#“Wing Closet Hanger”

[winghangers]

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[utterlyazriel]

an eternity, my love

eep! this is a bit longer than the last at just over 6k forgive me... but thank so much for all love on the first piece 🥹 and thank u for all your lovely ideas! i hope this does sum justice to the nonnie who asked for further miscommuncation... <3 part one here but u don’t need to read it to read this :)

How does one even begin to decide what to wear to dinner with a person, the person, who matched your soul perfectly?

When your friend had hunted her way through clothing stores of Velaris and stashed away a custom dress — far fancier than anything you owned — for the first date with her mate, you had laughed at her.

Now, staring at your closet in only your undergarments, you were beginning to envy her preparation.

Seriously, how are you supposed to choose?

You pick up your latest addition to your closet, a glossy dress the colour of red wine that reveals the length of your legs and planes of your collarbones— perfect for a night out dancing.

With a grimace, you place it back on the hanger. It was far more scandalous than you would want to be on a first date, even though — well, you’re sure that, being mates, Azriel would like anything you wore.

You heave a sigh. An uneasy prickle beneath your skin has you crossing your arms; it was almost alarming how badly you wanted to impress him. But… mating bonds were rare and powerful.

Almost as if you had summoned it — in fact, maybe you had — there’s a soft shimmer in your chest. Your beautiful glow, the bridge between you and Azriel humming to life. In a way you can’t explain, it’s as though you can feel him soothe across your mind, his soft touch full of assurances.

He’s comforting you. All your emotions must be shooting down the bond without your permission. Gods, that would take some getting used to. You wonder if he can feel your resounding pang of embarrassment as well.

You do your best to push back something less nervous, more of your excitement for the night to come — and you know, without even seeing him, he’s smiling.

After another moment of fussing, you decide on something simpler than your glossy night dress.

Comfortable black slacks with plenty of flow to them and a shirt you thought was one of your nicer ones. With the slightest touch ups to your makeup, you rush yourself out the door before you convince yourself to change all over again.

The Sidra keeps you company, a rush of water beside you as you wind through the streets of Velaris, eyes flicking up to take in the darkening sky. The sun was sinking below the mountain tops, rays tickling across the ridges.

And while you could admit that Velaris was very beautiful in the daytime, you were a true Night court citizen— and believed its true beauty came out at night.

Somehow, despite the lack of concrete plans made as you had ushered the male out of your office, you knew resolutely that you would be able to find him. You weren’t even worried about the timing of it all. It was… what was the word? Absurd. Insane. Utterly, breathtakingly incredible.

Sure enough, as you exit the alley and round the corner, your eyes falling on the sage green building you reside in for work, there he is; waiting for you.

You inhale a sharp breath. A thousand cells in your body fizz, hum, and glow, at the mere sight of him.

It's easy to understand just how he had garnered his dark reputation, the image of him every bit of the Spymaster of the Night Court — a title like Shadowsinger has never been so fitting for him.

He’s blurred at the edges, a thousand tiny wisps that blend him into the shadows of the nighttime. His wings stretch up behind, towering over his already tall frame, black as ink, and beneath his darkened attire, you can spot his tan skin. Your eyes drag up his neck, tracing his adam's apple, along the scruff of his sharp jaw until you reach his hazel eyes.

Your heart burns.

In the depth of it, you know, if he doesn't love you, he will undo you completely.

It's wholly terrifying to come face to face with — the intensity of the mating bond scorching through your mind like a fierce wind, burning embers left in its wake.

It's enough to make you pause, the definitive thought that doing this, offering him your heart and trusting him, could very well lead to your ruin.

Your chest squeezes tightly. You let your eyes drink in the Illyrian, the Male who waited so patiently for all those years and was prepared to wait years more, if you had asked.

Focusing, you pluck up that golden thread in your chest and hold it tightly. It heats and melts, hotter and hotter, and you know that any fear you have, you can conquer to be with him.

Ruination be damned.

—

Azriel notices you the moment your frame exits the alley, notices the moment you pause — has been able to feel you drawing nearer to him this whole time. Your every emotion is transparent to him through the bond between you, whether you’re aware of it or not.

You must not have the tightened mental shields he had come to be so familiar with over all his years. It makes sense; you are no warrior. Mental walls over your mind are not something you have ever had to concern yourself with.

Azriel vows it to be one of the things he teaches you. You deserved the privacy of your emotions, at the very least.

But... for now, Azriel can feel them all. It's why, as you round the corner, Azriel can feel your eyes on him and then, then he feels it.

The wash of fear that spills over your bond like icy water.

An old enemy rises within him. He grits his teeth, even as he feels the fear from you slide away and he tries to ignore the sting from an unhealed wound. But self-deprecation never seems to drown, no matter how much he tries to suffocate it within him.

He shifts his hands, relieved suddenly to have them covered up beneath gloves. His wings tuck in tighter, if possible, and he wills his shadows sternly to contain themselves. Something in the slightest baring of his teeth has them obeying. They shoot to his sides and make themselves scarce.

All this in time to greet you pleasantly as you bounce into view, sidling up before him with a shy grin. It's only been a few hours since he got his proper look at you and yet, you're every bit as breathtaking as you were earlier. More so, in fact.

It feels as though Azriel has never seen the sky before and you before him, are the first sunset of his life. You look so pretty that Azriel could probably gaze at you all evening if you so allowed him to.

And then, he remembers the pang of fear.

He doesn't waste time mulling over which detail of him had made you afraid — only that he would dim or change or hide any part of himself to stop it from happening again.

"Hello, again," You say, your lips pressed together to contain your smile. You have to tilt your head back to look up at his handsome face. His shadows swirl around him and despite his strict instructions, one still slips away to touch you.

You don't notice it circling your ankle, tentative and shy.

"Hello, again." Azriel echoes your words, unable to help his own glimmer of joy.

He wants to offer you his arm, his hand. Can feel it within him, down to the very marrow of his bones, the craving to be closer to you, to touch you, however he can.

Azriel swallows heavily and does what he has done over decades, over centuries; he takes the wanting and pushes it down, down, down.

The two of you begin to walk, side by side, with no destination in mind. Aimless and content at the same time.

Azriel doesn't need the bond to see the flittering of nerves hidden in your expression. The shadow still circulating around your ankle climbs higher, like it wants to comfort you too.

Azriel wills it to still, desperate to not scare you again. He drops his shoulders from his usual warrior posture in hopes of making himself a little smaller.

“You don’t need to be nervous.” He says reassuringly.

You steal a glimpse at him, your smile breaking into a grin. Your nerves are still potent but less so.

“Who says I’m nervous?”

Azriel smiles gently, his eyes dancing across your face as he reads your lie easily. “I do."

There's a scrunch between your eyebrows then, like he had seen during his time in your office earlier. Azriel places a hand on his chest, over the place where the glowing tug is strongest.

"I can feel it.”

Your eyes widen slightly as you stare at his gloved hand, the cogs in your brain spinning and turning at a rapid rate. Still strolling, your hand rises slowly and touches to the same spot on your own chest. Azriel can feel his heart stutter at the sight, you holding the spot that connected you to him undeniably.

"You can?" Your gaze lifts to his face, puzzlement adorning your features. You frown and focus for a moment, staring hard into the distance — and Azriel feels a sudden twinge of disgust through the thread.

"Did you feel that?" You ask, eyes wide and curious.

Azriel nods wordlessly and he can't help but ask. "What is it you were thinking of?"

You look embarrassed for a moment, eyes averting to the ground. You chuckle awkwardly and tuck your hair behind your ears, glancing back up at the Male with a sheepish smile.

"Brussels sprouts."

Azriel blinks once, twice, and then has to turn to hide his smile. He tries to cover his laugh with a cough. It doesn't work, given how you make a small noise of indignation. He turns back, his politest expression on.

"Don't laugh at me!" You whine, reaching out to poke him in the shoulder. Your touch radiates through his body like a drop of golden sun, blazing warm.

"You're right," Azriel hums, his lips twitching as he presses back his smile. "My apologies, my lady. This is important knowledge I should be filing away. I swear on my life I will feed you no brussels sprouts this evening, or any in the future."

He wants to nudge your shoulder with his own, just to touch you, wants to reach out as easily as you had. But his shadows slip before his self-control does, skittering out along onto your shoulder and giving you a small shock and Azriel remembers himself. His fists clench tightly at his sides.

You walk side by side all evening, like two planets in orbit — close, oh so close, but never quite touching.

—

The first date you share is nothing short of… wonderful.

Resolutely and overwhelming good, the entire date you can't help but feel as though your very soul is singing, a thousand particles blithesome at the nearness you get to share with Azriel. He's surprising in a manner of ways.

Firstly, he's terribly quiet.

Next to him, you look quite the blabber-mouth, no matter how much he insists he enjoys it. His dark eyes are intense as they watch you closely, soaking in every word that passes your lips, and yet, beneath it, his dry sense of humour comes out to play. There's the occasional tease, almost as if just to see if he could make you flustered. (He could, easily).

With a Male as beautiful as him, suited to your very being in every way, it's nearly unbearable how much you ache for him. How much his very attention creeps down your neck and makes every nerve along your spine tingle.

You know it will take some time to get used to his unwavering and devoted attention.

There’s… just one small, itty-bitty, tiny problem.

He doesn’t touch you.

Throughout that whole first evening, you had noticed it somewhat— a flex in his gloved hands, a moment where his wing strayed too close only to be pulled back in a flash, even his shadows, darting out to be near you but never quite touching you as they had on that first meeting.

His hands reach out but they do not find you.

At first, you believed it was a first date thing. Azriel was, first and foremost, a gentleman, and you thought perhaps, his skirting touch, like his hand lingering over the small of your back but not touching it, was to be polite. Courteous and gracious.

Then, you had seen him just two days after that date, all bundled up in your giddiness that it had managed to slip your mind.

The two of you had spent the day together, traversing through the market — before you quickly found a quieter space for your mate as it became clear that large bustling areas, such as the Palace of Threads and Jewels, were not so suited to his tastes.

As you had tugged him out of the crowd, laughing over your shoulder at how he fought to keep his broad wings from knocking into anyone else, the thought suddenly snapped back into you.

Though you yearned to link his arm with your own, to interlace your fingers with his, you remembered his hesitance. Remembered the hover of his gloved hand.

And so, you dropped his arm the moment you cleared the crowd.

A hurt warbled deep within you to so do and knowing you were not the deftest at schooling your expressions, you hid your face so you could contain your childish reactions. You huffed at your own upset. What matter is it if your mate has no affinity to touch?

Truly, it was a miracle to have found a mate at all, you tried to scold yourself. You would not take him for granted for a moment, not even if it was not quite the picture of perfection you had envisioned.

Rooted deep in you was a truth; you could abide by this, abstain to his level of comfort for years, for millennia, if it made him happier.

The fabric of the mating bond, connecting the two of you intrinsically, made it so you would not want it any other way.

It's a decidedly Azriel thing.

He always wears the gloves, he never touches you more than he has to, and he's got... this really specific look when you're doing a terrible job of hiding your emotions.

As he had vowed, Azriel had set about teaching you how to build the mental walls up within your mind, brick by brick by brick. While it would help you hold against daemati if that loathsome situation should ever arise, it would also shield you from your mate.

It would protect you from having your emotions ripped out for him to see, no matter how much you held back — if it was in your mind, it would travel down the bond.

So, the wall had to be built. It had been tedious, tricky, and tiring work. Yet every time you would feel yourself ready to throw in the towel, Azriel would lean in closer, his hazel eyes softened, and his hand resting upon your arm, thumb swatching up and down, to encourage you.

"I know it is tiresome," He had mused, that faint smile twitching at his lips as you scowled at the ground. His thumb was still moving, still drawing light circles on your bicep. The skin beneath it blazed with warmth. "But it is worth it, that I can promise. You deserve this privacy, my dear. I would never wish to take it from you."

My dear, my dear, my dear— the words had sunk into your sternum and bloomed, bright and golden.

It's enough to hold onto, his kind affections. The sweet shape of his mouth when it says your name. The way his lashes kiss in the corner when he can't hold back his smile.

It's enough to soothe yourself over. To take the lack of touch on the chin and swallow down your desire for more.

It's why— why you can't help yourself— why you couldn't tear your eyes away from Azriel's hand where it touches Cassian's arm.

You're meeting his family today, which you've quickly realised doesn't mean his mother or father but instead means... the literal Highlord of the Night Court.

There are several warriors crowded around the cramped entrance room to the River House. Each of them is taller than you, and two of them with the very same huge wingspans that you've come to revere on your own mate.

Your usual talkativeness has been dimmed in your shock, though, really, it shouldn't be such a surprise. Azriel is a force to be reckoned with, honed over decades, and the Spymaster of the Night Court. You know these things. The company he keeps makes sense.

Somehow... still, seeing them all together leaves you strikingly speechless. The legion that protects your home — a family.

Rhysand greets you first, dapper in his dark attire, his violet eyes equal parts calculating and welcoming as he steps forward and offers his hand.

Despite the fact you have never bowed to him before, you still have to repress the urge. His power is overwhelming, the very night lapping at his edges and you're suddenly very grateful to be meeting him as a friend and not as a foe.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Rhysand's voice purrs out, soft as silk. When you place your hand in his, he brings it to his lips and presses a polite kiss to the back of your hand.

"Any friend of Azriel's is a friend of mine."

You can feel your own heart thundering in your chest. Azriel hovers behind you, his presence soothing in itself. You can't see it but his wings are outstretched towards you, cocooning around you ever so slightly. A shadow hovers behind your shoulder, just out of sight.

"I— the pleasure is mine, my Highlord." You manage to make yourself speak.

You almost wish you hadn't when your words inspire a burst of laughter from one of the others behind Rhysand, the other Illyrian. He's tall, his hair dark but longer than your mate's own.

As your hand is dropped, Rhysand turns to scowl at the Male laughing, and you only grow further perplexed when he gives a whack against the other's shoulder. They begin to squabble for a moment — and you don't even hear Azriel move until he's speaking, his lips right by your ear.

"You'll have to forgive Cassian." His voice is low, raspy in a way that sends a zing down your spine. You shiver lightly. "He can be well-mannered at the best of times. But I promise he isn't laughing at you."

The two Males seem to tune back into Azriel's words, even though they had been whispered for you specifically.

"It's true!" The Illyrian, Cassian you now know, pipes up. He brandishes a devilishly handsome grin at you, with his hands held up in defense. "I apologise. It just still makes me laugh to see someone address this one so formally."

You blink. "But... he is the Highlord."

Azriel speaks again, bent over still to talk in your ear, but much less of a whisper this time. "Rhys is our Highlord but he does not bother with such formalities."

"And," Cassian interjects, lugging a punch into Rhy's shoulder, much like the other had done to him not a moment before. "Before he was the o'mighty Highlord, he was our friend."

Cassian says the word o'mighty with such an air of sarcasm that you can't help but glance at Rhys, sure he wouldn't take such disrespect. But around you, there are only easy grins.

"Might we move to somewhere more comfortable than the doorway," Azriel speaks up from behind you, his voice dry. "Unless that is, you're all hoping to do one-on-one greetings with her?"

There it is, the dry sense of humour you've come to adore. The group before you seems to grumble, as if they were quite keen on the one-on-one meetings but begin to move through the house.

One of the group dips back to walk beside you and you do your best not to repeat your past mistakes, even as your eyes widen almost comically. Azriel chuckles silently to himself, feeling your polite astonishment down the bond.

"It's so great to finally meet you.” Feyre, your Highlady greets you, her pretty face rife with glee. She seems genuinely very happy to make your acquaintance. "Azriel has told me all about you."

You stumble in surprise, your eyes casting back to Azriel behind the pair of you. His eyes are fixed on Feyre, narrowed at her blatant betrayal, his shadows swirling around him. She sticks her tongue out at him playfully and you smother a laugh.

When his eyes shift over to you, you're positively delighted at how his cheeks have turned the lightest shade of ruby.

"Feyre is very persuasive when she wants to be." He murmurs, almost grumbling. You turn back to the Highlady and she grins at you, devious and captivating all at once.

It’s a whirlwind once you reach one of the many living rooms, each member of Azriel’s family all very eager to shake your hand.

Cassian grips it firm, his grin still on the side of wicked as he tells you he’s been waiting years to find the woman who could contain Azriel. Nesta, his mate as you find out, is a fierce kind of pretty with a grip as strong as Cassian’s. She tells you welcome to the family with the smile of a shark.

Morrigon is next, breathtakingly gorgeous, and every bit as charismatic as Azriel had described. You don't catch the glimpse between Mor and Cassian, not the beat of relief they both feel at your arrival in their lives— in Azriel's life.

It's swallowed up in her words, going a mile a minute. She jumps about, like popcorn in a pan, overly keen to finally speak to the one whom the Mother deemed worthy of Azriel’s heart. Where are you from? What do you do? How did you meet?

“Mor,” Azriel warns, after her twelfth consecutive question about your life. He hasn’t moved from his protective position behind you, close enough you can feel the heat of his body. His wings had brushed your shoulder just once.

“Yeah, Mor,” Rhys jeers. He nudges his cousin in the side playfully and Cassian snickers behind the group. “Give the girl some time to breathe.”

Even with all of Azriel's masterclass on who you would be meeting, it's still terribly overwhelming just trying to keep track of them all. They're each such strong spirits, each with seemingly a thousand battles in their past and far more years with Azriel.

On top of this is the fact you met both your Highlord and Highlady so casually in one single afternoon. It's difficult to not be daunted by the group that is so clearly intertwined with each other on a deeper level altogether— bonded by devastation and choosing each other through love.

Try as you might, you can feel the seed of doubt, of insecurity, make a home between your ribs.

You clamp down the shields you've spent the last few weeks learning, building the wall up and holding it tight. It's silly to feel dismayed because these Fae, these friends, know your mate better than you do.

Azriel had told you he had been waiting for you for five hundred years. For the first time since you've met him, you wonder if he was ever disappointed.

And then— then, you see it.

Azriel's hand on Cassian's arm. Then the half embrace they share, a hand on each other's neck as Cassian grins, wild and fierce, and presses his forehead against Azriel's own; brothers, sharing a moment of euphoria at the other finding his long-deserved happiness.

You should be soaking in the smile Azriel hides from you too often, showing his teeth and crinkling his eyes. But instead, you can't see past it, can't stop the loop in your own mind as it prints a fact over and over and over.

It isn't an Azriel thing; it's a you thing.

He doesn't touch you.

The mental walls in your mind feel paper-thin as a fresh kind of agony ripples through your chest. The soft rejection of a mate stings, a papercut on your very heart. You can feel it warble through you and know, terribly, the exact moment that Azriel feels it too.

His head whips around, his dark shadows that surround him suddenly spinning and flitting faster than before— a couple dive across the room to you.

You stand up and the chair scrapes noisily beneath you.

"I—" You say before you realise you haven't planned an exit or an excuse in the slightest. Azriel's gaze burns into you. You turn to Feyre instead, who had been talking across from you when you rudely stood up.

"I'm so sorry, I just—" Some excuse, any excuse! "I think I— left the stove on."

It's a lie. A complete utter lie that fools no one in the room as you retreat from it hastily. None of them try to stop you though, which you're thankful for. Each of them watches, every expression slightly concerned as you hurry out of the room, your feet walking backward rapidly until you bump into the door frame.

You pass through it with your eyes on the floor, knowing that all of the eyes are on you. You know the ones you can feel searing into your soul are Azriel's.

You leave the River House. You walk along the Sidra, your steps hurried and your chin tucked low. It hurts. It hurts the feeling inside you. A tear streaks down your cheek, unbidden, and collects on your jaw. You wipe it away meanly.

The sight of your apartment door is an overwhelming comfort, one that has you sighing aloud as you rush up to it, your fingers already digging around in your pockets for your key.

And like always, you never hear him coming.

"What happened?" Azriel asks, his voice almost pained.

You give a little yelp of surprise and whip around, remembering half a second later that there's still evidence on your face of your tears. Azriel grows characteristically still, his hazel eyes fixed on yours as you sniffle for a moment, aggravation beginning to creep in.

He could feel everything from you and you got... what? Whatever he deemed fit to offer? How is that fair?

His usually wispy shadows are inkier than usual, almost tornado-ing around his shoulders. They keep leaping out towards you before being caught in an invisible net, a barrier between you and them.

