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ginnsbaker · 6 months

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fic: if i bleed (you'll be the last to know) (4/?)

Part summary: Getting to know Leigh Shaw comes with some hardships—literally.

Pairing: Leigh Shaw x Fem!Reader | Word count for this part: 4.600 | Warnings/Tags: Pining | A/N: Still haven't decided how many parts will there be, but for now, enjoy reader's POV as her interest in Leigh grows :)

Masterlist | Part I Part II | Part III | Next

For some reason, you keep saying yes to Leigh Shaw.

Yes to providing your veterinary services for her.

Yes to divulging the private aspects of your relationship with Matt.

Yes to staying in her yoga class.

Yes to running very early in the morning, with a lung-busting pace that leaves you dehydrated and feeling queasy by the end of it.

As if to add insult to injury, Leigh Shaw doubles back to where you're lagging behind, barely hanging on for dear life. She flashes that cheeky grin, says, “Try to keep up,” and takes off again like it's nothing. You're left gasping for air, your heart screaming in agony as you attempt to match her pace, but Leigh's already a blur ahead.

She was right—your endurance is really nowhere to be seen. It's in these moments, as you're pushing past what you thought were your limits, that you start to get why Leigh's both a pain and a push that was kind of missing before in your life.

Leigh eventually vanishes around a corner, and consequently, you lose sight of her. You dig deep, pushing yourself to keep going, refusing to quit out of stubbornness and curiosity of what your body could do. By some miracle, you make it to the finish line, which turns out to be that park you've been to only once before with Matt. He had made it a special day with sandwiches and comics, while you got lost in a book he swore you’d love. You can’t shake off the feeling that this place is significant for Leigh and Matt too.

When you finally stumble in, there's Leigh, chilling on the grass, looking like she's lost in thought, her eyes dark with something you can't quite put your finger on. But then she spots you, and it's like someone flipped a switch. She’s back to the flippant Leigh—easygoing, as if nothing’s amiss.

“Was half expecting to find you passed out somewhere back there,” Leigh smirks up at you.

You can’t help but flop down next to her, letting the sun beat down on your face, feeling every bit of your skin that's exposed soaking up the warmth. Thirst claws at your throat, fierce and unforgiving. Gathering the little energy you have left, you manage to ask, “How long have you been waiting?”

Leigh glances at you, her casual ease belying the brief glimpse of concern you thought you'd seen earlier. “Oh, about five minutes,” she says, her tone light, as if the grueling run was nothing more than a leisurely stroll for her.

You pant out, “Why are you so fast, anyway?”

Leigh bursts into laughter, finding your question absurdly funny. “Fast? Me? That's hardly competitive speed, you're just... completely out of shape.”

You pout, feeling slightly offended but too exhausted to argue. Stretching out beside her, you let out a series of groans and pops, feeling your muscles protest and then slowly relax. “Feels like I'm a hundred years old,” you mutter with a heavy sigh.

Still chuckling, Leigh shakes her head. “I've been running for three years now. It's more of a hobby, really, but I need to stay active for my job at the Beautiful Beast. Or my mom will fire me.”

“Your family owns that place?”

Leigh corrects you quickly, “Not my family, just my mom. And being the owner's daughter doesn't give me a pass to slack off. I can't afford to be terrible at my job.”

Her distinction between “my family” and “my mom” sticks with you. It seems like a clue into her family dynamics. In the short time you've known her, Leigh comes across as straightforward, genuinely helpful, and yes, perhaps a bit quick-tempered, but overall...she's okay.

More than okay, actually. She must be incredible to those she truly cares about. So, what went wrong with her and Matt? How could he betray her like that? It’s even more baffling when you remember Leigh saying they were trying for a baby. That detail still turns your stomach, and you're endlessly grateful you never went down that path with him, despite once wishing things had gone differently.

Lost in your thoughts, you don't realize how intently you've been staring at Leigh until she calls you out on it. “What is it?” she asks, her voice pulling you back to the present.

Flustered, you find yourself asking the question that's been simmering in your mind, since you first pulled on your sneakers for that 5k this morning. “Why'd you bring me along for your run? Why are you even helping me?”

Leigh just gives an offhand shrug, says, “Well, you didn't have to show up, so you're actually helping yourself.”

“Fair enough,” you reply, but can't shake off a bit of disappointment. The truth is, you were hoping she'd say something that suggested she was up for being friends, or at least saw you as more than just another client of hers.

It's weird, really, why you keep wanting to be friends with Leigh Shaw.

Suddenly, Leigh glances at her watch and looks up at you. “Ready to go?” she asks, a bit impatiently.

“If I can still walk after this, sure,” you say, half-joking, half-serious, feeling the effects of the run in every muscle.

Leigh laughs at that, a genuine, hearty laugh that lights up her face. It's a sound that's real and unguarded, making you think that maybe, becoming friends with her isn't such a far-fetched idea after all.

Yoga sessions with Leigh stick to the script you first stumbled into. She's all business, only really tossing you a nod or a word when your form goes sideways. “Shoulders down, back straight,” she corrects you, her voice firm, yet not unkind. Outside of that, you might as well blend into the walls for all the personal attention she gives, just like anyone else there. Everyone gets the same treatment—tough love, dished out in equal measure.

Despite her imposing presence, there's something else, a depth to her that often seems just out of reach. You catch her sometimes, looking out the window with a distant gaze. But then she blinks, shakes it off, and is back, fully attentive and ready to guide the next pose.

“Focus on your breathing,” Leigh's voice snaps you out of your focus on her. “Inhale deeply, and as you exhale, sink deeper into the pose.”

Determined to excel, you pour all your effort into being the student Leigh doesn’t need to worry about. Ironically, your diligence only seems to make you more invisible to her. As you master the poses with less need for correction, Leigh's interactions with you dwindle further.

After class, you toy with the idea of approaching her. Maybe get some feedback, or even suggest grabbing dinner together so you don't have to eat alone. But as you're putting together what to say, you notice Leigh seems in a hurry. She exchanges a few quick words with another instructor who's just arrived, and before you can decide, she's excusing herself and heading out.

The moment to ask her has slipped away, leaving you to pack your yoga mat with a resigned sigh.

Another time, then, you think.

The next day, without another invite from Leigh for a run, you lace up your shoes and follow the same route you and Leigh took together. Just 20 minutes into the run, the solo effort feels more like a chore than the engaging challenge it was with company. You loop the route four times, hoping maybe to cross paths with Leigh purely by coincidence, but she’s nowhere to be found.

The studio had announced last night that Leigh’s yoga classes would be temporarily led by a different teacher, with her expected to return next week. This bit of news leaves you mulling about her absence, kind of hoping you might accidentally run into her to find out more. But as the week goes by without any such encounters, you realize you actually know very little about her daily routines or habits. Despite the nagging curiosity, you refrain from texting her, not wanting to intrude or anything.

Admittedly, your motivation to work out dipped slightly without Leigh being part of it.

When you finally talk yourself into visiting Matt’s grave, you do so just minutes before it could get really dark. You've chosen this time deliberately, betting on the common fear that keeps most people away from cemeteries as night approaches.

Your main concern isn't the general public, though; it's just Leigh. Past experiences have shown that encounters with her can happen unexpectedly and in the most random of places—like that night at the club when she ended up getting sick just a few inches away from you. You're not here out of a longing for Matt. Instead, you aim to properly close this chapter of your life, hoping to do so without running into his widow and giving her the wrong impression.

The air holds a chill that wasn't there when you left home, making you wrap your jacket tighter around yourself. It’s quiet, just the sound of your own footsteps crunching softly on the path. Being here as the day turns to night, watching shadows stretch out long and skinny, really gets you thinking about life, death, and everything else in-between. Maybe that's also why people avoid this place—it sort of forces you to face the music, making you curious if all the things you're wrapped up in are actually important or utterly pointless.

As for you, you haven't quite figured out where you stand on that yet. Lately, you've really come into your own in your career, especially now that you’re seeing the profits steadily rising each month. But that sense of achievement fades each evening as you return to your empty apartment. It's just you, night after night, pushing through the grind, pouring everything into your job. Yet, when you try to envision where you'll be in five years from now, the picture isn't clear. Will you be settling down with someone, or just picking up the pieces from another relationship that’s gone awry?

Finding Matt's grave takes a moment, but when you do, your heart clenches. It’s just a simple stone with his name, the years he was here, and a couple of words(you’re guessing it’s Leigh who wrote them) about him.

You kneel down, the grass cool and slightly damp beneath you, and lay the flowers you've brought on his grave. They look kind of bright against the dimming light. Like hope.

“Hey Matt,” you say, stepping into a silence that feels like it's hanging around, just waiting for you to fill it. Talking to a dead person feels ridiculous like they do in the movies, but it's not like anyone's around to hear you.

“You know, I met Leigh,” you begin. “Your wife you conveniently forgot to mention when you were busy asking me out.”

There's a sour edge to your voice, airing grievances to a guy who can't throw back excuses anymore. You can't help but chuckle, though it's more bitter than amused. You let your thoughts more freely now, like the barrier between you and Matt has thinned out with the honesty.

“Leigh is… beautiful, you know? Not in that runway or social media kind of way, but in a manner that's hard to just overlook.”

You could list a dozen more positive things about Leigh to tell Matt, but he already knew all that, didn't he?

“The first time I met her, I felt small, maybe even insecure. And now?” you shake your head, smiling slightly. “...I still do. But mostly, I'm just left thinking…” You pause. The next thought isn't really for Matt, not anymore.

It’s for you.

“I just can't wrap my head around why you'd want to be with me when you had her. I feel like the murder weapon that's trying to seek justice for its victim.” You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Not a great spot to be in, honestly. Makes me feel kind of helpless, you know?"

Sitting back, you take a moment, just looking at the headstone, at the name etched into the granite. The conversation, if you can call it that, feels like it's shifted something inside you. Not closure, exactly, but maybe the first step towards understanding—or at least accepting—that some things just don't make sense.

Standing up, you dust off your knees, taking one last look at the grave. “Anyway, Matt, I hope you've found peace. It looks like we're all searching for a little of that ourselves. Thanks for the book suggestions. Though, you might be a bit disappointed to hear Agatha Christie remains my top favorite.”

As you walk away from Matt's grave, it feels as though you're leaving a piece of yourself behind to rest with him. You decide then, as the cemetery gate closes behind you with a gentle click, that you won't let this page in your book define you. Maybe tomorrow, you'll try a new coffee shop, or take a different route to work. Small changes, but important ones.

Maybe you’ll even try that spin class that scares you so.

“Since when did you start living at the gym?” Suzie teases you from her spot across the desk, that signature playful, all-knowing arch to her eyebrow.

Suzie, who had originally come on board as a receptionist at your vet clinic with little more than enthusiasm and a genuine love for animals to her name, had quickly become much more than just a staff member. Her lack of relevant experience was initially a concern, but her dedication and the way she connected with both the animals and their owners made it clear she was a perfect fit. Over time, she evolved from being just the receptionist to a friend.

A friend who seems to enjoy teasing you, though.

“First off, it’s hardly the gym. It’s this fitness class I’ve been trying out—big distinction,” you clarify, eyes glued on your phone. The last half hour has been a slow crawl towards 5 PM, the magical hour when you can finally shut down and head to Leigh’s class at Beautiful Beast.

“Tomatoes, to-mah-toes,” she quips.

“Not the same thing,” you insist, still not fully engaged in the conversation, your focus on a food article you're reading.

Suzie just waves her hand dismissively. “Semantics. But seriously, you've been really into whatever this is. There's gotta be a guy making those sweat sessions worth it.”

You can't help but laugh, the idea so off base it circles back to being hilarious.

“Trust me, the allure isn't the sweat. It's those endorphins,” you say.

“Yeah, sure,” she drawls, unconvinced. “Come on. Who is it? I know you're not this amped to be all gross and sweaty for nothing.”

“There's no guy, Suzie.” Then, as if the thought just occurred to you, you add, “Or girl. But honestly, there's really no one.”

At that, Suzie's expression shifts from playful teasing to one of pleasant surprise and a touch of mock offense. “Hold up, you might be into girls? And here I was, shooting my shot in the dark this whole time!”

Your ears burn red at her blunt flirtation. “Suzie, come on,” you stammer.

“If I had known that was on the table, I would’ve upped my game ages ago,” she says, her wink sending your face from warm to inferno.

“You’re impossible,” you manage to say as you hurry to collect your things, ready to rush out the door.

“Impossibly into you,” she retorts saucily.

“I’m gonna have to fire you, you know,” you mutter jokingly, glancing at your watch. “Gotta run, bye!”

“Just so we're clear, the offer stands,” she adds, still grinning.

You feel a sense of relief seeing Leigh back in class.

Though the website clearly stated her schedule, you found yourself on edge until you could see Leigh with your own eyes. There's nothing noticeably different about her; Leigh seems just as composed and in control as ever. When she catches you looking, she offers a small, somewhat dismissive smile before turning her attention elsewhere.

You spend the whole session with your energy dialed up, partly because Leigh's presence just does that, and partly because you're already plotting. As soon as she calls time on the session, you're practically springing into action. Your belongings—a water bottle, towel, and the rest—land in a haphazard pile on the floor as you quickly stand up, eager to catch her before she disappears. You make your way toward her, determined not to let her slip away this time.

Leigh's busy packing up her own gear, her back to you as you close the distance. “Hey, Leigh,” you say, and it sounds like you've got this under control, even if your heart's hammering away in your chest. She turns, and there's a flicker of surprise in her expression. You’re hoping it’s the good kind of surprise.

“I'm really glad you're back,” you push on, hoping it doesn't sound as clumsy to her as it does in your head.

She takes a swig from her water bottle, giving you a once-over, and then says, “Thanks. Do you need anything?” There's an expectant look in her eyes, and in that moment, your confidence begins to wane, melting under her gaze. You're on the spot, scrambling for words, any words that don't involve asking her out for dinner, which suddenly seems like an insurmountable task.

“Uh, actually,” you start, your mind racing to find a safe topic, “I was wondering if you had any tips on improving my form?”

Leigh's expression softens, and she nods, setting her water bottle down. “Sure, I can show you a few things. Let's go back to the mats,” she suggests, leading the way. Despite feeling like your tank is on empty and your body crying for hydration, backing down doesn’t feel like an option.

Not when Leigh is already spreading her mat next to yours. She does so with a sort of blasé authority, and you can't help but think how this is Leigh all over—straight to the point, no fuss. You're tired, sure, and a part of you is suggesting that you're about to make a fool of yourself with your shaky legs and probably even shakier form. But then, Leigh starts talking, pointing out where you're going wrong and how to fix it, and suddenly, you're not thinking about dinner anymore. You’re too distracted now by the smell of her perfume mixed with the scent of her sweat.

The next few minutes turn into what feels like a whole new session under Leigh's watchful eyes. She's on you about everything—the angle of your arm, the set of your shoulders, even the way you're distributing your weight on your feet. Leigh's not mean about it, but she doesn't let anything slide. You're just trying to keep up, watching her move with that easy confidence. It's mesmerizing, really, how she can make something so complex look so simple.

By the time you're done, your muscles are burning, your breath is ragged, and you're pretty sure you've sweated out every last drop of water in your body. As you lie there, staring at the ceiling and asking yourself how a ten-minute guidance turned into an even harder session, you mentally kick yourself for not just admitting you wanted company for dinner. It was right there, and you were too scared to be rejected.

But why? Considering everything that's happened and the circumstances, Leigh turning you down seems like the more probable outcome anyway.

And then Leigh does something totally offbeat. She glances at the clock, then back at you, and out of nowhere, she's asking, “Want to grab something to eat?”

It's so unexpected, that for a moment, you're sure you misheard her. But Leigh's waiting for an answer, a slight smile playing on her lips, and suddenly, the fatigue feels a little less overwhelming. You sit up, a slow grin spreading across your face as you realize this is it—your chance, handed to you when you least expected it.

“Yeah,” you finally manage to say, almost tripping over your tongue. “Yeah, that'd be great.”

When Leigh mentioned grabbing something to eat, you expected a sit-down at some cozy restaurant serving healthy food. Instead, she pulls into the drive-thru of a fast-food joint, orders a mountain of fries and a couple of burgers, and parks the car in a secluded spot overlooking the city. It's laid-back, unpolished, and honestly, pretty perfect.

“So, how long have you been in town?” Leigh asks as she hands you a burger, the city lights twinkling below like a scattered deck of glowing cards.

“Just over a year,” you reply, taking a hearty bite of your burger. “Moved here for the business opportunity, but it’s been... you know, slow on the social front.”

Leigh nods, understandingly. “It can be tough, starting fresh somewhere. This place isn't the friendliest to newcomers.”

Your eyebrow lifts, curious whether she's speaking from her own experiences or perhaps someone else's.

“Yeah, most of my socializing happens online these days. My closest friends are scattered across different states,” you say.

Leigh just hums a bit, not really adding anything else. She doesn't go into details about her own friends, so you're left trying to think of something else to talk about. But everything that comes to mind feels too personal, like asking why she wasn't at the Beautiful Beast for a week, how she's dealing with being a widow, or questions about her family.

Small talk isn't really your thing, so the conversation fizzles out from here. Both of you just end up staring out at the city lights in silence. Leigh seems comfortable with it though, so you decide to just go with it and savor the quiet moment too.

After a while, Leigh breaks the silence. “I didn't think I'd be able to love another dog after Rogue,” she shares, not taking her eyes off the cityscape. “Matt and I had to put her down because she was sick. It was brutal. I swore off dogs after that.”

You look over at her and offer a soft, “I'm sorry.”

But there's no trace of sadness on her face. It’s so nonchalant, almost as if she’s just talking about the weather and not a painful memory.

“But then...I saw Visitor,” she goes on, a small smile cracking through. “I just knew he needed me. And, this might sound odd, but I realized I wanted to feel needed. When Matt—” She stumbles over his name, a rare falter, but she's quick to brush it off. “When he died, nobody needed me. And I struggled with that. Because being needed felt like a purpose.”

The idea of needing to be needed isn't something you've ever considered. Truth is, you've never really needed anyone. You've been a solo act for as long as you can remember, handling things on your own, relying solely on your own capabilities. And so, that also meant you couldn't imagine being on the other side of the spectrum—being needed by someone.

However, there's a part of you, unexpectedly, that feels a twinge of jealousy towards Leigh. To truly experience loss, there first has to be something meaningful to lose. You're not sure you've ever let yourself have that kind of bond with anyone. Not yet, anyway. It's a sobering thought, making you think about what you might be missing out on.

Leigh notices you're not saying much and says, “I don't even know why I'm telling you all this. I'm sorry.”

You shake your head slightly, “It's okay. I just... I don't think I've ever been in your shoes.”

Leigh looks a bit puzzled. “What do you mean? Are you talking about the dog thing, or…?”

“The other thing,” you clarify.

Leigh smirks. “Oh, I wish I was like that.”

You quickly realize how arrogant that must have sounded, so you rush to explain, “No, I'm not trying to brag or anything. It's just, I guess I've never really opened myself up to that kind of bond.”

“Not even with Matt?” she asks, and there it is—the topic of Matt you've been tiptoeing around. You're suddenly aware that Matt's shadow is something you'll have to get used to, just as Leigh apparently has, given the unceremonious way she alludes to your almost-affair with her late husband.

“No,” you whisper, looking straight into Leigh's eyes, hoping she’ll believe you. “We never needed each other like that.”

Leigh's eyes linger on yours a moment longer before she looks away. Eager to change the subject, you add, “Must've been rough, giving Visitor back to his real family.”

“Yeah. I mean, I shouldn't be, right? But part of me was actually angry at them for letting him get away like that. He could've been hit by a car or worse, all because they weren't careful. But at the end of the day,” she stops, a sigh escaping her, and that smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes comes back as she looks at you again. “He’s not mine.”

“Visitor really snuck into your heart, didn’t he?”

Leigh nods. “I wasn't expecting to care that much, you know?” Then, she offers a small, reflective chuckle. “Makes you think about the connections we allow ourselves to have, and the ones we avoid, doesn't it?”

You try to gauge whether she's still talking about Visitor while also trying to figure out where you stand—the connections she's chosen or the ones she sidesteps? Before you find the courage to ask, Leigh starts the car and presses down on the clutch, ready to switch gears.

“I need to head back to the studio, so I can only drop you off somewhere on the way,” Leigh says, signaling the end of your time together for now.

You quickly decide that being dropped off at the studio is fine. “The Beautiful Beast works for me,” you reply, hoping to extend the time you have left with her, even if it's just by a few minutes.

The ride is quiet, the earlier ease replaced by a thoughtful silence. You're watching her, the way she's all eyes on the road but clearly lost in her head. Leigh, as you’ve noticed, is someone hard to get to open up, her walls built high and strong. She's this fortress of a person, but tonight felt different, like she accidentally left a window open and you caught a glimpse inside.

It just makes you crave for more.

As the studio comes into view, it feels like you've both made some progress with Leigh and yet, somehow, not made any at all. Stepping out of the car, you’re met by Jules, another staff member at the Beautiful Beast whom you've heard Leigh refer to numerous times, approaches. You barely catch her saying, “Danny is waiting for you inside,” to Leigh. You miss the frown on Jules's face or how Leigh instantly seems on edge.

“Thanks for the ride—and for dinner,” you say, feeling a bit out of place now.

“Don't get used to it,” she says, the corners of her lips twisting into a reluctant smile. “Was nice talking, though. Thanks for not making it weird.”

As she's quickly pulled away by whatever's going on inside, you hover for a second, debating if you should go in for a goodbye hug. But before you know it, Leigh is tossing a quick “Bye” in your direction as she strides towards the studio.

You're left there, floating in the aftermath, wondering about everything and nothing all at once.

#unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #leigh shaw x reader #leigh shaw x female reader #leigh shaw #sorry for your loss au #leigh shaw x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #sorry i had to tag wanda x reader for visibility

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mwolf0epsilon · 1 year

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The Umbaran Pathogen - Day 4: Betrayal

Summary: After Fives, Jesse and a severely injured Hardcase end up in the brig for using the pilfered Umbaran support ships in battle, Sponge finally loses patience with Rex for submitting so easily to Krell's intimidation. Furious and with no one else to take it out on, they try their best to push Rex into proving he's not a traitor by inaction.

Warning: Explicit language (lets just say Sponge resorts to some VERY colorful language when they're mad).

Prev / Next

[In which the events on Umbara are worsened by an unknown pathogen taking hold of both the 501st and 212th. These series of drabbles will follow a non-linear timeline based on the AI-less Whumptober prompt list for 2023.]

THIS STORY IS ALSO ON AO3

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Primum non nocere. The oath of all medics. The golden rule. A promise to (in accordance to their better judgement) prescribe only beneficial treatments. To refrain from causing harm or hurt to their patients. To live an exemplary personal and professional life. The pledge that rang in Sponge's mind as a warning, whenever they stared at the back of General Krell's thick-skulled head for too long...

All personal opinions aside, they readily admitted that they were not the easiest of clones to get along with. Knew very well that their temperament was often quite difficult to deal with, in comparison to literally any other member of the 501st. But (cantankerous disposition or not), no matter how much they griped about it, they were ultimately not the sort to actually refuse anyone medical treatment if they needed it.

No matter how absurdly aggravating the means of acquiring the injury might have been...

So to be forced to retreat when still-living vode lay there injured, reaching out to in a desperate plea for help? To be ordered to turn their back on those who needed them so greatly at that moment, rendered helpless to merely watch as their siblings were snuffed out by callous indifference?

It filled them with something that they didn't feel very often. Actual seething rage. Absolute hatred for another life. All directed at the brutish Besalisk that marched onward with an air of arrogance, and blatant disgust towards the dead and dying clones he was currently commanding towards imminent doom.

Could the bastard even have a claim to the title of Jedi, when he so clearly did not see value in life? When his actions were so very unlike the serene kindness he'd seen in both General Kenobi and Commander Tano, and that he sometimes glimpsed within General Skywalker as well?

Yes, even the 501st's own Jedi General (pigheaded as he might be) was more akin to what Sponge learned the Order valued in a person than Krell demonstrated. A little unorthodox, perhaps, but not outwardly malicious in any way shape or form. Perhaps just ignorant in his absolute obliviousness to the limitations of others who did not have the Force at their beck and call.

And yes, the situation was truly grim if they were capable of singing karking Skywalker's praise on anything...

"We've lost too many brothers already..." They hissed out between gritted teeth, trying to keep their fury contained as best they could to no avail. There was no keeping their composure, not after everything they'd gone through already. "More than half of who remain are sick with some mystery illness, and patient zero is currently MIA..."

Rex watched them with those infinitely sad eyes of his. Barely able to hide the toll that all of these losses was taking on him. It only served to make Sponge's blood boil hotter. Molten lead coursing through their veins.

They didn't want this pitiful sight before them, this whimpering shell of a man that hunched in on himself all dignity forgotten. They wanted. No, they needed the proud Captain of the 501st to get mad and actually take charge of the situation. To make the right choice instead of retreating with his tail between his legs whenever Krell intimidated him. All of this was beyond unacceptable at this point...

"Kix is coming undone from all the stress, and you're making him do something that goes against his very nature! Pitch and Twitch are barely on their feet from pure exhaustion, trying to save as many of the sick and dying that we have pilling up in this base's medbay! Coric has been running around making sure everyone is accounted for while on a limp for days now!" They snarled, teeth bared at their superior officer in a clear challenge. "Krell is sending us on suicide missions, and ignoring what viable options we have for a swifter less costly success! He's is KILLING us, and your response is to roll over and show him your belly like a dog?!"

"I have tried time and time again to reason with the General..." Rex finally responded, eyes remaining glued to the base's floor. Unable to meet their gaze and face the consequences of his neglect. "He won't listen to reason... Sponge, I've begged him! Begged him to spare their lives"

"Have you now? And what did he say about that Captain...?" Starting to lose patience, they began to hit where it hurt. Hoping for anything but this disgustingly submissive behavior of his. They wanted Rex's fighting spark to flare up, not to bare witness to CT-7567's good obedience track record. "What a good bitch you are?"

"Sponge, you're out of line..." Coric warned, placing a hand on their shoulder which they shrugged off immediately. They didn't care if they were out line. They didn't care if this got them a court-martial. What they wanted was for this gods damned nightmare to end so that their vode could be rescued off this shadowy shithole and get some proper medical treatment. If that meant being nasty towards the Captain to provoke him into taking drastic actions? So be it!

"What else did you do Captain? Get on your knees for him? Suck his big fat Besalisk cock like the little bitch you are?!" They shoved at the blond clone, hard. Becoming even more infuriated by the fact he wouldn't meet their gaze or fight back. How he accepted what they were saying without contest. "Did he promise you a big promotion for tossing Fives, Hardcase and Jesse into the brig? Are you getting off on Hardcase suffering in that cell without medical treatment because your ego got bruised?! Must be so much easier to set up a firing squad when you don't have to account for the third target or pull the trigger, uh?!"

"Sponge! Stop it vod'ika!" Coric tried to pull them back, but they fought against his grip. The pauldron he'd grabbed slipping lose enough that it allowed them to get right up into the Captain's personal space

"Admit it, you're nothing but a sniveling coward who'd rather save his own skin than do the right thing by his vode!" Sponge shoved Rex again, this time sending him crashing to the ground with a loud clatter of plastoid on duracrete. "You cock-sucking aruetii! Go to hell you hut'uun! You're just as bad as that demagolka, if not worse!"

"SPONGE! STOP!" Coric's grip at last held, or rather, Sponge's back-plate remained firmly on. Offering the older medic a sturdy hand-hold which they used to pull them away from Rex. And, as good as it felt to yell and to push at the distraught Captain, they let themselves be pulled back by their ori'vod.

Because ultimately, throwing a tantrum wasn't going to fix things. It certainly didn't seem to rouse Rex out of whatever stupor he was in... They were just so very tired... And worried sick too.

Whatever was infecting the troopers was spreading fast and causing them a lot of grief on top of the per-existing threat that the enemy already posed. This mystery sickness making the men despondent and unfocused. Getting them killed faster and faster because they seemed so out of it and unable to perceive the constant danger they were in.

Sponge was sure that if they didn't wrap things up soon, that there would be none of the 501st left to return to Coruscant. Thad they'd all be completely wiped out before the troopers that had remained on the Venators took notice.

Bitterly, they wondered what General Skywalker would think of that...

Would he blame the Chancellor for calling him away on such a dire time for something that could only be trivial at best? Leaving behind a substitute General that hadn't made an effort to preserve someone else's battalion?

Would he blame Rex for shutting down upon being faced with a Jedi who, in true natborn fashion, regarded them as simple tools to be used and discarded once they were too broken to function? That didn't think they were people?

Would he blame himself for not being there for them when they needed him most? That he'd chosen to heed the Chancellor's call instead of trusting his instinct to stay and help take Umbara?

Would he mourn their losses before getting a shiny new battalion to lead towards new kinds of inglorious death? Would they be just a footnote in whatever tragedy tale the Media decided to tell and then be forgotten in favour of a freshly deployed and bright-eyed legion?

Sponge did not know the answer to any of those questions. All they knew was that this entire campaign felt like a never-ending nightmare. One that, if Rex didn't get his shit straight, Jesse, Hardcase and Fives most definitely wouldn't wake up from. There had to be something they could do for them. Otherwise what were they doing besides betraying the brothers they had vowed to protect? Betraying the oath all medics took? The one that still rang in their mind as they let Coric drag them away to cool down?

"We can't just follow orders blindly..."

"I know vod'ika..." Coric whispered while still keeping a firm grip on them. "And you know Rex knows it too."

"Could have fooled me..." They bitterly huffed, glancing back to see the Captain still sitting where he'd been left. Head bowed in both shame and resignation. "Krell's got a tight hold on him..."

"For now, yes. He's trying to mediate... But there's no mediating that shabuir..." Coric sighed. "Give him time to think... I think we could all need a breather. We have 30 minutes until we're expected to..."

"To show up with the body bags?" Sponge offered.

"Lets just... Lets just check up on Twitch and the sickly vode, and then we'll see how it goes." Coric shook his head, continuing to pull them along. "I know it's hard, but please have faith vod'ika. Hope should be the last thing to die..."

Have faith... Tsh. Somehow Sponge doubted that would help them. If anything, they'd need a miracle to survive this. Hopefully Twitch had better news for them than the inevitability of their demise. The kih'vod had been studying the strange symptoms their patients had turned up with, surely he must have discovered something new?

#Eps Writes #star wars #the clone wars #whumptober #Umbaran Pathogen AU #captain rex #clone medic coric #clone ocs #clone medic sponge

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nastybuckybarnes · 3 years

Text

Deep End - Four

Pairing: Dark!Steve Rogers X Reader

Summary: He’s back. After all your best efforts at getting away, he’s found you again. And this time, he’s not letting you go so easily. He’s determined to do whatever it takes to get you to be his. Forever.

Warnings: Dark Themes, Language, Angst, Manipulation, Fluff, Smut,

Word Count: 2.9K

A/n: Hello and welcome, formally, to part four. I hope you all had a lovely weekend and have an amazing week! I love you all very much.

Madness Masterlist

Bad Dream Masterlist

THIS IS A DARK FIC WITH SEXUAL AND TRIGGERING CONTENT!!! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!!! 18+ ONLY!!!

~*~

You sit nervously on the lip of the bathtub, picking at the skin around your thumbnail as you wait for the timer to ring.

It feels like it’s been hours already.

“It’s okay, honey. Don’t worry. If it isn’t positive, we’ll just keep trying.”

Steve's words don’t ease your anxiety the way he thinks they do.

Your eyes are trained on the timer, counting down the seconds, though you already have a feeling of what the tests are going to say.

The alarm sounds like war drums and you’re racing for the row of sticks on the bathroom counter, your heart dropping into your stomach as you inspect them.

Positive.

Every single one of them.

Tears fill your eyes and you bury your face in your hands, shoulders shaking with sobs.

There it goes.

Your last shred of hope for gaining freedom. Out the window, just like that.

Steve’s arms come up around your shoulders, hugging you tightly.

“I knew it. I just... I knew. You smell different, your breasts are bigger. I fucking knew it.”

He nudges his nose against your cheek until you finally tilt your head back, and then his lips are on yours.

You don't fight him, too hopeless to even try anymore.

Your tears are salty, you can taste them on his lips, but he doesn’t seem bothered at all by them. No, he still kisses you, walks you out of the bathroom towards the bed.

He helps you out of your clothes, his hands groping and squeezing every inch of you as if he’s never felt you before, as if you’re the first woman he’s touched in forever.

The tears are steady, continuing down your face as he pushes you gently onto the bed, his lips trailing over your inner thighs while his eyes raise to yours.

“We’re gonna have another baby, honey. I always knew your body was perfect. Absolutely made for me. And now you’re gonna give me another baby. You’re gonna grow all nice and round...” He trails off, his eyes dark and full of lust as he gazes down at your stomach as if picturing you pregnant again.

“C’mon, darling. We need to celebrate.” He sheds his clothes so that you’re both naked, his warm body pressed tightly against yours, though it does little to quell the shivers of distress rolling down your spine.

Pregnant. Again.

He places kiss after kiss onto your neck, trailing down to your breasts and halting there.

“Can’t wait for you to be nice and big again, all full and round because of me. Fuck, can’t wait ‘till you start makin’ milk again, honey.”

His lips latch around your nipple, sucking hard enough to make your back arch, a whine of pain and pleasure rolling out of your mouth.

“That’s it. M’gonna make you feel nice, honey. Gonna make you feel loved. You know I love you, huh? Yeah. I do.”

His words make your stomach twist in uncomfortable knots, and you close your eyes to avoid the intensity of his gaze. You focus instead on the feel of his body against yours, nice and warm and heavy.

One of his hands snakes between your legs, toying with your clit and dipping into your heat to prepare you for his cock.

“Getting all wet and messy for me, huh?” Your eyes remain shut, blocking out his face, the face of the man who’s done so many atrocious things to you.

He thrusts his fingers in and out rather slowly, dragging them against your sensitive walls until he deems you ready enough for him, though there’s no way to truly be ready for him.

He positions himself between your legs, perched on his haunches while his hands rub over your thighs gently.

“Can’t wait for you to have my baby, sweetheart. Gonna watch you get all nice and full, bring another life into this world for me. That’s what you’re here for, darling.”

He slides his manhood through your folds, coating himself in your essence before slowly pushing into you, forcing every inch into your tight wet heat.

Your mouth drops open, brows pulling together at the stretch of him so deep inside of you, pushing against every resistance your body brings forth. He forces himself into you until he’s seated comfortably, cock held tightly by your fluttering walls.

“Fuck, feel that. Feel you. So tight... tight ‘n wet. Fuck... Fuck...”

He pulls back then pushes in, each thrust slow and precise and far too good. You hate how good he makes you feel, how well he knows your body. You hate how good you feel beneath him, how right it feels to be with him, to be held in his arms.

And you fucking hate him for making you enjoy a single second of time spent with him.

His thrusts speed up until he’s hammering his hips into yours, each movement of his hips forcing his cock to press against your cervix painfully, but the pain is welcome.

It’s what you deserve for enjoying it.

A soft moan falls from your lips when he drops his hand between your legs, fingers working your clit with practiced ease.

He’s spent months learning and re-learning your body, he knows you almost as well as he knows himself, and if the only way you want him is physically then fine, but he’s going to make that want stronger than your hatred for him.

“O-oh god...” Your eyes squeeze shut as the edge creeps closer, each pass of his thumb on your clit and his cock between your walls bringing it so much nearer.

“You gonna cum for me, honey? Yeah? Gonna be my good girl?” You nod, if only so he doesn’t stop.

“Fuck, you feel so good, darling... so good.” He picks up speed, and you get lost in your orgasm like a leaf in a windstorm.

It picks you up and pulls you from reality. Bliss clouds your mind, your senses, and nothing matters except the rolling waves of pleasure flooding you.

“Just like that, honey... fuck.”

He drops his head into the crook of your neck, breaths hot and damp against your skin as he follows you into the blissful embrace.

His hips stutter to a stop, warmth painting your walls and filling you to the brim, just like he always does.

He pants against you, his mind consumed with obsession, adoration, love. He finally has you back in his arms. Finally gets to rebuild his family, get the happy ending he’s been craving.

He’s not gonna give it up.

You’re right where you belong.

~*~

He waits an absurdly long time before telling anyone.

He doesn’t want anyone to know, especially not Nat. Bucky, sure, he can know, but not Nat. Not after the way she kept so many secrets for so long.

It isn’t until you start showing -about two months after the positive tests- that he finally tells the two of them the good news, inviting them over to help set up the baby's room and have a nice night with his family.

Bucky and Steve have just finished painting the walls yellow, a neutral baby colour that you suggested.

Steve insists that you sit slightly outside the room, even though both windows are open and a fan is going, the paint specifically bought because it’s non-toxic.

But you don’t argue. You’ll sit as far away from them as possible.

Sarah’s in your lap, her eyes focused on the colouring book on the ground in front of her, her tongue poking out between her lips as she tries to stay inside the lines.

“Alright. That’s the crib all done. Honey, you wanna grab us a drink?”

Your head snaps up at Steve’s request, and you nod, rising to your feet and instinctively dropping a hand to your small bump.

“Can I help?” Sarah asks excitedly, bouncing up onto her toes and following you down the stairs.

“Of course. You wanna bring this up to Uncle Bucky?”

You pour two glasses of lemonade, one for the blond and one for the brunet.

“Can I have some?” You nod, grabbing a cup for her as she starts carefully up the stairs with the glass.

“Need a hand?” You stiffen, eyes slowly raising to the redhead’s.

“No.”

She sighs, taking a seat at the counter.

“Just hear me out, (Y/n), please. I just... I just wanna explain. Please.” You grind your teeth together at her.

“What could you possibly have to say to me? How could you possibly explain the way you betrayed me? Betrayed Sarah? You got my dad killed, Natasha, and now I’m pregnant again.”

She looks so lost, so desperate, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s her fault you’re here.

"Just please, (Y/n). Please.” There’s nothing you can really do to stop her. It’s obvious that Bucky and Steve would side with her over you in a heartbeat.

“I never breathed a single word of your whereabouts to anyone, I swear. Not even my therapist. I swear on my life, (Y/n) I never told anyone where to find you.”

You look up at her and shake your head.

“You were the only other person who knew where we were hiding.”

She lets out a shaky breath and looks away from your eyes.

“After what happened at the cabin I started going to therapy. Saw a good therapist who helped me get through a lot of stuff. James was going to therapy too, we were getting better together.”

You don’t think any therapy in the world will change the fact that James Barnes is a monster through and through, but you don’t say that to her. No, you let her continue.

“I started getting better. James did too. We got back to work, to helping people, being the good guys.”

She pauses, sniffling then scrubbing at her cheek.

“I told him that uh, one of my friends had a baby and that spending time around them made me want one too. It upset me because that... that’s a dream that I’ll never be able to have. Or, I thought it was.” A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, but it lacks any positive emotions behind it.

“He told me about this experimental procedure that they started doing in Switzerland. Reversals for female sterilization. Highly experimental but... he said I should give it a shot. The worst that would happen would be... well... no worse than what I’ve had to live with for most of my life.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, not in defiance but in comfort. Self-comfort, and for a moment you feel bad for her.

“I talked it over with Bucky. Told him about how much I wanted a baby, a little mini version of him or I, and he was on board. Said he wished I told him sooner.” She chuckles, shaking her head fondly at the memory.

“That’s when I left for that while, remember?” You nod.

She missed Christmas and you were only slightly devastated at having to spend the holiday alone.

“I got the procedure done. Was on bed rest for a while after and even after I was given a clean bill of health I... I didn’t want to try. I was too nervous. Afraid that it wouldn't work but more afraid that it would.”

She takes a deep breath, her eyes squeezed shut tightly as she recounts the events that occurred leading up to your abduction. Her betrayal.

“It uh... it took three months but we conceived. I was finally pregnant.” She smiles a tearful, wet smile at you and your own eyes prickle with tears as you realize that her story won’t have a happy ending.

Your mind immediately goes to the worst things you can think of, ranging from miscarriage to murder, and you find yourself wanting to call Sarah down away from her father.

“I was ecstatic, (Y/n). I was so fucking happy.” Her eyes are filled with a type of sorrow that you’re far too familiar with. One you’ve felt too much in your short life.

