#tarnished threads golden stitches

[draconic-ichor]

Tarnished Threads, Golden Stitches

Morgott/tarnished fic

Slow burn

Warming: strong language, sexual themes

Summary: Hester is a seamstress living in the capital, life is fairly mundane until one fateful night at a festival…

Feedback appreciated, 18+

This is an entirely new Au! Not abandoning my other ones, was just inspired :3

The mending began months ago, the world was falling back into place. Everything was different now: their King was revealed to be an omen, their ‘god’ a glorified statue, the Golden Order reformed, and the Elden Lord galavanting around the Lands Between. It was a lot to swallow for Leyndell’s people.

But they had the chance to swallow now.

Not every tarnished met a true end on their journey; some survived to see their brother take up the mantle of Elden Lord, and in this new age, grace returned to their darkened eyes. Unlike their brother, however, they were still quite lowly.

Hester was one of these tarnished.

Awoken after the Erdtree already burned overhead, she was scrambling far behind in a world crumbling away… never to receive a rune of her own or see the fabled Round Table. It was not till after the mending that her eyes fell upon the tree in all its golden splendor; and like hundreds of others, she flocked to the capital towards it.

It was all for the best. Even though she was descended from those first few tarnished that followed Godfrey into the mists, fighting didn’t suit her. She knew a little magic, mostly reserved for healing, and couldn’t hold a blade to save her life. Her late awakening was a blessing.

What she did know, however, was mending. Hester was very good with her hands and could not only mend fabrics but had the creativity to create whole new clothing. She could also sew and spin thread. All things the capital had need of now that repairs were in order.

~

Hester sighed, deep in thought as she worked. She leaned forward, elbows on the worn workbench, staring wistfully out into the capital.

It was a busy morning, the townsfolk preparing for the festival that night, birdsong and fragrant smells filling her senses.

She loved the brightness, gaze drifting higher to the castle, alabaster stone and gilded tiles like a dream high above.

She sighed again.

“Sigh any louder and you’ll attract attention,” came a voice.

Hester jumped, pricking her finger as she did so. She yelped, quickly putting it in her mouth to soothe the sting. She gave a sharp look to the culprit, a man standing on the street below her open window.

“Looks like I already have.” She huffed.

He pulled himself up to the windowsill, a smile plastered over his face. The armor of a guard made him look a size bigger than he truly was, clinking together as he made himself comfortable.

“Don’t you have work to do?” She couldn’t help her lips crack into a smile.

“Doing my rounds now, when I happened upon a maiden. And don’t you have work to do? You have a stall in the market square tonight.” He reminded.

“I know!” Hester flushed, she’d saved for weeks for the fees, such a prime location had its prices.

“Mhm.” He nodded.

“I’m almost finished with my last few, just adding the final touches!” She gestured to the doll before her.

“Ghastly.” He shuttered, looking over her current batch.

“He is our King!” She snapped.

“And he can stay inside his castle.” The guard chuckled, leaning in a bit more to ask, “Do you truly think they will sell?”

“Not everyone holds so little love for their monarch.” Hes informed, “Some of us are loyalists.”

The man snorted, leaning in further still, attempting to steal a kiss. Hester rolled her eyes, hand covering his mouth as she pushed him back out the window.

He chuckled, feet hitting the cobblestones once more, “I’ll catch you one day, Hes.”

“Keep hoping.” She smiled, waving him off as he went back to his duties. She sat back heavily in her seat, eyes falling to the current doll she worked on. She sighed, slowly scanning the rest; all were endearing renditions of their king: with button eyes, little plush horns, and a fluffy tail made from scraps of real fur.

She held the current one closer, thumb softly tracing its small fabric face.

She couldn’t be the only one…

~

Lanterns filled the streets overhead, each one a different shape or hue, sending the night into a kaleidoscope of swirling color. The smell of spices and sweets filled the air, and the sound of mirth almost drowned out the far off beat of music.

Hester couldn’t get enough.

She put on her best dress and put flowers in her hair for the occasion. Part of her wanted to mingle about the crowd and see every stall for herself, but she had her own stall to run.

Her table was covered in bright bolts of fabric and batches of dolls all lovingly made. Children would scamper up and squeal out at seeing their hero in doll form, or the Elden Lords trusty spectral steed, while their parents pulled runes from their pockets. It was a special occasion after all. A few young maidens would sneakily buy a doll of their dashing Elden Lord, his absence in the capital adding to his mystique.

As the night was marching onwards, she was doing quite well! The glow of success dimmed a bit about her, as her amber eyes fell on a corner of the stall that lay untouched: the dolls of the King. Hester’s stomach twisted a bit.

She moved them to the center of the stall, in a place of easy sight, adjusting their little cloaks and tails to sit just right.

She couldn’t be the only one,

She kept telling herself.

The only one to see the allure of the King.

Her cheeks blushed at the thought, mind drifting back to the infatuated maidens and their excitement with the Elden Lord, or how she kept back a King doll for herself…

She was so ate up with thought she didn’t notice the sounds of revelry died down around her. It was not until the glow of the lanterns were obstructed by a great shadow that her eyes were ripped from the table. Hester looked up, freezing.

A great shape darkened her stall, silhouette monstrous and jagged, with a crown of twisting horns. Hester swallowed, the only movement she could manage, heartbeat in her throat.

It was King Morgott.

An eon seemed to stretch before them, the King like a pillar of stone as he looked over her wares. All the times Hester had caught sight of him, far away on the castle balcony or before a large crowd for an announcement, did him little justice. He was massive, at least thirty-six hands high, not counting the heavy tail that absolutely cleared the street behind him. The bulky cloak he wore about his shoulders exaggerated their broadness. Hers the critical eye of a seamstress, caught all the places the fabric was stressed, holes bore through it completely here or there.

Not fit for a King, surely.

She didn’t have long to wonder, the King’s hand moving forward. Hester gulped, suddenly realizing his single eye was fixed on the little dolls made in his likeness. A hand, bigger than her waist, carefully picked up the closest one, bringing it to his face for inspection. It was clear they were made with the utmost care, and very oddly they were constructed without overemphasis on his more beastial features. They were….flattering even?

His brow knotted, gaze flicking away from the little doll to its maker.

Was she flushed??

Even more curious…

She trembled a bit as his gaze bore into her, staring back into that single orb of brilliant shifting gold. She grew lost in it, yet never shying away. Morgott’s gaze tore away from her, back to the doll in his hand.

Just as silently as he approached, he retreated, straightening to full standing before moving along the street once more. Hester’s heart hammered about her chest as she watched his form drift away, never wavering until the tip of his horned tail disappeared among the recrowding street.

As the music and merriment swelled once more she realized she’d been holding her breath. An almost pained huff rattled from her lungs, eyes still saucers. She blinked, looking down at her table.

A hand clapped over her mouth in shock: there was a doll missing.

Oh gods, did he take it with him??

She thought, worriedly.

She couldn’t keep her mind on the festival, or on bartering her wares any longer. Sweat wet her lower back as she hastily packed up her remaining items, hands shaking as she did so.

Her mind was a storm, a swirling mess of worry and fear.

Did the King think she was mocking him? Oh gods would she be taken away?

As she made her way slowly through the crowded streets, back overburdened, her thoughts darkened.

Was he angry with her? Would…would he throw her in the dungeon?

She stumbled into her room, a glorified closet off the main shop. Dumping the items on the floor haphazardly, Hester began to pull the flowers from her hair, wincing as they yanked at her copper curls. Tears stained her eyes, the small bit of pain just adding to the chorus of negativity that loomed over her.

She fell into her meager bed, curling in on herself protectively. Blinking, her eyes fell on the little doll near her pillow. It regarded her with unblinking button eyes, no malice on its fabric visage.

Scooping it to her chest, the tears finally fell freely, crying freshly into her pillow. Sleep found her fitfully, coming in waves interlaced with stretches of agonizing wakefulness.

She kept chanting that everything would be fine, she was just overreacting….he wouldn’t act against her…would he? He was the king. No care for a lowly woman like her.

He was the King….

She blinked into the dawn light. Hair a nest of knots from her tossing and turning, a darkness circling her large eyes. She sat up groggily, the sound of birdsong being dampened by a commotion outside her room.

Hester wasn’t the only woman to rent a little space in the shop, the other women making quite the racket in the main area currently.

She sighed, steeling herself to see what excited them so. As soon as she pushed the door open she was met with everyone calling out her name.

“Hes! Hes! There’s a letter for you!”

“A letter?” She blinked, still half asleep.

“It has the royal seal!” They squealed.

She froze, stomach dropping to the floor. The other’s chatter dulled around her as she paced forward, trembling hands taking the letter.

It was made of fine parchment, the golden seal of the King keeping it prominently sealed.

Hester felt like the ground was swallowing her as she broke it open, unfolding the letter to read. Deaf to the other crowding around to read over her shoulder, she focused on the beautiful handwriting.

Her fear was slowly replaced with confusion, bewilderment. Her brows knotted as she read and reread the letter, no…the offer?

“Come on, what does it say!?” A young girl bounced.

“It’s…It’s an offer from the King.” Hester whispered, drowned out by the other’s raising excitement. She swallowed, “They want me to be the King’s personal seamstress…”

She didn’t hear the screams of excitement around her, wandering through them towards the shop window. Her gaze fell on the castle, far away nestled near the base of the great tree.

She couldn’t be the only one…..

Could she?

[serenanymph]

heads up 7 up (x2)

tagged by @talesofsorrowandofruin. Got another one from @reneesbooks a while ago which I still haven't done, so I'm cheating a little and combining it into 14 sentences. Anyway have more Rhyme woop woop

She climbs after them – up the steps, boots carefully sinking through the snow to find hard-packed dirt underneath, fingers freezing so badly she can barely feel them. She rubs them together, blowing hard to no avail. The golden threads stitched on the back are tarnished now, having lost all its shine long ago, the leather worn smooth and supple and not very helpful for winter at all. That, and the fact that these gloves simply weren’t designed for this weather in the first place, considering the fact that they’re fingerless. She inspects her nails – purple at the edges, fading into a blue that’s rapidly turning dark. A warming spell would help, if she could be sure that she wouldn’t set her surroundings on fire. Which she isn’t.

A simple warming spell should be something she’s capable of learning, if she had anything to learn from.

The Book on her hip (the Book still in her mama’s cold, cold hand, her mama who isn’t moving -) hums to life, as if summoned by the mere thought of magic. She glares down at it. “Shut up,” she hisses, her chest gaping and cavernous and empty, her chest filled with an unbearable pressure, always building and building and building. Her throat burns. “No one asked you.”

(Simply switching for a pair of new gloves would solve this problem too, but it’s not like that’s an option either.)

Anyway open tag for this one! Feel free to just hop in if you want to

[deathblightprince]

It would quickly come to Godwyn's attention that their current abode isn't sustainable for the both of them. Their wasn't much access to warmth, food, or water to be had in a building that was meant to dress up the dead for burial.

So he would make the decision move them somewhere else. But where would that somewhere else be? What part of the surface was sustainable, and possibly secluded enough for them both to safely recover in private until he's ready make himself known to the world?

He racked his brain with any possible areas, even communing with the deathroot to search for places. That is when he discovered the Roundtable Hold. It was a large area that had a number of tarnished going in and out, but only a few seem to take permanent residence there. In fact, it was evident that Fia had once taken residence there. Her old room still vacant, as if the tarnished are expecting her return.

Despite the fact that the place was swarming with tarnished, he saw them having a private room where she and himself could recover and gather their bearings in peace, meanwhile having access to food and water. But if he were to take her there, he needed a disguise. And with his rather distinct demi-god body, it would have to be a guise that would cover the majority of him.

In short bursts he would leave Fia's side to go searching for larger, longer cloths that he could use. While he didn't find anything long enough for his godly height, he managed to find black cloths that were used for war heros when they were being dressed up for burial. How did he know this? Because he was literally taking the cloth out of an unburied war hero's coffin. Apparently they didn't have time to bury him, they seemingly just left him and his coffin above the ground, as if the people burying him had to flee. He had been there for a long while as well since he was nothing more than bones. He took the black cloth from inside the coffin, and then summoned death root to wrap around the coffin and pull it down in this earth to give the hero a burial. It was his way of apologizing, considering he had just robbed a grave.

He took the thread and needles that were originally meant to stitch up incisions from autopsies, and began to sew up a makeshift cloak to the best of his abilities. While the end result was an odd long cloak with visible seams of crimson thread, it still worked in hiding his identity. It even had a hood to hide his hair. On top of that, he decided to make a mask to cover the majority of his face. The only thing that he would reveal to the tarnished is his eyes. They were strange enough by themselves, but they wouldn't instantly blow his cover.

Now that he was ready, all he had to do was use Fia's invitation to the Hold to manifest within their targeted destination. Carrying Fia in his arms, he gave the invitation a squeeze and they were carried away in a gold mist.

The next thing Godwyn would see is the massive grace that sat on top of the roundtable. A reminder of the Golden Order and it's former glory. His own former glory, that is now dead and gone. At least he could sneer at it in privacy behind the mask.

The Roundtable Hold seems to be quiet now, considering it was late in the night. He thankfully didn't have to talk to anyone at the moment. He crept past the table, making way to Fia's bedroom within the hold.

Oddly, the fireplace within the vacant room was lit. The bed was neatly put together, no signs of people taking refuge in the room as of late. Maybe that fireplace is always lit? Perhaps he was being paranoid.

He pulled back the covers of the bed and tucked Fia in. It was clearly much warmer within this room than the building they resided before. Hopefully this was enough to keep her comfortable, even if he had to leave her beside for a moment. Before he could relax and remove his mask a cloak, he took it upon himself to lock the door. He didn't want to risk someone intruding on them, even if it may get them into trouble within the Hold.

@slumbering-in-death

[himbo-beel]

His Hands, in Yours

Idle hands led to idle thoughts, and Barbatos’ thoughts traveled endlessly as he moved about the kitchen with little purpose. Breakfast had been made and served and brought back down again; the counters had been wiped down, the dishes stacked in the sink, and the next meal’s courses planned out. Until the young lord’s responsibilities required his assistance, whether it be an energizing cup of tea or motivating catch of an eye, his duties were to him and him alone. 

A rare treat, if he considered the many things he had left untended the previous week. The flowers in the garden were in need of a trim and the decor outside the castle’s walls rearranged to reflect the upcoming holidays. Lucifer had yet to turn in his reports and if both legwork and time could be limited by Barbatos’ assistance, a walk to Lucifer’s office along with a small detour to a tea shop for a sample he had eyed earlier in the week could be of us. 

Barbatos’ growing list of activities was halted in its work at the press of something cold and sharp against his thumb and he glanced down, blinking as future thoughts returned to the present to widen at the sight of a blade of a knife not yet put away pressing a crease into his glove. Carefully, Barbatos and moved to take it from the handle instead and bring it to its companions in the sink. The flowers could wait a moment longer, enough to finish up here, and then he could -

He froze, back stiffening and lungs heavy with the breath he could not exhale as water hit his hand. A mountain, ice at its top, a river at its bottom, cold and fresh as it flowed yet warm where it ran between his fingers to splash against the dishes. A pair of hands, not his own, fitted the sink into the kitchen and Barbatos turned the tap off. He turned his hand over and he finally breathed, shaky, at the sight of a thin sliver of skin between the split seam of a glove. 

Another breath, a long, deep sigh filled with more than just mere memories but of future events, too, passed between thin lips and he slowly peeled the glove off. Such powerful magics so delicately torn by the snapping of the thinnest thread. It would need to be repaired. 

His young Master would not be pleased. Yet, there were worst fates he knew. He knew well. 

Barbatos knew many things. He was aware of his power, of its potency and its latency. Small fragments of its application were useful to keep an eye on the castle and it’s occupants, to prepare for an event of any size or any reason. Devastation and chaos was merely a second away, whether it came in the form of a misspoken word or a missed step or a misplaced item, none of which would escape his eye in neither past or future. Productivity and contentedness came with a perfectly timed warm drink and easily reached new pen, all opportunities that came to mind as naturally to him as they did magically. 

