#the forehead kiss in the last one makes me catatonic

[liam-summers]

Bangel + Taking a Stroll 👩🏼‍🤝‍👨🏻

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

🗡️ Something Dread, Something Red: Chapter Twelve

Something Dread, Something Red: Stuck in a proposal to a Marine Commodore, you escape minutes before your wedding in one last ditch effort to avoid getting married to a tyrant. Barely making it to the port of your town, you stumble across a ship just starting to leave and beg for passage off the island. You fail to notice that the people you beg for help, are pirates.

Warnings: None.

To Note: “Red Haired” Shanks x FemReader

Word Count: ~3.0k

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The clock hanging on the wall told you that it was just shy of four am, and your eyes burned something fierce to back that up. At this point, Shanks had developed a fever that made sweat drip from his forehead and cold sweats rattle his body. Was this common enough of an occurrence that the men usually just left him to sleep till morning? The thought horrified you because Shanks was clearly suffering. You had suffered from a fever once, your mother had punished you by making you stay outside in the rain overnight after you had made a mistake. The headache alone had left you whimpering in bed and the cold sweats combined with body aches had you all but catatonic. Your mother hadn’t apologized and had even gotten mad all over again because you had been bed ridden for a week.

Blinking away the haze in your eyes, you reached over and placed the back of your hand against his forehead once more. How could he feel even hotter now? Your lips pinched and you reached for the cloth, dipping it back in the bowl of cool water to wipe the newest layer of sweat that had accumulated. You ran it along his forehead, brushing back sweaty red strands and contemplating if you should just go and grab Hongo. Moving to stand up, you were caught off guard when clammy fingers closed around your retreating ones.

“Leaving so soon?” Your eyes darted to Shanks, your face brightening up that he was awake. Sitting back down, you gave him a faint smile while giving his fingers a gentle squeeze.

“I should get Hongo, your fever is only getting worse and I think you might need medicine.” You told him, looking to the door of the cabin. Shanks’ grip on your hand tightened.

“And leave me all alone?” The look in his eyes was pleading, but you could also see something simmering deeper within his dark eyes. Shanks tugged on your hand, pulling it towards his mouth were he kissed your knuckles. “You wouldn’t be so mean, madam.”  Your fingers twitched beneath his hot lips and you swallowed hard.

��I absolutely would,” You replied faintly, tugging your joined hands away from his lips and back to his side. “Your fever is getting worse and I’m concerned.”

“Everything will be fine if you are here,” Shanks said, his voice dropped in tone. His lips curved into a teasing smirk that you had always found rather attractive and you had to count to five in your head. Clearly his fever had addled a few brain cells… or had it? “It’s always nice to have such treasure at my side.”

“Wishful thinking,” You told the man, using your other hand to push his head back to the pillow. “Go to sleep, you need it.” Shanks followed your orders, but his intense gaze didn’t stray once from your lovely face. You were going to pull your hand back, but his grip on your fingers remained firm and strong. “Are you going to let my hand go?”

“Why would I do that?” Shanks shot back, his lazy smile widening. “It fits in mine so perfectly.” You blinked at him and raised an eyebrow. Oh yes, most certainly addled…

“Will you rest if I hold your hand?” You probed, hoping that you could sway him into making a good choice in regards to his health by staying in bed.

“If the madam insists,” Shanks agreed, snuggling back into his bed. You sighed in relief and slumped back against the chair. Observing his face, you noticed that while he had closed his eyes to rest, a big grin was still plastered on his face.

“What is so exciting about holding my hand?” You asked, Shanks didn’t open his eyes but replied nonetheless.

“What isn’t exciting about holding your hand?” He stated with honesty.   “There are a great many things I would like to do with you, treasure, and holding your hand is the least of it.” You rolled your eyes and told him to go back to sleep.

When Shanks woke up after breaking through the worst of his phantom pain fever, he was surprised to find himself staring at the ceiling of his cabin. Last he remembered, his stump had been throbbing as he and the men pushed through jungle and storm to hunt down the devil fruit they had come for. He must have had a flare up. But why was he in his bed when you were occupying it?

