. we swam in the fairy pools. we frolicked with sheep. we spent hours wandering castles, museums, and bookshops. we ate many scottish breakfasts. and yes, merry of soul, we sailed on a day, over the sea to skye

and during the hours we spent driving through the gorgeous scottish highlands, we also played that song ad infinitum.

although originally inspired by outlander, this trip was about so much more. it was about stories and magic and history and falling a little bit in love with the world at every turn.

until next time, Scotland 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 Sláinte

#i am cringe but i am free #my first time traveling abroad and yes I’m emo about it #outlander #diana gabaldon #outlander books #outlander series #fairy pools #scotland #scottish highlands #isle of skye #bookish travel #booklr #bookblr #mine #book #bookish #yes i am dramatic but that is my right

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shelaghdette · 2 months

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ctm s13e06 thoughts (spoilery, sweary, sleep deprived, scottish)

actual pisstake. frothing at the mouth. rabid. feral. unhinged. not being normal.

first of all, the episode.

matthew aylward is an absolutely abhorrent fiend. every single time his face showed up on the screen, me & my pals on the discord server were POURING abuse into the chat. callin this man the worstest names in the world. truly the minginest bloke ive ever seen. imagine shouting at my best pal trixie franklin (who is your beautiful gorjiss wife) just because she tried to help solve a problem YOU created. DIAF matthew aylward.

AND NOW APPARENTLY NONNATUS HOUSE ISN'T SAFE FROM CLOSURE BECAUSE TRASHTHEWS STUPID ARSE IS LOSING ALL HIS MONEY?? TAKING THE PEE EYE DOUBLE ESS ON THAT ONE MATE. NOT HAPPY. THE YOUNG LASSIES (WHO ARE PROBABLY ABOUT THE SAME AGE AS ME) HAVE ONLY JUST GOT THEIR PERMANENT JOABS AND NOW NONNATUS COULD BE CLOSING??? LIFE RUINING

speaking of new faces, love aw the wee pupil midwives passing their exams!! so excited to see wee rosalind and wee joyce as permanent staff at nonnatus!!!

speaking of the pupils, THEY ARE TRYING TO SET UP A ROSALIND/CYRIL ROMANCE STORYLINE AND IM NOT HERE FOR IT. ROSALIND CLIFFORD IS QUITE OBVIOUSLY A BABYGAY AND SHES IN LOVE WITH JOYCE HIGHLAND. STOP MAKING PEOPLE STRAIGHT HEIDI. BE BRAVE AND BOLD AND CATER TO THE SAPPHICS HEIDI. WE HAVEN'T HAD CANON LESBOS SINCE PUPCAKE HEIDI. WE ARE STARVING AND MALNOURISHED HEIDI.

speaking of cyril tho, he's an absolute legend and was serving so much cunt this episode. 100% lad. love how nice he was to the poor irish wummin & her barins.

also doctor turner talking about his old arthritic knees like he doesn't know what a temptation that is for me as a recovering dilf addict. scrum diddly umptious. i had to go and have a lie down and a valium after that blatant and violent assault on my mental health.

speaking of scrum diddly umptious and the turners, costume designer putting shelagh turner in lesbian flag colours THE ENTIRE EPISODE and teasing all the gay lassies who have taste? cruel and unusual punishment. i fancy her so much. at least it was acknowledged how bonny she was in this one (and every one) (cheers sister v you queen)

speaking of the turners also, it's fabulous to see all of my stepchildren safe and well, especially my best and favourite wee lassie may <3 i know we're probably coming up for some pretty harrowing stories about her, so it was awfy gid to see thon wee smile for a moment.

finally: loved seeing sheelz in her element on the old johanna whacking oot the jesus bangers wi the local weans SING HOSANNA SING HOSANNA SING HOSANNA TO THE KING OF KINGS!! GIVE ME OIL IN MY LAMP KEEP IT BURNING 🔥 🕺🏼💃👯‍♂️

fuckall but slay.

not about this episode but my very final thought: WHAT THE ACTUAL SHITTING FUCK DO YOU MEAN WE'RE NOT GETTING CTM NEXT WEEK BECAUSE OF THE BAFTAS. WHO GIVES A RATS SMELLY ARSE ABOUT THE BRITISH ACADEMY FILM AND TELEVISION AWARDS. WHO EVEN WATCHES THEM. EVERYBODY LOVES CTM. LITERALLY EVERYONE IN THE WORLD. I DON'T KNOW ANYONE WHO EVEN KENS WHIT THE BAFTAS ARE AW ABOOT.

god bless my ctm luvvas. catch yis aw in a fortnight. big kissies to all (especially my wifey sheely turny)

#call the midwife #roo speaks absolute shite

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separatist-apologist · 1 year

Text

Straight To My Head

I want to be where you are

Summary: All Nesta wants is to live outside of London in peace. She would like nothing more than days filled with books and quiet- a dream made impossible by the Scotsman determined to relive past battle glories on her front lawn

Big thanks to @dustjacketmusings who gave me the idea of LARP-ing Cassian, and @the-lonelybarricade for being my UK consultant once again.

Part 1/2: I Want To Be Where You Are | Read AO3

Six months before:

“Your Uncle Rupert has died.”

Nesta didn’t bother looking up from her book, despite how terribly rude it was to read at the dinner table. Beside her, Feyre was scrolling through her phone, a frown pinching her face. It left only Elain to set her spoon neatly against a folded napkin and ask, “Uncle Rupert?”

“He was your mothers uncle,” their father replied, drawing both Nesta and Feyre’s attention toward him. He looked absurd in his polo get up, an aging man trying desperately hard to fit in. He reminded her of the girls from school and their lack of personality outside of whatever the latest trend was. It was all terribly boring.

And so was he.

“Oh. How terribly tragic,” Elain, ever dutiful, waited to see if there was anything else expected of her. Nesta knew Elain well, and though she was far too polite to ever show it, she cared just as little as Feyre and Nesta did.

“He’s left you girls an inheritance,” their father continued, drawing a soft sigh of annoyance from Feyre.