He had no choice, no say, now in how or when or which he could perceive, and Barbatos’ steps were slow and hesitant as he made his way through the castle to Lord Diavolo’s study, flashes of each blinding him with each blink of his eyes. A thousand lights, a thousand worlds, behind closed lids and none born simply of the imagination but of choices and possibilities and Barbatos stumbled the final step, a hand strecthing out to support him as he reached for the door. 

A soft sound of surprise, of regret, of hurt, hissed through pursed lips as bare skin latched onto cold brass. Just as dozens, hundreds of other hands before. Barbatos saw them, one atop the other, an array of shakes and sizes and he pulled back, holding his wrist and tucking his fish against his chest as if burned. 

The door clicked and he took a step back, brows lifting in wonder if he had opened it, if another had, if the future had, and wide eyes lifted to meet Diavolo’s own. 

The surprise reflected in them did not dim and Barbatos cursed himself for not being as prepared as he should have been. This was not a new situation. This was not an unavoidable situation. It would not be the last, either, he knew, and yet he could not shake the weight of unfamiliarity and dusting of uncertainty that settled upon his shoulders. Not in time, at least, for Diavolo to see it. 

“Come in.”

No order could be refuted from his young lord and Barbatos stepped inside. He kept his hands close to his sides. “My Lord-”

“What happened.”

Barbatos spread his hands, his gloves held in them, one sliced along the edge, the other blotched with a singular stain of dark pink. Guilt stayed his words and uncertainly locked his lips and he lowered his eyes to them rather than the growing look of concern on his young lord’s face. Such a gift, so ruined. Such a miracle, so tarnished. His fingers curled around the fabric and he could feel nothing but the lingering warmth of them. 

“I apologize,” he managed. “I was careless when cleaning-”

“Are you hurt?”

Barbatos held his hands out, turning them over for display before tucking them back to his sides. The small cut had long since stopped itself, no need no concern neither now nor later. It was not for his skin, he knew, that Lord Diavolo asked of himself, but it was the only truth he could assure him of. 

Barbatos ducked his head under Lord Diavolo’s frown.  “I need only a new pair before resuming my duties.” 

The creak of the study’s chair echoed in his head. “I can give you a new pair, of course, but I doubt about your duties. New gloves are easily enough acquired but the spell put on them to limit your powers needs time.”

Barbatos could not move, not to nod at his master’s words or turn from the truth or suggest another course of action. There were many others, of course they were, Barbatos could see them all whether he wished to or not. A day spent in agony as he waded through timelines or one spent in darkness as he hid from himself. One spent under the care of his young Lord, suffocating under guilt and false reassurances and a careful eye. One, worst of all, spent outside, unable to enjoy the freedom of a day off given to him. Others and more flooded across his eyes, blocking the sight of the desk and the demon that sat behind it, could not see his hands type furiously on his phone, could not see him rise from his seat in a panic to cross the room, until Barbatos could see nothing but his own swimming vision. 

“Barbatos.”

“My Lord.” He could see him now, golden eyes and a clenched jaw, his hands curled tight around his wrists. He could feel the tease of magic bury itself under his skin and keep his own at bay. The same spell imbued in the threads of his gloves now coursed through his veins and shame was buried beneath relief as his head cleared. 

“Lucifer has something similar to your gloves in his room to use in the meantime. He’ll be bringing it over as soon as he’s able and we can prepare another set. A second one, too, in case this happens again.” Barbatos nodded, eyes slipping closed and reveling in the simple darkness behind them. “Stay here for now. I-”

“My duties, my Lord-”

“Can wait. You’re in no shape for more today.”

The words brook no argument and defiance filled him nonetheless. Confidence born from the moments of relief urged him to decline. “They are simple but important matters.”

“That can be done later. Or tomorrow, even.” Barbatos opened his eyes to give him a level look. “A cup of tea would be nice, I’ll admit.”

“At once, young Master.” 

The tea was brought. The floors were also swept. Lunch that had been previously prepared was taken out and furniture was dusted and silverware polished. Sweat beaded Barbato’s brow. His feet dragged across the floors. His teeth ground against each other as he moved from task to task, visions of times that had happened and not yet come overlaying one on top of the other with each new duty. Diavolo’s spell had long since faded and only rising anxiety made his skin crawl in place of the magic that had soothed his being. 

It could not stop him. It would not stop him. Had he forgotten what he once was? Who he currently was? He had all of time in his hands, the memories of broom or the future of an apple were mere sparks of his abilities. 

Dozens of such sparks were growing to be too much, by the end of the day, and Barbatos leaned against the wall, shoulders heaving with the effort of holding himself up against the timelines that flowed through the halls and threatened to pull him under. 

“Barbatos!”

Was it his young Lord calling for him? Or was it his Father? Lucifer? Which version? His head swam as he tried to place the sound of the voice that called him and tried to recognize the face that neared him at a quick pace. 

It was neither, not Lucifer, not Lord Diavolo, no demon at all. It was you. 

Was Lucifer too busy? Had you come to break the news to him that, he, too, held no hope for him this day? Your face would not be enough to ease the helplessness of such a turn of events but it would be some comfort, at least, to hear your voice break through the noise that filled his head. 

Barbatos stood up straight, ready for whatever words you brought. 

He was not ready for what you did. 

His eyes widened as he took a step back as you neared, arms raised. He could not think to touch you, not like this. How much he wished to. How much he wished to be enveloped in your warmth and your comfort but how much, too, he wished for you and only you. Not your pasts. Not your futures. Only you. 

And yet you came, still. 

Arms raised. 

Hands against his face, palms cupping his cheeks. 

And he felt your heat. He felt the silk of the gloves you wore on your hands, a familiar magic sown into the stitching and a magic that only you and your presence could provide. 

[author-morgan]

Misthios!Alexios Prompt: “Don’t get sassy with me!” “Do i regret it? Yes. Would i do it again? Probably.” “One more sound and i swear to-” “Ooo, i sense attitude in your tone.” And a VERY sassy frustrated S/O and a cheeky little shit Alexios.

sorry this took so long i got distracted by Eivor! i hope you enjoy it, nonny! one sassy, bratty boy coming right up. 

Alexios x fem!Reader

HE JERKS AWAY when you pour the cider vinegar over the gaping wound on his side. Diluted blood runs over the deck of the Adrestia. “Hold still!” You hiss, pressing down on Alexios’ shoulder. Stentor had challenged him to wrestle a wild boar with his bare hands and the Eagle Bearer wouldn’t let his masculinity be tarnished by backing down. The boar was dead, and Alexios would’ve been waiting for Charon on the Styx if the boar’s tusk had gone a hair deeper. 

“Maybe I would if you weren’t trying to finish me off!” He remarks, still trying to move out of your reach. He’s convinced that he’d suffered worse wounds than this, but you’ve known him since he was a boy and this was bad. A flap of skin hangs near his ribs. If his stubbornness didn’t kill him, an infection just might —especially if he won’t let you tend to him properly. 

You gnash your teeth and scoot closer to him again —wadding up his grey chiton and pressing it against his side, blood seeps through quickly. “Do not get sassy with me right now, Alexios,” you censure, “I might just let you bleed out.” (You’d never do such a thing —you’re far too fond of this misthios, but the threat is enough to make him a slightly more affable patient.)

Alexios glances away, half-pouting and indignant, resisting the urge to cross his arms. Shifting, you reach for the needle and silk thread. “Do I regret it? Yes,” he remarks, still unable to meet your stern gaze. If you’d known he was going to do that you would’ve stopped him. Alexios lets Stentor get under his skin too easily sometimes. “Would I do it again?” He turns his attention back to you, golden-brown eyes filled with warmth and mirth. “Probably.” You both say in unison. You’ve known Alexios long enough to know what goes on in that head of his. Barnabas brings a skin of strong white wine, and you uncork it, offering the drink to Alexios. He’ll be grateful for the wine once you start stitching him back up. You douse the needle in vinegar, then pass it through flames before threading it. 

“Maláka!” Alexios exclaims, grimacing as you make the first pass with the needle. “That hurts!” You fight the urge to roll your eyes. He’d been gored and there was nary a complaint, but gods help him against tiny pricks. 

He groans again and drapes his arm over his eyes. Dramatic little brat. You know Alexios is doing this on purpose. “One more sound and I swear to-” you start, cheeks red —you still have half the wound left to close and the noises he’s making now do not sound like a person in pain. He has the audacity to laugh, and it causes fresh pulses of blood to surface and run down his side. 

“I sense attitude in your tone,” Alexios smiles, cutting his eyes over to you. He jolts away from you when the needle pierces his skin again, tearing it from your hand and almost giving him another fresh wound to scar. 

Sweat beads up on your brow working under the hot midday sun. “Alexios,” you chide, “for the love of the gods, please stay still and quiet.” His fun and games come to a close. Alexios always enjoys getting a rise out of you, but maybe this time his wound was pretty bad. The Eagle Bearer listens without complaint as you finish up the line of sutures. 

Alexios sits up —a soft groan leaving his lips. You wrap several strips of linen around his torso, covering the fresh sutures and the honey salve you’d rubbed over the broken skin. He’s watching every move you make, memorizing the gentle brush of your fingers against his flesh. “You’re the most stubborn man I’ve ever met,” you tell him, tying a knot in the dressings. 

He shrugs. “Must be the Spartan blood,” Alexios says, in turn, lips kinking into a charming smile. 

You roll your eyes. “Instead of almost getting yourself killed next time, why don’t you just push Stentor overboard?” Alexios’ head snaps to you, aghast and delighted by the suggestion —his smile widens, eyes sparkling with anticipation. Stentor was a bit of a headache, and you wouldn’t mind a good laugh from time-to-time. 

Alexios leans forward to steal a kiss, but you offer one to him freely. He caresses your cheek, thumb running over your jaw. “I love you,” he breathes, still smiling. You reply with another quick kiss. The poets would say you’re his better half, but to Alexios, you’re his equal and partner-in-crime. Stentor doesn’t stand a chance against us both he thinks with a grin, watching as you gather up the soiled and unused supplies. 

[tagging my fellow Alexios lovers @nemo-my-name-forevermore @levikra @wallsarecrumbling @nonelleke]

[tacitwhisky]

Sansa Stone, pt 2

Jon x Sansa - AU where Sansa is born the bastard of Littlefinger and raised in Kingslanding. When she travels to Winterfell with king Robert’s procession she meets the Stark bastard: long faced and grey eyed Jon Snow who she finds herself strangely drawn to / AO3 Link

Photo Credit: Sophie Starke

---

After years spent in the Red Keep Winterfell is not so large as Sansa might have once thought as a child when all she knew of the world was her father’s dreary keep on the Fingers.

Still it takes her half the morning to find Jon.

Not that she told anyone she was seeking him. As she made her way through the castle in the crisp morning chill she’d stopped here and there to speak with castle servants and stray squires, to hear the gossip they thought nothing of sharing with a bastard girl, smile and laugh and when one of the serving girls from the night before bemoaned that she couldn’t watch golden haired prince Joffrey practice in the yard with the Stark sons, Sansa had known where to look.

She finds Jon sitting on the sill of a covered bridge that spans Winterfell’s armory and Great Keep, one leg drawn languidly up to his chin as he looks down at the training yard below. Her skirts swish over the wood boards as she crosses the bridge, but it is only when Ghost pricks up his ears and pads over to greet her does Jon seem to notice her presence. His cheeks flush faintly when he does, eyes flicking over her before glancing quickly back down at the yard. “How do you find Winterfell, my lady?”

“It’s lovely.” Sansa stoops to scratch Ghost behind the ears. For a moment she considers teasing him about the night before, but the red of his cheeks makes her discard the idea. Were you any less foolish the first time you drank more than you should? “I didn’t think to find you here,” she says instead.

“Ser Rodrik gave me the day free.” Jon smiles, faint and bitter, down at the yard. “It’s uncouth to let a bastard bruise a prince, it seems.”

Sansa gathers her skirts and perches on the sill beside him. She’s taken care in dressing this morning; a simple cut green gown of lambswool sewn with dancing autumn leaves at the sleeves and bodice in gold thread. “And how does our prince fare this morn?”

“The little one or the ass?” In the yard below two heavily padded figures totter back and forth whacking each other with wooden swords. Sansa recognizes prince Tommen’s cap of gold curls, and the other padded figure of one of the younger Stark sons. My cousin, she reminds herself, though the thought is more strange than else.

Jon nods his head to where Joffrey lounges under the shade of Winterfell’s high stone wall ignoring his brother and idly laughing with his sworn swords and landed knights. “Joffrey has yet to grace us with his swordwork.”

The first time Sansa had seen Joffrey was only a week after she arrived in Kingslanding, the city still new and shining and like something from a song. The golden prince of a hundred songs Joffrey had seemed too, and more gallant and noble than all of them put together. That first time she saw him he’d smiled at her, and for days afterwards Sansa had giggled and flushed every time she thought of it, turned it over and over again in her mind when she curled in her bed at night, secretly dreamed that when he was king he’d lift the bastard taint from her name and take her as his queen.

It was only later that the golden sheen had rusted and tarnished and peeled away. Joffrey was gallant and generous with other lords and ladies, but when none were watching that golden face blistered and slipped away and he sneered and laughed at servants and his lessers. Perhaps if she was a highborn lady Sansa would never have seen it, could have put it from her mind, but as a bastard it was hard to forget. Fool, fool girl. Life is not a song.

Joffrey laughs at something one of the sworn swords says. “Gossiping seems to suit him more than swordplay,” Sansa observes.

Jon grins, glancing at her for the first time since she sat. “Joffrey is lucky you aren’t in the yard this morning. Your tongue would bruise him more than my sword.”

Sansa laughs, high and warm. My tongue doesn’t always bruise, she wishes she could tease. There is something in Winterfell’s chill morning air that makes her feel young and free and bold, something that makes her want to smile and laugh and tease in a way she hasn’t since she first came to Kingslanding, makes her want to forget all her courtesies.

A cool breeze plays with the strays of her hair, and she brushes them back and smiles at Jon. “It’s good to see you improved from last night.”

Jon’s cheeks flush a shade of scarlet Sansa finds herself oddly pleased by. “I drank too much. I’m sorry if you- if I gave you insult.”

“Only a little.” She gives Jon a teasing smile as he glances at her. What are you doing? A voice in her wonders idly. What do you hope to accomplish with this bastard boy? “I had to finish the feast alone, you know.”

Jon flushes brighter and ducks his head. He looks back down at the yard. “Perhaps my uncle has the right of it and I am too young for the Wall.”

Sansa’s tongue plays between her lips. She could comfort him, reassure him, or… or she could plant a seed of doubt that the Night’s Watch was a fool’s errand, the Wall cold and lonely, that he would be wasted taking the black. You would be doing the boy a kindness, she hears her father whisper again. And how long have we worked to wash the bastard taint from your name?

“Jon?”

Sansa glances over to see a small, pale girl with dark hair and a long face looking back and forth between Sansa and Jon with a frown. Beside her a grey direwolf pads forward to nuzzle Ghost.

Jon raises a quizzical eyebrow at the girl. “Shouldn’t you be with Septa Mordane and the princess, little sister?”

The girl makes a face. “I hate sewing. I wanted to see the boys fight instead.” 

“You must be the lady Arya.” Sansa slips from her perch on the sill and dips in a curtesy. “I’ve heard much about you.”

“I’m not a lady. Not yet.” Arya scrunches her nose, but seems to suddenly remember her own courtesies, and gives a grudging curtesy back. She eyes Sansa curiously. “Why don’t you have to do needlework?”

Sansa shrugs and smiles lightly to cover the pang in her chest. Because bastard girls don’t sew with princesses. Bastard girls don’t sew with anyone.

“Here,” Jon says, motioning for Arya to sit next to him, and only as his eyes move to his half sister does Sansa realize how carefully he’d been watching her. “It may not prove as exciting as needlework, though.”