“I told my shrink about it, told him how happy I was. Bucky and I cried together when we found out cause... we were finally gonna be parents. That’s around the time when I started coming by more often. What, sic months ago? Yeah, right around then. I uh, I wanted to wait until I was showing more to tell you, but...” She trails off, her face falling even more and tears trailing down her cheeks.

“That’s around the same time when Bucky started seeing Steve more. Spent less and less time at home with me and more time with Steve. I uh, got a call one day from his therapist, asking if everything was okay because she hadn’t seen him in weeks. That’s when I knew something wasn’t right. We hadn’t spoken to Steve since the cabin incident and then Bucky was spending every waking moment with him.”

She stops speaking, her fingers trembling and her bottom lip wobbling.

“What happened to the baby?” You ask softly, needing to know who hurt her, who caused it.

She exhales deeply and slowly opens her eyes.

“I uh, I guess Bucky must’ve told him. And uh... if Steve can’t have his happily ever after then no one can.”

My heart drops into my stomach.

“What did he do?”

She doesn’t answer right away. No, instead she picks at her fingers for a long moment.

“Did you know... that drinking certain teas can cause a miscarriage? Because I didn’t.” You furrow your brows, trying to figure out what she means until it dawns on you.

“He made you drink it?” You’re not sure which ‘he’ you’re talking about, but you know it must’ve been at least one, if not both of them.

“The last time I uh, set foot in this house before that dinner we had together... he invited us over for drinks and to watch the game. He made me some tea and asked me why I thought it was okay to keep secrets from him. I didn’t understand what he meant at the time but... that hardly matters. A few days later I started bleeding. A lot. I was in the infirmary for days on end only to find out that he’d poisoned my baby.”

She sniffles again and wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“After that, he didn’t trust me, only trusted Bucky. Went to my therapist and took his notes, beat answers out of him when he refused to speak. I’m assuming they bugged me o-or something. Or followed my licence plate, searched through my history to figure it out."

Her candy apple green eyes meet yours, vibrant and staring directly into your soul with passion and fire rivalling that of a forest fire.

“I never breathed a single word of you or Sarah to anyone. Steve figured it out on his own, after almost killing my therapist, and killing my baby. I never said anything, I swear. On the life of my child, I didn’t say a thing.”

Your breaths come in shallow bursts, anxiety spiking as you shake your head.

“I-I don’t...” She puts a gentle hand on your shoulder and nods, guiding you towards the couch.

“I’m sorry. But that’s... that’s the truth. Steve is a monster, and he’s got Bucky following him mindlessly. I don’t... I don’t know what to do or who to turn to.”

You open your mouth to speak, but the sound of feet trudging down the stairs cuts you off.

“Everything alright down here?” Steve asks, reaching for his glass of lemonade but pausing when he sees the look of distress on your face.

His eyes flutter between you and Nat before he takes a seat beside you, grabbing your hand gently in his.

“Honey? You okay?”

You shake your head, trying to rid it of the overwhelming thoughts.

“Mommy?” The three of you look up as Sarah bounds down the stairs, climbing into your lap.

“Where’s my juice?” You pick her up and rest her on your hip as you stand up, walking into the kitchen to grab her cup of juice and distance yourself from the people on the couch.

Bucky comes down the stairs next, confused and wondering where everyone went.

His eyes find Natasha’s first, the poorly masked sorrow colouring her features, and his heart aches.

Sarah drinks her lemonade quickly, making a loud ‘ahh’ sound once she’s devoured the last drop.

“Can we have pizza for dinner?” She asks eagerly, looking up at you with big blue eyes.

You swallow hard then nod, your eyes slowly raising to Steve’s as he walks over to you.

“Pizza?” You ask softly, turning back to your daughter when he nods.

“Of course.” She squeals excitedly, wrapping her arms around your neck and hugging you tightly.

You hug her closer to your body, burying your face in her hair as a tear slips down your cheek.

You knew he was a bad man, but you never thought he’d hurt a child. That would’ve been his niece or nephew, a friend for Sarah and your new baby. But no, he decided that Natasha didn’t deserve her happy ending, neither did Bucky.

Natasha is one of the few friends you’ve ever had, and the fact that he’d hurt her that way, kill off her one dream, is disgusting.

It makes you wonder what he’ll do to you, or even Sarah.

You thought hurting kids was something Steve would never do, but now you’re not so sure.

#Steve rogers #Steve Rogers x reader #dark!fic #dark!steve #dark!fanfiction #steve x reader dark fic #stucky x reader dark fic #Steve rogers x reader dark fic #dark fic #Steve Rogers x reader dark au #trigger warning #tw: rape #tw: miscarriage #trigger warning: miscarriage #miscarriage #Dark au #marvel dark au #marvel dark fic

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calaofnoldor · 3 years

Text

What’s Mine

Characters: Sam x F!Reader, Dean

Words: 7,595

Summary: The secret you and Sam are hiding from Dean is threatened by your inability to keep your hands off each other.

Warnings: 18+ no actual smut but plenty of implied smut, pre-smut, and smut adjacency lol, secret dating, enemies to lovers, jealousy and possessiveness (exhibited by both sam and reader), slight obsession with sam’s big ass hands (i blame this largely on @walkerboy290‘s glorious hand porn gif sets), and language

A/N: inspired by and written for @thinkinghardhardlythinking bc she’s been bugging me to write smut and using her birthday as a bargaining chip, so i hope you’re happy sai. happy (belated) birthday babe! i suppose in my subconscious need to truly honor you, this became the longest one shot i’ve ever written... that and this is now also a little birthday gesture for the brilliant and beautiful @sams-sass (damn your close birthdays!) even though she never asked for smut (if you hate it, i’ll write you something else!) happy birthday to you too, darling!

also written for @superbadassnatural‘s 333 badass followers celebration with the prompt “___ and I are together.” “Yeah, right, and I’m Santa.” and @writethelifeyouwant‘s 300 follower fic challenge with the prompt “All the pretty girls like Samuel” (both prompts are bolded in the fic) i’m sorry i’m so late! congratulations to both of you and thanks for letting me enter your challenges!

[basically i have a lot of people to blame for this disaster 😂]

Square Filled: Secret Dating for @spnfluffbingo and Enemies to Lovers for @girl-next-door-writes Make Me Feel Bingo

MASTERLIST

The waffles on your plate are surprisingly good for a sketchy, 50’s-themed diner, but unfortunately your attention is elsewhere. In fact, the two distinctly masculine voices behind you have been obnoxiously impairing your ability to savor the buttery, syrup-doused carbs since their owners sat down in the adjoining booth. It’s the topic of their discussion that disturbs you, and nips at your conscience until you realize you can no longer take off without imparting a few words to your oblivious colleagues.

Turning your head subtly to the side, you try to catch a glimpse of the men you’re about to confront in your peripheral vision. From what you can see, they’re both rather burly, a little rough around the edges, and from what you’ve heard, recklessly cocksure. You know the type all too well. Being a lone hunter of the fairer sex for most of your life means you’ve long since learned that the best way to combat their kind is with a steadfast façade of thick skin and unwavering confidence.

So you sigh and put on your best smile before turning around, crossing your forearms along the top of the booth seat, “Listen fellas, I hate to interrupt, but I really wouldn’t bother with the bamboo dagger and Shinto priest if I were you.”

“And who the hell are you?” the one with shorter hair demands. He’s a bit stockier than his companion and has a face that looks like it was designed by Abercrombie and Fitch - well that explains the arrogance.

“I’m the person who’s about to save your asses evidently,” you respond with a smug grin, trying not to let their absurdly good looks deter your act.

Abercrombie’s partner, the Fabio wannabe, releases a quiet scoff, “And how are you gonna do that?” he questions dubiously.

“By letting you in on a little secret…” Throwing him a tight smile, you lean forward and lower your voice, “That ōkami you’re after? It’s not an ōkami, it’s a ghoul.” Sitting back, you await the outrage.

“What?! But that’s not possible, I checked the lore. And it’s obviously got a type.” Fabio’s glossy chestnut locks fall across his delicate features as he shakes his head in disbelief, and you almost snort out loud. How did this amateur expect to hunt with hair like that?

You look him over, taking in the broad shoulders and muscled arms, as well as the obvious height advantage he’s got over Abercrombie even whilst they’re both seated. To be honest, you’re surprised he’s referencing lore at all. Guys his size always assume they can either outman or outgun whatever obstacles cross their path, and they almost never take women like you seriously, despite your ample years of acquired knowledge and invaluable experience. It’s this experience that surmises a bit of antagonism here is inevitable, so you might as well get a head start.

“Yeah well maybe you should check again, big guy,” you glance down at his hands, your first mistake as their sheer size render you speechless and subsequently agitated at yourself for the momentary lapse of visceral lust, but the show must go on, “Make sure those giant, lumbering hands of yours don’t fumble over anything important or you might miss the connection to Isabelle Harding. You see it’s not ‘a type’; it’s revenge.”

“Wh- Bu- I looked through the files. I wouldn’t have missed that,” Fabio insists.

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you type ‘Isabelle Harding’ and ‘1987 school bombing’ into your search bar and see what comes up?” you gesture towards the laptop on their table with a raised brow. Minutes later, both men are dumbfounded by the revelation on the screen, staring between it and you with their mouths agape.

You chuckle silently at their faces, “Don’t worry, there’s no need to thank me. Although you rookies might wanna go home and let the more experienced hunter finish up here.” As you’re about to bid them farewell, you dip back in to add, “Oh and a word of free advice, maybe don’t discuss supernatural monsters quite so loudly in public spaces next time. It might invite unwanted attention.”

With that, you turn around and slap some cash down next to your unfinished waffles, before grabbing your jacket and strutting out the door.

Sam is left in utter confusion. The sudden animosity you had spouted his way seems completely baseless and unwarranted. Had he somehow offended you? Sam generally considers himself a highly respectful and fairly easy-going guy, not quite as hot-blooded as his brother, and thus not as likely to provoke such antipathy from a complete stranger. To make matters worse, he certainly can’t deny that something about you had registered within his subconscious as inexplicably attractive, despite the way you’d embarrassed him. In his flustered and slightly aroused state, it had been all he could do to remain awestruck in his seat and stare blatantly at your ass as you walked away.

The next time Sam sees you is only twelve hours later and no less humiliating. You’re mid-swing in the killing blow against what you had accurately predicted to be a ghoul as he and Dean tumble in. Despite the low lighting, Sam is once again stupefied by your raging beauty, augmented by the incredible skill you’re displaying in a much more physical sense this time around. Before he can drag his eyes away, there’s a collective shout of “watch out!” and suddenly you’re right in front of him. In a blur of events, you somehow manage to push Sam out of the way and successfully decapitate the unexpected second ghoul that had been sneaking up behind him, with only a slice across the arm to show for it.

“Didn’t I tell you two to go home?” You’re panting from the exertion and Sam’s gaze lands on the neckline of your shirt, skewed from the fight and revealing a good amount of cleavage. He quickly averts his eyes. What is happening? Sam can’t remember the last time anyone had evoked such a staggering reaction from him. He feels as if he’s a mere spectator in his own body.

Across from him, you press your hand against the wound and curse when it comes back covered in blood. At your groan of pain, Sam finally finds his voice again, “Shit. I’m so sorry! I don’t know how I missed that other one. I- that normally doesn’t happen.”

“Yeah, I bet that’s what you say to all the girls, huh?” you reply offhand, still a bit out of breath.

It’s easy for Sam to dismiss your mocking given that he feels terribly guilty for being the cause of your injury. From where he’s standing, the cut looks deep. “Here, at least let me stitch it up for you. It’s too awkward a position for you to do it yourself,” he offers, holding out his ginormous hands to you like he’s waving a white flag.

“I think you’ve done enough damage for one day, haven’t you, big guy? At this point, I’d rather Abercrombie over there be the one behind the needle.”

“Who- what?” are the first words Dean speaks since the action has died down.

You turn to face the shorter guy, “Oh don’t look so surprised. You might as well be the model for a slightly older Ken doll. Are you up for it or not?”

Dean’s mouth hangs open as he tries to determine whether he should feel flattered or insulted.

“Uh- actually, I’m better at stitches than my brother,” Sam butts in.

“With those jumbo, fumbling hands? Yeah, sure you are, big guy,” you decline skeptically.

“It’s Sam,” he states through a clenched jaw.

“OK, Sam. Since I just saved your life, you mind making yourself useful and burning those bodies while your bro puts my arm back together? You know, as a ‘thank you’ perhaps?”

Sam is stunned for the third time that day. No one has ever belittled him (whilst gratuitously attacking his size) insofar without any apparent reason. It seems as though his very existence upsets you and the arbitrariness of your contempt has caused an anger to stir beneath him, but beyond that lies bewilderment and irritation. How had he managed to accomplish two such massive mistakes in front of you in the span of so short a time? Perturbed and bitter, Sam silently sets to work on the bodies.

Meanwhile, you’ve come to a surprising realization as Dean begins to cut the fabric of your flannel away from your damaged arm, the name ‘Sam’ and the words ‘my brother’ resounding in your head, “Wait a second- there’s no way… you’re not… the Winchesters, are you? Sam and… Dean?”

“The one and only, sweetheart.” He sends you a dazzling smile that is as perfect as you’d expect, but within his eyes is an underlying poignancy that you recognize as clear as day: an indication of a traumatic past and a lifetime spent plastering on tough veneers. You notice as well how gentle his touch is and how his stitches are practiced and prudent. Perhaps you had judged him too hastily.

Through an incredulous chuckle, you retort, “Well I can’t say I didn’t expect more from you, but at least this’ll get me a free round of drinks at the hunters’ pub tonight.”

Dean laughs with you before sobering at the thought of how his baby brother must be feeling, “Hey listen, take it easy on Sammy, alright? I don’t know what’s gotten into him today but he’s not usually like this. He’s actually the smart one, believe it or not.”

Scoffing, you can’t help but smile back at Dean and soon find an easy rhythm with the older Winchester, despite your awkward introduction.

From several yards away, however, Sam looks wistfully back to see you smiling lightheartedly at something Dean’s said, the two of you huddled in close proximity as his brother’s hands drift across your bare skin. Something akin to envy bubbles within his chest although he’s aware it makes no sense, so with a frown, Sam does his best to shake it off and get back to work.

But it’s not easy to forget you. And just as Sam is beginning to think he’s rid that awful day from his memory, you pop back into his life three months down the line.

“Well, if it isn’t the overgrown hunter extraordinaire Sammy Winchester.” The sarcasm that oozes from your otherwise beguiling voice has him gritting his teeth in no time.

“It’s Sam.”

“So you here to mess up my hunt again, Sam?”

Although he wishes he could have been the bigger man instead of surrendering to the resentment you roused within him, after a couple repeated hatchet burying attempts fall through, Sam just can’t resist the little game you’ve started.

Over the next few months, you and Dean form a fortuitously close bond and the older Winchester develops a habit of calling you up when faced with a troublesome hunt, and vice versa. Despite Sam’s fabricated displeasure, a show he puts on mostly for Dean (since any other emotion would seem illogical given the way you treat him), Sam is peculiarly and begrudgingly excited to see you every time. But the match never ends. In fact, Sam lets it intensify each time you work together, always astounded by how you manage to get him so worked up.

“I’m telling you, it’s a rugaru!”

“Right, because the last time we listened to you, things worked out so well,” you remark sardonically.

“The lore says-“

“Ooh, quoting the lore again now are we, Mr. Know It All?”

At this point, Sam is about as huffy and puffy as the big bad wolf and if he were a cartoon character, there’d surely be steam erupting from his ears. “Look, Y/N, this isn’t about who knows more or who’s right; this is about saving those people’s lives!”

“You think I don’t know that? Was I not the one who saved your life the first time we met?”

“OK, alright, just shut up you two!” Dean finally shouts above you, “Would it kill you to just get along for two seconds?”

“No,” Sam admits.

“Probably,” you say at the same time, causing Sam to shoot you his overly perfected bitch face.

SIX MONTHS LATER

“What the fuck?!” Dean’s booming voice echoes throughout the bunker and moments later you and Sam come flying into the kitchen to answer his call, guns at the ready.

“What? What is it?” you ask while Sam scans the room.

A whimper is the only the way to describe the sound of Dean’s reply, as he points toward an unseen object on the floor. Edging toward him, you lower your gun in the direction of his finger until you discover the source of Dean’s distress.

With a sigh, you look toward Sam who is also exhaling in relief at the sight of the entity in question. The two of you share a moment of wordless conversation before simultaneously dropping your guns with a conclusive nod.

“Why does this feel like déjà vu?” Dean’s tone is still timid and appalled, and you nearly laugh at the idea of a grown-ass man looking so aghast because of a used condom.

“Because it kinda is…” you supply unhelpfully, earning yourself a small glare from the man beside you.

“Dean,” Sam begins with a deep breath, “There’s something we have to tell you… Y/N and I are together.”

The snort that escapes Dean is full-bodied and borderline psychotic, “Yeah, right, and I’m Santa!”

You wait till his snickering subsides, “No, it- it’s true.” Your voice is hesitant yet hopeful, “We’re not joking. We’ve kinda become… a thing.”

“A thing?”

“Yeah, well you know, I don’t wanna have to put a label on it or-“

“Y/N’s my girlfriend,” Sam declares with conviction as he reaches out to curl his long fingers around your waist and lasso you towards him.

“-Buuuut, that is the one I’d use if anyone asks,” you quickly affirm with a stiff pat to your boyfriend’s abdomen, wincing at the unversed attempt of PDA and missing the dimpled grin that crosses Sam’s amused features.

“Well, I don’t buy it. I don’t believe either of you.” Dean’s sturgeon face comes on strong as he shakes his head and points a challenging finger at you, “Kiss him, right now,” he dares with perked brows.

The eye roll you respond with is so dramatic your entire head moves with it. But then, without a moment of pause, you turn your body into Sam’s, reach up to grab the back of his neck and pull him down for a searing kiss. Now this is something you’re well-versed in. The reunion of your lips starts off relatively slow, but it doesn’t take long to escalate into something more fiery that involves tongue, the eager push and pull movements of your bodies, and Sam’s enormous hands cradling your head.

After a moment of shock, Dean objects, “Alright, alright, I get it! That’s enough of that!”

Unwilling to recede just yet, you linger in the kiss for a little longer, delaying your separation by nibbling down on Sam’s lower lip and tugging gently, only releasing it as you pull away torturously slow. When the two of you finally open your languid eyes, it’s to stare into each other’s dilated pupils and ponder the moment for an indiscernible minute.

“What th- I said, I get it! Now could please stop ogling each other before my lunch comes back out the wrong way?!”

But the way Sam’s smiling at you is addictive and you can’t bring yourself to look away until he forces a break by leaning in to plant a tender kiss upon your forehead before tucking you into his side as he faces his brother again.

Dean’s face is covered by his hand, “I’m gonna need a minute. I just-“ His features leap through a range of expressions as he tries to find the right words, “When the hell did this start anyway? I thought you two couldn’t stand each other?”

“Yeahhh, that was mostly an act. Although we bought it at first too,” you explain with a shrug.

“We weren’t pretending the whole time. It just kind of happened and we didn’t really know how else to act around each other by then,” Sam adds.

“Right, basically it turns out there’s a fine line between love and hate... and that line is hardcore yearning.” Your words bring a chuckle to Sam’s lips but his brother still looks out of sorts.

Shaking his head with closed eyes, Dean sighs, “Alright, can someone just explain to me exactly how this happened, because I’m still not computing here. But spare me the details and try to keep it PG-13,” he emphasizes with adamant hand gestures.

“How do you know it’s not PG-13?” you inquire with a held-back laugh.

“Ha. With the way you two were playing tonsil hockey just now, I can tell you’ve been around the bend way more than I wanna know. My little brother doesn’t kiss like that on the first date.”

It’s impossible to hold back a giggle at the memory of your ‘first date’ and the way Sam had kissed you, “OK well, that would be hard, considering the story involves a lot of sex... You wanna give it a go, big guy?” you pass the ball over to Sam with a quirked brow and lowered voice, to which he responds with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, a little warning glance that you’re well aware means ‘save it for the bedroom’ but you simply smirk up at him.

‘Big guy’ used to be a term you called Sam in contempt, but when the feelings between you evolved and a sexual relationship developed, it became an innuendo, such that calling him ‘big guy’ in front of Dean or in public almost always results in glorious sex. In fact, sometimes you believe the nickname has held a slightly obscene connotation for you since the beginning.

Afterall, your carnal longing for him has been present from day one, although at the time you had believed it to be purely physical. Sure, you had dreams about having him in various positions in your bed, but you figured those were merely betrayals of your subconscious mind. That was until one day, a heated argument in a rare moment alone had ended up in a violent make out session, after which the two of you had just barely gotten the last of your clothes back on before Dean walked in. One look at your worked up and frenetic states alongside the disordered condition of your surroundings, and he immediately assumed you’d been fighting again (which wasn’t terribly far from the truth), chortling as he asked if you would have killed each other had he returned a bit later.

With a clearing of his throat, Sam begins to recount the tale, “Uh, well it started in that motel in South Carolina, while you were out getting food…”

“Look, all I’m saying is there is no way he’s using the hospital as a dump site! It’s just not feasible!”

With complete disregard for the peace and quiet of the other residents within this thin-walled motel, you and Sam once again find yourselves in a shouting match.

“Oh right, I forgot! You’re Sam Winchester! How could you POSSIBLY be wrong?! Mister ‘look at me, my IQ and LSAT score match my fucking height! Oh and I also happen to have the physique of an Adonis without even owning a gym membership!’” you roar bitterly, gesticulating with your hands to help better communicate your pent-up indignation.

“Right and you’re Y/N Y/L/N, so how could YOU possibly be wrong? Miss ‘look at me, I never went to college but I’m a genius AND I can kick ass! Oh and I also happen to look effortlessly stunning through it all!’” Sam suddenly seems bigger than ever as he towers over you, that panty-soaking deep voice emanating from his diaphragm and infusing itself throughout the entire room until all you can see, hear, and breathe is Sam.

The fury takes over and you don’t notice your feet taking you closer to him, “Oh yeah because you don’t make EVERYTHING you do look so unnecessarily hot and make me wanna rip your clothes off all the damn time!”

“Fuck! And you don’t always drive me crazy when we have these stupid arguments and your chest starts heaving and you look so insanely delectable I just wanna pick you up and fuck you against the closest surface!” By now, the distance between you is essentially nonexistent and your brain is no longer run by reason.

“So why don’t you then?” are your famous last words, prompting Sam to grab you wildly by the back of a thigh, lifting slightly and driving you to climb up him like a spider monkey fleeing from a grounded predator, while his other hand pushes your hair aside to gain better access to your face. Your mouths clash in a fierce battle and before you know it, Sam’s huge hands are cupping your ass as your legs wrap around his waist and you rut into him, hands flying from his shoulders to his hair. Those divine chestnut locks that you’ve always dreamed of running your fingers through. They’re somehow even softer than you imagined and the revelation, in conjunction with the way Sam’s tongue is becoming increasingly aggressive causes a fresh surge of libidinous energy to rocket through you. As a result, you give his silky strands an irresistible tug and drink in the moan he makes, the sinful sound reverberating straight down to your core as you clench around nothing.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Sam groans as he grudgingly forces himself to pull back as much as he can, “Are you sure? Is this what you want? Cause I can’t- Y/N I won’t be able to stop myself if we keep going.” His eyes squeeze shut as if the notion of stopping or the act of keeping his lips away from yours is causing him genuine pain, and the entire gesture moves you.

“Fuck, you really are the opposite of everything I thought you would be,” you make a quick mental note to apologize later for your initially presumptuous behavior although you can’t find it within yourself to feel any remorse right now, “Yes, please Sam, fuck me. I want you so bad… I think I have since we met and I saw those gorgeous hands of yours,” you confess, biting your lip lightly.

Sam breathes out a low incredulous laugh, “What, these?” he asks, removing one of the aforementioned hands away from your butt to bring it into your line of vision.

“Yes, fuck they’re so big and beautiful and strong and-“

“Alright, I don’t need to know about your weird hand fetish!” Dean hollers abruptly, rubbing his fingers across his eyes as if he could somehow erase the image of you and his brother together out of his retinas. “OK, but that was like… four months ago. You mean you’ve been sneaking around behind my back this whole time?”

“Well at first we didn’t want to tell you because we weren’t even sure what it was ourselves,” you divulge.

“Yeah, we didn’t want to try to explain something that we didn’t understand yet,” Sam supplements, hoping his brother will understand the motive behind your secrecy.

You nod along, “But then… it got a little harder to hide.”

The apprehension behind Dean’s emerald eyes is unmistakable as he reluctantly inquires, “That’s why this felt like déjà vu?”

It’s with a grimace that you reply, hesitantly, “Remember the time you found those panties in the backseat of the Impala?”

Dean’s eyes grow comically wide and Sam ducks his head in preparation of what’s to come.

“Yeah, there’s a story behind that…”

The click of her heels against the porcelain-tiled foyer irritates you as the three of you stride through her front door. You’re posing as detectives sent to question this overdressed young woman about her late husband, but the moment she lays her eyes on Sam, you reckon she’s forgotten her beloved’s damn name.

“Oh my… lord and savior. Well aren’t you a tall drink of water?” she beholds breathlessly with a seductive bite of her painted ruby lips.

You cough loudly and Dean sniggers, thinking you’re annoyed about Sam getting such commendation and attention during a serious case.

“I know this might be the grief talking, but I would climb you like a tree,” she purrs, sauntering up to Sam with an exaggerated sway of her hips. With her half-lidded doe eyes adorned with dark, fluttery lashes and low, sultry voice, you have to admit she’s quite attractive.

Grinding your teeth as your nails dig into your palms, you glower at the woman unreservedly. She, however, takes no notice, running her hands along Sam’s forearms before gripping at his bicep to lead him toward her living room. “Please, come have a seat, detective. You can ask me whatever you want.” The wink she appends is somehow the final nail in the coffin.

It’s with zero hesitation that you feign the reception of a notification on your phone before declaring, “Oh would you look at that, the uh… Sheriff needs us back at the station, Sam. He says it’s urgent.” You try to keep your tone even, thankful that you all maintained your real first names for these aliases, “Dean, you’re good to conduct this interview on your own, right?” Without waiting for an answer, you trample over to snatch Sam’s other arm and ignoring the horny widow’s gaping mouth, proceed to haul him away.

Dean sends you a strange look but relents, “Uh, yeah I guess, OK.”

As soon as the door closes behind you, your hand shifts down to lace your fingers with Sam’s, marching him towards the Impala with a staunch and mighty purpose. Even Sam’s elongated legs stumble to keep up.

“So uh… when did you give the Sheriff your number?” There’s an edge in his voice that normally disappears when it’s just the two of you.

“Wha- I didn’t. Sam, I just made all that up,” you tell him as you reach the car and open its back door. Pushing Sam inside, you climb in swiftly after him, wasting no time as you straddle his thighs and begin to undress him, only pausing when he looks up at you in adorable, puppy-like confusion.

“Wait, what? Then what are we doing?”

That’s when it finally dawns on you, “Hold on a sec, were you… jealous?” You can’t help but smile, finding it amusing that he’s stewing in his own envy after what you just witnessed.

“No, I just- He was kinda all over you this morning.”

“You mean like the way Mrs. My-Husband-Just-Died-But-I-Wanna-Climb-You-Like-a-Tree was in there?”

“Oh, that’s what this is about?” Sam perks up, the hint of a smug grin ghosting across his lips.

“She was practically holding your hand!”

“That’s what bothered you the most?” He dips his head to catch your eyes and those variegated irises burn into you with an intense, questioning gaze, alight with mischievous curiosity.

“They’re my hands to hold,” you contend with a pout, subconsciously clenching your thighs around his as you seize one of his large hands with two of your much smaller ones, “Just like you’re my tree to climb.”

Sam’s head falls back in bright laughter, “I thought you said they were ‘oversized’ and ‘ungainly’?” he teases, quoting your previous slights.

“You know I only said that cause Dean was there.”

“I’m pretty sure you called them ‘fumbly’ and ‘lumbering’ the first time we met.”

Staring at his fingers as you play with them, you shiver at the memory of how they feel all over you. “That was cause I used to think all hunters with a Y chromosome were cocky, misogynistic assholes who needed to be knocked down a peg or two.”

“But I proved you wrong, right?”

“Fuck yes you did. So, so wrong. And now you’re mine, and I don’t like seeing other people touch what’s mine,” you growl before returning to your earlier task of removing his clothes, pouncing on him when your fingers finally land on bare skin. You kiss him fiercely, swallowing his surprised grunts with glee, and as his hands start travelling from your hips up to your back, holding you tight against him, your lips move down to his pulse point, sucking, licking, and nibbling, “Mine.”

“Fucking Jesus Christ on a cracker! You goddamn rabbits!” Dean squawks in protest as he begins to pace the floor, “Have you no decency?! And in my poor Baby! While I was busy doing all the work, saving lives!”

You roll your eyes at his melodramatics and can feel the tension in Sam’s abdominal muscles as he attempts to restrain his laughter. As if Dean had never taken a break during a case for a stress-relieving quickie before, or hadn’t been at least somewhat grateful to be left alone with a beautiful woman.

His next comment confirms your point, “Although, if I remember correctly that lady was a fox.” After a brief pondering pause and an introspectively appreciative smirk, Dean’s whining resumes, “But seriously! I can’t believe you two! Here I was feeling bad for forcing you to work and live together, hoping you’d eventually learn to get along when this whole time you were shacking up like animals and casually defiling my Baby just because what? Some girl touched Sam’s hand?!”

Feeling emboldened by the catharsis of this long-overdue airing of your dirty laundry, you decide to add to Dean’s exasperation, “Yeah and in the spirit of honesty, that might’ve happened more than once.” Sam tries to hold back his snort as he gives your hip a playful cautionary squeeze while Dean’s feet come to a full stop as he turns to give you a death glare. “Hey, it’s not my fault all the pretty girls like Samuel! And I’m pretty sure we wiped her down after.”

“I don’t even-“ Dean purses his lips and quirks his head with a dynamic expression of unbearable vexation, “You better be getting me pie every day of the week for what you did.“ He takes a deep breath before circling back, “Wait, OK so you’re telling me that a used condom ended up in our kitchen because- what? You two couldn’t keep it in your pants long enough to find a bed? You know what, forget I asked. I don’t wanna know. Did you at least sanitize the place after?? No, of course you didn’t, you left a fucking condom on the floor… I think I’m gonna throw up.”

But you hardly hear Dean’s rambling because you and Sam are far too wrapped up in each other, smiling as you recall the events of that morning.

Your eyes slowly drift open to find the most exalting sight in all the world: Sam Winchester’s sleeping face, blissful and serene. Lifting a hand to gingerly cup his cheek, the corners of your mouth curl up when he leans into your touch. It’s moments like this that make you wish you could wake up next to him every morning.

Only after you’ve traced his every feature and planted a soft kiss where his dimple would be if he were awake and smiling, do you carefully peel yourself from his side, slipping out of his hold as you quietly climb out of bed. Sam rolls over a bit and you freeze with bated breath, watching as his big arm extends out in your direction as if trying to reach for you in his sleep, before stilling again.

Mornings like this are rare and you want him to soak up all the restful sleep he can. Once you’re sure you haven’t woken him, you scan the room for something to cover your naked figure, until your eyes land on the flannel he’d worn the night before. Picking it up, you bring it to your nose and inhale deeply to revel in the residual scent of Sam. Another glimpse at his peaceful, sleeping form has you smiling fondly. God, you are such a goner for that man. It’s becoming hard to reserve your soft looks toward him for private moments alone.

You can barely remember how it happened, but over time, you’d come to learn that Sam is nothing like you originally imagined him to be. He’s kind-hearted and open-minded, the type of soul that can find hope and beauty in even the darkest of places, a far cry from the shallow macho man silhouette you’d expected him to fill. In fact, Sam routinely defies the expectations others have enforced upon him, proving his worth time and time again as he’s persisted through some of what must be the toughest challenges to ever face a single human. Yet through it all, his spirit remains intact, never once yielding to cynicism or resentment or apathy or even the building of walls as you and Dean have resorted to. He is truly the bravest man you know and infinitely more competent than your first fluke of a hunt with him had mistakenly suggested, both in the field and in bed.

Shaking the thoughts from your head, you wrap yourself in plaid and head out the door. Dean never questions your use of Sam’s shirts because ever since Sam firmly insisted on giving you his flannel after your second encounter with them resulted in Dean cutting your own top apart, you’ve grown into a habit of borrowing Sam’s clothes. You always claim they’re more comfortable than your own and Sam’s feigned annoyance over you ‘stealing’ his belongings tides Dean right over.

Half an hour passes before Sam approaches the bunker kitchen to find you with your back towards the entrance, busy prepping breakfast in nothing but his plaid. He pauses in the doorway to stare at you for a minute, licking his lips with an irrepressible smile. For some, this may seem like a stereotypical morning after, but for a couple of hunters, it feels like a dream come true.

After finally returning to the bunker last night following the completion of a series of successful hunts, you’ve got no solid obligations and very little on your to-do lists today, although Sam’s got more than a few ideas about how to pass the time, and a couple more come to mind when you stretch up on your toes to reach for something, causing the hem of his shirt to glide up until its corner reveals just slightest hint of your incredible ass. Sam can’t suppress his little grunt of approval, which catches your attention and makes you turn your head, peering back at him over your shoulder.

You smirk at the blessed view of him standing there in nothing but the pair of thin grey sweatpants you’d bought him a month ago when you discovered the viral online phenomenon, “Hey, big guy. You just gonna stand there and gawk or do you wanna make yourself useful and grab another plate from the top shelf?”

Chuckling at your false animosity, Sam stalks toward you, “Good morning to you too.” One of his vast hands falls upon your hip as he presses the maximum possible length of his body into your back side, while his other hand reaches up over your head to snatch the plate you’d asked for.

“Good morning indeed,” you concur with a silent gasp when you feel the generous bulge in his pants.

“Oh that’s not morning, baby girl,” Sam husks into your ear, “That’s all you.” His powerful arms slink around you and his lips find their way down the side of your neck, lingering in that tender spot just behind your ear whilst you tilt your head and close your eyes, contentedly surrendering yourself to the moment. “I ever tell you how good you look in my shirts?”

Wiggling your butt back to tease him a bit, you’re pleased with the hiss it elicits. “No, but you made it very clear how bad I look in Dean’s,” you counter playfully.

The man behind you scoffs, “I didn’t say you looked bad; you could never look bad. I just… don’t like seeing you wear his clothes.”

“Oh, I know,” you turn around in his arms, “I just don’t understand how Dean doesn’t know yet. I mean, I think you’ve been very obvious.”

“And you haven’t?”

“I’m not the one who leaves hickeys in very visible places all over your body!”

Sam’s eyes glaze over in lust, an idea clearly forming in his head as he glances down at you. “Dean’s a hot-blooded guy; he needs to know you’re off-limits,” he alleges before attacking your throat with his mouth.

“So why don’t we just tell him?”

Without pausing his efforts, Sam reminds you, “Because you said you thought it was kinda hot, all the sneaking around. Mmpf, and because you said you wanted to see how long it would take him to figure it out.”

You nod while running your fingers through his silken strands and leaning back to give him more purchase, “That’s true. But in my defence, we always have this conversation when we’re doing stuff like this and I can’t think straight when your hands and mouth are on me.”

“Kinda like how I can’t think straight when you’re wearing nothing but my shirt?” His kisses travel down from your neck to your collarbone and shoulder as he slides his loosely buttoned flannel off to one side, “Fuck, you’ve got me so hard.”

Without warning, Sam seizes your waist and hoists you into the air as if gravity were an absolute joke, before plopping you down on the edge of the steel counter, his thumbs digging lightly into your ribcage.

“Sam! This is where we eat!” you protest with a laugh.

“Exactly. Which is why I’m gonna devour you here.” He dives back into your neck, continuing his work on a little pink mark that’s already beginning to form.

“Oh fuck… Wait, what if Dean walks in?” It’s through a great struggle that you manage to push him back an inch.

“He’s got a date with the Impala. He’ll be in the garage all day, trust me.” Sam’s gaze sweeps over your body suggestively, “Now are you gonna let me taste what’s mine?”

With an equally lewd survey of his extensive frame, you reply, “As long as you let me impale myself on what’s mine later.”

His eyes darken and the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only person he’s ever wanted ignites a confidence within you, so in a rather swift motion, you grasp him by the shaft through his sweatpants – the delicious groan he emits at your touch is enough to turn your pussy into a slip and slide – and pull him back towards you until the clothed length of him is resting against your folds and your noses brush, while his hands settle naturally on your thighs.

Shivering, your breath stutters and for an instant you can do nothing but bask in the closeness of him. Sam seems to enjoy it too because he closes his eyes as he rests his forehead against yours with an elated sigh. For the second time today, you marvel at his beauty, whispering a string of gasping kisses along his lower eye socket and exquisite cheekbone, simply dying to breathe him in. All of him is so immaculate and sublime. Each time the two of you reconvene, you want to savor every fucking inch of him, but there are a lot of inches, so the task often overwhelms you. Still, you must try. Locking your ankles behind him, you use your legs to pull him even further into you and the friction makes you lose your mind.

“Fuck, baby girl, you keep that up I’ll be making a mess in my pants,” Sam grunts with his lips upon your cheek.

Your breathless laughter fills the air, thinking of the stain you've undoubtedly already left on his charming grey sweatpants. Nimble as he is, Sam takes advantage of your open mouth and plunges his tongue inside. After so much preamble, the kiss is heavy and full of need. When the pressure of his lips pushes your head back, your hands fly to his wrists for the sake of your balance.

From there, they journey upward across his vascular forearms to his bulging triceps, fondling his massive shoulders before sliding along his traps and up the gorgeous length of his perfect neck, until you finally reach the treasure trove of his impeccable locks. You tangle your fingers into the lush mane and yank, gently but zealously, making Sam growl into your mouth. His voice is the hottest thing you’ve ever heard and the sounds he makes always drive you insane.

Never breaking the kiss, Sam’s colossal moose paws roam up to your back as he slowly lays you down on the counter, his member somehow still notched at your entrance and the new angle rousing a quiet moan from you. When he ultimately pulls away, you pitch forward to chase after his lips, but Sam only grants you a devilish grin and a quick peck to the corner of your mouth before moving down to your jaw and neck. While one palm kneads at your breast through his shirt, the other begins pushing and pulling at fabric to uncover more of your skin for his wandering lips.

“Sam! Augh!” you cry out as your head falls back.

“I got you, baby. I’m all yours. Gonna make you feel so good.” As if to attest his words, he rolls his hips into yours and a needy whimper escapes you. With your fingers still twisted in his hair, Sam leaves no part of you untouched as his mouth travels down your body. But upon reaching your navel, he pauses, those vivid, color-changing eyes peeping up at you to check for any signs of discomfort or objection. Finding none, his thick tongue pokes out to lick a deliriously winding path from your belly button to your exposed clit. Then, pushing down tenderly on the insides of your knees to open you up to him, Sam directs you one last look that is both hungry and reverent, “I still can’t believe this is mine.”

Dean had stopped you halfway through your recollection, but it appears that was still too much for him, “What did I do to deserve this?! I feel like I need to go bathe in holy water for a week.”

You and Sam both open your mouths to respond but Dean cuts you off vehemently, “Ba-da-da-da!” His vocalized outcry is complete with animated gestures featuring an accusing index finger. “OK, before you two tell me another traumatizing story, that’s enough of the who, what, when, where, and how… I just need to know why. I mean, is this- are you- …?”

Sensing the protective wheels turning in his head, you decide to put Dean out his misery, “I’m not just with Sam because he’s an incredible lay if that’s what you’re wondering. We can skip the fatherly ‘what are your intentions’ talk. Yes, Dean, I am in love with your little brother… although ‘little’ is not exactly the word I’d use to describe him.”

“Sammy, could you please control your woman?”

“My woman?” Sam sounds mostly amused but you’re almost certain you can hear a hint of pride in his voice.

“Yeah, I admit I’m surprised I didn’t see it until now. You two are kinda oddly perfect for each other, you know, in a weird, kinky way.”

“To be honest, we’re pretty surprised too. I mean, he doesn’t look it but this guy is kind of territorial,” you quip whilst cocking a thumb in Sam’s direction.

“I don’t need to- Wait a minute, so all those bruises you told me were from hunts?” Dean’s eyebrows soar towards his hairline.

Chewing on your lip, you confirm his hypothesis with a miniscule nod.

“Yeah well that time you saw my back,” Sam chimes in vengefully, casting you a handsome grin full of mischief as he reveals, “that wasn’t a werewolf, that was Y/N.”