Even as Azriel remains motionless, his eyes are the opposite—they jump around, searching, hunting, begging to find the cause of your pain. Had it been one of his friends?

"Please," He tries his words again.

His heart throbs painfully when you finally find your key and turn your back on him without a word, unlocking your door and pressing your way inside. He follows quickly, wings tucked in tight, unable to keep his shadows at his side this time. They whiz to you, circling your ankles protectively.

"Please," Azriel says, an anguished growl to his words. "What hurt you? I will— my friends, if they said something— if it was someone, I hunt them down and make it right for you."

You inhale sharply and when you speak, your tone is cold in a way you have never used before with Azriel. You say the words without thinking.

"It would be impossible to hunt yourself, Azriel."

Regret howls through you like a hurricane the moment you say the words. You don't mean to be mean, jealous, or whatever unseemly emotion you can't stop from sprouting in your chest, growing in size, tangling into your heartstrings like twisted gnarled vines. It hurts.

You turn back to him, mouth open. No words come out.

Hurt is slashed across his face, his eyebrows furrowed tightly, his shadows tucked in tight. It's as though he's blended into the very air, the wispy edge of him threatening to retreat into his own shadows.

All his emotions on display just for a moment, before they're schooled away. Tucked away, hidden, not for you to see.

Inside, your hurricane howls again, this time in pain.

You can tell he feels it, even as you mentally gather your bricks. It isn't fair. How can he have every bit of you and you get what he pleases to return?

You want to know him completely, want to see every part of his rugged, weathered soul, and love him anyway. It's an untold type of agony to have him deny you.

"My love," His feet finally move, his wings almost dragging on the floor as he steps forward, slowly, as though he was afraid he might spook you.

"Tell me how to fix this pain." He pleads. His gloved hands are held out, palms up and suddenly, he looks nothing like a warrior. Just a Male, afraid of losing what is most dear to him. You shake your head, like a child, and keep building your brick wall.

"Please don’t keep this from me," He takes another step forward, his shadows sent awry as they dart across to you. You can feel them on your calves, on your arms, feel the tiny kisses they leave. Azriel speaks again, voice low. "My love, I can feel your pain.”

You can't help how you screw your eyes closed, the ache in your chest unbearable— made worse when you know he can feel it too.

"That is my problem." You utter the words quietly, eyes still clenched shut, knowing he can hear you. He takes another step, close enough now that you can feel the heat of his enormous frame, his wings bracketing around you. "I cannot hide anything from you."

Azriel makes a noise, a punched-out wounded sound that reverberates down the bond.

"My love," He murmurs for the third time. Down the bond, you can feel his sweet love, his golden gentle feelings travelling along to assure you. "I would not wish for you to hide anything from me."

“But you hide everything from me." You whine, eyes finally crinkling open. Azriel stares down at you, his eyes softer than they've ever been. You can see the hurt swimming in them, the hurt you've caused. Still, you speak.

"You hide your emotions. You hide your touch, yet you give it willingly to your friends." You share each ugly thought with him, whispered as you gaze into his face to search for your answers.

Lifting your hands, you curl your fingers around his wrists tentatively. Azriel swallows heavily, his eyes dancing down to where you're touching him. You slide your hands forward, dragging the pads of your fingers over his pulse, along his palm, til your hands are holding his gloved ones.

"Is there some test I don't know about?" You ask, your focus on your intertwined hands. "Is there— do I have to earn this?"

"No," Azriel chokes out the word suddenly. You look up at him. He clears his throat and you feel his hands grip yours back, surer and stronger than you had. "No, I'm sorry. There is no test, nothing to prove you deserving of this. I just..."

His words trail off and you watch as he closes his eyes, inhaling deeply, as if gathering his courage. His hands slide from yours, pulled backward and you nearly feel the urge to cry once more— before you realise he's removing his gloves.

The skin of them is warped, you realise acutely with horror. The skin of his hands is swirled and mottled, an injury long healed but scarred for eternity. Azriel is watching your face closely, holding his hands close to his chest as though he was prepared to hide them away at the first flicker of fear.

You're grateful for the link between and all your shoddy attempts at blocking him out. Your love and your unwavering devotion drifts along the bond.

Azriel shudders, his wings giving the tiniest shiver. Slowly, gently, he reaches out towards you. You feel his hands, the unruly scarred feel of his skin sliding along your jaw to hold it tenderly. He has never held you like this before.

He cradles your face gently — like his hands have never held weapons of war, like they aren't twisted and marred with a memory he can't forget, like they're worthy of holding something so precious.

Azriel holds you as if you're holy — and he's come to kneel at your altar.

"I was afraid of what you would think." He admits. His voice is hoarse, gravelly as he fights off the lump in his throat. "I— on the first day we met, I felt your fear along the bond and—"

"It was not of you." You interrupt him, your hands jumping up to cover his own where they hold you. Azriel inhales sharply, eyes darting to watch.

But you pay him no heed, the palm of your hand covering his like a lover would. You let your thumb soothe up at down the ridges of his skin. You let your love ripple along the bond.

"It was not fear of you, Azriel." You repeat, your voice soft. His eyes are still fixed on your joined hands. His wings have begun to pick up, no longer drooping behind his back— you're not sure if he even notices.

"It was fear for how strongly I already felt for you." You lean into his hand and Azriel lets you, lets the length of your nose nuzzle into the touch of his hands — something no one in all his years of living had ever done before.

"It was fear that you already could ruin me," The words are murmured. "And that I would let you."

You whisper his name to pull his wide-eyed gaze from where his hands touch you and his hazel eyes burn into yours. Every whitened scar on his skin, every eyelash, the adorable pinch between his eyebrows; you drink it all in and smile at him. Azriel, your mate.

"Azriel, I chose this despite that fear. I choose you.”

Azriel quivers at the words, at your unflinching tone and suddenly the world seems such a perfect place, time moving around you, untouching, with such a perfect grace.

“I choose you too,” He murmurs, an emotion so strong a fire of possessiveness streaks down the bond. This time, you can feel his wall melt away, allowing you access to all he feels — his mountain of fear and his melting relief.

“Forgive me—” He begins and you laugh without meaning to, cutting him off.

“Stop,” you say, the word light and as pretty as your grin. “We keep doing this to ourselves, tying ourselves in knots over and over.”

Azriel laughs, his lips twitching into a smile as he allows himself to stroke his thumb lovingly over your cheek. The way you melt beneath it, your lashes fluttering and heart burning so brightly he can feel it in his own chest too— Azriel knows this longing will long outlive his body.

“We do,” He agrees. He dips his head a little lower, probably the only apology you’ll let him have, and inhales shakily. His hands shift across your face, down to hold your chin, his fingers pressed together tightly to hide the way they quiver.

“Then let me apologise in another way,” He murmurs, his voice closer to playful. “In a way I’ve been selfishly depriving you of.”

And when he kisses you, it’s with a reverence that softens all your corners.

His lips are plush and sweet, and with the way he dedicates himself to your bottom lip, you can’t help how you sigh into his mouth. He finds home in the curve of your mouth.

It’s delirious the way he kisses once, twice, three times like he’s hungry for something found only in your lips.

Your hands stagger forward, leaving his own to wind over around his neck. Your fingers curl up, raking through the hair on the nape of his neck — feeling the shiver that travels up his spine, his wings giving a little flare out.

He kisses you breathless, one hand abandoning your jaw to wrap snugly around your waist, bringing you closer to him.

When he pulls back, something within you glows molten gold at the panting that leaves his lips. He’s gazing at you, his hazel eyes alight in a way you haven’t quite seen before. His wings shift behind his shoulders, curling forward to wrap the two of you together, not quite touching.

Your heart thrills. You grin, your lips still just an inch apart as Azriel nudges forward, his own twitching in that way when he fights his smile. His lips brush yours, his smile barely held back.

“Have you forgiven me yet?” He says, sweet and low, allowing the smile to finally pull his pretty mouth up at the corners.

“Or should I make it up to you a little more?”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, chaste and gentle.

“Mmm,” your eyes are bright as they peer up at him, full of playful mirth and adoring affection. “You're forgiven but... I think you should make it up to me, just a little more.”

Azriel willingly obliges, his smile as sweet as the moonlight.

—

some people i thought might want to be tagged :)

@strangerstilinski @astoriaviviane @lana08 @florence-end @lportes-22 @torrick17 @florencemtrash @sidthedollface2 @seafrost-fangirl @goldenmagnolias @jeweline16 @meshellexplosionmurder @michellexgriffey @susiekern @toobsessedsstuff @fxckmiup @littlebookbengal @elenapril0502 @glitterypirateduck @hnyclover @technoelfie @itsapunklife @coffeecares

[daycourtofficial]

Forever is the sweetest con

Cassian x reader, Azriel x reader

Summary: based on this request - the war with Hybern claimed the life of your husband. Reeling with grief, you discover that you’re pregnant. His brother and your friend, Azriel, begins spending more and more time with you, finding solace in each other amidst your shared grief.

Author’s note: sadness, sadness, sadness, this one took me ages to write bc it’s so fucking sad 😭 I’m not super happy with this bc I was mostly trying to meet the deadline so this might feel disjointed bc I had to kinda skip around a lot. Also I didn’t tag this as Cassian x reader in tags bc it felt too painful to do that

Word count: 3k

Warnings: character death, unexpected pregnancy, honestly just sadness

“I’m Cassian.”

A large, handsome male greeted you as you were shelving some new books away. His large outstretched hand reached towards you, waiting in the air for a moment as you set the stack of books in your arms down. Your hand gets lost in the warmth of his, telling him your own name.

He smiles at it, repeating it, testing it on his tongue.

For days, that is the only memory playing in your head. It is what you think of as you lay in your shared bed, his scent still lingering. It is what you think when Feyre picks you up, and her and Mor place you in a bathtub as they clean you. It is what you think of as you stare at the ceiling, hoping it will collapse on you.

It is what you think of as you stand between Rhysand and Azriel at Cassian’s memorial. It is what you think of as they lower the casket into the ground, the citizens of Velaris standing around to pay their respects.

You don’t notice the hundreds of people who come to offer you a silent nod, a gentle prayer over you, their voices carrying gentle choruses of “he was so brave” and “you should be proud”.

You’re too numb for any of this. You’re too numb to recognize the hand Azriel places on your back, or the hand Feyre clasps into your own, squeezing tightly.

All you can think about is how his hand felt in your own the first time you held it - warm, gentle, comforting. And how it felt the last time you held it - cold, lifeless, gone.

Being a war hero came with a cost.

Only Cassian didn’t have to pay it - those he left behind did.

-

You’re not sure how much time has passed since Cassian died. You’re not sure if the people of Velaris still mourned him, or were simply wearing the traditional colors of their court.

You sat in one of Cassian’s old tunics, piles of clothes scattered on the floor around you. Your back was to the wall, its cool surface warming with your heat.

You hear movement in the house, but you don’t have the energy or ability to care who’s here.

Someone knocks gently before coming into the room, Azriel’s large frame coming through the door to your chambers. He sees the slightly ajar closet door, and shimmies his way in, sitting next to you amidst the pile of clothes on the floor.

He notes that they all seemed to have been pulled right off their hangers, in a fit of rage or desperation perhaps. Shades of black and red litter the floor, and the realization that it was all Cassian’s clothes causes him to take in a deep breath.

You two sit for a while, Azriel’s wings likely cramped in the small space. Mother knows Cassian complained if he spent more than five minutes in your closet.

Azriel just sits in silence, his shadows gently swirling the floor, searching through the piles.

For what, you’re not sure.

You finally speak, the words hard to form. You didn’t speak much these days - your voice a rare sound for your family’s ears.

“He doesn’t need them to be hung up anymore.”

Azriel sighs, shifting closer to you. He gauges you, looking for a reaction before moving a bit closer.

“He never needed them hung up. Before you he mostly just left his clothes strewn about the room. Drove Nuala and Cerridwen mad.”

You look at him, pulled from your trance of that black shirt Cassian wore when the two of you went on vacation in Adriada. The shirt that fit him so well the two of you did not see the beach at all for the five days you were there.

“They’d complain, saying every night he’d pull his clothes that they neatly hung up and the next morning they’d be strewn about his room,” he shrugs, still confused over how Cassian kept track of where everything was.

“Eventually Rhys told them to stop and to let Cassian do what he wants. No idea how he managed to stay neat and tidy with you.”

Your eyes meet his, and he reaches out a hand for you. It’s the first offer of help you’ve accepted in days. You keep his hand in yours for a long time, sitting amongst Cassian’s clothes.

-

You were sitting on the small balcony of your home, looking out at the expansive night sky above you. Elbows on knees, collapsing in on yourself.

Eyes red rimmed, tear tracks marking your face. You had never felt so helpless or as hopeless as you did now. Your eyes snag on a dark figure, soaring through the skies, its body getting closer and closer.

Azriel had taken to checking on you every three days now. Make sure you were eating, washing, and moving. Honestly if it weren’t for these biweekly check ins, you’re not sure how you would be faring.

The Illyrian descends next to you, a soft landing as he tucks his wings back in and sits next to you. You two sit in silence for a while, the sounds of the night a melody playing for just you two.

Velaris is dark, few fae lights scattered throughout the city aglow. You breathe deeply, taking in the smell of Azriel next to you. You should tell him, but you haven’t been able to tell anyone all week.

It was eating you up - you knew they’d be supportive, you knew they’d love you and help you in anyway they could. But it would still break their hearts just a bit more.

Your internal debate is ended by the overwhelming turn of your stomach, your lunch from earlier wanting to make a quick exit. You hurriedly get up, running towards your bathroom and throwing yourself on your toilet, narrowly reaching it in time.

Azriel ran after you, making quick work of grabbing your hair before you began your second wave of vomiting. The only sounds in the room are your retching and Azriel’s soothing tunes.

His other hand gently rubs your back as you feel as if you’re going to die. From embarassment or pain, you’re not sure. He waits for you to say what he already suspects, having noted a subtle shift in your scent when he arrived.

You wipe your mouth, not wanting to say the words aloud. The words that Madja had told you three days ago, the words that caused you to shut down until now.

“I’m pregnant,” you say, head leaning against the toilet seat. “All Cass wanted was to be a dad. Now I’m pregnant and he’s dead.”

A forced laugh comes from you.

“It’s not fair, Az.”

Your words hang in the air, and your friend responds by wrapping his arms around you, and pulling you into his lap. He nuzzles his head into your shoulder, his breath shuddering as he cries softly into your hair.

The two of you lay there, the cool bathroom tile digging imprints into your skin as he holds you, tears streaming from both of you.

-

Several months along in your pregnancy, and Azriel has essentially moved in with you full time. He takes meticulous care of you and the babe - he goes to your appointments with Madja with you, he goes baby shopping with you, he even put together the crib in your room.

He was your late husband’s brother. He was stepping up, knowing that Cassian would want him to help you. And yet your dreams wouldn’t stop being so perverse.

For the past month, every night without fail you dreamt of Azriel. Every dream was different - some of places you’ve gone before, places you only know of because Azriel described them.

The dreams were weird and disorienting, but you left them there. They were dreams.

About how beautiful he was. About his hands, his wings, his shoulders, his thighs.

Every day you’d wake up full of shame at where your mind takes you against your will.

-

“Az,” you say, a serious look on your face. “Something’s wrong.”

He looks over to you, glasses perched on his nose. The knife in his hand clatters, landing on the cutting board, a piece of carrot tumbling to the floor as he moves to you quickly.

Your breathing becomes more shallow, and you hold your hands out, reaching for his. Once his fingers reach yours, you bring his hands to your bump.

Just as he’s about to ask what the problem is, he feels a soft thump against his scarred hand. He can’t control the soft laugh that comes from him, and he can’t help but cradle your bump just a little tighter.

He looks back up to you, a mischievous glint in your eye.

“I thought something was wrong.”

You smile, “I know - that’s what makes it fun.”

-

Almost eight months had passed since Cassian’s death, and you were finally able to hear his name without breaking down. Azriel was the only one you would talk to about him, though.

It felt right to talk about Cassian to Azriel. It felt right to plunge yourself back into the memories of him - his boisterous laugh, his insistence on touching someone at all times, his presence in rooms.

It felt right, and the babe in your belly would kick frequently whenever Azriel spoke to you about Cassian, as if they knew who you were talking about.

It felt so right, and yet so wrong. Every night before bed you replayed the memories of the day, desperately trying to insert Cassian into Azriel’s spot in them.

He never fit perfectly into them, the edges of him not quite the right size.

-

This was too much.

You were an absolute fool to believe you could do this. To not only birth but to raise your dead husband’s babe. Who let you do this? Who thought this was a good idea?

“Hey.”

Azriel’s voice vibrates through you, pulling you from your thoughts, his large frame behind you. Your back pressed to his chest, his arms helping hold your legs up.

You lean your head against him.

“This was a terrible, terrible idea.”

He smiles, “Cassian never was known for good ideas.”

Your face contorts in agony, a strong cramping pain rippling through you.

Azriel takes the wet cloth from the nurse to his left, holding it on your forehead. “I’m so proud of you. You’re doing so well.”

You scoff, “if I was doing well, the babe would be out by now!”

Azriel takes your jabs, your sarcasm, the intense squeezing of his hand in yours. He’ll take everything you throw at him.

After about eight hours, you were blessed by the cauldron with a beautiful boy, tiny wings clinging to his back as he cried.

-

Azriel’s presence didn’t stop after the babe, Camden, was born. If anything, he spent more time with you. He delegated much of his work as spymaster to support you, even going so far as helping coordinate schedules for Feyre or Nesta to help you bathe.

In the first few weeks, you were able to move around, but you were utterly exhausted. Not just the physical demands of your babe and recovering from birthing a winged babe, but also the emotional toll this took on you left you unable to care much for yourself.

You had thought being bathed would make you feel like a burden, but Feyre and Nesta did everything to make you feel so loved instead. They lit candles, rubbed your back, and told you how proud of you they were constantly. Their words never failed to make you cry, the task at hand feeling impossible if you thought about it too hard.

Eventually, after weeks of sleepless nights, feeling like nothing more than a cow for milk, you and Azriel were able to settle into a routine.

He took care of the babe at night, allowing you decent sleep. He brought Camden to you for his middle of the night feedings. You took care of Camden during the morning through early afternoon while Azriel attended to his duties. The two of you cooked dinner together, Azriel always insisting on washing dishes afterwards.

After a while, it all felt so normal. As if Cassian was never meant to be here for this part.

-

A few months after your son’s first birthday all Hell broke loose. It was a regular day. The sun still shone as it always does, your son was as beautiful as ever. Azriel was holding Camden in the air, helping him stretch out his wings, when he spoke for the first time.

A soft dada accompanied the little boy’s giggles, followed by Azriel stiffening immediately. You looked to the shadowsinger, and when his eyes met yours, you knew.

As if a golden thread appeared out of thin air, tying a knot from Azriel to you, you could feel him. You pulled an experimental tug in the bond, and he pulled back.

Wide eyes meet each other from across the room, silent except for Camden’s continued giggles. You stare at him bewildered, your expression mirrored back to you on his face.

A high pitched noise starts ringing in your eyes before everything goes black.

-

“It’s a bit of a cruel joke,” you say. “I want to love him, I want to be with my mate. But what kind of person does that to her deceased husband?”

You had woken up in Rhys’s office twenty minutes ago to your head in Feyre’s lap, her hands gently running through your hair.

You had heard bits of hushed conversation, and you thought you had heard Az, but when you came to, he was nowhere to be seen.

Rhys looks contemplative before saying, “you of all people should know that Cassian would have wanted you to be happy.”

You put your head in your hands, gathering to courage to say your worst thoughts out loud.

“It feels like Cassian died for me. I know he didn’t, but I can’t help but feel like if he had survived, would Azriel still be my mate? He would have let me be with him, yes, but just.”

You sigh, trying to grab the fragmented thoughts in your head and place them together. Rhys lets you, allowing silence to fill the room.

“It would have killed him having to watch me choose Azriel over him. He would have done the respectable thing, he would have stepped back. He would have been happy for us.”

You sigh, “but if it were the other way, if Nesta or Elain were his mate, I’m not sure I could give him up.”

Your words come pouring out quickly before you begin sobbing. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. His hands wrap around your head, and he gently smooths your hair down.