“It can’t be more boring,” Arya shoots back and clambers onto the spot Sansa vacated. She swings her legs over the edge and peers down at the yard where the padded figures of the young boys still circle each other. “I could do as good as Bran,” she announces. “He’s only ten. I’m twelve.”

Jon raises a skeptical eyebrow. “A skinny thing like you? Can you even lift a sword, little sister?”

“Of course I can,” Arya snaps with a glare, but Jon only grins in answer and musses her hair, a fond and familiar movement that sends a flush though Arya’s cheeks. A pang fills Sansa’s chest as the two of them look back to the yard as Joffrey and the oldest Stark boy raise their voices in argument. She’d had no brothers or sisters as a child, just an old brown hound and half deaf septa in a cold grey keep. What would it have been like to have a sister like Arya or a brother like Jon? Someone to run through the halls of her father’s hall with or whisper secrets to giggle over at night.

The argument below turns to shouting, the Stark boy cursing Joffrey as the prince smirks and sweeps away. Jon shakes his head and leans over to scratch Ghost behind the ears. “You’d best get back to your needlework, little sister. If you don’t, Septa Mordane will have you sewing all through winter and we’ll find you come the thaw with a needle frozen between your fingers.”

Arya scowls and jumps down from the sill. She looks up at Sansa, chewing her lip. “You could come back with me,” she offers uncertainly, “if you want. Though I don’t know why you would. I hate sewing.”

Sansa smiles and shakes her head. “You’re kind my lady, but Jon’s offered to show me more of Winterfell. I might help you with your stitches another time if you like, though.”

Arya frowns as she looks back and forth between Sansa and Jon, clearly misliking the idea. Nonetheless she calls her wolf to her, the grey shape of it padding beside her as she turns reluctantly and leaves the bridge.

Sansa stands watching as she disappears behind a corner. “I don’t think she likes me,” she says to Jon, and finds herself strangely sad at the thought. It would be different if we hadn’t been raised apart.

Jon shrugs. His knee is still drawn languidly to his chest, head tilted to the side, grey eyes watching her calm and half lidded. A faint smile plays at his lips. “I don’t remember offering-”

“No?” Sansa cuts in innocently. There is something in Jon’s grin, in Winterfell’s chill morning air, that makes her feel young and bold and reckless. “Should I find someone else to guide me then…?”

Jon laughs and stands, whistling Ghost to him. “No, I’ll show you.”

---

That day, and the ones that follow, pass swiftly. Though Winterfell is not near as large as the Red Keep or Kingslanding, there is still plenty for Jon to show her. Each day they meet in the morning, each day his face turns sheepish as Sansa takes him firmly by the arm, and each day he shows her a different part of Winterfell: it’s high grey towers, the solemn silence of its Godswood, the town clustered close beneath its walls.

The other Stark sons she meets: little Rickon who is barely seven, Bran who smiles shyly up at her, Robb who from his grin and the flush of Jon’s cheeks she knows must’ve teased him mercilessly about her. In them Sansa glimpses a different side of the slim serious boy she met at that first feast: the easy banter he shares with Robb, the fond smile when he musses Arya’s hair, the soft and encouraging note in his voice as he shows Bran how to better pull a bow, the grin that splits his face when he grabs Rickon and swings him around until the little boy is helpless with laughter.

A strange pang fills Sansa’s chest as she watches him with them, her cousins, the same pang that had filled her above the yard when Jon mussed Arya’s hair, the feeling welling from some hollow deep inside her. What would it have been like to be raised beside them, cousins in truth and not just by blood? All she’s ever had is Petyr. Petyr who’s one visit a year as a child she’d desperately awaited but felt strange and uncomfortable beside when he did come. Petyr who strokes her cheek. Petyr who’s breath tickles her ear when he whispers that he will always love her better than anyone else in the world.

She finds herself forgetting him sometimes though as she spends her days with Jon, forgetting Kinsglanding and the Red Keep and court, forgetting why she came north in the first place. It all feels very far away compared to the warm of Winterfell’s walls, the crisp of fresh fallen snow, the shy of Jon’s grin.

She shouldn’t, not without a Septa or other woman present, but when Jon asks Sansa if she wants to go riding one morning she accepts. The horse he fetches from the Winterfell stables for her is a pretty grey filly that snuffles at her face, and Sansa cannot keep from laughing as she wards her away. Ghost is a white shadow as she and Jon ride out into the hills beyond Winterfell, the wind streaming through Sansa’s hair making her feel more alive than she has in years, cold filling her throat and lungs, crisp and clean.

They slow a mile from Winterfell, and Sansa leans forward to pat the neck of her filly, breathless and flushed. “I never knew the north was so beautiful.”

Jon grins at her, just as breathless and flushed. “I’ve never heard it called that before.”

“Isn’t it though?” Sansa grins back and combs back her hair from a gust of wind, looks out at the rolling and empty hills around them. There is a bleak beauty to them and the blue-grey sky and chill wind, and despite how different it is from Kingslanding Sansa feels a desperate yearning inside her to never leave, feels as though she could spend all her life here and be happy. “Beautiful.”

“You’ll say different come winter.” Jon shakes his head in mock despair. “Those southern dresses of yours will never do against a proper northern frost.”

“I can sew new ones.” Sansa sticks out her tongue at him, trying not to laugh and spoil the effect. “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

Jon bursts into laughter, easy and warm, and Sansa has the sudden and reckless urge to lean across the gap between their horses and taste it, press her lips to his and find out if it’s as warm and free as it sounds. Squire after squire, knight after knight, lord after lord of the Red Keep has flirted and courted and wanted her. Comely and ugly, fair and dark, bold and shy, laughing and serious: all had wanted her and none had ever made her feel like this, flushed and breathless and skin tingling with each brush of the wind.

The feeling is strange, uncomfortable, and Sansa looks out to the hills around them, longing for something she doesn’t understand blooming painfully beneath her breastbone. “When will you leave for the Wall?” She finds herself asking.

“When my uncle leaves.” In the corner of her eye she sees Jon shift on his horse. “Lady Stark… once my father goes south I won’t have a place at Winterfell any more.”

“Is that why you mean to take the Black?” A half formed hope fills Sansa, but Jon is shaking his head before it has a chance to touch the light. “No. I meant to take the black before I knew my father would go south. There’s honor in the Night’s Watch. Even for a bastard.”

Enough to scour the shame away? It’s a question Sansa’s picked at a thousand times in the dark of her chambers until its edge is threadbare as a well worn tapestry: if she curtsies and sews and smiles sweetly enough will it somehow prove wrong her birth? The thought draws her throat tight, and Sansa looks out to the hills around them. “You’re lucky to have been born here.”

Jon nudges his horse beside hers. “Where were you born?”

“The Riverlands somewhere. I was raised on the Fingers though, in my father’s keep.” Sansa smiles faintly. “The Drearyfort he used to call it when he visited. It was, too; dreary and dark and damp always. I used to curl up at night and dream of somewhere warm and green, with fields and forests and blue skies. Those are always where songs happen, where knights save maidens and fight for them in tourneys and crown them queens of love and beauty. I used to dream of that.” She clears her throat and forces a light laugh through it. “Foolish, I know.”

“It isn’t.” Jon is looking at her Sansa realizes, gaze at some point having turned from the hills when she was speaking, eyes quiet and calm and piercing, and Sansa suddenly feels very naked, as though Jon can see under her dresses and courtesies to the lonely bastard girl who’d curled into a ball in the dark of a strange city and wept for all the things she could never be.

It makes her want to run, to shrink away, to hide her nakedness, but Sansa shivers and swallows, forcing herself to push down the light and meaningless courtesy welling on her tongue to keep the feeling at bay. She latches onto Jon’s gaze, clings to the piercing grey of his eyes. “What did you dream of as a child, Jon?”

“Winterfell.” The word is sad and hopeful and longing all in one, and something in it clouds Jon’s eyes. He looks down at the reins in his hand. “I dreamed of my father naming me his heir and giving me Winterfell, of becoming it’s lord.” He shakes his head, voice touched with an old and bitter shame. “I would never betray Robb like that. Never. But still I couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like if it was mine. If only we’d born opposite. I know I shouldn’t, that it’s a bastard’s curse to be envious and faithless-”

“It isn’t.” Sansa reaches over and touches Jon’s arm, voice hot. “It isn’t, Jon. We- there’s nothing wrong with wanting. Not for us. We cannot help what we want.”

A muscle plays in Jon’s jaw, and he nods sharply, looking down to her hand on his arm, but making no move to push it away. For a long moment they sit like that: close and apart, silent but for the wind whispering over the hills, still but for the idle shift of their horses beneath them.

Sansa’s filly eventually huffs and shakes its mane, and Jon clears his throat and rearranges his reins as she slips her hand back. “The Wolfswood is only a few minutes from here. Would you… do you want to see it?”

He glances up at that last, eyes hesitant, and Sansa combs back the strays of her hair and smiles softly in answer. “I’d like that very much.”

---

Come nightfall they return to Winterfell, cold air nipping at Sansa’s cheeks as they ride. They dismount once in the walls, and she walks with Jon as he guides their horses back to the stable, leaves him there with a smile and nod and promise to meet the next day.

Fool, fool girl, a voice in her whispers as she makes her way back to her tent, unable to stop the thudding of her heart beneath her breastbone. What do you hope to accomplish? He will go to the Wall and you to Kingslanding. But the voice is faint and Sansa pushes it away as she dresses for bed and braids her hair. She snuffs out the light and, in the dark of her tent where no one can see her, smiles into her pillow: smiles at the warm of Jon’s laugh, the quirk of his lips, the murmur of wind over the hills around them.

Let me dream, she whispers to the voice, just for tonight.

And somehow, just for that night, the voice does.

---

The next day Bran falls. And everything changes.

[inquiringquilter]

My April Island Batik Challenge

The Island Batik Ambassador challenge for April was to create a quilt with creative borders and bindings.

In the midst of self isolation I have to admit I found it hard to be creative. But Spring was breaking out all around me and it was hard not to be happy at the sight. So I decided to make a Spring-inspired quilt.

I played around with the idea of bunnies for quite a while, with baskets and eggs as possible border inspirations but nothing jelled.

When I’m stuck for ideas, I turn to my idea book—a little book of pattern sketches I keep nearby. There I found a sketch of a butterfly taking nectar from a flower, and an idea was born.

I chose bright colors that complimented each other rather than overly realistic ones. For the borders, I used a combination of plain and pieced borders.

For the outer border, I decided on a scallop. I think in my head I was planning on cutting the border using my Accuquilt GO! and the die I used for my March challenge but in the end I put on plain borders and created the scallops the old-fashioned way—by marking and later trimming them.

I sewed the bias binding on first, using the marked line as my guide. Then I trimmed the edge. This gave me a more stable edge on which to sew the stretchy bias.

I’ve never done a scalloped border before but I sure enjoyed it!

For the back of the quilt, I used the same batik as I used for the background of the applique. I added a hanging sleeve as close to the edge as I could to prevent the border from flopping when hung.

I stitched along the edges of the applique to finish them and also to quilt! That certainly sped up the process. Then I quilted vines and leaves in the background.

I’m calling this Flutterby and I think it turned out charming!

Here are the quilt details:

"Flutterby" 31” x 31" Original Design Fabrics: Background: Paisley Tree Snowcone #121815880 (from the Gypsy Rose collection), Border 1 and 3: Dot Jungle Water #111911872 (from the Magical Reef collection), Border 2: Leaves Cool Waters #121910855 (from the Jewel Box collection) and Small Pointed Floral Turquoise #1BE36-D1 (from the Blenders collection), Border 4: #BE24-A2 (from the Blenders collection) Butterfly: Mum Blurple #121824470 (from the Twilight Chic collection),Wildflower Blurple #121934470 (from the Jewel Box collection),#121820535 (from the Fortune Teller collection), Black Solid Batik, Flowers: #121824013 (from the Twilight Chic collection), Water Gold Rust #121507274 (from the Sweet GA collection), Mini Bubbles Cornmeal #11905131 (from the Islander collection), Camel (from the Basics collection), #111818030 (from the Dear William collection), #121714120 (from the Morning Sunshine collection), Hexigon Honey #111916035 (from the Clockworks collection), Berry Vine Sun #121813120 (from the French Blue collection), #111908120 (from the Sunnyside Up collection), #BE32-C1 (from the Blenders collection), #121714130 (from the Pumpkin Patch collection), #BE24-A2 (from the Blenders collection) Binding: #BE24-A2 (from the Blenders collection) Backing: Paisley Tree Snowcone #121815880 (from the Gypsy Rose collection) Batting: Hobbs Batting 80/20 Applique Threads: Aurifil 50 wt. #2692 (Black), #2785 (Very Dark Navy), #2740 (Dark Cobalt), #2810 (Turquoise), #5024 (Dark Brown), #2132 (Tarnished Gold), #6001 (Light Caramel), #2930 (Golden Toast), #2140 (Orange Mustard), #2115 (Lemon), #2134 (Spun Gold) Quilting Thread: Aurifil 50 wt. #2545 (Medium Purple) Binding Thread: #2785 (Very Dark Navy) Needle: Schmetz Topstitch 80/12 Pieced and quilted by Jennifer Fulton

Thanks for stopping by!

While you’re here, why not take a moment and share what you’ve been working on in my weekly show-and-tell linkup, Wednesday Wait Loss? Click here to read all about it and to link up a photo.

Disclosure: The products featured here were provided to me free of charge by Island Batik, Aurifil, Hobbs, AccuQuilt GO!, and Schmetz.

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Tell me..what have you gotten much snow this winter?

[afewmarvelousthoughts]

Dark Side: Part 3

Master: @afewmarvelousthoughtsadmin

Pairing: Steve X Reader

Summary: You expected Captain America to be a lot of things… You didn’t expect him to be anything like you. As it turns out, America’s Golden Boy may be more than a little tarnished.

Warnings: Violence, blood, feels, fluff, smut, everything

A/N: This bad boy is for @littledarlinhavefaithinme ‘s Marvelous Writing Challenge!

LOLOLOLOL WHAT HAVE I DONE. 

Well. This is longer than I expected but seeing as the challenge is over this week I thought I’d give it to y’all in one final beefy chapter filled with blood and emotions and smut and the bevy of human messiness that makes us all tick. The prompt is bolded. I need a drink. Aaaaand there is probs gonna be an epilogue because I have more ideas for these two. 

Hope y’all like my angsty Cap! 

Tags are open!

It takes two hours to clean up the mess.

He tells the police he had been here with a friend, who he told to leave as soon as the shot was heard, he saw the victim attacking a woman, she fired in self-defense, before he could question her she’d gotten lost in the crowd. As he conveyed his not entirely untrue story Natasha stared at him, eyebrows raised as if she didn’t believe him but she said nothing.

It didn’t matter. No one seemed too concerned with any of it. Almost to the point that it unnerved him. Both the DCPD and S.H.I.E.L.D. chalked it up to some random incident, bagged the body, took some statements and that was it.

“They’re not going to do anything more about this?” He asked Natasha as everyone dispersed.

She shrugged, “People die every day in this city. They’ll look into it but he’s likely just a thug who picked the wrong mark. Sucks to be him but if no one’s gonna miss him they’re not gonna waste the manpower on it.” He doesn’t like it. “Can’t save everyone all the time, Steve.”

That wasn’t what left a bad taste in his mouth but he couldn’t tell her that. With a cloud hovering over him he heads home, trying his best to push down the feeling in his gut that he’s missing something.

As he slips his key in the lock he hears water coming from the bathroom. His blood runs cold.

Quietly he opens the door. Slipping inside, he stands, hardly breathing as he assesses the situation. His shield isn’t where he usually leaves it, close to the door. However, he does see blood, drops trailing on the wood floor toward the bathroom. Even though he assumes it's you he cautiously makes his way through his apartment.

The door to the bathroom is just barely ajar. He shoulders it open and hears the click of a gun. You’re standing in the shower, shield raised, gun poised.