With eyes as round as dinner plates, Dean frantically shuts you both down, “OK, that’s it. Torture Dean time is over. I don’t wanna hear any more about your depraved sex lives! Look, I guess I’m happy for you guys, although mostly cause I don’t have to play referee anymore, but I’m gonna need you to follow some ground rules around here. Like rule number one! No sex in public places!” he starts counting with his fingers, “Always put a sock on it when you’re busy! And most importantly, no sex in Baby!”

Your laughter follows Dean as he wearily saunters out of the kitchen, an exhausted expression on his face. Turning to your newly outed boyfriend, you petition excitedly, “Does this mean we can have shower sex now?”

“Not while I’m around!” comes Dean’s snappy answer.

In contrast, Sam gives you the same look he did on that dreamy morning, “Oh trust me baby girl, I’m gonna get you wet somehow.”

“Still within hearing distance! I think I liked it better when you guys were at each other’s throats.”

As you’re giggling, Sam leans down to whisper in your ear, “For the record, I’m in love with you too.” And just like that, you’re tempted to re-enact your previous kitchen escapades.

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nikethestatue · 3 years

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Revenge Served Cold

read on AO3 here

This turned out to be the continuation of the Heirs of Shadow (which would be helpful to read in advance. Additionally, events that took place in At the End of All Things are mentioned throughout, so it would be helpful to read that as well) However, this is a standalone piece. Based on the propmt:

Elain gives Graysen a piece of her mind; Azriel holds her poodle potions kit.

Read in the following sequence:

Heirs of Shadow (SNFW) (read here) At the End of All Things (read here) Revenge Served Cold

No warning apply--it's mostly fluff. Monstrously long at 16,820 words

Wealthy is a man whose children run into his arms, even when his hands are empty

An Italian Proverb

“Be good with Nesta and Cassian.”

Dramatic.

Eye rolls.

Azriel, who was standing by the fireplace, wrapped in his shadows, arms crossed on his chest, smiled faintly.

His twins, serious and indignant, stood in front of their mother, their chubby arms also crossed, mimicking his own stance. At the ripe old age of almost three, they were large, like all Illyrians, tall for their age, with two similarly round faces, eyes that glared like large emeralds and soft dark curls that crowned their big heads. Rolls and dimples abound. They were so unbearably adorable and cute, Azriel’s arms migrated behind his back, so he could squeeze his hands, lest he lunge at them and scoop them in his arms and shower them with hugs and kisses and pinches and nibbles. Who needed cookies when he had them?

Azriel hated leaving them. Even though this was going to be a quick trip to the Human Lands, just a couple of days, leaving the babies was torturous.

His family.

His family was everything to him: his own little world, his own inner circle, his whole reason for living. Now, looking at the twins, and his nine-month old son, who was sitting on the rug, flopping his tiny wings and chewing on a toy, Azriel wondered how he managed to survive without them for so long. Survival- -that’s exactly what it was. Over 540 years of survival, instead of living. He learned that he didn’t even know how to live, until very recently. He went through the motions of life, acting the part, playing the role, but he hadn’t lived a day in his life, and that was both terrifying and sobering.

“We always good!” declared the real head of the family--Ramiel.

The great irony of Azriel’s life, and maybe the Cauldron’s greatest joke, wasn’t that Elain’s and Lucien’s bond was an illusion and nothing but a simple spell, but that Elessar Ramiel Archeron was in fact baby Cassian. The joke was that Azriel was fated to raise ‘Cassian’. His son was a microcosm of all things Cassian and Illyrian--strong, proud, wild, a little chaotic, a little untamed, willful, absurdly brave and unbearably kind. No one cared for his siblings like Ramiel did--no one could ever possibly fuss or protect them, love them and adore them as much as Ramiel loved his twin Isabelle, and their baby Aurelian.

“Yes, we always good,” Isabelle nodded vigorously, wholeheartedly agreeing with her brother. “Baby too!”

“I am sure you are all very nice, but,” Elain wiped Ramiel’s chubby cheek with a napkin, “you can also stay with Fe-,”

“No!” Ramiel was scandalized, and so was Isa, who threw her hands up and shook her head, “no, ma, we stay with Cass!”

Azriel smirked.

“Ta, you come!” they finally noticed him, and Isa ran towards him, her arms spread wide. He picked her up and she wrapped her short, soft arms around his neck, tucking her head into his neck. “I miss you, ta,”

“I missed you too, my darling girl,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her soft, silky curls and breathing in that sweet tulip and vanilla scent that she possessed. His precious little girl, his treasure. Nothing truly compared to having children, but sons were a different kind of relationship than what he had with his daughter. He didn’t think that he would be--always thinking of himself as cold and detached--but once he held his daughter in his arms, he instantly realised that he was, in fact, a ‘girls’ father’.

“You go away, ta?” she asked, stroking his cheek and jaw with her plump, soft palm.

“Yes, sweetness, mama and I will be gone for a couple of days,” he explained, as he took a few steps and had his gentle bear of a baby crawl to him and eagerly wrap himself around his leg. Aurelian could already stand, but he was afraid to take any steps on his own, though he did walk if Elain and Azriel held one hand each. That was the only way he was willing to walk--between the two of them, as he made drunken, wobbly steps and then tired out after taking 5-6 and plopped down on his butt.

“Alright, one more,” Azriel swiftly picked up his youngest, receiving a sloppy smack on his jaw in return, and then finally stooped over Elain and gently kissed her neck.

“Mmm,” she sighed softly with enjoyment, as she turned her lovely face to him and kissed him tenderly. “Good morning, my love,” she greeted him. “I didn’t even hear you leave today,”

He kissed her again, soliciting a frown from Ramiel, who wedged himself between the two of them and latched onto Azriel’s shoulder as well.

“No more kisses, mama, tata,” Ram decided, “family hug.”

‘Family hug’ was his favorite. It was everyone’s favorite, but Ramiel loved family hug more than anyone, though not more than Azriel. So Azriel, following his son’s demand, scooped all four of them in his arms--his entire world--and tugged them to him, swinging tightly. The kids screeched and squealed with delight, laughing and squirming, squished within his embrace, and Elain smiled widely, finding his lips again despite the excess of little fat limbs and bodies and heads.

“Good family hug?” Azriel laughed, and a more joyous sound Elain couldn’t imagine. A sound reserved only for them, for Azriel’s family, for the ones he loved beyond all the love in the world.

“So good, ta!” yelled Isa, clapping her hands together, and Ram agreed with a nod. “You give good family hug, ta,” he complimented his father seriously.

“I try, my loves, I try.”

He finally set them down on the floor and they scattered about, busy with their toys and games. He plopped down in a plush armchair, spread his wings over the back and extended his hands towards the crackling fire.

Elain looked up at him and smiled a beautiful, silent smile that he knew so well. His smile. Just for him. His wing twitched in invitation and Elain walked across the blue and white carpet, her bare feet sinking into the luxuriously soft fibers. Azriel watched every step she took, his eyes skimming over the long slender legs, covered by thin gray tights and closely examining her body, dressed in an old black tunic of his. He very much appreciated both of those items on her.

She slid into his lap and immediately wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

“Hello, my love,” he greeted her properly at last, smiling at the sight and feel of her against his body.

“You were so stealthy in the morning, I didn't hear you leave,” she murmured and kissed his cheek.

“Not stealthy,” he kissed her back, burying his palm in the wave of her thick hair. “Simply lazy.”

She drew her knuckles over the simple shirt and pants that he typically wore at home, and he explained, “I woke up, threw this on and winnowed.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” he scolded lovingly, kissing him again, “I would’ve made you coffee and breakfast.”

“If I were to wake my wife up,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, his lips tracing a path from her cheek down to her jaw, “it wouldn't be to make me breakfast,”

“Even if the wife enjoys making you breakfast?” she smiled, winking at him.

He squeezed her breast, still unbound under the cotton tunic, and playfully bounced it within his large palm, “If I am going to wake my wife up, it would be for other things.”

“Ahhh, and what things would those be?” she wondered innocently, her finger reaching inside his shirt and running along his bare chest.

He did the same to her, sliding his rough, warm hand under her shirt and cupping her breast bluntly, pinching the swollen nipple and causing her to bite her lip, before a moan could escape her pink lips.

“I can guarantee that these wonderful things,” --another mean squeeze--”would be bouncing like crazy!”

Ram approached and propped his cheek on Azriel’s knee, giving his father a once over. Ram wasn’t perturbed by his parents’ closeness, even if Azriel managed to swiftly remove his hand from under Elain’s shirt. Ram’s parents always kissed and hugged and it would be strange to him if they didn’t. When they were in the same space, they always gravitated toward each other, and shared everything--touches, embraces, kisses, plates, utensils, food, drinks.

“Ta,” Ram asked seriously, “when I have big wings like you?”

Az smiled and cupped the plump round cheek in his rough palm. Wings were a common topic of conversation between Ram and his parents.

“Once you are big, you’ll have very large wings,” he promised.

“Yeah?” Ram’s brilliant green eyes sparkled with excitement.

Elain nodded, and Azriel added, “Absolutely. Yours are already pretty big.”

Ram flexed his little wings for emphasis, and Elain stroked his head, saying, “Very large already!”

“When I be big?” Ram inquired.

Azriel threaded his finger through his baby’s curls and whispered, “Soon enough, my boy, soon enough.”

Teaching his little son to fly was a special time for Azriel. It was a time which he also shared with his brother, permitting Cassian to teach Ramiel as well. Given Ramiel’s general character and his eager impatience to gulp life and experiences by the bucket, it wasn't surprising that as soon as he began taking tentative steps, he yearned to fly. He’d stumble and then managed to pick himself up by his wings, even if he slammed into walls and furniture during his attempts to fly. The call of the wind, of the sky, sung within him and despite Ram’s youth, Azriel did not want to stop his son from experiencing the special freedom that flying afforded. Ram was quick and clumsy, but a natural, and all that Azriel had to train him on was banking, changing direction, and turning. Also, avoiding walls and furniture. Eventually, when Ramiel’s wings would strengthen and grow, they would fly higher and Azriel would teach him about currents, how to avoid them and how to use them to his advantage, how to bypass pockets of air, how to maintain steady speed, and so much more. And then it would be Aurelian’s turn...and so on. And Azriel knew that he would never get tired of teaching his children how to fly.

He glanced at Isabelle, who was playing with her baby brother, whom she adored and spoiled on par with Elain. Presently, she was holding Aurenlian’s tight little fists in hers, and patiently held him as he took a clumsy step, before falling back on his butt.

“Such good boy!” cooed Isa excitedly, certainly copying Elain and using the same intonations. Aurelian was not deterred, and grunting, he rose up again, clutching at his sister.

A tiny tug of sadness touched Azriel’s heart.

His amazing daughter was born without wings.

They would never share the joy of flight together, holding hands, gaining speed, gliding in the air like he did with Ramiel. It would be a silent sadness that he’d endure for the rest of his days--because his Isabelle was magical. Magical and incredible in every way.

“Cass have big too,” Ram went on, “but I think you have more big, ta.”

Elain tried to stifle her grin, while Azriel chuckled and said, “Yes, Cassian’s wings are very large, but mine are a little bigger. Just don't tell Cass that.”

“Yes, I will not say it to Cass,” promised Ram. He thought a little more about something of importance to him, and then added, “And then I have picture on hand too?”

‘Picture on hand’ meant tattoos.

“Yes, sweet boy, when you are older, probably.”

That was going to be a conversation for later.

A very serious conversation between Azriel--the Lord of Hewn City--as well as Cassian, the Commander General of the Illyrian Armies, and Rhysand, the High Lord of Night Court. Yes, there was Feyre, who was the High Lady, as well as Nesta, and the other two Valkyries, who were Carynthians. However, as it stood right now, Azriel had the most children, Cassian had none and Rhys had one. And the moment Ramiel and Isabelle were born, Azriel made the decision that they would not be participating in the Blood Rite. At least not in the Blood Rite as it was right now. Under no circumstances. Ever. He didn’t care if Ramiel would have 10 siphons, or if Isabelle would possess amazing strength and speed--his children would never be subjected to the brutality of the Blood Rite, with the possibility of death. The idea that his babies could be murdered, for no other reason than for some quest to the top of the mountain seemed so preposterous, so unfathomable to him now, that he didn’t even entertain it. He didn’t discuss it with Elain yet, though he was certain that she’d agree with him.

“I think I want picture on hand,” reflected Ram, looking at his chubby arm, which sported a delectable roll of baby fat around the wrist. Azriel smiled, rubbing his son’s head, not in any hurry to see any ‘pictures’ on Ramiel’s smooth, soft arm.

The doorbell rang and the children perked up instantly, jumping up and yelling, “Cass! Is this Cass?”

Azriel nodded, laughing, “It’s probably Cass.”

“Don’t run!” called out Elain, just as they sprinted past, with poor little Aurelian crawling speedily behind them.

Cassian’s voice boomed, with his usual, ridiculous greeting of ‘’Morning, Illyrans!’ mixing with excited squeals and gushing, the growling of their pet wyvern Lor, and many ‘Cass!’ this and ‘Cass!’ that.

Azriel kissed Elain’s nose, shaking his head, muttering under his breath ‘ Illyrians ’.

Elain laughed softly, her voice sounding like little silver bells chiming next to his cheek. He should probably have released her from his embrace, off his lap, but he made no move to do that and only tightened his arms around her. She nestled her head next to his neck, purring quietly. “Our Illyrians,” she chuckled.

“We have one Illyrian who is more Illyrian than all Illyrians combined,” grunted Azriel.

“And he is the very best,” insisted Elain.

“That he is,” Azriel couldn’t disagree.

Nesta and Cassian did not have children.

Unlike Elain and Azriel, who couldn’t wait to become parents, start a family, create their own little intimate space just for them and their little ones, Cassian and Nesta were in no hurry. Elain became pregnant so quickly and easily--first Calanmai--that the twins were almost a surprise. Almost. Insatiable, voracious, endless lovemaking was probably to blame too. Only a year after Ramiel and Isabelle were born, Elain was expecting again, and then Aurelian arrived. Now,

“Good morning!” Cassian entered the play room, holding Isa and Ori, as everyone called Aurelian, in his arms, while Ram was marching alongside, already deep in conversation with his uncle.

“Good morning, Cass!” Elain greeted them and he smacked a kiss on her cheek.

“The weather is fuc--...crap,” he announced, tucking in his damp wings, which he shook off before entering the house.

“Do you need a towel?” Elain asked, seeing as his long hair was wet, and he gave a dog-like shiver.

“No, I am alright,” he assured her, but moved closer to the fire. “Petal,” he said, skimming her, still curled in Azriel’s lap, casual, but pristine as always. “How are you always more beautiful than the last time I saw you?”

Azriel’s scarred hand instinctively gripped her hip a bit tighter, holding her possessively. Azriel had always assumed that he was more rational than the average male, but when it came to Elain, his rationale and self-control flew out the window.

“I am right here,” he gritted through his teeth.

“So you are,” Cassian teased. “Making our Petal blossom.”

Azriel made a gagging sound and Elain burst out laughing, as she finally rose to her feet.

“I’ll go make breakfast,”

“You don't have to,” Cassian began but she waved him off as she slipped from Azriel’s embrace. “We haven’t eaten yet.”

Azriel kissed her hand and she made her way to the kitchen.

Even at home, Elain was always put together, dressed simply, but somehow, elegantly, her gloriously lovely hair pinned with her engagement kinj’all-- a traditional Illyrian engagement gift, which typically ranged from simple to elaborate. Elain’s was...elaborate.

Because it seemed that Azriel couldn’t stop gifting her jewelry and bedecking her in finery, she had a slew of betrothal gifts from him-- starting with the ornate, extravagant bracelet. The Fae did not have a customary betrothal token, though the Fae of the Night Court favoured bracelets or cuffs. Elain treasured her bracelet above all other gifts and never took it off. Probably wisely, too--Cassian thought to himself whenever he saw that glittering band around her thin wrist--that thing was worth more than most kingdoms had in their coffers. He supposed that if Azriel wanted to buy the entirety of Spring Court for Elain, so she could play with flowers, he could probably afford it with the bracelet alone. Cassian wouldn’t put it past Az to consider doing just that.

Following the human custom, Azriel actually proposed marriage to Elain with a ring. No one but the two of them were privy to what took place and how Azriel actually proposed, but her ring was a far cry from the iron-and-pearl monstrosity that Graysen gave her. Cassian still recalled that ugly iron ring that she kept twirling around her finger for months, even after Graysen grossly rejected her in front of many. Cassian only heard about what had transpired between her and Graysen that day, and even thinking about it made him clench his fist. If it wasn’t Elain’s right to tear Graysen apart herself, if she so wished, Cassian knew that he’d be very willing to rip the man’s tongue out of his stupid mouth.

Azriel’s ring, however, did not disappoint. An elegant creation, designed by Az himself, it was adorned with diamonds of different hews, blue amethysts, silver and shards from his own cobalt siphons, harkening back to the day when he and Feyre rescued Elain from Hybern, and when everything changed between him and Elain.

Lastly, there was the kinj’all.

Azriel was reluctant to introduce Illyrian customs to Elain, despite what Rhys, and Cassian himself, told him. Eventually though, it was Elain who took interest in reading about the Illyrian culture, legends and traditions. To Azriel’s dismay and surprise, and Cassian’s delight, she learned the Illyrian alphabet, then some words, and eventually phrases. By now, she could hold a rudimentary conversation in Illyrian. When the babies were born, it was Elain who insisted on following Illyrian protocols and rituals of baby naming, of presenting them to the world, of teaching them Illyrian songs and games, and ordering both Azriel and Cassian to speak Illyrian to them, so they were fluent in the language. Cassian didn't think that Azriel ever came to terms with his Illyrian part, even if he benefited from it, and became an unsuppressed warrior with seven siphons because of his Illyrian heritage. However, it seemed that now, Azriel has managed to accept his birthright to a certain degree, ignoring everything dark and brutal and violent, and only concentrating on the rich history, family traditions, training and flying...

And proposing…

A kinj’all was an Illyrian male’s engagement gift to his bride. Always an ornamental piece, it also served as a weapon, for the Illyrian male was obligated by law and honour to protect his female. He also had to teach her how to defend herself, if needed. A kinj’all often passed down from generation to generation, but Azriel’s mother did not have one, so he created one especially for Elain.

It looked innocent enough--a beautiful hairpin, the hilt decorated with Illyrian runes, embossed with mother of pearl and tiny diamonds. But the ‘heart’ of the pin was its unique, retractable needle blade, smelted from rare Illyrian steel, obsidian, and a sliver of Azriel’s own Truth-Teller. Life Song was what he named the kin’jall, and once forged, it was a dangerous, powerful Made object that contained Elain’s own powers, the mysterious power of Azriel’s legendary dagger, as well as the might and darkness of Narben.

As Elain strode down the corridor, Cassian glanced at the innocuous-looking jewel that haphazardly held part of Elain’s hair up. He felt his skin prickle at the thought of so much power contained in one simple object.

His eyes still on Elain, “Again?” Cassian grunted, while sitting heavily in an armchair.

Ori immediately began showing him his blocks and some type of rotating toy, probably from Day Court. These kids liked technology way too much, he had to admit. For example, Ramiel figured out how to work a Symphonia within minutes. It took Cassian two days. Moving pictures, another invention from Day, was all the rage and he couldn’t even begin to figure out how to work the contraption. It was Ramiel who showed him.

Azriel’s face remained placid, but a corner of his mouth twitched.

“Again what?” he shrugged.

“Will you stop impregnating poor Elain every five minutes?”

“No.”

“I’ll have to start charging you for my nanny services then.”

“Spending time with Ram is not a burden, but a privilege,” reminded him Azriel with a grin.

Cassian couldn’t argue, and nodded.

He loved the children. Loved them.

It used to be that Cassian loved Azriel more than anyone else. Then, only 500 years later, he met Nesta and everything changed, but his love for Azriel remained. So he loved Azriel, and Azriel loved Elain, and Elain loved Nesta, and Nesta loved Elain, and then the children came and to Cassian and Nesta, they were simply an extension of their own relationship, of the strange quartet in which they existed.

Ram climbed on Cassian’s lap and asked, “Cass, what we do with you?”

“Work on strategy,” Cassian said immediately, sounding like the general that he was.

“Ta, we do stagerty!” Ram announced immediately.

Azriel stroked Ramiel’s head, and nodded.

“Is hard?” Ram worried, scratching his ear, his round face scrunched with concern.

“I think that if you listen to Cass and work on your strategy, you will be successful,” assured his Azriel, “and maybe win,”

Ram nodded slowly, mostly to himself, looking preoccupied. This has been his greatest source of concern lately--winning the snowball fight. Azriel wasn’t even sure if Ram knew what the concept of ‘winning’ meant, but Cassian jacked him up so much that Ram could only talk about the snowball fight, which was amusing, to say the least, since he’d never made a snowball in his life. Last winter, the closest they came to snowballs was making crooked snowmen in front of the house. Elain was very heavily pregnant with Aurelian then and Azriel tried to occupy his rambunctious twins as much as he could, though both Ram and Isa kept running into the house, grabbing Elain by the hand and dragging her outside, to ‘look at snowmens”.

Rhys, Cassian and Az had made the decision to introduce their sons to the delights of the annual snowball fight once the boys turned three years old. First, it was just Nyx, and Azriel still remembered it clearly--little Nyx ambling in the snow, making tiny fluffy snowballs that disintegrated in his cute red mittens. Feyre worried, and Nyx was sporting red mittens, red hat and red scarf, so he wouldn't be lost among the trees, as if the three of them would let him out of their sight even for a second. Now it was Ramiel’s turn--his first snowball fight, which he awaited with wild, impatient excitement. The kids’ snowball fight took place the day before Solstice, while the males continued the tradition and fought on Solstice morning.

In order to prepare, Cassian and Ramiel were working on ‘strategy’. Azriel didn't have the heart to warn his son that uncle Cass had the worst record of winning the annual fights, having won a paltry 76 times. Azriel’s tally was well over 200 by now. Rhys was somewhere in the middle. But all this strategy talk was likely designed for Cassian’s benefit--so he could run through it and practice and tweak whatever wasn’t working before the actual fight. Poor sap. The last time he’d won was the year when he finally got together with Nesta, and that was also nothing but a fluke, because Azriel was too busy trying not to murder his High Lord and brother Rhys, and Rhys was trying to do the same to him. All because of the beautiful woman who was now conjuring delectable scents that wafted from the kitchen.

“I swear you are taller than three days ago when I saw you last,” Cassian smiled, looking at his perplexed nephew.

“Oh yeah? I more big?” Ram was nodding, wholly agreeing with the assessment.

“By the time Solstice comes you’ll be as big as Nyx!”

“And I be good with snowballs.” concluded Ram, “We win, Cass?” he asked, hopeful.

Cassian, his huge hands outstretched towards the roaring fire, nodded confidently, “Of course we will. We will probably beat your tata too.”

Azriel, who had his youngest son and his wyvern at his feet, watched Lor hold the back of Aurelian’s shirt in his teeth, as he assisted him in standing up, cocked his brow.

“Bold of you to assume that you can beat me,” he muttered under his breath.

“But tata have to win too,” Ramiel interfered, looking upset, glancing between his father and his uncle. “I win, but tata too. And you Cass. And Nyssie.”

Now Azriel knew for sure that Ram had no understanding of the concept of winning. And that was alright. His little boy slid from Cassian’s lap and climbed onto his and hugged him.

“Tata,” he stroked Azriel’s cheek with his soft hand and asked, “you wanna win too?”

“You can win, Rami,” offered Azriel gently, kissing Ram’s hand, “I would love for you to win.”

“I think we win all ,” decided Ramiel. “You want it, ta?”

“I think it would be nice if we all won,” agreed Cassian, while Azriel nodded.

Cassian turned his face to the fire, swallowing a glob of thickness that was lodged in his throat. There was something so delightful in Ramiel’s innocence and goodness that sometimes, it hit Cassian like a bushel of bricks. Ram was about the same age now, as Cassian was when he was taken away from his mother and left to fend for himself in the violent wilderness of the Illyrian training camp. And not only did Cassian feel bad for himself at times, especially when he watched how much Ramiel and Isa and Ori were loved by their parents, what their presence did to Azriel, how love and devotion poured out of his brother because of them, but also because the children were being raised so well. He truly, if quietly, admired both Elain and Azriel, in how they treated their children--respectfully, kindly, with just enough discipline to make them well-behaved, but also permitting them freedoms according to the kids’ ages and personal needs. Isa and Ram were twins, but drastically different in temperament and attitude and shared only a few common personality traits. Elain and Azriel, both thoughtful and observant, noticed those particulars early on, and carefully catered their attention in different ways to each child.

Fae children did not age the same way that human children aged. Looking at Ramiel’s soft round face, his chubbiness, his trusting, simple attitude all reminded Cassian that Ram was still basically a baby. It would be a long time before he grew into a ‘boy’. Both Ram and Isa would be talking and gradually learning how to do things, but they would remain in the ‘toddler’ stage for years. Fae children developed very quickly in certain aspects--speech, agility, general intelligence, but they also retained their childishness for much longer as well. Nyx, almost eleven years old now, was just becoming a boy himself. And as Cassian’s eyes skimmed quickly over Azriel’s scarred hands, which held both of his sons, Cassian was internally horrified yet again at the thought of little Az locked inside a dark cupboard. With no access to life. With no access to the most barest of necessities. With no access to love or human contact or touch. What Ram took completely for granted--the freedom to talk to his father, to climb on top of him, to question and ponder and laugh--all of that was denied to Azriel when he was the same age. There was something heart wrenchingly terrible about it, and it made Cassian shudder.

“Are you cold?” Azriel immediately asked, noticing everything.

“Ugh, just chilled,” Cassian lied.

“I give it blankie!” Ram jumped off Azriel’s lap and ran to pull a throw off the sofa and then dragged it and carefully draped it over Cassian’s lap.

Cassian smiled softly and murmured, “You are the best boy, Rami.”

“Because I give blankie?” Ram shrugged, clearly not understanding where this praise was coming from. “Is more good with blankie!”

“It is wonderful with a blanket,” agreed Cassian, “but you are still the best boy.”

“I stand in corner a lot ,” lamented Ram dramatically and sorrowfully, sighing. He plopped his head on Cassian’s thigh and added, “So I don’t be good. Isa is good. She don’t stay in corner. Maybe with me…”

It was true.

For disciplining purposes, Ram was sometimes sent to stand in the corner, to cool off and think about his behavior. He wasn’t very keen on contemplating his behavior and usually stood there either pouting and angry, or with silent tears running down his fat cheeks. When he was standing in the corner, Isabelle circled him with concern, running from Azriel to Elain, begging them to release him, usually babbling incoherently, saying ‘Rami good!’. If they didn’t acquiesce, Isa simply stood or sat in the corner with him. Yes, technically it defeated the purpose of Ramiel’s discipline session and his time out, but neither Azriel, nor Elain had the heart to pull them apart.

“You two are such good friends,” Cassian noted, patting Ram’s head.

Ram nodded, “Yeah, she is sister and I love it.”

“Breakfast is ready!” they all heard Elain’s call.

The baby was most excited about the food, as he clapped eagerly and extended his arms to Azriel, demanding to be picked up. Around their ankles, Lorcan was yipping excitedly as well, knowing that this meant breakfast for him as well, and he almost toppled Ramiel, pushing and shoving ahead.

“Please don’t tell me you are getting any more pets,” Cassian muttered under his breath, as he tried to wrestle with the wyvern and straighten him out, while pulling the throw out of his teeth. A smile ghosted Azriel’s mouth and he did not verbally commit to not getting another pet. Though he didn’t think it would happen any time soon.

Elain still mourned the sacrifice of Bryaxis, who died, protecting the two of them, when the Rift opened up. If it weren’t for Bryaxis, there would be no Aurelian, and Ramiel and Isabelle would be orphans.

Even when they became carranam on that barren hill, Azriel and Elain did not have enough joint power to close the Rift, and it threatened to consume the world, starting with the two of them. They fought together, their magic pouring like a river of pure power from both of them, his darkness and her iridescent light, twining together, potent and pure, it pushed back at the Rift again and again. Even when he was virtually drained, her bottomless reserve still sustained him and reverberated against the pulsating tear in the essence of the world. They had both witnessed the breaking of the Cauldron, its dark oily power leaking out of it, and it took Rhys’s immense might, as well as his life, to finally reforge the Cauldron. Was Elain more powerful than Rhys? It was debatable, but possible, and her power manifested in a different way--the Power of Life--which they thought would be enough to sew back the tear of the Rift. It wasn’t. Neither of them were enough. Nor were all the combined armies of the world. Nothing was going to be enough to make a difference. Until Bryaxis. Bryaxis who’d arrived and dissolved itself into their flow of power, allowing them the opportunity to close the Rift just enough for all the High Lords to finally stitch it together. But Bryaxis knew what was coming, and the last words that he whispered to Elain were ‘Raise all your children well’.

Elain mourned Bryaxis. Azriel did too, for he’d grown to like the strange otherworldly being that was Fear itself. Not to them though. Bryaxis was simply a presence, that enjoyed Elain’s garden, Azriel’s own shadows, and the scent of baking. When the babies were born, Bryaxis protected them, and loved them, as much as a creature such as it could love anything or anyone. They rolled around in his darkness and played with his shadows, and Bryaxis was always able to lull them to sleep. Bryaxis cared and protected Isa more than anyone else--perhaps with the exception of Elain. Because Isa was special. Isa was magical.

In memory of Bryaxis, when Aurelian was born, they named him Aurelian Bryaxis and even Cassian accepted the name, acknowledging the ultimate sacrifice of the creature, and what it meant to the world as a whole, but also to Elain and her family. To her, Bryaxis was simply a friend--one that fit well in her menagerie of strange beasts and monsters that gravitated towards her for some reason. She was the tamer of the fanged beasts after all.

***

In the kitchen, the table was set and the fireplace was ablaze. Azriel put the baby in his chair and then went to Elain, who was still stirring something on the stove. His large hands rested casually on her hips and he ducked down and put his chin on her shoulder. ‘Smells delicious,’ he murmured and she kissed his cheek, smiling. “By the hooting that our baby son is currently demonstrating, it does seem to smell delicious,” she laughed softly, and kissed his cheek again.

Cassian knew that he was witnessing a moment that was intimate and that he shouldn't be ogling, but after he strapped Ori into his seat, he reclined comfortably in his chair and just settled in. No worries. No training. Only the patter of rain outside and the warmth of fire here, along with the scent of coffee, though he preferred tea himself. Azriel detested tea. Elain, once she’d discovered coffee, completely gave up on tea, but they kept a tin of fine black tea for Cassian.

That’s how Elain was, thoughtful and kind and pleasant, but Cassian also knew that she could be calculating and ruthless, on par with her husband. She was the fanged beast herself who protected her family as any ferocious wyvern would.

Once, Amren was callous enough to say something out of turn about Azriel, in her usual blunt and impolite Amren manner. Typically, Amren left Azriel alone, for he frightened even her, even prior to him becoming the Lord of Hewn City...She always sensed that there were was something about him, a hidden power thrumming within him, and because she did not fully understand the source and depth of that power, Amren felt that it was best to leave him be. It was a typical monthly family dinner at Rhys and Feyre’s, when both Mor and Amren had made an offhand comment about Azriel’s governance of Hewn City. It was only recently that Azriel and Elain had the Power select them and the rule passed onto them. Buzzed, as always, Mor teased Azriel about his inability to rule with an iron fist, while Amren said something about Elain’s softness and not being cut out for Hewn City. It was one of the few times when Cassian was reminded that Elain was Nesta’s sister, and as unusual as it was for Elain to hurt others with words, she cut straight through both Mor and Amren, enviserating them with only a few sentences, and reminding Mor than she’d accomplished far less in 520 years in Hewn City than they did in two. Savage pride glimmered in Azriel’s bright hazel eyes when he watched his wife stand up for him and their little family, since she was pregnant with the babies then.

Cassian and Rhys both kept quiet back then. Cassian just felt pride. Pride and happiness for his brother, because he got himself a woman who would rip the world apart to protect him, and loved him the way he deserved to be loved.

“I see my baby,” Elain said, bringing a pot of coffee to the table, with Azriel carrying two dishes, “and I see my wyvern, who is gnawing on a throw for some reason, and I see the two men who are ready to eat, but I don’t see two other members of the family, and that make me a little nervous,”

“Ma and ta, we come!” Ram and Isa arrived together, holding hands, as they always did.

Because Ramiel always held Isabelle’s hand. Every day. From the moment they were born.

“Well, that’s good! We were wondering what happened to you?” said Elain with a chuckle.

“Baby lose it sock. We bring it,” Ram explained, waving Aurelian’s tiny sock in his hand.

“Thank you, my loves,” Elain took the sock and put it on the baby, while Ramiel helped Isa climb in her highchair. It was strictly his job, so no one dared to help. Isa did a good job on her own, but he always stood by her chair, and moved her legs if she needed him to, and didn’t step back until she was settled. And then he climbed in his chair in about five seconds.

When Azriel found out that Elain was pregnant, it was possibly the happiest day of his life. And the most horrifying day of his life came soon after--when he’d learned that Elain was expecting twins. Because having a baby was dangerous enough, especially for a Fae. Having an Illyrian baby, even a half-Illyrian baby, for someone like Elain brought back the blood-soaked memories of Nyx’s birth. Having twins though--that was death assured.

Never did he feel so helpless and so frightened, as he did as he watched her belly grow day by day. The happiness that he experienced, the utter excitement, the joy and elation were incomparable. He felt the two of them under his ruined palm, the life he created within the woman that he adored beyond reason--moving and kicking, perfectly alive and well, and healthy according to the healer. Elain blossomed as well, beautiful beyond belief, completely calm and unbothered, even by the heft of them. She loved being pregnant. Loved the kicks and the moving, and even the inevitable discomfort. And Azriel hated himself. Hated that he couldn’t be the rock that she needed, because no one could ever read him the way that she did and she knew that he was completely undone by the worry, the unbearable prospect of losing not just them, but her as well.

It would’ve been as expected. His joy and contentment couldn’t have lasted. Life was too good. Azriel knew that he was never meant to be happy, that somehow, somewhere, he was marred by darkness, and that his existence was always going to be a tortuous path, a walk hand-in-hand with death. But he didn't expect that it would also claim Elain--that his darkness would push her into the abyss as well.

He broke down only once. She was in her eighth month of pregnancy. Only two more to go, though with twins, it sometimes took even longer than the usual 10 months to grow them. Which, for Azriel, only made things even worse. The wait was intolerable. And he hasn’t slept in almost a year. It was Solstice and they had just returned from the annual celebrations at Feyre’s, laden with gifts, some sneaky, anticipatory baby presents among them, even though before the babies were born, there should be no gifts. But it wasn’t possible for them to prevent Mor from gifting two silver rattles and Cassian from giving Azriel a tiny toy sword. “Next year, this time, we will start teaching them, brother!” Cassian muttered excitedly, forgetting that they’d only be ten months old.

If they were born at all. And looking at the stupid toy sword, and the shiny rattles ( silver is good for teething , according to Mor) Azriel lost it. He wept. He couldn’t help himself. Wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop. He knelt in front of Elain, his arms wrapped around her thighs, his face buried in her round stomach, and he sobbed uncontrollably, begging her not to leave him. Selfishly, because he was so disgustingly selfish, and he did not want to be alone again. He did not want to face the chasm of solitude, the darkness of empty nothingness like he experienced in his cell. Elain had given him everything. She gave him love and laughter and life. She adored him passionately and wholeheartedly, and she walked with him, hand in hand, no matter what happened. And now, he was going to be lost again, forever, this time. There would be no turning back for him. Only grievous sadness, and no light, no sun, no warmth in his existence.

“Promise me one thing,” she said to him then. He soaked her dress with his tears, and remained on his knees, clutching at her.

“No!”

She smiled and stroked his hair.

“Why not?”

“I won’t do it. I know what you’ll say, and I won’t do it.”

She gently cupped his cheek and made him look at her. His eyes were wet. So were hers, but she cried for him...not with him. She was not sad.

“Tell me you Saw something,” he demanded. Begged. “Tell me.”

“Will you promise then?” he pressed.

Stubbornly, he shook his head, “No!”

Her delicate fingers lightly brushed over his cheeks, and she pressed her thumbs over his eyelids, making him close his eyes and breathe.

“All I want you to do is promise me that you will not act rashly,” she requested.

“What do you mean?”

“That if you choose to end it--and I know that you will,”

He exhaled a wrenching sob, because he would. She knew it as well. If she went, he was going to go with her. He knew exactly how he’d do it. He’d take her with him, into the sky, and they’d fly together one last time, with her in his arms, one last time, before he’d plunge back to earth, and not open his wings.

“I will,” he vowed, without trying to deny it. Elain saw and knew him well enough to know that that would be a lie.

“Set the affairs in order,” she said softly.

He was confused, “What?”

“You are a Lord,” she reminded him simply. “And I am a Lady. We have a Court. We have thousands of people whom we rule over. You are a Seven-Siphon Illyrian warrior, one of only two. Your network of spies supports the entire Night Court--guarantees the safety of my sisters, my nephew.

“Don’t be rash. Leave the world a better place. I will still be waiting for you, on the other side. I will always wait for you. For as long as it takes.”

***

You see, the baby girl, who was eventually named Isabelle, gave up her wings.

In her mother’s womb. Isabelle gave up her wings, so that her brother and she could be born, and all three of them would survive. So that her father would not die of sorrow and loneliness.

There was no other explanation.

No High Lord, including Thesan or Rhys, no healer, including the very ancient and experienced ones, and no library book could explain it. It was Amren’s only explanation. The girl gave up her wings. There was no logical, or even illogical reason as to why that happened, or how, but when Elain went into labour, it was a normal labour. Long and unpleasant, but Rhys took the pain away--or rather minimized it, so she could still feel and monitor the movement of the babies--and then, the girl was born. She was small and weak, especially when compared to the chunky loud baby that emerged after her, wings and all, screaming and demanding attention.

And Azriel just about lost his mind. From happiness. From exhilaration. From watching Elain, exhausted, but smiling, weeping tears of love and joy, as she clutched the two babies to her breast. He was still worried about everything . Still was disbelieving that this was even happening. That this was real. That he wasn’t standing above a bloody mess that was his family, but that he was watching his fat-cheeked son yawn widely, and his little girl sniffle softly.

It was Azriel who tended to Isa for the first months of her life--vigilantly, savagely, without respite. She was weaker and slower than Ramiel, did not eat as well, and when she did, took forever, so Azriel was the one to bottle feed her any time she wanted to eat. He held her constantly in his arms, making sure that she was warm and comfortable, and that she always felt loved. Not only was Azriel in love with his daughter, because she was a tiny pretty doll of a girl, but he was perpetually grateful to her. Perhaps it was absurd, but he firmly believed that Isa did something...consciously. That she possessed power that no one else had. That she knew that she had to be born.

The only other person who loved Isa more than Azriel was Ram. When they were born, Isa was a bad sleeper, and at a certain point, stopped growing. She ate, but didn’t gain much weight, or expanded in size, and remained small and a bit feeble. The healers offered suggestions and gave advice, but nothing helped, and she remained frail and delicate, barely able to hold her head, even when Ram was ready to sit up at three months. It was Azriel’s mother who suggested that Ram be placed in the same crib as Isa, and sleep with her. Azriel did not doubt his mother outright, though her advice didn’t make much sense to him. But then he reminded himself that she was a mother of seven. Surely she knew better. When they laid Ramiel beside Isa, the change was truly remarkable--Ram held her to him, his roly-poly arm thrown over her body, keeping her near, and not only did they sleep through the night from that moment on, but incredibly, Isa began to grow after that. She strengthened, and started eating faster and more, and Ramiel was alway by her side, helping her out in some manner or another. When he was able to sit, and then even crawl, he also learned to hold the bottle with her, because she found it heavy and tiresome. Baby Ramiel didn’t mind and simply sat with her, holding the bottle with her, when he was all of nine months old.

Eventually, Isabelle grew and while she did not catch up to Ram in size and sheer might, she was a lovely little girl, who looked mostly Illyrian, sans the wings. She resembled Elain in her beautiful features and had remarkably bright green eyes, yet her coloring was Azriels--golden skin, dark curls dusted with golden highlights, and a full mouth that she inherited from him.