“Aria demanded it,” Hongo’s voice was whisper soft, and twisting his head to the side, Shanks saw him packing up a few medical supplies. Hongo eyed his Captain. “The bed. She demanded Benn put you in your bed, put her foot down so I hear.” Shanks eyebrows rose.

“Aria got up when we got back? Did the men wake her?” Hongo snorted, clearly the overnight fever had gotten to his Captain because in what world would you have gone to bed worried?

“You’re assuming she went to bed in the first place, Shanks.” Hongo corrected him. “She never did. Spent the entire day pacing around like a caged animal. I had her do inventory to get her mind off worrying.” Shanks wasn’t happy to hear that. He knew you hadn’t been happy with their decision to follow through with their plans, but you hadn’t tried to stop them. But he hadn’t expected this bad of a reaction! “She said she had a bad feeling, lasted all day and it was making her physically nauseous. Turns out she was right.”

“Job still had to be done.” Shanks rasped back, grimacing from the lingering headache.

“Aye, and you can tell her that yourself.” Hongo agreed before snickering. “After she gives you a lecture about doing jobs in bad weather.” The doctor nodded his chin to the other side of Shanks bed, and that is when the red haired pirate realized he had his fingers wrapped around a hand. Rolling his head to the other side, Shanks was met with the sight of lavender hair spilling onto the side of his bed next to his hand which was enveloping yours quite securely. “Don’t know when she finally passed out but by the looks of it she was up for a while.”

Shanks was not pleased to hear that you had stayed up so late because of him, but he was grateful to have you at his side. Now if he could just get out of this bed and get you into it…

“And don’t even think about swapping places with her,” Hongo called Shanks out. Shanks gave his doctor a glare while Hongo picked up his med box. “You still have a bit of a fever and Aria will not be happy to wake up in bed.”

“Remind me again who the Captain of this ship is?” Shanks asked, grimacing as a shaft of sunlight hit his eyes.

“Not you while the madam is bossing everyone around.” Hongo snorted, making a quick get away before Shanks could toss out a come back. “Stay put, for Aria’s sake.” With that, the doctor was out the door leaving Shanks alone in his cabin with you still blissfully asleep next to him. He didn’t dare wake you from your sleep, not after the night you had. Who was supposed to be watching over who again?

The longer you remained on the Red Force, the more you came out of the shell hardened by your upbringing. It was rather amusing to watch you boss men twice your size around, and yet, there was something so nice about having a company of a female on board his ship. He glanced down at his hand, firmly wrapped around yoursin great indicator of who was holding who’s hand. He could take secret enjoyment in how nicely your fingers fit in his. Perfectly even.

Shanks settled back into his bed and allowed the floral scent of your soap to fill his senses. Lavender. He and the men always made sure that you had what you needed when if came to personal care items such as soap and shampoo. None of them really knew what scent to get you, but they all knew of your hate for roses. They had argued more than any of them cared to admit over the choices of scent before Benn had suggested lavender. It was a nice enough scent, the men would always remember it because of your lavender hair, and you had been looking at some lavender products on one of their stops.

Your fingers twitched in his grasp and you let out a soft groan. Shanks watched as you slowing lifted your head and blearily blinked through lavender strands of hair. Your eyes met his and for a few precious moments, Shanks got to stare into your unguarded eyes. Then it clicked into your mind that Shanks was awake and staring back at you and you jerked into a sitting position, you fingers abruptly sliding from his and eyes re-guarding themselves.

“You’re awake!” You exclaimed, relief flooding your sluggish and tired body. Shanks gave you a small smile before squinting closer at your face. He’d been so taken by your unguarded eyes that he hadn’t even noticed that you had dark marks beneath them.

“And you look exhausted,” Shanks replied, raising his hand to brush his fingertips over the evidence of your exhaustion. You gave him a look in return.