“Oh thank fuck,” you breathe out, shield dropping to your side revealing your muscular form clad in nothing but a pair of high waist lace underwear and a matching bra. He swallows hard, trying to pretend he doesn’t feel his cheeks heating.

“That thing is heavier than I thought it’d be.” You lean his shield against the wall beside the shower, setting your pistol beside it.

“They really just let you bring that home? I thought it’d be on lock up or something. Vibranium is worth a shit load.” He says nothing as he steps in, nothing the first aid kit, the blood in the bathtub, and discarded surgical thread in a pile.

“I’ll clean this up,” he’s surprised at the awkward tone in your voice. “I… uh… it’s hard to stitch up the back of your thigh yourself, in case you ever need to know.” Blood is still snaking down your leg, he can tell from the pool forming by your foot.

“I’d assume as much.” He has a million questions but for now, you need help. “Here,” he begins undoing the buttons on his shirt.

“You don’t have to-”

“I can’t just leave you bleeding in my shower. And I think I’m owed some answers. So, you’re gonna let me stitch you up and you’re going to answer my questions.”

“Authoritative. I’m into it.” He slides his gaze to you, as he tosses the shirt to his bed. That goddamn smirk on your lips. He’s got half a mind to turn you around in the shower and… No. You need help and he needs answers. That’s what this situation is. Nothing else.

He washes his hands and grabs a few rags, getting them wet. “Turn around, let me see.” Ignoring the blood he kneels behind you, setting the kit down beside him, to inspect the wound. It needs stitches but it’s not too bad.

“Am I gonna make it doc?” You look over your shoulder and down at him, voice dripping with mock concern.

“I think we can save the leg, just barely though.”

“Thank god. Though I could always replace it with a machine gun.”

“That may be the most ridiculous image I can imagine,” he laughs as he starts to clean the area around the wound.

You hiss just a bit before explaining, “It’s in a movie actually.”

“Well,” he pulls gauze from the kit to press to the wound, you brace yourself against the wall, “that sounds like a cinematic masterpiece.”

You laugh a little, “It’s so bad it’s almost good actually. Kind of a horror action combo.”

“Maybe I’ll watch it.” Gently he removes the blood-soaked pad before pressing another, the flow slows.

“I don’t know if it’ll be your taste.”

“Aren’t you the one always telling me to try new things?”

“Ok,” you laugh, “point.”

He threads a fresh needle, “Ready?”

“Can’t wait.” Your tone is flat, forehead pressed against the shower.

He’s impressed that you hardly flinch while he sutchures the wound. As he does so he can’t help but think about how quickly something like this would heal on him. He’d hardly bother to stitch it. He almost… envies you.

Once you’re stitched he tapes gauze over the wound and cleans the dried blood from the back of your leg. “You’re set, though I’d still maybe get it checked out.”

“Thanks, doctor Steve,” you turn and he’s eye level with those maddening lace underwear again.

Forcing his eyes away he stands, stepping out of the shower, heading to the sink, “Yeah, well I didn’t do it for free, Zelda. You owe me-”

“Y/N,” you say softly. He looks back at you as he soaps his hands. “My name… is Y/N.”

His face stretches into a smile. It’s pretty, suits you. Drying his hands he turns to you, “Nice to meet you, Y/N.”

It’s not the smirk he’s grown to expect, the curling of your lips is genuine, soft, lighting your eyes. You nod, “I obviously owe you a new suit too,” you gesture to the bloodstained slacks. “Think I could add some other clothes to the tab? Unfortunately, my dress has seen better days.”

“Sure.” He heads into his room pulling sweats and a tee from a drawer. You’re rinsing the shower with the handheld head when he walks back in. He sets the clothes on the counter. “Don’t worry about the suit. Not like I bought it.”

“Still, thanks.”

“If I leave you in here are you gonna disappear again?”

“No promises,” the smirk back on your lips. He leans in the door, arms crossed. “I’m not going anywhere. I owe you, remember?”

He nods and leaves you. Grabbing fresh clothes himself he goes to the guest room to change too. When he opens the door, there you are. Before he can say anything your eyes fix on something behind him.

“Is that…?” You gesture to the almost finished canvas of St. Louis.

“Yeah…” He hasn’t felt this awkward in more than 70 years. “It… I…”

“You did this?!” You look awestruck.

He shrugs, “Yeah. I went to art school back in my day. It was kinda the only thing I was good at… well besides getting the shit kicked outta me.”

Your gaze has shifted from him back to the painting. “Steve… honestly… this is stunning.”

“Eh. I’m still not happy with the sky, it’s not the right kind of purple. The gradient is off too and my shadows need work.”

“Shut up. It’s beautiful. What the hell are you doing being a soldier?!”

“Could ask you the same thing.”

You scoff, “Nah,” something dark flits over your features when you turn back. “There’s no spectacular hidden talent here.”

“I doubt that.” He gives you a warm smile, “You’re one hell of a dancer.”

Your head tilts back in a laugh, “That’s me bein’ a ho. Nothing particularly special there.” You pat his chest as you walk from the room. “Mind if I nab some of that whiskey I saw in there?”

“Not at all.” He follows you out, “Have a seat and I’ll pour you a glass.” His eyes follow you to the living room, unable to ignore the curve of your ass as you walk.

He pours you a hearty bit of whiskey, certain your leg has to be hurting and he doesn’t have any other pain killer. For posterity, he pours some for himself too. It does nothing for him but the smoky taste is comforting.

“Here,” he hands you the tumbler.

“Thanks,” you wrap your fingers around the glass. Suddenly you look tired, smaller somehow.

He pulls the armchair close to the couch, not wanting to crowd you. For a few minutes, silence hangs. As adamant as he was earlier about getting answers, looking at you now he just wants you to rest.

“So…” you break the silence.

He sighs, “Let’s start with why you asked me out tonight.”

One perfect brow raises, “Because I wanted to.”

“And someone trying to kill you had absolutely nothing to do with it?”

“Not… exactly.” He doesn’t honor that with an answer, just stares at you. Nervously your nails tap the glass of the tumbler. “A few weeks ago I got tapped for a gig. Blind hire. Usually, I don’t even entertain jobs like that unless the pay is very good. This was, but when they told me who…”

Ah… he sees now. “How much is Captain America’s head going for these days?”

“Not funny.”

“I’m not laughin,’ just curious.”

“Millions.” Not bad. At least he knew he was worth something to someone, even if it was dead. “Thing is,” your voice pulls him back, “I have a, uh, reputation of sorts…”

“I don’t doubt that,” he smiles up at you through his lashes and your features soften.

“Fuck you.” Playfully you toss a couch pillow at him. “See, if you hire me you had better be damn sure your hands are cleaner than the person you’re sending me after.”

“If they’re not?”

That smirk plays on your lips. “Well, most times I’ll flip the gig. Tell whoever you hired me to go after what you’re doing, offer my services, usually make more than I was gonna before. And if not it’s at least more satisfying.”

“Judge, jury, and executioner.” He can’t pretend he approves.

You shrug, “I don’t trick myself into thinking it’s justice. It’s a job. That’s all. I just sleep better knowing I didn’t go after someone innocent.” His brows rise. “Yeah. That’s kind of my niche. I’m who the underground sends after their own.”

“Seems like a fine line to walk.”

“I’m very, very good at what I do. So, I’m tolerated.”

“Guessing I’m not dirty enough to justify being your mark.”

“Well… I’m sure in some ways… but not enough for me to put a bullet in you.”

“So you turned ‘em down.”

“No.” He can’t help but look surprised, you laugh. “Told them I needed 48 hours. I knew they’d go underground once I said no, so I needed time. There wasn’t any trail I could find to figure out who was putting the hit out but I did find a tie to my Popov job.”

You slam back the rest of your whiskey, “It was also a blind hire, great pay, but I didn’t look too far into it because he was a fuckin’ monster. Hell, I would have don’t it for a smoke and a beer. But I think they wanted to see if I I could get to someone even with you there…”

“And you did.”

“Yup.” You roll the glass in your hands, “Realized I wasn’t getting anything else on my own so contacted them in 30 hours, they thought I was going to say yes so they were pretty willing to share what they wanted.”

“They wanted more than me dead?”

“No, more like how… They didn’t care about anything else other than it looking like you went out in the line of duty a-”

“Hero’s death.” Bitterness fills his mouth.

“Something like that. And it was to be local, close to DC.”

“We don’t do many jobs close to home…”

“Figured as much.”

He nods, “So they worked out you were going to tell me and came after you?”

You shrug, “That or they planned on taking me out once I turned them down, just finally had a good window.”

He doesn’t like this. Not because someone was gunning for him, that honestly didn’t phase him. He doesn’t like that you were in the crosshairs over it. You may have a questionable day job but… you weren’t a bad person.

“So,” you slowly stand and walk to the table where your clutch and shoes wait, “I was thinking you could cash in on some of those clearly unused vacation hours.” Picking up your things you turn to him smiling. “Maybe see St. Louis for real or Notre Dame, Greece is great this time of year, or-”

“I’m not running.” He’s sort of touched and a part of him would love to go to any of those places with you but… Steve Rogers didn’t stand down from a fight.

“Steve… if someone tried to hire me they aren’t fucking around. They will find someone and-”

He stands, “I’ll be fine.” His hand rests on your shoulder, you lean into it a bit, taking weight off your leg.

Looking up at him your face is hard, “You won’t be.”

“And if I’m not America can have her martyr back, plus someone gets a great payday. Why does it matter to you?”

“Why doesn’t it matter to you?”

He holds your gaze, meaning every word, “Who’s gonna miss Steve Rogers?”

“Me.” He honestly wasn’t expecting that. A sad smile lifts your full lips, “I think I’d miss Steve Rogers… a lot.”

Something in him snaps at that. He’d felt so numb for so long and now he’s suddenly burning. Cupping your face he leans down pressing his lips to yours.

Your things clatter to the floor as you return the kiss, arms curling around his neck. He wraps you in his arms, holding you close and lifts you just a touch as your tongue finds its way between his teeth. The taste of whiskey and desire fill his mouth.

Steve can’t remember wanting something, someone, in so long…

You break the kiss, eyes burning into his own. “Please don’t do something stupid… please.”

“Promise I won’t if you stay.” Hope flickers in his chest for just a moment.

“I can’t…” It flickers out. “I’m sorry.” You release him and he makes sure you’re steady on your feet before he bends to retrieve your things. When he looks back he swears that’s disappointment on your face…

“Even just for tonight? Your leg…”

“Too risky,” your index finger traces his jaw, bottom lip catching in your teeth.

“Can I at least get you home?”

“I can manage, Cap.” You sigh heavily, “I should go…”

His eyes glue to the wood grain of the floor. “Ok.”

“I’ll see you around…” He looks up, then, the soft smile on your features telling him this is a request.

“Maybe.” You nod, darkness flickering behind your eyes. He won’t make promises he can’t keep. Holding your things he turns to walk you out, now just wanting this to be over.

At the door, you both stand awkwardly. “Here,” he hands you your things.

“Thanks.” you take them. “For everything.”

“Don’t mention it. Thanks for the warning.”

You nod. “Steve…” Your hand rests over his heart before your pleading eyes catch his, “Please be safe.”

He wraps your hand in his lifting it to his lips, “You too.”

You nod when he releases your hand, no doubt noting his avoidance. “Well, until next time.”

He opens the door, “Next time.” And then you’re gone.

-

The next few months crawl by. Anytime you’re not working is always miserably boring but you needed to lay low unless you wanted to end up in a shallow grave somewhere.

Your new found free time had left room for you to keep digging into Steve’s hit. What you were finding was… well, nothing short of a national crisis so wild and far-reaching that if you hadn’t been doing the research yourself you’d think it was bullshit. Honestly, discovering that the government was run by lizard people would have been more believable.

More than once you try to convince yourself to meet up with Steve, share all this. But… he wasn’t in a good place, that had been clear. You were pretty sure he wasn’t much better since you left him if your mostly unanswered texts were any indication. If you were to tell him you had evidence that Hydra, the organization he’d given his life to see destroyed, was still functioning… And that it was very possible that S.H.I.E.L.D. was involved… What would he do?

One morning you’re on your third cup of coffee, wondering how you’ll fill your day when your phone rings. The little hand drawn picture of a dick on a napkin that pops up tells you who it is.

“The fuck you want, Wade?” You hear Vanessa laugh in the background and can’t help but smile. “Am I on speaker?!”

“Of course. I only conduct sensitive business in the loudest way possible you know that. Oh and also, rude.”

You laugh, “What’s going on.”

Crunching echos on the other end before he answers. “You asked me to tell you if I heard any chatter about someone getting tapped for that Captain America gig you turned down?”

“Yeah?”

“Well. I heard something.” He says nothing else.

“Wilson. I know you love foreplay but now is not the time.”

“Ugh, you’re so boring.”

“She prefers me anyway,” Vanessa quips.

“She’s not wrong.”

He laughs, “Why am I friends with you again? You’re rude to me, prefer my girlfriend, you never come slap me around anymore, I mean honestly, Y/N.”

“Wade, I swear I’ll do more than slap you around next time if you just stop dicking around and tell me what you got.”

“Ooooh, see that’s what I’m talking about.” More crunching, “But in all seriousness, that’s not the promise I want from you. I tell you this, you tell him if you have to, but don’t get involved, this shit is way too risky.”

“Aww, you care.”

“Fuck you.” He sighs, “Private airport, DC, supposedly some child-smuggling ring, links to human experimentation. That’s at least the story on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s books. Don’t have an exact date but it’s likely going to be within a week.”

Bold of them to stick with that structure even after telling you… but it was a good enough cover, and if it worked… Fuck.

“Y/N… don’t be a dumbass. Why you give a fuck I don’t know but if you need to tell him, do it. That’s it though. Don’t get yourself killed.”

“I won’t, promise.”

“Good.”

“Thanks, Wade, seriously.”

“Anytime.”

“Love ya, Y/N!” Vanessa calls out.

“You too boo! Fuck ‘em up for me.” She laughs and the call ends.

For the next ten minutes, you just stare at your phone. Your fingers trace the shape of your lips, remembering the way he tasted, how warm his body felt… Suddenly you realize you may actually miss him.

Finally, you pick up the phone and tap out a text:

Y/N: Hey. We need to talk ASAP. Call me?

Hours come and go. You run, work out, clean, anything to try to keep yourself distracted but it doesn’t help. Every minute he doesn’t respond fills you with dread.

When you can’t stand it any longer you call him. It rings and rings until his voicemail picks up. You don’t leave one.

Two days later you feel physically sick from the stress. What if you were too late? What if he…

The phone rings, and you practically drop it in your haste to pull the thing from your pocket.

“Steve!?” You hate how desperate you sound.

“It’s the job with the kids isn’t it?” His tone stings a little… still…

“Yeah, it is. Don’t know who took it but it’s a safe bet it’s not someone to fuck around with.”

“Right. Well, thanks for the heads up.”

“Steve?!”

“What.”

“I… uh…” You don’t know what you expected… this wasn’t it. “Just… ya know, don’t die.”

“No promises.” With that, he hangs up.

It hurts more than you want to admit. Angry you storm to the garage and begin beating your punching bag until your knuckles bleed and tears run down your face.

You had made peace that the life you chose was a fairly solitary one. It was better that way. For some reason, though he made you wish that wasn’t the case… it didn’t matter. You couldn’t have him, he didn’t want you… And he’d likely be in a flag covered casket by the end of the week.

That thought makes you freeze mid punch.

No. You can’t let that happen. Rushing through the house you gear up, wrap your knuckles, and in less than an hour, your bike is thundering down the highway.

You’d been living in Pittsburg so it doesn’t take you long to get to DC. The sun had just set when you stand at his door, banging, heart threatening to burst from your chest.

As soon as it’s clear that he’s not going to answer you go outside and work your way up the fire escape, prying the window open like you did the last time you were here.

“Steve?” You call out, begging that if nothing else you’ll see his shield… There’s no Steve and no shield. “Fuck.”