Ramiel still cared for Isabelle with utmost attention and devotion. Emotionally, he was even more dependent on her than she was on him--that famous Illyrian possessiveness was alive and well in him. Even if they fought, though it happened rarely, and she pulled on his wing in anger, he did not retaliate. He never, ever hit her. Never pushed her. Never hurt her in any manner. When she tugged on his wings, he simply yelled, “No hurts on wink, Isa!” and that shamed her enough for her to give him a conciliatory hug and say ‘Solly, Lami’.

***

“This looks amazing, petal,” Cassian muttered, looking at the delectable spread on the table. Both Elain and Azriel were fine cooks, though she was also a very good baker. Cassian would be lying if he said that he didn’t invite himself over to their house on purpose, more frequently than he cared to admit, not only for the company and to play with the babies, but also for the food. The House tried, but Cassian wouldn’t call the fair exactly gourmet . It was basic grub that, at times, reminded him of the Commanders’ cafeteria at the camps. Palatable, but delicious? No. Basic grub that consisted of mystery cutlets, blurry-looking soups, decent bread, cheese and whatnot. The House still primarily catered to Nesta and her tastes, which left Cassian eating whatever was put in front of him.

Elain cooked wonderful food and today’s breakfast was a testament to that--black currant scones, ham and leek quiche, eggs, fried sausages, and rich porridge with cream, and not that bland mush that the House served.

“What are you smiling about?” Elain teased, as she ladled a heaping serving of porridge into his bowl.

“Just remembering how I found you two out,” recalled Cassian, grinning, and taking a sip of his tea. “If you didn’t make such good things, it might have taken longer to discover your little secret…”

“How’s that?” she inquired.

“Oh, he never told you?” Cassian smirked, as he watched Az roll his eyes and sit next to Elain. They always sat next to each other, because Azriel was incapable of being away from her when she was near him. Also, while she fed Ori, Azriel fed her, immediately cutting up a sausage for her, and spearing it with a fork.

“I don't think that he did,” she admitted, while Azrile leaned in and gently kissed her neck.

“I am eating!” Cassian screeched, scandalized. “There are children present!”

“You are acting like a maiden on her wedding night…” muttered Azriel and kissed her neck again.

“Speaking of wedding nights,”

“We are not,”

Cassian waved him off and said, “May I tell the story?”

“About your wedding night?” Azriel drawled. “Please don’t.”

Elain was giggling softly, as she spoonfed Ori, who decided to laugh along.

Cassian cut into his juicy sausage and recalled, “He stopped eating,” nodding towards Azriel.

Elain gave him a quizzical look, and he continued, “Day after day I watched him and I noticed that he barely ate,”

“When was this?”

“Apparently when you two were sneaking behind our backs,” he said meaningfully.

“Uh-huh,”

“For weeks I watched him, and he totally didn’t notice me,” he added proudly, helping himself to a scone, while Azriel’s cheeks dusted with a little pink and Elain smiled and kissed his cheek, “you didn’t?” she whispered.

“I was...preoccupied,” Azriel muttered.

“He was!” Cassian nodded vigorously, buttering the scone. “Because a week goes by, and then another, and all he eats is bread and cheese at the House...drinks his coffee, disappears for luncheon...never there for dinner. And I began to worry,”

Azriel smiled faintly. Because he knew that Cassian did. Cassian worried. For him, about him and it was the most endearing thing that Azriel never thanked Cass for. Cass was the only one who cared, when no one else did.

Gobbling down another scone, Cassian murmured, “These are really good, Ellie. But anyway--he isn’t eating, but he isn’t losing weight either. So I figured that he must be getting food from somewhere. A month goes by and finally, I can’t stand it anymore! It’s not like him, you know, not to be careful or cautious...But I managed to follow him one night, all the way to the Rainbow Bridge, after which I lost him because she hid in his shadows,”

“Love shado!” supplied Ram, who was smearing his porridge around the bowl listlessly.

“Anyway, I tried a few nights after that…”

“And?” Elain was so taken with the story, she even paused the spoon midway, causing a disgruntled grunt to come out of Ori, who grabbed her hand and helped himself.

“Do you know how difficult it is for an Illyrian of my size to hide in plain sight?” Cassian lamented dramatically.

“You were hiding in plain sight?”

“Practically! I couldn't fly over him, because he’d hear and recognize my wings!”

“So what did you do?”

“Spied the old fashioned way--hiding behind lamp posts and in dark alleys,”

Elain cocked her brow, “ You hid behind lamp posts?”

“I didn’t say I was well -hidden,”

“No you didn’t…” she agreed. “So, what happened?”

“Finally spied where he was going every night and who was feeding him delicious dinners!” he winked. “He brought me straight to the town home,”

“Ahhh,”

“You are the master of stealth,” Azriel announced, shaking his head.

“I am!”

“If you are ever demoted from your Commander General post, I may hire you as a street spy,”

“How kind of you,” Cassian made a face and elicited a loud laugh from the baby.

“And?” Elain pressed.

“And like the gentlemale that I am,” Cassian added primly, “I observed a rather passionate kiss between my brother and my sister-in-law, and then made good my escape.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed. And kept my mouth shut even from my mate. Who apparently already knew, or suspected, but that’s another story.”

“But,”

“Mama, I want cookies!” Ram announced.

“Oh yes?” Elain’s voice was calm, un-surprised.

Ramiel nodded, brandishing his spoon in his hand, perhaps indicating that he was going to eat his cookie with a spoon?

“Alright,” Elain agreed.

Her consent was so quick and easy that it took Ramiel completely by surprise. He even dropped his spoon. Elain’s agreement even raised Isa’s eyebrows, who obviously wondered why she didn’t just ask for cookies herself.

“Oh, is good, ma!” Ram nodded eagerly, “you give it.” And he extended his hand to her, opening his palm. Ready.

Calmly, Elain nodded, and said, “let me make you a salad, and then I,”

“What salad, mama?” Ram frowned. He was not a great admirer of salads.

“A tasty salad,” Elain explained, while Azriel was trying to stifle his laugh, and Cassian buried his face in his cup, trying not to snort, especially when seeing Ram’s crestfallen face.

“With chicken?” he asked with a glimmer of hope in his voice. Chicken salad was the only ‘salad’ that he liked.

Elain continued, as if nothing’s happened, “With kale and goat cheese,”

A look of horror splashed over Ram’s round face, “No, ma!” he exclaimed, “I don’t want it. Only cookies,”

“Well, I can’t just give you cookies,” she reasoned, “so you’ll just eat your salad and then you’ll have cookies,”

“I don't want kale,” he muttered.

Vile weed.

It was a known fact that kale was Ramiel’s nemesis, as was goat’s cheese, the texture of which he couldn’t stand. He loved all cheese, except for that one.

“Or, you can eat your porridge,” she suggested, “and then the House will give you a biscuit or a cookie,”

Frowning an angry frown, Ram grunted, “I wanna go to grandma.”

“Grandma?”

“Yeah, she love me and give me good stuffs...She don’t give kale ! And we play and have fun and play with grandpa too and with Lena and with Nat and,”

“I thought you wanted to go with Cass and work on strategy?” reminded him Azriel.

Strategy plans dissolved under the weight of cookies.

“I thought so too,” sighed Cassian.

Now, Ramiel felt bad and reached out for Cassian, patting his massive hand with his plump one, “I want sta-, sagre-, sgarety, I want sgarety, Cass,” he assured him.

Isabelle, who was listening to all this quietly, finally made herself known and interrupted, “I want to go to Nessa!” she even crossed her arms on her little chest. “Rami you go to grandma, and I go to Nessa,”

Cassian smiled softly, finding Isa’s instistence sweetly endearing, because Nesta was not always the person children gravitated to.

“No, I go to House too,” Ram grumbled, sighing. Defeated.

“I gonna go on pony,” Isa shrugged. “With wings. Pony with wings.”

“I want it too,” her brother requested jealously. “Cass, I go?” he asked.

“I am sure Nes will take you on a pony as well. But you know, you already have wings, I don’t,”

Seeing how all his plans were crumbling to naught, Ramiel insisted, “No! I want pony,”

“Alright, alright.”

“We’ll go to grandma’s right after Solstice,” promised Azriel simply, since he knew that his mother was going to spew fire if she didn’t see her grandchildren, and plans to visit were already made. He also felt guilty because he hadn’t seen his baby brother, who was just a bit older than Aurelian, more than a handful of times, not to mention all his other siblings.

Elain got up and asked, “would you like a banan instead of a cookie?”

Cassian didn’t know what she was referring to, but judging by the exuberance that both children immediately displayed, clapping their chunky hands and nodding, it was something…

phallic looking…

“Cass, you love baban? It’s so good!” vowed Ram, while Cassian watched the yellow--

“What is it?” he asked.

“Is baban!”

Isa, rather unhelpfully, supplied, “Varin give babans to us.” Then she confirmed her brother’s sentiment and added, “Is good.”

Deciphering what they were talking about sometimes was a challenge in itself. Varin or baban didn’t make it any easier to understand.

Elain handed him the smooth object, which he assumed was either a fruit or a vegetable. “Try it,” she offered. It didn’t look particularly appetizing, but the General of the Night Court Armies was not going to back away from a challenge. So Cassian opened his mouth and positioned the thing sideways, so it didn’t look too indecent...when a brown, scarred hand shot out and clasped his wrist tightly. “Easy there, big fella,” Azriel said, amusement dancing in his eyes, while Elain was smiling,

“What?”

“It needs to be peeled,” and Az peeled the fruit for him. It smelled nice. “Also,” he handed it back to Cassian, “don’t be weird. You eat it vertically.”

Cassian chewed and it was--

Absolutely delicious.

“What is this?” he marvelled.

“Is good?” Ram was eating his own, smacking his lips.

“It is! Where did you get it?”

Elain explained, “Varian brought them for Amren, from Summer. They only grow there,”

That explained why Cassian wasn’t familiar with them, since he was technically still banned from Summer Court. For accidentally destroying one building.

“You know how she is still figuring out what she can eat and how well she can digest various foods. Varian thought that banans might be something she could enjoy. I don't think they fully agree with her, but she is trying. She gave the surplus to us and now,”

“Varin bringed more!” Isa said. “Varin is nice. I like it.”

Cassian only hoped that the House would be able to produce these banans magically, if he asked for them. Because he sure hoped so.

***

“Go get your jackets, and bring me Ori’s as well,” Azriel instructed, as he dressed his youngest for the road.

Cassian cleared the table and washed all the dishes, while the children gathered themselves together, but now, he pulled Elain aside, and whispered, “Ellie, do you have a moment?”

Azriel glanced at them, but in his usual manner, said nothing and did not question.

People came to Elain all the time, with their private issues, for word had spread that her power was Life. She was also clearly and unusually fertile for a Fae, and that was thought to be a good omen. So they came. Mostly females, asking for things, sharing, requesting a drop of her magic, knowing that she was Cauldron blessed, because the vessel from which all life came, loved her.

Azriel wasn’t sure what the Cauldron felt for Elain, for it was an inanimate object of immense power, and Azriel couldn’t say whether this thing possessed feelings or emotions. It was a kindred spirit though. The Cauldron came from a different world, where magic flowed wild and so powerfully, that two beings and a pot could create life that seeded an entirely different world. That little extra bit of the wild Life-magic was what the Cauldron gifted Elain. Azriel pondered if her Life-magic was the reason the two of them were chosen as Lord and Lady of Hewn City, and if she had the will and might to revive a stagnant Court because of what flowed through her. After all, she stood alone and faced the Rift, and the Rift shuddered in her presence.

The essence of their carranam was still a mystery to both of them, but it worked, and if for nothing else but in making amazing children.

Azriel kissed Ori’s cheek and watched Elain and Cassian disappear into her greenhouse and the apothecary, where she often worked.

Cassian linked his hands behind his back and looked around. Elain had her own shop and laboratory in Velaris, where young healers and witches came to practice their art, learn and perfect potion making, and studied plants and their properties, whether healing, poisonous, deadly or arousing. But Elain’s personal specialization was in matters matrimonial and mating, baby-making and sexual. Which, Cassian had to admit, was rather ironic, considering how modest Elain was and how, when he first met her, she refused to even mention or discuss sex. She still didn’t, not casually, and she probably wouldn’t have, if she didn’t discover how healing her touch was. It was actually Nesta’s terrible cycle pains that Elain, unwittingly, eased just by placing her hand on Nesta’s stomach. It took years to understand how to harness that energy into something that any healer could administer--in a tonic form. And that’s how it began. Females from all walks of life, from all Courts, learned that there was a tonic that eased their debilitating pains so successfully, they were able to function normally during their cycles. Word spread quickly, and those who were able to travel to Night Court, obtained the tonic in great quantities, for their families and friends. With the earnings for the sales of the tonic, Elain was able to finance a bigger operation, which expanded into other specialties, but mostly it trained younger healers, who used more advanced techniques of healing, developed medicines and remedies with emphasis on female health.

“Congratulations,” Cassian said softly, once he made a circle around the oval room and looked over heaps of dried plants and flowers, viles and glass jars, and a pile of notes and scribbles on a chalkboard.

Behind him, Lorcan’s claws clacked on the parquet floor, as the little wyvern followed him around. Lorcan was very protective of Elain, and though he was no bigger than a large dog, Cassian knew that the beast could turn vicious, if his mistress was ever threatened. Or the children. Because Lorcan cared for the children since they were born, always hovering over them, escorting Elain when she went on walks with them, getting them out of trouble, picking them up when they fell, and hissing at everyone when they were napping.

Even though Lorcan and Cassian were old pals and well-acquainted, it didn’t mean that the wyvern was going to leave Elain alone and not offer scrutiny and close supervision. So he followed Cassian around, his black beady eyes keeping track of every movement.

“Thank you,” Elain said simply, and Cassian did not elaborate, for it was considered inappropriate to discuss pregnancy with a female who was not yet showing.

He stopped in front of one wall that was covered in strange messy collages, papers with scribbles on them, ribbons and gods only knew what else.

“New experiments?” he nodded towards the wall, trying to make sense of the items pinned to it.

Elain burst out laughing.

He whirled to face her and asked, “What?!”

“That’s Rami’s and Isa’s artworks and projects that they make when they play here, or bring back after their days at their playgroup...They assume that they are helping, because I keep all of it here.”

“Oh shit,” Cassian laughed.

He recalled Azriel’s private office in Hewn City, which actually had the same artwork scattered and pinned everywhere. Cassian doubted that Azriel ever threw out anything that was made by his children. Framed above his desk was a set of three white canvases with small handprints on them, made with different coloured paints. A new white canvas would be taking its place on that wall soon enough.

Elain wiped her tears and sat on a stool, crossing her legs. Lorcan landed at her feet, folding his wings around him.

“Thank you,” she said.

“What for?” Cassian leaned on his forearms over the high drafting table.

“Staying with them...they can be a handful,”

He shrugged, “Ellie, we love them. You know that,”

“I know, but,”

“Nah, they are family to us, just as they are to you. Isa is a perfect child, Aurelian is the best baby, and Ram...well, Ram is,”

Elain cocked her brow and smiled.

“Ram is my blood and my life,” he added with a warm grin.

“I am sorry I’ve been terribly busy lately,” she said.

“It’s understandable--a Lady, a Life-healer, a mother, and a wife...There is a lot on your plate,”

“Perhaps,” she agreed, and he knew that she was waiting for him to explain. But he stalled.

So Elain continued, “It doesn’t excuse that I haven’t visited Nesta in almost a month, and...how is she?”

“Well,” he said quickly. Maybe too quickly.

“How’s training? Her...battalion?”

Elain was still barely familiar with military jargon and it always sounded a little funny when she attempted to remember the proper terms, ranks and weaponry.

“You know Nes,” he chuckled. “She is tenacious.”

There was an awkward pause, which was unusual, because it was unlike them. Cassian and Elain were close and good friends.

“How are the two of you, Cassian?” she asked simply, but bluntly.

He looked down at his hands and said quietly, his voice serious,

“I know it’s only been twelve years...and I know I shouldn't be impatient…”

Elain remained silent, listening to him. Her stillness and attention reminded Cassian of Azriel.

“Twelve years is nothing, it’s,”

“Why are you trying to convince yourself, Cass?” she wondered.

“I am not,”

He grunted under his breath and said,

“It’s me, El.”

“What is you?”

“The healer said…” he sighed, “Nes is like you, you know. Like Feyre. In fertility, she is basically still human--it shouldn’t and wouldn’t take her hundreds of years to conceive a babe, like a Fae female might.”

“There are human women who can’t conceive,” Elain reminded him, “but it is true--the healers have confirmed it, with myself and Feyre. I assume that Nesta is the same. But you are fully Fae, therefore,”

“So is Rhys,” he reminded her, “so is Az. And yet, you are expecting your fourth,”

“That’s because we apparently have no self control,” she chuckled.

He smiled. Weakly.

“I feel like I am failing her, El,” a ragged breath tore out of his broad chest, “because I know she loves your younglings, and I know she wants one of her own. Even if it’s just one, we’d be so happy. We...Gods, Elain, this is difficult to talk about,”

She put her hand on his and squeezed gently, “I understand,”

“May we keep this between each other,” he requested softly. “Even from,”

“Az knows not to ask, for I never share. What I hear and what people tell me stays between us, and only us.”

She jumped off the stool and went to a large wooden cabinet with glass doors and asked,

“Has the healer identified the problem?”

“Not exactly. I think it’s just that I am a fucking...sorry...Fae, and we are...I don’t know…” he shook his head, “what if we are incompatible? What if she and I aren’t made to,”

“Well, you are mates ,” she reminded him simply. “So,”

“So were you and Lucien,” he shot and she gave him a cool look over her shoulder.

“Gods, El, I am so sorry! I didn’t,”

“You are mates,” she repeated, brushing his comment off with a wave of her hand, “Lucien and I were bespelled. We were never meant to be together, never meant to procreate. Nesta was made for you, and you were made for Nesta. The stars and worlds had to collide so you two would be created from the same dust...Trust me, Cassian, Nesta and you are compatible. But,” she took out a vial and then another, “we are here to perfect the Mother’s work…” she set them in front of him and said, “the world isn’t without snags and faults. But nothing happens by happenstance...nothing is random. Perhaps I was given a gift that could help you create your own world with Nesta. Just a piece of a larger puzzle.”

He looked at the vials, but did not touch them.

Elain squeezed his hand and made him look at her, “Cass, listen to me. Children do not define you, or Nesta. It will happen when it will happen, but Nesta will never love you any less if the two of you won’t have children. There are plenty out there who need love and who could be adopted.”

“I know. You are right.”

“And as you wouldn’t love Nesta less if she couldn’t bear children, neither will she blame you for any of this. Also, as Az says, the right children come to you at the right time . I like that philosophy.”

“Ram or no one?” Cassian smiled.

“Ma!” they heard furious banging on the door, and just in time. “Why you there? Come and be with us!” Ramiel called.

“Take both of these in the morning, a teaspoon should do it,” Elain explained, and handed Cassian the vials.

“Thanks El. Should we…” he paused, “umm...do things ...more?”

“You asking me whether you should be having more sex with my sister is not how I anticipated to start my day,” she groaned. “But, no. Unless you want to,” she quickly raised her hand to him, “don’t need to know...Fae fertility peaks in the middle of her cycle, so do what you will with it...Also, your annual Frenzy.”

He sighed, and bit his lower lip, thinking.

“You know, we never had our original, first Frenzy...What if that is the reason,”

She shook her head,

“No, it wouldn’t have any effect on fertility. Though perhaps you shouldn’t have avoided it back then,”

“I wanted to give her space,”

“I understand. And whatever happened, happened. But the annual week of Frenzy is there for a reason, and that’s the optimal time to try for a baby, for mated couples. Since your mating took place on and right after Solstice, and Solstice is coming up, you should consider going to your Illyrian cabin for that week…”

Her gaze was pregnant with meaning.

“So, while you are strategizing with my son, about him winning the snowball fight, perhaps strategize about something else as well,”

“Nesta doesn’t love the cabin, especially not in the dead of winter,”

“Well, bring out your romantic side and sell her on tales of mulled wine by the roaring fireplace, sweating in your birchin, snowball fights, pine garlands, and,”

“Pfff, alright,” he was thinking deeply, his brow creased, “I’ll have to be inventive!”

“The House has too many interruptions,” Elain reminded him. “Make your Frenzy your time. Just the two of you. No fighting battalions.”

Cassian stood in front of her and then took her in his arms. He pressed her gently to him and kissed the top of her head, “Thank you, Elain,”

“Elain?” she chuckled, “you never call me Elain!”

“Alright, petal. Thank you. You are the best. It’s good to have a healer in the family that actually knows how to do shit.”

“Just live your life, Cass, and don’t think about it too much.”

***

May I present: Azriel, Prince of Velaris. Lord of Hewn City of the Night Court of Prythian. Shadowsinger. And Lady Elain, the Cauldron Blessed. Lady of Hewn City of the Night Court of Prythian.

“Good gods,” Azriel groaned, “seriously?”

Elain smiled under her breath, amused.

“Lucien does like pomp and circumstance,” she murmured, as she lay her hand on Azriel’s proffered arm.

The grand doors fell open and they entered the glittering reception room of the palace.

“You truly are the most gorgeous woman in the world,” Azriel vowed, as he gave her a side glance-over.

Elain wore a cobalt blue velvet gown, plain and long-sleeved, but with a sparkling gauze mantle that fluttered behind her with every step that she took. It was Hewn City heraldic jewelry pieces that were the talk of the assembled courtiers, who whispered and muttered to each other, as Azriel and Elain made their way down the polished marble floor. Elain only ever wore formal Hewn City tiaras and necklaces to official receptions and meetings, since she had no need for them otherwise, considering how much Azriel gifted her himself. Phenomenal pieces for the birth of each baby, for every anniversary, for her birthday...Her collection could already rival Feyre’s, not to mention her engagement jewels and her kinj’all, but Elain was thoughtful about how she presented herself to the world, and even despite their considerable personal wealth, she and Azriel lived relatively modestly in their manor.

This morning, Azriel winnowed to Hewn City, picked up a number of velvet boxes and now Elain sported the Hewn City Flower Tiara, which was her favourite.

Azriel himself did not wear anything but his formal military uniform, and only two siphons, which was more than enough for a fight in the human lands. Not that he was expecting one.

“I bet Lucien is wearing cream breeches,” he half-snarled quietly.

She grinned, “Behave. Lucien is fashionable.”

“The little fireling is going to call you his ‘mate’ won’t he?”

“Likely.”

“Dear Lord and Lady of Hewn City, welcome!” Vassa, splendid in a white gown that contrasted beautifully with her dark golden skin and bright auburn hair, stood up from her throne and made her way towards them.

“Your Majesty,” Azriel greeted her formally, bowing his head slightly, while Elain curtsied.

“Let’s skip the formalities, shall we?”

“My dear mate,” Lucien appeared behind Vassa, wearing a dark blue jacket, cream trousers and boots. “It is always a pleasure to see you,” and he kissed Elain’s hand. “Shadowsinger,” he nodded curtly to Azriel.

“Lucien,” Azriel didn’t bother with a title either. “You look good.”

“You as well, Shadowsinger. Your position becomes you.”

Vassa and Elain looked between the two males and ever so slightly rolled their eyes.

Vassa linked her arm with Elain’s and said, ‘please come along. We have a luncheon prepared and we can begin discussions promptly. There will be a ball in your honour tomorrow night.”

“Vassa, it’s really not necessary,” Elain murmured, but Vassa shrugged, and winked, “why the hell not? I never pass up an opportunity to party! Especially with you.”

Elain laughed.

“I hear that the revelries at Hewn City are unlike anything we, poor morals, can even fathom! Fire Night, I hear? What is that?” she leaned towards Elain’s ear and whispered, “is it true that it’s an orgy?”

Elain blushed slightly and only nodded. She didn’t elaborate. Didn’t tell Vassa that she participated in those festivities herself, in front of the entire court. Those were Fae things and humans weren’t privy to them.

Azriel, who was content not to speak with Lucien unless needed, nevertheless asked, “How does it feel to be King?”

“Only king-consort,” Lucien retorted modestly.

“You rule three human kingdoms now--more land and people than the Night Court and Day combined,” reminded him Azriel. “Also, stop calling my wife you ‘mate’.”

Lucien’s mechanical eye whirred and he grinned,

“So sensitive, Shadowsinger. She is my mate. Forever. Just because she isn’t mated to me, doesn’t mean she isn’t my mate.”

Azriel sighed with annoyance, “You aren’t fucking mates.”

“Language, language. You are in fine company, Azriel,” Lucien tsked at him.

“Hybern and Koschei tricking you into thinking you are mates doesn’t make you two mates,” Azriel countered flatly.

“Oh, let’s not fight old battles,” Lucien decided breezily, as they followed Vassa and Elain, and in turn, were followed by the rest of the courtiers to the great veranda, where luncheon was set up. “You got her. Got your Power handed to you through her. Closed the godsdamned Rift with her. I think we can all rest assured that the Cauldron chose you two for a reason.”

Azriel didn’t respond for a bit, thinking, before saying, “So did you, Lucien. With Vassa. You’ve been able to put all of this together and it’s an admirable effort, if I am being honest.”

Lucien was mildly surprised by the unexpected praise and glanced at Azriel.

“We all have our paths to walk,” he said.

“Yes. And perhaps the Cauldron does choose wisely. You and Vassa and the humans, and Elain and I...in Hewn City,”

“Who would’ve thought that I would end up in the human lands?” Lucien chuckled dryly, “it would’ve been absurd only a decade ago.”

Azriel nodded, as he reflected, “Same. I wouldn't have thought that my destiny would be to marry a once-human woman and become carranam with her, and be chosen to become Lord of an underworld kingdom.”

“And your younglings?” inquired Lucien, with genuine curiosity. “How do they fare?”

And it dawned on Azriel that things have truly changed, and he’d hoped for the better. Because for the duration of the lunch, he and Lucien discussed their children--Lucien’s two boys, whom he called his ‘carrotsticks’ and Azriel’s three. And somehow, it felt natural and peaceful, to talk about children, who finally had a secure future to look forward to.

Azriel wondered if Vassa’s immortality passed on along to the boys, or whether they’d simply inherit part of Lucien’s and live unnaturally long human lives. No one knew right now.

***

The land was covered in snow. Overnight, it fell in fluffy piles and now rested like big fur hats atop manicured bushes and parapets of the palace garden. Lucien had brought the tradition of Solstice celebrations to the human lands, and now, festive garlands hung from all lamp posts and balconies. Downstairs, the halls were decked with holly and evergreens and apparently tonight, there was going to be the unveiling of the great pine tree in the ballroom, along with festive cocktails and seasonal music, and the court was invited to participate in the tree decoration. Lucien was intent on celebrating Solstice with gusto fit for a king.

Elain lay sprawled across the bed, naked and breathing heavily, a blissful, satisfied smile on her full lips. Azriel tried to keep the kissing...controlled. He knew that her ball gown was somewhat revealing, particularly around her shoulders and neck, so he couldn’t enjoy some of his favourite parts of her to his full delight. The same went for her lips, which already looked rather bee stung, though he’d hoped that by the time they needed to attend the meetings, the swelling would subside.

“I miss the babies,” he complained with a sigh, stroking her calf and her foot, which rested on his chest.

She smiled widely and pressed her manicured toes into his inked peck, tickling him playfully.

“I thought you were a stoic shadowsinger who could not be touched by such trivial things as his babies not being around in the morning.”

“You thought wrong, my love,” he argued, and kissed her foot. “Not to say that I didn’t enjoy pressing you into the window glass and fucking you very thoroughly today,”

“And giving the groundskeeper a shocking eyeful,” she reminded him with a laugh.

“He saw you?”

“Oh, certainly,” Elain nodded vigorously, grinning mischievously.

“Naughty,” he smiled, and she proposed,

“I want to do that at home,”

“Do what, exactly?”

“I really enjoyed it,” she licked her plump lower lip, “the heat of your body behind me, and my front pressed into the cold glass. It was...delectable,”

“Perhaps I should try it as well,” he mused.

“I think that you should... we should…”

He reached to her flat belly and put his heavy palm on the warm skin.

“Any ideas for names?” Azriel asked, stroking her gently, while she laced her fingers with his and her eyes grew misty with warmth and love.

“I am so excited, Az,” she confessed. “I can hardly wait,”

“Well, wait we’ll have to, my sweet, but soon enough...I am so happy about this as well. Can’t wait to see what we’ve made this time!”

She laughed and looked down at her naked body, her breasts that had grown just a bit heavier lately, though she was largely unchanged still.

“I don’t know if I should give you the right to unilaterally name our children, without telling me prior,” he added, smirking. Because Ramiel was Elain’s idea. And Azriel was so delirious with joy and relief that when she told him that that’s what their son would be named, he immediately agreed. Only later did the realization struck him that his son would be named after the damn Illyrian mountain. Naturally, Cassian adored the idea.

“Ramiel is the perfect name for our son,” she retorted.

“I mean, yes, but...Fine. It is the perfect name. But going forward, let’s discuss it first.”

Elain sat up and crossed her legs, affording him a lovely view of everything that he wanted to see.

“You can’t do this!” he protested, “because I will agree to anything.”

She giggled and pushed his shoulder, before taking his hand and kissing it.

“If it’s a girl, I was thinking perhaps after Rhys’s mom?” she kissed the other hand, before he cupped her breast and brushed his thumb over her nipple.

“I love the idea...but,”

Elain was surprised, but waited for him to explain.

“I think Cass would want that name for their girl.”

“Ah,”

“We never discussed it, but she was the only mother he’s ever known. The one who took him in and honestly, gave him a life. His natural mother gave him life, but Rhys’s mother actually gave him a life. I think it would mean a lot to him to have that name,”

“Of course,” Elain agreed wholeheartedly. “I think it would be lovely!”

She squeezed his hand on her breast and gasped softly, before saying, “And if he has a son, obviously he’ll name him Azriel.”

Azriel rolled his eyes and buried his face in the pillow. Elain was laughing.

“You have to admit that he loves you! If I didn’t know better, I’d say he loves you more than Nesta loves him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, he,”

“Cass loves Az. Az loves Cass,” she teased.

***

Lady of Hewn City’s gorgeous burgundy gown, her ruby and diamond necklace, and her diamond headband were the talk of the ball. When she and her frightening, but devastatingly handsome husband made their appearance, the attendees craned their necks to get a better look.

Supposedly, she used to be human. How she became Fae, no one really knew.

Supposedly, she was engaged to their King Consort Lucien as well, but something had happened--no one knew the story behind that either--and the engagement was broken off. Some said that they were even mates, in a Fae manner. Whether that was true or not, no one was sure. Obviously, it wasn't particularly acrimonious, since King Lucien was the first to sweep the Lady in a dance.

Lady Elain was unusually, almost indescribably beautiful, otherworldly, and she made a good pair with the King--a handsome, Fae pair, despite the King's scar and mechanical eye. However, when her husband stepped in and offered her his arm, stepping easily alongside her in a gavotte, before pinning a small holly to her shoulder, it became clear that the two of them were in fact absolutely, perfectly, incandescently matched. She was a part of him, just as he was a part of her. Whatever their souls were made of, it was the same starlight and sunshine.

Azriel held Elain’s waist, watching her flushed cheeks and glittering eyes, as the two of them swirled and stepped along to the music. The crowd of guests seemed far away, a sea of silk and velvet somewhere in the background.

“What?” she whispered.

“When I saw you, I fell in love,” he murmured to her. “And you smiled. Because you knew.”

“Darling,” Elain breathed, tears sparkling in her brown eyes, “you are all I ever wanted love to be.”

***

Elain sat her flute filled with sparkling lemonade down and fanned herself. It was hot. At least two hundred people crowded the ballroom, and despite its vastness it was still too warm and too jampacked. Everyone was gathered around the mammoth pine tree, which smelled divine, but was now heavily studded with ornaments, but only on the bottom. Elain figured that servants would have to climb up on ladders to decorate the rest of it. She was going to oversee the decoration of Hewn City, once they returned home, and of course both Isa and Ram couldn’t wait to put their stamp on the house. After flying ponies and snowball fights, this was the next big item on the agenda.

“Elain fucking Archeron, as I live and breathe!”

Elain, who was standing by the window in the hallway, cooling off, turned around with a frown on her face.

In front of her stood a paunchy, ruddy middle-aged man. Well-dressed, he looked plain and unfamiliar--his brown beard was touched with gray, as were his temples. His thinning hair was brushed forward, to cover up the baldness.

“Graysen?” she gasped quietly.

His eyes skimmed over her, ogling her bare shoulders and her neck, unabashedly staring at her breasts, which were pushed by the bodice and created a notable cleavage. He looked down at her slender waist, the cut of her hips and all the way to her legs.

“Lucein said you’d be coming,” he said.

Goodness.

Elain had forgotten how quickly and rapidly humans aged. Especially men. Graysen used to be--or perhaps still was--a soldier, his face exposed to the elements for years, and now his skin creased around the eyes, against his mouth.

It has been some time, she had to admit. Almost 15 years since everything’s changed, and since she’d met the Fae. Graysen was 26 when she saw him last, when he virtually spat at her and demanded that she give him back his iron ring. Gods...what did happen to that ring? She couldn’t recall. Maybe it was in her box of keepsakes where she kept small things that were remnants of her human life. Her father’s wooden carvings, the rose that he’d made for her. Her mother’s gloves--how did she even have them? Maybe that’s where she threw that ring.

Now, she was faced with an ageing human man in his 40s, already past his prime, his jowls a little loose, his stomach no longer tight with muscle. It used to be that she thought of him so fine a gentleman, so gallant and valiant. So handsome. But that was until the moment when she laid her eyes on a winged Fae, who was beautiful beyond belief. And everything changed.

“Quite the greeting, Graysen,” she said coldly.

“Oh,” he attempted a smile, which looked more like a grimace and she smelled alcohol on his breath, though he wasn’t drunk, “shall I call you Lady Archeron?”

He took a step closer.

“See,” his knuckle brushed down her bare upper arm and she jolted.

She was Azriel’s wife.

No Fae would ever dare look at her out of place, let alone permit himself to touch her. Brazenly.

“See, I remember you as a little nobody,” Graysen whispered, stepping even closer, now crowding her. “Nothing to your name. A poor little piece of,”

“I suggest you do not finish this sentence,” she ordered imperiously.

“Or what?” she laughed hoarsely.

Another glance over and he continued,

“You were a nothing . And I took you in. You and your harpy of a sister, that bitch...What was her name? Nesta! That hateful bitch, who sauntered around like she was queen, when she was worth less than dirt on my shoes.

“And I gave you,”

“You gave me nothing,” she hissed, feeling a hot flush spreading over her cheeks, her neck, hating herself for her reaction. “Your father took us in--not you--and my enormous dowry was the reason for his kindness .”

“Your dowry...Your younger sister was whoring for the Fae and they were kind enough to pay her well for her services,”

Elain’s hand flew to his face, but his reflexes were quick enough to stop her, as he grabbed her wrist.

“Let me pass,” she demanded.

“Uptight, just like before…” he moaned. “Took me months, as I recall, to even get you to flash an ankle,”

“What do you want, exactly?”

He looked her over and she thought that he’d spit on the floor, but he refrained.

“We counted on your dowry, you little idiot,” he hissed, releasing her hand, “counted on it to pay our soldiers, to fortify our estate, to,”

Elain trembled with shame and rage, “May I remind you that you are the one who discarded me like I was trash?”

“That I did. A fine moment that I remember fondly. You look even more disgusting than when I saw you last. These ridiculous ears…” he flicked her elongated ear, making her flinch. “Your skin...Your smell,” he sniffed, and then made a face. “I wouldn’t touch you if you paid me! But because of you, we lost much of our wealth…”

“Because of me?”

“You!” he snarled, a drop of his spittle landing on her shoulder. “Because of you, it was Vassa, and that prick Jurian, who was able to step in and take control of the lands...It was…” he came even closer, his chest almost touching her breasts, “ mine . That was the agreement. Mine!”

He began raging, breathing hitching, eyes wild, “It was going to be mine! The land, the people. We helped you in your fucking war, and what did we get in return? I have nothing, but a crumbling estate and not enough money to patch the leaking roof!”

He paced in front of her, muttering, “It was going to be mine. And you betrayed me. You became this...this thing…” he spat, “this Fae. Where is my life? Where is my bride? Where is my land?” He banged on his chest with his fist, “I took you in and you betrayed me,”

“I never,”

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up and don’t open your damn mouth. It’s your fault. It’s all your fault, your whorish sister and her High Lord, or whatever the fuck he is. You dragged us into this war and we never recovered,”

“You would’ve been dead,” Elain reminded him, “if it wasn't for the Fae and for my brother-in-law. All of you. Or enslaved, if you were lucky. Don’t blame me for losing your lands or money,” she shrugged, “it takes time and skill to manage, and if you couldn’t do that, then,”

At that, Graysen swung. His fist, tightly closed, hooked and flew towards Elain’s face.

But Graysen, whom she once loved, underestimated her speed and her reflexes. Didn’t understand how quickly she could move. How fast her reactions were.

This was not the Elain that he knew 15 years ago--the soft, kind, demure flower grower, who enjoyed parties and picnics.

With lightning speed, she leaned back just enough to avoid his fist. Wide-eyed, he watched, almost as if in slow motion, as Elain reached behind her and the next thing he saw was a needle-like weapon in her hand. In the next second , the blade and the pointed edge pressed into his throat.

This Elain did not scream or call for help. She wielded her razor sharp weapon with grim determination and expertise. She did not blink or hesitate, and he felt the cold steel break his skin, though she was utterly controlled with her movement, and did not cut him any more than she wanted to.

Calmly, she said, “I am the Lady of Hewn City, Graysen. Lady Elain. The Cauldron blessed.”

Graysen panted. Terrified. Because those honey-brown eyes that he once knew so well, were like a dark storm on her perfect face. And her hold of the steel was true.

“And my husband taught me well.”

And then he felt it.

The presence.

Pure darkness.

Pure rage.

It was behind him.

And he knew. The Dark Lord was there, standing over his shoulder like Death.

Elain did not move, but the pressure on his throat eased just a bit.

“My husband, you see, is an Illyrian warrior. One of the greatest to ever live. And when he asked me to marry him, he gave me his love and this kinj’all. And because I was going to marry an Illyrian warrior, I was going to learn how to defend myself and never feel weak again. He didn’t give me an ugly iron ring of superstition and foolishness, in hopes that it would ward away the Fae. He gave me a weapon and offered to teach me how to use it.”

Graysen swallowed and Elain wrinkled her nose.

“It would seem that you’d pissed yourself, Gray.”

She looked down at the spreading puddle under his feet.

With a practiced move, she tucked the hair pin back inside her hair bun and then delicately lifted the hem of her skirt.

“I don’t want to ruin my gown,” she gave a little shrug and walked past him, without turning her head.

“Perhaps, at the end, we all get what we deserve,” she whispered.

Graysen stood, expecting...something.

Elain, though, said cheerfully, “Another dance, my love? And then we can retire for the night.”

“Of course, Lady Elain,” a dark midnight voice answered. “Would you like me to take the trash out for you?”

“I think that it will remove itself.”

***

It was late afternoon the next day when Azriel and Elain landed at the House of Wind.

Azriel’s shadows were laden with gifts for the children, new human bestelling books for Nesta--she loved human romances to this day--special spices for Cassian, as well as a crate of aged whiskey, and new paints for Feyre.

After a series of meetings, Elain and Vassa had some time and took a carriage into the city, where they went on a shopping spree, causing a bit of a gawking melee from the residents, who rushed to watch their Queen and the Fae Lady in the shops, buying toys and paints.

“Let’s not announce ourselves just yet,” proposed Azriel, smirking. “And see what trouble all of them had gotten into?”

Elain chuckled and kissed his cheek, “Is that nice? To invade their privacy like that?”

“I think that I am still technically a resident of this House?” he reminded her, as he swathed them in shadows.

“You don’t think that you’ve lost that privilege when you got married?”

“Never!”

“Snoop.”

“Trust me, sweetheart, I do not want to snoop on the majority of things that Nesta and Cassian get into in this house…”

“Eww, please don’t.”

They entered the living quarters and heard noises coming from the common room, where they headed quietly, unseen.

Nesta and Cassian had changed the layout of their wing of the House, making it less formal and cosier, taking a cue from Elain’s manor, where the kitchen, the dining room and the living room were all located in the same space.

