#nate sewell x f!detective

[lykegenia]

Just A Nightmare (NSFW)

Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles Characters/Pairings: Nate Sewell x Leah Kingston Rating: M Warnings: Light Smut, Blood

*Book 3 Spoilers ahead*

read it on AO3

--

A soft rustle of cloth in the blind dark pulls Nate from sleep. Half-aware, he cracks an eyelid on the dim interior of the room, lit more than adequately to his vampire senses by the spill from the streetlamps outside. He can hear rain, but there’s no sign either of danger or of what woke him, and so he rolls over in the cotton sheets, his fingertips questing under the covers for the comfort of warm, soft skin.

Leah mumbles something incoherent at the touch. As he curves around her back he peppers kisses along the ridge of her shoulder, catches a sigh as his palm closes over her breast.

“Are you awake?” he murmurs.

“Mhmmn… Nate…”

She turns in his arms, eyes blinking away sleep as her hand ghosts up his side and into his hair. A shiver skips across his shoulders at the faint drag of nails over his scalp. Her scent wraps around him, pulled deep into his lungs where it ignites the ember that always burns in her presence, and it drives him to slide a leg between hers, to smirk against her lips at the gasp elicited by the movement, the friction heady as the spike in her pulse and the way she shifts to give him access.

“Ya rouhi…”

His hands wander. One arm slips around her lower back to eliminate the space between them so that there’s some relief for his growing erection, and though it makes her back arch an instant later she’s searching for him again, drawing his mouth to the taste of his name on her tongue. She whines as he bears her onto her back. Grips his shoulders. Exposes her neck to the pleasure he trails along the curve of her jaw.

And there is the hum of her pulse – life – a river of power concealed beneath such fragile skin. Unable to resist, he strokes the column of the artery with the pad of his thumb, cradling her skull with his other hand as his thigh presses more deliberately against her sex and her body licks around his like a flame seeking new wood to burn. Her blood sings, goads him, and his fangs lengthen behind his lips.

She gasps again when he pierces her neck. When his fangs retreat, and the blood flows and he closes his lips over the wound to not waste a drop, the sound morphs into a mewl he can feel vibrate in her throat, and he wants more of it, wants the sweetness of her arousal with the heat of her power, wants to give pleasure as he takes this one small taste, wants –

“Nathaniel.”

At the sound of the voice, he tears away with a snarl. The familiar mockery in it chills along his spine, but the reaction only earns him a laugh. Cold and sharp as crystal, it’s nothing like Leah’s laugh, but he knows it just as intimately. He casts around in the darkness for its source, scanning the angled shadows and sifting through the familiar scents of clean washing and the herbs on the windowsill, until at last he catches sight of a figure in the corner of the room. Dark lips frame an insincere smile over gleaming teeth, which widens as he moves to Block Leah from the sight of it.

“What are you doing here?” he demands.

“Oh, Nathaniel…” the figure croons as the distance between them closes. “The real question is, what are you doing?”

The icy gaze falls to the far side of the bed and Nate, fighting against the instinct to not turn his back, looks down.

His hands are coated with blood. Black and sticky, it covers him from navel to chin, the scent of it near-overwhelming as confusion wars with horror as his gaze is drawn like a lit trail of gunpowder to a sight that stops his heart.

“No…”

Leah’s hazel eyes stare glassily at the ceiling, her body limp amid the sodden sheets. Her lips are parted slightly, her head lolling on the pillow above a neck that is now nothing more than a charnel wreck of meat.

“No.” He reaches for her. “No no no no – what have I done –”

There’s no response when he breathes her name, no twitch of movement as he lifts her, bone pale and already cooling, into his arms. There should be a smirk, a sarcastic dismissal that she’s had worse. His trembling fingers leave dark smears across her cheek.

“This isn’t –” he tries, and swallows. “I didn’t –”

“Didn’t what, Nathaniel? Did you really expect it to end differently?” A slender finger curls under his chin and lifts his head. “This is what you are. This is what I made you. A monster, ruled by temptation, that sooner or later will destroy everything that he loves.”

Hatred settles like a ball of lead in Nate’s chest; his breath heaves.

“Did you like the taste of her?” the figure asks. “I’m sure it was sweet. Do you think she forgave you in the moments before her heart stopped beating?”

With a snarl of rage, he lunges –

And bolts upright in the bed. No jeering figure stands before him – there’s no trace at all of anyone else in the apartment – and when the panic finally recedes he forces an inhale and rubs a hand across his eyes, the cold sweat gathered on his brow. Rain patters on the window, creating prisms of light on the glass that are enough for him to see the duvet twisted and kicked off his legs.

He has to steel himself to turn around.

Leah, loosely tucked up on her side, hasn’t stirred. Her breaths come even and untroubled, but the relief that he hasn’t disturbed her is swallowed like Jonah by the memory of the nightmare that too easily superimposes itself over the peaceful scene before him. For a long moment, his hand hovers over her, torn between reluctance to wake her and the need for the comfort only her presence seems able to provide.

But the temptation still lingers strongly enough that he doesn’t trust himself. Even in his imagination, her blood is an irresistible lure, one that dries his throat and floods his mouth with the bitter, numbing taste of venom. Against his will, his gaze is drawn to where her arm pokes above the covers, to the delicate tracery of blood vessels marbled beneath the skin of her wrist.

He shouldn’t be here – doesn’t deserve to be. Disgusted, he pushes off the bed and pads through to the living room, his hand fisted in his hair tightly enough to cause pain. He needs air, needs to purge the dregs of the nightmare before Leah can see.

--

The rain pours down, drowning the world in white noise. It washes away scents, leaving the air clean, and the fizz of each individual drop against Nate’s bare skin, frigid though it is, lets him sink out of conscious thought so that the horror of them – of what he might have done – is cast adrift into the rapidly receding night.

The indistinct light of a grey dawn is starting to grow on the horizon when the glass door of the balcony slides open.

“You know,” Leah starts, “if you wanted a shower, I’m pretty sure there’s hot water in the bathroom.”

He just sags, cut by the tentative attempt at humour.

She sighs. “Tell me what’s wrong?”

She deserves better than to see him like this, but even so, when he turns to take her in, wrapped in a blanket with her feet bare, the sight of her lifeless in his mind’s eye flares like a second exposure on a photograph, and his stomach roils.

“It’s nothing,” he says, trying for a smile. “You don’t need to worry.”

“You’re sitting out in the rain like someone abandoned you at Christmas.” She leans, arms crossed, against the doorway. “I’m worried.”

“Leah –”

“At least come inside,” she grumbles. “It’s cold.”

He’s too selfish to deny her anything.

“I’ll drip all over your carpet.”

“It’s had worse,” she answers, shrugging. “Please, Nate. I… I don’t like waking up when you’re not there.”

His heart squeezes. Not that long ago, such a confession would have remained buried, and even now she drops her gaze and shuffles her feet, preparing to flee should the words prove to be a miscalculation. The fact that he’s caused Leah real pain while hiding from that in his imagination is a torture more exquisite than he can conjure for himself. It drives him to his feet, one unsteady hand already reaching to offer reassurance that he didn’t mean to leave her alone. Without a word, she shrugs the blanket from her shoulders to wrap it around him. She has to stretch up on tiptoe to manage it.

The movement shifts the oversized t-shirt she wears for sleep, but he doesn’t allow his gaze to fall to the new inch of skin exposed on her thighs.

“I’m sorry,” he says instead, daring to cup her cheek.

“Do you want to go back to bed?”

With the barest glance towards the bedroom, he shakes his head. “I had a nightmare.”

Leah’s gaze flicks towards the rain. “Interesting way to deal with it.”

“I dreamed I killed you.”

“Oh…” Her eyes widen, her heart spiking in a way he cannot bear. “Nate –”

“I can’t stop picturing it,” he confesses. “I – there was blood everywhere. I could taste it – I killed you.”

Silence. His breath shudders through his body, betraying the fear that the look in her eyes will match the disgust coursing through his veins. When a hand lights upon his cheek, he’s torn between flinching away and pressing it close enough to bruise.

“You didn’t kill me,” she says gently. “It was a nightmare.”

“It would be so easy. Just one mistake and I –”

“I trust you.”

He sags. “You shouldn’t –”

“I trust you,” she repeats, and guides her forehead against his to ground him. “If it gets too much, I know you’ll keep me safe – though if we could find an antidote to my weird mutant blood before we get to that point, that would be nice.”

A bubble of hysteria wells in his chest at that, as intended. Leah is so steady, so solid, her presence in his life an irony he has yet to reconcile.

“You have my word,” he tells her.

“Good. Now, are you coming back to bed?”

“For you?” He plucks up her hand, kisses the knuckles. “I would go anywhere.”

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc #nate sewell #n sewell #nate sewell x detective #nate sewell x f!detective #twc book 3 spoilers #the wayhaven chronicles spoilers

[lem-20]

With less than a week to go until book 3 I thought I'd reshare my Wayhaven Nate fics 💚🤎

I'm not sure I'll be writing anything this time around, but I loved writing these 😊

#twc #twc book 3 #the wayhaven chronicles #n sewell #nate sewell x f!detective #nate sewell x detective #nate x detective #nathaniel sewell #twc nate #nate sewell

[greyhands]

#the wayhaven chronicles #n sewell #nate sewell #nate x detective #twc book 3 spoilers #I personally prefered the combat training scene #because of the dialogues #even if the setting in the research scene was more romantic #I have mixed feelings about this book though #I'm glad to learn new things about N's past and his insecurities #but gods I wish we had the opportunity to comfort him and to talk about the fight issue #I really enjoyed the first half of the book then to me the second kind of feels like... rushed ? idk #on the other hand I like how the romance isn't going to be a smooth and easy road #I've also read M's route and oh boi the feelings... !! #Next is A then F because I will probably need some fluff after A ^^;; #But nope no LT's route I'm a coward #my art #no full colors sorry no time ><

[neoendydy]

#wayhaven chronicles #nate x detective #nate sewell #f!detective #my first run #im actually doing LT #was too tempted lol

[thelionheartedo3]

for one brief shining moment

summary: Ely’s to wed the High King of Camelot in a fortnight. The days leading up to the event are filled with her simply trying to acclimate to Camelot’s grandiose. . .everything.

pairing: Nate Sewell x f!Detective; Adam du Mortain x f!Detective

rating: mature

wc: 6.4k

chapter: 3/10

“This is where I was given Excalibur,” Nate says as he gestures ahead. Ely’s eyes move from him to the glimmering lake before them. As her brows knit, she turns back. “The legend states you pulled the sword from a stone,” she says. “That’s not true?” Nate gives her a rueful smile. “A sword from a stone,” he says. “Then I broke it in battle and was in need of a new one.” She blinks at him. “You broke a magical sword?” “That one wasn’t magical,” he explains. “Not like Excalibur.” “But you pulled it from a stone?” she asks. “The stone was the magic part, from what I’ve gathered.” Ely’s lips part, her words spluttering on her tongue before she manages an elegant: “What?”

[read on ao3]

#I can't remember my tags for this. it's not getting any #rinn writes vampire fic #uhh next chapter adam entrance #hopefully it's not another 6 months lmfao

[lovelyfoolish]

you have occupied my mind

nate x f!detective (yael greene) / 1.5K/ M

⇢ summary: fate and pancakes.

⇢ notes: a thank you for @serenpedac for all you did for @wayhavensecretsanta ♡ i don't know if you had to sacrifice your own surprise to run the event, but in case you did, here's a different one.

🥞 ‎

set the mood

🍋 ‎

When he holds out the lemon, examining it with those shrewd, dark eyes of his, it looks as though he’s plucked a bright yellow, dimpled sun from the sky, just for her. 

It feels like the ribbons of smoke from the fireworks have remained like the champagne glasses on the counter, distorting the edges of the clouds, but perhaps she just hasn’t woken up entirely yet. This could be a dream, anyway — Nathaniel Sewell in her — their — kitchen, making pancakes, on the first morning of a new year. Like a ritual.

The air is crisp and cold and crackling with an indescribable energy, and everything is hazy, but he is so clear, silhouetted by the window, humming to himself as he rinses the fruit, careful hands cutting the tops from the strawberries and leaves them in one of her painted-flower bowls, a gentle smile that must not be conscious on his lips. Yael always sees him smiling like that in her dreams, when everything has ended, and they are at peace.

But — there’s a stray eyelash on his cheek. 

No one in a dream ever has an eyelash on their cheek.

He is subtly and ever so slightly dishevelled, a strand of hair (looping in on itself, dark and long and so obviously hers) on the shoulder of his jumper with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing Nate’s forearms and the lines of vein that criss-cross them.

It must be from earlier. Another all-too-brief moment that she could have dreamed of instead of living. When she lay on his chest with her eyes closed as he read that book with yellow-tinged and water-warped pages that she swears he’s been reading for a month, her still half-asleep and wearing their fallen snow-white duvet and the late morning light, clinging to him like velvet on the antler of a buck. 