“Feyre and I are immensely happy for you, despite the circumstances. Both of you. I know you might not feel like it, but you made your own family.”

-

You found Azriel a few hours later in what used to be his room in the townhouse. He hardly stayed here, hardly stayed at any of Rhys’s estates anymore, opting instead for the comfort of the home you two now shared.

“Hi,” you say tentatively, stepping through the door.

“Hi,” he echos back, turning to see you.

“Crazy day,” you say, pulling lightly on the bond. He cracks a smile, but there’s a sadness deep in his gaze that you haven’t seen in months.

He moves towards you, slow and deliberate steps, as if you were a bunny found in the woods easily scared off.

“Do you want this?” He asks, eyes focused on your own.

You nod your head. He nods back.

“I dreamt of you. For months, years even. Since about halfway through my pregnancy, you’ve been in my dreams most nights.”

He watches you speak, letting you say whatever it is you need to. You take a deep breath before continuing.

“I don’t want to forget Cass, and I don’t want you to feel like you’re replacing him. I can love both of you.”

He steps closer, slowly moving towards you until he’s stopped right in front of you, his wings blocking you in.

“It’s unconventional, I understand. And I understand if you don’t want a widow with a child.” You look up towards him, determination in your eyes. “But I am all in.”

He gently cups your cheek, eyes full of conflict. “It won’t be easy,” he muses.

“Nothing about this has been easy, why start now?”

His face slowly moves closer to yours, his lips gentle against your own. His hands still hold you gently, as he kisses you long and slow.

There would be time for passion later, his kiss now is full of the emotions words can’t convey. Adoration, sacrifice, immense grief.

You thought having Azriel kiss you would make you feel like you were betraying Cassian. Instead you feel an overwhelming sense of rightness as your hands cup his jaw back, pouring every ounce of you into him.

-

You and Azriel look out at your backyard, watching Nyx and Camden run around, play fighting with their swords. The two boys occasionally take short flights, only about a foot or so off the ground.

Azriel wraps his arms around you, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. You close your eyes, letting yourself feel this moment, allowing the sounds of the boys playing and your mate’s breathing to lull you into some form of peace you never thought you’d find again.

[cherrycola27]

false god

Series Warnings: Mythology!AU. Language, alcohol, drinking. Military inaccuracies. Mutual pining, unrequited love. Allusions to and eventual smut. Minors DNI. 18+. Individual chapter warnings will come as needed. Banner Credit @thedroneranger

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Chapter 8: Daydreams

You were giddy when you went to bed that night. Bradley had given you the best birthday you had ever had, and he told you that he has feelings for you and he wanted to take you on a date. An actual date!

You couldn't believe it. If this was a dream, you didn't want to wake up from it. Bradley had changed your life so much in seven months, and it got you thinking about what Minthe had said to you. Maybe you should try to complete your quest. But you weren't sure what it was. That was the tricky part. You had tried and done so much.

You had battled with it for so long that you accepted that you would live on Earth for eternity, but now, even that wasn't true.

Now, you weren't even sure you wanted to be a fully powerful Goddess again. You should want that— right? You should want to be immortal and powerful and worshipped, but—but it didn't sound as appealing as it did so long ago.

If your powers were restored, you'd have to go back to Olympus. You'd have to go back to the people who didn't want you there.

You would have to leave Earth.

You would have to leave Bradley

You didn't know if you could do that now. Before Bradley, you had no reason to stay on Earth, but now, could you live an eternity without him?

You could see a future with him. A life, a house on the beach, a marriage, kids, growing old together. It was a beautiful picture painted in your mind.

But that was the tricky thing about being a God. You couldn't love a mortal, not for long anyway. And you certainly couldn't marry one. If you wanted Bradley to be your forever, you'd have to give up your powers. You'd no longer be able to protect him from certain death, but you would be free of the burdens that you carried for so long.

You shook your head. You were getting ahead of yourself. Bradley had asked you on a date, not proposed.

You went to bed with your thoughts swimming.

The next morning, you were excited when you woke up. Bradley said he would pick you up at six, which meant he'd be at your door no later than five forty-five because he was notoriously early to everything.

That still gave you several hours to get ready.

You did a few chores around your house to kill some time. You watch some TV with Cerby and Hydra and read a chapter in your book.

Eventually, you couldn't take the anticipation any longer, so at two o'clock, you went to your room and flung open your closet doors. You had texted Bradley asking what to wear, and he said something casual, but what did casual mean? This was a date, so you couldn't just show up in any old thing. You riffled through your hangers, looking at garment after garment, trying on outfit after outfit before settling on a powder blue sundress with a square neckline and ruffled straps.

It was casual but cute enough for a date. You figured it would pair nicely with whatever Hawiian shirt Bradley inevitably showed up in.

You decided on some white sandals and a woven bag to go with your dress. After a shower where you shaved, exfoliated, and scrubbed everything, you sat down at your vanity to apply some simple makeup. Bradley had seen you at both extremes when it came to what you were wearing on your face.

He'd seen your punk rock glam, your everyday makeup, and your bare face. You decided that today called for a winged eye liner, a neutral eyeshadow, a dash of mascara, and of course, a pop of red on your lips. You chose a bright red with blue undertones that popped with your dress.

After setting your face, you dried your hair and went over it with your curling iron to add a few beachy waves throughout it before pulling it into a high ponytail.

After confirming you were happy with your hair, you grabbed the bottle of your favorite Jo Malone, "Scarlett Poppy" perfume and spritzed your neck and wrists. You packed your purse and pulled your phone off the charger. It was half past five. Bradley would be here any minute.

You took a seat on your couch and nervously tapped your foot. Why were you so nervous? This was Bradley.

A few moments later, you jumped off your couch when you heard the familiar rap of his knuckles on your door. You sprinted across your living room to open it but paused and took a deep breath before turning the knob.

"Hi, Bradley." You smiled as you opened the door to greet him. You sucked in a breath because you almost didn't recognize him.

He was standing before you with a dozen sunflowers in his hand. But what shocked you the most was his attire. Instead of his usual unbuttoned Hawiian shirt and white t-shirt combo, Bradley was wearing a sky blue polo with a subtle floral print. He'd also traded his light washed jeans for a darker, nicer pair.

"Hey, Angel, you look amazing." He complimented you as you stepped out of the doorway to let him in. The scent of bourbon, tobacco, and sandalwood from his colonge filled your nose as he walked by you.

"You don't look so bad yourself." You told him. "Bradley, you brought me flowers yesterday. Why did you bring more today?" You asked him as you too the bouquet from his hands.

"Those were birthday flowers. These are date flowers." He told you. You shook your head as you pulled out a vase for them.

"They are beautiful. Thank you." You told him. "You're welcome." He replied. "Ready to go?"

You shook your head enthusiastically before both of you stepped out and you locked the door behind you.

Just like he had from the beginning, Bradley opened the door to his Bronco for you and helped you in. But this time, he pulled the setbelt across your lap and buckled you in. "Date privileges." He said when you gave him a questioning look.

You had asked him where you were going, but he didn't tell you. Instead, he threw on a new playlist for the drive.

Twenty minutes later, he was pulling into Shell and Sun, a waterfront bistro that you had seen in passing but never been to.

After parking, Bradley jogged around the front of the car and opened your door, and helped you out. Bradley hesitantly placed his hand on the small of your back as the two of you walked towards the entrance. He was afraid that you would think he was being too forward, but you didn't shy away from him.

He quickly gave his name to the hostess at the entrance, and she led the two of you to a table near some picture windows.

"I know being in water isn't your thing, but I hope this is fine." Bradley said as you sat down to look over the menu.

"This is perfect." You assure him.

He smiles at you over the top of his menu before encouraging you to order whatever you want.

The waiter comes to take your drink order as you look over the menu. Everything sounds delicious, but you settle on some braised short ribs with fingerling potatoes and broccoli. Bradley orders a steak with roasted vegetables and and baked potato.

Throughout dinner, he asks you more about your life, your family, your career.

You tell him the well practiced lie of growing up in the piedmont of North Carolina and how your father was a lawyer and your mother a teacher. You tell him that they took a trip to visit family in Greece during your first year at the Naval Academy and never made it back home.

You also tell him about some of your favorite places that you've been stationed. His eyes light up when you say that Oceana is your favorite.

"I'm from Virginia. I grew up right near the base and graduated from UVA!" Bradley tells you excitedly.

"You didn't go to the Academy?" You ask him.

"No, there was this thing with Maverick—its a long story." Bradley shakes his head. "What about Captain Mitchell?" You continue. "Mav flew with my Dad. He was the pilot when my Dad had his accident. After that, my mom never wanted me to fly. She made Maverick promise that he would do everything he could to keep it from happening. So, he pulled my papers for the Academy. We had a falling out after that. He was my godfather and the last family I had left, and I pushed him away. We are better now, though." Bradley tells you.

"Well, I'm glad you are." You tell him.

The two of you fill in more gaps for each other, and you can't believe how easy it is for you to talk to Bradley. He gushes about his mom, and it makes your heart ache. You'd met her, and if you had your full powers and life was different, you'd be able to take Bradley to see her and his father, but you couldn't.

You were too busy thinking about that to hear what Bradley had just asked you.

"What?" You ask him. He chuckles. "I said, 'Angel, don't take this the wrong way, but it never occurred to me, I don't know how old you are.' It doesn't matter, but I'm curious." Bradley says.

"Oh." You say a bit startled.

You can't tell him your real age

"I'm thirty-one now." You tell him. That seems believable. "How old are you?" You ask him.

"I'm thirty-five." He tells you. "Not too much of a difference in age." He says.

If only he knew

At the end of dinner, Bradley swipes the bill before you even have a chance to look at it. You glare at him and arge that you were more than capable of paying for your meal. He fires back that this is a date, he is a gentleman, and his mother raised him better than that.

After dinner, you expect to go back home. You were surprised when Bradley pulled into the parking lot for the boardwalk amusement park.

"What are we doing here?" You asked him.

"We are going ride some rides, eat some junk food, and I am going to absolutely destroy you at skiball and air hockey in the arcade." Bradley said.

You threw your head back, laughing. "You're on." You said to him as you hopped out of the vehicle.

Bradley convinced you to rider a roller coaster and the drop tower with him before you dragged him to the bumper cars and had way too much fun terrorizing him. After a lap on the spinning cups, he got both of you some lemonade before pulling you into the arcade. He was quickly humbled when you beat his score at skiball and air hockey, and the other arcade games the two of you played. He did, however, narrowly beat you at Dance, Dance Revolution.

The two of you were laughing so hard when you exited the arcade and walked along the old wooden path.

Bradley wiped his palms on his jeans before tentatively slipping his hand into yours. You paused for a moment, caught off guard. He tried to pull away, but you grinned at him before lacing your fingers together tighter, laughing at the way his cheeks turned pink when he asked you if it was okay for him to hold your hand.

You walked along the midway and watched some people play games. You stopped dead in your tracks when you saw the cutest stuffed shark with little aviator sunglasses at a ball toss game.

"See something you want?" Bradley asked you as he followed your gaze. "Sharks are my favorite animal." You told him as you nodded to the prize.

"But these games are impossible to win." You say as you gesture to the stand.

"I played baseball in college. You want the shark. I'll get you the shark." Bradley said as he walked both of you up to it.

He quickly paid the attendant who told him the rules of the game. Three balls in the bucket won a prize. He then set five baseballs in front of Bradley. He tossed the first one in with ease.

The second one followed behind, and you got your hopes up. Unfortunately, the third and fourth balls bounced out.

Bradley took a deep breath before tossing the final one and it dropped into the bucket perfectly.

"We have a winner!" The attendant announced as Bradley told them what prize you wanted. He quickly handed over the stuffed shark, and you jumped up on your tiptoes to hug him and peck his cheek.

"I'm going to call him Fin-ley," you declared as the two of you walked hand in hand to the ferris wheel. "Why Fin-ley?" He asked you.

"Fin, because sharks have fins, and Ley, like Bradley." You tell him as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.

"Oh." Bradley says, not sure how to respond.

He smiled and squeezed your hand and pulled you closer to him. You curled up against his side and buried your face in the soft material of his shirt. While you thought it was sweet that he'd worn something nicer for your date, you missed his usual attire.

Soon, the two of you were seated close together as the ferris wheel climbed higher and higher. It stopped when the two of you reached the very top. You had the most breathtaking view of the city and the ocean.

By the time you were back on land, the sun was setting.

You and Bradley made your way down the pier to the beach and kicked off your shoes before trekking along the sand. Both of you paused at the edge of the water and enjoyed the feeling of the waves washing over your toes.

The sunset was especially beautiful today, painting the sky in hues of orange, yellow, red, and pink. It's a view that you would never get tired of seeing.

"It's so beautiful." You told Bradley. "Yeah, it sure is." He replied. Only Bradley was watching the sunset. He was watching you and the way you were captivated with the sinking sun with childlike wonder. He was watching the way the last few rays cast a golden halo around you and how the salt air caught the wisps of your hair and ruffled the hem of your dress.

He loved how the warm of it turned your cheeks the perfect rosy shade to match your lipstick. Bradley couldn't help himself, so he took out his phone and snapped a picture of you, with your back to him, staring at the sunset like it was the most magical thing in the world. And maybe it was.

Bradley had always wondered what his place in the world was supposed to be. He thought that it was up in the sky, but maybe, just maybe, it was supposed to be right here, with you, the sea, and the sand.

As the rays faded, you gladly took Bradley's hand and let him lead you back to the Bronco to go home.

..............

Tonight had truly felt like something out of a movie or one of your wildest dreams. Dating wasn't something you did often because it ended in heartbreak for you. You could never fully give yourself to that person, or they only wanted one thing from you, and that's not who you were.

But Bradley—oh sweet Bradley was different. He had treated you with so much respect tonight. He never made you feel uncomfortable or pressured. He was so patient with you.

Now, as the night was coming to a close, his fingers were threaded with yours as you walked down the hall. You chuckled to yourself, as you thought back to earlier in the evening, and how pink his cheeks had been when he asked you if he could hold your hand on the boardwalk. He was so tentative when he took your smaller hand in his, but now he had a firm grip. His silent way of saying he was never going to let you go.

And you didn't want him to

You came to a stop in front of your door. You turned to face him, and he had the biggest smile. "Do you—do you want to come in?" You asked him sheepishly. Bradley wanted to come in. He wanted to sit on our couch and pull you in his lap and kiss you until you were begging him for more. But he couldn't do that. Not tonight.

"I do, but I can't. Not tonight. Not yet." He told you. As tucked a stray piece of your hair behind your ear. You slumped down against your door, but you understood what he was saying. You had both agreed to take this slow.

"Okay." You replied with a small smile. "Okay." He breathed out as he placed one of his large palms on the door above you. He looked down the hall to make sure no one else was around. It was late. Everyone else was probably in bed.

"It's just us out here." Bradley stated. "No prying eyes or loud crowds to interrupt us. No Jake to remind us about cake." He said. "Yeah. You're right." You said. You hoped this conversation was going where you thought it was going.

"So— I was hoping that maybe—I could—we could—" Bradley hesitated as his eyes flicked from yours down to your lips and back up again.

"Angel, can I kiss you?" He asked in the most polite tone ever.

"Yes." You breathed out just as he brought his lips down to meet yours. His free hand grabbed your waist and pulled you closer to him while you brought yours to his neck to hold him there.

Bradley brought his other hand off the door and tangled it in your hair as his tongue swept over your bottom lip, silently asking for permission to deepen the kiss. You gladly granted him it as you slotted your mouth against his.

This kiss was everything that you had hoped it would be. Bradley's lips were soft and firm and fit perfectly against yours. He tasted faintly of the lemonade and cotton candy the two of you had shared earlier that evening

You gasped as he squeezed your hip and pulled you closer to him. You were flush against his chest now, and his presence overwhelmed your senses. All you could think, smell, and feel was Bradley. He clouded your mind in the best way.

You were vaugly aware of his hardness pressing into you, and you wonder if he knew how turned on you were from this too.

You didn't want to stop kissing him. You wanted to make out with him in the hallway all night like a lovesick teenager because it was that good.

He pushed one of his thick thighs between your legs. You moaned into his mouth as the denim of his jeans caught the flimsy lace of the panties you were wearing and dragged them over your sensitive clit.

You ground yourself down on him as you continue to kiss him. You pulled your lips away from his and kissed along his jaw and nipped at his earlobe before he brought your mouth back to his.

You were sure that there was going to be a wet spot on his jeans from how turned on you were, and if he kept this up, you were going to cum right here in the hallway.

But you didn't care

His kiss sent a spark through you. The kind that almost made you want to believe in soulmates.

Almost

But sooner than you would have liked, Bradley pulled away from you.

He pressed his forehead against yours as the two of you panted in an attempt to catch your breath. Both of you were wearing goofy grins as you took in each other's swollen lips and ruddy cheeks.

Bradley smiled at you and kissed you one more time. "Goodnight, Angel." He said as he pulled himself away from you. "Goodnight, Bradley." You smiled at him.

You ran into your bedroom and squealed as you jumped onto your bed.

You couldn't believe that you had kissed Bradley. You also couldn't believe how incredibly turned on you were.

Your mind wandered to the bottom right drawer of your nightstand and how to relieve the sche between your thighs. But before you did, a wicked thought crossed your mind. You slipped into your bathroom and pulled your dress off, tossing it into the hamper.

You then grabbed your phone and posed in front of your full-length mirror and snapped a picture of the baby blue lingerie set that you had worn just in case.

You quickly found Bradley's contact and sent him the pictures along with the caption of "You should have come in." You locked your phone and headed back into your bedroom.

Bradley wasn't sure what he was expecting when he heard his phone chime and saw that it was a notification from you.

He had just come out of an extremely cold shower after your heated session in the hallway. He kept replaying the sounds you made for him over and over in his mind, and he was as hard as a rock under the white towel he had tied around his waist.

When he unlocked his phone, he thought that it was probably a good night text from you. He certainly wasn't expecting a picture of you, clad only in a lacy blue bra and panties with a red lipstick smirk on your face as your free hand cupped your breast.

He quickly read the caption, and now he regrets his decision of not accepting your invitation to come in. Bradley bit his knuckle before deciding that two could play at this game.

He stepped in front of his mirror and wrapped his hand around the band of his towel, and snapped a picture. He quickly sent it to you.

When you opened the phone, you audibly gasped at the sight of Bradley, still damp from the shower in nothing but his dog tags and a white towel. He had captioned the photo with "Next time I will."

You grabbed your vibrator from the drawer and laid back on your pillows. You carefully positioned it over your thigh tattoos before taking a picture and sending it back to Bradley.

When your next text notification came in, Bradley hastily opened his phone.

A low groan sounded from his chest when he saw what you had sent him.

It was a picture of you on your bed, legs spread. You had a navy blue vibrator resting on your thigh over your tattoos and one hand over your panties. You sent it with the caption. "Take off the towel. Coward."

Bradley chuckled to himself before before doing just that. He slipped off the towel and gathered it to where it was just covering his erection. He cupped himself and the white fabric in his hands before taking another photo and sending it to you along with the message, "I'll take off mine if you take off yours."

Several minutes passed after Bradley sent that last message, and you hadn't replied. He was worried that he had taken it too far. He was just about to call you when another text from you came through.

"Go check your front door."

Bradley was a little taken a back, but he slipped on some grey sweat pants that hung low on his hips before going to see what was waiting for him.

He opened the door, half expecting you to be there, but you weren't. He looked down the hallway and didn't see you or anything, but when he looked down, there was a surprise on his doorknob.

There, dangling from the smooth silver handle, was a pair of baby blue lace panties. And not just any panties, the exact ones you had been wearing in the photos you sent him.

Bradley quickly checked to make sure no one was in the hall before he snatched them off and slammed the door.

He darted back into his bedroom and ran his fingers over the delicate lace. They were soaked in your sweetness. Bradley brought them to his nose and inhaled your intoxicating aroma. He grew impossibly harder at the fact that he was the one who got you this worked up.

He wondered if you knew just how much you affected him.

Bradley brought his free hand down to his crotch and stroked himself a few times. Then, before his brain could catch up with him, he wrapped your panties around himself and fisted his cock tightly.

A while later, as you were coming down from hour high and tucking your vibrator away, your phone chimed with a message from Bradley.