“That tends to happen when one stays up worrying,” You stated dryly. Shanks didn’t miss the light barb in your words and let his fingers trail down your face before reaching for your hand again. You let him take it.

“I know you aren’t happy that we went out in that weather,” He started, observing your eyes which narrowed. “But think about it, bad weather, low visibility… it was the perfect time for us to nab the item we were after and had the least amount of risk.”

“Least amount of risk?” You repeated, hardly believing what you were hearing. “Shanks, Benn had to carry you back to the ship and I spent the night watching your body temperature go higher and higher! I might not be versed in the conditions you suffer from but even I know that the weather conditions you headed out in yesterday habitually worsen your ailment.” Shanks dropped back against the pillow and tried not to groan at your scolding.

“Amputation, stump, call it what it is Aria. No need for you to dance around calling it an ailment.”

“It’s called having tact,” You snipped out with attitude. “I’m finding that many people are without.”

“Aye, and that’s what makes you so special.” He agreed, ignoring the ache his shoulder made at that moment. “I know what triggers flare ups but this trip wasn’t one I could put off.” You still had a sour look on your face. “It is also not the first time I’ve had a flare up, nor will it be my last.” Your scowl deepened and the pirate sighed. He was making this worse, wasn’t he? “Forgive me for putting myself in harms way for the sake of the mission?” An almost unbearable period of silence followed as you thought over his words.

“Considering you will most likely be repeating such circumstances in the near future, I shall acquiesce to your apology.” You finally sighed out. “Such are the perils of pirating and I shall never truly understand it, but it is your passion and therefore I will respect your choices.”

“That was the most passive aggressive response to an apology I have ever heard.” Shanks huffed out, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But if it means you aren’t going to be scowling at me I will take it. Your smile is far too lovely for your face to be etched with worry.”

“Then take the rest you need lying down,” You chided, fussing over him once more.

You were back on dry land, handing over the devil fruit the men had claimed during the storm. Well, Benn was, you were with Shanks exploring the local market. It wasn’t as busy as the one you had been to on Ingles so you were far more relaxed in the environment. Shanks let you wander from stall to stall, eyes shining brightly from the hand crafted goods. You were content to look, preened over the simplest of objects, and never asked for a single thing.

Shanks would have bought you anything you desired, but you didn’t ask for anything. Not for one of the pretty necklaces a craftsman had tried to peddle to you. Nor any of the fancy, decadent pies that smelled heavenly. Not even the delicate taiyaki that were being freshly made despite you setting your eyes on them and not being able to take them off. The hungry look in your eyes became too much and he placed his hand on your back and pushed you towards the stand.

“Come on,” He spoke with a smile and chuckle. “It’s been a few hours since breakfast and I think we’re both due for a snack.”

“You aren’t just saying that because I’ve been drooling, have you?” You probed, eyeing the red haired man scrupulously while patting your lips. His grin widened and pushing you up to the stall, Shanks proceeded to order a batch of red bean taiyaki, handing coins over to cover the cost of the treats. You watched in rapt attention as the fish treats were made fresh, right in front of you. A thought popped into your mind when the treats were being filled with a brown mixture. “I have no idea what red bean tastes like Shanks.”

He gave you a reassuring smile.

“Do you like chocolate?”

“Based on the rare occasion that I had a taste I believe I do.” You answered, thinking back to the last time you had chocolate. That’s right, it had been a tea party for one of your mother’s friends and the cook had made special chocolate tarts. They had looked delicious and smelled divine! But naturally, your mother had only allowed you to eat a few meager bites before declaring that it was such a nice day and you had wanted to show the ladies the garden. So with several approving tuts from the older women you had been herded away from your barely touched tart. Shanks saw your mind disappear on him for a few moments, shrouded in distant pain, but didn’t press what you were thinking about.

“Well I can’t say you’ll definitely like red bean because you’ve never had it, but they have chocolate in the filling.” Shanks told you brightly.

“I am more than willing to try it if my drooling hadn’t clued you in,” You said with a frank look. “At this point in my life I am willing to try everything.”