 “You’re thinking about something,” Nate says from in front of the fridge, an adoring accusation, head cocked as he looks back at her, still smiling, “What’s on your mind, Yael joonam?” He comes closer, until he places his palms on the island and lowers his head, leaning forward to meet her, their faces so close that she swears she can feel it when he grins, “Am I distracting you right now? Do you want me to distract you?”

She wants something else from him. A kiss like a cocoon, to wrap herself up in. A kiss like a lightning strike, leaving streaks of light where his lips met her skin. A kiss like plunging into cold water on New Year’s Day, awake and alive, hurting headfirst into a new year.

Yael touches his cheek with the backs of her fingers. “I was thinking that I was still dreaming,” she says, serious. “That I’ve dreamed about you smiling like that before.”

“I suppose that makes me your dream man,” Nate says, standing up straight again and catching her hand before it drops, lightly kissing her knuckles. He dusts kisses over the rest of her fingers, and the back of her hand, and the inside of her wrist, looking at her with that gaze she’d describe as apocalyptic — when he looks at her like that, the world ceases to exist. There is only him. 

“No,” she says, laughing when his lips brush against the inside of her elbow, tickling her, “I don’t think I could have ever dreamed I’d love someone like you.” 

He left a mark on her shoulder last night, well after midnight, champagne on their tongues, fingers tangled in her curls as he lifted them to kiss her bare skin. He’s getting closer and closer to it, pulling her from her chair and into his arms, wrapped around her waist. 

“Yael,” he murmurs, “Do you believe that this was fate?”

She closes her eyes for a long moment, contemplating his question. When she opens them again, they’re swaying, and Nate holds his arm out, coaxing her into a spin. How many thousands of times have they danced together in this room, tracing the same steps over and over again, closer and closer each time? Could that have been fate? She doesn’t know if she can wrap her head around the idea that love is anything less than purposeful.

“There was this girl,” Yael says, palms on his chest, “When I was little. We were the same age. She attended a class I did. Maybe a painting class. Something to do with art. I liked her. She was nice. I would have called her a friend, if you had asked me then. But we didn’t see each other outside of that. We went home and went our separate ways. After the class ended, I thought I’d never see her again. I didn’t think of her. I’m sure she never thought of me. Just one of those people that is in your life briefly and then is gone again. I knew that already.” 

‘Even so young’ hangs in the space between them before Nate presses closer to her, closing the gap between them.

How she loves the way he watches her when she talks to him, his focus entirely on her. Perhaps he too thinks of these moments as the end of the rest of the world.

“A few years later — maybe a decade — we were older by then, teenagers — I met her again. She was getting on the same train as me. In another city. Not here. I’d only ever seen her here, but maybe she was from somewhere else. I think we both thought it was a strange coincidence, but it was nice to see her again. We talked for a little bit, caught up on each other’s lives, and said goodbye again. I didn’t give her my number or anything like that. I thought again — and I remember this so distinctly — that I’d never see her again. Especially because she said she was moving. Not just to the city. Across the ocean. Her parents were moving and she was going with them. I’m sure I thought ‘that was interesting, I’m glad she’s well’ and thought nothing further of her after that.”

When Nate lifts her onto the counter, next to the bowl of batter, ending their dance, she wraps her legs around him, holding him in place for a moment. 

“But you saw her again,” he says, eyes wide. 

“Of course,” Yael says, and her smile feels tight at the corners. She doesn’t find this sad. She’s never found this sad. She doesn’t know why she feels sad. Perhaps it’s because — now she’s imagining Nate in her place. “But — we didn’t meet in Wayhaven. Or in the city. Or the place she moved. We met when I was travelling, a few years ago. Across a different ocean. She was in a crowd I was in. I didn’t say anything to her. Our eyes met, but — I think we both knew that we weren’t going to ever have anything more than those brief moments. Sometimes I feel like I should have spoken to her then. That maybe we were supposed to be friends, or something else, even more than that, that something beyond our comprehension or control was pushing us together.”

“Fate,” Nate says, voice low.

“Fate,” she agrees, “But not the kind people think of. Ours was to be acquaintances, over and over again. We never became close. Or even just — the kind of friends who spend time together. I never had her number. I never knew what her favourite colour was. Or what she likes to eat on top of pancakes.” 

“Berries and cream,” he says, “Surely. Or lemon and sugar, like you.” 

“Maybe,” she says, “But maybe she doesn’t like pancakes at all.”

That look on his face might be awe.

“Maybe — if that was fate — you and I would have ended up meeting the same one. Paths crossing, over and over again, too stubborn to choose each other. I would see you from across rooms and train platforms and think how handsome you were, or that I missed seeing your face in the reflection of the windows. But I never would have spoken to you about anything more than a seat, or an exhibit.”

“I would have taken matters into my own hands if I had to see you standing by yourself more than once,” Nate says slyly, the corner of his mouth lifting, and his kiss is sweet as the lemon and sugar she adores.

She laughs against his lips, arms wrapped around his neck, hugging him close to her, unwilling to let him go until she has to. “I know you would have. But — would that be fate, or an intervention?”

For a long moment, he is quiet as he turns the stove on, still brushing against her, the kitchen suddenly warm, and anything he could say would be lost under the sound of butter sizzling in the pan. 

“You should, at least, know that I would love you from the moment I first spoke to you,” he says.

Her voice catches in her throat.

“So,” Nate says, smile back on his lips, “What else do I do in your dreams, shefele?”

🫐 ‎

i thought about writing something more angsty for you - a supplement to that conversation between yael and nate, where they say goodbye, because i loved the roots you uncovered so much - but for new year's breakfast my dad makes pancakes.

one of the most precious memories i have of my childhood was saturday morning pancakes. my dad would make two little round ears and call them mickey mouse pancakes. we'd make a tiny one with extra batter for my doll.

my flatmate made heart shaped pancakes for us once and i see the picture whenever i scroll through my archive on instagram. (she introduced me to lemon and sugar.)

i texted someone that i wanted to eat pancakes with them as a way of saying "i love you".

so. pancakes was the only thing it could be ♡

yael's story about a childhood friend who showed up in the strangest of places but she never became close to is one of my own - my childhood friend and i took piano lessons together as children, then met five years later in a biology classroom as teenagers across the city (when she abruptly moved to italy), and five years after that met as young adults across the ocean from our hometown.

i wonder about the next place i'll see her.

i hope this all makes sense with how you conceive of nate and yael, and thank you again for being so lovely to all of us ♡

i always feel bad giving words as gifts since i worry about creating a sense of obligation, so please don't worry about engaging!

#[waluigi wah] #didn't have your sheet and couldn't ask around about it so just read yael content again :) #hopefully she can still be recognisable through my eyes :) #v important to do justice to a fellow curly haired queen #twc #nate sewell #stealing from gomez addams a wee bit #couldn't resist

[thee-morrigan]

what happens after you?

the wayhaven chronicles // nate sewell x holland townsend (f!detective) // rated E bc smut (with feelings! and so much eye contact!) // ~4.7k words // cw: mild body horror in the intro (concerning the skeletal mechanics of becoming a vampire)

Well, sex with your vampire boyfriend is one way to distract yourself from a nightmare about turning into one yourself, I guess.

read on ao3

Two hundred and six. 

There are two hundred and six bones in her body, and all of them are breaking, each one beginning to remake itself before the break is even fully realized. 

These are messy, cracking fractures: crush-injury fissures snaking along her ribs, spiderwebbing across her sternum, the irregular cavities of her spine chipping into shrapnel that tears at the soft, friable tissue of the organs that evolution built them to protect. 

Two hundred and six pieces of her very foundation, powerless against this too-foreign threat of supernatural seismology. Bones turned to bombs, to just-fired bullets, casing exploding free, all surroundings made collateral damage.

In any other circumstance, she might appreciate the humor in bone growth cells being called osteoblasts.   

Most of the joints in the adult human body are considered freely movable. She knows this, tries to remind herself how many of the connection points across her bones are built to stretch, to fall apart and fall back together. Tries to forget those that are considered immovable, like the sutures between the flat bones of her skull, which feels like it is attempting to supersede basic biology in an encore ossification that her body is not meant to handle. Not built to endure.

Tries to remind herself of the extraordinary capacity of bone tissue to remodel itself in response to mechanical stress, but she can’t think, can’t think, can’t think around this devastation and reform. Can hardly breathe through it, as if her ribs have caged the very air in her lungs. 

However moveable her joints were meant to be, she does not think they were meant to stretch this feely.

Does not think her bones — her cartilage — her tendons — were supposed to demand space from her in this way, to demand space for themselves that her body would have forfeited sometime around her twentieth birthday. To demand space she doesn’t have, is not supposed to have at this point, cartilage pushing relentlessly through the seams of her, sure as ivy on old buildings. 

And just as invasive. 

Pushing and pushing and pushing, until there are no words she knows to voice any emotion, let alone the aching roar rending through her bones. No language to give shape to the relentless, gripping pressure squeezing her limbs, holding her down, restraining her, containing her in this body that is not her body—

“Holland.”

If he hadn’t had supernatural reflexes, she might have broken his nose. 

Some small part of her subconscious latched onto the sweet sound of his voice like a lifeline and she jerked awake and upright with a strangled cry. She wrenched her body away from the mattress as if she weren’t sure she could, kicking her legs free of the tangle of sheets and duvet before folding herself over her bent knees. She pressed her forehead against her kneecaps and willed her breathing to level out, willed herself to focus on the sensations she felt now, the ones that were real, instead of the ones in her mind. 

The stretch of muscle in her shoulders — mild, almost pleasant — as she leaned forward. 

The cool pressure of her own fingers against the backs of her ankles, the sharp edges of her fingernails against her skin, and the little half-moon indentations she was undoubtedly leaving there.

The gentle weight of Nate’s hand on her back, smoothing slow lines along her spine, the warmth of his skin seeping through the thin cotton of the oversized t-shirt she'd worn to bed. His hands were always so much warmer than hers, and she wanted nothing more than to sink into it, the warmth of that body heat, wonderfully solid and real.

“Are you okay, rouhi?” His voice was a murmur, as soft and gentle as the caress of his hand along her spine.

Holland gave herself one more deep breath to settle the frenetic drumming of her heart. One more breath, and she unclenched her hands from her ankles, easing her shoulders back and turning her head to look at him, cheek resting against her knees. 

One hand still rubbing her back, Nate leaned forward and brushed the other over the side of her face, smoothing back the hair that had fallen across it, the pale strands almost silvery in the dim glow of the street lamps and moonlight that filtered through her bedroom windows. 

“Yeah,” she rasped, wincing at the dryness in her mouth. And at the worry creasing his face as he watched hers. 

Cleared her throat. Tried to clear her mind. “Just bad dreams.” 

"So I gathered." His frown deepened, and she had to flick her eyes away from his, from the sadness and concern clouding them. 

He traced his thumb along the ridge of her cheekbone, a feather-light graze. She leaned into it, that gentle touch, pressed her cheek against his hand like a stroked cat, her eyes drifting shut as she released another slow breath. Let the sensation ground her, pull her out of the hollow,  jangly space in her mind, fragmented with remnants of the nightmare, lightning-quick flashes of slides on a reel. Pull her back out of that dream-body, frozen and breaking, hers and yet not. 

"You were screaming," he added, and even with her eyes closed, the thread of worry in his voice burned a bright line through her, wove itself into a burning knot in her chest.

She grimaced and opened her eyes again. At least they'd stayed at her apartment last night instead of the warehouse. Otherwise, she'd have gotten the added bonus of probably alarming all four vampires rather than just the one in her bed. 

"Sorry," she said, apology streaking across her face. "I didn't mean to wake you up."

His frown deepened again, briefly, before smoothing into a gentle smile, though it didn't entirely mask the worry in his eyes. "Please don’t apologize. I’d rather you wake me than deal with it alone," he said, running his thumb over her cheek again. 

“You are incessantly good to me,” she said, the taut line of her mouth easing a bit as she straightened, shifting closer to nestle her body into his. He wrapped his arms around her, letting her tuck herself against him as he leaned back against the headboard.

"It's very easy to be good to you," he murmured, fingers brushing along the ends of her hair, stroking the back of her neck. "And you deserve nothing less." 

Curled up against him like this, Nate’s voice was something she felt as much as she heard. Lulled by the steady rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his body, Holland felt herself start to relax, the tension in her muscles easing. She let out a contented sigh as she buried her face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in. 

At this hour — whatever hour it was — it was so easy to let herself drift into this feeling, to cocoon herself in the soothing scent and feel and sound of him, without interrogating it. Without wondering if and how much she should worry about the effect he always seemed to have on her. Whether she relied on it too much. 

Without wondering, too, as she sometimes did, whether he realized just how deeply he affected her. The hold he had on her.

His fingers still rubbing gentle circles along the back of her neck, he spoke again, his voice a susurrant rumble against her ear. “Would it help to talk about it?”

She blew out a breath. “I don’t know. I doubt it. I only remember bits and pieces, anyway.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, a warm drop of sunlight. 