“Oh?” Elain questioned, examining her immaculate nails that held the garishly ugly diamond Graysen had given her. Nesta was biding her time, certain her younger sister would realize was a dull, preening asshole he was and call it off…but just in case, Nesta also intended to throw Elain an intervention under the guise of a bachelorette party.

She had time. At least a year.

Maybe more, depending on what this inheritance was.

“Castles. Three castles—one for each of you.”

“Why would he do that?” Feyre asked bluntly, echoing both Nesta and Elain’s thoughts. Their father only shrugged.

“Perhaps he was hoping to elevate the three of you.”

Nesta scoffed. Of course their father would think so. All he cared about was more. More money, more power—more than they could ever need, could ever use. Nesta wanted no part of it.

“Where are these castles, exactly?” Nesta asked, finally setting her book down to look him dead in the face.

“I think I’ll turn mine into a bed and breakfast,” Elain murmured, eyes shining as she mentally began planning.

“You don’t even know where it is,” Feyre interrupted. “What if it's crumbling? What if it’s in the middle of nowhere or what if it’s filled with ghosts. What if—”

“Feyre,” Elain interrupted, eyes wide. “It’ll be fine. I’m sure we weren’t given the crumbling wreckage of some haunted estate.”

Now:

Famous last words.

Nesta often thought of Elain’s certainty. While Feyre and Elain began remodeling, Nesta hadn’t needed to. Of the three, hers was in the best condition, though it needed a heating source outside of fireplaces, and she’d used the money their uncle had also left for renovations to revamp the electric.

After that, Nesta had wasted all of the rest of that obscene allowance on furniture and art, furnishings for the bedrooms, the bathrooms, the kitchen—and the library. Nesta had poured so much time and attention into her library that some nights she fell asleep in the oversized white chair just beside the window.

She’d never imagined herself anywhere but London.

Now she was certain she’d never go back. She’d fallen in love with the solitude, with the Scottish Highlands and the town that existed at the base of the hillside her castle had been built upon. It was as old as the stones themselves, and the people were far nicer than anyone in London on their best day.

Nesta would often walk down the steep pathway where she’d have lunch in the little tavern and buy a book at the shop, which was well-stocked with romance, before making her way to the loch where she’d fall asleep on a blanket, reading the new book she’d purchased.

It was exactly like one of her stories.

Save for him, of course.

All books needed a romantic hero. A man who was both handsome and interesting. Cassian MacDougall was certainly the first—at least six foot five and built like a warrior of old, with dark brown hair that hung against broad shoulders, and hazel eyes that were more brown than green.

Not that Nesta was paying that much attention. Not of the closely trimmed beard against the sharp cut of his jaw. Certainly not of his tattooed arms and chest, which were often bare, his golden brown skin gleaming with sweat given he so often forewent a shirt. He did wear a kilt—a red and blue plaid that offered a rather nice view of his muscled knees.

The problem with Cassian was his personality. Before she’d moved in, Cassian had taken to staging loud battles on her front lawn—it was, apparently, the sight of a very famous Scottish victory in some long forgotten battle against the English.

Nesta had merely asked him to stop doing it so close to her window. She wasn’t even unreasonable the first time.

Could you move further down the hill? She’d asked him, intimidated by his largeness, by how obscenely handsome he was.

He’d shot her a grin, and then turned to his friends. “Did ye hear that, lads?! The Englishwoman wants us to clear out!”Everyone had laughed, and Nesta had been humiliated.

Now it was a battle of the wills between them. The nearby town of Killin was swarmed with tourists during the Spring and Summer months, and Cassian made some of his money by taking tourists on a trip through Scottish history—or so Emerie, the woman who owned the local grocery store, had told Nesta. Spring had officially arrived just that morning, and Nesta was wholly unprepared for the sounds of violence wafting through the open windows.

She was going to kill him. It wasn’t even eight in the morning. Rising from her chair in the empty dining room table, Nesta marched through the quiet halls of her castle. Had her uncle known about this when he’d given her this cursed place? Had she angered him once when she’d been a child?

Nesta didn’t know how to reconcile her love of her home with her hatred of Cassian. He was just as willful, just as stubborn, and perhaps worst of all, determined to push her out.

She’d embarrass him right back. She swore she would. If he’d taken money from people and led them up here, she’d ruin his reputation on Yelp, too. She’d read them—just to know how best to ruin him—and everyone liked Cassian.

Everyone but her.

He was there, in his kilt and a sword and, mercifully, a breezy white shirt. He’d brought all his friends with him, some dressed in the stuffy red and white uniforms that had once belonged to the English. They had bayonets attached to guns, none of it sharp enough to wound, and somehow, someone had managed to roll a replica cannon onto the immaculate grass.

She froze, heart hammering at the sheer scale of what was happening—it was fake, and yet her brain and body reacted as though it were real. Not far from her, an Englishman fell to the ground with a groan, clutching at this chest before going utterly silent.

Nesta couldn’t take her eyes off him. Memories of her mothers death flooded through her, as vivid as the battle raging around her. No one else had been in the room when her mother took those last, rattling breaths but Nesta, who had been only eleven. Nesta had spent those six months caring for their mother while she fell victim to aggressive, incurable cancer. Back then, she hadn’t understood that it would take far more than her love and devotion to save her mother.

Elain and Feyre had been too young to take on that burden, and their father too buried and work and grief. It left only Nesta to witness death, to be there in the final last moments.

She’d refused to speak about it, and rarely allowed herself to even think about death. Something had solidified that day, had become hard and Nesta’s will was unbreakable.

And right then, in the early morning sun, she felt it fracture. Just a little, just enough to empty out her mind. Nesta forgot why she’d gone out in the first place, or what she was doing until warm, strong hands lifted her up in the air and began moving her.

A breath of fear wooshed out of her, palms slapping against a muscular back. Cassian—his shirt plastered to his sweat soaked skin—was carrying her across the grounds as he announced, “And we’d take any English lass for our own!”