You couldn't wait to open it. You were hoping he had enjoyed the little surprise you had left for him. And when you saw the picture, you realized just how much he had.

There, on your screen was a picture of Bradley fisting his cock with your panties wrapped around it, covered in his cum. You moaned at the image and found yourself getting flushed all over again.

Taglist: @roosterscock @shanimallina87 @teacupsandtopgun @mayhemmanaged @wkndwlff @roosterforme @daggerspare-standingby @dakotakazansky @startrekfangirl2233 @hecate-steps-on-me @cassiemitchell @na-ta-sh-aa @katieshook02 @desert-fern @je-suis-prest-rachel @soulmates8 @diorrfairy @eli2447 @xoxabs88xox @djs8891 @roosters-girl @sebsxphia @rosiahills22 @dempy @callsign-magnolia @alchemxx @gretagerwigsmuse @withahappyrefrain @lt-spork @multifandomlover4life @beccaanne814 @bradshawsbaby @seitmai @kmc1989 @bcarolinablr @roosterisdaddy36 @itsdesiree86 @waywardhunter95 @hisredheadedgoddess28 @whatislovevavy @asshlyyyy @inkandarsenic @lillyrosenight @tomanybandstolove @jiminie-08 @dingochef @laracrofted @skipchat

[faerybones3]

The Many Delights of Detention

Sebastian Sallow x f!reader (MC)

Sebastian helps you search for something you need, but he’s a piss poor look-out

wc: 2k

ao3

tags: aged up characters, friends to lovers, sebastian is a pining idiot, suggestive making out, fluff, “un”requited love

If one were walking through the faculty wing of Hogwarts during this crisp autumn day, they would not notice anything entirely out of the ordinary at first glance. However, if they were to do a double take, they would most definitely notice the frustrated mumblings of a certain witch who was currently ransacking the private office of Professor Onai. 

“It’s got to be around here somewhere,” she mumbled to herself, casting a hushed revelio before continuing her search. 

Sebastian Sallow, who was walking nearby and had slowed his footsteps when he heard her, peeked into the office. He leaned his weight against the doorframe, an amused smile touching his lips as he watched her, completely oblivious to his presence. 

After another beat or two, he cleared his throat loudly, and she nearly jumped out of her skin before she turned around, eyes wide. 

“Sebastian, you twat,” she said in a loud whisper, relieved to find him instead of the angry teacher she had been expecting. “You scared me half to death.”

He chuckled. “And just what are you doing ransacking a professor’s private office?”

“Looking for something,” she said distractedly, continuing her search.

He waited a moment before making a gesture with his hands that said, “and what would that be?”

She glanced at him again, “Weasley gave me this field guide two years ago and I’ve been trying to find all the pages because they sort of . . . scattered all around the school.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Garreth?”

“No, you idiot, Professor Weasley. It’s supposed to help me catch up on my work load.”

He nodded absently, his mouth forming a little “o.”

“Why would you have to break in somewhere to find one though? Doesn’t make much sense to me,” he said, eyebrows now furrowed.

“I don’t know, Sebastian,” she said, slightly irritated at not having found the page yet. “But you have no idea how hard it is to find the bloody things,” she continued, her words descending back into exasperated mumbling. 

He stood there watching her for a minute, amused at her frustration, and decided if he was going to be an accomplice, he might as well keep a look out for teachers. 

She cast revelio once again and then seemed to finally find what she was looking for in a tall bookshelf on the far side of the office. 

“Aha! There you are, you blasted thing,” she said, hurriedly grabbing the page that had seemed to appear out of thin air and stuffing it into a large book she had pulled out of her school bag. 

Sebastian looked out into the corridor as he heard faint footsteps from somewhere down the hallway. 

“Perfect timing, someone’s coming.”

She cursed and grabbed his arm, pulling him into a tall armoire situated next to the large bookshelf and closing the doors softly behind them. The closet, though effective at hiding them, was not made for people to stand in and was a very tight fit. They were nestled up against each other, her chest brushing his and her hands still gripping his forearms. Sebastian tried his hardest to picture Leander Prewett in his mind’s eye so as not to focus on the hips that were currently pressed flush against his own. 

“Quite cozy in here,” he whispered, stifling a chuckle. 

She lifted her arm and he thought she might smack him, but she just pressed her palm against his lips to quiet him. He realized that someone had just entered the room they were in and he had almost given them away. Footsteps could be heard outside the cabinet, moving around the room. 

In an attempt to shift his weight from one foot to the other, Sebastian accidentally rustled the coat hangers above his head. 

The witch’s eyes widened as she realized what he had done and she animatedly mouthed “I hate you” at him as the footsteps neared the door to the cabinet, no doubt having heard the clatter. 

The doors opened and Professor Onai looked at them with a look of surprise, then disappointment on her face and she took in the sight before her. 

“It is always you two, isn’t it?”

—

Sebastian put down the book he was reading and gazed up at the witch who sat across from him in the Slytherin common room. She was deep in her own book, and he took the stolen moment to admire the contours of her face, the curve of her lips and the way her tongue darted out to lick her finger before she turned the page. It drove him nearly mad; she drove him mad. He had been desperately in love with her since their fifth year. He was initially intrigued by her when she burst into the Great Hall during the sorting ceremony, as everyone had been. But once she had boldly introduced herself to him in the Slytherin common room, he knew he was done for. Her quick wit and easy banter excited him and made it hard for him to keep up with her, but he was never one to run from a challenge. He supposed it also helped that she was devastatingly gorgeous. 

Throughout the last two years, he had been following her around like a lost puppy, eager to help her on her many expeditions around the highlands surrounding Hogwarts in the dead of night. They had grown unbelievably close, picking fights with Dugbogs and raiding lingering poacher camps. They always seemed to make a game of it, keeping count of who could free more beasts. She was perhaps the person he trusted most in the world, other than Anne and Ominis of course. 

Deep down, he knew he was a pining fool, as she had never given any indication of reciprocating his feelings to his knowledge, but he would do anything to be close to her, even if that meant he could never cross that boundary of friendship for as long as they lived. He was putty in her hands, and he didn’t mind it one bit. 

Her eyes rose to his, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“What are you looking at,” she said playfully, kicking his foot lightly underneath the table. 

He smiled at her, but before he could come up with a witty response, he heard Ominis’ voice from across the room. He sounded groggy and looked as though he had just woken up from a nap. He was making his way over to the pair. 

“Don’t you two have somewhere to be?”

“Oh Merlin, I forgot,” said the witch, hastily rising from her spot on the couch and snapping her book shut. 

“I still don’t understand why you didn’t just explain what you were doing in her office. You easily could have gotten out of this detention, you know,” Ominis said, sitting down in the spot she had just risen from.

“I know, but I couldn’t let Sebastian go all alone. He might just die of boredom without me there to keep him company,” she said, earning an eye roll from both boys. 

They gathered the rest of their things and bade farewell to Ominis before heading in the direction of the divination classroom. 

—

Their detention assignment was no less than what they had expected. They were to polish trophies in the trophy room without using magic for an hour or two. Professor Onai had left a while ago, seeming to trust them to get the job done without needing to be supervised. She told them before she left that she would come to collect them before dinner.

Sebastian sat, grumbling to himself, attempting to polish a particularly grimy trophy. 

His detention partner sat next to him, diligently polishing her share without complaint. He watched her as she worked, her nimble fingers sweeping gently over the gold and silver. He found himself wishing he were that quidditch trophy in her hands, being polished until he shined. She wouldn’t need to do much, he would already be shining just from her touch. 

“Someone’s got a staring problem today,” she said, not looking up from her work.

He flushed crimson and tore his eyes away from her. 

“Sorry.”

She looked up at him and smiled, reaching out a hand to touch his knee gently. His breath hitched in his throat at the contact. 

“I’m just teasing.”

He grinned sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. 

When she went to remove her hand from his knee, his own hand shot out to cover hers. His eyes widened a bit at his own boldness, but the way she was looking at him now had him not caring in the slightest. 

As he looked into her eyes, he saw a glimmer of something. Hope? Desire? He didn’t know why, but he found himself moving closer to her from his seat on the floor. His heart was pounding so loudly against his ribs, he was afraid she could hear it. His face now dangerously close to hers, he looked at her with a silent question in his eyes. Her brief glance to his lips was answer enough. 

His body moved of its own accord, one hand moving to tilt her chin up. As their lips met, she grabbed the collar of his shirt and tugged him even closer, deepening the kiss. He slid his tongue along her bottom lip and she eagerly opened for him, exploring his own mouth with her tongue. 

Sebastian’s free hand moved to fist the hair at the nape of her neck and she let out a breathy moan. He smiled against her lips, silently vowing to himself that he would do anything in his power to pull those noises from her lips whenever he could. Releasing her chin, he tugged on the front of her robes and she slid into his lap, practically straddling him. His hand now found the dip of her waist, fingers splayed and digging into her sides to keep her where she was. 

Her own hands had found a home at the nape of his neck, twisting into his hair. She nipped at his bottom lip, and he pulled away, diving down to her jaw and pressing syrupy sweet kisses there. He made his way to that sensitive spot behind her ear and dragged his teeth over her skin, making her head spin and her eyes flutter. He never knew heaven could taste this good. 

He pulled away and looked at her. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that,” he said, pressing his forehead to hers. 

She laughed, and the sound was music to his ears.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to do that.”

Just as he went in to devour her lips once more, they heard someone clearing their throat briskly, and turned to face whoever it was, pulling away from each other as if they had been struck by lightning. 

Professor Onai stood in the doorway to the trophy room, her eyebrows had all but disappeared into her hairline. 

“You are free to go to dinner now, thank you,” she said pointedly, shaking her head to herself before leaving them to clean up. 

As they looked back to each other, faces flushed with embarrassment, they both burst into laughter. The witch in Sebastian’s lap laid her head on his shoulder and he turned to kiss her temple. When she lifted her head to look at him, he gave her a shameless smile. 

“Care to continue where we left off?” He asked cheekily. 

She chuckled and smacked his shoulder lightly. 

“I’m starving, let’s go.”

He deflated a bit as she lifted herself off him, his pants uncomfortably tight. But as he stood, he reached out to grab her hand and lifted it to his lips, a silent promise.

She smiled and let her hand comfortably rest in his grasp. He didn’t let go all the way to dinner.

[twst-drabbles]

Lilia 7

Summary: You have finished taking Lilia a bath. The little bat greatly enjoys you toweling him off.

(Ah yes, here I go again, saying I will write a request or work on my novelette for the Ko-Fi shop but instead I write about Lilia. I hate my brain. Wish it would work with me.)

“Seriously, why do you always come to me to get you clean?” you murmured, annoyed as you carefully dabbed at his leathery wings fully outstretched towards the sky. “How did you even manage to fly here when you were covered in all that pond scum?”

You’re not kidding when you say that bat was covered. You don’t know of any bogs around your area but Lilia looked like he crawled right out of one, with links of rather nasty algae hanging off his head and wings. Not to mention the foggy green slime that was soaked into his usually delicate fur. It was gross to hold him but you’d rather he not track whatever he had on him one you floor.

Little bat was dirty. You had no choice but to give him a bath. Well, at least he’s a very calm pet that takes baths pretty well. Though he does like to go wild with the bubbles, but who are you to stop him when he’s having fun?

So, here you are, drying Lilia off as he nibbled on your fingers when he can. Little clicks sounded in his throat as his wings shook the slightest bit.

“Almost done,” you gathered him up in your hands, snorted as Lilia melted further into the towel, reminding you of Silver’s first attempt at a steamed bun. A little too fat, little too moist, but comforting nonetheless.

You opened your closet. Placing the sleepy Lilia on the upper shelf, you flicked on the heating lamp, as it’s second nature by this point. Moving the coat hangers out of the way, you grabbed a wooden one that you’re pretty sure belong to Crowley at some point. You grabbed the old bat from his towel, shushed him when he made a deflating, protesting squeak, and nudged his feet onto the hanger.

He grabbed and hung upside down, letting his wings flop down to catch as much of the lamp’s light as he could. He wasn’t dripping but you placed the towel under him just in case. Lilia has not once opened his eyes.

“Alright, just stay here for a bit. I need to call Silver.” Lilia twitched at his owner’s name but you pushed the hanger, making him gently rock in the way he likes it. “Just nap.”

Now where did you leave your phone? Oh right, the bathroom. Maybe you should take a picture of Lilia? Yeah you should. It’s fun, having a collection of these pets while they’re drying off.

[solradguy]

I had a dream I killed a dragon with my bare hands (and some Dwarves but that's irrelevant) and this kid saw me do it and recruited me to help him find his stolen DVD since no other adult was taking him seriously. So I broke into the house of one of his friends by installing and flying up to the second floor window. But then the kid and his family came home and I was trapped in the closet for the rest of the dream. It smelled like stale milk and I couldn't go back to a human form because it had a cooldown, they'd find me because it was loud, and I didn't have enough room in the closet anyway. It was miserable. Hangers kept getting caught on my wings and rattling around. I couldn't even sit on the floor

[fleckcmscott]

Hearth and Home

Summary: During Christmas in Missouri, Arthur learns - and Y/N relearns - how to celebrate with family.

Words: 6,525

Warnings: None

A/N: This little piece is based on a request from @jokerownsmysoul, as well as a continuation of Haunted Heart. Please enjoy this very tardy holiday story! 😂 Thank you to @jokerownsmysoulfor not only making the request, but also beta-ing the first draft. Much appreciation to @sweet-nothings04and @forever-fleck for helping with the intro pic! 💜

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

Christmastide hadn't yet crept into Gobler Mall, but it'd slid halfway through the door and propped it open.

A cardboard sleigh advertised Santa's imminent arrival. Kiosks selling Dead Sea Salt body scrubs and smoked cheeses were buried in unopened boxes of merchandise. A man in a green janitor's uniform hung honeycomb snowflakes from the center atrium, his ladder buttressed against the second story's balcony wall. 

The anchor store in the east wing had outraced its competitors to win the gold. A twenty-foot tree stood in the center of Hecht's Fineries, plastic branches reaching out to entice customers past cosmetics to a world of sporting goods, toys, and electronics.

Y/N pushed a shopping cart through Today's Woman, the fashion department situated between cookware and shoes. Right on her heels, Arthur browsed with the exuberance of a boy who knew exactly what to write on his Christmas list. Adorable, yes. Contagious and delightful? Certainly. The magic of the season permeated the air whenever he was near.

But if he didn't lose her trail soon, surprising him would be impossible.

They'd brought a small selection of gifts from Gotham. Curry pastes from Siam Market and a Glob's Gourmet Pickles sampler (which had, thankfully, remained intact during their flight). But with limited luggage space, they'd settled on buying most here. A quilted jewelry box appeared a good fit for Ruthie, and with Jason pretending he'd grown out of comic books, they'd chosen a leather baseball glove for him. That left a Mr. Wizard Ecology Kit for Brian and a set of Read-A-Long books on tape for Ashley.

Now they had to settle on what to get Mabel and Ed. And each other.

"I dunno what she likes," Arthur told Y/N, flipping through a circular rack of blouses. Hangers squealed along a metal rod, an atonal chorus. "She dresses more casually than you, but she still looks nice." A one shoulder shrug concluded the observation.

Y/N leaned onto the cart's handle. "A good rule to go by is, if I'd hate it, she'd love it. Wait, that might work." She raised her hand to stop the search. He held out a horizontally striped pullover, black and confident pink illuminated by metallic threads.

A sharp nod answered his knotted brow. "It's definitely her."

As they made their way to the register, a row of mannequin busts caught his gaze. Decked out in festive finery, they wore sweaters thick enough to warm the skinniest soul. He strolled the length of the display, hands clasped at the small of his back, mocha curls brushing his shoulders. He stopped at a crewneck two-thirds of the way down.

Flocked plus signs spanned the shoulders and chest, like a blanket of light snow. Alternating patterns of stars and deer came next, followed by a swathe of rich maroon, the same color as his suit. An odd design, to be sure, but fashionable. The trendiest thing ever to have a chance at moving into Arthur's closet.

When his thin lips pursed, she sidled next to him. Shopping for others didn't mean he couldn't consider himself. "You'd look gorgeous in that," she said.

A smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Really?"

"Really." She reached for it with a seductive slowness. "Should we get it now or wait for Santa?"

On a hitched laugh, he stole it from her fingertips and got in line.

~~~~~

Carrying a tray of Morrison's Cafeteria broiled chicken, yellow rice, and two diet cokes, Mabel zigzagged through grey tables to a four-top on the periphery of the food court, where Y/N guarded Radio Shack and Sears bags with the promise not to peek. Though not much of a splurger, she was surprisingly fun to shop with. Admiring window displays, suggesting gifts for Ed and Arthur. Mabel had needed that quality time, another chance to be Big and Little Sis. 

Ever a rocket about to lift off, Ashley bounced on a stack chair beside Y/N. The other three children were in school, busy learning their ABCs. Sun cascaded through skylights, brought out honey blonde streaks in the toddler's hair. Y/N took a blue crayon from a RoseArt three-pack and pointed to a spot on a paper placement, an instruction to make the first move in a tic-tac-toe game. In a fit of giggles, the girl clapped and drew an X over the entire grid. 

A mix of joy and pensiveness twisted Mabel's heart.

Fed by losing her mom at twenty-four, she braced against the possibility of not being there. New milestones brought happiness - but they also reminded her she'd be fifty when her youngest was a freshman in high school. Nights of four-hour naps and days filled with play and homework took a lot more out of her than motherhood had a decade ago. There were moments exhaustion seeped so deeply into her bones she could've slept standing up.

Once Ashley was sent to a coin-operated carousel ride a couple yards away, Mabel confided to Y/N. "Don't get me wrong. I'd do anything for them. I just thought they'd all be in school by now." She rolled straw paper between thumb and forefinger. "Mom never seemed to get tired. But chasing Ashley around, I feel like I'm ready for the retirement home."

"She has parents who are older and wiser. Who know when they were too strict with the others and not strict enough. Isn't that a good thing?" Y/N tore a final piece of chicken off the bone and touched her toes to Mabel's. "You want to be mom. But you can't be. No one could. Just be yourself. You've always been more than enough, Able Mabel."

Blinking moisture from her eyes, Mabel dipped her chin. Was it middle-aged that'd mellowed Y/N, made her better at comfort rather than immediate investigation? Or had Arthur nurtured her heart by giving it a place to rest? Whatever the cause, it was a welcome change.

With the success of her second marriage, however, maybe she could solve a little, too. 

Mabel pushed abandoned grains of rice with her spoon. "I had been looking forward to having more time with Ed."

"Has he gone back to working around the clock?"

"No, no. He's home for dinner every night. But with school projects and potty training and story hour and baseball practice and scouting... Sometimes I forget what it's like to be a wife." A sip of coke as she checked on Ashley. The girl continued to ride in circles. "You love being a wife," Mabel continued. "What's the longest you and Arthur have gone without...you know."

Y/N dabbed at her mouth with the corner of her napkin. After a moment, she gave a small shrug. "A month or two?"

Mabel's jaw hung open. "That's it?" It'd been nearly six for she and Ed. Their last attempt had been cut short by Ruthie's knock on their bedroom door to ask for water - just as her underwire had been unhooked. They'd left a glass on her nightstand every night thereafter. But the spark continued to elude.

"Our lives are quieter," Y/N said, waving the unspoken comparison away. "And you've been married, what, eighteen years? That's much longer than four. Have you talked about this at all with Ed?"

A resigned sigh heaved out of Mabel. "Whenever I start, something comes up."

"It doesn't have to be a long, drawn-out trial. Maybe you can suggest listening to Dr. Sally. Have you heard of her? She's from Gotham and Arthur swears by her. He says she taught him everything he knows. Well, everything he knew before we..." Crimson colored her cheeks, her lips pressed together in a pensive grin. "I don't know if I should tell you, but- Can you keep a secret?"

Mabel grasped the bottom of her chair and hopped it forward. "I love secrets."

"When he and I met, he hadn't been with a woman before. Not like that, anyway."

Nose wrinkled, Mabel tilted her head, her entire face squinting. No, Arthur wasn't her type. But she knew a good man when she met one. And a good looking man when she saw one. "How is that possible?"

Y/N snorted, loud enough to muffle it with the back of her hand. "That was my reaction. It was a lot of pressure; I don't think Arthur realizes that. But I wanted him and loved him and that won out.

"I asked him once if he felt like he'd missed out on anything, having only been with me. He said no, because he's comfortable with me and knows I care about him. Anyway, he gave Dr. Sally full credit for being wonderful. I'm sure the show is syndicated down here."

The twinkle of romance and true love in her sister's eye left Mabel fully convinced. She picked up a crayon and folded the placemat in half. "I'll call the local radio stations."