The Nessian household--something Elain and Azriel called Cassian and Nesta between themselves--was bustling with quiet activity. In a brightly lit kitchen, Cassian was chopping something aggressively on a cutting board. Baby Aurelian was strapped to his chest with a Illyrian baby wrap, and dangled happily, babbling and drooling, as he chewed on an apple slice.

“Or, I think rosemary...nah, thyme,” Cassian pondered out loud, reaching for the spice rack above and rummaging through glass jars. “What do you think?”

Aurelian responded confidently with a “Bawaba--ah,”

“Yes, I think I agree. Thyme it is.”

Cassian then proceeded to drop half a teaspoon of dried thyme on Ori’s head, looked around guiltily, and blew the herb into the air, quickly wiping off the evidence.

Azriel shook his head, watching all of this transpire before him. Elain was shaking with laughter next to him.

“That wrap--you have no idea how much shit he gave me about it,” he whispered into her ear, “when I suggested that it’s convenient and that he use it. Never ! He yelled. He is not a nursing mother , he said. Look at him now!”

“Ori is going to be well-seasoned.”

A pile of banans on the counter did not escape their attention. The House listened.

In the living room, by the fireplace, they watched Nesta and the other two, as well as Lorcan, who was snoozing on his pillow.

Nesta, her legs tucked under her, was reading a book, and Ram and Isa sat on the rug on the floor, listening. Whatever this book was, it surely was shocking the hell out of Ramiel, who was watching Nesta with wide eyes, his hand covering his mouth. At one point, he couldn’t handle it any more and exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air,

“No, Nessa! Wolf gonna eat piglet?!?”

Nesta shrugged mysteriously and said, “I guess you’ll have to wait until the end of the,”

“No, I don’t want it,” he cried stubbornly, “this bad story and I don’t like it. Why wolf eat piglet?”

“But he hasn’t eaten the piglet yet,” Nesta reminded him evenly, “what if the piglet fights back?”

“Yes, Rami, be quiet!” Isabelle ordered impatiently. “I wanna hear more,”

“Is piglet gonna fight?” with this, Ram jumped up and ran to the sofa, climbing on it and wrapping himself around Nesta’s arm, looking at the book, as if he knew what it would say.

Azriel felt Elain tense momentarily against him, when Ram put his cheek on Nesta’s shoulder, budding his head into her and breathing heavily. Would a scolding follow? Would she snap at him, as he worried about the piglet’s fate? Would she order him back to the floor?

Nesta wrapped her arm around him gently and kissed the top of his head.

“Do you want me to read more, my sweet boy?” she asked. And such gentleness Azriel’s never heard in Nesta’s voice.

Ram nodded, “Yes, you read it, Nes.”

“Alright then,” Nesta tucked him against her and continued reading. The piglet fought back.

...They ate dinner together at the House.

The kids had made holly wreaths and crowns to wear at Solstice, and told how the ‘ladies in dresses’ helped them and how much fun they had, and how the ladies gave them pie too. All of that was said in one breathless go. Ladies in dresses were the priestesses of the Library, and they adored the children’s visits, probably more than anyone else. They always did magnificent arts and crafts with them, took them to feed the baby pegasus and entertained them with puppets and songs.

As they got ready to go, Cassian called after Elain.

“Good trip?” he asked.

She nodded, “Yes. Signed some agreements, danced, ate, shopped, sat in too many meetings.”

“Great!”

Excitedly, she added, “I almost killed Graysen!”

“Yeah?” Cassian’s hazel eyes lit up in savage delight. “Good girl. Why didn’t you?”

She huffed, “Didn’t want to stain the floor. Vassa has very nice floors.”

“Understandable.”

“He pissed himself though.”

“And that’s punishment enough.”

He helped her gather all the wreaths and crowns and hot cocoa pouches in a bag and then said, quietly,

“I thought about what you said.”

“Uh uh,”

“While we are waiting for things to happen, I thought it would be a good idea to visit your orphanage and see...see if there is an Illyrian youngling or two who’s in need of a family.”

Elain smiled.

***

Ramiel won the snowball fight. His first win.

#elriel #elriel fanfiction #elriel fanfic #azriel #elain archeron #azriel and elain #elain x azriel #elain #cassian #my writing #pro elriel #acotar fanfiction #revenge served cold

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a-libra-writes · 4 years

Text

The Gang Reacts to You Dressing Fancy for a Job

“Is it okay to ask for the RDR2 gang (or just Javier if it’s too much!) seeing their crush all prettied and dressed up for a job (like the riverboat or Bronte’s garden party)? Would they work up the courage to ask them out? your writing sustains me”

YAAALLLLL THIS LONG AS FUCK BC THIS! IS! MY! RASPBERRY! JAM!

In this imagine, you’ll be impressing: Arthur Morgan, John Marston, Dutch van Der Linde, Hosea Matthews, Sadie Adler, Micah Bell, Charles Smith, Bill Williamson, Javier Escuella, Sean MacGuire, Lenny Summers, Kieran Duffy, Tilly Jackson, Mary-Beth Gaskill, Karen Jones, Flaco Hernandez

ARTHUR MORGAN

Oh no. When you were volunteered for the job, he had a feeling you’d look charming in one of those big hooped gowns, but … this is like his heart getting hit by a train. The feelings are a little overwhelming, so while the girls add their finishing touches, Arthur tries to stand to the side and not stare. He wants to compliment you, because you look absolutely stunning, but words are completely failing him. Arthur manages to get a compliment out, but you’re totally occupied with how much you love or hate this get-up. Arthur doesn’t even care about what he was forced to wear; he could be in a paper sack and he wouldn’t notice. During the party, he’s distracted by how you seem to float around the room, easily joking with the guests as though you were one of them. Hosea has to knock sense into Arthur more than once, but how can he pay attention when there’s a literal angel in front of him?

When the gunfight breaks out, Arthur is at your side right away, pulling you into his protective embrace and trying to steer you out of the house. It doesn’t matter if you’re a good shot or not, that dress and corset are cumbersome as hell and he’s gonna stubbornly send you home. Arthur wants to be the one taking you back, but he has to stay and fight. He hands you off to Sean, warning him to be careful and get you back to camp in one piece. His tone is actually pretty scary when he says this. Arthur is beyond relieved when he finally gets back. You’re out of the dress, but you’re clearly safe and comfortable, not a scratch on you. He doesn’t care about his own injuries, but he’s pleased when you fuss over them.

JOHN MARSTON

No way John is gonna dress up like some goddamn banker, but he was totally ready to tease you about having to squeeze into a corset and frilly dress. The problem is, you’re gorgeous in it. He doesn’t know shit about women’s clothes or fashion, but something about the color and style just suits you so perfectly, like it was made only for you. He wants to give a sassy comment, but he just … can’t. John goes for a genuine compliment, but his cheeks and ears are tomato red as he mutters “ya look real nice”. If you hate the clothes, it’s a little easier for him to joke around with you, but if you love them and you’re twirling around, as happy as a kid and looking like an actual lady from one of those fancy paintings? He can only take so much sweetness before he has to duck his head and distract himself with something.

When the gunfight breaks out at the party, John is right by your side before you can blink. You don’t know how he moved so fast, but soon his arm is around your waist and getting you back to his horse. John isn’t the most graceful about this, and the dress is meant for dancing, not riding… so it ends up ripping as you two make your escape. Once you’re in a safe place and you can get out of the damn thing, John’s attention goes straight to the tears in the dress, specifically the one that’s showing the stockings and garterbelt you had to wear. The lingerie looks fantastic - it definitely awakens something in him.

DUTCH VAN DER LINDE

First off, he is not sneaky. Not at all. You know exactly why you were asked to play a role in this little con, and it was so Dutch could see you all dressed up. Now, either you’re totally annoyed by this because screw frills and lace, or you’re delighted because you can dress up like some fancy lady and rob rich folks. Also, it’s pretty funny how he pretends not to be interested in the sort of dress and jewelry you and the girls are deciding on. You know he’s trying very hard not to make a suggestion, and just to be a little mean, you made sure he was within earshot when you mentioned the matter of corsets and fancy undergarments to the girls.

Once at the party, Dutch plays at being some rich banker and you’re his young foreign wife. It’s absurdly easy to pull off, even with your terrible accent, and after each conversation you both are trying not to laugh. He’s definitely liking being able to have an arm around your waist and being able to lean in and whisper to you, but he won’t push his boundaries, especially if you’re already uncomfortable being all dressed up and powdered. While you two are dancing, he’ll whisper in that deep voice, praising you for how perfect you’ve been, or reassuring you that it’ll be over soon. When the shooting started, Dutch pulled you to a safe place you could lie low in, but if you bothered him enough he’d hand you a gun and let you join the shootout.

Back at camp, Dutch’s flirting hasn’t dulled in the slightest. He’ll sit close to you as everyone else celebrates, mentioning how wonderful you were and if you need help slipping out of anything. If you let him, he’ll help unlace those fancy boots, even massage your poor ankles and calves since you aren’t used to wearing tall shoes. Isn’t that thoughtful?

HOSEA MATTHEWS

Nearly all of this con was his idea, and you’re glad to help run it. Hosea is playing the part of some eccentric philanthropist and you’re a grand-niece or some relative. The two of you talk so smooth and fast, easily working off each other, that the hosts of the party don’t stand a chance. Hosea wants to avoid any sort of violence, but knowing the gang, who knows what will happen, so he wants you to stay close to him. During lulls in conversation, when you and Hosea are just observing the crowd and deciding who to speak with next, he’ll lean in and whisper something to you. It makes goosebumps break out on your skin, you can feel how warm he is and sometimes he’ll run a hand up your back as he compliments you on what a natural you are, or reassures you that it’ll be over soon. He’ll truly feel bad if you hate having to dress up and pretend like this; so he’s grateful you agreed to come along and help. If you’re thriving off the party and the trickery, he’ll give you knowing grins and winks that make him seem fifteen years younger. There’s a surprising amount of mischief in him.

When the inevitable fight breaks out (he totally called it), Hosea swiftly gets you to a safe part of the house he noticed earlier. From there you two snatch several stashes of jewels and cash and stealthily make your way out. Hosea had to be convinced to steal as much as you both did; he was terribly worried about you, since the dress would be difficult to run in. When you’re back at camp, Hosea isn’t shy about telling you what a great job you did, and how proud he is. He’ll give a kiss to your cheek and he’s very smooth about offering to remove anything that’s giving you trouble.

SADIE ADLER

Thank god she’s not the one in the fucking gown, that’s all she has to say. Well, that, and the jokes and snark she throws your way while you’re getting ready. If you hate the dress just as much, too bad, you were roped into the plan and Sadie is having lots of playful teasing at your expense. If you adore it and start modeling it for her, she won’t admit how cute you’re being… but she will consider wearing a tuxedo and being some “hoity toity” man just to make sure you’re safe. She doesn’t trust the “gentleman” at this party at all, and the closer you both get to the manor, the more antsy she becomes. All her previous humor is gone as she urges you to find her right away if trouble happens. Sadie is absolutely going to bring your favorite gun along and was trying to figure out a way to strap a revolver to your leg until Hosea pulled you away. You promise you’ll be alright, but she doesn’t look reassured.

The expected fight breaks out, and like you promised, you beeline for Sadie. She’s already on you - how the hell did she get into the manor so fast? - and she’s tossed your gun in your hands. Soon enough you both are blasting your way out of the manor. She gets impatient when you fall for the second time and rips the dress herself so you can run easier. It was your horse she brought around to escape, and Sadie hoisted you up, sat herself in the back and kept shooting while you rode to safety. It was… a hectic and messy escape, but neither of you had a scratch. Once you’re at the camp, she doesn’t feel bad for ripping the dress, even if you liked it. It was necessary, and besides, you can’t keep the frilly thing! Okay, she’ll apologize if you pout. If you hated it she’s more than happy to help you burn it.

MICAH BELL

How the hell is he supposed to respond to this? It would be one thing if you caked on make-up like a tart and strapped yourself into some circus tent-looking contraption, he could work with that. His brain just stops functioning for a few seconds when the girls finally unveil the work they did on you. If you hated the dress and it wasn’t something you’d wear unless a gun was pointed to your head, then Micah certainly had choice words to say, teasing and mocking the difference between this and your regular attire… except they were much weaker insults than he usually had. You were too distracted and uncomfortable to even care. If you adored all of it, practically buzzing with excitement as you turned and twirled for everyone, he might even try an attempt at a compliment, although it’d come out all jumbled and flustered. He decides to stay away and just watch you from a distance, both enjoying the view and trying to figure out this stupid knot in his stomach.

At least you two are apart during the party, so he doesn’t have to look at you enjoying yourself and swaying around in that dress. When the fight starts, he can finally have something else to put his mind to … until he sees you get caught in the crossfire. Micah would throw you a gun he pulled off someone, barking at you to follow him. Dutch told him to get you to safety, which he initially bristled at, but then he dutifully put you up on Baylock. He told you to keep shooting while he rode off - and he still got plenty of shots in himself. Once you were back at camp, he wouldn't apologize for dirtying the dress. It had to be done, and now the job is done, so you can get out of it…. and he would absolutely offer to cut it off with his knife. The whole thing, corset and all. He's gonna fantasize about it well after the fact, too.

CHARLES SMITH

If you love getting a chance to dress up and wear jewels, Charles can tell, and he finds your joy just adorable. If you dislike the idea of having to dress up for a stupid party, even if it’s a robbery, he’s very encouraging and reassures you as many times as you need. This kind of con isn’t really his scene, but he knows you’ll do well and he promises to look after you during the whole thing. He’ll even have you ride along with him on Taima if that'll settle your nerves. Once you arrive, Charles helps you down like a gentleman. If you’re still uneasy, he asks you to wait a moment and then comes back with a rose he picked from the garden. He places it neatly in your tied back hair. “Perfect. Don’t worry, you’ll do great, and when things go south, I’ll be there. Promise.”

Once the fight breaks out, Charles is true to his word and helps you escape in the chaos. You have no idea where he came from, but you didn’t refuse the help, or the gun he offered you - at some point he’d packed your favorite one - and you’re pulled up on Taima as gunshots go off all around you. Charles put you on the front of his horse to protect you better, even if it’s harder to shoot from there. It sort of makes you feel like a princess being swept away. When you two return to the camp, he tidies the rose in your hair and offers to help remove the restrictive dress or massage your legs if they hurt … casually, of course. Probably.

BILL WILLIAMSON

When the girls finally unveiled their handiwork, he thought his heart was stopping. You were so pretty - well, you normally were, but now more than ever. You looked like one of those porcelain dolls they put in music boxes. Bill didn’t even want to touch you or stand too close, worried he’d dirty you somehow. He couldn’t believe you wanted him to play the role of the bodyguard that would follow you around the party.... Though he played the part well, his silence combined with his big build made him seem intimidating. If you were clearly miserable in the dress and with the company, he wasn’t sure what to say to make you feel better, so he stayed quiet. If you were loving the dress and just thriving in the party, fooling everyone into thinking you were some high-class belle … Well, he was too distracted watching you, still not able to say much.

Eventually he had to split off from you to join the men, which he didn’t appreciate, but he made a point to bring your gun along with his. When the expected gunfight broke out, Bill beelined for you, practically tossing a man that was too close and handed over your gun. He didn’t expect you to be so grateful, it made him blush in spite of the gunshots going off all around you two.

The fight was more dangerous than expected, so Bill hoisted you up on Brown Jack without warning and raced off. Your dress ended up getting ripped from his haste, and if you really liked it, he feels bad for screwing it up. It’s easy to turn around his mood by complimenting what a good “bodyguard” he was. Just don’t flirt too much, he’s already had a mess of feelings today.

JAVIER ESCUELLA

He was trying to hide his excitement when he found out you were going to be dressing up and joining the others on this con. You’re already an angel, now he’s going to see you dressed in a beautiful gown and decorated with jewels? It fit so perfectly, too, like it was made for you. Javier wouldn’t hide his approval of the outfit, even giving you some suggestions on more comfortable shoes or a better hat. Mary-Beth thought it was adorable and left him to help you out - that made it much harder for him to hide how pleased he was with your outfit. If you truly hated it, he’d understand and would try to reassure you that not only did it look wonderful, you were going to pull the job off perfectly. His warm hands would sit on your shoulders as he said this, hoping you trusted in him. If you’re the sort who loves dressing up and conning, he shares your happiness and will even dance with you a little before you have to leave, relishing in your giggles.

While the party went off well, with you playing your part perfectly, chaos inevitably broke out. You have no idea where Javier came from, but you were damn grateful that he’d seen you and pulled you into a safe corner. Together you both snuck into the manor, stole as much jewelry as you could carry and easily slipped out the back, gunshots still echoing through the place. Javier grinned as he draped all the stolen necklaces and bracelets on you, asking you to keep them safe for now. You clasped your arms tightly around his torso when you rode away with him, resting your head against his back whenever you got tired.

SEAN MACGUIRE

He all but jumps out of his seat with delight when he spots you. Mary-Beth is still fussing with your hair, but the corset under your dress has already done all sorts of magic, and the dress itself hugged you like you were meant to wear it. Of course he can’t resist from fawning all over you. He wants to pick you up and twirl you like a princess, but Miss Gaskill scolds him for dirtying the dress and he gets dragged away by the men. For once Sean was wishing he was away from the action and complained enough that they let him accompany you on the carriage - that is, as the driver. Sean didn’t even notice if you were extremely uncomfortable, he was too busy gabbing about the party and saying what a natural you’d be. When you finally have to leave, he takes your hand and gives you a warm smile. “You’ll do great. I know it.” He didn’t realize how comforting it was.

Once trouble began, you were impressed how quickly Sean scrambled to your side, and with your gun no less. Before you could question how he did it, he was gleefully shooting and directing you away from the fight. As much as Sean wanted to stay and end it, he was far more concerned with your safety, you noticed. He swung you up on his horse with little grace, and even if your dress was ruined with blood and mud and your hat went flying off, you laughed as you wrapped your arms around his torso and listened to the wild man whoop and shoot through the escape. Sean would absolutely be the type to help you off the horse and insist on carrying you around camp, bragging about his “rescue” the whole time.

LENNY SUMMERS

God damn it, he already thought you were cute! Now you’re gorgeous and he’s way too bashful to say anything about it for a while. He’s thankful for the girls fussing over you and the boys dragging him off to discuss the plan, because being around you is too distracting and makes his thoughts short-circuit a bit. He’s normally fine with talking to you! And it’s just a dress, so what’s different? If you really loved the outfit, you’d be a natural in it, and Lenny would find your enthusiasm and confidence very attractive. If you clearly hated it, he’d want to comfort you somehow, but would worry about coming off wrong. It’s a shame you didn’t like the outfit, because you looked fantastic in it. Before he had to leave with the boys, he’d pay you a compliment. “You’re gonna do real well, miss. Um, you … you really fit the role.”

He has a good sense of when things will go south, and when Lenny felt the tension in the air, he made a point to find you in the crowd. Ones the bullets started flying, he found you before you even made sense of the situation. Lenny would rather get you to safety right away, but if you want a gun, he ain’t denying you. All his previous nervousness would be gone as you both would shoot up the place, then find a horse to escape on. Lenny wouldn’t feel that shyness again until you both got back to camp, when he had to help you off the horse. He’ll immediately start joking about your dirty dress and praising your gun skills to keep his beating heart in line. Lenny feels much better when you’re back in your old clothes.

KIERAN DUFFY

He was embarrassed enough watching the girls parade you around, pleased with their work, and they had every right to be - you looked even more beautiful than the women in the magazines. It’s like you walked right out of them. He felt bad if you were forced into the role, knowing you probably hated the whole get-up, but if you absolutely enjoyed it, he was enchanted by how you seemed to beam with happiness. He’d only seen you like that a few other times, and he was pleased to commit it to memory. When you’re getting ready to leave, he can’t help but give you words of encouragement. He can’t imagine you’ll do anything but shine at the party.

Kieran was tasked with staying behind at the camp, as he expected, but at least he was trusted to hold a gun and stay on watch duty. His thoughts often drifted to you, wondering if you were doing well and if you were sick of the party or having the time of your life. When he heard powerful hoofbeats, he snapped at attention, readying the gun and calling out... only to recognize your horse and your silhouette. Your dress was a torn mess, but it was still restrictive, so Kieran wasted little time in helping you down. “Miss, are you alright? You aren’t - is that your blood or someone else’s? Alright, good. C’mon, sit down here.”

You told him about what happened at the party, how things got out of control and you had to flee in a hurry. The boys were likely splitting up to shake the law off them. Kieran was so relieved you were alright, his heart was hammering but outwardly he was calm as he helped tie your sprained ankle and get you some water. He wasn’t his nervous self at all, tending to you and asking questions with confidence ... until you pointed out you needed help getting out of the corset and dress.

TILLY JACKSON

Tilly was initially in charge of “acquiring” the jewelry and accessories you’d wear, but she ended up shooing the other girls away when they kept suggesting ridiculous hair and make-up ideas. She didn’t care what lady’s magazine Karen read, Tilly wasn’t about to turn you into a side-show act. She was always helping you with this or that, you both relied on each other. She always knew how to reassure you, taking your face in her hands as she spoke softly. “Listen, it’s nothin’ you ain’t done before, just wearin’ somethin’ fancy now. And those boys will do their job right and keep you safe, I’ll make damn sure of that.”

If you hate this sort of thing - dressing up and conning others - Tilly would’ve tried to help you get a different role, but ultimately, you had to do it. She’d give you a softer version of her usual tough love. If you loved it, Tilly would be the one teasing you to get your head out of the clouds. Either way, when you were distracted, she’d threaten the hell out of the boys to keep you safe. Even Arthur would get an earful; if you so much as came back with a scratch, she’d have their hides. If you came back a muddy, bloody mess because you couldn’t resist joining in the gunfights, Tilly would have your hide, too. If you came back mostly clean because you avoided the fight, she’d just laugh and tease you for being so “fussy” - but she was relieved you came straight to camp. The dress and jewels are all sold afterward, but Tilly keeps some bits of fabric to sew you both something.

MARY-BETH GASKILL

You have a feeling she’s enjoying this ... a lot. While the both of you were cool as you acquired the dress and jewels to go with it, as soon as you were back at camp, Mary-Beth was giggling and going on about how to do your hair. Soon enough you were dragged off to a tent for privacy and she dressed you up, cooing over your figure in the dress and how nice you looked. She didn’t even notice how flustered you were getting - of course if you enjoyed dressing up, you could share in her enthusiasm and get her advice on how to style it. If you hated it ... Mary-Beth reassured you it looked wonderful, “just like a princess!” Well, that didn’t help, but her obvious swooning was pretty cute. Mary-Beth ended up coming along with the job, dressed up herself and playing the part of your “companion”, since all high-society ladies were about that. You’re pretty sure companions weren’t supposed to be as red-faced or affectionate as she was around their ladies, but you weren’t complaining.

At the party you two were naturals, and what little screw-ups were quickly covered up. If Mary-Beth didn’t know something, you did, and vice-versa. You two were actually quite a team, and you noticed Hosea winking at you in approval from across the room. When trouble was starting, you pulled Mary-Beth aside and you both hastily dug through the manor’s drawers and silver cabinets while the gunshots went off outside. If you needed to defend her, you would, but luckily it didn’t come to that. You were able to steal a horse from their stable and go riding off, Mary-Beth holding tightly and urging you to go faster. You both couldn’t resist keeping two matching bracelets from the robbery.

KAREN JONES

Karen may not be interested in passing as one of those hoity toity girls, but she’s absolutely gonna help dress you up as one. She’s laughing the whole time, throwing out suggestions and distracting the hell out of Tilly and Mary-Beth as they work. Karen was the one who found the dress, and you’re surprised at how well it flatters you and how the color suits you so well. “Didn’t I say I know how to pick ‘em? Now tighten up those laces! Society ladies don’t have fun!” Karen is quite pushy regardless if you want to do the job or not - if you don’t, she’ll all but drag you to the carriage the boys brought and force you in. It’s a hell of a chance to get a lot of money, and she doesn’t want you missing it. If you love it, that’s all the better! She teases you plenty either way while you’re trying to dress, and gives you a big kiss before you have to set out, not caring who sees. You were long gone by the time she turned on the boys and all but threatened them to bring you back safely.

The party was lonely without Karen, you wished she had been part of the plan so you both could talk together instead of mingling with these insufferable people. Sure, she may have been a little too loud and unladylike... but it would’ve been far more fun. You escaped on cue, making a point to steal a gorgeous stallion as you left the manor behind, listening to gunshots ring out through the night. The boys (and Sadie) were doing their part, so it was time to go home. You had not expected Karen to come riding on your horse with a gun. “Damn it, you were takin’ too long! I got worried...”

She tried to hide how worried she actually was on the way back. She helped you out of the infernal buttons, lacing and corset, and gladly snuggled your aching body. By the time the boys returned to camp, you both had fallen asleep in your tent.

FLACO HERNANDEZ

You’d mentioned the plan in passing to Flaco, and he was so worried for your safety he came all the way down from that forsaken mountain to make sure it went off well. He didn’t hide that he disliked you working with “that little gang” when you could just stay with him, but that was for another time. While everyone ran around preparing for the con, he watched with great amusement as you were primped and stuffed into a corset and ballgown, whistling at you and making plenty of jokes. You weren’t going to live this down, ever. Once your outfit and hair was mostly finished, Flaco patted his lap and you sat obediently until it was time to go. Even if you hated the dress, Flaco thinks you look beautiful and will tell you so, kissing your cheek and muttering all sorts of sweet things to distract your nerves. He really doesn’t care about showing you off, if anything, he’s amused by your friends trying to look away.

It was hard not to think of him as the party progressed. You played the role well enough, but soon you were itching to get back to camp. Who knew how long he would stay around before going back to that cold place? The expected gunfight broke you out of your thoughts, and as you made your escape ... you suddenly felt a pair of familiar, fuzzy arms wrapping around you. “I’ve got you now, princesa. Why don’t you come back with Flaco?”

He was able to get you back, but not to your gang’s camp. Flaco had set up his own spot, making a point to bring your horse and your things... the only way the gang knew you were alright is he left word with Miss Grimshaw (after she gave him a thorough ‘questioning’ about his relationship with you). You better believe he’d help you out of that fancy ensemble, but if you really loved it he’d urge you to dance and spin around for him. It’s a rare day when he sees you wearing something other than four layers, after all.

#arthur morgan x reader #john marston x reader #dutch van der linde x reader #micah bell x reader #sadie adler x reader #hosea matthews x reader #charles smith x reader #bill williamson x #javier escuella x reader #sean macguire x reader #lenny summers x reader #kieran duffy x reader #tilly jackson x reader #mary-beth gaskill x reader #karen jones x reader #flaco hernandez x reader #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 preferences #omg i love this prompt but i took forevveerrr es tut mir leid

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letsloveimagines · 4 years

Photo

Title: Forever

Pairing: Corpse Husband x female!reader

Requested by: Anonymous

Request: How about one where Corpse proposes? With flowers and everything! Like he went out of his comfort zone to propose to you in public because he felt like you deserved it!

Word Count: 2225

Warnings: luff and some swearing

Note: The images doesn’t belong to me, all the credits go to the respective creators. I only made the collage. Also, I will not make anything to make Corpse uncomfortable, if he ends saying he doesn’t like fanfiction about him, I will delete this.

♦⋅☆⋅♦

The little black box, with that important thing hidden inside, weighed in the pocket of his dark jeans as he headed for her condo. Corpse's breathing was fast, his hands were shaking immensely, and his heart was beating fast, so fast that it seemed to want to escape his chest.

He strode, always faster than anyone, avoiding people who came in the opposite direction as far away as possible. The further away the better.

Swallowing hard feeling a lump in his throat, Corpse looked at the sky, which at that moment was a sea of red, orange and yellow, indicating that it would not be long before dark and for the moon to replace the sun.

Grabbing his phone and watching the time, he quickened his pace even more, playing with the rings on his long fingers and feeling his back cold with the nervous sweat.

He was ready, however, and he was sure that Y/N was the one. Since that day they met at the small cafe, he knew she was his forever. That day Corpse had risked going out for the first time in a very long time, trying to win even though he knew he would never really be able, at least not as he almost did now with her. That red-haired employee looked at him bored - certainly tired and dissatisfied with his own life, but who wasn’t? - his deep voice stuttering nervously as he tried to place the order. He succeeded there, and the minutes that it took the employee to complete it were truly terrifying. He said a small thank you, handed over the money, and in the moment he took the cup his hands were shaking so much that he thought he was going to drop it. Everyone was looking at him, Corpse was able to feel their gaze and there was nothing he wanted to do but disappear from there. But then an angel came up to him, gently touched his hands assuring him that everything was fine, and offering him a big, beautiful smile that made him dreamy for the rest of the day. Cliché he had the notion of that, but so incredibly good that remembering it makes him feel butterflies in his belly.

The memory was long enough to reach its destination, and the nerves tripled at the moment he saw the condominium of white and brown buildings. He was quick to send a message to let her know that he was already there, and it didn't take long to receive one in exchange of her saying she was going down as fast as she could.

Corpse took a deep breath, leaning against the wall with the white paint a little chipped and in need of a new coat of paint, and reached into his pocket feeling the velvet box stroking his fingerprints. It was still there, safe and heavy with all hopes for a bright future.

"Hey, love." Y/N’s sweet voice sounded nearby, along with the sound of her elegant footsteps.

"Hey, babe.." Corpse greeted pulling the mask away slightly - he couldn't get out without it, even on that very important day - and kissed his girlfriend's black-colored lips (she started to like seeing herself in black since they were together). It was a gentle kiss but full of longing and security, and especially full love. Her lips tasted like blackberries, which he loved, and the black lipstick helped to highlight the beautiful features of her face that only left him even more enchanted. How he was lucky enough to have someone so wonderful in his shitty life? This was something that Corpse questioned every day…

Y/N's eyes were bright when they pulled away and she smiled sweetly. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I missed you."

"As did I, baby. Where do you want to go?"

"I thought it would be good for us to take a little walk."

"Are you sure? We can stay home if you want to, or if you don’t feel comfortable." Oh, how he loved her. Y/N was so understanding and attentive, and if she was another girl, she would have left his sorry ass a long time ago. And yes, Corpse was uncomfortable being on the outside, in plain sight, but it was something he wanted to do for her.

"I'm sure, let's go. It will be dark soon."

Y/N was quick to get to his left side, interlacing their fingers when they joined hands, Corpse's bigger hand practically swallowing hers.

Without further ado they began to walk calmly, Corpse remembering to slow down knowing that it would be difficult for his girlfriend to keep up with his hurried pace.

"I was thinking that we could go to dinner at that restaurant that you like." He informed her. It was a small and quiet restaurant, and they had been there before. It had gone well and without any problem. That was how he wanted it that night.

"Sure, I'd love it as long as it's okay with you." Y/N looked at him again with an uncertain look.

Corpse stroked her small hand. "I'll be fine as long as I'm with you."

The pink tone on her cheeks and the passionate smile with which she presented him made it all worthwhile.

On the way to the restaurant they talked about their days. Y/N told him how it had been a little busy day (she was a graphic designer) and she had already finished the cover of a fantasy book, and given it to the writer when he decided he wanted to change something at the last minute. She managed to do so, but not without feeling that she would tear her hair out in frustration. Corpse pulled her closer to him and assured her that everything was fine, that she was great at what she did and that better days would come.

He was telling her about the two-hour stream playing with the friends he had made, and the music he was writing, when they finally arrived.

They went in, asked for a table further away and without much trouble went to sit in their seats, with the menu on the wooden table waiting for them. There was no need to look though, whenever they went there they asked for the same thing, so that's what they did. She ordered spaghetti bolognese and for him just a vegetable soup with chicken. To accompany, they ordered a small bottle of wine. Corpse's left leg swung quickly, while discreetly touching his pocket.

"Is everything alright, baby?" She asked at the same time that the food was being served.

"Yes, don't worry."

Y/N didn’t stop looking at him with concern, but she did not insist. While they ate they were talking about nothing and everything, enjoying the feeling of being in public in what had been a long time. The restaurant was almost empty, with just another couple at a distant table with their backs to them, which made him more comfortable. It was small with the floor, tables and chairs all in wood, with brick walls with a rustic effect, and small iron lamps lighting the place almost lovingly.

Time passed and Corpse's nervousness only grew. They ate and drank wine, enjoyed dessert, and were happy and smiling.

Corpse was helping Y/N to put on the black leather jacket - her outfit consisted of comfortable shoes, red pants and a cute black tank top, as well as the delicate shamrock necklace he had given her on their one year anniversary -, when she questioned him curiously. "We are going home now?

"Let's go out for a little while." The beautiful girl's surprised look did not escape him, even he was surprised that he was succeeding to do that.

They left the restaurant after paying and ventured into the city, holding hands and full of soft words. Every now and then, Y/N would lift his hand to her lips and give a small kiss on the skin full of protruding veins.

The stars shone in the middle of the night, the moon was full and round, high and illuminating the path to the park. There were wooden benches every few meters, tall street lamps peeking out near the trees and the round lake by the children's swing. Y/N used to go there in her childhood.

They sat on the grass by the lake, their feet immersed in the cold water that reflected the moon. They were silent for a moment, completely at peace watching the couple of swans swimming nearby, gently cutting the water and with their long white necks almost intertwined.

It was now. Now was the moment.

"Y / N…"

"Yes, Corpse?" She looked at him with the stars shining in her eyes, and leaving him speechless.

Corpse’s heart sped up, blood pounded in his ears and his hands trembled when he opened his coat and removed the flower he had protected in the inner pocket. The black rose was in perfect condition, sparkling with the small silver particles that embellished the petals.

He handed it over to Y/N, who accepted her happily with a smile almost as big as his love for her.

"Oh, babe, it's beautiful! Thank you so much."

He smiled shyly, with extremely sweaty palms, and watched as the girl in front of him admired the flower, without knowing that she was also being admired by him.

"I do not deserve you." He said at last, immediately regretting it seeing her smile fading.

"What are you saying?"

"I-"

"Babe, you’re really scaring me right now. What's going on?" Y/N's gentle hands came to his face, taking off his mask (which was fine by him because he trusted her absurdly, and they were alone), and caressed the skin of his cheeks with concern.

"Let me talk before I turn myself into a coward once again. I don't deserve you, I have a full sense of that, you're too good for me and kinder than anyone will ever be. I'm not a religious person, my life didn't allow me to be , but since we’re together I pray every day that you would not wake up one day, and realize that it’s not me who you want by your side."

"It will never happen, you are everything I ever wanted." She whispered.

"I am not... but you are what I always desired." He smiled. "You take my problems when you shouldn't, you help me and you take care of me. I can talk to you about everything because I know my secrets with you are safe. You support me when I doubt myself, and you do it all without asking for anything in return. "

"I just want your love."

Corpse kissed her, feeling the soft brush of her lips against his. Just a simple kiss from her was enough to calm him down for good. "You already have it." He assured her, then touched the velvet box and took it out of his pocket. Y/N's shocked sigh filled the air, and she raised her hands to her mouth. "And I know that I will never be enough, that I will never be good enough... But I will try. From sunrise to bedtime I swear to love you and try to make you happy every day. And if one day I don't, I know that I wasted the best thing I have in my fucking life... "

The tears overflowed from her eyes, sliding down her face in rivers of happiness. "Corpse…"

Corpse opened the box showing her what he had been hiding for several months. It was a simple ring - too simple for her in the boy's opinion, but that was how she liked it - made of silver with an oval diamond in the middle, flanked by two smaller ones in square shape, and many smaller ones around it, embellishing the circle.

"Y/N…" He sighed deeply, more sure than ever in his life, even though trying to control his anxiety. "Do you want to marry me?"

The girl threw herself at him, hugging him tightly and crying in his chest. "Yes, yes! Of course I do! Of course I want to marry you."

He laughed happily and deeply, smiling so much that he thought the corners of his lips must reach his ears. He kissed the top of her head, inhaling her perfume and murmuring how much he loved her... But mainly thanking her for loving him.

After a few minutes of laughter and sobbing, Y / N walked away with red, wet cheeks and slightly swollen eyes, but looking more beautiful than ever.

"How long…?"

"Much too long." Gently he took her hand and stuck the engagement ring on her left ring finger, where it glowed as if it belonged there. "I should have done this a long time ago."

"It's beautiful." Y/N said in admiration. "I love you."

"Not more than I love you."

They shared another kiss, this one longer than the others, and left their foreheads gently touching each other, with their eyes closed and wanting to record the moment forever in their memory.

"Thank you." He whispered.

"I’m the one who should be thanking you…"

"I knew you were forever. I've known it since that day at the cafe."

"Yes…" Y/N agreed. "Forever."

♦⋅☆⋅♦ Tag List: @breathygasps @unicornblood4ever @jay-jay-love @mintchip17

#corpse husband #Corpse Husband Fandom #Corpse Fandom #corpse fanfiction #fanfiction #imagines #one-shot #corpse husband imagine #corpse husband oneshot #corpse husband one-shot #corpse x reader #corse x y/n #corpse x you #corpse husband x reader #corpse husband x you #corpse husband x female reader

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mygodyouredivine · 3 years

Text

The Hell In Your Eyes - 2

Summary: Loki doesn't meet her until two weeks after his initial imprisonment, but he knows he hates her. He has to hate her. Because the way she talks to him and helps him and saves him meals can't mean anything. She is too soft to deal with Loki, who is hardened with pain, pain, and more pain. And Loki hates soft things.

Have you ever seen the hell in someone’s eyes and loved it anyway?

Characters: Loki Laufeyson/(f)Reader

Warnings: mild blood

Word Count: 3498

Previous Chapter

It’s 5 in the morning.

The sun isn’t even out yet and you’re standing in the kitchen, dressed in your pajamas, preparing smoothies. You thought you’d be used to waking up early, considering how you always used to make smoothies before everyone else woke up, but apparently your recent ‘break’ has thrown off your internal schedule. In fact, if not for FRIDAY’s not-so-gentle reminder of your morning plans, you wouldn’t have gotten up in time.

You shake your head, tightening your grip on the mason jar you’re holding.

It won’t happen again.

It can’t.

Not when you’re already in everyone’s way, always leeching off of Tony’s money, always causing trouble for Steve and making Bucky worry. Not when Natasha always feels a need to look after you and Wanda constantly checks in. Not when Sam and Clint feel obligated to train with you and Thor treats you like you’re going to break — going to shatter into a thousand tiny pieces and then cut and bleed all over the tower’s expensive, clean floors.

No. If you can’t even do something as simple as making smoothies for the people you’re always inconveniencing, what use are you?

Your fingers tighten and you can feel your nails digging into the hard glass of the mason jar. For a second, you wonder if it’s possible for you to scratch the class. You clench your fingers — hard — in an effort to break the glass. Just once, you want to break something else. But as you loosen your grip, you’re forced to come to terms with the fact that the jar is just as pristine as it always was.

Not a single crack. Not even a scratch.

The jar is fine — the jar is always fine. But your fingers are dented and your joints are sore and you’re so tired of this. Of always being the one who is damaged. The only one who is ever damaged. Everyone else is always unscathed and no one else ever breaks.

You drop the mason jar.

Shit.

It falls to the ground and you watch as it shatters all over the floor.

Maybe Thor is right. Maybe you are going to shatter one day, just like that mason jar.

But it’s not going to be today. Breath quickening, you furiously remind yourself that it’s okay.

It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.

It’s not you on the floor. Maybe one day it is going to be you, lying there broken and useless and fractured and gone, but right now, it's not. You’re still full and whole and not broken and the glittering glass fragments on the floor aren’t you. Looking back down, your eyes catch on droplets of red. Your breath stops and the air in your lungs still. Sure, the glass on the floor isn’t your ground-up soul, shattered and crushed, but the blood is yours.

There are specks of blood splattered amidst the glass, staining the kitchen’s pristine floor. And you know it’s your blood because you can feel it dripping from your fingers where the glass cut into your skin and you can’t help but stare as a drop of it rolls off your middle finger and falls to the ground and you flinch as it lands in a little crimson circle.

It’s pretty, though.

And you can’t look away as another drop falls, landing directly on top of the previous one, doubling the size of the puddle. For a second, you wonder how much blood it would take to cover the entire floor — and if your body has enough.

But then you hear footsteps approaching and you hastily kneel onto the ground, furiously attempting to clean up the mess you made, to fix it. More blood trickles from your fingertips as you desperately grab at the broken pieces. You’re making it worse.