Revulsion flooded through her.

“Put me down!” she ordered, afraid he was going to accidentally flash a crowd of tourists with her underwear.

Cassian did as he was told, grinning ear to ear. “Everyone applaud for Lady Nesta. She’s a good sport, playing the part of stuffy English broad.”

Tourists in fanny packs, Hawaiian shirts, and thick socks to their knees, offered her a round of polite clapping. She’d come here to humiliate him, and as he so often did, it was Cassian who’d gained the upper hand. Nesta tried to turn, to leave him there, but his hand shot around her waist, holding her firmly against him.

He rattled off battle facts for a solid ten minutes, fingers digging against the fabric of her blue maxi dress. It was only when he finished, and one of his friends began herding people toward the path that Cassian turned to face her.

Nesta’s heart raced. “What do ye think ye’re doing?” he demanded, dropping his hand as though she disgusted him.

“Me?” she replied, adopting an imperiously cold tone in order to mask her own fear. “This is my home, Cassian.”

He scoffed. “For how long, Nes?”

She hated when he called her that. Hated the familiar, intimate nickname of the fact he’d given her one at all. No one had ever dared.

“Excuse me?” she demanded.

He flinched as if she’d slapped him. “How long,” he repeated, enunciating his words with that faux British accent she hated. He was forever mocking her. “How long before you pack up and move out? Another couple months?”

“I’ll be here forever,” Nesta hissed, hoping he believed her. “I’ll be chasing your children off this lawn one day.”

Cassian’s laugh was humorless. “Oh, I believe ye will. I hope ye’re ready for that. I intend tae be prolific.”

“You’d have to find a willing woman, first,” she replied, holding his stare. “And from what I’ve seen, they don’t find you charming. I wonder why that is?”

“So concerned about my bedroom habits, are ye?”

She’d kill him. “What’s to be concerned about? A man in love with his hand is terribly common.”

Cassian took a step toward her, staring down his nose. He was terribly handsome, a brutal prince with that scar slashed over his thick eyebrow and those eyes that she swore saw right through her.

“If ye want to know what I’m like in bed, ye only have to ask.”

“I don’t fuck animals,” Nesta snapped, praying he couldn’t tell how quickly her heart was beating. She turned, not daring to continue this conversation. It was far too dangerous.

Nesta made it all of two steps before his fingers curled around her wrist, turning her so roughly she stumbled into his chest. Nesta inhaled without thinking, drinking the scent of snow capped wind and cedar and the way the sun smelled against the salt of his skin.

She reached with her free hand and slapped him as hard as she could, right against his jaw.

“Don’t ever touch me again,” she ordered. Cassian’s eyes widened, dropping her as he reached for the blooming mark of red against his skin.

Nesta marched off, though it hardly felt like victory. She was certain she’d lost far more than just her side of that argument. Cassian’s booming laughter chased her back in doors, where Nesta remained even after he returned that afternoon.

She couldn’t face him.

And she certainly couldn’t face herself—or her memories.

-*-

“I heard a rumor about ye,” Emerie called as Nesta browsed the shelves of her shop.

“Oh?” Nesta replied, putting a bag of pasta in her little shopping basket.

“I heard Cassian made ye part of his reenactment last week.”

A groan slipped from Nesta before she could stifle it. “Bragging, is he?”

Emerie’s laugh was a pretty sound. “Of course. He’s tae stupid to realize the reason ye bother him so much is because he has a crush on ye. Like a schoolboy tugging on yer braids.”

“Gross,” Nesta responded. Though, Emerie had grown up with Cassian. Surely she could shed light on why he was so…so…Cassian? “Why is he single?”

Emerie’s brown eyes danced with delight. “Thinking about him, tae?”

“Nope. Just curious, that’s all.”

“Of course. Who wouldn’t be curious? Maybe ye should ask him. I’m sure he’d tell ye all about it…maybe over candlelight and—”

“Okay, that’s quite enough,” Nesta grumbled to more laughter. She collected the rest of her groceries while Emerie filled her in on gossip that didn’t center around Cassian, before bidding her a good day. Nesta had never had true friends, and wasn’t sure if Emerie could even be counted as one. She might have, if Nesta could muster the courage to ask her to do something—anything.

But she couldn’t. So Nesta left knowing a little more about the people of Killin and the sense that some of her loneliness was self-imposed. She couldn’t even pretend it was her mothers death that had made her cold. Even as a child, no one had wanted to play with her. None of the other children liked her.

“Ah, mo chridhe,” Cassian called, jogging up the path that led from the edge of the village toward the castle. “I’ve been looking for ye.”

“I can’t see why,” Nesta sniffed, even as Cassian pulled her heavy canvas bag filled with her groceries and slung it over his broad shoulder. “Do you intend to hold my groceries hostage, too?”

“I’ve come to talk with ye,” he replied, one hand thrown up in defense. “About business.”

“I have no business with you.”

“C’mon, Nes,” he pleaded, drawing her attention toward him. “I’ve been staging battles at Killin Castle for five years now.”

“There is land all around you, Cassian. Surely you can move it.”

“Aye, I could, but the castle adds a certain majesty. And it allows me tae charge more—hold on, don’t look at me like that. I’ll give ye a percentage for your trouble.”

“Fifty percent.”

“Take my fucking balls too,” he grumbled. “Thirty.”

“Thirty percent of your total profits just so you can pretend to kill the English on my lawn?” Nesta asked, arching a brow.

“Forty if ye let me haul you off again.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Fine. Thirty it is, then. In exchange, ye’ll leave me be while I’m working—”

“And you’ll stay further away from the windows,” Nesta replied, pausing to both catch her breath and stare him down. Cassian didn’t seem winded at all, lovely beneath a waning sun.

“Fine.”

“And I want a schedule,” she said, hands on her hips.

“Anything else? My fucking cock and balls on a silver tray, tae?”

“You can keep those,” she sniffed, not wanting to think of either. Cassian didn’t protest, didn’t offer her a filthy remark. He was grinning, as if he’d gotten everything he wanted. Nesta hated to see him so happy.