“You could tell me the bits and pieces,” he said into her hair.

I was the bits and pieces, she thought, though she kept it to herself, swallowing the accompanying bubble of mirthless laughter that threatened. She knew her tendency towards casual irreverence usually tended to make him worry about her more.

Especially if that irreverent commentary happened to be about a nightmare wherein she was fairly confident she had been midway through becoming a vampire herself. Or about to die trying.

Although perhaps that at least answered the question of exactly which part of what he’d said to her all those weeks ago had scared her most. Or at least had latched itself most securely into her brain, where it now shifted and scraped like a stone in her shoe. Which was kind of refreshing, she supposed, if she wanted to be all silver-linings about it. 

When you’re my age, I’ll remind you of this conversation.

At the time, she’d been more fixated on a different piece of subtext in his comment: the casual confidence with which he’d seemed to be suggesting —assuming — that they’d still be together, or at the very least still in each other’s lives, after a few hundred years. 

As if that were something anyone could possibly know. 

Let alone with the degree of certainty usually reserved for statements like, "The sky is blue."

Honestly, she’d given relatively little thought to the other implication in his words that day. At least, not in the context of their relationship. Tried not to think about it in that particular context, actually.

Her humanity. Her mortality.

Later, she knew, she would have to. Later, she would have to think about it — would have to talk about it — in a great many contexts, probably. Would have to face questions whose answers eluded her, ones that she couldn't answer, at least not now.

She hoped they even had answers. Hoped they were ones she could face.

And hoped that, when she did have to face them, those questions, their corresponding answers were better than — were something other than — “I don’t know.”

Her stomach clenched. No, that was not a conversation she was prepared to have right now. Not with him or anyone else. 

Herself included. 

It was much easier to focus on the steady beat of his heart and the way his fingers moved along her skin, coaxing her into a state of calm. 

"Honestly," she said finally, shifting against him as she tilted her face up to look at him. "I'd rather just forget about it." 

Nate traced his fingers over her jawline, thumbing her bottom lip free from her teeth, where she’d been worrying it absentmindedly, digging her canines into a corner of her mouth as she thought.

“All right,” he said softly, eyes searching her face, thumb still resting against her lips. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But I am always happy to listen if ever you do.”

That burning knot in her chest tightened again at the depth of emotion that simmered in his dark eyes, the open sincerity of his face. Her throat bobbed. She knew he meant it. Knew he'd be just as willing to listen even if he knew what thoughts shaped her nightmares, what fears woke her in the middle of the night.

It was too much. The way he looked at her, the way he touched her, the way he made her feel.

She had no idea what to do with it, with everything he made her feel.

She knew one thing, though: she didn't want to let it go. 

She reached up to trace the curve of his jaw, her fingers trailing down his neck as she leaned forward to brush her mouth against his. 

It was slow at first: gentle, indolent, as if they were savoring the taste of each other, and she let herself sink into the warmth of it, the warmth of him, seeping into her skin and settling against her unbroken bones. 

They broke apart for a moment and Nate rested his forehead against hers, voice soft as breath against her skin. "Are you sure you're okay?"

No. Maybe. She would be, anyway. 

"Yeah." She opened her eyes to meet his, dark with wanting, though not so much that it masked the shimmer of concern. "I'm okay," she murmured.

He searched her eyes for a moment longer before leaning in to kiss her again, more deeply this time, sucking gently at her bottom lip and coaxing a moan from her. He smoothed his hands down the curve of her back, sliding beneath the hem of her t-shirt, tracing the soft skin of her hips, her waist, his fingertips feather-light as they skimmed over her bare skin.

She shivered at his touch, leaning into it, into him, threading her fingers through his hair as she deepened the kiss, pulled him closer. It was always like this with Nate — a slow-motion free fall into something that felt increasingly — dangerously — essential. His hands tightened on her waist, tugging her forward until she was straddling him, bare thighs bracketing his hips, her body flush against his. He rolled his hips up into her and she arched her back, a soft gasp spilling from her lips as he broke the kiss, brushing his lips over the curve of her jaw.

Her fingers trailed down the back of his neck, sending shivers down his spine, and he couldn't resist the urge to kiss her again, slow and thorough, savoring the sweetness of her mouth. He'd never had anything like her—had never felt so drawn to someone, so consumed by their presence. It still surprised him, the effect she had on him, the intensity of his feelings for her. He pulled her closer, running his hands over the smooth skin of her thighs, and up along the curves of her hips, hands tightening as she rocked into him, sliding a hand down his chest and tracing lines along the smooth, skin-warm fabric of his shirt, fingers toying with the buttons.

She flicked the top one open as she broke the kiss with a shuddered breath and trailed open-mouthed kisses down the column of his neck. Her tongue dipped into the hollow of his throat as she thumbed open the next button and Nate groaned at the gentle scrape of her teeth against his collarbone. By the time she reached the third, her mouth had almost caught up to her hands, a wandering trail of kisses against his chest, his skin like silk against her tongue, a flame against her skin.

He pulled back, releasing her just long enough to tug his shirt over his head and toss it aside.

“So impatient,” she teased, angling forward again and nipping at the soft skin just beneath his ear.

He closed his eyes, skin prickling at the sensation, his hands tightening on her hips as he pulled her flush against him again.

“You have that effect on me,” he replied, the words a warm kiss of uneven breath against her throat as he lowered his mouth to her skin once more.

She laughed even as she arched into him, breath catching at the coaxing, languid kisses he was pressing up the curve of her neck. “I’m just saying,” she breathed, unable to keep the half-smile from her face, her voice, “I’m not the one who was so insistent about enjoying the anticipation. Something about it being ‘delicious’, I think?”

He slid his fingers along her jaw, tipping her face to his as he kissed her again. Again. Again.

“You are delicious,” he murmured against her lips, a soft smile curving his mouth as he pulled back to look at her. "And I intend to savor every inch of you."

The midnight-softness of his voice slid over her like a physical touch, a warm caress across her skin, and she loosed a breath at the warmth that pooled in her, even as she arched a brow at him, another ghost of a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Promises, promises."

He skimmed his hands along her thighs, her hips, as though he were mapping her body by touch, his eyes darkening with an irresistible combination of affection and desire.

“Every promise I make to you, ya rouhi,” he said, his voice low and soft, “I intend to keep.”

His tone itself seemed to be a kind of promise, and Holland felt her breath catch at the weight of it, at the way his eyes held hers with such gentleness and warmth. When he cupped her face, she leaned into his touch, her eyes drifting shut. Nate kissed her again, his lips moving languidly against hers as his hands continued their exploration, sliding under the hem of her shirt to brush against the bare skin of her stomach, his fingers tracing the curve of her waist, and Holland shivered. 

He pressed a line of kisses down to the base of her throat, feeling the rapid beat of her pulse against his mouth as he nosed at the collar of her shirt and pushed it aside, baring her shoulder to his lips. She shivered again at the gentle scrape of his teeth over the delicate skin of her collarbone, and the sound that slipped from her was as much from actual sensation as it was from how careful his mouth was against her skin, how gentle every part of him always was with her.  

He tugged at the hem of her shirt and she pulled — reluctantly — away from his mouth, lifting her arms and letting him pull the fabric over her head.

For a long moment, he simply looked at her, bare skin wreathed in shadow and the streaks of moonlight that filtered past her curtains. The bruised, haunted expression she'd woken up with had faded, those green eyes no longer darkened by whatever stalked her nightmares but with something else entirely, a heady melange of lust and affection and a flicker of something else, there and gone before he could name it.

On Nate’s face, Holland saw something like reverence.  

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, brushing a hand along the curve of her shoulder and down the length of her arm, curling his fingers around hers. "Do you have any idea how much I want you?"

Her mouth twitched into a smile as a breath of a laugh escaped her, even as heat bloomed across her cheeks. “I might have some idea,” she said, leaning in to kiss him again with an emphatic little roll of her hips against him. “But I wouldn’t stop you if you wanted to remind me.”

Nate groaned, his arm curling around her waist as he deepened the kiss, his other hand tracing the line of her spine, and shifted, sliding her off his lap and onto the bed. He lingered above her for a moment, drinking in the sight of her once more before pressing a kiss to her forehead, her nose, then finally her lips. It was a slow, indulgent thing that had Holland’s eyes fluttering closed, fingers curling in the hair at his nape as he deepened the kiss. He kissed his way down her neck, lower, his tongue flicking out to taste her skin, nibbling and sucking and stroking until she was aching and pliant beneath him.

His hands roamed over her body with excruciating gentleness, fingers tracing every curve and dip, every inch of skin that was bared to him. And when his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of her underwear, thumbs tracing indolent circles around her hip bone as he eased the garment down, she arched against him, hips lifting in a wordless plea for more. His mouth was on her neck again when Holland felt his hand slide back up her thigh, tracing the curve of her hip before moving inward, fingertips ghosting along the crease of her hip, the tops of her thighs. 

And then, finally, brushing a knuckle, once, against her, light as breath.

Light as the breath against her ear as he purred, “Are you always this wet for me?”

She swore, her own breath snagging in her throat, eyes fluttering closed. Another light brush of fingertips had her hips tilting into his hand, chasing that sensation, and he made a low, pleased sound against her neck. Yes, her body seemed to answer for her; yes, always.

Nate's lips curved against her skin as his hand skated higher, another quick, teasing brush, followed by a slow, deliberate circle that had her hissing another curse as she arched against him, hips canting into the touch of his hand.

“I hope so,” he murmured, lips brushing against the shell of her ear with a breath of a laugh as she shivered.

Oh, he was entirely too pleased with himself, she thought, even as her hips shifted again, seeking more, more.

"Nate," she groaned, hands gripping his shoulders, her nails biting into his skin, scoring it with little half-moon scratches that would no doubt have healed by the time she moved her hands.

"Look at me," he whispered, voice low and honeyed.

She opened her eyes, and the look in his, the expression on his face, had her breath catching in her throat, hips rolling against his hand once more.

"I love watching you like this, Holland," he said, the words soft, "Seeing the way you react to me. It's intoxicating."

The way he said her name made her feel as though her blood had been replaced with something electric, a thrumming undercurrent that sparked along her nerve endings.

He dipped his head to kiss her again, slow and thorough, and her entire body seemed to melt into his. He brushed his thumb against her, fingers slipping inside her with a slow, deliberate stroke, and the world became three things: his hands on her body, his mouth against her skin, and his voice in her ears, low and sweet and utterly, utterly indecent.

He pressed his mouth to the base of her throat, his fingers continuing their gentle rhythm as he kissed a path along the curve of her neck, pressing a litany of praises and endearments onto her skin, the murmured words soft and tangible as a caress.

Holland felt her cheeks flush with pleasure at his words, his touch, and her body sang with it as he moved lower still, mouth tracing a slow, winding path down her body, tracing every curve, every hollow, until he finally (finally) pressed his mouth to her slick heat with a soft groan that she felt as much as heard. His hands moved to her hips, holding her in place as he tasted her, each slow, languid movement sending another series of sparks through her veins.

"You taste so good," he murmured, the words a low, intimate hum against her skin.

She bit her lip against a moan and pressed closer, tiny, crackling starbursts of pleasure streaking through her with each slow movement of his tongue. Holland's fingers curled in his hair as he moved against her, her back arching as he found a rhythm that had her breath stuttering.

"Please," she breathed, the word barely more than a whimper as her entire body tightened, a steady, thrumming tension urging her ever closer to that sweet, shimmering edge. "Nate. "

She felt the curve of his mouth against her and knew without looking that his expression would probably be, among other things, almost annoyingly self-satisfied. But she flicked her gaze to him, anyway, found his already on her, and forgot to even consider whether she’d been right about his expression. Because, self-satisfied or not, the look on his face as her eyes met his — the intensity of it — had every last thought eddying from her mind. 

Nate kept his eyes on her as she came apart under his mouth, moaning something unintelligible against her skin as every nerve in her body incandesced into pure starlight.

He held her through it, mouthing gentle kisses against her before brushing a light kiss against her inner thigh and easing his grasp on her hips. Pulling away just long enough to discard his pants, that silken fabric the last barrier between them, Nate moved back up her body, pressing a kiss to the curve of her neck, then her mouth, his hands cupping her face as he kissed her.

She could taste herself on his lips, and the thought of it — of him — had her wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling him closer, closer, and still not nearly close enough. She was still reeling, still warm and weak and more than a little drunk on the way he made her feel, and she wanted him closer, wanted to hold him and feel him and taste him, wanted more, more, more.

He held her gaze as he slid inside her, his eyes dark and wide and utterly focused on her, like she was the center of the world, like she was everything. 

He was everything, she thought as she gripped his shoulders, fingers curling against his skin. She had never wanted anyone, never wanted anything, like she wanted him.

He kissed her again as he thrust deeper into her, his mouth moving against hers with a soft, broken sound that had her arching up against him. He held her close, his hands gentle on her skin, as he moved against her.