~~~~~

Meanwhile, Ed and Arthur rode the escalator to the mall's second story. For Ed, it was the only escalator in the county. For Arthur, it was simply a way to get upstairs. 

He trailed his brother-in-law past a soap and scented candle shop, an avalanche of perfume pouring out of the place. A silver engraving shop stood to their left, hawking the likes of picture frames, wedding cake serving sets, and doorknobs. They dodged a group of teenagers who should've been in school to arrive at a glass storefront tucked into the corner.

City Drawers' cursive sign was a thrill in pink neon. Muzak masquerading as jazz sounded through the open entrance. Two mannequins stood in the shop's windows, illuminated by spotlights at their feet. One wore a lace bra and panty set, the other a diaphanous camisole with a cowl neck. A hanging sign announced a sale on Maidenform: Buy one, Get one half off.

Arthur chewed his thumbnail.

Donahue's and L. Ballinger carried styles both he and Y/N liked, without intimidating buckles or oddly placed straps. Specialty shops were expensive. Though he'd happily picture her in every display, going to a boutique bordering on Adults Only made shopping an event he had the wrong ticket to, purchased for a week-old show. 

With a casualness Arthur envied, Ed crossed the black tile threshold, stealing Arthur's chance to back away and backtrack to Hecht's.

Forcing out a breath, he shoved his hands in his pockets. Made the decision to get over himself and stepped into the welcoming peach interior.

Low lighting gave the shop an air of intrigue, flattered the stitching, the promised silhouette of each item. A woman and high school student discussed the finer points of choosing a first bra. ("You don't want it to stick out too much under your sweaters." "Mom!") Cheeks on fire, he turned away from the conversation meant for mothers and daughters to see a husband and wife modeling satin robes. A cashier dressed like a consummate professional, as if she belonged in Y/N's office, told a woman in a puffy coat that underwear was returnable only if unopened.

Ed closed in on a Christmas display to the left, where a scantily clad mannequin wore a Mrs. Claus mob hat. He grabbed a Santa red negligee and gave it a once over. "Think Mabel'd like this?" he asked, thrusting it towards Arthur.

One glance at the faux fur trimmed neckline and it was clear Y/N would hate it. "She'd love it."

Relief palpable in his easy smile, Ed nodded his thanks and headed to the Famous Fragrances cabinet at the rear of the shop.

Arthur slinked along the wall, passing feather boas and garter belts. (The black one with pale pink roses on the hips was an omen to follow when they returned to Gotham City.) A man on the hunt for a gift that wouldn't be embarrassing to give his wife in front of her family. In front of her nephews and nieces.

Forgotten on a bottom shelf under dust and elbow length gloves, he found his trophy.

Knee high wool socks, lilac and knit in a pointelle pattern akin to lace. He took the pair in his grasp, ran his fingertips from cuff to toe. Every past piece of thrift store wool had been a scouring pad on his skin. These were smooth, buttery. He could imagine her calves wrapped up in these subtle cousins to stockings, a long-awaited present under the tree.

A lyric came to mind, an old song he'd gone too long without hearing. Humming a few bars, he sang in his head. You're the starch in my collar, you're the lace in my shoe...

Arthur hurried to the register, but turned back at the last second and stuck the garter belt under his arm.

He placed the socks on the counter, indicated them with his chin. "Can you put those in a box? With a ribbon on it?" He slid the garter across the surface and leaned forward. "And could you please wrap this separately?"

~~~~~

Snug in the tub, Y/N's eyelids fell shut as she massaged almond shampoo into her scalp. The circling slowed as she exhaled contentment. After cramming two major holidays and the preparations for a third into a mere nine days, she'd savor this second to relax. 

The notion twisted the corner of her mouth, a crescent of irony. 

That she'd be able to relax here at all would've been laughable before, when shadows had lurked in every corner and out in the open to confront her with what she'd lost. Arthur's compassion and Mabel's letting the subject of their parents alone now allowed Y/N to cope on her own terms. 

The adjoining guestroom wasn't simply her father's former office, where she'd been forced to accept the gravity of Henry's diagnosis. It was also a bedroom where she could rest at the end of the day. The bathroom was more than an old examination room, forest green and warm, where her father had crowned his four-year-old daughter with a head mirror and tested her reflexes. It was a place unwind. To cleanse her skin and her heart. Twin threads of past and present that entwined themselves into a semblance of peace.

Locks rinsed and detangled, she swiped her hair back and reached for her wet-dry electric razor.

A light tap tap rapped at the door.

She'd recognize her husband's Excuse Me knock anywhere. But with a full house, doublechecking was safer. "Who is it?"

"It's Arthur."

At her instant invitation, he slid through the door. He'd donned his maroon sweater - as he had every day since she'd told him he'd look gorgeous in it.

She'd been right.

He tucked a stray curl behind his ear and turned towards the toilet. "Sorry, the other bathroom's busy. I'll be quick." He lifted the cover and seat and unzipped his trousers. 

Razor perpendicular to her shin, she started to drag it in a straight line to her knee. 

It sputtered like an old engine, gaining and losing speed in an attempt to complete its mission. She hit the bottom with the heel of her hand. Flipped the switch off and back on. A pathetic whirr, which slowed to a worrying grind. Then a final, sad stop.

With a huff, she set it on the tub's corner shelf. "I should've charged this before we left."

He shook himself off, cocked his head her way. "Maybe Mabel has one? I can go check."

"You don't have to bother."

Arthur waved her off, insisted it wasn't one at all. He rinsed his hands and stepped out. Grin tight enough to pinch, she scrubbed at her armpits and breasts. Noted a hair by her aerola she'd have to pluck later. The washcloth slid across her stomach, the feminine swell of her abdomen. A quick dip between her legs.

The door swung ajar. Extending his palm with a flourish, Arthur beamed down at her.

Eyes wide, the entirety of her attention shot to the Pink Daisy Gillette.

She hadn't used a wet razor for five years, had banished them from the apartment as soon as he'd agreed to move in. Since he'd asked her to keep them away from him. Sure, if a matter was important, she was a risk taker. Being stubble free for one extra day didn't make the cut.

Y/N reached to take it from him. A bit too fast. "Thank you."

"Actually, I-" He held the forbidden object in front of his chest, twirled it between anxious fingers. "I'd like to do it."

She drew her feet inward. Concern felt silly, an unwelcome heckler. A true intrusion on their intimacy. But given Arthur's history, it made sense. And Dr. Ludlow had agreed keeping razor blades out of the apartment was a good idea.

As if able to read her thoughts, he winced at the floor, a move that felt too close to shame. He spoke with the wounded dignity of the earnest yet disbelieved. "I've been okay for a long time now."

An ache pressed her sternum, for she did indeed believe him. He'd trusted her two years ago, had taken the good with the very, very bad. Shouldn't she be able to trust him? Refrain from making a normal activity - a loving gesture he'd asked for - a crossroads to crisis? 

She pushed the worries from her throat with an ahem. "You're right. I'm sorry."

His handsome visage instantly brightened. 

Loosening her legs, she wrung out her washcloth. "You're going to get all wet."

"I'll dry."

"What about your pants?"

"They come off."

It was said without guile, but she chuckled, anyway. She retrieved the soap. Worked up a good lather. Smoothed suds down her left leg.

His teeth pressed his lower lip in an eager grin. Perching on the rim of the tub, he pushed his sleeves to his elbows. Bent to pluck her towel from the floor and cover his lap. A secure hold on her heel as he pulled her into position.

Gently, he laid the blade a centimeter below her knee and drew it towards him. A glance of a touch.

"A little harder," she said. "Leg hair is stubborn."

"I don't wanna hurt you."

"You won't." She lay in the curved end of the tub. "How old were you when you started to shave?"

"Fourteen, I think." A soft, closed-mouth laugh. "One night, when Penny and her boyfriend were gone? I stole his razor and shaving cream. I must've used half the can." Short scrapes at the front of Y/N's ankle. "I pressed so hard to get through all the foam, I got a burn. It hurt so bad. My mother asked what was wrong with my face. I told her I'd been out in the sun too long - in February."

Giggling, Y/N tossed her head back. "I'm sure you were very convincing. Speaking of which: I have to convince Mabel to tone it down for Christmas."

"Isn't that why she invited us down here?"

"Yes, but she's going to cook herself to death." At Thanksgiving, Y/N hadn't been able to see the table for all the food. What with their household being too small for a full spread, she and Arthur stuck to a chicken or a couple of turkey breasts. "She likes to make a big dinner for Christmas Eve and a breakfast buffet in the morning."

The tip of his tongue darted out to wet his lips. "We could make dinner and breakfast."

Y/N gulped against unbidden images floating to the surface. She hadn't cooked a holiday meal here for eight years, and the last had been an exercise in heartbreak. Mashed up food, saliva on cotton, fear pretending to be revulsion on the faces of her family. Benji's Very Own Christmas Story on TV to tide keep her father calm and an entire bottle of Sanatogen to calm herself. 

Yet, the idea was lovely, a reflection of her husband's generosity and kindness. Putting her baggage on him would be ungenerous and unkind. And, just maybe, it could be an opportunity she wouldn't have taken on her own.

She studied the ripples in the water. Concentrated on the pressure of his fingertips on her skin. Glides of metal and aloe. "Stroganoff?"

"That's special for us." Arthur squeezed the subtle half-moon of her calf.

Fuzzy fluttering fleeted through her, at the squeeze and the us. They decided on glazed ham, a dish her mother had made every year. Y/N made a mental note to peruse the oldBetter Homes & Gardens cookbook, the checkered one with the side pocket. "We can make garlic mashed potatoes, too. If we double the recipe, it'll be enough for eight." Broccoli and cheese casserole would serve as a second side, of which Arthur would claim all the crispy corners. Stuffing out of three boxes. All that was left was dessert.

He shook the razor in the bathwater. "Gingerbread's good."

"I'll add a can of whipped cream to the grocery list."

Pecking the arch of her foot, he scooted along the tub's rim. Angled her leg so that her thigh rested on his. The razor whispered a line within an inch of her groin. Puffs of her breath skimmed her flesh. Her tendons tightened. Her knee jerked against his touch.

He knelt beside the tub to gather water in his hands. Slipped them down her legs. He rinsed her again, his expression melting into satisfaction. "You're beautiful," he said, palm sliding to her hip. His green gaze dropped to her mouth, his caress now a firm grip.

Then his lips seized hers.

A startled gasp jolted her. 

What Arthur had just done was romantic. Wonderful. An act out of a shared fantasy. If they'd been anywhere else, a delicious weight would've warmed her belly. But that old forest green seeped in at the edges of her mind's eye, pulled the thread of past askew. Now that weight felt like a bowling ball.

She broke off the kiss. Embarrassed whispers between bottled breaths. "Arthur, I-" Her fingers curled, a loose fist by his cheek. "I can't. Not here."

Drops fell from his wrist to her sternum. Charted paths to the notch at the base of her throat. Silence weighed down on her, a whole league's worth of bowling balls.

Swallowing, she raised her eyes to meet his. 

When they did, understanding softened his brow. His voice was low, soft. A comfort as powerful as present thread. "It's okay." He retreated to sit on his heels and dry his hands, chestnut waves falling to frame his sculpted cheeks. He stood and bent to peck the top of her head. "You better do that other leg yourself." With that, he turned to leave.

She scrambled to sit up. "Arthur?"

Hand on the doorknob, he looked back at her.

"I love you," she said.

Dimples deepening, he bestowed a shy, radiant smile. "I know."

~~~~~

Mabel placed the Santa mug with the candy cane handle on the windowsill to finish trimming the tree. It was situated by the front window, about a yard from the guestroom. Ed and Jason had disappeared to the basement to search for decorations. One of Ruthie's favorite records played, John Denver and the Muppets' A Christmas Together. 

Arthur knelt beside Mabel. On the opposite side of the living room, Y/N and the three youngest children worked on paper snowflakes in the play corner. Few words had passed between them, but the quiet was the kind that belonged to old marrieds who were confident in their choice of each other. Irritated, in love, invested. There'd be no running to the watering hole today.

Nevertheless, Mabel sought to gladden the place. Trimming the tree was one of her favorite rituals, right up there with reading The Night Before Christmas and stuffing stockings. There was no way she'd allow grumpiness to gel into gloom.

Digging through a popcorn tin overflowing with ornaments, each wrapped carefully in a sandwich bag, she said, "Don't be surprised if the munchkins are knocking on your door at five tomorrow." 

"That's okay. I don't let Y/N sleep in on Christmas." He hung a stained-glass rocking horse on a middle branch of the artificial tree. "You know, she still has the cookie you made her when you were kids. In the toy oven."

"Does she really?" 

"She hangs it up every year."

Mabel retrieved another satin bauble, this one from the Keepsake series of ornaments. "Holidays are happy when friends are together" it declared. The phrase brought a pleasant smile to her face and a quickening to her heart. 

Y/N's offer to give her a break by preparing Christmas dinner had been a surprise, a true act of affection Mabel had to accept. But when Y/N had said she was going to prepare everything herself, Arthur's brow furrowed into one thick caterpillar. It was an obvious deviation from how this conversation was supposed to go. 

Familiar with how hard it was on him to feel shut out, Mabel rescued Arthur from his skepticism with an invitation to make dessert. Dessert wasn't technically a part of dinner and therefore fair game. Though she'd planned on chocolate and pecan pinwheels, they settled on gingerbread cookies and spent the morning rolling dough and downing coffee. 

During their third round of cookie cutting, she'd said, "These are perfect. Have you made them before?" 

"Penny had a gingerbread recipe on the wall in the kitchen," he'd said. Another drummer boy emerged from the brown dough. "I can't remember making it, but I know I dropped a bag of flour. She smeared it on our faces and told me, 'Every real cook has flour on his cheeks.'"

Mabel's laugh had dissolved into a wistful sigh. From what Y/N had shared, discussions about his childhood were rare and memories that made him smile even rarer. With a sprinkle of flour on both their noses, they'd put the cookie sheet on the middle oven rack and set the timer.

Miss Piggy's shrill plea for five golden rings cut through the recollection. Eyelid twitching, Mabel straightened the hanger of a Baby's First Christmas ceramic bootie and called to her sister. "Remember when we were kids, and we'd sing along to the radio?"

With a nod, Y/N folded white construction paper into a triangle. "And at the Silver Spur." She sang softly, a relief from the record's caterwauling. "Country road, take me home to the place I belong-"

"Gotham City," Mabel joined in. "Jersey highway."

The twitch teasing Arthur's chin defied the set of his jaw.

"When you put it like that, you almost make it sound romantic," Y/N said. 

Just then, Ed thudded into the room, lugging a box of plastic garland. Haphazard leaves and berries sprouted from the cardboard box. Nose buried in an LCD hockey game, Jason followed close behind. Ed asked, "Hey, do you do any Christmas standup shows?"

"One or two at the usual clubs." Arthur stood to toss handfuls of Brite Star tinsel at the tree. "How did the wife get her husband to go to the office party?"

"Jason, put that away and help me with this." Ed plunked the box to the carpet with a groan. "I don't know. How?"

"By telling him, 'yule love it.'" An elongated u for pun's sake.

Stifling a giggle, Mabel shook her head. His jokes hadn't gotten much better, but his ability to make her smile won her over. 

"And it always works."Y/N extricated herself from scraps of paper, then checked her watch. "I better start dinner," she said, and excused herself from the room.

In her peripheral vision, Mabel caught Arthur's rapid blink. His posture threatened to deflate like an old tire. "I thought she was doing better this time," he mumbled.

"She is, Arthur. She is." In the manner of a mother assigning a sullen son the most important task - as her own mother had done for her after Y/N had moved out - Mabel patted his shoulder. "If you could find the tree topper, that'd be a big help."

~~~~~

Arms folded across his chest, Arthur braced himself on the doorframe, careful to keep his toes on the foyer side of the floor's transition strip and off the kitchen linoleum.

The side of Y/N's hand smoothed a crimson tablecloth over the oblong dining table. She laid a plastic wreath in the middle, completed the centerpiece with three ivory candles inside the ring. She retrieved eight quilted placemats featuring Christmas geese from the drawer to the left of the stove and pulled cloth napkins from the cupboard to the right. She knew where everything was without asking. As if she'd left here yesterday.

When he'd suggested making dinner, bumming around while Y/N roleplayed 1978 wasn't what he'd had in mind. Standing by like an extra as she measured brown sugar and honey. Loitering while she shoved broccoli in Corning Ware and sprinkled it with cheese.

Given that it didn't quite fit her bustline, the velveteen, emerald halter dress she wore must've been borrowed from Mabel. Y/N's hair was feathered in the usual manner, but with extra body that meant she'd used mousse and a curling iron. Earth tone makeup highlighted her natural prettiness, save for the red stain on her lips. Poinsettias dangled from her ears, a Beauty Boutique original. 

She opened a panel cabinet over the sink, then grabbed a stepstool to peek inside. Kitten-heeled foot extended behind her, she retrieved a stack of plates. Her shoe threatened to fall to the floor. When she teetered, he offered to steady her. But she declined. Descended backwards step by step. Put the plates on the counter with a soft but unwavering "I've got it."

His cheek ached from gnawing. Out of respect for her, he hadn't argued in front of her sister. But doing this as a couple - as a family - had been what he'd craved.

So he slid across the linoleum to inspect the plates. Trace his thumb over the cheery holly motif along the edges.

She whisked the dishes away. "I'll light the candles when the food is done," she said, a hitch in her voice she failed to hide.

He half-turned to her. Noted the upward draw of her shoulders, elbows tight at her sides. She set matching tumblers at the two o'clock positions by each plate. He longed to fold the cloth napkins. He longed to take out the cutlery.

He longed to pry.

Lips pressed to a sore line, he recalled their fight when he'd cornered her in the shower, one of the worst arguments they'd ever had. He was loathe to follow that road again. Instead, he grabbed a cooking spoon, stirred the mashed potatoes, and searched for compromise. 

Before he could err, she crossed to stand two feet from him. Leaning back against the counter, she gripped the Formica edge with both hands. Her fingers went white.

"When I lived here," she started. "I did all the Christmas decorating and cooking. I loved it. It was a day I could pretend my life was normal, just for an hour or two. Mabel and Ed would bring the kids. We'd drink cocoa and open gifts and have a little fun. Except that last year."

Arthur's stirring slowed, every fiber waiting with want for all of it. All of her.

"I wanted to keep my spirit up or touch my dad in some way." A familiar, familial word she never used. It was always father. "But the harder I tried, the worse it was. He wouldn't eat and wouldn't stop crying. When I washed him, he tried to push me away, but he was too weak - his arms were matchsticks. He must've been scared - he wasn't really with it by then. And he scared Mabel and the kids and..."

Lashing fluttering, she sucked her teeth. "The man who'd nurtured me, who'd loved me, wasn't there anymore. He was possessed by a stranger I didn't want to know. And being here - having to stay in this house - was like trying to live inside a ghost."

In spite of the watery tenor of her voice, she offered Arthur a tremulous smile. "Tonight it doesn't feel so haunted." 

An anxious dam gave way, crumbling to flood love through his frame. He understood, then. Doing all this by herself standing here alone, was a ritual to exorcise her past. He reached for her wrist, pulled her to his side with one arm. When she put her head on his shoulder, he dropped the cooking spoon into the goopy mass. 

Her palms pressed his back. "I'm happy to be able to share this part of me now." 

"Me, too. I mean, I'm happy you shared it with me, too." He buried his face in her hair, let out a huff equal parts support and relief. "I want you to share everything."

Seconds of silence before her lips made a smacking sound on her teeth, and he knew she was grinning.

Ever the woman to push down her feelings a tad too quickly (except for love; thank whatever was listening there was always love), she stepped out his arms, wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. The crockpot let out an air raid warning of a beep.

She took a box of matches from the corner of the windowsill above the sink and pressed it into his palm. Offered a luminous look and invited him into her past. "You light the candles and I'll serve."