“This is time limited, Cassian. Just until the summer is over. And then I want you gone. Out of my life.”

“It’s a small town, Nes,” he replied with mock solemnity. “I cannae leave.”

“You can avoid me.”

“What makes ye think I’d want that?”

Having reached the top of the hill, and the end of her patience, Nesta reached for her bag. Cassian pulled just out of reach, eyes searching her own. She didn’t like the look of contemplation on his face, or how serious he’d suddenly become.

“What about what I want, Cassian? Which is peace, and a moment free of the chaos you drag with you.”

“Ye might like it, mo chridhe.”

Nesta glared. “We could have had an amicable relationship months ago. This is all we have now, Cassian. Give me my things.”

He handed her the bag with a rueful smile. “It’s a pleasure working with ye.”

“If only I could say the same, Cassian.”

He merely grinned, which annoyed her more. She took off, daring only once to glance over her shoulder. Cassian remained at the top of the hill, his dark hair blowing around his face while he watched her. He raised a hand in a wave, one Nesta did not return. She didn’t trust this new, helpful Cassian.

Whatever angle he was working would only hurt her if she chose to believe it.

Nesta had learned that lesson with Tomas not a year before.

Nesta wasn’t going to learn it again.

-*-

The thing about Cassian, Nesta learned, was that he woke early. He scheduled his mock battles every day at nine am like clockwork. Nesta was rarely up that early and no matter how she tried, could not fall back asleep. He’d taped his schedule to her front door rather than knock and wake her up, which detailed a seven day schedule in which he reenacted two battles monday through friday, and four on saturday and sunday. It seemed brutal, and yet when he came by, sweaty and grinning that Sunday night with a check, Nesta stopped complaining.

If that was thirty percent, no wonder Cassian had been adamant about continuing. Nesta tucked it away, strangely uncomfortable with taking his money. All through spring, Cassian faithfully left money in the little mailbox, and from April to June, Nesta did her very best to avoid him entirely.

She was avoiding everyone. Even herself. Most days, Nesta left her phone uncharged so she didn’t have to see the incoming messages from Elain. Elain, planning her wedding and somehow managing to deal with what seemed like an incredibly irritable tenant of the castle she’d been left, still checked in. Still asked after her—still wanted to know what had happened to chase Nesta out of London so abruptly.

The joke about becoming a bog witch had never meant to shape her reality. Sometimes she wondered if Elain hadn’t heard. If she didn’t know about Tomas, what he’d said.

What he’d tried to do.

As the weather warmed, and more people flooded into the town, Nesta retreated further into the castle where no one could see her. The mere idea of going out filled Nesta with trembling fear. There was too much left to chance, too much chaos and in response, Nesta found herself practically eating in the library. It was the only place that felt safe anymore.

That. And somehow, Cassian, who’d begun knocking on the front door to offer her up money.

She made her way through the open grand hall, eyeing cobwebs clinging to the overhead chandelier. She needed to find someone who could do some cleaning for her.

Nesta pulled open the old, iron handle to find Cassian, his hair half pulled off his head in a messy bun. He was in his kilt, a stable given how often he played the battle warrior, though it was paired with a plain black t-shirt that showed off both his bulging biceps and his collarbone, teased by the little vee just in the front.

“For ye,” he said, holding out an envelope. As she reached for it, Cassian ducked around her, stepping onto the stone floor. He whistled with appreciation.

“I’ve always wondered what this place looked like.” “It looks like a castle,” Nesta replied, the door still open. “Get out.”

Cassian looked her over. “Are ye eating up here?”

“How is that any of your concern?” she asked, hating how her cheeks warmed under his appraisal.

“Emerie said ye aren’t coming down as often. She’s worried about ye, asked me tae check in. I’m checking, Nes. You look tired.”

“You wake me up early,” she replied, though they both knew that wasn’t it.

Cassian’s eyes narrowed. “Did something happen?”

“Nope. I’m perfectly fine. I’ll see Emerie—”

“Why not let me buy ye something tae eat?” he suggested. “At tae Ensnaring Snake. A pint and something else? Whatever ye want.”

“I don’t need your charity, Cassian. I can have a drink without your leering presence.”

“Ah, but what fun would it be without me?” he asked, a roguish grin on his face. “Come down. Even if ye ignore me the entire time.”

There was no way.

“Unless,” he added casually, unaware of how her heart thudded in her throat. “Ye’re scared.”

“I’m not scared!” Nesta snapped. “Now get out, Cassian!”

“Anything, mo chridhe,” he replied, all but sauntering out. She might have believed his swaggering, male bravado, had he not turned to look at her with those worried eyes. It prompted her, once the door was slammed shut in his face, to go up to the bathroom. She supposed she had gotten a little thinner…and the circles beneath her eyes had become far more pronounced. She was paler, too, though she could blame that on avoiding the sun. Nesta couldn’t remember the last time she’d drank any water.

Or eaten a vegetable.

She showered, braiding her hair in a crown around her head like she so often did. Her hands shook as she buttoned up a pale purple dress and laced up her shoes. She couldn’t bring herself to put on make-up, or do anything else that might draw attention to herself.

You’re so fuckint hot, Nesta. You know it, don’t you, with those eyes—those tits—

Nesta wanted to scream. Hand frozen on the handle, she almost turned around. Tomas’s voice, the feel of him pressed against her, how he’d—no. She took a breath, cleared her throat, and marched out into the waning sunlight. There was no way Nesta would let Cassian think she was afraid of going outside.

Even if he was right.

It wasn’t the outdoors that made her nervous. It was all the people, it was the things she couldn’t control.

By the time she made it down the hill and into the center of the village, Emerie had closed up for the day. A little handwritten note told Nesta exactly where she was.

The Ensnaring Snake.

It had Cassian written all over it. Still, despite how it made her palms sweat, Nesta very carefully made her way toward the tavern she’d once enjoyed eating in. Back when there was no one but familiar faces and the streets were mostly empty.