"You feel exquisite," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple, her cheek, her jaw, her ear, her mouth.

She held his face in her hands, fingers drifting along his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw, the back of his neck, and he pressed his forehead to hers, eyes half-lidded and dark, breath warm and uneven against her face.

The look in his eyes — god, the way he looked at her —

She couldn't get enough of it, the way he looked at her.

Couldn't get enough of him, either.

He looked at her like he was the one coming apart, and the thought of that, the image of it, had her tightening her hold on him, hands moving to his shoulders as he pressed deeper still, harder. Deeper, her body arching into his, that look in his eyes like something she wanted to bottle up and keep, the way it so perfectly mirrored the way she felt, in this moment and in so very many before now, warm and soft and full of something fierce and bright —

She was the one who was unraveling.

Holland kissed him again, hard, and pulled him closer, kissing him until she was dizzy, until she was breathless, until she was utterly unmoored.

His hands on her face, his voice against her skin, his body moving against hers, within hers. Holland let her eyes flutter closed, her breathing ragged, her body arching up against his as she met him stroke for stroke.

There was nothing but Nate, nothing but the sound of his breath, the feel of his skin, the taste of his mouth. The way he moved inside her, the way he touched her, the way he looked at her, the way he kissed her —

He kissed her each time she whispered his name. He kissed her when she came, the sounds he made low and raw against her skin as he followed, her name on his lips, his hand buried in her hair, his voice a broken whisper against her skin. 

He kissed her like he never wanted to let her go.

And when Holland opened her eyes and saw him, that look in his eyes, that look like he could never get enough of her, she was the one who could not bear to let go.

—

“Sweeter dreams this time, rouhi,” he murmured against her shoulder, pressing a drowsy kiss there as he settled against her, curling around her as if he was already half-asleep. 

“Mm.” She hummed in assent and pressed in closer against him, squeezing the arm he’d wrapped around her waist.

She didn’t yet know how to tell him he was all of her sweetest dreams. Hadn’t yet figured out how to take a full breath around the enormity of that feeling.

Even if what he was — what she wasn’t — had begun to haunt some of those dreams, too.

#this fic brought to u in part by the time i tried to wake my partner up from a nightmare and he kicked me in the shin #(in his defense he thought i was a zombie) #katie writes things #twc #the wayhaven chronicles #nate x detective #ship: your entire heart #oc: holland townsend #nsft

[sevlawless]

how do i tell you?

pairing: nate sewell x f!detective (felicity langford)

word count: 1.9k

warnings: some swearing? and felicity overthinking so much like it’s her job

tagging: @masonscig @blainehayes

notes: so this has been a wip for... a year at least LMFAO but i'm in twc hell so i dusted her off and she's here! i will never get tired of examining felicity under a microscope like she's an ant so <3 this takes place sometime during book 3 (we're ignoring that her apartment is ruined) AND this fic is loosely based on how do i tell you? by lizzy mcalpine

[read on ao3]

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

felicity watches as the fan on her bedroom ceiling grows faster with each spin, the yellow blades losing their rectangular shape in seconds and morphing into a blur right in front of her eyes. she's probably spent a thousand nights doing exactly this, hoping that if she stares up at it long enough it'll put her to sleep.

but how can the thought of sleeping even cross her mind when all she can think about is him?

all felicity sees when she closes her eyes is nate; the way he looks at her when they're together, his deep brown eyes staring into her own and leaving her breathless, the intensity making her look away, how he concentrates when he's pouring over a book in the library, the way his ring covered hands turn each page so delicately.

she also sees the way his smile strains when she turns him away yet again, reassuring her that it's okay, how he reaches out to comfort her but quickly puts his hands back in his pockets as if touching her would burn them both.

it's not that she doesn't like him. she adores him. she knows being with him would make her happier than she's ever been in entire life, even a sliver of what could be when they're together makes her smile a little brighter and stand a little taller.

if only she could get over herself.

to say she's been hurt badly in the past would be an understatement. she's never anyone's priority, at least not in the way that they were to her. whether it was with bobby, or the handful of other relationships she's had, they always end up leaving her in the dust, struggling to understand where it went wrong, as if it was all her fault.

she knows nate would never do that, at least she thinks he wouldn't. she's just so tired of having to pick up the pieces of her broken heart that it seems pointless to attempt a romantic relationship with anyone ever again, despite how much she might want to.

and she desperately wants to.

this can't go on forever, she knows that. she needs time, but she's tired of feeling down on herself and fuck if she does it any longer. nate deserves to know how she feels.

before she can stop herself, her phone is unplugged and off her nightstand and into her hand. she's calling nate before it even registers in her brain what she's doing.

it rings four times (not that she was counting), when she suddenly hears some shuffling on the other end. her heart sinks as she realizes he was probably asleep and feels guilty for calling him so out of the blue, and she hates to admit it but she wanted - no needed, to hear his voice and maybe just talking it out would help and god, what the fuck is she doing-

"felicity? is everything alright?" his voice is urgent, but calm and she rolls her eyes at how quickly it soothes the storm of overdramatic thoughts swirling around in her head.

"i just had a hard time sleeping," she smacks her hand against her forehead. that is not why you called him. why are you prolonging this?

"i'm sorry to hear that," he says and her heart swells at his words. she's known him for six months now and still, every time he says something to her that feels so genuine - because it's nate, and he doesn't have a insincere bone in his body - she can't help but gape in disbelief that anyone could be so… unabashedly kind to her. is she really that starved for affection that someone being polite to her feels like such a big deal?

'any normal person would be sorry that you couldn't sleep,' she thinks. 'don't get ahead of yourself.'

she shakes her head as if to clear that thought out of her brain.

"do you want to talk about it?" nate asks.

her mind immediately starts to backtrack. she couldn't possibly tell him how she feels. it's too soon. she can't do this.

"no, it's really dumb and i shouldn't have called you. it's so late," she lets out a nervous laugh, "and i know you hate talking on the phone."

"i was awake anyways," she swears she can hear his smile through the screen as he continues, "and you know i enjoy talking to you, no matter the circumstance."

i would fight through any form of technology if i knew you were on the other end.

the memory of him saying those words to her outside of the warehouse makes her head spin. her skin flushes as she mumbles an okay.

"if you don't want to talk about it, i understand, but i hope you know i'm here for you, felicity. always."

always.

after a beat of silence, she mumbles, "what if you leave?"

"felicity, i-"

"leave wayhaven," she says quickly, "things could calm down and unit bravo isn't needed here anymore and you get assigned somewhere else. what then?"

"i can assure you if we got assigned to a different place, i wouldn't lose contact with you." he declares it with such confidence it makes her brain foggy.

she smiles in spite of herself. "what, would you write to me?"

"absolutely."

she giggles. "maybe farah could teach you how to text."

she expects him to join in on the laughter but he's quiet. "or, you could teach me."

"i could."

there's a moment of silence before nate speaks again.

"is me leaving something you think about frequently?"

she almost forgot she let that slip and her bedroom suddenly feels a lot smaller and constricting.

"not really. i mean, i guess so, since i brought it up," she rambles and exhales a deep breath. i just…"

"i don't think that i ever mean that much to anyone," she blurts out, eyes widening at what she's saying. "i know that sounds dumb, but when things get tough with anyone, no one has ever stuck around and seen it through. i want to mean enough to someone to where they want to make it work when things are hard. and i'm terrified of that happening with you."

there, she said it. the worst that could happen is that he doesn't feel the same. but he does feel the same.

right?

her thoughts come to a halt when she realizes he hasn't said anything.

"nate? hello?" she pulls the phone from her ear to see that the call has been disconnected.

did he hang up on me?

maybe he accidentally hung up. he'll call back any minute.

one minute turns into five. five minutes turn into ten.

she can't stop the tears from forming in her eyes.

he doesn't feel the same way. of course. why would he? why the fuck did i say all that? he probably thinks i'm crazy. god, why am i such an-

the knocking on her front door stops her overthinking completely. she's probably so tired that she's hearing things, until she hears a knock again.

she rubs her eyes and slips out of bed, adjusting her pajamas and treading sleepily to the door.

she looks through the peephole and her heart is in her stomach.

it's nate.

she immediately yanks the door open. he's stood there, wearing his green satin pajamas with his usual jacket hastily thrown on. his hair looks like he hasn't brushed it in days, and he has sweat dripping from his brow. she'd find it attractive if she wasn't so anxious and confused about why he was here.

"may i come in?" he asks, eyes pleading and she lets him in. she notices he's also wearing his bedroom slippers which have tracked mud into her apartment. nate notices this too.

"i apologize for the mess, i'll clean it-"

"why do you look so-"

"disheveled?" he chuckles, running a hand through his hair.

"yeah. not that i don't like the look but-" it hits her. "nate, did you run here?"

he looks uncharacteristically nervous, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

"i did."

"why?"

"because i wanted to finish our conversation in person."

her face grows hot in embarrassment.

"about what i said, nate, i-"

he takes both of her hands in his, the touch taking her by surprise. she forgets whatever excuse she was going to say about baring her feelings instantly.

"i know we haven't known each other that long, felicity, but i do care about you. more than i've cared about anyone in a long time. your happiness is of the utmost importance to me, and to hear you say you feel like you don't mean that much to anyone-

"you mean everything to me. i need you to know that. i'm sorry people in your life have been so unkind to where you feel this way, but i want you to know i would never dare to make you feel any less special than you are.

"i know you need time. i completely understand. but please know that i would never do anything to hurt you, felicity. doing so, i think would hurt me."

tears are welling up in her eyes again and nate's hands move from her own to cradle her face, thumbs at the ready in case any should fall. he's giving her that look that he always gives her, the look that tells her that he means everything he said. his brown eyes are staring into her own, and for once she doesn't look away.

"i… i don't know what to say," she mentally scolds herself, but how would anyone respond to the man of your dreams telling you he wants you and would never harm you?

"you don't have to say anything. i just wanted to tell you how i feel." he's smiling, but she knows she needs to buck up and let him know that - whatever this is between them - isn't one sided.

"i know," she sighs. "nate, i'm crazy about you. i care about you a lot, and i'm really sorry i haven't done a very good job at showing it. you deserve more-"

"no," he assures her, rubbing her cheek with his thumb. "i deserve you, and you deserve to be happy."

it all clicks into place for felicity at that moment.

"you're right."

she has to stand on her tiptoes but luckily nate meets her halfway as their lips meet in a searing kiss, her arms wrapping around his neck. his hands move to the small of her back, bunching up the fabric of her nightgown in his fists. kissing him is better than she ever could have imagined, his lips molding to hers as if they've always belonged there.

he pulls away too quickly for her liking and his eyes widen in concern, his hands snapping away to hover over her waist.

"felicity, are you sure?"

she smiles, blush rising in her cheeks. "i've never been more sure of anything in my life."

she kisses him again, and again, and again, until eventually, she has to pull away so she can breathe, and is met with nate's adoring gaze.

"i could get used to this view," she jokes, moving her hand to his hair to brush a strand out of his face.

he catches her wrist after, hand sliding down to entwine their fingers together.

"me too," he admits, smiling down at her. "and i am not going anywhere, so you'll be sure to see it often."

and she believes him.

#n sewell #nate sewell #nate sewell x detective #twc #the wayhaven chronicles #my writing #twc: nate x felicity #im just so obsessed with them ! #also rip nate's slippers 💔 LMFAOKSKDNDNDKD

[songofsoma]

BALDUR’S GATE 3

Karlach x F!Tav

All Roads Lead to You

one two three four

To Know Her, Body and Soul (NSFW)

The Hands That Heal

Until You See Stars (NSFW)

Sleepless (NSFW)

Take Her Apart (NSFW)

Beloved

A Very Nice Dream (NSFW)

Shadowheart x F!Tav

Where Anyone Could See (NSFW)

Bound to Me (NSFW)

Lae’zel x F!Tav

A Dirty Way to Win (NSFW)

Minthara x F!Tav

Worship of the Godless (NSFW)

Mizora x Reader

Deal With a Devil (NSFW)

Jaheira x Reader

A Lesson Learned (NSFW)

Dame Aylin x Isobel Thorm

Under the Light of Her Moon

THE WAYHAVEN CHRONICLES

Ava du Mortain x F!Detective

Safe With You

You Are Everything

Always Yours

Lucky

A Reminder of You

A Night With You (NSFW)

My Mellilla

Her Undoing

Abyssal Heart

Her Pale Knight

Chasing Nightmares

I'm Here

Genesis

Tendrils of Honey

You on My Mind (NSFW)

Undone (NSFW)

A Test of Strength [ for @aelwen ]

Five More Minutes

A Touch of a Temptress

Kiss Me Goodbye

Beg (NSFW)

To Protect You [ for @aelwen ]

Upon an Eternal Moon

Counting Scars

Biting Words (NSFW)

Vulnerable

Acts of Love

Under the Mistletoe

Call of Midnight

Empty Beds and Wanting Hearts (NSFW in first part)

All You Need is Love (And Salt)

A Little Reward (NSFW)

A Wish to be Loved

Adam du Mortain x F!Detective

Everything [ for @ladiemars ]

Until Death [ for @ladiemars]

Nate Sewell x F!Detective

Northern Star [ for @pixelnights ]

Prompts (mixed pairings)

a clumsy kiss [ for @pixelnights ]

come back here right now [ for @rosejellyy ]

bloody kiss [ for @ladiemars ]

kissing in the stairwell

do you want this

kisses that start from the fingers

a kiss that trails down the jaw

THE EXILE

Syfyn Javall x F!Commander

Light of a Guiding Star

Where We Stand

Touch (NSFW)

ASSASSIN'S CREED VALHALLA

F!Eivor x Soma

A Waking Dream

F!Eivor x Randvi

My Drengr

No Lone Wolves

Divinity is the Shape of a Woman

Ice-Kissed

ASSASSIN'S CREED ODYSSEY

Kassandra x Reader

The Eagle and the Sparrow

Sea Maiden

part 1

part 2

#fic masterpost #my last one was broken #im sorry if u get tagged it means i love u #my writing #twc #the wayhaven chronicles #assassin's creed valhalla #ava du mortain #adam du mortain #nate sewell #twc morgan #farah hauville #soma jarlskona #eivor the wolf kissed #friend's ocs #eivor x randvi #female eivor #ac odyssey #assassin's creed odyssey #kassandra x reader #the exile #syfyn javall x commander #syfyn javall x f!commander #bg3 #baldur’s gate 3 #karlach #shadowheart #lae'zel #bg3 mizora

[lykegenia]

Rating: Teen Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, (Mutual) Pining

The morning after rescuing Sanja, Nate wakes mostly healed, and finds that Leah kept her promise to stay with him.