~~~~~

Blue wrapping paper with silver bells and holly. Little bears wishing little ones Merry Christmas on pine green. Gold and red foil interweaving in an intricate scroll. The four-by-four space under the tree contained enough color and excitement to fill a North Pole workshop.

Hair tugged into a haphazard ponytail and replete in fuzzy slippers, Mabel dropped onto a chair next to Ed and attempted to squint away her dull headache. The adults had stayed up until 1:00 AM last night, wrapping boxes, drinking cocoa, and carrying on. After dinner, Arthur had nibbled at the gingerbread cookies until he'd had to take two Tums - then surprised everyone by claiming the last slice of Thanksgiving's pumpkin pie.

Clad in their lazy morning best, Arthur and Y/N sat hip to hip in front of the tree. She'd yanked on the lavender socks with the enthusiasm of having found a long-lost treasure. He munched on the macadamia nuts Mabel had thought would make a lame gift, but Y/N had insisted he'd love. The cowhide wallet she'd given him lay open on his lap, the card slot's gold leaf letters reading "A + S" followed by a heart on display. Cheesy. Seemingly out of character for Big Sis. But she glowed whenever she talked about him. She'd gotten starry eyed about Jeff but never glowed. 

Once she'd unwrapped Mabel's present to her, she held it in both hands but hesitated to open it. The photo album risked melancholy, but Mabel hoped Y/N would be able to find joy, too. 

"Those are photos of us," Mabel assured her. At that, Y/N lifted the front cover. The first was a black and white featuring four year old Y/N cross-legged on the floor, the new baby in her arms, a big grin on her face. "I took the best pictures from all of mom and dad's photo albums. They start from when we were little and go until our visit last year. And there are blank pages for more." 

Hugging the album to her chest, Y/N made a promise. "There'll be more. A lot more."

Ruthie helped Ashley put one of her Wuzzles reading cassettes in her Fisher Price tape player, while Ashley patted Ruthie's jewelry box's quilted surface as if it were a cat. Jason let Brian try out his new baseball mitt, and Brian put his feet on the coffee table and flipped through his Experiments in Ecology book. 

Ed's morning breath stank of garlic from gourmet pickles. Already wearing his new Casio calculator watch, he flipped through the manual of the AT&T cordless phone, a gift Mabel hoped meant Y/N wanted more phone calls. The Thai script on the curry pastes was something Mabel had never seen before, but Y/N promised that if she could cook with them, anyone could figure it out. ("Just add vegetables and chicken and you're good.")

When Mabel unwrapped the present from her hubby, she recognized the logo as soon as she glimpsed the outline of a petal. She'd kept the box shut. Warmth enveloped her. He'd made her feel beautiful again, in that special way she'd reminisced. In the way that belonged to them. 

No matter what she'd confided in the mall, the moments she struggled were worth it. Still there, still hard. But she'd do her best to follow her sister's advice. Make sure to enjoy herself as a mother, a wife, and herself. 

And Dr. Sally would remain on-call.

Mabel called Ruthie to her side and spoke in her ear. Loud enough for all to hear but quiet enough to make the girl feel special. "Can you and your brothers set the table?" 

Ruthie nodded and skipped her way to the foyer. When the boys remained glued to the sofa, Ed rose with a Come On, Sons gesture. Arthur plucked a candy cane from tree, then plucked Ashley from the carpet and carried her to the kitchen.

Mabel grabbed a purple bow from the carpet, winced as she straightened, a barbel rolling from her forehead to her neck. "The next time you suggest spiking a drink, remind me to say no."

Anchoring herself on the coffee table, Y/N moved to stand. "I'll put on an extra pot of coffee." She gathered strewn wrapping paper and ribbon and crumpled them into a ball. "Make sure you take it easy when Thanksgiving and Christmas roll around."

"Ed's parents are hosting," Mabel said, and waved off her concern. With his sister stuck in Michigan this year, it'd be a smaller gathering. With his big brother around, Ed would regress to being the youngest as soon as he smelled a pie in the oven.

Arms overflowing, they padded towards the kitchen. But they lingered halfway there to bask in the magic of Not Quite Christmas. 

Ed worked around the kids, handing them plates, directing where to put them. Arthur retrieved a mixing bowl and frying pan in preparation for cinnamon French Toast, a tradition he'd brought from the Fleck household. While Ed searched the cupboards, Arthur crouched beside Ashley, who laughed at her uncle between rounds of peek-a-boo.

"You made this visit beautiful, Mabel. Mom would be proud of you." Y/N freed up an arm and hugged her at the waist. Spoke the words Mabel had longed to hear for the better part of a decade. The words that made the wheels of self-forgiveness run ten times faster. "After all these years, I think we both found what we've been looking for."