“Don’t overdo it, I don’t want you getting sick again,” You snorted as Shanks took the bag of freshly cooked taiyaki from the vendor. He held out the bag to you and you peered inside before taking one. Golden brown, the treat was almost too hot to handle as you and Shanks began walking again. You started nibbling on the edge of the pastry, getting a sense of the texture first. Then deciding that you liked how the breaded part tasted, took delicate bite to not burn your mouth. That was all it took for you to take another bite, and then another, and another, until the entire taiyaki was gone and you were reaching for another one. “What did I just say?”

You ignored Shanks’ comment and devoured the next treat, sighing in such happiness that anyone around you might have thought that nothing in your little world could have ever been wrong. Your petulance was amusing and despite the fact that Shanks was worried you might over do it with the taiyaki, he didn’t stop you from demolishing half the bag. Walking around some more, you made several stops to look at fabric bolts, a stall with various trinkets, and even a little shop that sold music boxes!

You took extra time looking at the music boxes, finding one that played a short little piece that reminded you of your childhood nanny. She had been nice to you and a wonderful supplement to the lack of maternal presence in your life. But she had been too nice to you and your mother had gotten rid of her not even a year after she had first come to Bonn Manor. You remembered that she used to hum a song from her home island as she bathed you, brushed out your hair, and tended to your needs. It was, perhaps, the only fond memory you had in your life.

You couldn’t buy it, not when you had to be careful with your Berry.

So you moved on, leaving an observant Shanks to trail after you while  making a mental note to come back and buy the music box you had spent so much time staring at with such a fond expression. It wasn’t something you’d let him buy for you outright, so he was going to have to resort to playing dirty. Grinning at the knowledge that you both would play dirty towards each other, Shanks lounged after you thinking about all the sneaky ways he could spoil you for surely at this point in your life you were deserving of it.

Well, all of his crew, Shanks included thanks to his red hair, had a piece of red on them. For Benn it was a special red hair tie that never came loose or got lost. Lucky Roux had his favorite red goggles, Limejuice a red shirt that he always wore, and Bonk Punch a red vest. All of the crew had some red item, except you. But Shanks didn’t want you to have a red shirt, or a red hair tie, or a pair of goggles. You needed something that fit you. His eyes caught sight of a local jewelers stand and the pirate began sneakily steering you towards it while you happily munched on the remaining taiyaki.

Date Published: 2/28/24

Last Edit: 2/28/24

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[d-romanov]

float around and ghost my friends

[title- phoebe bridgers. natasha romanoff x teen!reader, minimal platonic peter x reader]

2.5k words

You didn’t have a normal childhood, but you mama encourages you to have a normal highschool experience and lets you go to a party. It doesn’t quite go how she wanted, or how you expected.

trigger warnings: underage drinking + drinking to cope, suicidal ideation?, depression, it’s sad ngl but it’s got a hopeful ending (probably)

Living your life after a childhood of pain and misery is hard, it is so, so hard. You wonder if the man across the street is just a stranger or someone there to take you back, if the light flickering meant someone had found you, if the loud noise down the hall was a body against a wall. God, if you started thinking too hard about it you wouldn’t stop.

Thank god high school would only make it worse!

Growing up as a Hydra lab rat they still had to keep you occupied, lest you go catatonic and ruin their tests. You saw plenty of shows and movies about high school, about how important the dance next saturday was, when everyone’s classes were, the like. You understood, to an extent, that parties were a big deal. Parents went out of town, kids got shitfaced, snuck back into bed past “curfew.” fun times.

It’s been a little over a year since you were found by the Avangers, and just a few months since Natasha Romanoff finalized the adoption paperwork for you. Even if you couldn’t call her mom as much as you wanted to you were happy, truly content for the first time in your life. You had friends, family, and a mother who wanted nothing more than for you to enjoy your new life.

Which is why, when peter had invited you to a party being put on by someone in his class, your mom urged you to go.