--

The slow, regular beat of another’s heart, its rhythm familiar but foreign, pulls Nate from his healing slumber. He follows the sound of it like a lantern through the dark, and the sight that greets him when his eyes flicker open draws a gasp deep into his lungs.

She stayed. She’s in his bed, cuddled into the cotton pillow next to him with her hand still clasped around his as she sleeps on, in the loose pyjamas she changed into after their return from the Trapper base. Her hair is still a little damp from her shower, the ends of the chestnut locks flared across her back. When she’s awake, it’s always braided neatly or swept up in a bun to keep it out of the way – he didn’t realise it was so long.

The scent of the sewer lingers, of course – it always does – but the foulness of it holds no power over his senses in company with the lime and elderflower of her shampoo, the cool, human smoothness of her skin, or –

Hunger.

Weakened as he still is by the Trappers’ attacks, her blood all but screams at him, and he can’t help but drink in the aroma of it, the spicy sweetness that promises so much power in its satiation. One of his fingers lies across her wrist, where the skin is so soft, so thin, and as he brushes the digit over her pulse she’s so deep asleep that she doesn’t stir an inch. The throb beats in his ears. He could open the artery, do it so delicately she wouldn’t even wake, and steal a taste of her, the salt of skin and her blood beneath his tongue.

He's leaned closer without even realising.

He swallows a groan, horrified, as he pulls back and tears his gaze away from Leah’s defenceless form to the canopied ceiling above his bed, fangs sharp against the inside of his lips. It’s the injuries eroding his restraint, the cost of so much healing and the DMB the medic drugged him with to help him sleep. Instead of the beat of blood, so heavy in the quiet of his room, he tries to hold onto the image of her nestled amongst his bedclothes, the worries and hurts of the day wiped clean from her features, the corners of her lips ever so slightly upturned. A bubble of light expands in his chest as he attunes to the steady, trusting sigh of her breath, the hope that maybe one day he’ll be fortunate enough to listen to it not as an object of sympathy but… as a lover. That perhaps, when he wakes on some future morning, he’ll be able to curl his body warm around her and be embraced in return.

For now, he still needs blood. Yearning wars with the ache of thirst. As carefully as he can, he untangles his fingers and rises from the bed. A faint pain still sits deep in his muscles, though it’s a relief that most of his injuries have healed, and after stretching it out as best he can, he turns and retrieves the eiderdown throw draped across the foot of the bed. Pulling it up to Leah’s shoulders, he indulges in one last brief gaze before temptation becomes too much, and leaves her to her rest.

--

When he returns a little while later, she’s rolled onto her other side, her knees curled catlike to her chest and her hands bunched in the fabric of the pillow as if otherwise it might escape. Gently, he sets down the glass of water he brought her and perches on the edge of the mattress, then hesitates, caught a second time by the sight of her amongst his sheets. It’s a good thing he doesn’t technically need to breathe.

“Leah?” he tries eventually, a murmur accompanied by the brush of fingertips against her shoulder.

She only groans, a petulant little moue of sound as her brows crease and she turns her face further into the pillow. He bites back a laugh and tries again, tries to ignore all the other ways his pounding heart thinks of waking her, if they were but closer.

“Leah, you’re asleep.”

Another noise, though this one drags into recognisable vocabulary as she rises into consciousness.

“Nate?”

He smiles. “Good morning.”

“Ugh. Morning…” She stretches under the covers, arches her back so that a little line of pops and cracks fizzle up the length of her spine. “What time is it? I think I left my phone in my jeans.”

“You know,” he starts, to distract himself from the sight of her mussed hair and the itch in his fingers to comb it out, “I do despair of the younger generations’ reliance on their electronic devices.”

She snorts, levers herself to sitting, rubs a hand along the back of her neck. “You are such an old man.”

“Technically, that’s true.” Feeling bold, he lets his hand fall to the curve of her knee. “How are you?”

“Stiff. Like I went ten rounds with an elephant,” she replies, without pulling away. “What about you? I see the bandages are gone.”

“There are a few benefits to being a vampire.”

The smile the comment lights on her face fades as she studies his face, a mournful tilt to her brows as she tracks the bloom of bruises that have yet to entirely fade from his cheeks. And then she starts, turns bashful even as Nate finds himself leaning forwards to offer reassurance.

“I should let you have your room back,” she mumbles. A blush is climbing in her cheeks; he can hear the rising tick of her heart rate as surely as the twist of the fabric between her fingers. “I’m probably late for work anyway.”

She’s in his bed. The sheets will carry her scent for days, perfectly innocent though the reason might be for it. His chest aches with the thought of her leaving.

“Of course,” he says anyway, rising to give her space to swing her feet onto the antique carpet. “Thank you for watching over me.”

Leah pauses, shrugs. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

She would hate to be told so, but he’s learning to read the thrum of truth she hides behind indifference, and he bows his head. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

“Nah.” She waves a hand, already padding across the room. “Your bed’s just more comfortable than mine.”

“Well then, I should say you’re welcome to it any time you like.”

By now they’ve reached his door. When she turns to bid him goodbye, the colour in her cheeks has risen like a sunrise, her bottom lip held hostage by her teeth, and whether or not she intends to draw his attention there, he has to fight the urge to reach up and set it free with the pad of his thumb.

“That’s a generous offer,” she manages, teasing.

“Entirely selfish, I assure you,” he replies. For an instant their eyes lock, and the temptation to lean down and kiss her, to coax her back inside and cradle the soft lines of her body between his hands, almost overwhelms his better sense. Only the memory of that darker temptation, the guilty desire for the blood he can still hear rushing beneath her skin, sickens him enough to keep his distance. He swallows.

“Have a good day, Leah.”

“Yeah…” she answers. “Yeah, you too.”

And then she turns, and he watches her retreat down the hallway until long after she’s passed out of sight.

#twc #the wayhaven chronicles #wayhaven #wayhaven fic #nate sewell #n sewell #nate sewell x detective #nate sewell x f!detective #nate x f!detective #nate x detective #leah kingston

[lem-20]

A little reflection from N after the trappers fight and the argument with the detective (written back when the demos came out).

#resharing as a link as i have maybe 10 followers who read twc 🙈 #twc #the wayhaven chronicles #nate sewell #n sewell #twc book 3 spoilers #twc book 3 #nate sewell x detective #nate sewell x f!detective

[kittlesandbugs]

Rating: G Pairing: Nate Sewell/Female Detective Description: The detective comforts Nate during a bad storm when he's unable to keep himself distracted from it.

The lights overhead flicker briefly and Quincey wonders if the Warehouse is equipped with generators. The wind howls outside, tree branches scrabbling at the windows, as lightning flashes and thunder rumbles. It's been a while since Wayhaven has had a storm quite this strong. But she's tucked away her room with a soft blanket and a good book in Unit Bravo's Warehouse, half-underground.  Probably much safer than she would be in her rickety 3rd floor apartment. 

She jolts upright when a crack of thunder and lightning split the night  like it's right outside her window and almost rattles the foundation. The lights go out immediately after, and her question of whether or not the Warehouse has generators is answered when it remains dark. 

She sets her book aside now that reading is out of the question.  Her phone lights up the room and vibrates with a new message.  It's from Adam on the group chat, informing everyone that a tree went down on the power lines. Given the Warehouse's remote location, it will not be a priority for power restoration until morning. 

She shrugs, sets it to silent, and flips it over to not be disturbed by it anymore. She's not sure if she can sleep through the storm's noise, but given how late it is, there's nothing left to do but try. 

As she's dozing, she just barely catches a quiet knock on the door between claps of thunder. 

"Is someone there?" she asks half-groggy, and sits up. 

She hears the click of the doorknob, but she can't see anything in the pitch blackness.  It makes her nerves crawl, but the voice that follows puts her back at ease. 

"Sorry, did I wake you?"

Something in the timber of his voice is off and she frowns.  "No, I hadn't fallen asleep yet. Everything alright, Nate?" 

"...not really, no."

Lightning flashes through the window, illuminating the room, and even though everything is blurred without her glasses, she easily catches the deep flinch in his form as he approaches the bed. 

Is he… afraid of storms?  A memory of the carnival comes forth, of the house of mirrors, images of Nate on the ship and the blood and… it was storming heavily.  Shit. 

She draws back the blankets and pats the space next to her.  He's quick to climb in, long arms coiling around her almost like she's a teddy bear.  He buries his face in the crook of her neck and takes a shuddering breath as some of the tension leaks out of him. 

"Sorry," he mutters. "I know you need your rest."

She scoffs at the apology and pulls the blankets up over them. "You say that like I didn't just crawl into your bed in the middle of the night two days ago."

"You had a bad nightmare.  You needed comfort."

"And you need comfort now."

He groans into the cleft of her shoulder. "It feels so… juvenile."

"And you think I didn't feel that way, creeping into your room at like 2 a.m. for a cuddle?"  She runs her fingers through his hair. "We're partners. We take care of each other."

She feels his low chuckle more than hears it over the rain. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

"I mean, if it makes you feel better, that's pretty mutual."

"Maybe a little."

He can't see the lightning flash anymore from his position, but cringes as thunder rumbles loudly around them. 

She rubs soothing circles into his tense shoulders. "How come you've never mentioned storms bother you?" 

"It is typically not this much of a problem. I can tolerate most storms, usually with the help of a distraction." He relaxes again as the sound fades. 

"Is that all I am, a distraction?" she teases. 

"The best kind, and so much more, I assure you," he says, laughing. "But normally I just keep the lights on, play some music, try to lose myself in a book."

"But then the power went out."

He grunts an agreement and she presses her lips to the top of his head.

"We don't usually get storms this bad. Maybe once or twice a summer, tops."

"That's comforting, at least."

Curiosity niggles at her and she can't resist asking when he's being more forthcoming than usual about his own discomfort. "What did you do without a distraction, before I came into the picture?" 

"Sought out one of the others, usually Adam. Morgan and Farah both enjoy storms."  He nuzzles against her neck, breath tickling her sensitive skin. "Adam is sympathetic, but he's not nearly as soft and warm as you are."

The mental image of Nate attempting a similar position with Adam makes her choke on a laugh. "He cuddles?" 

Nate huffs his amusement in a sharp exhale. "Of course not."

"Shame.  I bet he could give great hugs with those arms of his."

He chuckles low and deep.  The conversation fades into an easy quiet.  With the thunder fading in intensity, his hold on her begins to relax.

"What about you?" he asks after a while.

She starts from the doze that had been sinking in. "What about me, what?" 

"You don't seem to mind thunderstorms."

She traces a random pattern along his arm with her fingers. "Storms don't really bother me."

"What does?" 

"Other than my newfound fears of needles and restraints?" she asks with a sardonic laugh. "Heights, actually.  Not like inside a building, secured. But being high up a ladder or tree or something is pretty scary to me."

"That does explain why I had to half-carry you down the fire escape," he teases gently. 

"I won't say it wasn't an influencing factor." She tenses at the reminder. They both know it was mostly a stubborn refusal to abandon everyone, but she isn't keen to linger on that particular event. 

"Sorry," he says, pressing a kiss to her neck.  He hums in thought. "What about flying?" 

Bless him for changing the subject.  "I actually don't know."

"You've never been on an airplane?" His voice pitches up in surprise. 