Elated, Mabel dropped the paper to the floor. "I know I have." She seized Y/N about the middle, hard enough to lift her to her toes. "I know we have."

~~~~~

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[ink-sinner]

pressed sunlight

— cinnabar x chief

genre : hurt/comfort

warnings : none

wordcount : 2,037

summary : trapped in frozen time, there's no beginning nor end, no distinction between her and your trembling body; she holds you tightly, and listens to your muffled cries until the rain has washed away your pain and everything else.

Your room sits on the far edge of the east wing, just far enough from everything else that rarely anyone comes here except you. It’s perfect for privacy, a little something for when you’d like to take some time for yourself alone, but, walking to your room, Cinnabar can’t help but feel like this place is too lonely for someone like you.

Outside, grey clouds gather ominously. She stops in front of your door, and knocks. “Chief? It’s me, Cinnabar.”

A beat passes, too long delayed, and then a quiet, “come in” rings out. Cinnabar pushes the door open.

Your room . . . is surprisingly dark.

When she thinks of you, Cinnabar inevitably thinks of bright things. The golden fairy lights hung over the walls of your office, miss Hecate’s crayon drawings framed tenderly at the center; your office was messy and homely, filled with random souvenirs and memories and the sound of laughter spilling carelessly through your open door. It was rare to not see you hanging out with Sinners even as you worked, and though passing, the sight of your smile as you talked with your inmates is enough to pull a fond smile from Cinnabar’s lips as she walks past.

But your room is dark, thrown in the shades, and despite being your private quarters, there is a sense of being untouched, brand new. There are barely any decorations here, just the bare necessities – Cinnabar could take you out of the room, and it would feel as if no one had been living here all this time.

But you’re there, slumped by your closet door. Your clothes lay in a mess around you, and the plastic surfaces of the hangers catch the lightning flashes that tear up the sky outside. Thunder rumbles lowly, and the clouds are heavy with rain like an overfilled dam, just barely enough that it doesn’t fall. Not yet. The sounds of impending rain scratch the quiet.

“Chief?” she asks. You tilt your head. “Are you . . . okay?”

Your eyes are set to the distance. It is blocked by the cramped, empty walls, but you look as if staring past it all. Cinnabar traces your gaze, but she can’t see past the grey wall and your lonely shadow.

“Did something happen?” you ask instead.

She shakes her head. “No, nothing unusual happened. But Adjutant Nightingale was worried because you were running late, so she sent me to check up on you . . .”

You hum. The thunder drowns it out. “Tell her I’ll be there in a bit.”

And that was it. “Okay,” she says. “I will.”

But her feet are rooted on the ground, unwilling to leave despite the clear dismissal. Maybe it’s because the weather is so gloomy, and the faint nightlight in the corner can barely stave away the shadows, or maybe it’s because she is too used to the golden fairy lights and the picture of you smiling. There is obviously something wrong, and it doesn’t feel right to just leave you alone.

So she steps in hesitantly, and holds her breath, waiting for you to snap at her to leave. But you don’t – you barely seem to notice her there, and Cinnabar can’t decide if it would be better if you had asked her to leave instead.

“Chief,” she says again, and in the dreary room, her voice feels as if echoing for miles beyond. The wind whistles in and draws the windows wide open until they are rattling in their hinges, moments away from breaking apart and crumbling to dust. “Is there anything I could help you with?”

You hum thoughtfully, and go to shake your head. And then, as if changing your mind, you sigh, and tilt your head to the side. “Come in. Close the door behind you.”

She obliges, and the closing door steals the artificial light from the fluorescent lights in the hallway. Like this, she can barely see the outlines of your furniture, and she stumbles on her way to your side.

It’s quiet. She settles beside you, and waits.

“Cinnabar.” She looks up, but you are still staring at that invisible, unreachable distance. Your chin against your arms, your knees tucked tightly to your chest, you look so small. You sigh. “You ever just . . . feel tired, all of a sudden?”

Her gaze rolls to the side, following the grain of the wooden floorboard with her fingers. “Of course. It happens to everyone.”

“Really? Even you?”

“Even me,” she confirms.

You laugh shortly, a soft little thing that gets blown by the wind. You shiver, and Cinnabar takes off her jacket and lays it on your shoulders. “You always seem so energetic, though. I rarely see you take breaks even though you work so hard.”

She bows her head, embarrassed. “I do take breaks, chief. Everyone needs one every now and then.”

“Really,” you hum, and trail it off there. In the ensuing silence, your fingers tickle an idle beat against the floor.

Cinnabar tips her head back, and watches the lightning reflection play on your ceiling.

“I'm tired,” you say, and the weight in your voice draws Cinnabar’s gaze back to you. Set against the pale light, your visage is wrapped in shadow, and the hollow of your cheeks looked as if carved out into a skeleton’s cheek. You sighed, and smiled faintly. “It's silly, though, isn’t it? I haven’t really done anything, but I'm still tired, for some reason.”

“If you're tired, please rest.” Her hands ache to reach out. But even nearby, you somehow feel far away. “You've been working so hard, you deserve it. And . . . please don’t shoulder all the burden on your own. Plenty of people would gladly help you if you asked, chief.”

You continue, as if unhearing. “Lately, all I've been doing is processing documents. I haven’t really done anything to warrant feeling tired. So why . . .?”

Like thunder rumbling, your words spill out, stumbling on one another, shaking with each passing second. You bury yourself in your arms and grief, and Cinnabar wants to sit closer, share her warmth, hold your hand and tell you to please go rest, let everyone take care of it, you will be okay, but it was clear you needed someone who would listen first, so she bites her lips, and listens.

“Isn’t it unfair?” You ask, but you may as well be talking to thin air.  You laugh. “I've done nothing but sit on my ass all day for the past months, and I have the gall to complain to you about being tired. I’ve sent you on what, four dispatch missions this week? You’re probably annoyed at me already.”

“I'm not annoyed!” She says, and breathes out slowly. “I'm not annoyed,” she says again, softer, and tilts her head to try and catch your gaze. “Never. Not with you.”

Your lips tilt in a half smile, crooked and jagged at the edges. “I know. I’m saying you should be.”

You hold your tears with the rain.

Thunder rumbles along your stifled veins, lightning flashes with your fluttering lashes. You could be a painting of the gloomy sky, smudged in between the rolling clouds, where precipitation gathers but never falls. Cinnabar has never seen you so fragile before, but she has also never seen the sky so torn before.

“Chief . . .” She says, and stops helplessly. You dangle on a precipice, and she wants to reach out, but she's never really been good at things like this. At snake eye, if you were upset, you would just drown it all in alcohol. Drown it all in work.

But it's different here. Everything's so different here, and Cinnabar has never felt more out of her depth than right here, right now.

You heave a deep sigh, and finally turn your head to smile at her. You pat her head. “It's okay. Thanks for your concern. Just tell Nightingale I'll be there in a few, okay?”

“Okay,” she says again, but it still doesn't feel right to leave.

You smile to yourself, watching her bluster and hesitate before you. Even now, it rings hollow, like something not quite right. There's something missing. Your image in your office, surrounded by golden halo; your image in your room, rain overfilled and ready to spill.

“You're a good person, Cinnabar,” you say. “Thank you.”

“It's no problem at all,” but that's not what she wants to say, but the words she wants to say won't form into a shape she can understand at all. She still stays, and your eyes are still on her. That worn out smile has already faded.

No, she can't go.

Lightning crackles in the distance. The open window rattles. Cinnabar takes a deep breath, and bites her lip anxiously.

“Chief,” she says cautiously. “Can I . . . May I hug you?”

It isn't what she wants to say either, but it's close enough. Close enough. Your eyes look up at her, and fall back down to stare at the floor, and your silence stretches on between two horizons that Cinnabar starts to wonder if she had crossed a line with her request.

Then,

“Okay,” and you say it on a shaky breath, barely loud enough to be heard over the rattling windows. The wind has already stolen every bit of warmth from the room, and now, it nips at your skin, biting off what little heat has gathered under Cinnabar's jacket on your shoulders. You huddle closer. “Please.”

So she holds you, wraps her arms around your frail shoulders. You have always been smaller than her muscled frame, but you seem even more breakable now, like if she held you tight, you would shatter like glass in her hands. So she holds you like expecting you to run away.

But it's not enough, not nearly enough, and you throw your arms around her neck tightly, pressing your weight against hers. The sudden force pushes her back, and Cinnabar gasps, trapped between the cold floor and your warm body.

“Chief?” Her hand rests on the back of your head, and she tips her head to look down at you, but you hide your face on the crook of her shoulder. “Are you okay? I'm sorry, let me get up . . .”

But you only tighten your arms around her neck, refusing to move. Cinnabar breathes out.

“Chief?” She can feel your hum vibrate against her skin. “are you all right like this?”

A weak nod. Cinnabar sighs, and holds you tighter.

“Then, let's stay like this for a while.” Her voice mellows into a slight whisper, trailing off and beckoning the silence to descend in between distant wails of thunder. Your breath gradually falls into disorder as she brushes your hair back, but Cinnabar only stares at the ceiling, helpless, and presses her cheek against the top of your head.

Rain falls, like ticking seconds.

It drowns out your weak sobs, knocking on the glass pane, pit-pattering like singing out a discordant rhythm along with the wind. The world outside fogs up, ceases to exist among the mist and vague flashes in between raindrops, and all Cinnabar can do is hold you tight and hide you from the chilling cold.

She doesn't really know if she's helping you or not. If she's just intruding on what was supposed to be your private time. But,

It was like this back then, too, except the roles were reversed, and Cinnabar was the one crying while you held her in your arms. You were warm and steady, patiently humming a wordless lullaby that soothed her until all that remained of her pain were muffled sniffles and her swollen eyes.

Even if she can't do much. Even if it's just a little bit. At the very least, Cinnabar hopes she can return some of that warmth back to your cold skin.

It's unbearably cold here. But it will warm, in time.

But for now, the pit-pattering sound of the rain is hypnotic, and she loses track of time, tangled with you like this. Trapped in frozen time, there's no beginning nor end, no distinction between her and your trembling body; she holds you tightly, and listens to your muffled cries until the rain has washed away your pain and everything else.

[winghangers]

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[prismatica-the-strange]

Lost my Fear of Flying

Warnings: 18+... None(?), I go into a lot of detail about a dress that doesn't exist

Edward has no qualms about spoiling his queen to be, whether it be with pretty dresses or even prettier words.

Song: Parachute by James Durbin

She's not used to it. The expensive gowns, the extravagant decor, the castle staff, completely committed to waiting on her hand and foot.

No, Cas is out of her element and absolutely terrified to touch anything.

She sits on the bed in a silk robe, staring helplessly into the T.A.R.D.I.S.-like closet full of far too expensive looking dresses.

She'd politely sent the maids away, feeling awkward under their attention, but now she doesn't know what to do. Sure, she could manage to get one on if she tried but that's just it, she's afraid to try.

What if she ruins one?

She's briefly pulled from her thoughts by a knock at the door.

"Cassandra, my love? You didn't come down for breakfast, are you alright?" Edward asks.

"Oh, I- I'm fine!"

It's quiet for a moment, "May I come in?"

"Um, yes?" Her voice is unsure, but he doesn't notice.

"If you'd like, I can have one of the servers bring you something here- you're not dressed."

Her eyes drop to the floor, sudden anxiety eating at her.

"My dear, are you sure you're not ill?" He hurries to her side and takes her hand, "I can call you a doctor."

"No, no I'm fine I just... It's just a lot for me," she plays with his hands and motions back at the David's Bridal in the next room, "All of this."

He let's go of her hand to curl his finger under her chin and raise her gaze back to him.

"Tell me how I can help."

She hesitates for a moment, "Help me pick out something to wear?"

"Is that all?" He smiles, not teasingly, but happy that he can actually help with, "Any dress should be honored to have you wearing it, come with me."

He pulls her to her feet and steps into the closet that is nearly bigger than her studio apartment back in New York.

"What would you prefer to wear?" He asks as he pushes different fabrics aside, "Something like this?"

He holds out a silver gown that shimmers from top to bottom with countless crystals and far too many layers of tulle to be comfortable for daily wear.

She giggles and he frowns, "Do you not like it?"

"It's beautiful, but, maybe something a little more... simple?" She suggests, "Not only does look more expensive that my car, but I would be a walking disco ball, blinding everyone as I walk by."

"Simple... simple..." he mutters to himself as he haphazardly rummages through the dresses, "This one!"

He rips the hanger from the rack and shows off a pale pink gown.

"The color would really bring out your eyes," He grins.

He steps her in front of a mirror and holds it to her body, looking utterly gleeful to be helping her.

"Are... are you sure it's okay I wear this?"

He looks at her, head cocked like a confused puppy, "Of course, my love, it was made for you after all."

He waits until she takes it from him and presses it to her chest, playing with the skirt in her reflection.

"Shall I call a handmaiden to help you dress?"

She looks up at him through the mirror, cheeks warm as she nods.

Once she's properly fitted in it, she realizes how well the bodice is fitted to her, how the soft, blush colored satin complements her complexion. And her eyes have never looked bluer.

She's enamored by the simple tulle overlay and sleeves, the ends of which and queen anne neckline are lined with little lace honeybee appliques.

She let's out a small squeal when she spins and the dress flutters around her.

As soon as Edward sees her walking towards him across the throne room, he's completely awestruck.

Her white oxford heels click against the stone floor and the long trumpet sleeves flow elegantly behind her like wings. Her hair, curled at the ends, bounces with every step.

Whatever conversation he had been having a moment ago is gone from his head as he strides over to meet her.

His arms encircle her waist as soon as she's in reach, spinning them in vortex of tulle and glitter.

He sighs happily when she kisses his nose before he sets her down.

"I knew you would look divine in this," He takes her hand and raises his arm to give her one last twirl before pulling her close, "But words fail to describe how beautiful you truly are."

She runs her fingers through his hair, hand settling on his cheek as she raises to her toes to kiss him.

He's somehow smiling wider when she pulls away.

"We should be dancing. There should be music!" He exclaims and as if by magic, the faint sound of strings begins to fade in, "Shall we dance the night away, dear Cassandra."

"It's still morning, Edward" she teases.

"Then we shall dance the day away as well!" He laughs, falling in step with the romantic melody surrounding them, guiding her with him by hand and hip.

[darkcrowprincess]

Lunter Halloween 🎃(I know it's late. But still hope you love it)

Baby Leo sees his father and smiles up at him. Little pudgy baby hands making grabbing motions from his crib. His undeniable signal that he wants to be picked up. And if he isn't picked up soon you are very evil or Belos.

"Why is my son dressed up as a human fruit?" Hunter comments as he picks up baby Leo.

He is in fact in a soft orange and green Halloween costume. A jack'o lantern smile on the front of said costume that goes well with Leo's smile. Completely toothless except for two tiny baby teeth on top. When he smiles he has a gap just like his dad.

"A pumpkin Hunter. He's dressed up as a cute little pumpkin." Luz says sweetly as she comes out of their closet. Dressed up in a costume too. For a moment Hunter is stunned by her costume and her over all beauty. All dressed in a sleeveless white dress with delicate angel wings on her back. Her long dark curls held back from her face with a hair clip.

For a while he just stares at her. Dazzled.

"Yoo Hoo, Hunter? My eyes are up here Mi Cazador."

Hunter blinks at that, tuning back into what's being said to him. Baby Leo still securely in his arms, babbling 'da da."

Hunter smiles, a deeply in love look on his face, "You look angelic." Luz blushes, the pretty red staining her cheeks. She grins. Happiness a beautiful glow on her.

"So what am I wearing?"

Luz smirks at that. Mischief flashing in her eyes. She goes back into the closet to take out another costume.

"Well I thought since this is last minute, and I know you hate Halloween." Luz comes back out with a simple leather pants and jacket on a hanger. Dark sunglasses and a black t-shirt in the other hand.

Hunter groans at this, causing baby Leo to giggle. "Really?" Luz nods, and bites her lip to hide her smile. 'The things he does for love.' Thought Hunter. Hunter nods a yes. Luz squeals in delight. Goes to hug him and leo. Kisses his cheek in thanks. "Thank you Hunter. I know you hate Halloween. But it's Leo's first Halloween."

"It's not that I hate Halloween. It's just, we don't exactly have a good track record for good Halloweens. Belos, both are break ups with Willow and Amity each being on Halloween. Finding out about this little accident on Halloween." They both look down at Leo who babbles back up at them. "Well that last one wasn't so bad eventually. Even if the timing and early birth was hell of terrifying," Luz tells Hunter to reassure him. She cups his scarred cheek. They both look at each other. "Hey look, today is going to be amazing, you want to know why?"

"Why?" Asks Hunter, knowing Luz it will be something sweet and positive. Which usually uplifts his mood.

"Because we have each other, we're older and have gotten stronger with are magic, wiser too. With us together nothing really bad could put us down for long. Ok?"

"Ok."

[illneverrecover]

It’s ‘Static Voice’ fan anon again! What I’d maybe like to see:

Taehyung growing his wings back??

Official moving in moment - someone actually asking “will you/can I move in?”

More overly affectionate cosy Tae

Some doofus wanting reader’s healing powers for something stupid like a hangover and our angel & demon duo kicking him out?

(Because I’ve reread it several times I’ve spent some time daydreaming about this story 😅) sending love! ❤️

So, maybe this ask sparked several ideas, which somehow became an outline, which from there became a series. And perhaps I just finished writing and editing the second installment of that series today, with the goal of posting it tomorrow.

If that were the case, would you be interested in a snippet?

“Does this need a hanger, or am I supposed to fold this?” 

Taehyung holds the garment pinched between his fingers, eyes peering up to meet yours. It’s a black silky dress, mostly held together with string and a prayer, and you know for a fact it was something you hadn’t worn recently - let alone put in the wash. 

Heat creeps up your neck, and you fight the embarrassing urge to rip the fabric out of his hands and throw it out the window. The demon blinks at you with wide blue eyes, and you wonder not for the first time if he’s fucking with you. 

The other thing about Taehyung is that he’s impossible to read. His ability to go from the aloof affectionate demon who cuddles with your cat to the flirty winky man who drops innuendos in your kitchen leaves your head spinning. Worst of all - at least, to you - is that nothing has happened since that night at your place four weeks ago. Other than a few lingering glances that leave you questioning, Taehyung has made no more comments about his desires, which you try not to think about. Even if it’s driving you crazy. 

“That needs a hanger - though I have no idea how that ended up with the laundry, I haven’t worn it in ages.”

It was something you had purchased on a spontaneous whim, back when you had first become Fallen. It had made you feel sexy, powerful; and you had nowhere to wear it, so it had lived its life mostly stuffed in the back of your closet. 

“Oh, I put it there,” Taehyung says, nonchalantly, as if he’s discussing the weather. “I was going through your closet to see if there were some things you could donate to that shifter that you healed two nights ago and found it crumpled on the floor. It was too beautiful to leave in that condition.”

Fighting the urge to sigh, you instead fix him with a glare. 

“Oh? So you were aware it needed a hanger,” you grumble, though there’s no heat in your tone. “And what am I supposed to do with it now? It’s not very practical to wear for healing,” scoffing, you nod towards the dress. 

“I disagree,” Taehyung sniffs, placing the garment on the hanger before laying it down on the bed delicately, smoothing it over with a palm. “I think the sight of you in that dress could be healing in more ways than you could imagine.” 

Suddenly, the air in the room was stifling and you forget how words work, instead just blankly staring at the demon on your bed. He looks up at you, the slightest hint of a smirk pulling at his lips, and before you can formulate a response, a loud sound interrupts from the other room. 

The full thing will be posted sometime this weekend when I have more brain cells, most likely tomorrow. Shout out again to Static Voice Anon - I can't wait for you to read the whole thing and to see what you think! 😘

[chronal-anomaly]

💔: What’s something they can’t look at or think about for too long without getting emotional?

Tumblr ate my memes || Not accepting

This one is easy - flying, and anything to do with it. Planes, helicopters, even walking by the hangers are difficult to her. Anything that reminded of her flying, including old uniforms and the special winged pins she's earned over the years, are all ignored because they will make her emotional. Sometimes, looking up into the very sky will produce that pit in her stomach, the churning dread and the bile of a woman that, in a way, lost everything again, and again.

It does improve over the years. When she's initially free of the isolation chamber, it's impossible to look at anything to do with life beforehand. Pictures, uniforms, posters, and pretty much everything around her small Overwatch room was shoved unceremoniously - and sometimes violently - into a trunk kept bundled in a dark corner of her closet. Gradually, things began to come out - an old wool blanket given to her by a friend at the flight academy as winter crept in, her half of her Overwatch wings that she keeps on her now as a lucky charm, pictures of friends and family. Gradually, it was pulled out, dusted off and set up in her room, making it feel like home again.

A similar progression occurred with the act of flying itself. At first, even the thought was laden with flashbacks and panic attacks, brought on by even the sight of aviation. Planes overhead made her heart race and sweat break out on her brow. But Lena was determined to get better; it was some of the few therapists she actually saw, the exposure therapists that would push her, everyday, closer and closer to the success she craved. Of course, there were positives and negatives, days ended in disaster and thrilling successes - "I sat in the simulator chair today; and managed to turn it on!"

It was her life, her peace, her stability, for a long time. And it was torn from her so violently, a piece of her very soul shredded from itself and pulled into the ether. All in the pursuit of time travel, of science, of the constant search for something beyond the feeble understanding of the cosmos.

[captainsimagines]

hunting the fates || two

Summary: When the repercussions of giving up your Immortality come back to haunt you, a journey to Hell seems to be the only solution. With the help of your friends, both old and new, you set out on a journey to destroy the three Fates who have messed with your life long enough. There you discover that your power extends further than you ever thought possible, as does the Winter Soldier’s.

Pairing(s): Bucky Barnes x (Fem) POC Enhanced Reader; Sam Wilson x Female Original Character

Trope(s): Fantasy/Mythology/Horror; Soulmates/Mates; Angst/Fluff/Smut; Bisexual! Bucky Barnes; Multiple POV’s

Based on the Song(s): ‘Power’ by Isak Danielson ; ‘Breakfast’ by Dove Cameron ; ‘Darkside’ by Neoni ; ‘Bow - Slowed’ by Reyn Hartley

AO3 Link

Warnings: mention of infertility; strong language; sexual tension; mentions of slavery and curses; inaccurate Greek mythology; slow build-up to more extreme plot (lol)

Word Count: 4,960+

Author’s Note: Slow world building, but it picks up tremendously after this chapter! Don’t worry! Sorry about no Hades this chapter. I miss him too lol xxMoni

~

Sam wandered, and wandered, turned right, and wandered some more.

He wasn’t armed with anything remotely dangerous—when Bucky called he dropped the television remote and sprinted the whole way to the restaurant. The second he threw open the doors, however, he had realized he forgot the shield. And his wings. And a gun.

So Sam made do with what was provided to him in his extravagant suite, taking a hanger from the closet—closets, really—and pulling the metal cord from inside. Bending and twisting it into what Sam would embarrassingly compare to a shank, he now held it firm in his right hand while his left carried a candle in its holder. He immediately regretted asking you for book recommendations from the 19th century all those months ago, because now he can’t stop comparing himself to Jane fucking Eyre.

He just hopes he doesn’t run into Hades’s estranged, tormented wife along the way.

The hallways were decorated with some of the most beautiful artwork Sam had ever seen. Pieces that rivaled the greats, pieces that were from the greats—all in a Renaissance or Baroque style. Which made sense considering the Renaissance era focused heavily on Greek and Roman mythology.

On his fourth right turn, however, Sam stopped to behold a painting that was unlike the others. Not as vibrant, not as large, not as commanding. A simple piece, but one Sam believed was hidden between all the rest on purpose.

The painting depicted a woman with striking red hair that could easily be mistaken for orange, tied back but allowed to run wild. Although her gaze was solemn, it wasn’t entirely pitiful. Something else shined in her eyes, curiosity and patience perhaps. She held a single pomegranate, and with the other hand held her own wrist.

Sam had passed dozens of paintings depicting war, love, and peace. And in all of those, not one depicted Hades’s other half. Where was Persephone? Thor had mentioned that this current Hades had been sitting on the throne for over six hundred years, which meant there was someone before him. But don’t Gods live forever? And if not, is this Hades the offspring of the Hades before him?

A theory clicked: Maybe Persephone has just not been born yet. And since the physical descriptors for each Hades have been spot-on with the dark blue eyes, pale skin, and blue fire, maybe the next Persephone is a red-head.

“I told you the locks were on the inside, Birdling.”

Sam jumped and stumbled backward, the hand holding the shank reaching up to clench at his shirt. “Fuck!”

Elva rolled her eyes but turned to the portrait of Persephone. With her arms crossed, she joked, “There are so many red-heads down here in Hell, and Hades has been through them all.”

Sam rubbed at his chest, huffing gently. “Like…Through them, through them?”

Elva shrugged. “He’s a sexual being. Of course he’s fucked them all.”

Sam grunted, looking at her and down the hallway he supposed she came from. When she reached up to swipe the hair from her face, Sam took note of the chain bracelets. Anger simmered in the pit of his stomach and he found himself asking, “Has he touched you?”

Elva turned to him and snorted. “I would hope not. He is my uncle.”

Sam, ignoring the way his stomach settled way too quickly from her response, lifted an eyebrow. “We’re talking about Greek mythology here. Zeus literally married and fucked his own sister.”

“Yes, well, the Hades I know isn’t as demented.”

Sam continued to stare at the chains. Whether Elva noticed his gaze or not, she didn’t comment. Was she a slave? She acted way too casual around him, around the palace, around Hades himself. He didn’t order her around, nor did he attach a leash between the rings of metal. Besides, slaves weren’t usually given a sword and an opportunity to speak.

“Where were you heading?” Elva asked, following him down the hallway as he continued on.

Sam lifted the candle higher, checking the ceilings for spider-webs or loose demons. Banishing demons from his mind, Sam focused on the spider-web portion of his worries. Would Shortcake’s message get back to Peter? How much time had passed from the portal to now?

At least Sam knows Peter will keep Alpine fed. And when he, Shortcake, and Bucky aren’t home soon, Peter will contact Margot, Berenice, and Thor immediately.

“I was just getting to know my surroundings.”

Elva hummed, unconvinced. “You won’t find an escape route, you know. There are tunnels underneath this palace even I wouldn’t dare map.”

“Good to know.” He didn’t pay her a glance as he spoke. He could feel her beside him, anyway. Her golden hair bounced and her leathers made the barest of noise. It was the sword at her hip that clanged each time the steel locket of the scabbard hit her belt. As if noticing it, Elva placed her hand on the sword’s pommel, holding it still.

“Why aren’t your friends with you?”

Sam turned into another hallway, nearly barreling into Elva as she stepped in front of him. He glanced down at her, noticing her close proximity, meeting her eyes.

Those red, red eyes.

Was she a vampire? She was an Immortal, but her teeth were normal. Plus, she hadn’t tried sinking her teeth into his neck yet. Everything else about her screamed soldier. A woman who took pleasure in wielding that sword, and driving it through flesh.

“You are staring.”

Sam flushed, and cleared his throat. “Sorry. I’ve never met anyone with such interesting eyes.”

Elva gave him a small, downward smile. “A backhanded compliment.”

Sam quickly recovered, “I’ve never met anyone with red eyes.”

“Oh? You’ve never met a Blood Elementalist?”

“Up until a few months ago, I hadn’t realized I met an Earth one.”

“Ah,” Elva sighed. “I guess there’s an explanation. Elementalists of all kinds have gone into hiding more recently. Demons prowl your human lands more often than you think.”