Wade didn’t tell you what private airport. You wrack your brain, there were two that were legit just outside the city but you knew there were a couple more exclusive ones that wouldn’t be found through a simple Google search. You don’t hesitate to call in some contacts to find out where this may be going down. If someone wanted to rat you out so be it.

Favors called in, promises given, you finally have it narrowed down to two places. One on the books one off. The first one is the obvious choice, used mainly by wealthy dignitaries looking to avoid customs and it’s closer. It’s also a dead end. Cursing yourself you pray you’re not too late as you rush to the other private airport near College Park.

The place is dead… as is the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent near the front of the small check-in area. It reminds you how easily this could go wrong. You slip your phone out and text Wade.

Y/N: Look. If I eat it tonight this isn’t on you. Idk why he matters but he does and I couldn’t stay out of it. You know where my stash is, take Vanessa somewhere nice if I don’t come out of this. Love ya.

If you did live he’d likely kick your ass after this. You’d welcome it. Taking a deep breath you stalk slowly deeper into the airport.

The silence eats at you making your anxiety rise. If there was still a fight going on you’d hear something… if he was…

You hear glass breaking from down the small terminal. Immediately you take cover. Unable to see you let your ears do the work. Two, maybe three, a groan and a snap echos in the space. Well… two people. A shot goes off and you flinch but you have to look.

The merc isn’t someone you know but he’s big, a mountain of a man who’s bulk rivals Steve’s. Brass knuckles on his massive hand, in the other a gun.

“Honestly,” he speaks, clearly American, “I thought this would be harder.” A sinister grin fills his face, “But who am I to complain?”

He rushes Steve, landing a blow to his solar plexus. Steve gasps and the shield clatters to the ground. Before you know it your gun is in your hand and you shoot, not to kill but to distract.

“What the fuck?!” He takes cover as you let loose another shot.

“You scare easy for a big fucker!” You taunt more to let Steve know who’s here.

The glint of the metal on his knuckles tips you off before he can take his shot and you tumble toward Steve who’s still getting his breath. Pushing him to the side you fire.  

“What the hell are you-”

“Shut the fuck up.” You growl at him. From your belt, you pull a flash bomb and hurl it toward the merc. In a second it goes off and you pull Steve to his feet. “Come on.”

You head toward the front of the terminal, previously abandoned but you can hear the shuffle of people. Steve pulls you against him and against the wall, shield in front of you.

“Not yours?” You ask looking up at his bloody face partly covered by the cowl.

“No.”

“Great.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says low in your ear.

“Neither should you.” You push away from him, “This way.” Hopefully, you could get out the back of the terminal before the merc got his vision back.

Holding close to the wall you manage to make it to a side door. Relief begins to tickle at you. You just may get out of this alive. With no assailants near, you turn to him.

“So, I warn you that someone is trying to kill you and all you can do is run straight for the reaper!? I mean I get you don’t like me or approve or whatever but come on you could have at least-”

Unblinking he flings his shield behind you with a swish. You turn in time to see it slam into someone's neck, snapping it.

“-listened to me,” you finish your statement voice flat with restrained surprise.

“Never said I didn’t like you,” he pushes past you to retrieve the shield. “We should aim for the back.” You nod and follow him.

You cover one another as you slowly make your way to the gated back portion of the airstrip. The shrubbery would provide just enough cover once you got there and-

A bullet grazes Steve’s shoulder causing his shield arm to go slack.

“Shit,” he hisses. The shot came from the single-engine plane you had just cleared.

Whirling you take aim at the assailant and catch them in the chest as they try to take cover off the wing. With a clatter they tumble to the ground, head making a sick crack on the asphalt.

“They must have sent a team,” you say kneeling to look at his wound.

“Ya think?” He sets the shield against his calf for a moment while he tries to move his arm.

“You’re making me regret showing up to save your ass.” He huffs out a little laugh.

It happens so fast you can’t think. A shot rings to your left and you both look. He must have seen or heard something you didn’t because he’s got you by the shoulders pulling you to the ground and under him. You can feel the moment the bullet hits his body. He groans and goes heavy on top of you.

“Steve!” He says nothing and you manage to push him off gently. Blood stains the navy of his suit a darker shade and you can see the tip of the bullet glinting against the fabric. Through and through.

You grab the shield and deflect another volley of bullets from the two of you. Glancing over you see the big man from before. Great.

“Just go,” Steve groans.

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up earlier?” You rip your shirt off and toss it to him to press to his wound. “Don’t bleed out on me.”

Thinking fast you rise to your feet, shield before you and you fire at the man. One in the head, two in the chest. He’s only part of your problem. You can see movement toward the terminal…

The two of you need cover and a very loud distraction. You pull two smoke grenades and toss them toward the plane the shooter had been on. In just a minute there’s enough of a screen to shield you both for a moment.

“Ok,” you turn to him. “Cover your ears, it’s gonna get loud and then we’re gonna have to run like hell. Can you manage?”

He grimaces, blood suffusing his side. “Sure, why not.”

There’s no other choice. You pull the two concussion grenades you keep for special occasions from their holster. Flicking the pins and hoping for the best you hurl them one after the other in two directions before covering you both with the shield as best you can.

The one that lands by the plane has the desired effect, it blows close by and will only cause a bigger hazard as the fire you can see through the smoke spreads. The other doesn’t hit much but is loud enough to distract. Good.

“Time to go old man.” You help him up, shield on your free arm and you make your way to the fence. The link is easy to cut and you’re quickly through it into the brush.

“Where are we even going, Y/N? Just leave me here, my people will come and-”

“I’m not fucking leaving you.” Your tone is sharp. “We aren’t in the wilderness. There’s a strip mall not far. I’ll jump a car and get you…” Where?

“Just get me home.” You stare at him trying to gauge just how much he wanted to die. “If you take me to a hospital they’re gonna look for me and innocent people may get hurt. I’m not bleeding enough for this to be life-threatening-”

“You don’t-”

“You can stitch me up.” His smile is crooked.

“I’m not a fucking medic, Rogers.” If he died… You were wasting time. “Whatever fine. Come on.”

You manage to get him back to his apartment alive.

His massive form leans against you heavily. “Don’t fucking pass out on me now, Rogers.”

He grunts in response. “Table.”

Hastily you clear the mail and books from the table top. The heavy wooden furniture groans under him as he sits on it, shaking fingers fumbling to undo his tactical suit.

“Here,” you push his hands away. There are an annoying amount of zippers and connection points but you eventually get it loose to his waist.

Moving behind him you lean across the table to help slide the suit down his arms. At first, your breath catches at the way the muscles of his shoulders and upper back ripple, a fucking Grecian statue of a man. When your eyes trail down though…

Blood stains his side, leaking slowly from the bullet hole. Bruising, deep and painful, already blossoms around the wound. His arm is nowhere near as bad but still needs attention. You swallow hard, trying to calm the panic in your chest.

A clink on the table draws your eye away. The bullet, intact and bloody lies there.

“Jesus, Steve…” Your fingers barely touch the unbruised skin close to the wound. He shivers.

“Not to be an ass but-”

“Shit! Yeah, sorry.” Hurridly you run to the bathroom and tug out the first aid kit, in the same place it was before, and soak rags in warm water. When you come back in you notice Steve sway.

You slam everything down on the table. “Steve,” you grab him by the shoulders, “hey,” your hands move to cup his face. “Look at me.” Those cool blue eyes meet yours, hazy and distant, “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

His hands catch your wrists, strong fingers digging in. “No,” his voice is stern, eyes seeming to clear.

“Ok,” you don’t want to waste time fighting him. You wash your hands in scalding water, slip glovers over them, and pray to a god you had long since given up on that you don’t kill this man.

When you’re finally wrapping a bandage around him you feel like you’ve just sprinted 10 miles. Your hands are shaking, your nerves are fried, you want to throw up and pass out and have 40 drinks but… you did the fucking thing. So far, so good. He hadn’t fainted, bled out, or died.

You take a shaky breath as you secure the bandage and he catches your hands in his bloodstained paws. Slowly you drag your eyes to meet his, barely breathing.

“Thank you,” his features are so soft.

A dry laugh slips from you, “Thanks for not dying.” He squeezes your hands a bit.

“Come on,” you pull back to help him up. “Let’s get you cleaned up and in bed.”

“You don’t hav-”

“Consider it me protecting my hard work. I’m not about to have gone through that for you to fuck it up.”

“Fair,” he groans as he stands.

You guide him to the bathroom and he hesitates, “Seriously I-”

“Don’t blush Rogers, you’ve lost too much blood to send it running in places it shouldn’t be.” The look on his face is slightly shocked. You can’t help but laugh, “Look, do you really think you can get out of the rest of this gear on your own?” He shrugs. “No. You can’t. Don’t be a baby.”

Gently you push him toward the bathroom. “Sit.” He does so on the edge of the tub.

-

Steve watches you kneel before him, sure fingers untying the laces on his boots.

There was a time in his life he was used to being cared for. Honestly, it felt both like yesterday and an age ago… Unsurprisingly he still absolutely hates it.

You were right though. He wasn’t in the shape to do it himself.

“Stand for a sec, we need to get this suit off.”

He swallows hard. It wasn’t that he was particularly shy… but…

“I can’t let you hang around in bloody clothes, man.”

All he can manage is a nod. His legs shake as he stands and his head swims a bit from blood loss and lack of sleep. When was the last time he had a solid night’s sleep…

“Stay with me,” you reach out steadying him.

“Tryin’,” his tongue is thick in his mouth.

“Just a bit longer.” You give him a gentle reassuring smile.

He feels almost drunk. “You have a beautiful smile.” The words just fall from his lips. Some part of him is mortified until your smile brightens even more before you look away. “Now who’s blushing?” He teases.

“Ya know I was gonna let you keep some of your dignity and give you a towel to cover up with. Now I’m not so sure.” You look back at him and wink.

“I got nothin’ to hide.”

“I bet.” That spark in your eyes makes the muscles in his abdomen clench painfully.

He’d be lying if he tried to pretend he’d never wondered what you’d look like on your knees. However, in none of his imaginings were you working a blood-soaked tac suit off him while he fought to stay conscious. But since when had anything in his life gone to plan?

“Boxers?”

He blinks at you, “What?”

“Your boxers. You need some that don’t look like evidence.”

He looks down, the ones he’s wearing are half grey and half crimson. “Top drawer.” You disappear and return with boxers and sweats.

You hand him a towel, “Thought I’d be nice.”

Wordlessly he takes it, holding it loosely in front of himself. When your fingers hook around the elastic of his boxers, your body lowering slowly down with the garment, eyes locked on his, he feels like he can’t breathe.

“Hangin’ in there, Cap?” Mischief glints in your eyes.

“Mhm,” he nods his head. You turn to wet a rag and, despite his best efforts, his mind fills with images of tearing your tac pants off your body and fucking you over the sink until you can’t stand.

His throat goes dry as you turn back. Unsuccessfully he tries holding the towel out a touch further to hide how hard he is.

The corner of your mouth ticks up, your warm hand on his chest causing his heart to beat a little faster. “What’d I say about keeping blood where it belongs?” Your voice is a purr.

Steve huffs out a small laugh, grimacing at the movement. You drop to your knees, gently washing the blood off his thigh. Bullet wound be damned. His fingers release his grip on the towel.

“Steve…” Your eyes lift up to his, the tip of your tongue flitting out to touch your bottom lip. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “You just got shot… I don’t want to hur-“

“Please.” He doesn’t care. Doesn’t care that his knees feel week, that his head is filled with fog, or that he could have died tonight. He didn’t die. And he wants you… it’s the first time he’s wanted anything… anyone, in so long…

He won’t force you but his eyes are begging, he knows. As you stand disappointment feels heavy in his gut. But…

The bloodstained rag lands with a thwack in the tub. Your calloused palm rubs the stubble on his cheek before pulling his face to yours. It’s a soft kiss, your mouth warm and inviting. He groans as your hand wraps around his cock.

“Sit,” you whisper against his lips. He lowers to the edge of the tub and you settle between his thighs.

Your fingers trail feather light touches down his chest, your lips following close behind. Lust and adrenaline clear his mind. Even so, there’s nothing but you right now.

Those eyes of yours look up at him, smirk on your full lips. Your tongue languidly runs up the length of him, catching the bead of moisture gathering at his head. His breath stutters and you hesitate.

“Please don’t stop.” He needs this… maybe more than he wants it.

Without hesitation your tongue traces his head before taking the length of him, your eyes never wavering. He hit’s the back of your throat and a growl rumbles in his chest. One hand grips the tub’s edge his other cupping the back of your head.

Lifting up, your hand wraps around his shaft, twisting a touch as your mouth applies the faintest suction to his head. The fingers of your free hand run over his balls and down…

His head falls back. Deft fingers massage the tender flesh just behind his sack while your palm cups his balls, pressing up ever so slightly. After only a few minutes the steady motion… the sound… his exhaustion… everything comes to a peak.

“Y/N… I… I…” The words won’t form. He can’t…

Fingers tangle in your thick hair, his body tenses, and the sound that tears through him is not quite a scream but it’s more than a moan. It reverberates against the tile walls. His body shakes.

When his vision clears he sees you, eye level, brushing a drop of cum from the edge of your grinning mouth. His eyes flutter.

“If you faint on me I swear…”

“No, I… I’m good.” With a shaking hand, he pulls your face to his, kissing you softly. “I am afraid I won’t be able to repay the favor tonight I-”

“Don’t. Consider it a thank you for taking a bullet for me.”

“I didn-”

“Yes, you did.” Your gaze is stern and he knows he can’t argue. He did. He knows he did.

Cleaned up, dressed, and thoroughly spent he lets you lead him to his bed. He winces, as his back meets the mattress.

You sit next to him on the bed, “Do you have anything you can take for pain?”

He shakes his head, “Nothing really works. Perk of being a super soldier…”

“That’s some shit.” He nods. “Are you comfortable enough?”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” your gaze shifts away.

Sighing you stand. For reasons he’s too exhausted to identify, panic grips his chest and his hand shoots out for yours.

“Don’t go… please… I… I don’t…” Want to be alone. Are the words his pride just won’t let him say, even now.

Your fingers lace between his, “I wasn’t gonna leave you, Steve. Not like this.” Relief floods his body. “I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”

He tightens his grip. “You don’t have to sleep out there… it’s a big bed.” A hopeful, crooked smile lifts his lips.

“Ok… but I’m stealing a shirt.” Your smile makes your eyes flash and his heart leap.

“Fine by me.”

He drifts off once you disappear into the bathroom only waking when he feels you slide into the bed next to him. Eyes at half mast he reaches out to you. Carefully you let him pull you close.

This… the feeling of you next to him, your hand over his heart, cheek on his chest… he didn’t know how desperately he needed this. Despite the wound in his side and everything in his head, he sleeps hard through the night.

Morning’s light slowly wakes him. Already the serum in his veins has worked overtime, the pain far less than it was last night.

A rustling next to him draws his gaze and warmth fills his chest. He expected you to be gone by morning… Instead, you’re sound asleep, back pressed to his side.

His smile is so wide it makes his cheeks ache a bit. Worried that he’ll wake you if he moves he contentedly dozes, opening his eyes here and there to watch the steady rise and fall of your breath or study the colors of your hair in the sunlight.

He wants to paint you… just like this… He closes his eyes, imagining the canvas.

“Good morning,” your voice sounds petal soft. His eyes open to see your face in the warm light, a soft smile on your lips.

“Morning.” Neither of you says more. Somehow you’re content to study the other… Until your phone begins to blare a song from your pants pocket.

“Shit!” Frantically you scramble up and fish the phone from your pants.

“Hey!” Your tone is forced. Someone screams something on the other end, he can’t quite make out the words though. “Not dead. Sorry… I… I know… I… Wade… Just…” He sees your features shift, “Yeah… Yeah, I got it. Love you too.”

You toss the phone on the end of the bed and rub your hands over your face. The last bit of that conversation had him burning though…

“Boyfriend?”