Now it was packed. Nesta pushed the door open just enough to see Cassian at the far end of he room, head thrown back with laughter at something someone at the table had said. His hair was loose, and he’d foregone the kilt for a pair of regular jeans. He looked so normal—and of course he had friends. She didn’t know why that surprised her. She didn’t know why the sight of a rather pretty blonde running her finger over his bare arm made Nesta back out of the doorway.

Why she suddenly felt so stupid. She hadn’t come for him.

She didn’t care about him.

“Hey!”

Nesta ignored the male voices behind her—and the jarring, American accents that seemed so wildly out of place. Arms wrapped around her body, she meant to trudge back home and pretend none of this had happened.

“Hey,” that voice called, dragging the sound of heavy steps over cobblestone with it. A moment later, a hand was on Nesta’s shoulder. She jumped nearly out of her skin, twisting to look at three unfamiliar faces. Each of them reeked of whiskey, and were likely looking for more fun than the village had to offer. “Where are you going?”

“Don’t touch me,” she ordered, earning snickering laughs.

“Or what?” the first, a bleach blonde with a pair of sunglasses clipped to his t-shirt, asked. “We’re just being nice.”

“Oh? Is this considered polite, where you’re from?”

More laughter. Nesta’s heart raced even as she told herself nothing was going to happen. They were having a laugh at her expense but they’d slink off when they realized they were getting nowhere.

“We could be much more polite,” that first step, lunging forward. Nesta stumbled back, falling to the ground and bashing her elbow against the rough cobblestone. Pain ricocheted through her while her eyes smarted. More humiliation, brought low by men she hated.

Nesta scrambled back to her feet, turning without looking at any of them.

“Aw, sweetheart, come back,” they called, laughing loudly. Nesta started to turn for the castle, thinking she’d race up the hill and lock herself up until morning came.

But they were still behind her, trailing after her while whistling and making other little sounds with their tongues and teeth. Cassian could crest that hill without breaking a sweat, but Nesta was slow—they’d catch her.

She sped up, trying to think of where she could go. Panic was making her clumsy, was making her stupid. She should have turned around and gone back into the tavern where anyone could see. Emerie was in there, she would have helped.

Instead, Nesta picked up her steps, hoping they’d get tired of following her when they realized she was heading out of the village. And when they didn’t—when they tried to get closer—Nesta took off running.

They followed, their shadows jumping ahead even as the sun vanished over the hillside. Nesta could only hear her pounding feet and her nervous heart. She was heading for the loch, the absolute worst place to be given there was unlikely to be anywhere out there. Just her, a body of water, and three very drunk tourists looking to have fun at her expense.

Nesta slowed, trying to figure out her next move.

“Tired, babe?” One of them called.

“I can think of something else that’ll tire her out,” another replied. Nesta was inching closer and closer to the dock, wondering if she could swim far enough out that they’d finally leave. Or if that was stupid, and they’d just jump in after her where she’d be well and truly fucked.

She couldn’t go past them. Glancing over her shoulder saw the three of them walking in a solid line. They’d catch her.

“Please stop,” one of them called, jogging after her. Nesta surged forward, her feet touching the dock before she felt those fingers on her arm again. “Why are you running?”

She wanted to die. “You’re chasing me.”

“You don’t have to run. We don’t want to hurt you,” he lied, his eyes absolutely betraying him. She’d seen that look before, had watched another man’s gaze dip below her chin, taking in her body, wondering what it would feel like to just have her, regardless of her own feelings on the matter.

“Take your hands off me.”

The other two laughed and laughed. “Or what?”

“Or—”

“Or I’ll kill ye,” came another, familiar voice. Nesta could have sobbed at the sound, had never been happier than she was just then to see Cassian strolling up, deceptively casual. He cocked his head, dark hair spilling around him as he waited.

That first man looked from Cassian to Nesta and then, with a smile that clearly said he thought Cassian was outmatched, replied, “Oh? She’s yours?”

Cassian didn’t smile. “Find out.”

Nesta was so busy watching Cassian that she’d stopped watching the others. She didn’t see that hand shove toward her, didn’t realize he’d decided to call Cassian’s bluff until she stumbled backwards.

She hit the water with a choked scream. She flailed for a moment, twisting around before pushing upward. The water was dark, was colder than she’d expected, though not so cold she couldn’t still think straight.

She broke the surface a moment before she heard a splash, and then felt him, arms around her.

“Don’t hit me,” Cassian warned breathlessly.

“Where did they go?” Nesta demanded, letting Cassian drag her back to the dock. He hoisted her up effortlessly before joining her. Water sluiced off him, though he hardly seemed to notice. His eyes burned, and when he reached for her, she saw his knuckles were bloody and had begun to swell and bruise.

“They’re gone,” he said tightly. He swallowed some unnamed emotion, looking her over.

“Unharmed,” she said, resisting the urge to draw her knees up to her chest. Instead, Nesta gingerly rose to her feet, weighed down by the heavy fabric of her dress and her wounded pride.

“I saw ye,” he said, following her up. “In the tavern. I saw ye come in and I—”

He’d followed her. Nesta might have asked him why another night. Might have berated him for thinking she’d want his attention. Instead, Nesta forced herself to take a breath.

“Will you walk me home?”

Cassian swallowed again. “Yeah. I—is this my fault, Nes?”

“No, Cassian,” she said, suddenly exhausted.

“I was trying to rile ye up. Get ye out of that castle. I feel like…”

“It’s not your fault,” she repeated.

It’s mine, she nearly added, though she kept it behind her teeth.

“Why didnae ye run home, mo chridhe? Why’d ye come out here?”

“The hill,” she whispered, trying so hard not to let him see how rattled she was. Cassian looked down, eyebrows raised with surprise.

“Can I show ye something?”

And right then, Nesta would have let Cassian do anything he liked so long as he didn’t leave her.

“Sure.”

“Cassian,” Nesta began when he opened the door to the Ensnaring Snake.