Sam shuddered. “Don’t remind me.” Then, playing it casual by continuing down the hallway, he asked, “What is it that a Blood Elementalist like you can do?”

Elva followed him, her expression one of subdued displeasure. “I have not been able to wield my powers for seven hundred years.”

That made Sam halt his steps. “Seven hundred?”

She raised her wrists.

Sam clenched his jaw tight. Looking across both sides of the hallway, he stepped forward and silently declared, “If I find a way out of here…come with us.”

Elva studied his face slowly, her fiery eyes moving from left to right and downward. Scrunching her eyebrows, Elva asked, “What is it that you’re thinking?”

“That Hades has you trapped here, restraining your power, and forcing you to be his right-hand.”

Elva shook her head, as if his words were intrusive. “Hades is not my captor. His father was.”

“He hasn’t released you—”

“Because he cannot.”

Sam waited, taking the time to study her face as well. Her creamy skin was the slightest bit tanned, her lips were more pink than red, and her neck contained one mole—one brown mole that rightfully disturbed the expanse of clear skin.

“I am the offspring of the current Poseidon and a Blood Elementalist. Therefore, I am his niece. But Hades’s father had not yet been killed, and he is the one who enslaved me for daring to point a sword at him. He did not order the Fates to curse me—they did it themselves.”

Sam rolled it over in his head as quickly as he could. If he didn’t solve the order of those words in the next five seconds with Elva staring directly into his soul, he might never recover.

This current Hades had a father, but he was not the brother of the current Poseidon.

This current Hades is related to the current Poseidon. They’re brothers. Without the same father?

Elva is Poseidon’s daughter. Hades is her uncle.

One more time—

“Did you think I was his slave?”

Sam’s lips thinned as he blushed. “In all honesty, I could have thought worse.”

Elva’s lips twitched in amusement, and her red eyes flashed gold for a quick second. But Sam caught it, and he swore the flecks resembled confetti.

Elva turned, looking over her shoulder as she instructed, “Follow me, Birdling. If you want to know the palace, then the palace shall know you.”

Armed with his makeshift knife and a permanent embarrassed pit in his stomach, Sam did as he was told.

~

     “Oh! He could be exploring the catacombs! Or the Styx—everyone wants to see the Styx! Maybe the Prison of Demons—”

Bucky choked on a breath. “Sam’s an idiot but he’s not that much of an idiot to willingly go there.”

Bucky’s right. Sam wouldn’t stray too far without knowing how to return to his room. And when Bucky calls him an idiot, it’s more a term of endearment than anything else.

But this.

Sam was a complete idiot for this.

“I think we’ll stick with the places closest to his room, Wenrel. Thank you,” you said softly, smiling at the water sprite ahead of you. She had leapt from your shoulder a while ago and has been skipping along the red carpet of the hallway instead, guiding you and Bucky. Bucky made sure to keep his steps in time with yours, especially when Wenrel whipped around once and Bucky nearly stepped on her.

“The library is close by! But Maxwell’s probably down there sulking and he’s no fun when he’s sulking.”

“Sulking over what?” Bucky asked.

“I don’t know this time. He usually tells me everything.”

“You and Maxwell are friends?”

Wenrel nodded, and hopped onto the nearest stair railing. “He’s my bestest friend!” And with that, she slid all the way to the bottom.

“She’s really cute,” Bucky whispered to you as he watched Wenrel flip and land on a table against the wall. But the water sprite proved to have way more advanced hearing than you thought.

“Don’t call me cute!” Wenrel ordered before you even had the chance to respond to Bucky.

Bucky’s cheeks reddened. “Sorry.”

“I know my size is cute and I sound high-pitched, but I was once her size!” She wagged a tiny finger toward you.

“Then…Why are you—”

“Tiny?” Wenrel finished. “It all ties back to those damned Fates! I was a full-sized water nymph, but when I refused Poseidon's advances, he asked the Fates to place a curse on me so no man could ever touch me again!”

“Poseidon?” Bucky stuttered, amazed.

“Hundreds and hundreds of years ago, yes. Before your time, before Maxwell’s, before my Hades even took the throne.”

My Hades.

Wenrel huffed, swiping at her face. Her hand looked as if it touched real skin however, as if she was truly tangible. She ringed her arm back and gathered her floating hair into a ponytail, holding it tight over her shoulder. “I’m going to Maxwell in the library. Maybe Sammy’s there. You’re welcome to follow.”

Wenrel hopped to the floor and ran down the hall, her elvish feet meeting the ground as if on lily pads.

Bucky scrunched his nose. “I think I offended her.”

“I think you did.”

Bucky snorted, wiping his face with his metal hand. “Do you want to follow her?”

You shrugged. “Sam loves libraries, but he loves mystery more.”

“Books contain mystery.”

“Not the kind he can find on his own trail.”

You and Bucky traveled through the palace on light feet, studying your surroundings and joking along the way.

Can’t Hades choose one damn theme?

I think the theme is Gothic-chic. Or medieval.

To very distinct things, Goddess.

And—

The night crew look happy. How many rooms do you think the palace has?

…Thirty.

Wha—? Buckingham Palace has 52 bedrooms alone, James!

It was a rough estimate.

Which led to the conversation you were having now as you pointed out yet another bedroom during the tour. “I think that’s twenty so far. And we haven’t even climbed down a flight of stairs.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. He had turned the safety back on his gun and was currently twirling it around his metal fingers. “Whatever. You think they’re occupied?”

“Dare you to knock.”

“And come face to face with Apollo himself? You dream, Shortcake.”

You squinted, smiling as you bit down on your bottom lip. “Does Apollo get it going for you?”

“You know what gets me going,” Bucky mumbled, still not meeting your gaze.

Something greedy swooped in your stomach. What in the world was happening? It took you six months to even want to try something serious with Bucky, six months of casual flirting that led nowhere, six months of guilt and shame.

Every time you had thought of Bucky in a certain way, guilt only grew. And not because it was some kind of betrayal to Ari—because it totally wasn’t—but because you still hadn’t found a heartbeat. Neither Sam or Bucky have mentioned it, but Peter has.

The two of you had been watching television together, relaxed in the quiet space, when Peter turned to you with a scrunched forehead and a stunted breath. He listened, listened, and realized.

Sam couldn’t possibly know, but Bucky? Can’t his advanced hearing pick it up?

So whenever these feelings of pure, unadulterated lust came rushing, you felt shameful that it would lead nowhere emotionally. You feel deeply for Bucky. Of course you do. What you felt for Ari was endless, and what you currently feel for Bucky is ethereal.

“I don’t know much,” you commented, scanning your surroundings to avoid looking Bucky in the eye.

“Mm,” Bucky hummed. He stored his gun back into his belt when a group of night servants turned down the hallway. They all gave you kind smiles, some even verbally greeting you. All you could manage was a small wave. Once they were out of earshot, Bucky said, “One night surely isn’t enough to know what I like, is it?”

Even if you had never seen it before, it was obvious the bright light coming from the giant, cracked open doors hinted at the library. Doors from floor to ceiling, heavy and intimidating. They were entirely black except for the elaborate gold art depicting two women, heads bowed and facing each other. You could hear low voices from within, probably Maxwell and Wenrel.

You snorted softly, chuckling afterward. “Your game is a little weak there, James.”

The air is knocked from your lungs when your back hits the wall. Bucky’s metal hand cradled the back of your head, a shield, perhaps the one place he protects now from unconscious instinct.

“Shortcake…Goddess,” Bucky breathed, his lips parting near your neck. Hot air immediately incited goosebumps along your skin. “What do you want me to do?”

“Huh?” Your voice was nearly high-pitched, embarrassing. Bucky Barnes had never shoved you against a wall before. He shoved you into a mattress—but a wall with his thigh between yours, his flesh hand squeezing your waist? This was the tension the two of you should have explored before jumping into bed together. Tension Bucky Barnes had decided he wanted to start now, in Hell, in the middle of a damn hallway.

“What—” He squeezed your waist tighter, lips now hovering dangerously close to where your pulse should be. Gently, he bit down. “Do you want me to do to you?”

The whimper you released was involuntary. Your hips moved on their own accord, making you grind down on the muscle of his thigh. Bucky chuckled deeply and glanced down, watching the way that made you grind again.

“I—” you choked. Bucky licked the area of your neck he bit, then kissed it.

“Don’t think for one minute that I haven’t thought about your legs around my waist again. Or those hands on my body. Or your taste, your noises, your tight, wet—”

“Bucky…”

“Hmm?”

Dragging your hands up his neck, you gripped the hair at the base and pulled him back. Meeting his eyes, you whispered, “I don’t know what I want right now.”

Bucky stilled, a low groan caught in his throat. If you didn’t know any better, you would say Bucky was disappointed. But it’s a groan laced with desire, desire that had been brewing for months, and was no way judgmental.

And before you could explain to Bucky you meant that you didn’t know what you wanted right now, the answer to his question, Bucky extracted himself from you. The loss of his heat almost made you cry out.

“Okay,” Bucky sighed, a smirk on his lovely face. “But Goddess, know this. When you do know, it better include me behind you, in front of a mirror, so you can never unsee it.”

Then he turned, the half bun on his head bouncing with each step.

~

    Maxwell’s eyes were burning. Words upon words flooded his sore vision, their meanings compounded. In fact, he may have forgotten how to form words altogether. These were letters. Pure, meaningless letters.

In his past life, when the threat of death was a mere fact of life itself, he had worked as a printer. Conducting research, drawing, bookkeeping. This type of work was not foreign, but it was time-consuming. It was kind of shitty for Hades to not offer him a different role down here, but Maxwell always had a knack for changing dirt into gold.

As for what he was currently researching… Well, he tried not to let the lack of information discourage him.

Infertility was not a grave issue amongst the Gods. Every book he had opened told him just that, that it wasn’t much of a problem at all. Practically nonexistent.

So that posed the question: How were the Fates able to curse a God with it?

The books didn’t reveal much. Stories about Gods themselves who cursed humans, but not vice versa. Nor did any God curse another God with it. Maxwell would argue, however, that Athena basically cursed Medusa out of disgusting jealousy.

One thing was a repetitive occurrence in his reading. All Gods were tied to life and death—the ability to create life, and the ability to incite death. So Maxwell’s only theory is that your powers already fulfill its use. With a flick of your wrist, you create life. With the same flick, you take it away.

To reverse a curse would be to enlist the expertise of someone who had way more experience with curses than he.

Maxwell raised his eyes from the book in front of him, focusing on the wall as he also strained his ears. His lips twitched in response, and he prepared himself as the footsteps grew closer. He waited, waited—

“Throw it, Darling, and we’ll see what happens when you ruin my eyeliner.”

Wenrel released a loud hmpf as she collected her waterball back within herself. She stomped her little feet across the tables until she came upon his. Sidestepping the books and all his half-eaten pastries, she sat on the only empty plate available.

Maxwell raised his teacup to his mouth as Wenrel complained, “I can’t seem to ever sneak up on you. It isn’t fair.”

“I can hear you splashing from a mile away.”

“Liar.”

He doesn’t tell Wenrel she’ll most likely never sneak up on him, that for some odd reason, he can feel her presence in any room in the palace.

“How does the new skin feel?” she asked, picking at the strawberry tart Maxwell had only bit into once. She popped a few crumbs into her mouth.

Maxwell shrugged. “Fifty years I lived with that shit. Now I can’t remember the feeling at all.”

He won’t miss it. He did not miss the spikes protruding from his skin, skin that was both his and not. Not for one second did he miss it. He doesn’t miss being mistaken for a goblin, or a demon, or a nymph. He doesn’t miss countless lovers avoiding his arms or his shins, his hands and his stomach.

His curse was lifted. Now he vowed to help his Goddess with hers.

“That sounds lovely.”

“It is.” Then with a frown, Maxwell continued, “I haven’t found anything yet, Darling. I’m sorry.”

Ever since Hades assigned him this job, he’s been trying to find a reversal for Wenrel’s curse too. He had met her when she was already this size. He had taken one look at her and sighed, enveloped in her, in whatever she was. They clicked, everything clicked, and they’ve been friends ever since.

Perhaps his only friend.

Wenrel sighed, crossing her legs and leaning back on one elbow. She continued to eat crumbs. “Don’t apologize. I doubt I’ll ever be myself again.”

“I didn’t think I would, and now look at me.”

“You’re the same ol’ Maxwell to me,” she said, smiling. But that smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.  “So…How’s Titiana?”

Maxwell rolled his eyes at the change in subject. “Not seeing her anymore.”

“Of course you’re not.”

“She went back to her husband.”

Wenrel yelped, finally throwing that waterball at his shoulder. It splashed lightly, droplets wetting his left cheek. “Scoundrel!”

“The one and only.” Another waterball. “Hey—She was the one who cheated!”

“You encouraged it!”

“Darling, if you would have seen the way her mouth wrapped around my—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll tell Hades you held me over a flame.” He immediately shut his mouth. Wenrel was like a daughter to Hades, and Gods help any man who crossed her. “Good boy.”

Maxwell grumbled, shifting in his chair. She always called him that, and it did things to him. Things that shouldn’t be happening. “Don’t call me that.”

Wenrel scoffed, “Don’t make everything so sexual.”

He brushed off the comment. Instead, he looked down at the book laid open in front of him. He couldn't remember what he was reading before Wenrel interrupted. “I’ll keep looking, Wen. I’ve just added our new resident Goddess’s favor to the list, so.”

“Ah. The infertility curse.”

Maxwell nodded. “Bruce Banner’s medical examination showed no internal damage. The curse is the blockage. Break the curse, break the blockage.”

“Curses. Our most annoying foes,” Wenrel fussed, crossing her arms.

“And you? When we break your curse—” Because there was no if, “Will you miss being like this?”

She looked at him, shaking her head, persistent. “No. I miss when people could touch me. And I them.”

Maxwell flinched as she said it. He always bragged about his exploits, about the amount of skin people allowed him to touch, to lick, to explore. To live without such a touch, such a beautiful shared thing, was quite unimaginable. Sure, Wenrel can touch others—to hang onto them, to hit them, to shoot them with waterballs. But she couldn’t touch them. And yet, Wenrel has been living without it for several hundred years. He’s never asked her if she was intimately touched before. The thought always made him…protective.

He opened his mouth, about to lift the conversation and steer it back to something less serious, when voices interrupted his thoughts. He and Wenrel snapped their necks in opposite directions. Only to find his Goddess and the Winter Soldier entering the library from the entrance, and Sam and Elva entering from the back rooms.

~

    “Are you kidding me, Samuel?” Bucky scolded, extending his arms out in that obvious what the fuck motion. You giggled next to him.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Uh-oh. My full name.”

“You’re damn right I’m using your full name. What the hell were you thinking about leaving your room to wander around alone without backup?”

Elva tilted her head, confused. “He was not alone. I was with him.”

Bucky tried his best to smile at her. “No offense, but you could have killed him.”

You interrupted, gripping Bucky’s shoulder in a silent order to stop talking. “Or you could have stumbled across something dangerous, Sam.”

“All I found were paintings and Elva. And I haven’t even explored every floor of this place yet.”

Bucky nodded, agreeing with Sam’s statement the backhanded way. “Not tonight you won’t.”

“Getting a little up my ass there, Buck.”

“I don’t want to be anywhere near your ass, Sam.”

Maxwell threw his arms in the air, Wenrel now on his left shoulder. She conducted the same motion with her own arms. “Welcome, all! To the Underworld library.”

Bucky fumed quietly, the rage building in his stomach. Sam could have gotten hurt. Whether he found Elva and she proved innocent or not, he could have gotten hurt. The very thing that almost took Sam away from him could have easily found him again tonight. Bucky turned and pointed directly at Maxwell. “And this fucker—“

“Woah! Woah! Okay,” you announced, stepping in the middle of the tiny square everybody had created. “Let’s all calm down.”

“Mr. Let me abandon the humans during dinner with fucking Hades over here!” Bucky continued, ignoring your squinted eyes.

“He told me to get started on research. I skipped on his orders,” Maxwell explained.

You gave Maxwell a small smile.

No. Nope. Maxwell shouldn’t be getting any of your smiles. And the fucker eats them up too, like he can’t get enough of them. “A knock on our doors to apologize and say goodnight would have been appreciated,” you told Maxwell.

Before Bucky could intervene, Maxwell responded, “Didn’t know you wanted me to tuck you in, Mother Earth.”

Wenrel giggled, pulling at Maxwell’s detached earlobe. “She is the Earth’s mother, and you’re flirting with her?”

“Like I haven’t flirted with other Gods and Goddesses before.”

“Trust me, Maxwell. We know,” Elva shot, looking disgusted. “We share a bedroom wall.”

Sam raised a hand, looking up at the massive bookcases that towered over everyone’s heads. Bucky hadn’t had a chance to marvel at the wondrous supply of reading material because of how heated he was, but he could spare a second.

White and black bookcases housing books with spines of all colors, all titles, all sizes. Perhaps a thirty-foot tall room, the ladders attached to the stacks were half of that. Some books were scattered and randomly placed on the desks, as if the librarians only worked at certain hours. Or maybe this was the purpose. The more cluttered a library looked, the more used it seemed to be.

But then that would make searching for certain titles an absolute nightmare.

Sam asked, “Can I get a tour of the library?”

“Can you get it in the morning?” Bucky countered.

“Okay!" you exclaimed, holding your arms up as a signal. “Sam, it’s the first night. James will not let me go to bed unless you follow us out. Maxwell, keep flirting. It helps my ego. James, you know I’ll help you drag him out by the ears, so don’t stress.”

Sam shook his head. “Nuh-uh. Not until Bucky apologizes to Elva for assuming she would outright kill me.”

“Anybody here can outright kill us,” you tried to reason.

“Yet, Elva’s been nothing but kind to us.”

Elva turned to Sam, an angry expression across her blushed face. “I do not need his apology.”

“Fuck shit, you’re getting it. Buck—“

“I’m sorry,” Bucky quickly obliged. Annoyance flashed through his eyes, but his apology was sincere. Bucky didn’t mean to villainize her. Especially since people still look at him and see a cold-blooded killer. “I’m just angry at the bird.”

Elva glared Bucky down, but her expression only lasted so long before Sam conceded to Bucky’s demands.

“I didn’t travel far,” Sam grumbled, bumping both your and Bucky’s shoulder when he passed in between. Without looking back, Sam called out, “I’ll share my location next time!”

“In Hell?” Bucky watched Sam go, shame immediately poisoning his veins. He didn’t mean to treat him like a child. But when either Bucky or Sam scold another, especially one another, it was exactly that.

“He should…he should be scared, no? He was the one ripped apart by a demon. He was the one who blasted in and needed to protect me from the portal. What is going on with him?” Bucky asked you, ignoring Maxwell’s soft goodnight behind him. “Curiosity killed the cat.”

You hummed, and took Bucky’s metal hand as you walked alongside him. “But satisfaction brought him back.”

~

   They weren’t home.

After his comment last night, Peter Parker fully expected the two lovebirds to book a hotel room and go at it. They could have left a note or a text, but it’s whatever.

But Sam? Sam didn’t mention going out last night, nor did he shoot Peter a text telling him to not wait up. Peter had just arrived back to the apartment with a very hungry Alpine clawing at his work boots. After feeding her, he found Sam’s bed still made and Bucky’s room empty. He found nothing in the apartment next door either.

“Sam?” Peter tried again, but it was pointless. He’d hear Sam’s heartbeat if he was anywhere near the apartment at least.

Peter busied himself with mail, breakfast, and TV before finally deciding to call. When Sam’s voicemail greeted him, he tried again. And again. And again. Then he called Margot, Sam’s personal assistant, but she hadn’t heard from him. She promised to track him down, but Peter was only half listening.

Something felt wrong. He could crawl along the side of every hotel building and peek into the windows in hopes of finding the whereabouts of at least two of his friends, but that would scar him for life. Plus, it felt a bit stalkerish.

It hasn’t even been a full day. Probably only twelve hours. Waiting a little bit longer could prove smart. Sam could walk into the apartment right now.

Yeah.

He’ll wait a little bit longer.

~

TAGLIST:  @fandoms-writings @hajmola-vs-aamchaska @natbarnes1917​ @howlermonkey69 @shirukitsune @sentimental-for-maneskin

[dimorphodon-defect]

She didn’t have much to her designation to move, when the time came.

Her small handful of Polaroids from Carly, Nau’s gifted drawing of Offshore, and all of her felted figures had fit inside the wooden Fenn Farms crate that Red Alert side-eyed when she walked by with it, and her flashcards had been easy enough to balance on top of that. It was a meager collection of possessions that left Dragonsbane feeling just a touch more self-conscious than usual as she walked down the hallway with Wheeljack, her entire post-Deception life held carefully in her servos.

“…and the lab is right down the hallway,” The engineer was saying. Dragonsbane’s optics flashed in a blink as she pulled herself out of her thoughts. “Now, I know the Dinobots have got a bit of a, uh…reputation…but they’re all real swell mechs, once you get to know them.” He promised. “They’ve already cleared out a space for you in the cave - one that’s a lot bigger than the storage closet you had before. There’s nothing to be worried about!”

“Are you worried?” Dragonsbane asked. Wheeljack hesitated, his head panels flashing soundlessly or a moment or two as he searched for the right words.

“No.” Wheeljack said at length. “The Dinobots can be…a lot, but they’re not a bad lot. They’re just misunderstood.” Hound came jogging down the hall on his way to the main entrance, and Dragonsbane tucked her wings in a little tighter to let him pass. “Besides, Prime made a good argument when he spoke to me.

“Bots who were built to work on a team do a whole lot better if they’re kept with a team, and you’ve really only been in the lab or your quarters since you got here.” He looked at Dragonsbane. “That kind of isolation isn’t good for your processor.” The femme’s wings sagged at the observation, though her expression remained stubbornly neutral. “And the Dinobots are historically picky about the mechs they interact with, so the fact that they’re the ones who asked for you to move in speaks volumes already about what they think of you.”

“What, did I make a good impression?” Dragonsbane scoffed. “I picked a fight with one of them!” Completely unintentionally, mind you. How was she supposed to know that Slag had been passing by her door when she’d thrown her empty wool crate over her shoulder in exasperation?

“That’ll do it.” Wheeljack nodded, and finally stopped in front of a giant set of sliding doors that had once led to some sort of hanger, before the Ark had crashed. Here, the mech turned to Dragonsbane, and put a servo on her shoulder. “Remember, I’m just around the corner if you need anything. You just let me know.” He told her.

“I will.” Dragonsbane nodded, quietly wondering how soon she’d need to take him up on his offer. Wheeljack gave her shoulder one last reassuring pat before reaching over and tapping at the keypad installed beside the hanger doors. The heavy doors unlocked with a muffled ‘clunk’, and slowly began to hiss open.

“They here!” A towering figure dropped down from somewhere above to land with a thunderous crash in front of the doors before they had even opened halfway, and Dragonsbane barely resisted the urge to jump back. As it was, her wings snapped open defensively, and just barely avoided smacking Wheeljack.

“Hey there, Swoop!” The engineer greeted the excitable Dinobot while Dragonsbane stared up the mech twice her size with wide optics. Was she just destined to be the smallest one in every group?! “Is everybody ready?”

“Yes!” The Pteronadon practically pirouetted aside as Wheeljack crossed the threshold. Dragonsbane hesitantly folded her wings and followed after him. “Him, Snarl and him, Grimlock still have rocks to move, but they almost done.” He looked down at the crate in Dragonsbane’s hands. “That all you got?”

“It’s all I have.” Dragonsbane flared her wings back out in a move she didn’t really think about. Swoop just stared at her, smile unchanging.

“You, Dragon, will have to start collecting something.” He laughed. “That not going to fill up the shelves!”

“Why don’t I give you guys a little time to get to know each other?” Wheeljack suggested. Dragonsbane shot him a panicked look. “I’ll stop by with Optimus Prime in an hour or two, and we’ll go over the last few details of the move.” He looked at Dragonsbane, and lowered his voice reassuringly. “I’ll keep my comm open the whole time, okay? You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, sure…” Dragonsbane watched Wheeljack step back out of the room with a growing sense of dread, and tensed when Swoop’s shadow fell over her.

“Come with me.” The mech held out one hand and started herding her deeper into the room. “The others are excited to meet you!”

“Ooooh, I don’t think ‘excited’ is the right word.” Dragonsbane shifted her grip on her belongings, careful not to snap the planks of the crate.

Here went nothing.

Further into the room (really, it was more like a warehouse, at this size), the other four Dinobots were gathered near a pile of rocky debris. Dragonsbane became acutely aware that she barely reached the hips of the shortest of them as Swoop ushered her closer, and pulled her wings tightly to her back as four sets of sharp optics zeroed in on her. There was a tense silence, for a few moments, and then it was broken by Grimlock snorting out a laugh.

“This the one who kicked your aft?” He elbowed Slag, ignoring the glare he got in return. Slag slapped the offending limb away viciously, and Dragonsbane flinched.

“I mean, technically, I’m the one who got my aft kicked.” She argued, audial fins flattening under the scrutiny. “I, uh. I very much lost that fight.”

“That what us Dinobots like.” Grimlock nodded, as if he’d just dispensed some sage advice. “You pick fight and lose, but still survive. That means you tough.”

“Her talk smart.” Sludge grumbled. Dragonsbane wasn’t sure if that was a compliment.

“Here, let me, Swoop, take things!” The femme reacted too late to save her belongings as they were snatched out of her servos, and tried to follow as Swoop walked off into the freshly-excavated room to drop them on the berth that had been dragged into the space. The ground shook as the Dinobots followed them like a herd of sheep.

“Me, Snarl, told you room too big.” Snarl scoffed as Dragonsbane climbed up onto the berth to check on the crate. Good. The flashcards hadn’t cracked.

“See? She too tiny for it.”

“It better than closet she in before.” Slag retorted. “She like Swoop - she need space for wings.”

“Me, Grimlock, not un-digging room.” Grimlock stated firmly. “Room stay big, so I say!” Slag and Snarl immediately began to argue louder, and Swoop made a show of rolling his optics. What a first impression this was making on their new member.

Dragonsbane put back the few flashcards that had fallen out of the open box, and sat back on her heels. This felt…familiar…and not in a bad way, either.

…what was that Wheeljack had said about bots built to work as a team?

———

Two hours later, Wheeljack stood in front of the Dinobot’s hangar entrance once more, with Optimus Prime at his side. There was a concerning amount of noise coming from the other side, but he couldn’t hear any cries of distress, at least. The engineer typed in the entrance code on the keypad, and managed to wait patiently until it had opened enough for his frame to fit through.

He still crossed the threshold before the doors were fully open.

“I’m back! How is every one getting-….along.” Wheeljack stopped after only a few steps, fins flashing in silence as he lost the rest of his sentence. Optimus Prime followed him inside, and placed a hand on Wheeljack’s shoulder struts. “I believe we can safely assume that their introduction went smoothly.” The Prime said with just the barest hint of a chuckle in his voice. Wheeljack made a noise that wasn’t quite affirmation. He should probably have prepared himself for something like this.

“Do it again! I almost had it!” Dragonsbane insisted. Sludge adjusted his servo position quickly before crouching down and throwing the femme upwards with a good amount of strength. Dragonsbane stretched out at the peak of the toss, and latched her own servos around the handle of a sword that had been stuck up in the ceiling for the past four months. “I got it!”

The gathered Dinobots let out a collective roar of success, and Dragonsbane hauled herself up on the trapped sword and let herself drop - once, twice! When the blade came free with a shnk and a small shower of rocky debris, the Dinobots scattered back, and the femme managed to land on her peds right in the middle of them. She straightened up, covered in rock dust, and leaned the sword as big as she was over her shoulder strut.

“Now, uh…whose was this again?” Dragonsbane was the first to notice their two mech audience, and quickly un-shouldered the blade. “Oh, Wheeljack! Optimus Prime, sir!”

“Dragonsbane,” Optimus Prime greeted back. “I’m glad to see you’re all getting along.”

“Of course we get along.” Grimlock scoffed as he leaned down to grab the sword. “She Dinobot. Us Dinobots get along. Uh…usually.” He shrugged. If he noticed the way Dragonsbane looked up at him, optics wide in something between surprise and awe, he ignored it.

“Of course, how silly of me.” Optimus Prime chose not to argue. They seemed to have achieved the preferred outcome - arguing would do nothing but set them back. “Now, there’s just a few quick things we need to finalize…”