—

You haven’t been sleeping much in the last few weeks. Insomnia and trauma-induced nightmares were taking their toll on you, but you could handle a bit of sleep deprivation. Besides, you weren’t about to concern Natasha more, she’s had enough on her plate lately.

No, no matter how long you stayed awake shaking, shivering, not breathing waiting for a sound in the hallway, you wouldn’t bother Natasha. Though, that didn’t stop you from being a bit more clingy during the day before calling it a night.

“It’s an opportunity for you to have fun outside the tower, детка, you should go.” You sat cross-legged on Natasha’s bed, watching as she put away laundry. It was calming. “I’m only a call away if you and Peter wanna ditch, but I want you to enjoy yourself.”

Her encouragement throws you off. “You know what happens at those parties though, don’t you?” You shift so you’re laying down against the pillows, “Shouldn’t you be making me stay home?”

Natasha laughs. “Hon, highschool parties aren’t nearly as crazy as movies make them out to be, and i know you. It’s not like you’re going to get wasted or make out with any boys.” You pull a face and Natasha laughs again, and you laugh with her.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” She presses a kiss to your forehead and you smile up at her.

“I’ll go.”

—

You’re already regretting it, and you’ve only been in the house for 20 minutes. Peter don’t ditch you per se, but you haven’t seen him since you settled on the couch. The music pulses through the floor and you can feel the bass in your teeth. You’re pressed in at the far end of the couch hugging the armrest, clutching a soda can in one hand and hovering over Natasha’s contact in you phone with the other. A bark of laughter from the kitchen throws you out of your thoughts and you notice someone pouring out shots. somewhere in the back of your mind you wonder when the last time you had a drink was, to which your brain unhelpfully answers “too long.”

Aside from anesthesia, the best pain relief you had in your old life was alcohol. You understood that it wasn’t healthy, even back then you knew that, but it kept your thoughts from racing and helped you sleep at night.

A small crowd was formed around the kitchen counter, and you watch as two boys get locked into a fierce competition of Cup Pong.

You watch one of them, a lean, blonde boy from the soccer team, fading fast. only two of his cups have been emptied, he’s clearly a lightweight and already wobbling by his third shot. The other boy is one you recognize from your history class. he’s loud, obnoxious, and goading on the other boy who’s finally thrown the ping pong ball properly and landed it in a cup.

The loud one sinks in another two balls, and you see the blond visibly swallow. you don’t know what comes over you because in the next moment, you down his two shots in one go.

“Woah-hoh-hoh! looks like someone’s up to the challenge!” His face breaks into a shit eating grin, “Too bad you picked a battle with the undefeated champ here.” you hear a few whistles in the growing crowd and smirk, You can feel the buzz hitting your head and it feels good, you feel good for the first time in days.

“Undefeated, huh? Well, this is gonna be really embarrassing for you then.” You’re cocky, but you don’t care, you just wanna get drunk.

He quickly bounces another ball, landing in your forward cup, the second misses. Your two land and it’s a battle keeping your face straight. Your opponent is intimidated, but he hides it behind a grin and his height, but he’s too obvious. You know he’ll hit his limit far sooner than you’ll hit yours, so you tease him a bit.

To throw him off, you miss your next two throws, and his second lands. as soon as the cup is empty you begin to sway. you’re in no drunken state, there’s barely a buzz at this point, but he doesn’t know that. As far as he knows, you’re just as much of a lightweight as the blond before you.

He’s hiding his own swaying body by leaning forward on the counter, but you can see in his eyes he’s getting drunk, and thanks to the alcohol of choice being vodka, it won’t be much longer before he’s out. You were hoping for a bit more fun, but his head start in the is game threw that off a bit. You strike fast. Two balls, two cups, one throw, it’s impressive to the crowd but for you it’s child’s play. He down the cups, slower than before, and you can see sweat forming on his forehead.

He misses his next throw and you can’t stop yourself from being a bit disappointed. then again, you only have one cup left versus his, you huff a laugh.