“Trust me,” he replied, placing a careful hand on her bruised elbow. Inside, music and laughter flooded Nesta’s senses, and for a moment she expected him to lead her back to his table. She almost wanted him to, though she was in no mood to make conversation. It might have been nice to hear him introduce her to his friends, to sit her down and buy her that pint like he’d promised.

He wove in and out of the tables, nodding when people called his name. His touch was light—careful. Like he knew better than to do any more.

Like he knew what she didn’t like about it.

There was no way to explain to him that his touch had never bothered her. She’d have to tell him that she noticed his eyes, how they stayed on her face. How even when he’d been surveying her that morning, he’d been looking with concern—not desire. Not lewd appreciation. And how even when Cassian was manhandling her, his hands never went anywhere inappropriate, though it would have been all too easy for him to cop a feel and play it off like an accident.

She wondered if he even realized it.

Cassian took her around the back of the bar, pulling open an old, wooden door that clearly led to a cellar.

“Cassian,” Nesta tried again.

“Trust me,” he repeated. Nesta opened her mouth to tell him she didn’t trust him at all. But she could see his swollen knuckles from the corner of her eye, and thought of how quick he must have been to hit them hard enough to hurt himself and jump into the water after her. He hadn’t had to do either. He could have left her. Could have walked away.

So Nesta followed him down into the musty dark, wishing she could grab his arm.

“I used tae come here when I was wee,” Cassian explained, leading her around packing boxes and crates toward another, sturdier door. “You’ll still have to go uphill, but it takes ye right to the castle.”

Nesta was still sopping wet, exhausted and wrung out. She looked up at him, wanting him to go with her. She couldn’t ask.

“Thank you,” she said instead, turning toward that dark.

“I’ll see ye up,” Cassian said gruffly.

And together, they plunged into that darkness.

-*-

“What do you mean, married?” Nesta demanded, phone to her ear as she stomped out of the bookshop. “How can she marry a fictional man?” “He’s not fictional,” came Elain’s patient voice. “I looked him up. Rhysand Campbell is a Duke. I guess that’s why she kept such a tight lid on him back home.”“A Duke? For Feyre?!” Nesta spluttered, trying to imagine wild, carefree Feyre marrying into ancient, outdated royalty. She’d always expected that of Elain, if anyone.

“I’m going to meet him next week, so I’ll let you know. But he seems very accomplished, and he’s quite handsome.”

“Is she sure?” Nesta asked, not thinking about her path until she was already on it. “Marriage is just so…”

She trailed off, remembering that Elain was engaged. Hell. She hadn’t meant to insult her, though the tense, following silence made Nesta think she had. “How er…how is that going?”

“I called it off,” Elain finally said, her voice strange and small. “Just yesterday.”

“Did he do something?” Nesta demanded, readjusting the blanket she was caring beneath her arm. “Because I’ll kill him—”

“It’s all handled,” Elain assured her quickly. “I don’t expect him to give me any trouble.”

“What does that mean? Handled how?” Nesta demanded. Elain was so nice it practically made her a doormat. Nesta didn’t believe for a single second that Elain had truly handled anything, and wondered if the engagement had been called off for infidelity. Graysen wouldn’t give her trouble because he’d already moved on.

“Drop it, Nesta,” Elain replied firmly.

“Fine. But if you need help—”

“I don’t. Everything here is fine. How are you doing? Did you ever get rid of that guy role playing on your lawn?”

Nesta started to say that she and Cassian had reached a truce of sorts, which wasn’t quite the truth and not exactly a lie, either. Instead, Nesta said, “Erm…let me call you back.” Because there, in the middle of the glittering water, stood a very shirtless, possibly naked Cassian. Gleaming in the sunlight, his head tipped back so the rays might warm his face. He didn’t look real and Nesta didn’t know what to do.

He wasn’t alone. Along the shore, children splashed and kicked up water while others floated around him, oblivious to what Nesta was seeing. She wondered what the whorling, inked tattoos on his shoulders and chest meant.

And as she wondered, her eyes drifted down the packed muscles against his ribs, toward the carved vee of his hips. Nesta could scarcely breathe, had forgotten what she was supposed to be doing until her eyes came back to his face.

He was looking at her, too. Shit eating grin etched over his handsome face, one hand raised upward to beckon her to join him.

Hell.

Nesta turned, embarrassed she’d been caught ogling him. She would not submit to any of his humiliating taunts or those burning eyes that promised far more than Nesta thought she wanted. Of course, Cassian couldn’t bask in his victory, of knowing some diseased part of her was attracted to him, despite their strange push-pull between animosity and friendship. He was behind her in a pair of bright red swim trunks and nothing else, jogging up the path while Nesta tried desperately to escape him.

“Why are ye leaving?” he asked, running a hand through his still wet hair. “Come swim.”

“No, thank you,” she replied. “I just remembered—”

“Oh, bullshit, mo chridhe,” he replied. “There is nothing to do but sit up at that miserable stack of rocks. Swim with me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Okay, then do something else with me,” he replied.

“Why would I do that?” she asked, rounding on him. That was a mistake. Cassian was far closer than she thought, and when she stopped, he kept going. He kept her from tumbling backward, wrapping a slick around her and pressing her into his chest.

She hated how good it felt to touch him. To feel him hold her, to keep her close for a moment before he let her go.

“Why not?” he asked, strangely breathless. “Ye’ve been here half a year—don’t ye want friends?”

“Is that what we are?” she asked, distracted by how close he was, by how nearly naked he was. It took no effort to try and picture what the rest of him might be like…and it would have been a lie to say she wasn’t curious if all of him was large.

“Yes?” he asked, clearly frustrated. “I thought so.”

“I don’t want to swim,” she repeated, though in truth, Nesta didn’t want to do anything with him right now. It was too risky to be alone with him. She’d touch him, she’d get on her knees and do any number of terrible, filthy things to him. Nesta couldn’t breathe. She needed to escape him.

“Something else?” he asked, not moving an inch. His eyes were glazed over, staring right through her. Nesta blinked.