The glass blurs and you frantically blink, trying to rid yourself of the tears beginning to form in your eyes. The last thing you need is to cry — for your tears to mingle with your blood — for you to appear even weaker than you already do.

But you are weak. You can’t even win this battle — against yourself, and you feel the tears overflow and you watch as they fall, turning the dark red into a lighter pink.

It's a pretty pink.

It’s a pink that reminds you of the first lipstick you ever bought. You and your best friend had gone down to the convenience store after school, sneakily carrying the lunch money you’d both saved. You remember counting the coins together and excitedly running towards the makeup aisle, where the both of you promptly agonized over the perfect lipstick for the better part of an hour.

Eventually, you settled on a sparkly little tube of lipstick — more of a chapstick really, and you can distinctly recall how it smelled like heaven and tasted like strawberries, and how it always tinted your lips just the slightest bit pink.

But right now, the pink you’re staring at isn’t lipstick, and you can very clearly make out two feet standing before you. Looking up, you meet a pair of eyes. Blue, like the sky on a sunny day. It’s a blue filled with promises of picnics and lemonade and daisies, of innocence and childhood, of strawberry lipstick. And in this moment, you want nothing more than to drown in that blue.

Maybe if you bleed enough blood and cry enough tears you can drown in it. Maybe you can drown in the perfect shade of pink while staring into the perfect shade of blue.

______________________________

For such a muscly man, Thor’s fingers are surprisingly soft.

The god is currently standing before you, carefully bandaging your cut hands.

“My lady, I thought you specifically told me that blood smoothies were not appetizing.” His attempt at humor brings a smile to your face, but you can’t do more. Shrugging, you answer.

“Well, I guess I’m just a hypocrite.” His eyes squint, his eyebrows furrow, and you can tell he’s about to reassure you. You hurriedly continue. “Even the best of us make mistakes, Lord of Thunder.”

Thor’s eyebrows relax again, and the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. Relief courses through your veins. You wonder if Thor can feel it in the blood that is still leaking from your fingers. Gently, you tug your hands out of his grasp, just in case. Sending out a silent prayer of thanks to whatever prompted you to wear your black sweatpants today, you try not to grimace as the fabric brushes against your injured legs. At the very least, they conceal the blood.

Thor doesn’t need to know about those. It’s bad enough that he’s already seen you dissolving into an emotional puddle earlier, not to mention how the literal King of Asgard had cleaned up the mess you made and is now attempting to inspect your hands again.

“Were you planning on making the smoothies this morning, my lady?” Thor’s voice interrupts your thoughts and you look up, meeting his poorly-disguised-concerned gaze.

“Yup.” You nod, popping the p . “I’m glad to be back, and I wanted to start making you guys smoothies before your morning workouts again. I know for a fact that whatever concoction you made yesterday was an absolute disaster.”

Thor looks sheepish as he smiles, his hands running through his short blonde hair. “My brother would agree with you.”

At this, you suddenly remember. You need to get Loki’s smoothie preference, as well as the time he wakes up. You know everyone’s preferred flavors, as well as their morning routines, to ensure your smoothies are always as fresh as possible.

“Speaking of Loki, when does he wake up?”

Thor shrugs, a confused look flitting across his face. “Truth be told, I don’t really know. Loki and I haven’t inhabited the same space in quite some time, and I am not familiar with his routines.”

“Oh.” That would be slightly hard to work with. “Uh, well do you know what type of smoothie he might prefer?”

Thor’s lips turn down into a pout. “I don’t think Loki would like any type of smoothie, my lady. Yesterday he made his distaste for smoothies quite clear."

Before you can interrupt and remind him that his smoothie most definitely tasted nothing like your smoothies, he continues with a wink. "But I suppose if anyone could make a smoothie Loki does approve of, it would be you, my lady."

You know Thor is somewhat disappointed by Loki’s lack of enthusiasm towards his smoothie. It’s easy to detect, even under his charming antics. Thor’s lips turn downward when he is upset, and he always picks at his nails. Sometimes he will suck in his cheek, and that’s when you know he is truly in a mood. But Thor never stays sad for long.

His expression has brightened up again, and Thor is back, his ever-chipper energy once again emanating from within his warm eyes. There’s not a single trace of conflict in his eyes, and you wonder, for the hundredth time, how he does it. Thor has seen so much death — caused it, even — and been through so much pain, yet he is always able to hold it together, always able to smile and laugh and come back stronger.

Thor is the embodiment of the word 'golden'. No matter how much dirt and grime Life layers on top of him, nothing could ever dim his luster.

You think you're closer to being the dirt and grime than you ever were to being gold.

“Thanks Thor.”

______________________________

In the end, you settle on making Loki Thor’s favorite smoothie. After all, Thor is the only other god here who has dined on the finest Asgardian delicacies, and if he likes your chocolate-strawberry smoothies, you just hope Loki does too.

The only difference is, Thor prefers his smoothies absurdly sweet. Whether it’s his insane metabolism or the ten thousand calories he burns a day, he never seems to be affected by the hundreds of grams of sugar you’re sure he consumes.

You’re carefully pouring the smoothie into two mason jars when Nat comes into the kitchen. You smile and motion towards her drink sitting on the counter. Natasha prefers a green smoothie, packed with kale and spinach and cucumbers and ginger — not the best tasting thing you’ve ever made, but it must do something , ‘cause Nat looks like she doesn’t understand what the word ‘bloating’ means.

The redhead raises an eyebrow, motioning to the second mason jar you’re carefully pouring. “Does Thor drink two of those every morning now?”

“Well, no. This one's for Loki. I don’t know what he prefers, so I thought I’d make him Thor’s favorite for now. Except without the whipped cream and excessive number of chocolate chips.”

Nat’s other eyebrow raises. “You’re kidding right? Angel, stay away from Loki. He’s a dangerous man. He’s deranged and unstable and selfish. He’s not going to appreciate your smoothie.”

And with that, all the self doubt rushes back in. The self hatred that Thor’s fingers had smoothed away, the shame that bled from your fingertips, it all rushes back in, pumping through your veins and into your heart.

“Do you appreciate my smoothie?” You hadn’t meant for it to come out, and you certainly hadn’t meant for it to sound so insecure.

Nat’s eyes widen, and she hastily retreats. “Nono Angie, that's not what I meant. Come on, you know all of us love your smoothies. What I’m trying to say is —” her fingers meet her forehead in a gesture of frustration “ — we appreciate and love you for all that you do, but Loki won’t. He’s too arrogant and he definitely thinks we’re all beneath him.”

With that, she moves closer to you and envelopes you in a hug. Natasha means well, you know that, but she doesn’t realize how her words come off — how she just backed up the little voice inside your head, repeatedly telling you that you’re worthless. You wonder if she even wants your smoothie, or if she just humors you. And then her arms retreat from around you, and she steps back.

“Sorry Angie, but I’ve got to go now. I love you — we all do. You know that right?”

You nod, and smile. “Thanks Nat. I love you too.”

______________________________

Natasha’s smoothie has separated. The blended ingredients have floated to the top, and the green liquid has settled below. The abandoned smoothie sits on the edge of the counter, where she left it, only reaffirming your suspicions that she didn’t really want it in the first place. Dimly, you consider dumping Loki’s smoothie out. Maybe Natasha is right. But you don’t really want to waste any food, so you move to put his smoothie in the fridge. Maybe Thor will drink it later.

(If he even likes them.)

But as you open the fridge door, you notice the plate of leftovers you snagged yesterday is gone. The saran wrapped plate is missing, and you don’t think anyone would have taken it, except…? You look around for the plate. It’s not in the sink or left on the counter, nor lying in the dishwasher. You find it in the cabinets, placed directly on top of its companions.

You’re confident that no one in this tower would clean their plate after eating, except maybe Steve. But Steve isn’t here — he made his famous lasagna last night because he was leaving for a mission early today. So really, that just leaves Loki.

Is it possible that Nat was wrong?

Did Loki take the food you left for him? And ate all of it? And cleaned up?

You suddenly remember yesterday, walking in on Loki scrubbing blood off the floor. You can’t say you were surprised Thor had left a mess, but you were somewhat surprised Loki was cleaning it up. Maybe it is possible then.

So you decide to bring the smoothie to Loki.

First, you make a quick stop at your room. Your legs are really starting to sting, and you don’t want the sweatpants to dry onto your skin. Damn. You’re going to have to wash these again, and you just did laundry. But it’s okay, and soon you’re walking out of your room, clad in another pair of sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, holding Loki’s smoothie.

You take the elevator and press the familiar button of Thor’s floor. Mentally, you’re once again debating whether or not this is a good idea. You’ve almost decided to just turn back when the elevator doors slide open and you make eye contact with Loki, who is standing awkwardly in the doorway of his room, one foot inside the door and one foot in the plush carpet of the Odinsons’ shared living room.

His eyebrows are raised comically in an expression of surprise, and for a second you don’t see the intimidating god.

But then the moment passes, and he straightens, eyes narrowing, eyebrows drawing together in a frown. “Can I help you?”

A part of you — a large part of you — wants to leave immediately. To apologize for disturbing him and go back to your room. But another part of you, the one who caught a glimpse of Loki before he threw up his defenses, roots you to the ground.

“Actually, yeah. I made you a smoothie.” You stick out your hand, ignoring the way it trembles slightly. “I know Thor’s smoothie probably tasted like shit, so I thought I’d make you one to show you how it's done.”

When he doesn’t move, you step further into the living room and set the smoothie down. One of Thor’s hoodies is lying haphazardly across the coffee table, so you pick it up. Loki is staring at you.

There’s an awkward silence, and you wish he would say something. Anything. But the raven haired prince is as stoic as ever. His eyes are still boring into your own and you can’t help but notice how strikingly different they are from Thor’s.

Somehow, you’re engaged in a staring contest with the god — and you don’t really want to lose. In an effort, perhaps, to prove to yourself that you’re not weak (especially after the morning’s incident) you resist the increasing temptation to blink. You don’t want Loki to think you’re scared of him, even though you may be a bit wary , and you continue to stare into his eyes.

They say eyes are the windows to the soul. If that’s true, Loki has a very — empty soul. It’s neither warm nor cold, just vacant . It’s almost as if you’re staring into the eyes of someone long dead.

With that, you shiver, and surprisingly, Loki breaks the intense eye contact. He looks away then, and his head tilts downward.

“Right then. I’ll just be on my way.” You hold up Thor’s hoodie. “I’m going to do some laundry. Do you have anything that needs to be washed?”

You hope he doesn’t ignore you. You really don’t need that today. You just need to be productive. To do something — to help someone. And maybe he senses that, because Loki actually nods and walks back into his bedroom, leaving you to stand awkwardly in the middle of the lavish living space.

A few moments later, Loki reemerges, effortlessly holding a laundry hamper.

“Would you like me to take this down?”

You’re a bit stunned by his unexpected and considerate offer, but your desire to prove yourself shines through.

“Nah, I got it. Thanks.”

With that, you lug Loki’s hamper and Thor’s hoodie out of their room, leaving Loki’s smoothie — and an intense hope he drinks it — behind.

______________________________

Loki is an unbelievably neat person.

His dirty clothes are folded — inside his hamper. And organized by article, as well as color. You don’t think he realizes how — awkward — it makes the entire process. After carefully shoving his button downs, slacks, sweaters, and jeans into the washer, you’re left with an interesting assortment of clothing.

His undershirts are ridiculously soft, and you resist the urge to snag one. This isn’t Thor, you remind yourself. After piling them in, you stare at his hamper. Loki has folded his socks, which are paired together. You sincerely hope the washer doesn’t decide to eat one of them, as you doubt he understands the Midgardian concept of missing socks.

Below his socks are… Loki’s boxers. You wipe away the mental image your mind involuntarily conjures and quickly dump the rest of the clothing into the washer, without touching anything.

With that, you throw in Thor’s hoodie and your sweatpants, start the cycle, and leave, shaking your head.

On the way back to your room, you realize that Loki has a very limited closet. All of his laundry had barely filled up his hamper, and you notice how most of his clothing consisted of somewhat uncomfortable items. You haven’t seen him around due to your break, but from his clothing you can assume that Loki has a very different fashion taste than Thor. Mentally, you make a note to slip him some of your oversized hoodies when returning his clothes.

______________________________

You’re immensely thankful for Thor. He always seems to have the best — or worst — timing, and this time he has saved you from a rather embarrassing situation.

You’re pulling Loki’s clothes out of the dryer (having already stolen Thor’s hoodie), and you’ve just started to fold his clothes. So far, you’ve shoved a forest green hoodie at the very bottom of the hamper, and you’re in the process of carefully layering Loki’s sweaters over it. Thankfully, the dryer is still mostly full, and you haven’t been confronted with the dilemma of handling Loki’s underwear again.

Luckily, Thor walks in before you have to.

“Are you doing Loki’s laundry, my lady?” His voice startles you and you jump, but manage to not drop Loki’s earthy brown sweater.

“No,” you deadpan, “These are all mine.”

Thor smiles that smile you’re so familiar with, and you can’t help but grin back. “Well, let me take it from here.” His grin falters for a moment, and he looks more serious when he continues. “Thank you Angel, for giving Loki a chance. I know he can be — difficult. And I wouldn’t blame you if you only saw the villain.”

You meet Thor’s eyes, always filled with emotion — whether that be happiness or warmth, sadness or anger, and you think back to another pair of eyes. Soulless. You think of Loki, and you think of how you’ve seen those soulless eyes before; every single time you look into a mirror. And for a second, you let yourself believe that maybe Loki’s soul wasn’t voluntarily taken from him either. Maybe his cruelty is his defense, just like yours is the fake-happiness that you wear as a shield.

“It’s no problem Thor.” You smile, your shield intact. “I couldn’t let him suffer with your smoothies forever, no matter how villainous he might be.”

______________________________

Cruelty is just loneliness disguised as bitterness.

- Tom Hiddleston

______________________________

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#loki laufeyson #loki laufeyson x reader #loki x reader #loki series #the hell in your eyes #thiye #loki x you #friends to enemies to lovers #reader insert #loki fic #jouce writes

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ahsxual · 4 years

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Save Me

Pairing: Detective David Loki x Reader

Summary: You and David have been together for a few months now. You knew his job was exhausting and obscure, but lately he had been spending less time with you and being more distant, until something he wasn't expecting happens...

Genre: Angst, fluff

Warnings: Kidnapping, violence, lots of swearing, children kidnap (since it's based on the movie)

Word Count: 4,1k

A/N: This one is dark!!! I'm so happy for finally writing a fic about Detective Loki, my sweet and handsome savior <33 I personally think that this piece is really cute and romantic, yet terrifying... Sooo, I hope you enjoy it! ^-^

You had no idea of what was happening... You didn't know why the love of your life has been so distant lately, and acting so weird every time he was around you... Had you done something wrong? Didn't he love you anymore??, you asked the same torturing questions to yourself every day, non-stop.

You were currently drinking a hot cup of cappuccino under five, comfortable, warm blankets while watching your favorite series, since it was really cold outside and you were by yourself. It was the middle of winter, so whenever you looked outside the window, all you could see was bright, comforting and gorgeous shades of white of sweet snow. Winter used to comfort you in a way no other season did: on those freezing days, you were able to spend all day in bed with David, warming each other's bodies in your tight embraces, and making love until you started feeling so hot that it seemed like summer had already arrived. But this time, you didn't feel any of that: you painfully missed your boyfriend. You missed your moments together, the sweet, yet rare laughs that managed to come out of his well-defined lips, knowing you were the only one that could achieve them... and that's why you were so special to him, because you were the only woman and person in this world who was able to make him feel truly happy, loved and accepted. Before you started dating, he was so worried that you would leave him sooner than later, or that anything bad would happen to you if he let you enter in his life so deeply... and he was also terrified of falling in love with you, because then it would too late for him to turn back.

It was already 1 am, and you had no messages, calls or even a sign that he was still alive.This was pure torture. You were trying to hold your tears back so hard, not wanting to feel weak once you let them fall, but it was inevitable for carrying so much suffering and not letting even a gasp out of your lonely and unloved body... at least that's how you felt. When you were about to turn off the lights to get ready to sleep, so you could refresh your mind and relax a little bit, you suddenly heard your front door being calmly knocked. It was strange since David would always use his keys to enter your house, but you had been missing him way too much to think properly, so without thinking twice, you got out of bed and ran as quickly as you could to open the door for him... or at least that's what you wished.

"David!" you instantly called your lover's name, not having time to react once you realized it wasn't him.

"Sorry honey, David is not coming soon." with a maniac grin planted on his creepy face. That was all the stranger said before you felt a strong knock on your head, making you instantly fall unconscious.

---------------------------------------------------

A few hours passed when you were finally able to open your eyes. Your entire body was sore and shaking from the freezing weather, and you could feel your own blood dripping down your forehead where the agressor had beaten you; your arms and legs were tightly tied with some cheap rope, and the only thing you were sure about was that you were inside someone else’s house.

"Where the fuck am I?! GET ME OUT OF HERE NOW!" you screamed as loud as you could, hoping that someone would check up on you, so you could at least recognize the person who abducted you. You then heard excited whispers from a man saying: "She's awake!!", and you couldn't help yourself, but to feel disgusted and utterly scared of what could happen...

"Well, well, the sleeping beauty has already come to her senses!" an old woman entered the barely lit room you were currently being kept hostage, and you didn't hesitate to express your confusion.

"What the... who are you? Where the hell is your ass-hatted companion?" you blantantly asked, referring to the man who you saw previously at your front door. Out of the sudden, you felt a hard slap on your face, leaving a red mark behind.

"Fuck you, you crazy bitch!" you screamed at her, feeling a burning and painful sensation on your left cheek, spreading slowly all over your face.

"Watch your mouth, girl! Only because you're detective's whore doesn't mean you can say whatever you want! Here and now you will respect and obey me, until your sweet, handsome boyfriend comes find you. Then, I'll torture and kill him right in front of you... I mean, that is if he notices your absence at all." she started to laugh exaggeratedly at your face, her words hurting and cutting deeper than a sharpened kitchen knife. You turned your face away from the crazy lady, trying to cover your suffering and heavy tears from her... but it was useless.

"Aww, did I hit a soft spot, honey?" she pretended to be worried about you, moving closer to you and hunching over next to you, making you find the perfect opportunity to spit right onto her maniacal face. "Ughh, you fucking bi-"

"Wait!" the stranger who seemed to be the one who abducted you, interrupted her. You both looked at him confused, not understanding why he stopped her from beating you.

"Let me do it. I want to beat that fuck-head's girlfriend." the abductor approached you slowly, rolling up his sleeves excitedly before you felt the first punch of many on that night.

"Good job, boy. Entertain yourself while the detective wastes his precious time looking for that bitch instead of the kids." the psychotic woman said, casually, like what she just said wasn't an devilish plan at all. She must be so used to do this... poor children... if only I could save them like David does..., you devastatingly thought to yourself.

"How can you hurt the poor childrens who are so innocent compared to your disturbed mind?! How can you get pleasure out of it, you sick BASTARD?!!" you screamed with all the strenght you had in your throat and lungs. Oh, how you wished to kill those two pieces of trash with your own hands...

"You don't understand..." the man tried to excuse himself from the horrifying crimes he enjoyed so much to commit.

"OF COURSE I DON'T FUCKING UNDERSTAND, AND I NEVER WILL!! THEY ARE JUST CHILDREN, FOR FUCK SAKE!!" your lungs were burning by now, and your stinging tears were uncontrollably running down your beaten and sore bruised cheeks.

"Let her spill all that anger out of her chest, honey. We don't want her to get exhausted already." she smirked wickedly at you. "She will be our guest for a long time..."

---------------------------------------------------

Two days had passed, and you were still in that dark, small torture room that was once just a casual room. They barely fed you and offered you water to drink, causing your lips and mouth to be tremendously dry. Your face was covered in bruises and cuts, some deeper than others, yet they all bled and hurt like hell. You had lost track of how much time had passed that night. All you knew, was that you were suddenly awaken by a strong, yellow light and some little girl's deafening screams and pleading cries.

"Please, let me go!!" the poor young girl pleaded, yet no pleads of her were enough to stop the devil himself, also known as the owner of the house you were currently on.

"I brought you company!" she then carelessly pushed the little girl to the rigid ground. "Seems like your boyfriend is getting suspicious, so while I distract him, you two will remain shut before I kill you all. He’ll be the first one to go, surely." she smiled once again, before closing the door harshly. David is here?

The innocent girl cried harder when she heard the door being closed roughly, and since you didn't want anything bad to happen to both of you or to your boyfriend, you did your best to calm her down.

"It's ok sweetheart, I'm here with you now, you don't have to feel alone anymore. I promise I won't let anything bad to happen to you from now on, ok?" you sounded like your boyfriend and that thought made you smile weakly for an instant. The girl was still absurdly scared, all her trust and hope in human kind being completely destroyed by the terror she had been through at such a young age, which was totally understandable. She stepped back away from you when you tried to reach for her small and fragile hand, since you had managed to get your hands free by patiently untying the tight ropes like David had taught you. It was a technique you used in emergency situations, and this was one of them. He always prepared you for the worse, teaching you everything he had learned, so you could save yourself when he's not capable and things like this would eventually happen. You immediately withdrew your hand by instinct, but you weren't one to give up so easily.

"Can you... can you tell me your name..?" come one Y/n, you can do better than this. "I'm very hurt too... you see? So my only intention here is to get both of us out of here... she is a very bad woman, but I am not. You know, I'm detective's girlfriend who is looking for you since... the beginning. And your father is helping him! They are our saviors, so they will rescue us from this ugly place very soon." you kindly explained to her, trying to give her some faith and remind her of her family... remind her that this wasn't her reality. The world out there, united with her family and friends, is where she truly belongs. She looked at you intensely, and you could finally see some light of hope in those big, gorgeous eyes. Once again, you remembered your stunning lover and the loving stares he would give you all the time, the ones that never failed to give you goosebumps all over your skin.

"Is... is my father looking for me..?" she finally spoke to you. If you didn't know it was coming from her, you could swear that her voice belonged to an angel because of its sweetness and innocence. You almost let heartbreaking tears escape your tired eyes... but you had to remain strong for her.

"Of course, darling. He loves you so, so much, and he would never forget or give up on you." for the thousandth time, you remembered your sweet and lovely boyfriend again, and on how you deeply craved to hear those reassuring words come out of his mouth, instead. A moment of silence was installed for a few seconds, before she decided that trusting you should be probably the best, yet the only option available.

"I'm... I'm Anna by the way..." she whispered shyly, or should I say still afraid and suspicious. You then offered her the most gentle smile you could give in response.

"You have such a beautiful name, Anna. I'm Y/n, and I'm so glad to meet you. Of course I would prefer to meet you in any other circumstances, but..." you needed to change the subject urgently: she was just a child, so she wouldn't get your sarcastic comment like others would. "What about we all get a delicious ice-cream once we get back home, huh? You, your family, me and... my... boyfriend." you hesitate a little bit, still hurt because of your boyfriend’s behavior in the last few weeks. Why was he taking so long to save us?

"Yummy, ice-cream!" she said excitedly, yet you could notice how tired she still was.

Tired of waiting, you finally decided to use the technique you had learned that previously had helped your hand's blood flow properly in your veins, by successfully untying the ropes out of her sore wrists. The poor kid's hands must be so badly hurt as well...

"Come here, sweetie." you untied the old ropes that were restraining your leg's movements in case someone came in unexpectadly, that way you could defend you both. You then helped her by untying her own ropes and when you did, you suddenly heard a gun shot.

Anna started to scream while covering her ears, and you instinctively pulled her near you to protect her from the horrors outside. Out of nowhere, the door was abruptly opened and the old lady came up being extremely stressed. Your first instinct was thinking that Loki had been shot by her, so all your courage and hope had vanished in a single second.

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM?!!!" you shouted at her and ran in her direction to beat her up as hard as you could without fearing the consequences, when suddenly you felt a hard sting in your arm: she pricked you with a needle that contained a drug that causes a person to have a heart attack in the next few hours or even minutes, if they aren't correctly treated urgently.

"Goddammit!" you then felt extremely dizzy and fell to the ground. The last thing you saw before falling unconscious, was David entering the room and putting the evil woman on the ground, trying to arrest her with any gentle manners, before she managed to pull a gun from her pocket and shoot herself, and Anna's screams for your name... however, you were too nauseaus to distinguish if all of that was really happening, or if it was just a hopeful hallucination of yours.

---------------------------------------------------

"Y/N!! Please baby, don't you dare to die on me... please wake up... FUCK!" David was starting to be quickly consumed by pure despair, shaking you to no end, hoping you would open your eyes in his arms and return to him, safe and sound: he had finally found you and Anna after spending the worst week of his life, but even then he still couldn't feel utterly relieved. He then grabbed the two of you carefully, and drove you to the nearest hospital.

"Please Y/n, stay with me, do you hear me?! I will not let you leave me that easily... please honey..." he was talking more to himself since you couldn't respond, and his distressed tears were difficulting his vision and eventually his driving, which wasn't a good thing at all.

"Don't worry detective, she will be fine... your girlfriend is a really strong woman." the young girl tried to calm the desperate and protective boyfriend, just like you did with her a few minutes ago, and he couldn't help but feel so proud of you, yet guilty for being so focused on work lately, instead of giving you the attention you so dearly deserved from him...

---------------------------------------------------

Hours passed and you were still in the hospital, unconscious. Loki didn't know what to do to himself... he wanted to punch himself so hard for letting this happen to you. And if there was a possibility that you could switch roles, you would have been awake a long time ago.

This was his worst nightmare, to let his work interfere with your relationship in the worst way possible. He didn't want to leave your side for anything: even with the doctors insistence, he threatened to arrest them all if they didn't let him be with you until you woke up, and believe me when I say he was pretty convincing. His strong, tattooed arms were supporting his heavy, anxious and furious mind on top of his legs, they had been shaking for hours now, non-stop. He felt so, so guilty, and he didn't think he could ever forgive himself for almost losing the love of his life because of his negligence... and, on top of that, knowing that he was so distant and careless with you in your probable last days. Out of nowhere, he heard a muffled sound of pain, making him instantly look up at you and ran to your side. His heartbeat increased at a speed which he didn't think it was even possible for a single human being to handle without having a stroke right then and there.

"Honey..?" he called for you, his eyes inevitably watering for the hundredth time that night. You never saw him crying before, so it surprised you to see his eyes glistening. You struggled to keep your eyes opened, because of the strong light that illuminated your hospital room, but when your vision finally adjusted itself and you looked at him for the first time in the last few days, it was like you were seeing God himself.

"Is this heaven..?" you asked confused, making him laugh softly. Only you could rip a smile from him in such a bad situation like this one.

"No honey, this is pure reality. You are at the hospital, but I'm here with you now." he firmly grabbed your fragile and bruised hands into his much bigger ones, and looked at you like you were about to get married.

"Are you... crying?" you asked, feeling worried when you noticed, once again, his eyes being much brighter because of the fresh tears that wanted so badly to come out. He immediately wiped them away with the back of his hand, making you laugh. Your man never liked to show his emotions to anyone, not even to you. Well, at least he tried his best not to show them to you.

"Just got uh.. something inside my eye..." he tried to find a valid excuse, but since you knew him too well, he ended up giving up. He then offered you the most reassuring smile at you, only for you to gladly return it. However, his smile didn't last too long once he realized the severity of your state, it started disappearing slowly while his hands grabbed yours even harder this time, his eyes never leaving yours while analyzing your face so carefully.

"Oh God... what did I do to you..." this time, he wasn't able to contain himself, yet he didn't care anymore to show you how hurt he really was. It was too much guilt for just one man to carry on his shoulders and heart, no matter how strong he was.

"Don't." you immediately exclaimed and he looked at you curiously. "What happened was not your fault, do you understand me? It could happen to anyone."

"No! " he exclaimed. "If I was there with you instead of wear out my mind with this fucking case..."

"Baby, stop. It's your job and you saved that innocent girl. If it weren’t for you, she could have been dead by now." your tone was serious, and he understood that you were the only thing trying to make him not be so hard on himself.

"But..."

"No "but's", David. You are our savior. And I couldn't be prouder of you..." you smiled at him, yet he didn't return it. An intense exchange of emotional glares, and a thoughtful, tense silence was planted for a few, long seconds.

"If... if we weren't together, nothing would have happened to you... I prefer to know that you're safe and healthy with another man, than..." he didn't have sure on what he was saying, it was too much to process... but there was one thing he was sure of: he wouldn't allow anything bad happen to you from then on.

"Don't you dare saying that again, David Loki. You are the man who I love with my whole being, more than anything, and I would give my own life to save you if it was the case. And I don't care how many times I have to be abducted to prove how much I want to be with you for the rest of my life." you never spoke so seriously in your life, and you genuinely meant every word you just said. You just couldn't live without him anymore.

"What the hell did I do to deserve you..?" he carefully approached you, giving you a slow, yet most passionate kiss you had shared in a long time, while soflty grabbing your head between his cold hands. His lips were dry, yet tasted like sweet honey, like they always did.

"Detective Loki- oh, I'm so sorry!" Anna's mother entered the room, feeling ashamed for interrupting your romantic moment.

"No problem, Miss Dover. Do you need something from me?" he seriously asked, getting immediately into the hardworking Detective Loki character.

"Actually, I wanted to thank you for all you did to-"

"Y/n!!" Anna ran towards you as soon as her eyes landed on your weak body. She hugged you carefully, so she wouldn't hurt you, and you instantly felt you heart melting inside your chest.

"Heyy Anna! I'm so happy to see again, my bravest girl!" she offered you a toothy grin, and you were mesmerized by the change of energy that you only knew from her back in that horror house. Both of her mother and your charming boyfriend looked at your and the girl's interaction, not expecting for you to become so close to each other.

"Can we go eat an ice-cream now, like you promised?? I'm so hungry!" she asked excitedly, her eyes filled of hope and joyful.

"She needs to rest, sweetie. Maybe another time. Anyway, thank you so much, detective, for finding my daughter." he nodded to her and then she looked at you with a kind smile in her face. "And thank you for protecting my daughter from those monsters, Y/n. I'll be eternally grateful for the two of you. I hope you get better soon." she thanked the two of you, before leaving the room with her daughter, to give you two some privacy.

"Bye Y/n!" the girl happily said goodbye to you.

"Bye sweetheart, see you soon!" you responded back, seeing her leaving the room right after her mom.

"She really likes you." your boyfriend said to you, wanting to make you feel better since he knew how overwhelming you felt everytime someone thanked you.

"Yeah, I guess..." you laughed. "She kept me company in there, you know? We helped each other so we didn't feel so lonely anymore..." you looked at your fingers while shyly playing with them, hoping that he would understand your attempts of silently saying how hurt you were. You then felt him coming in your direction and sitting right beside you.

"Sweetheart... I'm so, so sorry for letting you feel like you were alone... I was so stressed about work, and I didn't want to discharge everything on you..." he truly seemed regretful of his actions, so of course you would forgive him since he was such a honest man. But you needed to let him know how hurt you felt by his lack of attention and affection with you. "I love you so much, honey... I... I can't imagine my life without you anymore. I would be so lost..." his voice sounded extremely weak at his final words, since he tried to hold back his cry once again.

"I love you too, baby. So, so much..." you caressed his barely shaved cheek and kissed him softly on the lips. When you broke the kiss so you could stare at him properly, you hugely smiled at him out of nowhere.

"What?" he smiled back.

"Nothing. I was just thinking that maybe..."

"Maybe what?" he seemed really curious about what you were about to say. You continued to look at him while bitting your lower lip softly, wanting to see and memorize his reaction by what you were about to suggest.

"Maybe... we could have a baby of our own?" you calmly and very carefully said, not wanting to scare him away. His reaction was expressless, which scared you a little bit.

"Babe, I don't know... what if... what if something happens to our child?" he already started to worry and get stressed.

"You will never live your life if you keep thinking about the worst, on what could happen or not. Think more about you and your happiness... think more about us. With a baby in our arms." this time, his smile expanded until a big toothy grin was revealed on his gorgeous face.

"You're absolutely right. We definitely should have our own princess." he lovely glared at you, kissing your hands with the most gentle kiss he could afford.

"Or prince... Who knows."

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jean-does-not-have-a-horseface · 4 years

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Wildflower

Yooooo impromptu nsfw fic!? On this fine evening!? As if you don't know me! Y'all want soft wet Eren and I deliver.

Pairing: Eren/ Reader

Summary: You and eren find yourselves tangled with each other after a swim in the lake, things take a much warmer turn from there.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+

The lake was beautiful at this time of the day.

A soft evening breeze blew the fresh smell of blooming wildflowers around. Mellow tints of camomile and lavender lingered in your nostrils, blended with water lillies and hibiscus struck you tenderly, brushing your senses beautifully. The forest green leaves around you shimmered an entirely different colors under the thousand golden rays of the blushing sun. Numerous duos of butterflies fflickered and flapped their wings on each other, twisting and turning in the air as they seemingly kissed, landing on perky petals and hoovering with each other under the tangerine light.

Yet here you were; drainched and shivering, laid on a thin sheet of clothe, cold as ever, but burning up from your core and outwards.

"Eren"

The whisper of his name was silent, lost in the heart of the forest, overlapped by the sounds of nature as the sun was shyly hiding underneath the horizon. Still it reached his ears and his ears only, just like he thristed for.

He too was shivering and very pale and as sweat begged to drip from the pores of his skin, it merged with the flowing water that the two of you had been bathing in only moments ago.

His lips were sucking yours in with need, worrying your flesh with arrogance before his time guess dared to dip in the crevices of your mouth. His palms were always supporting, always cupping your face to sink his head closer into you. His tongue rubbed yours with twirling motions, dipping and swiping in any place he could manage to drag it on.

"You have such a lovely voice."

"I do?"

"You do" Eren said. "You're making my -ah- my heart melt."

Turquoise orbs locked with yours, his sharp nose brushed over the tip of yours, his hand coming to cup tenderly just the underside of your jaw line. The cold, wet fabric of his shirt brushed over your naked skin, hanging so low that when you'd stick your forehead to his collar bone you could see the view of his hips as they remained frozen and in collision with yours.

"Eren, please, please move."

"Shh." His lips brushed over yours with animalistic need, but he never placed a kiss on you. "I just want to stay like this for a while, to look at you, you're so beautiful under this light."

With a sharp breath creating commotion on your side you felt like your lungs were spent. His plum lower lip sank under his teeth as he looked at you, his eyebrows furrowing together and away from his eyelids in what seemed like utter, horrible pain.

Maybe it was painful. No, it definitely was painful. The fact that he wouldn't move inside you, the way your hardened buds brushed with his shirt. The sly adoration that glimmered in his gentle turquoise eyes. We're you ever in a position to chose a single memory to keep of his it would be this very moment.

That was if he would let you think clear.

With one thumb flicking over your most sensitive bundle of nerves occasionally and the squirm inside the depths of your chest, you instinctively brought your hands to cup his own face eager to clash his lips against yours. Your hips finally made a movement of their own accord; you bucked forward and into the small surface of the tip of his finger, searching desperately for some rythimc friction.

You found yourself pushing against him hard and fast, so much that the evening breeze was finally starting to become evident, forming little bumps on the surface of your wet skin. Another short lived shiver ravaged your body and you gasped, you forehead linked with his collar bone. Before your eyes, you could see his hand hiding just between your legs, rubbing just on the spot you wanted, and it only added to your lust.

With a hitched breath, you let out a soft mewl and earned one from the brunet in response.

"Fuck!" Eren snarled and his hand came to dig absurdly on the ground next to you.

With the twirling of his hips inside you, he bucked slightly before he hoisted him self out of you and aligned the tip of his length with your entrance, sliding it teasingly over you.

"I love you." He said and clashed his forehead with the prominent tip of your jaw.

Your heart throbbed the instant he uttered the words yet he de ied you the chance to look him in the eye. Whether from embarrassment or shame, whether because the little scarlet tint on his cheeks was something he was insecure about, he took away from you the right of being able to lock your gaze with his. And somewhere between not being able to look into his eyes and being teased by his slow rhythm against you, you felt lost and swallowed by the words you wanted to speak back to him.

Perhaps he knew your answer. That he could probably be why he didn't demand it.

Still, your heart slightly ached at the slight melancholy of his tone.

You were being swallowed as a whole by the slow dragging of his member across you, by the way that you could see he held him self just below his fleshy tip to take a lead and establish his self control. He didn't want to thrust inside you and establish a pace, he was making that obvious. The pained expression in his face was more likely due to that, the paleness of his skin gave him away.

"Don't you love me?"

It came out like a cry, a whine, like a little brawl of a hurt puppy and it hit hit you like a monstrus tide. Had Eren always been able of making such lewd sounds?

"Of course i- of course I do." You stuttered, the throbbing heat that thrilled your abdomen fueling by your confession.

You could only sense how much he was enjoying it; the hiccuped breaths he let out, the tight clentching of his abdomen muscles, the veins in his hands that flexed as he pressed into the abnormal soil with the fact of his palm, the stray strands of wet hair that shimered im tiny droplets at their base as they flickered on your skin, it all added to that.

"I feel so dirty." He whispered and you knew to what he was reffering.

"But you're not."

"That's exactly how I feel though."

"Not for me, you're not what everyone paint you to be."

"Then promise me you'll hold my hand." He growled. "That you won't leave my side with what's to come."

Right after hot slowly dragged his teeth the the length of your jaw, his breath was on your ear, hot against your skin despite the cold evening air. The hiffs of his nose shot like steam over the crook of your neck and unbeknownst to you they preppee the area for what was to come.

"I promise."

Eren's lips attacked you, the launched over the tender skin of your neck, the hot torture of his tongue and teeth beginning a sweet massacre against all the little sweet spots he knew you had. You only pressed your head against the sheet of cloth harder, accepting the little defeat of your own personal ego. You were glad you didn't have to worry about being audible into the heart of the woods.

Your body was jolting against his touch, your pelvis, sore and needy in its movements slowly gave in the the build up in the aftermath or Eren's teasing. A hand came to grip on Eren's flexed bicep, your fingertips digging painfully into his skin everytime the feeling became unbearable for you to handle. You were going numb, painfully numb but you seemed to savor your release for later, you repeatedly told yourself that you could do it.

The little drizzling of cicadas had started spreading throughout the air by now, from the corner of your strained eye you could see some of them flying around, some birds chirping and flying inside their little nests as the last specs of sunlight peaked right between the enormous trees. Nature was celebrating another endearing late spring sunset and here you were, feeling the dear melancholy of a delayed edge.

It was only when Eren shifted his weight onto you that you immediately run your hands through his hair, throwing a chocolate lock away from his tired eyes just to finally get the chance to look at him. This time it was you who took so long tracing his jawline, it was you you placed chaste kissed across his face, chin, the corners of his so well outlined lips.

"Eren, I love you no matter what," You whispree, eyes closed as your heart hammered in your chest. "you don't have to hold back with me."

Whether he did it because you genuinely convinced him of your words or because he wanted to get this over with, you didn't know. All that you knew what that your legs were forced over his shoulders, and that his hand was cupping your cheek with force, desperately clutching on you as he finally slammed his throbbing member inside of you.

Puckered lips and glistering skin, angry brows and a menacing look, it all added to the occasional gulp he'd force upon himself, it all took away from the moans he failed to let out. The little grunts he left were due time the brutality of his rhythm and they were so unique but still overlapped by the sound of skin clapping and clashing.

You only gave a little moan and surrendered to the feeling, your coiling stomach refusing to allow you to hold your orgasm in for any longer. Your legs went still, your toes curled and flexed and your walls clenched around him. You let out a panting mewl as you felt your whole body giving into the immediate trance of afterglow.

Eren only grunted at the feeling, thrusting himself faster into you before barely managing to pull out, a hand coming to his length to guide the spurting white rope that emitted from the tip anywhere away from you.

"I'm so sorry" He panted, and finally his head nuzzled to the crook of your neck almost painfully.

"I got you Eren. You don't have to have a single worry in the world at the moment."

And he truly wished he didn't

#eren jeager x reader #eren yeager x reader #eren jeager #snk

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greymantledlady · 3 years

Text

you are my sweetest downfall

Adam squeezes Michael’s hands again, reassuring. 'Remember – back down there – how we agreed to talk to each other if anything bothered us? This is like that, okay?’

Michael looks stricken. ‘Oh,’ he says in a small voice. ‘Oh. I didn’t – it really isn’t anything worth your time – ’

My second fic for @midamweek! People seemed to really enjoy Adam calling Michael 'sweetheart' in the previous fic in this verse, so I decided to expand on it. Michael is a dork, honestly.