"Haven't really had a reason to.  I've never traveled far from Wayhaven."

"lf we ever need to travel on one, I will be sure to stay close." His lips curl into a grin against her skin. "Just in case."

Her chuckle ends with a long yawn.  "You just want to snuggle with me on an airplane."

He finally unearths his face from her neck and pulls back a little. She can't see anything in the pitch blackness, but it isn't hard to imagine the look of adoration in his brown eyes as he replies, "I would snuggle with you anytime, anywhere." She hears the smirk in his voice as he adds, "But it would also make a flight go much faster."

The storm dwindles to only the gentle patter of raindrops on the roof.  The mattress shifting and his warm breath featherlight against her face are the warnings she gets before his lips gently capture hers in a kiss.  

"Thank you," he says as he pulls back and rests his forehead against hers.  "I should let you sleep."

Her hand slips up to the back of his neck to keep him in place before he can retreat further. "I'd sleep better with you here," she murmurs, on the verge of succumbing to her rest. 

There's the breath of a laugh on her face at his own words thrown against him. "Well, far be it from me to deny that request," he whispers and settles back down beside her into a loose embrace. 

 When she wakes in the morning, he's gone. It's not unusual between their hectic schedules and his early rising tendencies.  But it would have been nice to have an excuse to linger a bit more. The beams of sunlight shining in through the high eastern window mark the sky clear and bright, and time to get up.  She rolls over and plucks her phone from the nightstand and squints at it. The battery glares an angry red.  She makes a mental note to take her charger with her to the station. 

The notification bar is lit up with three icons. One is the Bravo group chat. A brief glance at it reveals Farah chattering excitedly about the light show, intermittently laced with replies from Morgan and Adam. Probably what murdered her battery, but she's looking forward to reading the whole thing later over a cup of coffee. 

The second is from her mother, checking in after the storm. She pecks out an all clear in reply. Knowing the Agency's thoroughness, the Facility is probably already aware of the power outage at the warehouse and working on it. 

Almost as if on cue, the lamp on the bedside stand comes back to life. She kills it again with a chuckle. 

The final one is a private note from Adam.  'Thank you for taking care of Nate last night.' 

'No problem! 😊'

After a moment, she can't resist adding, 'He said I'm much more cuddly. You should probably work on that. 😁'

#kitbug writes things #twc #the wayhaven chronicles #nathaniel sewell #nate sewell #nate sewell x f!detective #fluff #comfort #conversation #this is pure self indulgent tripe #for my headcanon that nate hates storms #and i apologize for nothing #i forgot to tag my own goddamn character #quincey bradford

[thelionheartedo3]

shades of roses

summary: There are many things Nate will tolerate, but apparently plastic desk chairs aren't one of them.

pairing: Nate Sewell x f!Detective

wc: 4.4k

[read on ao3]

“If you call this number,” Ely says, patience seeped into her words, “they’ll be able to send someone from the county to handle the raccoon.”

“And you’re sure—”

“None of my officers are wildlife handlers,” states Ely, for the fourth time since the couple burst through the station doors seventeen minutes ago. “But this number—,” she taps the slip of paper she’s passed over, “—will be able to get you the help you need.”

There’s a brief pause before the couple relents, and Ely lifts her hand in a wave, smile fixed on her lips. 

“Have a good rest of your day!”

“Thank you, Detective,” they call back to her. 

As soon as the doors shut behind them, she turns on her heel to face Douglas.

Who’s still on his phone.

Ely closes her eyes, tongue darting out to wet her lips as she tilts her head back. 

It’s not even ten in the morning, and she wants the day to be over with.

She exhales a long breath, pressing her palms together and opening her eyes. “Douglas,” she says, waiting until he looks up before continuing, words picked carefully. “You know I do not mind helping—but I need you to at least try to do your job. Please.”

Douglas’ brows furrow a bit, his eyes darting away from her. “But you’re so good at talking to people?” he offers, sounding unsure of the words himself.

Her eyes squeeze shut again. She considers for a moment, before sighing, turning away from the desk to head back to her office. She doesn’t have time for this today.

As she passes by Tina’s desk, she’s offered a sympathetic smile, but Ely can’t manage more than a shake of her head at it.

She had only just sat down with her coffee when that couple had rushed through the station doors, claiming there was a raccoon in their garage and all but demanding Ely send one of her officers out to deal with it. As if any of her officers had any animal handling training beyond how to pet a dog. The county’s animal control number had been easy to pull up on her phone—it was ushering them out the door that had taken her the longest.  

It had been an interruption she desperately did not need. With the amount of busywork the Agency’s been forcing Ely and the rest of Unit Bravo to do, she hasn’t had the time to catch up with any of the work that’s been piling up. She’s stayed on top of the important things, but the two stacks of paperwork sitting next to her keyboard draw her eye like a flame guilty clawing at her. 

As she crosses the room back to her desk, she prays to a deity she doesn’t believe in that there will be no more interruptions for the rest of the day, so she might stand the chance of having a nice day out with Nate over the weekend.

She plops into her chair, the back of it creaking as it leans a bit before there’s a sharp crack.

Ely does not make an undignified noise when the damn thing collapses beneath her—largely because her jaw clicks shut on her tongue before she can even manage to swear, and she’s hissing out in pain as her tailbone collides with the half inch of carpet above the concrete foundation of the police station. While her head doesn’t slam into the ground with the impact, she can’t help letting it thunk lightly back against the carpet as soon as the rest of her body hits the ground. The partition’s view of her is blocked by her desk—thankfully—so she doesn’t have to deal with anyone witnessing her biffing it.

Just the immediate aftermath.

The noise of the crash definitely echoed, and there’s only two heartbeats that pass before heavy, rapid footsteps approach her office.

“Elyse?” Tina’s voice hitches, raised to an almost shout in concern. 

Ely lifts an arm, trying to wave a thumbs up above the desk edge, rubbing the back of her hand against her lips with the other. "I'm okay."

Tina appears around the desk edge in a few steps, eyes taking over the scene. “Oh my god—”

“I’m okay,” Ely repeats, pushing herself up onto an elbow. “Trust me.”

“You’re bleeding,” says Tina.

“I bit my tongue, but I’m good.” She winces as she rolls to her feet, tailbone twinging. “Bruised a bit, but good.”

She rubs at her lower back as Tina steps closer, her eyes going over the broken remnants of her chair as if she’s cataloging a crime scene. 

“I think. . .,” she starts, words slow, “. . .you need a new chair.”

Ely snorts—she can’t help it. “Yeah, probably.”

“Maybe you should go home early and take a long weekend,” Tina says.  “I can handle any other raccoon emergencies.”

“As much as I like the sound of that idea, I have way too much paperwork to get through to do that.” Ely tilts her head, considering. “But I think I’m going to take a long brunch and stay late tonight.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to head into the city and get a new chair. I should be back by noon if I can convince Adam to let me borrow his car without an hour’s argument.”

Tina laughs. “That’s a good idea. If you’re going to stay late tonight, I can help you build it.”

Ely smiles. “I appreciate it—but I’d honestly rather you help me take this out to the dumpster.”

“I can do that, too,” says Tina, grinning, and they both to get to work picking up the pieces scattered behind the desk.

.

While she and Tina hefted the remains of her chair to the dumpster behind the station, Ely had searched on her phone’s browser what was in stock at the big box store in the city to find a chair that she could reasonably justify buying for her office in the station. With it bookmarked, she had bid Tina to call her if there was any non-raccoon emergency, and had headed off to the warehouse, her little hatchback bumbling down the fire road.

“You’re home early,” is what greets her as soon as she shuts her car door. “Is everything alright?”

Nate’s standing at the fence, opening the gate for her. There’s a smile on his face, but there’s a crease in his brow that tells her he’s already worrying.

He’ll worry more, later, when he sees the giant bruise on her back, but she doesn’t think she needs to add to it now.

“Everything’s fine,” she says, bounding forward to kiss his cheek and take his hand, swinging it between them. “I’m technically only taking a bit of a break.”

“Oh?”

She nods as they make their way towards the warehouse. “Do you know where Adam is? I have to ask him a favour.”

She can see the curiosity on Nate’s face, but he doesn’t voice any questions—yet. “He and I have been working on patrol schedules in the kitchen,” he answers. His smile curls into something that’s a bit more mischief than Nate. “Mango’s been a very helpful assistant to him.”

Ely claps a hand over her chest, gasping in faux shock. “I can’t believe he’s stealing my girl.”

Nate laughs, warmly. “I think it’s only because he’s good at staying still.”

“Fair enough.” She runs her tongue over her lip before tilting her head. “Do you think if Mango’s helping him, you’ll be able to play hooky with me?”

Nate’s eyebrow raises. “And where do you suggest we go?”

“I have to go into the city. If you don’t want to, you don’t have to come.”

He chuckles. "Well, I have a cup of tea I'd like to finish, but I'd be happy to go with you wherever you'd like."

The warehouse is quiet as they cross through the foyer and down the halls towards the kitchen. Nate holds the door open for Ely to duck through, and her eyes survey the table, where Adam’s got a folder of papers spread out before him. 

There’s a cup that’s still steaming near them; Nate squeezes her hand before heading back towards his tea. He doesn't sit back down, raising an brow down at his chair. Ely only sees the tips of fluffy orange ears and hears Mango's ornery meow, clearly having stolen Nate's seat in his absence.

She turns to Adam, but he speaks before she can.

“There isn’t an emergency, is there?” Adam says, in greeting, gaze on his work.

“No, there’s not,” Ely replies. “But I need the SUV.”

Adam lifts an eyebrow, but he doesn’t bother to look over at her, simply answering her with a curt: “No.”

Ely huffs—she hadn’t wanted to spend her morning arguing. If he didn’t keep the keys on him most of the time, she’d have enlisted Farah to swipe them for her.

But that’s precisely why Adam keeps them on him.

She looks to Nate, who's hiding a smile behind the rim of his mug. He’ll step in if she asks, but—

“Please?” she tries. 

Adam sighs, tilting his head back before his gaze swings towards her. “Why?”

“Because my car’s too small.”

His eye twitches, but he relents with another very drawn out, dramatic sigh. "Fine."

From one of his pockets, the key ring is drawn, and he tosses it towards her with a speed she's not expecting. Nate's at her side in an instant, catching them before they can pelt her in the face. He throws Adam a disapproving frown as he hands her the keys, but Ely simply smiles.

"Thanks!" She tilts her head towards the door and Nate nods, so she turns to walk out, tossing, Mango, keep him on task! over her shoulder.

“I’ll be back in a bit, Adam,” Nate calls, following after her.

Ely just catches the sight of Adam’s confused gaze snapping towards them before the door swings shut.

“Oh, I’ve gotten you in so much trouble,” she whispers, but Nate simply laughs, motioning for her to lead the way.

.

One would think that with how many times Ely makes the drive to the city just to head to the Agency’s facility, she’d be used to the way that city traffic just congeals, but she’s still not. When her eyes aren’t on the road or the tail lights of the car in front of her, she’s watching the minutes tick by on her dashboard’s clock.

She’s so not getting back to the station by noon.

Nate doesn’t seem to mind the drawn out length of their journey—and Ely has to admit that she’d rather be stuck in traffic with him than back at the station hunched over paperwork. 

Her phone’s GPS guides them out of the traffic clogged streets to the store, where the parking lot’s teeming with cars of all kinds. She drives the SUV, weaving carefully until she finds a parking spot. Nate's quizzical eyes go to the store front before he swings his gaze to Ely, confusion furrowing his brow as Ely shuts the car off.

"What are we doing here?" he asks.

"I need a new desk chair for my office," she says. "The other one finally broke this morning."

He startles. "Were you hurt?"

"Just my pride," she replies, throwing him a grin as she climbs from the car.

Nate follows, reaching a hand out as if to stop her as she passes by the front of the car. "I should have asked where we were headed. You don't need to buy a new chair." He pauses, and Ely waits, tilting her head, encouraging him to continue. "We have chairs, Ely. Good ones." His lips curl up in the corners. "You've seen the warehouse."

"Yes," she says, giving a slight laugh. "And while I adore your interior design skill, this is just for my office in the station."

"I have one that could work for your office," he says. His smile widens into a grin, clearly already mapping out the layout of the room in his mind. "There's a desk to match. They'll be much sturdier than whatever you'll find here."

"Nate, I am not putting antique furniture in the police station." She holds her hands out, fingers splayed, when his expression drops. "Besides, I want something pink."

Before he can say anything else, she turns to the building, walking ahead. There's a moment's pause before she hears his soft sigh, and he's at her side in three steps, all but trudging next to her towards the entrance.

She laughs softly, reaching out, and Nate takes her hand immediately. "Don't worry, we won't be here long. I already know which chair I want so we just have to head downstairs instead of walking the floor."

Nate's trying very, very hard not to frown, so she squeezes his hand.

"I've got to try to get back to the station before noon, anyway. C'mon."