“I er…another day, Cass.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “I should—” he turned abruptly. Had she upset him? Nesta watched him for a moment before she turned, too, unwilling to get caught staring at him again. Nesta didn’t allow herself to think of him at all. For the rest of the day, every time the image of him standing in the water, Nesta banished it quickly and busied herself in some other task.

Right up until night fell, and she could crawl into bed.

Only then did Nesta allow herself to think about Cassian.

-*-

“Rhysand is missing,” Elain whispered to Nesta. Nesta, still guarding the door where Feyre was speaking with a Duke, turned to look at her sister, eyes wide.

“I’ll kill him,” Nesta hissed, biting her bottom lip.

“His friends are here,” Elain said, running through a mental list of guests. “I’ll see if they know where he is. Don’t move,” Elain added, finger in the air.

“This whole thing is a disaster,” Nesta grumbled, hating the pitying look Elain threw her. Nesta knew, realistically, that Elain had done her best with the guest list and she was terrible at telling their father no. And Elain had called ahead of time to warn Nesta that the Mandray’s had secured an invitation.

Everyone wanted to see Feyre Archeron marry a Duke. Social parasites and other hanger-oners had flooded into the lovely castle all day, marveling over the architecture and hoping to rub elbows with real royalty.

Nesta didn’t think Elain had managed to get anyone but Duke Campbell, just as she didn’t think Feyre was aware her wedding had turned into the event of the year. Nesta was desperate to avoid the majority of London, and planned to catch a ride back with Elain in the morning. Just to the train station—she’d make the rest of the way back on her own, even if she had to walk.

There was no way she was spending a weekend with Tomas Mandray.

Elain returned, accompanied by a familiar, grinning face. “Well, well, well,” Cassian said, running his hand down a buttoned down, black shirt. He wore that red and blue kilt and black socks that came up over his knees, a sporran around his hips.

“Do you two know each other?” Elain asked.

“This is the gentleman roleplaying on my lawn,” Nesta said. The man beside him, dressed identically, though his kilt was primarily blue plaid.

“Role-playing, Cass?” he asked.

“This is Cassian?” Elain replied, eyebrows raised to the sky.

“Have ye been talking about me?” Cassian asked Nesta with a lopsided smile. “What else does she say?”

“That you’re exceptionally obnoxious,” Elain replied, earning a laugh from the other man.

“All true,” he murmured, before adding, “Azriel.”

They were given no more time for pleasantries before Feyre emerged, flushed and practically glowing. She didn’t seem concerned that her fiancé was missing—only annoyed. Elain ordered them to split up, which Azriel did without complaint—but Cassian did not.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he said just as soon as Elain and Azriel were out of earshot. “I didnae know Feyre was yer sister. I should have guessed, I supposed, given what a hard time she’s given my brother.”

“Good for her,” Nesta replied before adding, “Brother?”

“Not in tae biblical sense. Rhys and I met when he was at a posh boarding school and trying to buy whiskey on the weekend.”

“Let me guess—you sold him the whiskey.”

“Ye know me so well, mo chridhe,” he said with a grin. “Been inseparable ever since.”

“Then why is he missing?” she demanded. Cassian pulled open a closet door, revealing a mop that fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

There was no humor on Cassian’s face as he knelt to pick it up. “He doesn’t think he’s worthy.”

Nesta didn’t know how to take that, how to possibly respond. She didn’t know any man that had ever put a woman above himself. The idea that Rhysand would have left because he thought her sister could do? better was an anomaly. Unheard of.

“I’ll bet they’re outside,” Nesta said after a moment. Cassian caught her by the arm, holding her still.

“Maybe they don’t want tae be found just yet,” he murmured, that burning back in his eyes.

“Cass—”

“Nesta?”

She wanted to die at the sound of that voice. Those brown eyes, that sharp, sneering face and that lean body pressed into an elegant suit. Cassian turned, looking Tomas up and down with such keen awareness on his face. She could read his every expression, the oh, I understand now.

But he didn’t.

Nesta started to inch closer to Cassian, who, of course, immediately noticed. He took her hand in his, raising it to his lips, and ghosted a kiss against her knuckles. It was so obviously a claiming and a threat, all at once.

“Hi, Tomas.”

“I didn’t think you’d be here.”

“For my sister's wedding?” she asked archly. “I’m surprised you’re here.”

Cassian raised his brows.

“Of course I am,” he replied, staring her down with those dead, soulless eyes. “Your father said I was the son he never had.”

Cassian started to take a step forward, stopped only by Nesta’s vicious squeeze of his hand.

“He’s still so terribly disappointed by how things happened. What, exactly, did you tell him?”

Nesta wanted to die. “Nothing,” she managed, her heart pounding in her throat. Cassian watched this power struggle—did he understand what was happening?

“We should get together the next time you’re in London,” Tomas said, eyes flicking to Cassian with distaste. As if Cassian couldn’t have broken him clean in two. As if Cassian was someone beneath him. “Carter.”

Cassian offered an edged smile. “Hackit.”

Nesta snorted, pressing her hand against her lips. Tomas narrowed his eyes, but kept moving without insulting her. Nesta imagined he, too, realized the danger Cassian presented. Even without those swollen, bloodied knuckles, Cassian looked like a man who could fight.

“Want tae tell me what that was about?” Cassian asked the second Tomas slipped down the hall.

“Of course not,” she snapped, wrenching her hand from his. “Don’t kiss me again.”

“No? Are ye sure about that? Because I saw ye at the loch—”

“You didn’t see anything,” Nesta insisted, heart hammering. Her two worlds were colliding unforgivably. Cassian and Tomas were not supposed to exist together, and seeing Cassian, in his kilt, call Tomas ugly in his suit, had managed to tie Nesta up in knots.

“Don’t go out there,” Cassian complained when Nesta stepped onto the lawn, still rain soaked from a recent storm. “Yer gonna ruin yer dress!”

“FEYRE!” she yelled, mostly to convince Cassian to stop talking.

“Ye cannae end every conversation ye don’t like by running off. I’m not going anywhere, mo chridhe come back—”

Cassian hauled Nesta up over his shoulder before she could take another step.