“What?” Your brows knit. “Oh! Fuck no.” You laugh a little and he feels himself cool. “Best friend. He tipped me off about last night, told me not to get involved…”

“And he’s pissed you didn’t listen.”

“Something like that…” You look at him, eyes… sad.

“Y/N?”

“I have to go…” You catch your bottom lip in your teeth.

He shoots up from the bed, wincing at the pain but not stopped by it. “Why? Do they know you-”

“No,” you hold your hands up, resting them against his chest when he stops in front of you. “They suspect though so it’s best I get the hell outta dodge before they can confirm anything.”

“You don’t have to go…” His voice holds a twinge of desperation. “I can get you S.H.I.E.L.D. protection,” something darkens your features at this but he keeps going, “and I would… look out for you.” He rests his hands on your shoulders.

Your eyes fix to the floor, “I can’t, Steve. It’s too risky for both of us.” The twinge in his chest is alleviated a touch by the look of longing on your face when he tilts your chin up.

“I need you to promise me something.” Your somber tone chills him.

“Ok…”

“Look out for yourself, watch your back. Don’t trust anyone, even S.H.I.E.L.D. to protect you…”

“Y/N… I’ve got good people, you don’t have to-”

“Promise me, Steve. Even good people can be bought.”

“They couldn’t buy you,” he traces the curve of your brow down to your soft, rose-colored lips.

That smirk again, “I’m not good people.”

“Yes, you are.” Pulling you to him he kisses you, hard this time, hungry. A few steps back and he has you pinned against the wall, he can feel your heart thundering in your chest.

“You could stay and have my back,” his lips graze the tender flesh under your ear.

“I can’t,” your voice is thick with emotion. When he looks at you tears shimmer in your eyes, threatening to fall.

“Please…” A trembling hand cups his face, “Please, promise me you’ll be smart… don’t-” Your voice cracks but you fight to keep your composure. “Don’t run toward death…”

He’s not certain it’s a promise he can keep but… “I promise, Y/N.” One tear escapes the corner of your eye, he thumbs it away. “But you have to promise the same.”

A bitter laugh pops out, “I’m not the one to worry about here but… yeah. I promise.”

He kisses you again, wanting to hold on to the way it makes his chest burn, the movement of your lips on his the… Feeling of being alive, not just angry, for the first time in a long time.

The two of you say nothing else, each seemingly not trusting what may come from your mouth, as you change. He sits on the edge of the bed, watching you, dreading the moment he has to let you go.

“You should definitely get that looked at,” you gesture to the bandage.

“What? Don’t trust your tabletop nursing skills?”

“Absolutely not.”

He slowly stands, “I will.”

Without prompting, you wrap your arms around him, taking care to avoid his injury, and tuck your face in his neck. The two of you stand like that for a while.

There are so many things he wants to say but he doesn’t. He just contents himself with burying his nose in your hair, allowing the warm intimacy of the moment to wash over him.

A heavy sigh tickles over his skin and he knows it’s time to let go.

At the door you turn back to him, eyes glassy once more. “Remember, don’t trust anyone… not with everything.”

“I got it.” One final time his lips press to yours, slow and longing.

Your forehead rests against his, your eyes speaking volumes, as you whisper, “I’ll miss you, Steve Rogers.”

Those three words hit him harder than that bullet had. His mouth hangs slack just a touch.

You smile, “Gonna catch a fly.” Playfully you lift up his chin. “Be safe.”

“You too, Y/N.”

One more kiss… and again… you’re gone.

-

True to form. Steve Rogers surprises you. This time by wheedling his way into your heart and mind so deep you cannot fucking shake him.

To protect you both you don’t call or text, the risk too high. You do, however, send him a letter. There’s no return address and no long written missives. The papers contain numbers, coordinates for a house in Buffalo New York and two words. Love, Zelda With a red lip print over them.

You don’t expect him to come here. All you wanted was for him to know you were safe and that if he needed a place to go he had it.

A few jobs came and went. Winter faded into spring. You began to wonder if maybe you could meet up now if things had quieted enough. Because despite trying desperately to convince yourself otherwise… you desperately missed him.

Then all hell broke loose.

Glued in front of your TV you watch in horror as S.H.I.E.L.D., quite literally falls. You’re blowing up with information from all your contacts. Inbox, dark web forums, everything.

Hours pass that feel like days… No one had reported on Steve’s condition, just that Captain America had been spotted in the fight. A curious numb sensation creeps over you at the thought that he may be gone.

Finally, someone comes through. This time it’s not your usual sources but an old military friend. Rogers was in his hospital, injured but not at risk of death, and no, he wasn’t alone. Someone, a male friend, was with him. Had been the whole time. You nearly sob from relief.

As media attention on the fiasco rises you know there’s no way for you to get close without being spotted. The last thing he needs is to be seen with someone like you. So you allow yourself to be thankful that he’s still here, letting that be enough.

Several weeks later you pass out hard after a long, trying day.

The Hydra files Romanoff released had rocked your world. Nearly everyone you knew had been pinged by those bastards at some point. Including you. This meant everyone was reevaluating their loyalties, cutting ties, and more than a few had already been put down… The fear and paranoia were real and exhausting.  

When a sound from your kitchen hits your ears in the middle of the night you shoot up. Hand already wrapped around the pistol under your pillow. Apparently, this was the day.

Not bothering with formalities like pants, you quietly creep to your cracked bedroom door and nudge it open just enough. Without a sound you stalk down the short hall, breath bated.

All you can see in the dim light is the intruder’s back. Wide, shoulders move as they finish a bottle of whiskey and set it down, not even trying to be quiet. A car passes and illuminates familiar golden hair. Steve…

You lower your gun, “Wanna tell me what you’re doing in my kitchen at three in the morning?”

He turns slowly, the shadows making his features almost sinister. “Did you know?” Voice barely above a whisper.

“Know what?” You set the gun on a side table and move to stand on the opposite side of the kitchen island. “About S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

Almost too fast for your eyes to follow, he rounds the counter, grabbing your shoulders and pinning you hard against the wall. Your breath is heavy from a mix of fear and maybe a touch of excitement.  

“Fuck S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Ok,” your voice breathy as you try to regain composure. “Well for what it’s worth, no, I suspected S.H.I.E.L.D. but I didn’t have anything concrete. Hydra…” Your eyes dart away, “That I did know about…”

“No,” his fingers dig into your upper arms, his breath scented with whiskey. “The Winter Soldier,” he spits the title out, “did you know who he was?!”

You look back to him, brows knit. “Uh… until a few weeks ago I thought he was the bogeyman of criminals… so… no. Should I know him?”

Some of the rage seeps from Steve’s features, “Steve?” You place your hand against his unshaven cheek.

In an instant, his mouth covers yours, warm and whiskey flavored. You almost groan in satisfaction. His massive form presses into you and you savor the sensation.

He runs his hands down your sides as your arms curl around his neck. When he slips his hand in the front of your boy shorts you make a small sound, you already know what he’ll find.

When he feels your moisture, those strong fingers sliding just over your damp folds a grin fills his face but he doesn’t make a move.

“Please,” you echo his request from months before.

That's all it takes. His lips crash against yours, teeth knocking slightly, and two of his fingers slip in, stretching you open. You moan into his mouth, hips bucking, your body hungry for him.

Wanting to touch him your hands move under his shirt, holding his sides as he works your cunt. When his fingers curl up just enough your nails dig into his skin. You feel the tension gather in your abdomen. Wordlessly you beg him not to stop.

“Steve…” Your breath hitches.

His thumb rolls lightly over your clit. Your head would have thudded against the wall had he not cupped it, forcing your gaze to stay on him. His blue eyes burn into you, he picks up the pace, thumb making steady circles over your throbbing clit.

“Fuck… fuck…”

“Come for me,” he growls.

You do. In earth-shattering fashion. Crying out, electricity pulses through your body, your legs tremble, your knees give way. He pulls his hand out of your underwear and catches you, holding your trembling body close.

This lasts only until you feel the length of him move through his denim. That was incredible but you want all of him.

Your unsteady hands reach for his belt. Fingers, that can’t quite obey orders yet try to convince the offending garment to give up its prize. His hands grasp yours, stopping their work.

He kisses you, the distraction enough that you don’t resist him as he spins you toward the island. Strong hands turn you, pressing your back to his chest.

Lips trail down your neck, goosebumps cover your skin. He catches the hem of your tee and pulls it over your head. Not trusting your legs to hold you, your hands brace against the counter and his teeth bite at the soft flesh where your neck and shoulders meet.

“Steve,” you breathe out.

The tinkling of his belt buckle hits your ears and fuck, a zipper going down had never sounded so promising.

His hand wraps lightly around your throat, tilting your head back just under his chin. “How do you want it?” His voice burning velvet.

Your eyes flit to his, “Give me everything. Don’t hold back.” Lust sparks in his eyes and he kisses you breathless.

Moving your underwear to the side with one hand and pressing your chest to the counter with the other he slams the full length of his cock into you. You gasp raggedly, body pressing back to him. This is the best kind of hurt.

Steel fingers dig into your hips holding you steady as he fucks you so hard you forget anything else. Your moans and cries mingle with his low sounds. Everything is this.

His hands release you but he doesn’t stop fucking you. Vaguely, you’re aware of something falling to your side. When he grabs a fistful of your hair pulling you up against him you realize it was his shirt, his burning flesh pressed to your own.

The other hand dips into your sopping boy shorts and effortlessly locates your clit once more, his cock throbbing inside you.

“Look at me,” he says in a gravel tone. You do as he asks and a whimper slips from you, his fingers and cock driving you mad. “You like that, baby?”

Words are lost. He fills your parted lips with a kiss and you fill his mouth with your cries of pleasure as you come once more.

You can hardly breathe now, much less stand. With a self-satisfied smirk on his lips, he lifts you into his arms. Your hungry mouth kisses and nibbles the salty skin of his neck as he carries you back to your room.

Tossing you on the bed he slips out of his jeans and you free yourself of your underwear. For a moment he just stares at you, on your back in the dim space, legs spread, waiting for him to take you.

Moving with the fluidity of a big cat he hovers over you. Your hands trail over the solid muscles of his back, fascinated at the power housed in this body.

This time he enters you slowly. Your legs wrap around him and a low rumble vibrates through his chest.

“Y/N,” he hums next to your ear.

You grab his face, bringing it up so you can see him. His breath is ragged. Intentionally you tighten your walls against him his lids flutter and a soft moan falls from his lips.

His pace quickens and your body responds, hips rising to meet him, demanding evermore.

“Fuck,” he breathes out grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head with one hand. The other lifts your head to more easily kiss you.

“C-can I,” he stutters between kisses.

“Yes,” your legs tighten around him, “god yes.”

He roars, your back arches up, moan raw tearing from some hidden place in you. Then there’s nothing but the soft sounds of your panting breaths.

Steve’s body shakes, the weight of it on you strangely comforting. When he looks at you all the rage and fire are gone, replaced with a mournful sadness. The past few weeks had been hard on you… they had to be hell on earth for him.

Tenderly you kiss him. “Stay here.”

His brows knit, “You sure…? I… I… don’t…”

“Hush,” your fingers try to coax the lines of his forehead into relaxing. “I want you to stay.”

You’re thankful he doesn’t protest more. In fact, he doesn’t say much of anything. He does let you hold him. At times you think he may be crying but his cheeks are dry despite his labored breathing.

You’re drifting off, for now resting your head on his chest, when he asks, “Do you like your bed?”

“Huh?” You aren’t sure your groggy brain understood.

“Your bed. Do you… like it?”

You consider for a minute. “It’s ok. Kinda soft.” Honestly, you could never find the right firmness.

He laughs a little, “Apparently it’s a complaint a lot of Vets have. Bed’s being too soft.”

Leaning up on an elbow you look down at him, “Ya know… You’re right. Friend’s of mine complained about that too. Sometimes…” You shake your head a bit at yourself, “Sometimes I even sleep on the floor if I can’t fall asleep in my bed.”

Steve softly caresses the side of your face, a weak smile on his lips, “Me too.”

“Do you want to?” Hopping off the bed you pull the comforter off, not giving him time to answer. “Grab the pillows. No need to deny ourselves that small comfort.”

“We don’t… I wasn’t…”

You’re already laying the comforter on the ground. “I want to. Now come on.”

He brings the pillows over and arranges them while you grab another blanket for you both to cover up with. Quickly the two of you settle down.

After a while, Steve whispers into your hair, “Thank you.”

“You don’t have anything to thank me for, Rogers.”

“Yeah, I do.” You look up at him, his eyes glassy in the dim light. “You saw all of me… the darkest parts… from the beginning and you didn’t run away.”

“Technically…” You tease.

“Shut up,” he smiles but a tear finally works it’s way free. You brush it away.

“You’re not alone, Steve. We all have our dark sides. I’m right there with you.”

He nods, chewing on his bottom lip. 

Now the tears come. Silent at first and he doesn’t let you brush them away or offer him comfort of any kind. He just hides his face, one knee pulled up. When the sobs start you don’t let him push you away.

You can’t fathom the depth of his grief. Everything and everyone he lost… now he had the one thing that gave him stability ripped from under his feet… You don’t have to truly understand it to anchor him though.

Captain America may look out for everyone else. He may be the beacon and hero the country, hell the world, needs right now… But you, you would look out for Steve Rogers. No matter what.

@mywinterwolf @disagreetoagree @breezy1415 @peachthatdrinkslemonade @wonderlandmind4 @piensa-bonito @buckysstar @for-the-love-of-the-fandom @siriuslycloudy2

[chapman17mccall]

Louis Vuitton Lanyard

And, if there's a serial quantity, it is going to be in the right sequence. Counterfeiters are notorious for combine-matching kinds from each collection and making a hodge-podge handbag catastrophe. Hey Theresa, I’ve purchased this bag from Essence of Luxurys retailer. phoenet.tw replica wallets The Louis Vuitton Artsy MM is a very stylish and practical bag destined to be worn only by self-confident fashionistas. It is very spacious and it could simply accommodate all of your necessary belongings. Its uniqueness rests within the bohemian wide and brief deal with emphasised by luxurious golden hardware and by tightly woven braids. It is a design that each lady on earth acknowledges, a treasured luxury bag that expresses fashion and refinement. Just like each Louis Vuitton purse, it is a style symbol, an accessory that should be included into your wardrobe. This can also be one of my favourite elements of LV luggage. Does the leather straps tend to age like the real LV? 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[funtimes-inbabylon]

FULL NAME:

Reynaud  James Saint

NICKNAME/ALIAS:

Ray

DATE OF BIRTH:

04  April (Aries)

CURRENT  RESIDENCE:

Hackney

MYTHOLOGY:

The  clever fox from Aesop's Fable, the Fox and the Crow  "That will do," said he. "That was all I wanted. In exchange  for your cheese I will give you a piece of advice for the future: Do not  trust flatterers."

MAGICAL  AFFINITY:

Thievery.  Jinxes, spells, and hexes that will let him play somebody like a fiddle.

OCCUPATION:

Parasite

APPEARANCE

HEIGHT:

6'01"

BUILD:

Lean  for speed. Tall and oddly lanky, graceful yet clumsy, if that makes sense.

HAIR COLOR:

Copper  red

EYE COLOR:

Untrustworthy  blue

DISTINGUISHING  FEATURES:

Smells  like potpourri and cigarette smoke, has scars where his ears were pierced,  one of his eyelids is a little lazier than the other. Also, he speaks out of  the side of his mouth.

RELATIONSHIPS

FAMILY:

His  dad is long gone, his mom went off the deep end, and Crawford is his second  cousin.

RELATIONSHIP  STATUS:

Single

PARTNER/SPOUSE:

See  above

CHILDREN:

Never

OTHER:

None

SEXUAL  ORIENTATION:

Pansexual

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION:

Panromantic

PERSONALITY QUESIONAIRE

TURN ONS:

Money,  skin sticky with sweat, cool air, soft dirt, sharing cigarettes, licking  teeth.