There are a lot of people shopping, despite the fact that it's a Friday morning and most people should be working—Ely included. They weave their way inside, practically pressed side to side, and when they pass through the opened sliding doors, Nate squints under the overhead fluorescents.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asks.

He gives her a flash of a smile and squeezes her hand. “I’ll be fine,” he reassures.

She nods at him, detouring away from the crowds of people funneling towards the sales floor to lead them towards where the boxed furniture awaits. As Ely pulls up the page she bookmarked before leaving the station, Nate insists on pushing the vehicle for her, his eyes looking around the massive aisles with barely hidden disdain.

“Are you upset over the thought of boxed furniture, dear heart?” she asks.

Nate plasters a smile on his face. “Of course not. I am simply aware of the fact that I have better furniture.”

Ely snorts, but doesn’t dignify that with a response, turning to walk ahead. 

Her eyes dart between her phone and the signs hanging on the sides of the aisles, trying to pinpoint where they need to go. As soon as she spots the right sign, she grins at Nate over her shoulder, pointing.

“Found it.”

Nate’s chuckle warms her and she practically scurries ahead, knowing he’ll follow. 

She’s dragged the box from the shelf by the time he’s turned at the aisle’s end. She motions to it with a little ta-dah! and the furrow on his brow only seems to deepen as he steps close to look over the box.

The expression on his face is one Ely can only describe as muted horror. It should not amuse her as much as it does, but considering it’s over a picture of a chair on a box, she thinks she’s probably justified in it.

“Nate,” she says, trying to keep the laugh out of her tone. “You cannot judge the chair before it’s even built.”

“It looks. . .” He trails off, brow furrowed, and he looks to Ely with a pleading expression.

“It looks pink, right?" she offers, taking his hand. "What I wanted.” 

He makes a noise that's suspiciously close to a hmph.

Ely opts to ignore it. “And, look!” She points to the description. “It’s ergonomic!”

“Elyse.”

She can’t stop the laugh this time. “You did not just full name me over a chair.”

He frowns, as if he hadn't realized he had done so. “I have good chairs,” he protests, but his grumbling is mostly to himself as he puts the box on the wheeled flat for her.

She rolls up onto her toes to press a mollifying kiss to his cheek. “I know—but, and I honestly can’t stress this enough, it’s only for my office. This is fine. I have so much paperwork to do today. Let’s go."

.

The SUV is in one piece, but unless you want to come to the station to get it, it’s staying here ‘til I’m off work, Ely texts Adam, as Nate carries the box containing her new chair into the station. 

Her phone buzzes twice, almost immediately, and she doesn’t bother to check what less-than-snarky response Adam has for her.

Tina’s lounging at her desk, and perks up as soon as she spots them.

“Did you get the pink one?”

“Naturally,” Ely answers, smiling as Nate lets out a soft, weary sigh. 

Tina arches an eyebrow, but Ely waves her off, following Nate into her office.

“Thanks for coming with me today,” she says, reaching for his hand to squeeze it after the box has been safely deposited. “And for carrying the box in.”

“Of course,” says Nate, without an ounce of hesitation.

She rolls up onto the tips of her toes to kiss his cheek, and while he smiles at the gesture, his eyes roam the office. She can already see him measuring the space in his mind, no doubt going through a catalogue in his head of all the furniture he’s got stashed away in storage.

“Stop that,” she says. “I’m keeping this chair.”

He sighs. “If you’re certain.”

“I am. I’ve got paperwork to do, so I’m going to steal a chair for now and build that one. . .” She trails off, thinking, before she shakes her head and waves her hand. “. . .whenever. You don’t have to stick around.”

Her phone, in her pocket, buzzes a third time. 

“And tell Adam his baby is safe.”

Nate chuckles. “I’m sure he trusts your ability to drive.”

“You and I both know he doesn’t.”

He smiles, not denying the statement, and lifts their hands to press a kiss to her knuckles. “I shall see you tonight, then.”

She walks him to the door of her office, cherishing the last smile he tosses her over his shoulder as he slips from the station’s front doors. 

It’s only when he’s gone that Tina sidles up to her, a chair from the kitchen in her hands. 

Ely stares at it for a moment, before glancing back into her office. "Maybe I should get a standing desk—"

"No," Tina states, shoving the chair in her hands towards her. "We are building that chair today. It’s about time we put some real colour in there."

"Alright, alright." She sighs. "I think Nate would dump me if I got a standing desk, anyway."

"What?"

"I'm kidding. Mostly." Ely shoves her temp replacement through the door of her office, before she lifts a hand to gesture at the box standing against the old liquor cabinet in the corner. "He doesn't approve of that."

"But it's pink?" Tina says. "Doesn't he know that's, like, your go to for anything?"

"Yes, but it's cheap, " Ely explains, smiling. "He wanted to get me something nice and one that wouldn't break on me."

Tina stares at her for a moment with narrowed eyes. "How much did you say they get paid again?"

"More than we do," Ely groans. "Way more."

She rolls her eyes. "Of course."

"Anyway, I do actually need to get through this paperwork."

"And I need to get headed onto my patrol," sighs Tina. "I'm wishing us both luck."

.

Ely sits on the ground behind her desk, Tina only a foot away. In between them, the pieces that had come from the box are spread out around them, the instructions angled towards her as Ely squints at them with a square of pink in her hands.

Tina's sorting out the bolts and screws that had, unhelpfully, come in a giant orange bag. Not separated. Ely's sitting cross-legged across from her, a flat, cushioned piece of the chair on her lap that she's struggling to figure out if it's Part C (the back) or Part E (the base), and she's honestly ready to just say fuck it and flip a coin when there's a light knock against her open office door.

She can't see the person through the desk, but Tina looks over and her expression immediately tells her who it is.

She sets the piece on her lap aside to scoop up the instructions, brow furrowed as twirls the wrench in her hand. "You can come in, Nate."

There's only a moment's pause before he's leaning over her desk to peer down at her, and the smile he gives her is paired with a pinched brow.

"Ah," he says, with barely concealed judgement in his tone, nose crinkled as he looks over the chair parts. "I was wondering why you hadn't left yet."

“You’re spoiling me today,” she says, smiling. “Did you actually come to pick me up, or did Adam send you to make sure the SUV was okay?”

Nate laughs. “I was waiting outside for you. Adam is waiting at home for the car.”

"We decided building this today was better than on Monday," Ely explains. "Sorry, I should’ve let you know."

He shakes his head at the apology, but his eyes take in the scene. His eyes dart over the pieces laid out between her and Tina and there’s a noticeable effort into the way he tries to keep his expression neutral.

“I see,” he offers, the hesitation in his voice unavoidable.

“You’re really not going to let this go, huh?” she asks, unsure if she should feel as delighted as she does by the prospect of Nate pouting.

“I stand by what I said,” Nate protests. “I could’ve gotten you a good chair, not one so—” He cuts himself off, brows knit together, and Ely knows he’s sorting through every word he knows to find a polite way of saying cheap. 

Ely simply tilts her head, pointing the allen wrench at him. “I told you I wanted something pink.”

Nate nods. “Upholsterers exist.” 

She gives him a look, glancing towards Tina—who’s doing a very good job at pretending to not be listening by neatening up the piles of screws and bolts in front of her—before she lifts her chin. “And you’d have gotten one to do something in pink for me?”

There’s a brief hesitation. Nate’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he clears his throat. “If it was something you truly desired. . .yes. I would’ve.”

He voices the admission like it’s painful to even think about. Ely raises an eyebrow at him, but Nate is as stubborn as Adam sometimes, and he stands straight, practically looming above her with how she’s sat on the ground.

Tina's gaze swings from Nate to Ely and back again, her lips parted in slight disbelief. When her eyes settle back on Ely, it’s to level her with a stare and say, "Remind me to never invite you two over if he's just gonna judge my furniture."

"I like your purple couch, Tina," Ely says, not looking away from him to gauge his reaction.

Nate winces, and his nose wrinkles. "Purple?"

"Oh my god," says Tina. "You are absolutely never coming over, Agent Sewell, I don't care how hot you are."

"Tina!"

"I have eyes, Elyse!"

Ely pins her with a look that Tina ignores in favour of tilting her chin in Nate’s direction.

“This is better than an upholsterer is, anyway.”

Ely has never seen Nate’s expression go from neutral to offended so quickly. He splutters a breath, but doesn’t get any words out before Tina can continue speaking.

“An upholsterer doesn’t offer a bonding moment, does it?” she asks. “This is. . .” Her gaze darts around the pieces scattered between them, brows pinching a bit, before she purses her lips. “It’s fun. This is fun.”

Nate sighs, but it’s tinged with the faintest edge of a laugh. “You sound very certain of that, Officer Poname.”

“Because I am,” Tina counters, haughty.

Ely laughs. “Alright, enough. An upholsterer would've been too expensive, anyway."

"I would've paid," says Nate.

"I wouldn't have let you," she insists. "You don't need to stay here, either, if you want to head home. I'll be there as soon as we're done."

His lips part, a protest on his tongue. She can see how he wants to stay, but when his eyes sweep over the plastic on the ground, it's clear in his expression that he's still against her building a desk chair that's mostly plastic.

"I'd say he could join us, but clearly he doesn't want to have a bonding moment," Tina says.

Nate rolls his eyes at that, huffing a soft breath. “I’ll leave you two to your. . . fun.” His nose wrinkles at the word, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Drive safe tonight.”

“I will,” she promises. “See you at home.” 

.

She pulls the SUV into the spot next to her little hatchback forty-six minutes later than usual. 

The forest around the warehouse is quiet, only a breeze rustling through the trees. The setting sun paints the sky in deep purple as she slips through the gate and makes her way to the warehouse, a slight bounce in her step at the prospect of a relaxing weekend on her mind.

There’s a new picture sitting in her phone, one that Tina had insisted she take before they had both left for the night. Ely’s trying not to laugh in it—poised in her new chair as if she was some sort of influencer with Tina’s directions on just how to pose.

She insisted she be informed of Nate’s reaction to it, but there’s someone else Ely has to face first.

Luckily for her, Adam’s waiting in the foyer when she steps inside, his arms crossed and chin lifted. He says nothing in greeting—simply holds his hand out.

Ely hands him the SUV’s keyring immediately. “Thank you, again.”

He grunts, brushing by her before the door’s even had the chance to shut, clearly only focused on ensuring no harm had come to his precious car throughout the day. She rolls her eyes, calling a good to see you, too! to him before she heads towards the living room. 

Nate has a book in his hands and a cat in his lap where he’s sitting on the sofa. He smiles at her, lips parting, but Mango’s head pops up and she screams upon spotting Ely, though she’s too content snuggled up to trot over to greet her.

Nate chuckles, setting his book aside as Ely comes around the sofa to plop next to him. He takes one of her hands, her other one already scritching the orange fuzz on top of Mango’s head.

“How did the chair turn out?” he asks. 

“Great, actually,” she says. She tugs her phone out of her pocket to show him the picture, which he laughs at. “It doesn’t creak ominously when I sit down, Nate. It’s amazing.”

“And it’s pink,” he offers, a soft chuckle in his tone.

She grins. “And it’s pink.”

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc #nate sewell x detective #I have nothing to say for myself LOL #rinn writes vampire fic

[lovelyfoolish]

dig deep into me

nate x f!detective / 2.6K / E (strictly 18+)

⇢ summary: clothes soaked from a sudden rainstorm have nowhere to go but off.

⇢ notes: a very (very, very, very, like years) overdue answer to @agentnatesewell‘s “they saw you in my written words”, which really inspired me the first time i read it ♡ also inspired by this. 

♡ 

Nathaniel Sewell is neither lucky nor unlucky.

Most people, in his experience, have the tendency to fall into one category or the other; carrying with them strings of fate that can only ever be slightly severed (at best, and only if they’re the lucky kind) by intervention. An unlucky person can occasionally be lucky, and the reverse, but generally, their lives compound instead of fracture, lucky event piled on lucky event piled on lucky event, run of bad luck on run of bad luck on run of bad luck. 

(The house always wins. Sometimes a person is the house.) 

He is both: it is lucky he survived the great wrath of the sea. Unlucky he lost his life on the deck anyway. Unlucky he became monstrous and inhuman with his last gasps of salty sea air. Lucky he could witness the wealth of centuries with that inhumanity. Lucky and unlucky to have come across Adam du Mortain. 

Lucky and unlucky to lock eyes with Bella, standing in the rain and glowing red from the reflection of the streetlights off the wet road, arms crossed, smiling with her lips parted. 

Glorious.

Merciless. 

♡ 

She glances over her shoulder, studying him in the dim light of her kitchen. 

The top buttons of his shirt are open, fabric transparent from the rain, his sleeves pushed up his forearms to expose their ropey veins. Nate has this slow way of crossing his legs that makes the movement seem practised, a motion he must have repeated a thousand times to make himself accustomed to the informality she assumes he felt suffocated by at first, a slouch that doesn’t quite fit neatly with the air of quiet dignity he ordinarily carries himself with. 