“Cassian! Put me down!”

“No,” he replied easily, walking her back to the house. “They’ll return when they’re ready.”

“Cassian,” she pleaded. He set her back to her feet, catching that note of desperation in her voice before she had to beg, though his body blocked her path further into the castle.

“What did he do to ye, Nes?” he asked, his fingers curling to fists at his side.

“Why do you care?” she demanded, throwing her hands up in the air.

“Of course I care!” Cassian hissed, stepping closer, until Nesta was pressed against the stone wall.

“I don’t understand you,” Nesta breathed, swallowing hard as he drew nearer.

“Trust me, I don’t either,” he whispered. “Will ye tell me what he did to ye?”

“Why? So you can hit him, too?”

“Oh, mo chridhe, I will do far, far worse,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to her mouth. Nesta had lost control of the situation, of this man who she didn’t even like. Who would go back to reenacting battles on her lawn, who was beloved by the town and the son of a Duke and—

“If ye won’t tell me that, tell me something else.”

Nesta’s eyes went back to his. More brown than green. “What?”

“Tell me the truth, Nesta Archeron. Tell me ye want me just as much as I want ye.”

“I—” he caught her lips before the lie could tumble out of them, kissing her softly. One hand cupped her cheek while the other braced the wall she was pressed against. His eyes fluttered shut but Nesta kept hers open, drinking him in. He looked so wrecked, like he’d been thinking about this for a long, long time and was finally realizing it was nothing like he imagined.

And so she kissed him back, hands at her sides while she waited for the inevitable disappointment. The realization that whatever he’d imagined didn’t live up to reality. One kiss became two, became a third and yet Cassian didn’t pull back like they so often did. He didn’t sharpen. If anything, he became softer, more desperate with each passing kiss between them. The softness of his closely trimmed beard brushed over her jaw while his thumb rubbed a soft circle over her cheek.

Give in, she swore she heard him say. Nesta wanted to—oh, she wanted to take everything he was offering so badly it made her legs shake. If he didn’t know now, he’d figure it out soon enough. Nesta was not the kind of woman men fell in love with. She’d never been that woman, and never would be. No matter how badly she wanted to be, no matter how much she wanted to believe Cassian could push through walls made of iron and find the trembling softness beneath, he was still a man.

And at some point, she’d become a game for him. Something to conquer, regardless of the tactics it took. It was that thought that convinced Nesta to finally pull back, hands planted on his chest as she shoved.

“That’s enough,” she said, another lie he immediately caught.

Cassian pressed a kiss to her cheek. “It’s not,” he rumbled, reaching for the back of her neck. “Ye want me to think yer made of ice, but I know better.”

“Oh? And what am I made of, Cassian?” she demanded in that hard, imperious tone. The sort that pissed men off, that sent them running.

His eyes flashes.

“Fire.”

When he kissed her again, Nesta’s eyes slammed shut before she even realized what she was doing. This time, Nesta’s fingers raked through his neat hair, pulling him closer. She wasn’t gentle, thinking it would push him off her. She misjudged him—Nesta pulled at the strands and Cassian groaned, pressing his body hard against her. He liked this.

Which was a fucking tragedy, because she did, too. Cassian moaned again, loud enough anyone with ears in the vicinity knew what was happening in the back hall, and Nesta, for just this once, did not care.

Her tongue swept into his mouth, tasting him like she’d wanted to the day at the loch. He tasted like whiskey and warmth and like she needed to get him out of his clothes as fast as she could, before she changed her mind.

“Slow down, slow down,” he breathed, catching her wrist when she trailed down his chest. “Have ye done this before?”

“Does it matter?” she replied, certain it didn’t.

He huffed out a soft breath. “Of course it fucking matters.”

“I—” He was going to ruin her. He was already making a mess of things. Nesta needed the upper hand, needed a way to get what she wanted without getting hurt. If that was even possible.

There was no way to have him and remain unscathed. The smart thing to do was walk away. “This can’t mean anything, Cassian.”

His brows furrowed. “Ye don’t mean that.”

“You don’t know me–”

“Because ye make it impossible!” he replied, raking his fingers through his hair. “People care about ye, and it’s like…”

“Like what?” she asked, her throat rough and dry. She never should have stopped kissing him. She shouldn’t have said anything at all. Cassian looked down the hall, sighing a breath.

“Like ye expect us all tae leave ye, so ye leave first.”

“You don’t like me,” she said. It was a question.

No one likes me. Why should you?

“At first,” he admitted. “I thought ye’d be like yer uncle. Stuffy…arrogant…and ye were, ye know ye were. I thought ye’d leave—hoped, I suppose. Until I started liking the sight of ye, storming out with yer braid and yer book. Fuming mad and all of it directed at me. I wanted to get tae know ye and I’ve been trying. And not just me. Emerie, tae. She thinks the world of ye. Yer sisters, tae, and probably everyone else if ye let them.”

Nesta shook her head, swallowing the wave of emotion rising. “This is all wrong. You hate me–”

“Hate,” he said, pressing both palms against the wall, caging her between his body, “is the last thing I feel for ye.”

“I wish you did,” she said.

“If all ye want is something unserious,” he began, eyes searching her own. She swore he could read her every word for the truth, that he didn’t need to hear her speak to know all the things wrong. All the secrets she held. “Then I’ll take what yer offering. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to fuck ye in the hall.”

“Cassian—”

“Ye said, ‘I don’t fuck animals,’” he began mimicking an absurd British accent. “And I believe ye. At least, for now.”

“This is a bad idea,” she whispered, certain she was going to be picking her shattered heart up off the floor by the time they were done. Cassian brushed his lips over her own.

“When it comes tae ye, mo chridhe, I have no defenses.”

#nesssian #nesta x cassian #nessian fanfiction #nesta archeron #cassian acotar #dont let part 1 fool you #like oh theyre going to talk about their feelings LOL youll see #also im in hell because i want to write elucien so bad and instead im just teasing it in the background

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