TURN OFFS:

Devotion,  love, exasperation, being choked, drawn-out conversations, talking at all, setting  yourself on fire.

THREE POSITIVE  TRAITS:

Humorous,  protective, witty

THREE NEGATIVE  TRAITS:

Manipulative,  petty, temperamental

CHARACTER  STEREOTYPE:

Gentleman  thief

MORAL ALIGNMENT:

Chaotic  neutral

MYERS-BRIGGS:

ESFP

ELEMENT:

Air

DIVERGENT  FACTION:

Erudite

PET PEEVES:

Poetry

BAD HABITS:

Stealing,  smoking

TALENTS/SKILLS:

Picking  locks, the violin

GREATEST  PHOBIAS:

Fucking  spiders, man

HIGHSCHOOL  CLIQUE:

Cool  Kid

ALLERGIES/AILMENTS:

He's  allergic to bees

SIN/VIRTUE:

Greed/Diligence

BIG SPOON/LITTLE  SPOON?:

Ha

FAVORITE  SEASON/HOLIDAY:

Spring,  he doesn't like holidays

WHAT'S YOUR  POISON?:

Cigarettes  and sometimes cocaine

Mother's pure blood had been muddled into your own. Mixed with the non-magical folk, cast from the family for the very thought tarnishing the name. Yet she had loved him, loved him so dearly and so profoundly, convinced that their love was prophetical. That philosophers from long before their time had woven tales and epic poems about their intimacy and rooted affection. Star-crossed lovers, where two worlds come to one. Then he got her pregnant, broke her arm, and left.

Spikes that poke and prod. Take the shining needle and guide it through the path. The thread that it brings together cannot be undone. Petty thievery was the first stitch. A filthy pickpocket. Stealing knuts from the purses of old women at the market. Snatching candy from the shelves of the store. Not long after did you learn the power of words and clever winks. Things the boy would fall for. A red string wrapped around your index finger. If you tug on it, he will come, bearing gifts and sad eyes.

Did you love him? The child who touched you with soft palms that did not bleed. The child who ate sand because you told him that it would make him prettier. Lips blushed pink and long eyelashes that fluttered when you called him beautiful. He is the second stitch, soaked in copper and gilded in silver. Zinc and nickel and the way bronze turned green over the years. A platter full of diamonds and sapphires, rubies and amethysts, all that glitters certainly is gold. Greedy hands that itch with unrest, that yearn for the solid weight of coins in your grasp.

Childhood that was pinched with Mother's new love for the bottle. You only saw the black-haired boy once a year, when his mother would let you come and visit for Christmas. At first, it was gentle; shiny new shoes, watches made of crystal quartz, you would tell him how pretty his hair looked and how ugly the watch was, no such thing should be on your wrist. Then school would start and it was only the first two years without him. Shunning him in the beginning, a small kid like that to hang around you? Yet friends would laugh and you couldn't stop words of defense coming from your mouth.

He had things you wanted and you knew how to get them. When you let sweet things fall from your tongue, it was as if jewels poured from his mouth. Soft things with hard edges, precious, an effervescence that filled you, champagne blood. They shine in the cradle of your hand, you pull strings around his fingers and keep him close. Eyes heavy with the weight of pearls, the small, dewy drops that form at the end of eyelashes. Were they pearls, opulent gemstones that shaped so from the pressure of the sea? From the weight of the world? Or were they tears? Brimming and leaking, salty like the water but not the utter creation of beauty. Tears were ugly, tears did nothing, there was no value to them, to be collected in a vial and hung around the neck.

It was flattery, the way his cheeks deepened to red, the way your eyes grew lazy with the thought of love or lust or the satisfying weight of coin in your pocket. Heavy was the time on your shoulders, in which his feathers turned like hands of a grandfather clock. Lead-plated roman numerals, steel chimes on the hour. Tick, tock.

The bells ring, a clamor ensues, you find yourself rummaging through a tossed-aside bag as he paces around the kitchen, looking for tea. He is humming to himself a poem and amidst your squirrel-like search for the golden acorn, a book happens to reach your hands. You pause, momentarily, to sit back and page through the short stories. The rush of finding worthy items to flip became subsidiary to you, as you turn to a dog-eared page that reads, The Fox and the Crow.

[draconic-ichor]

Tarnished Threads, Golden Stitches

Morgott/female tarnished

Part 2

Warnings: strong language, sexual themes

Summary: Hester accepts the job and settles into her new life.

Feedback appreciated, 18+

Part 1

An offer she couldn’t refuse…she’d be a fool to. The morning felt rushed and blurred, the other seamstresses helping to get her presentable and pack up the few items that were truly hers.

Their words of excitement and encouragement kept a small flame of courage alive in her breast the whole journey: from flagging down a wagon, being led into the grand castle, all the way to her signing the contract upon a fancy desk.

She pulled her hand away, looking down at the wet ink that mirrored her name. The man across the desk noticed the slight tremble, flashing a smile.

“At ease, dear Lady.” He soothed.

“Ah, yes.” Hester nodded, placing the quill into the inkwell, “I apologize.”

“No need.” He stepped around the desk, going on, “I am Head of Staff, any and all complaints or communications you may have are welcome through myself. Allow me to show you to your space.”

The man gathered up a book of papers, leading her along.

As they went, the man pointed out important locations or areas of historical interest. Every corner and crack oozed with antiquity.

They came to two stained glass doors, the glass made up of shifting shades of greens made to look like twisting vines.

“Here we are!” He smiled, opening up the doors, “This is where you will do most of your work, a place to meet and to take orders as needed.”

Hester gasped.

It was bright, hanging plants and a mural of tree branches twisting around the space gave it a lush feeling.

Half the room was completely covered, floor to ceiling, with shelves specially built to hold bolts upon bolts of fabric. More colors than Hester thought possible dazzled before her, a plethora of patterns to follow.

The other end of the room was illuminated with Erdlight from ornate glass doors leading to a small balcony. Pine counters and a large work desk lined the free walls, the counters holding dozens of drawers with supplies.

It was truly fit for a royal tailor…or a seamstress.

She slowly turned, taking it in.

“If you desire any materials that are not currently on the inventory list, you will have to have them either approved or requisition them yourself.”

“I can’t see myself ever wanting again…” she breathed, turning slowly to take everything in.

“One would be surprised, once the freedom of creativity is allowed to wander.” He smiled, looking over his papers.

“Your quarters are through that door, just there.” He pointed, “I hope they are not too quaint. You will be expected to keep both areas clean besides the sheets, which will be replaced weekly.

“Meals are served for staff at 8, but you are welcome to prepare your own food from the secondary larder. The washing facilities are on the base floor as well.”

Hester nodded, taking in the wall of information.

“Ah yes.” The Head of Staff tilted his head, turning more towards her.

“I will extend to you the same warning given to all staff of the fairer sex.” His voice dipped a bit more serious, “You would do well to perform any duties in the presence of the King swiftly and without provocation, do not speak unless spoken to and leave the Lord’s wing as soon as your duties are completed.”

Hester turned towards the man more, brows knotting.

“H-Has his Lordship,” she swallowed, “raged against his staff?”

“Well.” He looked down, “His Lordship, the King, is mostly reclusive and passive whilst in the castle.” Sharp eyes flicking back up to meet her gaze, “But one can never be too careful with…his kind.”

The last words sank like a stone in her gut, Hester frowning but biting her tongue.

“And it would be a great loss, to be without a tailor once more.”

“I’m sure.” She nodded curtly.

“Well.” He closed the book, “I’ll leave you to settle in. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

~

She took the rest of the afternoon settling in and familiarizing herself with the space. Laughter bubbled up when she looked at the ‘quaint’ room for herself, it being the size of three of the seamstress quarters at the old shop. Her meager items hardly made it feel like home, yet.

Walking down to the kitchens a sound caught her wandering ear. Two maids were arguing in the hall outside the servants dining hall.

Hester’s steps faltered.

One looked hardly out of girlhood, with blonde hair put up in braids, the other was much older.

“Please, you’ve heard the stories!” The maid begged, “I don’t want to go.”

“Wants are for the rich.” The older one scolded.

“Please, ma’am.” The girl trembled.

“Just take the tray to him and leave.” She instructed, “Simple.”

Hester padded up, overhearing the whole ordeal. “What is the problem?” She asked curiously.

The older maid huffed, “The previous serving girl ran off. And this new lass thinks herself too good to deliver a simple tray.”

“I’ll deliver anything to the furthest part of the castle. Just don’t send me to him.” She sniffed, looking down.

“Him?” Hester echoed.

“The girl’s head was filled with stories.” The other sighed, tired of the same thing, “The commoners love to gossip.”

The girl’s eyes were glassy.

“I can take it.” Hester offered, “I've no fear of the King.”

She looked up, relief washing over her young face. “Thank you, thank you, Ma’am.” She stammered, handing over the tray. Her relief was quickly replaced with guilt, “Be careful…they say omen eat maidens.”

The older maid made a loud scoff, taking the younger’s ear, “Speaking daft. I wasn’t sending you on the tray, now was I?!” As the younger yelped, the maid turned a finger towards Hester, “It’s all well and good to offer help, but will you step in again tomorrow when this little flower refuses?”

“It’s no trouble.” Hester gave a weak smile.

“No trouble.” The maid huffed exhaustively, rolling her eyes and taking the other away.

Hester had to ask the guards for directions to the Lord’s study, only getting lost twice on the way. Soon the heavy door stood before her and the realization of what she agreed to sank into her gut.

The head of staff’s words echoed around her head as she shifted the tray to her hip. Hesitantly she raised a hand to knock upon the oaken door.

“Thou may enter,” Came a deep voice.

A shiver ran down her spine, twisting the large knob.

Everything in the study was made much larger than commonly seen: the desk just as massive as its owner, the shelves were built so high Hester would have to fetch a ladder to reach them.

Even with the desk's larger build, the King still sat upon the floor to comfortably write, his tail lazily swaying behind him as he wrote. Hester swallowed, watching him for a long moment.

His quill seemed to be a flight pinion from a great eagle, scratching away at the parchment before him.

“Leave thou tray just there.” He shifted just enough to point at a worn table.

The words spurred her back into the present, quickly placing the tray down, backing away to smooth out her skirts. A shifting of cloth and a groan could be heard behind her.

Hester wheeled around, being overshadowed.

Morgott stood to full standing glancing down at her, an unreadable look in his golden eye.

Hester scrambled to the side, waiting quietly as the King crossed the space in two steps.

He lifted the lid with a hollow sound, revealing a bowl full of some type of dry grain. Hester took a step closer, curiously. Taking the kettle, Morgott poured boiling water into the bowl, eye flicking up to watch the other. It was quite usual for the staff to make swift exits from his presence; her curiosity and lack of fear towards him was refreshing.

Carefully replacing the lid onto the bowl, he gestured to the empty seat across the narrow table.

Hes blinked, the offer taking a moment to sink in. Once her mind caught up, she hastily sat down, cheeks flushed after being caught staring.

Morgott watched her for a moment before his gaze shifted back towards the tray. Picking up the cup, he poured more water from the kettle into it, placing it before Hester shortly after.

She could smell the brewing tea, looking from the cup to him. “My Lord, this was yours?” She pointed out the obvious, not moving to take the cup.

“Henceforth, tis thine.” He spoke plainly, “I am without the means to offer a guest proper accommodation, currently, so mine own cup will do.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but quickly remembered her place. It would be rude to refuse hospitality, she concluded, reaching for the cup. Morgott watched her, how her lips pursed to blow away the steam.

He turned away, pacing back to his desk.

“My Lord?” Hester asked.

“Hm?”

“Will you not eat?” A note of worry in her tone.

The omen held up two fingers, adding without turning, “Takes a few minutes to prepare…”

Hester’s curiosity piqued even further.

Morgott folded a letter, placing it down before dripping wax then stamping it with his seal. Placing that to be sent out in the morning, he filed a few things away, padding back to the table after.

He gingerly lifted the lid from the bowl, very aware of Hester intently watching his every move, to reveal a bowl of soft fluffy grain, cooked and hot. Morgott stirred it up a bit to make sure it was all prepared, spoon clinking against the ceramic as he did so.

Sitting down heavily on the floor, as he was at his desk before she arrived, he finally began to eat. Hester sipped her hot tea, feeling out of place.

Morgott was wholly unused to casual guests, so did little in the way of conversation, he was quite content to eat in silence.

“My Lord?” She finally spoke, asking, “What is that?”

Morgott finished his current mouthful before answering, “Frumenty.”

“Iv never seen it made in such a way.” She frowned, that dish being a staple to the lower class.

“It would grow quite cold when brought to mine study from the kitchens.” He explained, “So larger batches are made ahead, then dried…it allows mineself to reconstitute the meal at mine leisure.” Gesturing to the kettle, “Tis all that is needed.”

She nodded, listening. Taking another sip from her cup she thought.

Odd…that the King chooses peasant meals when even his staff eat better…

Almost hearing the cogs move about her mind, Morgott’s gaze flicked up to her, chewing slowly. He tilted his head a bit, expectantly.

“Oh…” Hester looked at the table, voice soft, “Is that all you ask of, for a meal, my Lord?”

“It suits mine needs.” He answered briskly.

She nodded, not wanting to pry further.

The rest of the meal went by swiftly and in silence. Morgott stood, placing the items used back onto the tray neatly. He held out a large hand to her expectantly.

“Oh!” Hes nodded, gulping down the last mouthful of tea before handing over the cup.

It was neatly placed with the rest, Morgott then going back to his desk. He diligently began to settle into work once more, tranquil and quiet.

Hester stood, carefully pushing in the chair, before taking the tray in hand. Not wanting to disturb anymore than she already had, she attempted to escape.

“Mine Lady.” Morgott’s voice came.

Hester paused, tray holding open the heavy door.

“If thou wishes to share mine table in the future, I ask thee brings thine own meal as well.” He instructed, a warmth to his words.

She nodded, feeling hot, “Yes, my Lord.”

~

Hester quietly entered the kitchens, by this time things were quiet, most of the staff finished their duties for the night.

The older maid sat a ways away at a table worn down by many hands, finally sitting down to a meal herself. “Returned at last, and didn’t get gobbled up I see.” She chuckled.

“His Lordship was quite content with the Frumenty.” Hester nodded, taking the tray to the wash in.

The woman nodded to that, “He sticks to bland things…easy meals.”

Hes paused the faucet, asking, “Why?” She honestly didn’t expect an answer, simply her curiosity bubbling over.

“Unwell, after such an upbringing.” The answer came quietly, “…can’t stomach what we grew accustomed to. Be patient with him.”

Hester nodded, hands dipping into the hot water to begin washing, mind full.

“I don’t question him, his choices make our lives easier to tell the truth.” The old woman went on, “Especially since maids are so hard to keep.”

“He wishes me to dine with him, if I deliver food again.” Hester confessed, an odd feeling in her stomach. There was a long stretch of silence causing her to drop the bowl back in the water to twist around. She caught the maid giving her a knowing look. “What?” Hester smiled nervously.

The maid gave a showy shrug, taking another bite of food.

“Is it wrong?”

“Do you fear him?”

“Should I?” Hester retorted.

She shrugged again, “If your heart feels no fear, then it is no one’s place to tell you what is wrong. Your King asked of you.”

“…that is true.” She nodded, looking into the sudsy water.

“The life of the serving class is short.” Her voice brightened a bit, “Do not dwell on worries, dear.”

Hester gave her a weak smile, “I’ll try.”

*Frumenty: was a popular dish in Western European medieval cuisine. It is a porridge, a thick boiled grain dish—hence its name, which derives from the Latin word frumentum, "grain".

[maryam0revna]

@pringlesaremydivision just fucking...did this whole list...for no reason. and I thought it was revolutionary, so here’s a bunch of shit you didn’t ask for!! 

1. if you got married, what colour would you wear to your wedding?

White but with some kind of gold thread/beading/other subtle accents. Bc I’m committed to getting married just after sunset with a bunch of candles and shit, so I’m gonna need my dress to have a golden glow to it.