“You’re shivering,” he says, head tilted inquisitively, damp, dark curls falling into his eyes before he lifts his hand, languidly brushing them aside, “Come here, we should dry you off.”

His orders never sound like such. He makes them sound like questions, as if perpetually asking for permission. 

She wouldn’t expect anything less of him.

She has to imagine him faltering, addressing her as though she was one of his men when he was an officer.

If Mason is a maze — taunting in his simplicity, half-dead ends and half-hope of an exit — Nate is a labyrinth, honey-tongued and heart-eating. There is no way out of him — she can only go deeper in, a skein of thread trailing alongside her so she doesn’t lose her way among his twisting paths, awaiting the monster that lies in the dark at his centre, that creature he is so unwilling to warn her about. 

He’s deceptively easy to toy with, following her movements with his shrewd gaze — Bella glances at his lap, leaning towards him, her locket dangling in the space between them. He hooks a finger in the chain, using the necklace to pull her closer, the metal cold on the back of her neck. 

“I was looking at you,” she says, her voice clear and unwavering, “I didn’t want to come inside.” 

Tiny drops of water bead on his bare skin. They cling to him, as unwilling to let go of him as she is. 

“I’m here,” he says, the intensity of the look in his eyes making her shoulders shake — she isn’t cold. Not with him so close, radiating warmth. “I won’t move. Look at me.” He says it so seriously, with such gravity, swearing it like a vow. She has the sense he is promising something more than where he will sit as she stares at him wide-eyed and frozen, suspended in motion, begging wordlessly to touch him, to take off that sopping wet shirt of his, undo the rest of his buttons and trace patterns on his dark skin with the tips of her fingers, tendrils of his hair wound around her fingers. 

She kisses him, finally, hands cradling his jaw, and he smiles against her lips and turns his head to kiss her cheek, the brush of his stubble making her laugh. She exposes her throat to him, his arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her into his lap as he presses his lips to the side of her neck, lavishing kisses behind her ear, her eyes closing, expression shifting.

Bella is acutely aware of the chill of the air on her soaked clothes and her wet hair, but he has her necklace in his mouth, leaving her to drift in and out of the haze of anticipation as he slips one of his big hands beneath her shirt, palm pressed to her stomach, fabric sticking to him too.

He’s smiling again.

She pulls away, following the curve of his lips with her finger, blush-coloured nails like petals falling on his cheeks as she touches his face. 

“You’re pretty,” she says, holding him between two hands, and she feels his skin become hot.

“Don’t tease me, ya rouhi,” Nate says, fingers wrapping around one of her wrists and bringing her hand to his mouth to kiss the backs of her fingers, and her palm, and the place where it’s easiest to take her pulse, her heart picking up speed, fluttering in her chest. “I won’t survive.”

♡ 

Her hair was soaked from the rain. It becomes darker, almost black, when wet, clinging to her shoulders in long, snaking strands that look more and more like something from the deepest depths of the sea until I blink and they’re wound around my fingers and I am wet too.

There is no salt stinging in my lungs when I inhale.

Instead: a vaguely pear-scented shampoo, cloyingly sweet but distinctly hers. I think I like it now. I didn’t always.

There’s also that gardenia perfume she thinks never lasts long enough but sticks to my own skin for days, wearing her so obviously I find myself flushed beneath Adam’s gaze, my ears hot, fingers flexed into fists of warning.

‘Say nothing,’ I say, ‘Let me have her to myself a little while longer. I beg you.’

Can’t I have just one more secret we have asked each other to keep?

♡ 

She feels illuminated by his attention, his gaze warm as the sun, leaving her lightheaded and glowing as Nate kisses down her exposed stomach. The rain is still clicking relentlessly against the window. Her thoughts are fragmented and incomplete, mostly variations of his name and what she wants him to do to her, her back arching, hips rising, lips parted in a gasp as he reaches the edge of her underwear, a finger slipped between the smooth fabric and her hip. 

He sits up, on his knees between Bella’s parted thighs, her legs wrapped around his waist, and undoes the rest of his buttons, shedding the shirt that had clung to him like skin and reaching out for her, pulling her closer. 

They’re both wearing too much. 

As he touches her, she is thinking about the veins on his hands, what his long fingers would feel like inside of her, if he would fit, what they would taste like pressed to her tongue. 

In her daydream — it is still day, barely, maybe, if not evening, time has begun to flow strangely, each hour of the clock replaced by his name — he tells her how lewd and desperate she looks in that position, her mouth open, beneath him, damp hair fanned over her pillow. The kind of vulnerability that feels like the ecstasy a hedonist would die chasing. She could die clinging to him just like this.

Not for the first time, she envies that “forever” comes so easily to him, so easy to promise. 

Her “forever” has an end.

“You’re so beautiful, ayouni,” Nate says, his voice deeper, and she swears it drips from his mouth and down onto her like honey, leaving her thighs sticky. His eyes have darkened, looking down at her in her underwear, and as though he knows what she dreams of him doing, the corner of his mouth rises, a crooked smile that makes her heart flutter, stomach clenching. “I want to taste you.”

“Do it,” she says, stretching, “What was it — ‘Don’t tease me. You’ll be the death of me, darling.’” 

He laughs, kissing her shoulder, and she wraps her arms around him for a moment, holding him there, pressed close to her, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. “I think it was something like, ‘I won’t survive’,” he murmurs, lips on her neck. “You’ll be my ruin. The poets will write about you endlessly. How you were my downfall. How I would have given everything to you, how I ended up with nothing because it was all for you.”

“You’re exaggerating,” she says, letting go of him, pouting with her lower lip stuck out.

“Never,” he says, tone sharp and serious, kissing her cheek, then stealing a kiss from her lips, his breath hot on her jaw as he rises, “If the poets won’t do it then I’ll write about you.” 

He hooks his thumbs in the band of her underwear, and she lifts her hips, allowing him to undress her, like he did in the kitchen, the neat slacks she wore to work left somewhere on the floor, her wet blouse in the hallway, her body already flushed from his kisses when he took it off button by button. She can’t wear them again. She’ll think of his lips every time she wears them. Laundry detergent and hot water could never be enough to wash away the memory of the way he pressed her against the wall and knelt in front of her to undo the last button.   

“What does it mean?” Bella asks, hands in his hair as he kisses her hip bones and pushes her thighs apart again, knees rising, lowering onto his stomach on the bed. Her fingers weave through his curls, repeating the word. “‘Ayouni’.”

He’s so close. She can feel him between her legs, the stubble on his cheeks grazing her thighs, a sting that makes her eyes shut tightly, a needy moan spilling from her open mouth, head tipping back against her pillow. 

She can’t remember what she just asked him. 

“‘My eyes’,” Nate says throatily, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh, and she shudders, fingers flexing into a fist in his hair, coaxing a groan from him. “‘I would give you even my eyes’.”

She wants to tell him “then give them to me”, that streak of arrogance only he can bring out of her that usually makes him look at her as though she is the only person alive with him, but he touches her in a place that makes her jolt. Her legs threaten to close around his head, and she hears him laughing softly over the sound of her pulse crashing like waves in her ears, his giggle so sweet, entirely at odds with what he is doing to her. He must be pleased with himself.

“If you don’t like something I’m doing, tell me,” he says, holding her legs apart, his voice distant, her head swimming already, “I want you to feel good.”

The slide of his finger inside of her. The flick of his tongue. Her grip on his hair tightens involuntarily, unable to stay still. She doesn’t know what “good” means. This is — something else. She’s slept with people who weren’t him before, but no one who ever made her feel like this. There’s the sting of anticipation, looming desire and desperation burning hot in her chest. She wants him closer. She wants to kiss him, even if it means she tastes herself on his mouth. That feeling, like being drunk, is building impossibly fast, her breathing quickening, her stomach rising and falling in panted gasps. 

As if she could say anything. As if she wouldn’t like this.

Release, and his name, half-buried in a desperate, hoarse sound. 

He sits up, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, wiping her off of him, the obscene gesture catching her off-guard, and her thighs, still slick from his mouth and her arousal, press tightly together without him between them. 

“You’re still shivering,” Nate says, teasing her, laying next to her with his head on his arm and gazing at her as she comes down, her breathing still unsteady. There’s something she can only describe as wonder in his eyes, reaching out to move damp strands of her dark hair out of her eyes — rain or sweat, she doesn’t know. He might. They must taste different on her skin. “Should I warm you up, habibti?”

“Your eyes,” she says, finally returning to her senses, turning to face him, meeting his eyes, “Didn’t you promise me your eyes? That’s what I want.”

“Of course,” he says, giving her a genuine smile that makes her own cheeks hurt trying to match it, “A promise is a promise. I would give you anything you desired, ayouni.”

Bella sits up, lifting her hair off the back of her neck, a few loose tendrils sticking to it still. She really should shower. Maybe he’ll want to come with her. Maybe she’ll be unable to move, exhausted, when they’re finished, and he’ll have to bring her her medication and a glass of cool water, open her mouth for her. She feels the shape of his fingers inside of her, as though he is still between her legs.

“Show me how you touch yourself,” she says, getting on her knees and toying with the locket hanging from her neck, the only thing she’s still wearing. He’s flushing. She can feel it when she touches his face, winding one of the curls on his forehead around her finger.

His mouth opens as his fist closes, stroking himself at a steady pace, building up a rhythm, his hips thrusting. She must have looked the same way when she was beneath him, glassy-eyed, unable to string together complete sentences, her vocabulary reduced to the single syllables of his name and “please” and “more” and “there”. 

Maybe Nate’s thinking of the look on her face when she came from the way he touched her while he touches himself now, moaning from deep in his chest, his eyes closing. 

She feels the sound in her stomach.

“Bella,” Nate groans, “I —” Her name. He rarely calls her that in private, using endearments whose meanings are lost on her, or “darling”, or kissing the top of her head instead of calling for her. She likes the way he fits his mouth around her name, the slight lilt, the note of desperation in the way he says it. “I want —”

She wants to touch him.

“Tell me what you want,” she says, rising on her knees and leaning over him, tracing a line down his forehead with her thumb. 

He looks almost — angelic. She’s never thought of him as such before. Nate is always handsome, sharply so, his features carved by centuries of life. And he’s pretty, when his skin gleams in the light like some precious metal only she’s discovered, his eyes liquid, wearing a smile she sees in her dreams. But when he’s on her bed, touching himself because she asked him to, eyes closed and lips parted in pleasure, “handsome” and “pretty” aren’t enough to describe him.

“Touch me,” he breathes.

She does as he asks.

♡ 

She has a mole on her left breast, usually exposed only when she is undressed next to me, turned on her hip with her hair on the pillow, the mark barely visible except in shadow and sometimes swallowed up by a mark I made. 

I wonder if she knows it’s there, or if it is a part of her she is so accustomed to her eyes have the tendency to render it invisible when she sees it in the mirror. 

I wonder if I too could once day become something she sees through.

* 

just something to say

next week someone very important to me is having surgery. there’s a not insignificant chance they will find cancer. a few weeks after that i will be having surgery myself. i’ve been waiting for clearance for this surgery for months and i’m ready for it to be over with but that doesn’t make it any less overwhelming.

the poet-artist jenny holzer wrote that sex and surgery had fundamental similarities: “IT'S AN EXTRAORDINARY FEELING WHEN PARTS OF YOUR BODY ARE TOUCHED FOR THE FIRST TIME. I'M THINKING OF THE SENSATIONS FROM SEX AND SURGERY.”

as i waited for these two dates to arrive, i came back to this story. i started it a long time ago, after being inspired by the way mar depicted sensuality and sexuality without being explicit, something i am personally uncomfortable with.

(i can’t resist sharing, so to entice you here’s one of my favourite sentences from that story. go read the entire thing! mar deserves your love!

“Conservative kisses and careful curls of his tongue, he explored her until, ah, that release of tension, a sharp inhale and “yes, there!” exhaled.“

i mean it! it is a masterclass in writing intimacy! read it!)

i’ll see you again after my surgery. 

thank you for listening, and i hope if you are also going through something that maybe we can be alone together now. 

♡ cami

* 

credits

the curly haired-nate agenda is my own but i tend to use panicfast’s vision of nate as a reference for my own and i just thought i should shout that out for once

honey-tongued (μελίγλωσσος) and heart-eating (δακέθυμος) are greek epithets i chose to match the labyrinth reference, with gratitude to terpsikeraunos’s many “ancient greek word(s) of the day” (we love learning)

#nate sewell #n sewell #the wayhaven chronicles #twc #had one of those realisations about recovery the other day #my friend kissed my cheek and in my heart i was so delighted but i think i pulled away and i think they noticed #but they like to play with the loose skin on my elbows (any stretchy girlies out there?) and my earlobes #so i always offer them my arm #and i guess it just made me realise #that being comfortable with being touched is a process #i inevitably felt a little broken by the kiss #the realisation i don't linger in hugs like i used to before #but i gave them my arm #i guess love is giving someone your arm if you can't give them your cheek #this is my arm #(lol) #maybe someday it'll be my cheek