Read on AO3 or below the cut:

Having an archangel as your boyfriend is really good, actually. Better than good.

Adam, in all his years of (largely) calm and resigned pining in the Cage, had never actually, truly believed he had a chance of anything like this with Michael, anything so soft and domestic and - well, astonishingly, normal, really. It still hits him sometimes, that warm rush of astounded happiness when Michael can't stop looking hopefully down at his lips until Adam simply has to press in close and kiss him, when Michael flushes at Adam making the mildest and most low-hanging of innuendos, when Michael asks him what would be the best gift to give Adam for St Valentine's Day.

The last incident had occurred in July, because Michael had thought Adam would probably forget all about the conversation by the time February rolled around, and he had been so endearingly pleased with himself over this plan that Adam had started laughing and pulled him down onto the couch by the fire and kissed and sucked all the way down his neck until it bruised.

Given that Michael was at the time a metaphysical projection of grace shaped into a copy of Adam's own body and existing in a dimension faintly to the left of the mortal plane, it probably didn't actually need to have bruised, but Michael had warmed extremely quickly to the concept of hickeys, apparently. He likes them a lot, likes to keep them and nurse them and admire them in the mirror when he thinks Adam's not looking, and Adam thinks it's kind of the best thing ever.

Right now, though, Adam's a little worried.

Michael has been - off - for a little while now. Not worryingly so - nothing like the shaking bouts of grief that Adam had held him through when he'd first gotten back, when he'd been mourning the asshole father who'd never loved or deserved him. Nothing like that, it's just - a sort of odd wistfulness that seems to fall over him sometimes, at the strangest of moments, and Adam is determined to work out what’s causing it.

***

They're in bed, Adam happily boneless and tired out and curled around Michael, stroking his hair while Michael smooths his hand up and down Adam's back in the firm way that Adam likes, his grace-formed body firmly anchored to the physical world this time, as warm and solid as Adam's own. Adam nuzzles his cheek affectionately, smiling against his skin when Michael hums with contentment.

'Hey,' he says quietly, squinting a little to focus on Michael's face.

'Adam,' Michael says, just as soft. He looks hopeful for a moment, as though he's waiting for something. Adam's not quite sure what it is. He traces his thumb gently over Michael's collarbone, waiting to see if he'll come out with it, but eventually Michael just sighs quietly and turns his face to press it into Adam's hair.

***

Adam, before he’d been killed and resurrected, had enjoyed baking.

Of course, that had been more than a thousand years ago, but – well, time was weird that way, when it came to being trapped in an archangel cage in Hell. It wasn't that he'd forgotten any of it, of course, and he valued those memories, the way Michael had softened, increment by increment, until somewhere along the line he'd become someone Adam couldn't live without.

It was just that, once they'd gotten out, the memories seemed condensed, so that you weren't sure at all if it had been ten years or a thousand. Adam wondered sometimes whether that was what Michael's billions of years of existence must feel like to him, too.

Anyway, he'd liked to bake. When he'd come back, after the first long pain-filled months of negotiating with the Winchesters to bring Michael back too, and after the first whirlwind of joy of finding out Michael wanted him the same way, he'd started again, searching up recipes online on his phone and writing them out in a notebook if they turned out successfully.

Today, he’s craving choc chip cookies, so he looks at the pantry and pulls out flour and sugar and chocolate chips, opening the packet immediately to sneak a few to nibble on as he starts to measure everything out. They need a medium-sized mixing bowl; he needs to put that on the list for the next time they go grocery shopping. The big one is fine for today, though.

‘What are you doing?’ Michael asks, coming up behind him. He touches Adam’s elbow with a soft hand as he passes, leaning on the counter to watch.

‘Baking!’ Adam says. He bumps his hip gently against Michael’s. ‘I’m making choc chip cookies.’

Michael shifts a little closer so they can stay connected, and leans over to inspect the ingredients, poking a finger into the well of flour Adam has measured out, leaving a little dent. He’s always been surprisingly tactile, liking to touch new things, test them on his fingers.

‘Don’t eat that,’ Adam warns. ‘It tastes awful raw. Choc chips are better, here.’ He picks out a single chip – no need to overwhelm Michael’s still-developing sense of taste – and says, with a grin, ‘Open your mouth.’

Michael raises an eyebrow, looking at him, soft-eyed and so in love that it makes Adam’s heart pulse with warmth. ‘Okay, kid,’ he says, and opens up.

Adam puts down his spoon, buzzing with affection, and presses closer, leaning up against Michael’s chest and delighting in the way Michael’s arms come up to circle his waist. ‘Hey,’ he murmurs, up close, and runs his thumb along Michael’s parted lips, just to tease him a little.

Michael sighs, soft, bending forward, only to be foiled by Adam’s hand. ‘Choc chip,’ Adam reminds him, and pops it in.

‘Mm,’ Michael says, nibbling. He looks so surprised at the small burst of sweetness that Adam grins again.

‘Good, yeah?’ he says. ‘Do you want another one?’

Michael licks his lips. ‘It was good,’ he says. ‘I don’t want another one, though.’ His eyes dip downwards, his hand stroking a hopeful little circle on Adam’s back.

‘I can’t imagine what you do want,’ Adam teases. He snuggles himself a little more firmly against Michael, runs his hands down his sides and around to fit into his back pockets, enjoying the way Michael shivers. ‘Oh, get over here.’

‘I am here,’ Michael says, but then Adam kisses him, slow and sweet, smiling against his lips before pulling back. ‘Oh,’ he says softly. ‘Adam.’

‘Michael,’ Adam says, just as softly, and leaves another tiny kiss at the corner of Michael’s mouth, the moment drawing out soft and gentle; the kind of moment that you could live in forever. Michael’s eyes are soft and hazy, leaning into him, and Adam reaches up to run his knuckles over his cheek.

Michael exhales, and strokes his hands gently across Adam’s back, watching him closely. He has that odd, hidden wistfulness in his face again, as though he’s waiting for something, and Adam wants to do something about it, wants Michael to tell him what it is so he can give it to him.

‘What is it?’ he says gently, and holds back the endearment that wants to spill out, absurdly tender. He’s pretty sure it will only make Michael more embarrassed.

Michael sighs again, very soft, and glances away. ‘No, it’s nothing,’ he says.

Adam’s pretty sure it’s not nothing, but he doesn’t press. They have all the time in the world, after all, and he has cookies to bake for them. Michael will come out with it eventually.

***

Except Michael doesn’t come out with it, and it keeps happening, and Adam is honestly starting to worry. They’ll be together, and happy, so happy – he knows Michael is happy, can feel it in the grace that’s constantly twined around his soul. They’ll be kissing, or snuggling, or making love, and it will be a perfect moment, the kind of moment that makes everything worth it, like a warm soft blanket to lose yourself in.

And then suddenly Michael will be looking all wistful, like a sad little puppy wanting a morsel, and disappointed, and Adam is beginning to really, really not like that at all.

He’s tried everything – more kisses, cuddling, even that one thing that Michael really likes during sex but gets incredibly flustered and blushy over, so Adam saves for special occasions. And Michael loves it all, he really does, Adam can feel it, but none of it manages to soothe that particular, wistful little ache in his grace.

When he was small, and he’d had a problem, or felt bad, or unhappy, or guilty, Mum had always managed to coax it out of him eventually. She would sit him on the couch and give him a glass of milk, and tell him that it was always better to talk things out, not hold them inside of you till they hurt. Bad feelings were like appendicitis, she’d say, they’d make you very sick if you left them inside.

Adam thinks Michael has the equivalent of emotional appendicitis at the moment, honestly, and he’s pretty sure he needs to do something to fix that.

***

When Adam comes to find him, Michael is sitting at their kitchen table, inspecting a small pile of rocks. Months ago, he’d read a magazine article about gemstone tumbling, and then read it again, and again, and again, until the pages were dog-eared and Adam couldn’t help but notice. So he’d gone online and bought him a little tumbling kit on Ebay, as a surprise, and Michael had been hugely and gratifyingly pleased about it. Now every time they go for a walk, he comes home with his pockets full of bits of quartz and such, and their house is filled with shiny little piles of gems, like some kind of dragon’s hoard.

(‘It reminds me of creating planets,’ he tells Adam once, softly. ‘I used to polish them until they were so beautiful and round.’)

Now, he looks up as Adam comes up behind him, leaning his head back against Adam’s stomach as Adam slides his arms over his shoulders. Adam kisses his ear. ‘Hey, you,’ he says. ‘You got a moment?’

‘Of course,’ Michael says immediately, at attention. ‘What do you need, Adam?’

‘Just you,’ Adam says, and gives his shoulders a little squeeze before pulling out the chair next to Michael’s and sitting down, swivelling towards him. Michael puts down the rock he’d been inspecting and turns to face him, the full force of his attention directed onto Adam’s face.

‘Okay,’ Adam says, and reaches out to take Michael’s hands in his own, squeezing. ‘I need to talk to you about something, Michael – oh, no, don’t look at me like that,’ he breaks off, running a comforting thumb over Michael’s knuckles. ‘It’s nothing bad.’

Michael nods, still looking rather worried.

Adam decides to get it over with. ‘Look, I’ve noticed that there’s something bothering you,’ he says gently. ‘Something that you want, that you’re not telling me. I can feel it in your grace – like last night, when we were falling asleep, and when I made cookies, and other times, too.’ He squeezes Michael’s hands again, reassuring. ‘Remember – back down there – how we agreed to talk to each other if anything bothered us? This is like that, okay?’

Michael looks stricken. ‘Oh,’ he says in a small voice. ‘Oh. I didn’t – it really isn’t anything worth your time – ’

‘Oh, sweetheart,’ Adam says softly, because he can’t help it, ‘of course it is, it always is – ’

And suddenly, bizarrely, Michael’s grace is going wild, elated, looping and twining, wrapping around his soul with little, soft, shuddering ripples of happiness. He looks as though he’s about one step from breaking down, swaying a little towards Adam with his eyes shiny and his lips a little unsteady.

Okay, what?

‘Okay, what?’ Adam says, and reaches out to touch his face. ‘Michael, what was that? What happened? That was it, wasn’t it?’

Michael swallows, his grace still buzzing with happiness, turning his face into Adam’s touch. ‘You said it again,’ he says, closing his eyes for a moment like he’s basking in Adam’s warmth.

‘Said what?’ Adam says – and, ‘wait, ‘sweetheart’?’ His heart feels like it’s melting. ‘That was all you wanted? For me to call you pet names?’

Michael is going pink now, avoiding his eyes. ‘You must think I’m foolish,’ he mumbles.

‘Of course I don’t,’ Adam says, overwhelmed with sheer fondness. ‘Well, maybe just a little bit, for not just telling me, honestly.’ He knuckles gently at the corner of Michael’s eye, and it actually comes away a little damp. ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ he says, knowing he sounds ridiculously tender, and that pulse of sheer bright happiness ripples through Michael again, through his grace.

‘It was the first thing you said,’ Michael says softly. ‘When you brought me back. My name, Michael, and – and you called me that. And I asked about it, and you kissed me and I was happy, but you never said it again. I,’ he swallows. ‘I don’t know why I. I wanted you to say it.’

‘Okay, you need to come here right now,’ Adam says, and climbs directly into his lap. He brings his hands up to hold Michael’s face, looking down at him. ‘Fuck, I love you,’ he says helplessly, and Michael’s whole face twitches, his hands coming up instinctively to fit at the small of Adam’s back.

‘I love you too,’ he says immediately, honestly. ‘Adam.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I – would like it if you said it again, please.’

‘Yeah, sweetheart, okay,’ Adam murmurs against his lips. ‘I’m never going to stop.’

#midam week #midam #michael/adam #michael spn #adam milligan #my fic #supernatural #my post

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scripts4dreamers · 4 years

Text

I literally JUST sat down, pt. 7

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six

AN: Tick Tock goes the clock. Characters: Spencer Reid, Penelope Garcia, Derek Morgan, Aaron Hotchner, Jennifer Jareau, David Rossi.

Pairings: Spencer Reid x reader

Spoilers: None

Warnings: Mentions of crime and violence, alcohol

---------------------------

The buzzing of his phone is what woke Spencer up. He grumbled, fumbling around his bedside table for the source of the noise.

“Hello?”

“Agent Reid?” A vaguely familiar voice asked, “I’m sorry to wake you but I didn’t know who to call and I-“

“What’s going on?” Spencer interrupted, sitting up quickly as he recognized the voice of one of Hotch’s cleared agents.

“I’m on watch at the park this morning and I think something’s wrong. There’s a note and a clear bag full of stuff but no body, and we’ve been here all night. Hotch took the others to meet the director. He said to call you if anything happened.”

“Are you alone?”

“No, my partner’s with me, she’s checking the bushes.” He explained. Vaguely, Spencer could hear the rustling of the partner in the background, “Agent Reid I don’t know what to do here….”

Doctor. The voice in his head corrected instinctively, but he kept quiet, already three steps ahead. Today was the day your stalker was supposed to drop off his next body. Everybody would be on high alert, especially you. If Hotch had gone to the director he must’ve been expecting a pretty serious escalation, and that made Spencer nervous. He glanced out into the lounge, to where he knew you were curled up on the couch, fast asleep.

“Okay, wait there. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He explained, pulling on the first clothes he could find and strapping on his firearm belt, “Just keep the perimeter clear and make sure no one gets in and out, alright?”

“Alright.”

Spencer got ready as fast as he could, running through every possible scenario in his head as the adrenaline started to slowly creep in. He slowly snuck through the living room, smiling softly as he noticed your sleeping form huddled under a pile of blankets. There was something tender about the way you looked then, something different to all the times he’d seen you fall asleep on the jet. Here, you were completely unguarded, comfortable and soft, and it made Spencer absurdly proud to know that he’d made you feel safe enough for that. For a moment he considered waking you up, but he remembered the dark bags under your eyes and the way your shoulders drooped with exhaustion and he decided against it. You’d been going through hell, and you deserved to sleep. Plus, he rationalized as he opened the door and snuck out, it’s not like you could come with him anyway. There was no need to worry you.

Spencer sighed, pushing all thoughts of you to the back of his mind as he forced himself to focus on the case.

——————————-

You could hear your heart pounding in your ears as you tried very hard to look busy, fiddling with a completed report as you walked through your master plan one last time. Your eyes flickered to Spencer as he talked animatedly with JJ about something you couldn’t really hear. He leaned back against the desk, casually tucking a strand of hair behind his ear and crossing his arms over his chest. The sleeves of his read sweater and shirt were rolled up above his elbows and you couldn’t help but glance at his exposed forearms and hands. Spencer’s hands were...unfairly attractive. Truly, truly unfairly attractive. The kind of attractive that made doing your job really difficult and made you wonder what exactly was going on with you. His hands, Y/N? You asked yourself, his hands? Really? Get it together man.

But it was too late, you were completely and utterly smitten. You knew it, your friends knew it, the lady at the coffee shop knew it. You were pretty sure every living person in Virginia knew it, except Spencer. Hopefully. Hopefully Spencer didn’t know, yet at least.

Just then you heard him laugh and your nerves intensified. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe you should just go home and forget this stupid plan and everything would go on as normal. You could do normal, right?

“Hey there, pretty girl,” Morgan greeted, “what’re you doing here so late?”

You flushed, “Oh I-you know-“ you let out a breathy laugh, “just finishing off some work.”

He raised an eyebrow at you questioningly, but let the matter drop, pulling you into a right side hug, “Alright, Y/L/N, keep your secrets. You know I’ll find out, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re relentless, I know,” you smiled back, “seriously Morgs, I’m all good.”

He nodded and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, “Okay. I’ll see you, kid.”

You waved him off, feeling a familiar pinch of guilt in the pit of your stomach as he vanished off into the elevator. Out of the corner of your eye you saw JJ step away from Spencer and you took a deep breath, steeling every last bit of nerve you had.

“Hey, Spence, can you wait for a minute?” You called, hoping you didn’t sound quite as nervous as you felt.

Spencer cocked his head to the side, but gave you a small smile, “Sure, Y/N/N, what’s up?”

You took another deep breath, fighting the urge to look away or fiddle with your bag, “I was-um-what’re you doing tomorrow?”

Spencer thought for the briefest moment before answering, “Tomorrow? I’ve got a report to do and some cold cases to go over and then I was just going to go home and read a few books. Why?”

You flushed. This was it. This was the moment you’d been hyping yourself up for all week.

“I was just wondering if you’d maybe want to go see a movie or something?” You asked all in one breath, forcing yourself to meet his eye.

Spencer frowned, “A movie? Y/N, you know I don’t have a DVD player.”

“No!” You quickly corrected with a nervous laugh, as your heart rate doubled, “No, Wise Guy, I meant with me, like at a cinema. There’s a foreign film festival in town I thought you might like.” You paused and then continued, “And maybe after we could get dinner, or coffee or something? If you’d like.

You waited for an answer, but none was forthcoming. For a long while Spencer just stared at you, opening and closing his mouth like a confused goldfish. Every second that he was silent, your heart sank just a little further and you felt your skin start to burn with embarrassment.

“Y/N-“ Spencer started.

Your eyes were pricking with tears of embarrassment, but you blinked them away, quickly shoving your last few possessions into your bag and forcing a smile.

“It’s cool. I get it,” you said quickly, “No hard feelings, but I had to try. See you, Reid.”

You vaguely heard him call your name again, just once, but you ignored him, rushing through the bullpen faster than you’d ever gone before. You wanted to scream, or rip your face off, or curl up in a ball and die, but you could do that here. Not with Spencer’s eyes still boring into your back like a drill. The elevator door closed and you slid to the ground, burying your face in your knees as the suppressed tears slid down your cheek.

You pulled out your phone and dialed the first number you could think, “Morgs? Are you and ‘Nel still at her apartment?” You asked, sniffing, “Can I come?”

————————————-

When you woke up you had the vague impression that you’d been sad recently. It was a fleeting impression, gone as soon as you registered it, but it confused you and set an odd tone for the day. You looked around, remembering the previous night and the conversation you’d had with Spencer, and smiled gently. You’d never thought that you’d be able to be friends with Spencer again, not after your disastrous attempt at asking him out. Ugh, just the thought made you cringe with embarrassment. But he’d forgiven you, it seemed. Or at least he hadn’t brought it up or acted weird and uncomfortable with you, which was a relief.

“Morning, Doctor Reid,” you called, “what’re you making me for breakfast?”

The only answer was silence. You sat up, letting your blanket fall away.

“Spencer?” You called again, “Are you home?”

Again, no answer. Just then, your phone rang and you answered.

“Hey, ‘Nel, is Spence with you?” You asked quickly.

“Sugar Plum!” She greeted, “You’re up.”

Despite yourself, you smiled, “I know, it’s miraculous. Is he at the office?”

“Nope,” Penelope answered, “he’s not on duty today. Well, he is but not like, FBI duty, he’s on Y/N duty. He’s not with you?”

“No,” you admitted, strolling through the apartment to double check, “looks like he left in a hurry.”

“Maybe he went to get breakfast or coffee or something,” Penelope suggested, “you know he doesn’t tend to keep actual people food in his lair.”

You worried at the inside of your cheek, a nagging worry still sitting in the pit of your stomach, but you pushed it down.

“You’re probably right,” you sighed, “can you ask Hotch if he’s seen him just in case?”

“Sure thing, hun. Him and Emily are right here.”

“Okay, thanks ‘Nel, let me know if you hear from him?” You asked.

“But of course, mon ami,” she agreed, “and if anything comes up in the case I’ll call.”

You put the phone down and shook your head, trying to snap yourself out of whatever funk you were in. It wasn’t abnormal for Spencer to leave to get coffee without telling anyone, and it was just like him to do something sweet like going to get breakfast for you both. But it wasn’t like him to leave without waking you, especially not with what was going on.

“Stop it,” you told yourself, “stop worrying. He’s fine. It’s fine.”

So you forced yourself to behave normally. You made coffee, brushed your teeth, pulled on a set of fresh clothes and perused Spencer’s extensive library, picking a book and settling onto the couch. More time passed. More time, the clock tick tick ticking away the minutes. Pretty soon it was obvious that Spencer wasn’t getting coffee, and then your anxiety spiked. For a long while you just stared at a random page in the book, not absorbing anything whatsoever as your mind raced.

Your phone beeped and you grabbed it frantically, relaxing when you saw Spencer’s name on the screen.

“Spence,” you sighed with relief as soon as you picked up the phone, “oh my god I was so worried. Where the hell are you?”

For a second there was just heavy breathing and then, frantically “Y/N don’t-“

“If you want to see Spencer Reid alive again, meet me at the address I’ve programmed into your car’s GPS,” a robotic voice said, “come alone. If you tell anyone where you’re going, I’ll kill him. If you bring back up, I’ll kill him. If you don’t show up, I’ll kill him. You have twenty minutes.”

You felt like the world had stopped spinning, like the floor had dropped out from under you and you were free falling into empty space. There were chills running up your spine and your heart pounded like an anvil in your fragile rib cage. Spencer. Spencer. Spencer, it pounded. Spencer, Spencer, Spencer. How had he gotten him? You were living your worst nightmare in real time. You saw the mutilated body in your bookstore, the gruesome crime scene photos on Rossi’s crime boards. Was that Spencer now? Was he dead because of you? You imagined him lying on the ground, helpless and bleeding out, his deep brown eyes lifeless and still and, without meaning to, a whimper ripped itself from your throat.

“He’s alive.” You told yourself firmly, “He’s still alive.”

You could barely think. You were in a kind of fugue state. Nothing but pure instinct and muscle memory got you into your car and onto the road and the first cognitive thought you had, as you got closer and closer to the destination, was that you would never be making this return trip. This type of stalker would never let you go, never. He’d never let Spencer go. He’d kill himself and both of you before he let you slip out of his grasp again. This was his endgame for some reason, and you were playing right into it. But what else could you do? He had you in the palm of his hand. The fact was, no matter what you wanted or thought or knew, there was nothing you wouldn’t do for Spencer Reid, nothing you wouldn’t risk. You would walk into hell and back for him, and that was that.

Somewhere along the drive you accepted your death. You would not make the return trip, and that was okay. You would die sometime soon, but so would this monster. He would kill you, and you’d use your last moments of strength to take the son of a bitch down with you. He wouldn’t get the chance to hurt anyone else, you promised yourself. No matter what happened, you would be his last victim. You would find a way to save Spencer too, you repeated to yourself again and again. You wouldn’t make the drive home, but Spencer would. You would do whatever it took to keep him alive.

The GPS announced that you had arrived at your destination, an old house on the outskirts of a quiet suburb. You took a moment in the car to breathe, tightening your knuckles on the steering wheel. You ached to just call Penelope, to tell her everything and let the team rescue you. Oh God, your friends. How would they feel when they found your body? After all the work they’d done to keep you safe, here you were throwing it all away. On a whim, you grabbed your phone and sent a quick group message.

From Y/N Y/L/N

Thank you for everything. I love you all so much

Short, sweet, not even nearly enough. You’d meant to say more, you’d always meant to say more, but you’d thought you had years. Two tears slipped down your cheek as you stepped out of the car, leaving your keys in the ignition so that Spencer would have a way to get away when it was all over. There was an FBI sedan parked in the driveway, but at this point you didn’t care much about the profile. All that mattered was getting this over with.

Luckily your stalker hadn’t specified that you couldn’t bring a gun. You drew your weapon, but didn’t bother with stealth, striding straight into the house with a single minded focus.

“I’m here,” you called, “where are you?”

You heard the sound of shuffling coming from a back room, a fist connecting with something solid and you bit back a whimper.

“We’re in here,” Spencer said, his voice tinged with pain.

You could hear your blood rushing in your ears but you kept your trigger finger steady. Despite the terror, you were trained for this. You would not fail. Before you stepped into the room, you felt a tinge of panic. You weren’t ready for this. You weren’t ready to face the man who’s caused all this, but you had to. You had to. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, calming yourself down and schooling your features into something serene. You had to focus on not escalating the situation, that was your best shot at keeping Spencer alive.

“You can do this,” you whispered, to yourself, “you can do this.”

And, with that, you stepped into the room, “FBI, put your hands in the air.”

—————————

“Y/N,” a familiar voice greeted with an almost breathless excitement, “I was worried that you wouldn’t come.”

You felt bile rise in your throat, “Agent Connolly?”

“I knew you remembered me!” Rick Connolly cheered, the barrel of a handgun pressed to Spencer’s temple.

Your heart pinched at the sight, but you tried not to let the fear show up in your face. Rick Connolly had worked at the BAU for longer than you had. It made a sick sort of sense, the worst kind. He’d been on cases with you, written up paperwork with you, helped with filing. His background checks were always clean, there’d never been any complaints against him. Never. He was a good agent, a reliable ally for the BAU. No matter what happened, Agent Rick Connolly was always close by.

“Of course I remember you, Connolly,” you said with a forced smile, “how could I possibly forget you?”

“Rick.” He insisted, “It’s Rick.”

“Rick, of course, sorry-“

“You call him Spencer,” Connolly interrupted, pressing the barrel of the gun into Spencer’s temple harder and snarling down at him, “not Reid, Spencer. I heard it when he called you.”

“Hey, hey hey,” you said quickly, lowering your gun and raising your hands, “I’m sorry. It was a mistake, of course I should call you Rick. I mean, Spencer is just a work colleague, right? But you’re so much more.”

His eyes lit up with a perverse hope, “I am. I love you more than any of them. I’ve done more for you than any of them. I did all of it, all of it!”

“I know, thank you,” you replied, forcing another gentle smile, “for doing all of that. For loving me like you do.”

You could feel Spencer’s eyes on you, watching you like you were a lifeline, or like he was scared he’d never see you again, but you kept your eyes on Rick.

“You’re welcome,” he smiled back.

“But, now that I’m here,” you tried gently, “now that you’ve got my attention and I know how much you love me, why don’t you let Spencer go, hm? That way we can be alone.”

Rick frowned, “Let-let him-? No! No way!” He tightened his grip again and Spencer groaned with pain, “Don’t you see? He needs to die. He’s trying to keep us apart! He wants you gone for good.”

You shook his head, feeling the rising panic, “No he doesn’t, Rick. Reid is my friend, he would never try and keep us apart, right Reid?”

For a moment Spencer was silent, swaying on his feet, but he managed to nod his head and get out a small, “She’s right.”

“YOU’RE A LIAR!” Rick yelled, cocking the gun.

“No!” You screamed, forcing Rick’s attention back to you, “Rick, I don’t understand. I don’t understand why he needs to die. I understand the rest, but I’m still confused. Can-would you be able to explain it to me?”

Rick looked confused for a moment, his gaze jumping between you and Spencer. You held your breath, praying you hadn’t overplayed your hand, only relaxing when he turned back to face you.

“He,” he started, gesturing the gun at Spencer, “got you shot. He let you walk into an active bomber situation alone,” he explained, “he spent years nearly getting you killed and then, when he saw our love, he made you leave! He wants you to be alone and miserable! He wants me to be alone!”

You tried to process the rush of information as quickly as you could, latching onto the first advantage you could find.

“Spencer didn’t make me leave,” you said.

“He did! I saw it! You asked him to go out and he turned you down! He lead you on and then he rejected you, so you left!” Rick yelled, “You thought you were alone, you both did, but I was there, watching. I was always watching. I had to keep you safe, I had to make sure you were protected.”

Spencer whimpered, his shoulders slumping with defeat, as though he’d been found out, and you looked at them both, confused. What on earth were they on about?

You felt the realization click, and your eyes widened with surprise “Oh Rick, oh no you misunderstood.” You started. You stepped closer, keeping your hands raised to show that you weren’t a threat, “You’re right, Spencer did say no when I asked him out, but I’d already resigned by then. I was going to tell him that night but I didn’t get the chance. It wasn’t his fault, it was mine.”

———————————

Spencer was in pain. Deep, aching, throbbing pain. He was pretty sure he had at least one cracked rib, maybe more, and the swift punches to his stomach had knocked the wind right out of his chest. His head was heavy and thick with confusion and, without the strong arm holding him up, he would’ve collapsed onto the floor. Everything in Spencer’s body screamed for an end to the pain. But that was nothing compared to the sick, heavy weight of guilt that hit him when he saw your face. He’d brought you here, you’d come for him. He’d let himself get caught, he’d fucked up. He’d put you in danger when you’d trusted him, but God, he was relieved to see you. And he hated himself for that.

You were beautiful. So so so beautiful. Had he ever told you that? Even with your face set into a mask of calm and determination, you were radiant. Wait, what? He thought to himself, what’re you thinking? Your eyes flickered over to him with a subtle note of concern. Focus, Spencer, he told himself, what did she just say?

His captor seemed confused. He was shifting his weight from one foot to another, looking between the two of you like you were a particularly frustrating puzzle.

“What-what does that-why are you saying this?” Rick asked loudly, lifting the gun to point it at you, “Why’re you saying this?”

You flinched, but stayed calm, “Because it’s the truth. Spencer isn’t the reason I left, he had nothing to do with it. Spencer wants us to be together, that’s why he brought me here.”

You spoke to Rick in a low, soothing voice like he was a wild animal and, as you spoke you were creeping closer and closer. Spencer tracked your movement with his eyes, noticing that you’d shifted your gun belt to be on the side closer to Spencer. It wasn’t an accident.

“Rick, baby,” you crooned, “I’m so proud of you. You’ve accomplished so much, but you don’t need to do it anymore. I’m here now, I’m yours. Let’s get out of here, just you and me, before anyone else arrives.”

“You want that?” Rick asked.

“Of course I do,” you said, with a sweet laugh, “but that gun is scaring me. Can we put it away and let Spencer go so that we can go?”

There was a long pause. Rick looked like he was in a trance, staring at you like you were a walking daydream. Your eyes flickered to Spencer and softened for just a second. Just a brief moment of acknowledgment, almost as though you simply couldn’t help yourself. You were close enough now that Spencer could smell your perfume, which was lucky because, right then, Rick’s dreamy look vanished and he began lifting his gun and pointing it right at you.

“LIAR!” He yelled.

Spencer heard the unmistakable pop of a gunshot, but he had no time to check where it had landed. Instead he lunged forward, grabbed your gun and, in a moment of instinct, pulled the trigger, sending a bullet straight into Rick’s right shoulder. Rick dropped his gun and, in an instant Spencer was on his back, immobilizing him with the pair of cuffs you handed him and rendering him harmless. For a long moment there was just silence as Spencer stared down at the man who had tricked him, savoring the moment of victory until it was broken by a pained gasp. His stomach sank. The bullet, the bullet, where was the bullet Rick had fired?

“Oh my God.” You said breathlessly, sinking down against the nearest wall as blood started to stain your crisp white button down, “Fuck.”

The blood was coming from your abdomen, from a hole just left of your naval that you were pressing your sleeve against in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Your cheeks glistened with tears as you fought not to tense up despite the pain and Spencer felt, for the first time that day, true unadulterated panic.

“No, no no no no,” he said quickly, rushing to your side and gripping your free hand with his, “hey, look at me, we’re gonna be alright. Just keep your eyes open. Stay with me.”

You breathed out slowly through your mouth, “Don’t worry, doc,” you replied through gritted teeth, “ ‘M not goin’ anywhere.”

Spencer tried to assess the situation, but there was too much panic and adrenaline and fear in his system, and all he could see was the tender way you looked at him, and how you’d smiled the night before. His hands were shaking even where they held yours, and his eyes pricked with suppressed tears. You needed a hospital. You needed surgery and he couldn’t save you. He couldn’t carry you without making you bleed out, and he didn’t even know where you were. He was helpless.

“I’m so sorry, Spence,” you said softly, “I never-I never meant for you to get hurt.”

Spencer laughed incredulously, even though nothing had been less funny in his entire life, “You have nothing to be sorry about. You saved us,” he squeezed your hand and was rewarded with a weak smile from you, “you always save us,” he continued, even more gently, “Rick was right about that. You’ve been saving me for years.”

“And you've saved me right back,” you pointed out, your voice heavy with the effort of keeping your eyes open.

Spencer pressed his lips together, tears pouring down his cheek as he fought back sobs and silently prayed to a God he’d never believed in for some kind of miracle.

“But I can’t save you now,” he sobbed.

“No, but we can,” a third, familiar voice answered.

If Spencer had been any less shocked, he would have laughed at the timing of it all. As it was, he just stared into the eyes of his team as though he wasn’t sure they were real.

“MEDIC! We need a medic in here.” Derek Morgan continued, appearing in the doorway like the miracle he was and instantly taking control of the situation.

He scooped you up like you weighed nothing, carrying you out through the doorway just as Emily helped Spencer to his feet and slung his arm around her shoulders to help support his weight. Somewhere in the background Spencer could hear Hotch reading Connolly his rights, and Rossi making some comment about Rick wishing it had been a kill shot. Everything felt surreal, like some sort of fantasy or a hallucination he’d created to keep from having to lose you again, but he didn’t have the strength to fight it.

“Y/N,” he said softly as Emily handed him off to a nearby medic in the back of a waiting ambulance, “I need to see, Y/N. Please, is she alive?”

The medic gave him a sympathetic smile, bundling him onto a gurney, “I can’t let you see her, sir. They’re taking her straight to surgery.”

“But she’s alive?” Spencer insisted as the paramedics fussed and flitted around him.

The original medic nodded, “For now, she’s alive.”

-----------------------

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obaewankenobis · 4 years

Text

solace — obi-wan kenobi

summary : after the death of satine kryze, obi-wan kenobi returns from mandalore to the jedi temple.

warning(s) : character death, it's pretty fluffy with some angst.

pairing(s) : obi-wan kenobi x jedi!reader, mentions of obi-wan kenobi x satine kryze

notes : this is my first fic on tumblr like,, ever. i hope you enjoy lmao 🧍🏻‍♀️. oh also it’s written in all lowercase intentionally!

though you didn’t know much about their relationship, you knew from a very young age that obi-wan kenobi loved satine kryze. the jedi and the duchess were destined to live their lives apart, honor bound to serve the people before themselves, whether it be the citizens of mandalore or the jedi order. you had seen them interact firsthand, the endless bickering and shrewd glances at one another making up a feeble attempt to cover up how they truly felt. you hated the way your stomach twisted and your heartbeat quickened when you saw how he looked at her, overwhelmed with all sorts of emotions a jedi were barred from feeling. he drowned in her touch, however subtle that might be, her hand on his face leaving him with burn marks, his fingers on fire as he grasped her wrist. you stood idly by, hopeless in the shadows, because that was what the force had destined for you. you, like obi-wan, had duties as a jedi, duties that you would put over your own well being and selfish desires, even if that meant spending hours watching obi-wan languish in the realization that life would never allow him to be happy. he’d lost his master at an age where, although he was not terribly young, he was still vulnerable to the world and its brutalities.

life had not been kind to obi-wan kenobi. he was old when he started training, feeling the need to work twice as hard as his fellow initiates, just for him to be remembered and not cast aside. he was constantly battling his darkest fear, that he was never good enough for his master and he would one day be considered unmemorable or unworthy. life was still cruel to obi-wan kenobi. he felt the cold, bony fingers of satine kryze cradle his face, leaning into her touch before she fell back limply, dark blood staining her abdomen. around him, maul laughed, as vengeance had finally been served. all those years the scarlet skinned zabrak had spent wasting away, he only had one thought: kenobi. it was a mantra that kept him going, a fire that fueled him, that drove him so far to the point of madness that the only thought echoing in his mind was exacting his revenge on the man who had caused him so much misery, obi-wan kenobi. with some much needed help, obi-wan had escaped his jail cell on mandalore, but maul had won, for now he was trapped eternally in a prison of his own mind. if he closed his eyes, he could still see satine in all her beauty. the soft, pale buttercup locks of hair were strewn messily across satine’s face, framing her pointed features that highlighted her regality. her eyes, normally a stunning, brilliant blue, were now overshadowed with heavy purple circles underneath, fluttering once, before lying still. obi-wan could still feel the ice of her touch on his auburn beard, could still hear the hoarse whispers of her final, dying breath in his ears. worst of all, he could still sense through the force as her life signature died out, like a warm sun casting its final rays before leaving a planet in darkness. he had loved her, and she had loved him. though light years away, separated by many planets and suns and stars, you could sense his anguish. it was overpowering, tainted by the dark side; this was the closest obi-wan had been tempted to stray away from the light. still, he clung on to the light, clung on to the idea that there was still good in the world, despite every curve thrown in his way. the night ahead of you, should obi-wan not return before then, would be sleepless, as worry for the man ate at your insides, and you were helpless to resist as it consumed you. you were, for lack of a better word, attached to him, and he you, and that was the most dangerous thing a jedi could be. the very idea of caring for one being over another was discouraged, but no one prepared you for how hard it would be to follow a code you lived by. at last, you sensed his presence here in the temple. throwing on a beige cloak, you quietly shut the door of your sleeping quarters to greet him. it was late enough in the evening for the temple hallways to be barren, but not too absurdly late for you to be awake, as the bright yellow hues of the coruscanti sunset dimmed and made their final goodbye through the transparisteel. �� “obi-wan,” the breath caught in your throat as your eyes met his. he resembled a shell of who he once was, clad in red mandalorian armor that oddly suited him. his russet hair was disheveled, dirtied by dust and sweat, shoulders sagging as his arms lay limply at his side. his ocean eyes were swimming with sorrow and grief, mourning the loss of someone — it didn’t take much to put the pieces together. satine kryze. he had gone to rescue her, and returned alone. “y/n,” his voice is like a melody in your ears, though his tone is solemn and tired. they stood close enough for it to be amicable, but far enough for it to be agonizingly respectable. neither of you made any movement to get closer, knowing the probability of someone stumbling upon them was far too likely. “what happened?” you bit your lip, studying his face. his eyes didn’t quite meet yours, his fair skin littered with dirt and battered with cuts and bruises. “maul,” came the short response. “he… i must report to the council.” waves of alarm began radiating off of him, as if he had just remembered something important. “master yoda and master windu are both away,” you sucked in your breath. “you should speak to them tomorrow.” all he could muster was a nod of his head, and you knew then that he would only talk about it in time. silently, mannerisms mirroring one another, you began walking, your pace slow and your shoulders brushing just slightly every few steps. there wasn’t much to be said; obi-wan was silent for most of the short trek back to the jedi sleeping quarters. “will you be alright?” you stopped in your tracks, pausing in front of his quarters. a faint smile crept onto his face, his lips twitching upwards but his eyes remaining dull. he nodded quickly before turning to enter his quarters. “thank you, darling.” however persuasive the famed jedi negotiator was in his prime, there was something about the way his voice sounded so tired that made you doubt the truth of his words. obi-wan’s name was on the tip of your tongue before he disappeared behind the door of his quarters, not allowing you to call after him; he could lie to you once, to save you from needless worry, but he could not do so twice. without much resistance, you retreated to your own space, the walls and floors scarcely decorated, what little furniture you did possess simple and modest. after a moment, you retired to your sleep couch and allowed your sore muscles a bit of relaxation. sleep did not come to greet you, not even as you spent hours tossing and turning, the normally soft mattress underneath you now lumpy and hard. with a sigh, you threw the covers over you aside, wincing as you were greeted with the coldness of the floor as your feet touched the ground. you made your way to the hallway, pitch black and coated with a blanket of silence, a dim light seeping through the cracks of the door opposite of yours. obi-wan was still awake. raising your hand to knock on the door, you were surprised as your knuckles were met nothingness, as the door slid open automatically. obi-wan had not moved since the night began, sitting in his own turmoil. the mandalorian armor had been stripped off of him and was now cluttered in a corner of the room, and it looked as if he had used the refresher — droplets of water still clung to his hair, and his sleeping clothes looked fresh and clean. “can’t sleep?” you spoke up with a rueful smile, careful to keep your pitch low enough so only he could hear them. the door closed behind you, and then it was just the two of them. he looked up; dark circles of grief and exhaust making him appear older, more fragile. in a hasty, unsure movement, you had crossed the length of the room and settled yourself next to him, the sleep couch dipping slightly under your added weight. there were so many questions you longed to ask him, like the details of his journey to mandalore, and why he couldn’t even bring himself to say more than a few words at a time. but patience was a jedi’s greatest tool, and you forced yourself to simply sit in silence, the feeling of obi-wan’s grief hanging heavy in the air. “i lost her.” his voice is hollow, monotone. there is no need to say her name, but it enters your mind anyways. satine. “i know,” you let out a weary sigh. “i’m so sorry.” without more words, you felt his body shift, feeling the heat coming from his body as he drew closer to you. “you need to rest, love.” there was no reason for him to protest, but you knew why he had stayed awake for so long. nightmares. they would haunt him for the rest of his life, chasing him mercilessly for as long as he remained asleep. no matter how awful life treated him, obi-wan kenobi never cried, at least not in front of anyone — instead, he allowed himself to rot away, internalizing everything for fear of burdening another being with all of his agony. tonight would be no different, you suspected, as you felt a weight on your shoulder, as a head full of strawberry blonde hair, still dewy with shower water, rested against your side. it was hesitant at first, as he barely allowed himself to lean on you, but after a moment of his cheek on your shoulder, he collapsed, the full weight of his body and all his worries heavy against your frame. as your arm wrapped around his shoulder, pulling him closer to you, your breath was light and tense. this was the closest you’d ever been to him, to anyone, really, the feeling of his skin against her own a foreign concept she’d never dared to explore. it was the way he smiled. it reminded you of warm summer days, of lazy mornings on naboo surrounded by nothing but fields of flowers soaked in sunlight. he was like the sun, bright and hopeful; steady and dependable. it was the way he laughed. it reminded you of cozy winter nights, of waking up to a ground littered with snow, the frigid air of the outside making evenings surrounded by a crackling fire intimate and welcoming. it was the way he looked at you. his gaze reminded you of a chilly autumn breeze, of carefree days and brisk weather that made your skin tingle, your heart feeling light and free, singing to the fallen leaves of the sky. it was the way he touched you. it reminded you of spring, of new flowers blooming in soft sunlight, of plants budding with new, green life and animals of all shapes and sizes fluttering around with their young. it was the start of something new. you loved him. it went against everything you stood for, but you loved him. and maybe somewhere, buried deep within his soul, he loved you too. in another lifetime, perhaps you were the right person at the wrong time, or the right person at the right time. but in this timeline, where the jedi code was carved into your bones, where the light side ran through your veins, where your duty came above your being, it was the wrong circumstance. you had been so deep in thought, woefully wishing a for love from a man who could not do so, that you hadn’t noticed how obi-wan’s breathing slowed, how his eyes, which had once fought to stay open, were now blissfully shut. the man who had been through so much, who had endured so much heartbreak and loss, had finally sought solace in your arms. your own eyes fought to stay awake, knowing how much trouble you’d be in if anyone caught you both in such a… compromising position. however innocent the intention may be, the council would not see it that way. your last conscious thought was that of i must wake up before sunrise, before you lapsed into a peaceful sleep.