2. do you prefer cereal & milk or hot chocolate?

Those are not opposites, but I guess cereal? You can have cereal anytime, but hot chocolate is pretty weather-dependent.

3. what name would you give to a cactus?

Spike

4. what would you name your kids if you had them?

Charles for a boy, Cora for a girl, or Caroline. I’ll probably change my mind by the time I actually have them. And no, I don’t know why they all start with C. Maybe I’ll be one of those parents...

5. what are your favourite shoes like?

They’re flat sandals; the part that cups your heel is black, and then there’s a wide band over the toes that’s a warm brown. They’re very Minimalist and match absolutely EVERYTHING, and I paid like..$8 for them at Dirt Cheap.

6. would you like to change your name?

Not really. It’s not my favorite, but it’s me. 

(Mood.)

7. are you a star person or a flower person?

Again, not opposites, and I am absolutely both. 

8. would you be ok with ending up single?

Oh yeah. I mean, I’d like to have many torrid affairs, but if I don’t find somebody I love and want to make it work with, I’m not gonna force myself to be in a subpar relationship. I’ll just have some sperm donor babies and live my best life.

9. are you a museum person or a park person?

Hmm, those are closer to being opposites, and yet I am still both.

10. how do you know it when you’re in love?

I’ve been in love exactly one time, and there was no one Moment or Lightning Strike or anything. I think the biggest thing was that I was willing to change my behavior to be more considerate of their needs. If you know me, you know I’m like...Very Me. Forcefully Me. So when I’m willing to modify or mitigate that, shit’s for real.

11. how was your favourite toy as a child like?

Do books count as toys? I was a book kid.

12. what name would you give to your car?

My current car is named Ahab. (It’s a big white whale, so obviously it needed a Moby Dick name.) Car before that was Belle. (Something about a Belle and Sebastian song. I don’t know. I was in 10th grade.)

13. do you decorate your bedroom a lot?

Yes. Candles, fairy lights, art, stacks of books, records, artfully draped scarves, giant cork board, etc. All have been in my room at one point or another, almost all at the same time.

14. does it make you sad to sleep alone?

GOD no. No one touching me? No one stealing the blankets? No one raising my body temperature to its boiling point? I love it.

15. do you have a favourite memory with your grandparents?

I have this very hazy memory that feels almost like a dream. We were in the car, late at night, driving to, I think, (great-)Grandpa Campbell’s house in Yazoo. My grandpa was driving, and my gran and I were in the back seat. The lights in the car were on, we had a blanket over our heads, and we were acting out a part of a movie. I can’t remember anything else except being very sleepy and watching the headlights from the oncoming traffic in the dark. The warm, hazy light under the sheet and then the headlights coming out of the dark...it’s comforting.

16. if you had a date, would you rather go to the amusement park or to the theatre?

Amusement park. Having been on a theatre-like date (we went to see Cirque du Soleil), I can authoritatively say that, even with someone I broadly enjoy, it’s a little uncomfortable, if you’re not like, A Couple already. And amusement parks are fun as hell! There’s lots to do, a lot of variety, and plenty of opportunity to be silly, which is ideal. 

Also ROLLERCOASTERS. I’ve had a blast riding a rollercoaster with an ex with whom I, at the time, had a pretty contentious quasi-friendship, because rollercoasters are the great unifiers. Once I’ve seen fear in your eyes (and you’ve seen my open-mouthed, eyes-clenched, screaming in absolute euphoria face) we’re a thing now, baby.

17. if you could have a professional makeup artist to do your makeup for a day, what would you like for her to do?

I would want her to do my makeup super slowly and teach me how to do it myself. Bc I’m pretty confident in my day-to-day abilities, but a makeup artist would definitely know shit that I do not.

18. does going to the doctor frighten you or comfort you?

Neither. I mean, if I know I need stitches, there’s some trepidation, obviously. But usually it’s just a thing.

19. if studying anything was free and you had endless time & energy, what stuff would you study?

Everything. I mean it. Everything. I would learn every language, every skill that could ever potentially be useful, everything.

20. who would appear in the acknowledgements if you wrote a book?

My parents, my extended family, my friends, and an old professor.

21. do you have a favourite bird? which one is it?

I do not. But hawks are very cool, and so are rosiate spoonbills. 

22. what colour do you wear the most?

Either navy, gray, or black. My hair is fairly bright, and I don’t want my clothes to compete too much. 

23. if you could launch a magazine, what would it be about?

Real Shit. Like, “here’s what you’re told about [insert subject of the month], but here’s the Real Shit that insiders know.” 

24. what name would you give to a cat?

My cat’s name is Hadrian. He was almost Sarkan, but he’s a Hadrian.

25. if you were a historian, what time in History would you like to study?

Either classic antiquity or Sun King-era France. I just wanna do The Most, please.

26. do you have a favourite lesbian story that happened to you?

Probably when MadTV outed my lesbian aunt to me. I was probably 7 or 8, and there was a joke about how two girls that were “roommates” must obviously be lesbians; my brain instantly went to my aunt and her very butch “roommate” of many years, and I was like, “Oh, okay. Noted.”  

27. what was your biggest childhood dream?

Literally to be a witch with magic powers. After that, to write books.

28. have you ever kept a dream journal?

Twice, briefly. My dreams are WEIRD and flow in ways that make them hard to describe.

29. if you had a camera & could start a photography project, what kind of stuff would you take pictures of?

My hometown. It’s such a place.

30. do you have a favourite kissing memory?

Almost all of my kissing memories are good kissing memories, so picking a favorite is tough... I think my favorite memory is my first kiss with the guy I dated my senior year of high school. The relationship ended badly, but that’s one of those Really Good Memories that just wasn’t tarnished by that. 

Basically we were on a picnic blanket in the middle of a field of tall grass, middle of the day, summer afternoon. Just had lunch, joking around. The day before, I had made some joke about “bite me” and he’d said some corny shit like, “I will”. So out of nowhere, he was like, “Remember how I said that?” and proceeded to plant a gentle but firm bite right onto my shoulder. Three things happened in about .25 seconds: I gasped, my eyes got approximately as big as dinner plates if I had to guess, and my mouth was on his mouth. It’s like I blinked and it happened, zero decision-making on my part. Pure response. Was it silly and completely High School? Oh yeah. But it was a funny, spontaneous moment that surprised the hell out of me, and I was the one doing the kissing! Good, good times.

[code-of-creation]

Shakespearean aesthetics

I assume I’m meant to highlight the parts that appeal to me in my writing and/or lifestyle

Macbeth: the howl of wolves. moonless nights. dirt under fingernails. stained silk.chattering teeth. voices hoarse and cracked. rotting fruit. echoing drums. dry heaving. hanging cobwebs. stifling humidity. bloodshot eyes. the roughness of rusted steel. wild rosebushes. muscle cramps. the sound of splintering wood.

A Midsummer’s Night Dream: crackling fires. ivy crawling on stone. the faint music of running water. petrichor. dirty, bare feet. tattered clothing. thistledown. wilted wildflower crowns. late evening birdsong. curling leaves. a symphony of croaking frogs. drifting feathers. the eerie sound of windchimes at night. humming bees. beds of clover.

Romeo and Juliet: warm golden lamplight. worn shoes. crumbling brick walls. whispered poetry. embroidered satin. cool, hazy mornings. tousled hair. rosewater. flushed cheeks.distant orchestras. unfinished marble statues. cobblestone streets. loose threads. ink smudged on parchment. tapping fingers. dust illuminated by sunlight.

Hamlet: shattered glass. a cluster of fraying ribbons. unanswered knocks on doors. lingering dampness. white noise. inexplicable drafts. migraines. bleeding ears. the taste of metal.reflected mirrors. dry, cracked lips. the sound of tearing paper. fogged windows.memories of dreams. tarnished silver. protruding veins.

Tagged by: @stitched-to-a-smile

Tagging: Whoever wants to

[hexxborne-a]

Shakespeare Aesthetics

Macbeth: the howl of wolves. moonless nights. dirt under fingernails. stained silk. chattering teeth. voices hoarse and cracked. rotting fruit. echoing drums. dry heaving. hanging cobwebs. stifling humidity. bloodshot eyes. the roughness of rusted steel. wild rosebushes. muscle cramps. the sound of splintering wood.

A Midsummer’s Night Dream: crackling fires. ivy crawling on stone. the faint music of running water. petrichor. dirty, bare feet. tattered clothing. thistledown. wilted wildflower crowns. late evening birdsong. curling leaves. a symphony of croaking frogs. drifting feathers. the eerie sound of windchimes at night. humming bees. beds of clover.

Romeo and Juliet: warm golden lamplight. worn shoes. crumbling brick walls. whispered poetry. embroidered satin. cool, hazy mornings. tousled hair. rosewater. flushed cheeks.  distant orchestras. unfinished marble statues. cobblestoned streets. loose threads. ink smudged on parchment. tapping fingers. dust illuminated by sunlight. Hamlet: shattered glass. a cluster of fraying ribbons. unanswered knocks on doors. lingering dampness. white noise. inexplicable drafts. migraines. bleeding ears. the taste of metal. reflected mirrors. dry, cracked lips. the sound of tearing paper. fogged windows. memories of dreams. tarnished silver. protruding veins.

tagged by: @stitched-to-a-smile !! thank u

tagging: @jvdicatum @viclated @aurealmaster and anyone that wants to!!

[resetgod]

❝ i can’t tell what’s real anymore , & what’s made up . ❞

❤ ❞ ( @gamertard )

                         This is his LAST CHANCE to make up for a lifetime of mistakes , a lifetime sin. He and his brother alike were raised as children of BAD FAITH walking on hell fire and brimstone before the thunderous jowls of the devil herself. His mother had never been a forgiving  angel, never favorited in the eyes of the lord. And  Saeyoung was left to pay the price  of ETERNAL DAMNATION. 

                             This price was never meant to fall on anyone else. Never meant to fall on HIM.

                        By some  m i r a c l e  all these memories have mashed together with enough force to SHATTER the stained  glass  that  is  the  chapel  behind  his  eyes.  It  is  a  multicolored  masterpiece  of  refinement  and grotesque horror ( depending on the perspective at least ). Russet locks of hair CASCADE down through his vision, only to rest golden hues on the MALE standing before him. No words fall from the dried up LEVEE OF HIS THROAT and he only nods in response, repressing the cringe that dangles on the last syllable spoken. There are no jokes to hide behind, no safety in light hearted laughter. 

                        ❝ I’m sorry, you were never suppose to get involved, Yoosung. I shouldn’t have said anything. I wouldn’t have said anything——— ❞ The broken up apology falls short of tattered eardrums and he does not know how to stitch together this tapestry of UNRAVELING THREAD that he alone had been picking at all along. His friend, his best friend, wouldn’t remember any of this hell within the next few hours. A new reset. A new game. New memories.

                        But Saeyoung would  r e m e m b e r . And he would NEVER AGAIN pull any of the others into the crossfire of this deadly war, yet sometimes the battle is so sweet Luciel forgets THE VIOLENCE IS STILL HIS. He reaches out, hand falling short of the opposite’s frame as though afraid a simple touch from tarnished fingertips could shatter porcelain skin. ❝ It is real. It’s all real to us. Isn’t that what matters? ❞

[littlemourningstarr]

21, Tim/Jason?

“Stop doing this to yourself.”

“Jason.” Tim’s voice felt like background noise, as Jason threaded the needle in his hand through the wound down on his abdomen. It was shallow and he’d gotten the bleeding to stop, but that didn’t mean the stitches didn’t hurt like a bitch. “Jason.”

Jason gritted his teeth, not looking up. His fingers were bloodstained, red caked up under his nails. He was hurting from the gash on his arm, the blood had chilled and begun to dry and was uncomfortable. The gunshot that had grazed his other arm a few nights prior was burning again, and the bandages on his back were coming loose-

“Jason!” This time Tim’s voice broke into his head, rattled around and made his skull ache. Jason looked up, still holding the needle, and Tim had ripped his mask off, was holding it limp in one hand and just staring at him across the room. “Stop doing this to yourself.”

Jason snorted, looking back at his work. “Ya think I did this to myself, Replacement? You saw it all go down.” Jason tugged the needle, before tying the stitches off and setting it aside. He took a moment to just breathe, before he was reaching for a bottle of pills he’d laid out. He popped it open, tossed two into his mouth and swallowed them dry, hoping they’d take the edge off. He’d run out of anything stronger than over the counter crap.

Tim sighed, and when Jason looked up again he was taking a few steps over. “You’re... not like this.” Tim waved his hand at Jason, at the bloody mess he was. “You’re better than this.”

Jason didn’t say anything, but there was a bitter laugh boiling up in his throat. It choked him, and swallowing it down made his stomach turn.

“Better?” he sneered, standing up. Stripped completely to the waist, he was all dirty, bloody muscle and hulking size. He felt giant-

And yet he felt small, because maybe Tim was speaking the truth.

“Tell that to anyone else in this family and they’ll laugh.” He turned away from Tim, but knew his eyes were taking in the patches of bandage taped all along his back. “Golden boy thinks I’m outta my mind and B thinks I’m a lost cause.” He hunched over, wondering if he could wrap up the gash on his arm and not stitch it. He was sick of stitching himself up.

“And a part of you thinks they’re right.” Tim was suddenly standing next to him, and Jason nearly jumped out of his skin. He had no right being a bat like that. Being anything like everyone Jason wanted to be.

“Fuck on off, Timbo,” Jason snarled, but Tim was touching his arm then, gloved fingers moving up his forearm, just past his elbow. Over the sticky blood and then pausing, so Tim could peer at the gash.

“Can I stitch this one up?” Tim asked, and Jason wanted to scream at him that he shouldn’t even be here. That he shouldn’t have followed Jason home, because word would get back and the family wouldn’t approve-

And why tarnish something good like Tim with his filth?

“Run on home, little birdie,” Jason said, but the venom was fading fast from his voice. “Before daddy Bats gets word you’re out past curfew.”

Tim laughed at that. Something low, small, but real- and Jason hated that it made him smile. Tim carefully tugged his gloves off, dropping them on the table, and grabbing the gauze and disinfectant.

“I’m good at sneaking back in,” Tim offered, carefully beginning to clean the wound. Jason hissed, looked up and away, but couldn’t deny that Tim’s touch was gentle. “And you’re just afraid if I stay, you’ll have to admit that I’m right.”

Jason bit his tongue. Admit that Tim was right- that he was being reckless because he couldn’t stand being disowned anymore? That maybe he had a death wish beneath everything else? That if he couldn’t get back into the family that he had been taken from, that had grown so much- that if they couldn’t understand why he was doing this-

Then what was even the point of going on at all?

“Do you have anything domestic in this place?” Tim asked, beginning to stitch the wound. “Like a coffeepot or mugs and a microwave?”

Jason glanced around the garage like underground hideout. “No,” he admitted, “I don’t live here.”

It was a lie, because he hardly ever went home.

“Well then, think you can keep yourself upright on a bike? I’ll treat you to tea and a couch probably more comfortable than the chair you obviously don’t sleep in here because you obviously leave.” Jason glanced at the computer chair that was showing it’s wear, before he opened his mouth-

And promptly clamped it shut.

“You shouldn’t-”

“I should,” Tim argued, setting the needle down and beginning to wrap a bandage around Jason’s arm. “Because you obviously need something, Jason. And maybe I can’t give you whatever it is... but I can try.” He stepped back, and Jason looked at his arm, before turning his eyes back to Tim.

“You have no reason to. I’ve tried to kill you.”

“Yeah, and I’ve forgiven you.” Tim held out his hand. “Now, tea and a real place to sleep for the night. I’d offer to make you breakfast in the morning, but it’d probably be burn even if it was just toast.”

Jason stared at that hand, before he carefully took it. “Maybe I can handle breakfast,” he said, and he told himself that when Tim flashed a smile, his gut twisted because he was tired and hurt-

And not because Tim’s smile seemed too good for this world.