#obi wan kenobi x you #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan kenobi x you #obi-wan kenobi one shot #obi-wan kenobi imagine #obi wan kenobi #obi-wan kenobi #star wars #star wars one shot #star wars prequels #the clone wars #satine kryze #obaewankenobis

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lemonpeter · 4 years

Text

STARKER, by Peter B. Parker

Chapter 7: Betrayal

A/N: !!! and the plot progresses, with this absurdly long chapter (I think it’s our longest yet)!! we would love to hear your thoughts on the story so far and any ideas you have about what’s coming in the future! - bloo & bri 💕

Warnings: nff scene in the beginning, heavier angst (it’s finally starting 😈), character death mention

Masterlist ao3

————

When they walked through the doors of the fancy restaurant with the French name that Peter didn't even want to attempt to pronounce, the couple was met with a young woman standing at the hostess station, looking like she'd rather be anywhere else.

Barely looking up from the little podium where she obviously was 'hiding' her phone, she glanced at Peter as she spoke, not paying any attention to the older man beside him. "Sorry for the inconvenience, but unfortunately we're full tonight. I'd love to help you make a reservation for another time if you'd like." Her eyes moved back down as she fiddled with a pen absentmindedly.

Tony didn't respond, just smirked down at Peter from behind his dark sunglasses. 'Wait for it' he mouthed. He sniffed lightly, nose twitching.

And Peter, well he just stood there and did exactly that. His eyes wandered, landing on the small, gold metal rectangle pinned to the hostess’ black button up. Hailey, it read in flowing black script.

The woman looked up, finally, when neither of them said anything. Her eyes met Peter's again and she smiled at him, raising one of her eyebrows questioningly. "Is there a specific day you'd like?" She turned to the side and began clicking through options on the computer. "We could do next Tuesday evening, at seven-thirty?”

Tony took that as his chance, clearing his throat. He shifted and took a step closer to his husband, hand moving to rest on his lower back. “We have a reservation, actually.”

Hailey looked up, then, head turning to face Tony in response to the sound.

Peter had to bite back a laugh at the way the hostess' expression changed, leaning into Tony’s embrace.

Mouth gaping, she simply stared at them for a moment, eyes wide with shock. Then a deep flush overtook her face. Hailey hurried to speak, spluttering over her words as she straightened her posture. “Oh, God, I am- I am so sorry. Mr. Stark. So sorry, Let me just-.” With shaking hands, she began typing before turning to them a moment later, an embarrassed smile pulling at her lips. “Everything’s, um, all set for the private room you reserved, sir. M-mister Stark.”

“That’d be ‘Misters’ Stark,” Tony corrected, smiling down at Peter. He pressed a kiss to the boy’s temple, eyes closing briefly and making a delicate blush spread over his cheeks.

“Yes, of course. If you’ll both follow me, I’ll show you to your table.” Having reconstructed her mask of professionalism, Hailey grabbed two menus and gestured for the two men to follow her into the main area of the restaurant.

They walked through the deep, navy velvet curtains that were drawn and made their way through the dining area. There were tables scattered throughout, all occupied by people who looked like they had more money in their wallets than Peter had seen in his entire life up until that point.

He could feel all of their eyes on him, no doubt wondering who was so lucky as to be on the arm of Tony Stark. He could hear their scandalized whispers. And he’d honestly thought he wouldn’t know how to feel about the attention. But here he was, preening under their gazes. The teen loved everyone seeing that yes he, Peter Benjamin Parker, had somehow lucked out and captured the attention of the playboy. He certainly looked the part, in his powder blue button down (of which the top few buttons were undone, exposing a bit of his chest and the thin chains draped from his neck, but not open enough to give away the lingerie he was wearing underneath) and his tight gunmetal trousers, both by Gucci. He didn’t even want to know how much the outfit actually cost.

But he wanted everyone else to.

The warmth of Tony’s palm on the small of his back as they walked, his fingertips ghosting over the top of his ass, had something warm fizzling deep in Peter’s belly.

Once they reached the far end of the dining area, they were led into an alcove off to the side, separated by another dark curtain. There was a single table in the moderately sized room, set up for two. A bouquet of red roses sat in the middle of the white table cloth like a centerpiece. The lighting was inviting and intimate at the same time, and it was quiet, the conversations of the other patrons but a low murmur in the background.

Hailey sat the menus down on the table in their respective places before turning to the two patrons. “Here you go, gentlemen.” While the two of them sat down, Tony pulling Peter’s chair out for him, she reached for the glass pitcher of ice water and filled each of their glasses. “I’ll start you off with some water, and a server will be right with you. I hope you enjoy your visit with us here at La Brise Fraîche.” She shot them a quick smile before making a hasty exit, face once more taken over in a rosy blush.

Tony chuckled as he shifted his chair a bit closer to the table. Slipping off his sunglasses, he popped them into the pocket of his black suit jacket, in front of the little pocket square that matched Peter’s shirt. “She certainly changed her tune, huh baby?” He shot Peter a soft smile as he picked up his menu and gestured for the younger man to do the same.

Peter hummed in response to his husband’s teasing, following his lead and opening the menu in order to look it over. A frown soon formed between his eyebrows, and his eyes flicked from the parchment up to Tony’s face. “Tony,” he said softly, “this, uh, most of this is in French. I can’t- And there’s no prices on here. How do I…” He trailed off, uncertainly, all of his earlier confidence gone now that they were alone again. He felt extremely out of his element all of a sudden.

Reaching across the table, the older man brushed his fingers over the back of Peter’s hand. “It’s alright, Pete. What are you in the mood for, baby? We should definitely get some wine,” he said, winking.

Peter giggled and threw his head back a little. When he looked back over at Tony, his eyes were gleaming and he bit his lip, running the toe of his shoe from the inside of the man’s ankle up to his knee. “You trying to get me drunk, Mr. Stark?”

Tony’s gaze darkened, causing Peter’s breath to catch in his throat. “Maybe I am, Mr. Stark.”

Their waiter approached them, then, slipping through the navy drapery. “Good evening gentlemen. I’m Jacques, and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I start the two of you off with something to drink?” He smiled at them both as he spoke with a light French accent, eyes flickering between them before focusing on Tony.

The billionaire cleared his throat, not even bothering to reach for the proffered wine list. “We’ll have whatever the finest Cab Sauvignon is, and how about a Sauvignon Blanc as well?” Though he phrased it as a question, it didn’t very much sound like one, and Peter squirmed in his seat at the authoritative tone of his voice.

God, how was he going to make it through this dinner? They hadn’t even ordered yet and he was already horny.

And it only got worse from there.

The wines Tony had chosen were really strong, Peter thought to himself as he fumbled a bit with his fork, trying to twist up some of the creamy pasta on the plate in front of him. It was some sort of mushroom-based sauce, and it looked delicious. And it would be, if the numerous other dishes they had ordered and already sampled, Tony insisting that he try a little bit of everything, were anything to go by.

He was flushed from the alcohol, and inebriated enough that he was no longer bothering with trying to hold back the little sounds of ecstasy that left his mouth at each bite of the incredible cuisine.

His eyes fluttered shut once he finally managed to twist up enough pasta to put in his mouth, and the soft noise he made sounded truly indecent. He heard Tony’s sharp intake of breath and sighed contentedly as he chewed the bite of food before opening his eyes again in order to get another forkful.

Feeling his husband’s eyes boring into his skin, Peter looked up from his plate. A small whimper escaped him at the hungry look in his eyes. “Tony?”

The older man licked at his bottom lip as his eyes roved over Peter’s face. His voice was somewhat rough when he spoke, leaning forward in his seat. “You’ve got a little something there, baby,” he said lowly, bringing his thumb to his mouth to lick it before reaching across the table to swipe the digit just under Peter’s bottom lip. The small smear of glistening white came off easily, and he pressed the pad of his thumb against Peter’s lips, prompting him to open.

Another whine escaped the teen as he did so immediately, granting Tony’s finger entrance. Peter began sucking on it lightly to clean the sauce off, and he hummed once the light cream dissipated and he’d swallowed it down, allowing him to focus on the sensation of Tony’s calloused skin on his tongue.

Tony groaned softly, shifting in his chair. “Mmm, that’s my good boy.” He pulled his thumb away, smirking at the displeased noise that came from his young lover as he reached down to adjust himself in his pants.

Peter caught the movement. His own cock, which had been slightly interested since they’d left the hotel thanks to how sexy he felt in the lingerie he had slipped on, gave a slight twitch. “You hard for me, Daddy,” he asked, blinking coquettishly at the man and reaching for one of his two wine glasses, bringing the one filled with the red wine to his lips. He made a bit of a show of running his tongue from the base of the goblet up to the rim, cleaning up a rivulet of the dark, blood red liquid that had dripped down while he drank.

“Always, baby boy,” Tony said softly, keeping his eyes on Peter as he took a bite of what was left of the steak au poivre in front of him.

They continued eating, and Peter continued his teasing, until their server arrived a few minutes later to check on them. The young boy was glad the table cloth was there to hide the erection in his lap, his flush intensifying as Jacques approached them. Tony, however, didn’t look phased, continuing to eat the rest of his food and sip at the full-bodied alcohol in his glass, eyes trained on his husband.

Beginning to clear away the empty plates, Jacques spoke up. “I hope everything has been to your satisfaction, gentlemen.” When they both responded in the affirmative, he continued. “Would you be interested in ordering anything for dessert? Tonight’s special is a beautiful lavender and honey posset, it’s absolutely to die for,” he intoned, making eye contact with Peter and smiling.

Tony scowled at the interaction, sniffing lightly and narrowing his eyes a bit. “Nope, I think we’re all set…” He trailed off at the pleading look Peter gave him, big brown eyes peering over at him dolefully.

“Please, Tony,” the younger man asked, foot once again moving to rub against the inside of his husband’s leg. “I’m not sure what a, um, posset is, but it sounds really yummy, and Jacques says it’s good.” He looked at Jacques briefly, who nodded, and then back at Tony. “This is about trying new things, right?” He bit his lip for good measure, just to punctuate his little performance.

With an eye roll, Tony caved, his hand wrapping around Peter’s ankle underneath the table. He squeezed it, not ungently. “Alright,” he said, sending Jacques a quick smile as he piled the last plate into his arms. “We’ll have one of the possets, then, please.”

And he’d obviously made the right choice, as he was now watching Peter suck the remnants of the custard off of his pointer finger like it was his job to ensure that the small glass jar was spotless. “That good, sweetie?”

Peter hummed around his finger, eyes flicking up to meet Tony’s, which were once again flashing at him dangerously. His body thrummed in response, every fiber of his being screaming out in want. “It’s so good, Daddy,” he whined softly, the hand not in his mouth pressing down on the bulge in his pants. “So good.”

Sitting up straighter in his chair, Tony took a deep breath before reaching into his pocket for his wallet. He flipped through it for a moment before pulling out a stack of hundred dollar bills and slapping them down on the table. Standing, he walked around the table to Peter’s seat in order to gently pull him up and closer to him.

Peter followed willingly, stepping into Tony’s personal space and craning his neck up to that his lips could meet the older man’s. He moaned softly at the feeling of their clothed erections pressing up against each other.

“Let’s go, baby,” Tony whispered into his mouth, pulling away so that he could lead Peter out of the room and through the main dining area. He paid no mind to any of the other patrons, who were no doubt scandalized by the sight of the two of them, rumpled and clearly aroused.

Peter just flushed, grinning as he made eye contact with a few people, winking at an older lady who was looking at him with wide eyes.

Yeah, he liked people knowing he was Tony’s.

When they got back to the hotel, Tony backed Peter up against the door to the hotel room as he began to lavish his neck with kisses and bites while his hands gripped at Peter’s ass. “Fuck, baby, you look so pretty tonight,” he rasped, relishing in the way his husband jerked in his hold in response to a particularly sharp nip.

“Just for you,” Peter moaned, hands fumbling to remove Tony’s jacket. He threw it to the ground as it was shrugged off, gasping when he was lifted into the older man’s arms in order to be carried over to the bed and deposited on the covers. Kicking his shoes off, he watched as Tony did the same and rolled up the sleeves to his wrinkling white dress shirt.

Crawling on the bed to kneel over Peter, Tony reached for the buttons on the boy’s shirt and began undoing them. A low growl sounded in his throat at the first peek of black lace that became exposed. “What do we have here?”

Peter preened under his heavy gaze, pushing up onto his elbows so he could slip the shirt off his arms, exposing the black bodysuit he wore underneath. “Do you like it, Daddy?” He peered up at him from underneath his lashes.

“Like it? I love it, baby boy.” Tony trailed kisses down the teen’s chest, feeling the muscles in his abdomen twitch under in ministrations. When he reached the waistband of the dark trousers, he undid the button with practiced ease and pulled them down, pausing for Peter to lift his hips and throwing them to the floor once they were off. His eyes raked over Peter’s form, mesmerized by the sight of him spread out on the fluffy comforter, the inky lingerie creating a strong contrast. He could very clearly see Peter’s erection straining against the lace, and the wet spot that was glistening with precum.

“Daddy,” Peter whined, hips twitching upward in an attempt to get some friction. “Touch me, please.”

Tony hummed softly, eyes locking on Peter’s lips for a moment before he got off the bed in order to walk over to the kitchenette area. He rifled through the drawers for a moment, ignoring Peter’s indignant noises. When he found what he was looking for, he resumed his previous position.

Making eye contact with Peter, Tony uncapped the lid of the honey bottle and squeezed some out onto his pointer and middle fingers. “Get up, baby,” he said softly. “Kneel for me.”

Eyes wide, Peter followed the request, only wobbling a little bit as a result of the alcohol in his system.

“Now open,” Tony instructed as he brought his dripping finger’s to Peter’s lips. He groaned when the digits were enveloped in the warmth of the boy’s mouth, shivering when he started suckling, not unlike the way he treated the man’s cock. “Fuck, Peter.”

Bolstered by Tony’s words, and desperate for the sticky sweetness he was desperately chasing with his tongue, Peter whined in the back of his throat before he closed his eyes and began sucking in earnest.

Eyes blazing, Tony watched in awe as the teen fellated his fingers. His other hand moved up to grab at Peter’s unruly curls, using his grip to hold the boy still as he pressed his fingers further into his mouth.

Peter’s eyes flew open as he gagged around the intrusion, throat convulsing as Tony held him there. He whimpered, eyes watering as he struggled to breathe. He gasped when Tony eventually removed his fingers, spluttering as thick saliva dripped down his chin. “Daddy- please,” he rasped, voice already a little wrecked. “More.” His eyes flickered to the honey bottle that was laying on the bed.

Smirking, Tony snatched it up. His hands moved to his belt and began unfastening it. “Want some more dessert, baby?”

***

Peter was going to be mortified when he realized that they were able to see everything that was going on. Every lingering touch or look, every...well, every time he was with Tony was being broadcasted to SHIELD through EDITH. No matter what was going on, sensitive and tame content alike, it was all being witnessed by the agents (plus, even more uncomfortably, May and Ned.)

Unfortunately, he wasn’t aware. So it didn’t seem like he was going to stop anytime soon.

So Ned was forced to suffer through every moment of it in a room full of adults. Again, including Peter’s poor aunt. Hopefully she wasn’t paying attention, though, because it definitely would have been even more awkward for her to see. Or even think about.

Just. Ew.

Personally, he was trying to figure out if the situation was illegal. After all, Peter was seventeen. And even though technically it was all in his head, it was still explicitly sexual content that they were all witnessing, starring him.

Maybe it wasn’t the best or most relevant thing to be thinking over, but Ned was trying to ignore the reality of what was actually going on. Watching his best friend make bedroom eyes at and get railed by their deceased idol wasn’t something he was particularly fond of.

He just needed to distract himself from the...activities that kept occurring on the monitors. So he tried to keep his mind away from that part of the situation, legality and all.

What he really needed to focus on was getting Peter out. It had been nearly two weeks since Beck’s announcement that outed Peter’s identity. It had been almost two weeks since Peter had run away and gone into hiding.

They hadn’t even been able to make contact with him through May for days now. He was solely focused on Tony, just as he had been since the wedding. They weren’t sure how much longer that pattern would continue. Or if it would ever stop.

Everyone was getting more and more anxious by the day.

Ned hadn’t found any real solution yet. There were no cracks in the program, no hidden door in the code that he could sneak his way through. So far, it was all sealed tightly.

Usually, that would be considered a good thing. But it just made his job that much more stressful in the moment. They still had no location for Peter. They were yet to discover a way to shut down the illusion. All they had was the ability to send May in when Peter wanted his family there. Nothing else. And there hadn’t been much family bonding time lately.

“When do you think they’ll finally stop?” Paige wondered out loud, eyes firmly on the screen as she leaned over Ned’s shoulder.

The teen jumped at the sound of her voice, head whipping around until they nearly collided. He had no idea that she’d snuck up on him. “What? Oh.” He made a face as he processed her question. “I don’t know. Hopefully soon.” Although that was doubtful, if he was honest with himself.

She hummed in acknowledgment, nodding a little. Her eyes seemed to follow the movements on the monitor before she finally glanced away, seeming a bit flustered. “Yeah. They’ve been at it a while, huh.”

Ned had absolutely no desire to discuss his best friend’s sex life. Especially considering the circumstances. And the interest in the agent’s voice sparked something in him. Not annoyance, not at her, but something very close to that. He wasn’t quite sure how to describe it. “They kinda have. But I’m trying to not pay that much attention to all of it. I’d like to have something of a normal friendship with Peter when he’s out. I can’t do that if I spend all this time watching him get-“

“Leeds,” Fury interrupted, standing over the two young people.

Paige instantly straightened up when she heard him, a light flush overtaking her cheeks as she pushed her hair back behind her ear.

“Yes, sir?” Ned answered, slowly looking up at the man.

“Any change? There has to be something you can do to get his attention.” The director worked to keep up his hard exterior, but was obviously uncomfortable. As was everyone else.

Except maybe Paige. But Ned didn’t want to think about why that was.

Ned sighed, fingers absently tapping at his keyboard. “No. Nothing yet, sir. I’ve been looking for a way to slip through into the program more frequently, but everything is airtight. Tony Stark knew what he was doing.” He couldn’t keep the admiration out of his voice. Which was a little annoying, since the tech and designer in question was causing nothing but issues. “And Peter too, I guess,” he added, knowing that Peter had probably input quite a bit of his own code into the program.

“Do you think he knew that Peter would use the glasses for this?” Paige murmured.

Again with the interested tone. “Probably not,” Ned supplied, clicking away from the live-feed for a moment. He technically wasn’t supposed to do that, but it would make everyone more comfortable for the moment. And it made certain that agent Oliver would have to stop watching, at least for the time being. “I mean, maybe. But probably not.”

“Stark wasn’t exactly the picture of perfect morality, but I don’t think he ever imagined anything like this happening.” Fury shook his head, face contorted in visible discomfort. “Especially not from Parker. I knew he was a devious little shit but not like this.”

Ned was pretty much on the same page. He knew that Peter had his moments, but it was never anything more than normal teenage hormone-fueled...lust felt like too strong of a word, but nothing else was coming to mind. He’d never thought that Peter was even capable of the things he had seen playing out on the screen. Although, he really hadn’t thought about it too much. Or ever.

His best friend was objectively an attractive guy, but Ned had really never thought of him in anything but a platonic way. So this was a lot of stuff that he’d never wanted to see.

“I dunno, I don’t know much about him but he seems like the closeted-kinky type,” Paige offered with a slight smile pulling at her lips. “Y’know, eager to please and all? Maybe I’m the only one that sees it.”

“Can we not talk about this?” Ned said quickly, definitely louder than necessary. The annoyed-but-not feeling was back. He adjusted his glasses just so he could have something to do with his hands for a moment. “I’d rather just focus on getting him out. Or figuring out how to talk to him.”

“Leeds is right,” Fury agreed, looking at the screen again. “It wouldn’t be my first choice, and it pains me to say it, but I suggest you turn that back on. Just to be sure nothing gets missed. We need to send Ms. Parker back in as soon as he shows signs of wanting her back in.”

None of them believed that it would be happening anytime soon, but Ned begrudgingly clicked to the feed again.

“Great. Keep checking to see if there’s anywhere you can slip through, he’s already held onto that tech for too long.”

The man walked away, leaving Ned and Paige alone again.

Ned looked at the agent, giving her a smile. “So, any ideas? We’re still stuck with what we’ve got and I feel like I’ve tried everything.” He sighed heavily, looking back to the screen.

He expected to see more of the same, ‘the same’ being Peter engaging in some insanely sexual scene with no end in sight. But it seemed like they had finally stopped, as the screen was dark, Ned’s reflection looking back at him. Something that only happened when Peter fell asleep, therefore unable to keep the tech running.

“They’re asleep!” He announced to the room. Everyone seemed to collectively relax. No more having to watch a potential lawsuit.

And sleep was good news for Ned; that meant he was able to finally get some real work done without having to constantly check up on the feed. He would have about seven hours or so (going by how long the illusion was typically down for a night of rest) to work and figure out a way to shut things down without worrying about his friend waking up and realizing it. Maybe even stopping him.

Nothing had come of the other nights he’d been able to work, but he kept hoping that he’d get lucky soon. He was determined to save his best friend. He had to.

So he started the stopwatch to record how long Peter slept and then got to work.

***

Ned worked all night, but was still stuck exactly where he had been, in terms of progress. The only connection they had was through the small gap he’d been able to squeeze his own coding into to get May through. And he had a bad feeling that his ‘solution’ with that wouldn’t last for much longer.

He kept track of what Peter (and Tony, by extension) was doing as the morning went on, instantly becoming more focused when he heard a brief mention of family.

“I think it would be nice to spend another day with them,” Peter commented through the crackly speakers, seeming to pack up the countless bags that he’d acquired over the past couple of days.

Not-Tony hummed in agreement, moving to help his- husband? (Ned wasn’t quite sure how all of it worked. It was all just pretend, after all.) No matter what they were considered, Tony began helping Peter with gathering up his bags. “I think that’s a great idea. Haven’t seen them since the wedding, we should spend some time with them.”

“Yeah, just having everyone over would be nice. We could watch a movie or something. One of those old ones you like.”

Tony made an offended noise, glancing in Peter’s direction. “Just because it came out before, what, two thousand? Doesn’t make it old. You’re just a baby,” he teased.

“Cradle robber,” Peter shot back playfully, an easy smile on his face. Like what he said didn’t make Ned’s skin crawl. They joked so easily (Peter’s mind did, at least) and yet the age gap between the two seemed to become that much more apparent in the moment.

“Oh, quiet.” Tony waved one hand. “So are you thinking that you just want to go back to the tower? Or was there another idea in that pretty little brain of yours?”

“Just home. Please.” Apparently ‘home’ was the tower, where Tony had mentioned, because he nodded and smiled after the answer.

“That isn’t his home,” May said softly from somewhere behind Ned, causing the teen to turn around.

Ned leaned back in his chair, looking up at her. “I’m hoping that he remembers that,” he admitted. “But I’m sure he does,” he corrected quickly when he saw the woman’s expression fall.

“He has to. He can’t just- he can’t leave us like this. For someone who got him killed.” May’s voice took on a slightly angrier tone as she spoke. But the anger fizzled out just as quickly as it came. “I need to talk to him, Ned. Not just within his little script. I need to actually get through to him.”

The teen nodded slowly, watching her closely. He knew it was a bad idea. The mission so far was just to stick to the scene that Peter wanted and to follow his lead. Get close to him. May wasn’t nearly close enough yet. And Peter didn’t seem to be close to changing his mind in any way. “But Fury said-“

“I don’t care what he said,” May said sharply. “Peter needs his family. His real family. He needs me. Not the me he expects to play along with his little game.”

That was a dangerous thing to say, especially given how the director seemed to know everything that was going on. Ned hoped that Fury hadn’t heard her. That could possibly compromise the one advantage they had. “He does need you. But just- not yet. You have to go along with his scene right now. Just for a little while longer.”

The woman watched him, expression softening slightly. She knew that he was right. But there was nothing she wanted to do more than reach out to Peter and bring him home. To his actual home. “Okay. But I’m not going another week or whatever without him. I can’t do that shit. This has already gone on too long. He needs to be home. And if he doesn’t get it together, I’ll be bringing him back with or without SHIELD’s help.”

The last bit sounded like a threat, and it probably was. Ned knew that she missed Peter. He was her only remaining family member. And he missed him too, of course he did. He just knew that it was different because May had seen him break too many times before. And she didn’t want to see it again.

She left, presumably going back to the small room that had her setup for entering the illusion. If Peter was talking about family, she had better get ready to go in as soon as he expected her to.

She slipped the headset on and waited, heart aching as she watched Peter interacting with Tony through the screen. She’d never seen him look at anyone quite like that. With so much love in his eyes. It nearly broke her heart to think about how her goal was to take him away from that. But she felt less guilty when she thought about all she was bringing him back to.

His home. His family. His friends. Everything he needed was all here in the real world. And he’d find someone else to look at in that same way, she was sure of it. And when he did, it would be okay. Because it would be the right person and the right time.

Not a dead man who was the root of all his issues.

May held her breath as the scene changed before her eyes, transforming into the sleek and expensive interior of Stark tower once again. And as the couple relaxed in the living area, she saw how Peter’s expression shifted into one of more concentration.

And she heard the quiet ding of the elevator and knew it was time for her to slip into the fantasy again. She heard agent Oliver instructing her in the background, but she already knew what to do.

She let herself relax, getting pulled into the illusion until she was standing in the elevator with the rest of Peter’s ‘special guests.’ It still gave her an odd, sick feeling of deja vu to see Mary, Richard, and Ben all together like that. It was all wrong. But she had to act like everything was okay. Like she wasn’t horrified by being surrounded by family members (and her husband) that she’d already lost and grieved for years.

Her participation in the scene had to be perfectly in accordance with Peter’s intentions or it would all be ruined. At least that’s what she’d been told countless times. But as soon as the doors opened and she saw Peter again, every plan they’d ever discussed dropped to the bottom of her list of priorities.

She just wanted him to come home.

Peter glanced up once he heard the doors, beaming. “Perfect!” He held onto Tony’s arm gently, leaning against him. “Now everyone is here.”

They filed out of the elevator, going over to the couple. May couldn’t help but realize how off it all felt. Without Peter actively controlling the other figures, it was like they were hardly there. Nothing more than stand-ins.

It was terrifying to witness, making her that much more determined to bring the boy home. He couldn’t stay in this environment, living entirely in his mind with no real company. It would only do further damage to his mental state.

As soon as they were in a certain vicinity, the scene seemed to come to life. Suddenly there was soft chatter from the other people as they started carrying their own conversations.

May jumped when she felt a hand on her lower back, instantly wanting to bat the intruding touch away. She knew who it was before she even looked and forced herself to relax. She had to remind herself that it wasn’t her Ben. Letting herself get attached wouldn’t do her any favors. It couldn’t happen. She had to keep her focus on the goal of saving Peter. That’s what was important.

“It’s nice of them to have us over like this,” Not-Ben murmured to her. “Yknow, I like seeing Pete so happy.” He smiled a bit and May’s heart ached. There was the smile she remembered. Easy, slightly mischievous. All Ben.

“Yeah…,” she started, forgetting what they were talking about for a moment. All she could think about was her husband. She could finally have him back like this, maybe she saw the appeal-

No. She couldn’t let herself get sucked in.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been a huge fan of Tony Stark,” she whispered back, not caring about possible consequences. She had to keep her mind straight, and in that moment that required being honest.

“But he’s happy, May.” Ben’s eyes searched her face, but she knew it wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t seeing anything. And even if he did, he couldn’t do anything with the information he found. He was just another figment of Peter’s imagination.

“Yeah. For now,” she mumbled, looking away. She had to focus on what was wrong. So her brain didn’t get convinced that he really was her Ben.

He was too tall. Not by much, but just enough that it was noticeable. And it bothered her.

And he was too...muscular. Sure, he’d never been thin, but it wasn’t like this.

Then it clicked.

This Ben only existed as Peter saw him.

Of course her husband would have seemed like some big, strong man to the boy that he raised. He was Peter’s superhero. And Peter never saw anything different.

That fact shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did.

She fixed her expression, not letting her true feelings show. She still needed to focus on the task at hand, and that was getting close to Peter. She had to follow along with his scene and make sure everything was in place. Nothing could seem out of the ordinary from how he wanted it.

They all sat down, on a couch facing Peter and Tony.

Peter grinned at them, clapping his hands together happily. “Okay, so, I was thinking maybe we could play some games? That’s always fun, right?”

“Yeah, as long as you don’t cheat,” Ben mumbled with a smile. It was all just teasing.

“I would never! Mean.” The teen stuck his tongue out at him before laughing. “What should we play?”

“Monopoly?” Tony suggested, wrapping his arm around his husband’s waist.

“You’re so old,” Peter whined. Then he giggled, leaning into the touch. “Kidding. Monopoly would be fun, it just takes forever.” Good thing they had all the time in the world to play.

“And ruins families,” May said under her breath, but thankfully no one else seemed to catch it.

“No one has anything else going on, we can play for as long as we want,” the older man assured him. “Want me to go grab it?”

Peter nodded, smiling up at him. “Sure, baby. Thank you.”

Tony stood up to get the game, coming back only a moment later with the box in his hands. “I call being banker,” he said playfully. He sat down and started setting the game up on the table between all of them.

No one argued, just laughing as they kept joking and teasing each other about the entire thing.

As the night went on, the energy level never wavered. Everyone was happy and relaxed, excited to be around each other.

Everyone except for May.

She hid it well, playing along, but inside she was deeply bothered by all of it. Nothing felt right, no matter how the others were acting. None of them were real. It was just her and Peter.

She watched as Tony reached out for his “husband” again and her stomach flipped. She was tired of watching them behave like that and pretending it was okay.

“Don’t touch him.”

The words left her mouth before she could stop them and the guilt set in instantly. She had just ruined the whole mission.

But now she could try things her own way.

Tony’s hand pulled away from Peter immediately, the confusion clear on his face. And May knew that the expression was only reflecting what her nephew was feeling.

“May, he can touch me. He’s my husband, after all. We got married, remember?” Peter shot her a smile, cuddling up to the other man. He tried to brush it off as how protective she always was. Maybe that was just bleeding into his projection of her.

“No, he isn’t, Peter.” May’s voice shook as she stood up, trying to move closer to him. “He isn’t real. You know that. None of this is real.”

“You’re not real,” he said quietly, eyes wide as he tried to figure out what was going on. That wasn’t supposed to happen. But as much as he tried to focus, she wouldn’t go back into place. Things wouldn’t go back to how he wanted them.

What was happening?

“Yes, I am. I’m the only real one here. It’s just you and me, Peter.” She met his eyes, looking desperate. “It’s me, baby. It’s actually me, I’m here. Please come home, this isn’t good for you. You need to come home and give the tech to Fury so-“

“No,” he said quickly, seeming to snap out of his confusion. “Tony gave it to me. It’s mine. No one else’s. And this is my home.” He glared at her, moving into Tony’s arms more.

How had SHIELD hacked May into the program? There shouldn’t have been any way for them to do that. He’d worked on the security coding himself, adding onto what Tony had already designed.

“Did I?” Tony mumbled, looking like he was trying to remember. What tech was being used? It seemed like they were just in the tower, nothing out of the ordinary.

But May ignored him. She continued tearfully. “Your home is with me. Your home is in the *real world*, not this thing you’ve made up! You can’t stay here!” She was getting more frantic.

“No, May. I can stay here. Maybe you should, too.” He watched her, trying to keep himself calm. He needed to regain control over the illusion. Maybe he wouldn’t have to lose anything. He just had to convince her to stay.

“I’ll be doing no such-“

“What’s the issue?” Ben cut in, moving to stand next to May. But he wasn’t going to help her. He was looking directly at her. “You could stay, couldn’t you. Right here. What’s the harm in that?” He grabbed her hands, brushing against her wedding ring.

The one she knew was buried in her closet, amongst the other things that reminded her of him too much to leave strewn about the apartment but she couldn’t bear to completely get rid of.

But it all felt so real.

“You’re dead,” she whispered, her own tone surprising her. She sounded terrified and just as weak as she had in the time right after he died. “I can’t stay. You’re gone and never coming back. All of you are.” Except for Peter, who didn’t want to be saved.

Ben smiled at her, like he’d expected the answer. Then he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. Like he had a thousand times when he was alive. “I’m here now, May. Isn’t that enough?”

She hated how real it all felt. How tempting it was. She hated how she could feel his lips against her skin and how easily it pulled her back into the denial she’d felt right after the accident.

Maybe she could stay. She could have him back, live out life like they were supposed to. They were supposed to be together until they were old and grey until finally going from natural causes. Old age. His murder couldn’t touch them here.

It would be so easy to just stay.

But she knew that she couldn’t. It wasn’t possible. It would only destroy her mind to stay with him. And if she wasn’t taking care of her physical body then what would happen? She had to go. Staying wasn’t an option. She just had to convince him of that as well.

She stepped away from Ben, ignoring how much it hurt her to do so. Then she turned to Peter again, moving closer. Maybe if she could just hold him-

His eyes narrowed more as he watched her. He pushed her away when she tried to get closer again, instantly feeling guilty. But he wanted to keep her away. She was trying to take everything from him. If she didn’t want to stay, fine. She could go.

But he wasn’t going to lose this too.

“Get away from me,” Peter snapped, staying close to Tony. He looked almost protective, although he knew that physically it was impossible for anything to happen. “This is my home. Here. With him. And my family.”

May was still shocked at how he’d shoved her. He’d never behaved in such a way before, no matter how things had gotten. And he’d never been so angry, not at her. Not at anyone.

Where did her boy go? What happened to him?

“Peter, please,” she begged. “You can’t live like this. It might seem good for now, but you’re just going to hurt yourself. Please, you’ve gotta shut it down and tell us where you are. We’ll come get you and everything will be okay. SHIELD is working on fixing what happened with Mysterio, you can-“

“I’m not going anywhere! And I’m not telling you where I am, you’ll just make me stop!” There were tears welling in his eyes and his voice was shaking despite how strong he attempted to sound.

All May wanted to do was wipe those tears away and pull him in for a hug like she’d done countless times before. But she had a feeling that was a bad idea.

She felt so helpless, watching him from afar. She was losing him and she knew it.

That hurt more than anything else.

“Baby, please,” she murmured gently. “You can come home. Everything is going to be okay. We can get you some help,” she said slowly.

“I don’t need help. I need this.” And no one would take it away from him. “EDITH, find however she got in. Patch the hole. Make sure it won’t happen again.”

“Yes, Peter,” The AI answered, almost sounding nervous. If that was even something she was capable of.

Fear flashed through May as she stared at him. “Peter, please, don’t shut me out.”

“You’re not taking this from me. Everyone has taken everything from me!” Tears streamed down his face freely. “I get to keep this one thing. I get to have them all back. And you can’t take that. No one can. I won’t let you.”

“Peter, you need to come home. I miss you, we all miss you so much, baby. Please!”

“I miss you too. That’s why I wanted you here. But you messed it all up. You could have stayed here with me. With Uncle Ben.” He wiped his eyes, trying to calm himself.

“I’m sorry, baby, you know I can’t.”

“So you have to leave.” He was informed that EDITH found the coding that had been put in and she started fixing it.

“I love you, Peter. Please, think about what you’re doing,” she begged him. She was pushed from the illusion, still able to see through her headset but she couldn’t interact anymore.

“I love you too. But I’ve already thought about it. This is where I belong.”

Her screen went dark.

She ripped the headset off and threw it, burying her face in her hands. She’d fucked it all up.

And she’d lost him. He didn’t want to come home.

He wasn’t going to come home.

Agent Oliver rushed in, wincing when the tech hit the wall. It was probably broken now, but that could be dealt with later. She’d just watched everything play out on the screen, just like the others had. May was the first priority. “Ma’am-“

“I’m going home.” She looked up, eyes red like she was holding back tears. She pushed her glasses up and sniffled. “I’m leaving. This entire operation is pointless.” She stood up, quickly leaving the room without looking back.

“Ms. Parker, please, we’ll figure out another way,” Paige followed after her.

“May?” Ned looked up from his computer, quickly wiping away his own tears. There was enough to deal with, he could hold it together. He still had to figure out how to save Peter. “Please, don’t go. Not yet.”

She looked at him, but shook her head. “I’m going home. I can’t...I can’t do this. I messed it up, you’ll be better off without me. I can’t help you anymore. I’m sorry.”

As she walked away, she heard other people calling after her. Probably Fury, some other agents. But she didn’t turn around. She needed to get out.

Unlike Peter, all she wanted was to go home.

The drive to the building was short, her brain in a fog the entire time. She didn’t let herself feel. She couldn’t yet. Not until she was in the safety of the apartment.

Her car was parked and she was going up the elevator before she knew it. She blinked, slightly disoriented. She kept her eyes closed during the ride up, almost convinced that she would see Peter again when the door opened.

Of course, she didn’t. And she walked to the door of the apartment, posture defeated. Her whole body felt heavy, weighed down.

As soon as she put the key in the lock, the door opened and Happy pulled her into his arms.

“The kid called me,” he told her gently.

Her heart skipped a beat when he said that, hoping maybe he meant Peter. Maybe he changed his mind.

“The one you’ve been working with. At SHIELD,” he clarified, seeing the look on her face.

With that, she promptly dissolved into tears.

May Parker was a strong woman. She didn’t cry often. And even less often around other people.

But too much had happened, even for her. And she knew that Happy wouldn’t go anywhere no matter what she said. That he would stay, that he wouldn’t let anything happen to her. So she let herself cry, not holding anything back.

Everything was falling apart. Each tear that fell reminded her of it all. The guilt, the hurt, the anger she’d felt. The reopened wound of missing Ben. The aching void in her heart where Peter was missing.

Her boy didn’t want to be saved. So what was there that she could do?

Maybe this was just another loss that she’d have to learn to live with.

#starker #peter parker #tony stark #tony x peter #tony stark x peter parker #SbPBP #B&B write #Peter’s EDITH!verse #starker angst #nff #mention of character death

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