“I mean, it’s a little unfair of me to be beating you. You had a head start in the game, why don’t we level it out?”

The crowd is rowdy and you see his face twist into a grimace. He’s getting agitated while you’re loosening up, happily putting on a show for everyone around you.

You pour yourself two more shots and take the one after the other. You revel in the burn, you feel lighter, higher, ready to put this stupid kid in his place.

—

You win that game, you win two more games, and everything becomes a blur. You think your phone buzzes a few times through the night but you ignore it in favor of pouring yourself another drink and laughing your ass off. It’s the first time you’ve ever felt normal, and even if you don’t know anyone’s names they’re funny enough, and you can forget about the past for the night.

You’re not noticeable in school, you hide yourself in the back of the class and only talk to peter and his friends. You’re allowed to leave class whenever you need to thanks to a plan you’re mom had set up with the school, so it’s not like you usually stick around enough to talk to anyone. You’re just some new kid lost in the crowd there, but now, here, people are talking to your face instead of whispering behind your back and avoiding eye contact. you finally feel free.

You get up and unsteadily return to the kitchen for another shitty bear. You look over your shoulder and throw your hands out. “Peter!!” you shout, ending in a giggle when you see his face, he’s looking at you funny. “hiiiii!!”

“Are you drunk??” Oh never mind, he sounds mad.

“Nooo?” You giggle again, he doesn’t believe you but you don’t really care.

Peter rubs his hand down his face and starts to guide you to the door.

“Where’re we going i was having funnnn,” You whine, pushing against his insistence you leave.

“(Y/n) i already called natasha, now drink this and sit tight.” He’s frustrated and hands you a water bottle, you pout and plop onto the grass, lazily sipping at the bottle.

You’re not sure how much later it happens, but Natasha’s car pulls up on the curb. She steps out and she looks pissed, if you had any energy left you’d probably be scared. “Hi мама,” even drunk and half asleep you still know you sound like a pathetic mess, and right now you really just want to catch up on all the sleep you’ve missed.

She kneels down next to you on the grass and moves your sweaty hair from your forehead, you notice her face soften. “Hi малышка, let’s get you home.”

“Are you mad at me?” You blurt out. Your voice is small, and you don’t mean to sound so weak but the alcohol in your system makes you feel vulnerable. “I don’ want you to be mad at me i was jus’ so tired.”

“No hun, i’m not mad. We’ll talk in the morning when you’ve sobered up, now up you get.”

If you weren’t so out of it you would’ve seen the heartbreak cross her face.

She hoists you up with your arm over her shoulder, and you’re grateful for it because without her you’d have fallen face first into the dirt.

You hear her ask Peter to open the door, and as soon as you’re in the car you’re out like a light.

—

Anyone could tell from a mile away that Natasha loved you. Since the day you were found she’d always cared and wanted the best for you. You were the child she’d always wanted, and she’d do anything for you. And anyone could tell that seeing her kid so small, so sad, was breaking her heart.

Peter’s phone call had been confusing, something about you getting too competitive to think straight and then too drunk to stand. She’d shown up expecting a slightly drunk teenager, not you. Not you sitting in the grass, on the curb, nursing a water bottle and looking so utterly defeated. She didn’t know what to do, she just wanted to take all your pain away.

Getting you home was the easy part. Apparently, getting you out of the party had also sucked all of your energy, and you were cooperative getting in the car, hell you were asleep as soon as the door shut. Natasha dropped Peter off at home before returning to the tower, after getting some context to the situation of course. Now it was time to get you to bed, and figure out her next steps.

—

“Mmmn?” You can barely open your eyes, everything just feels so heavy and faraway. Behind squinted eyes you recognize that it’s Natasha pulling you from the car.

“Come on sweetheart, let’s get you to bed.”

Your short nap didn’t help you much. “‘M tired,” You croak out, cringing at the taste of your dry mouth.

“I know you are bub,” She pull one of your arms over her shoulders and leads you through the tower’s garage to the elevator. “That’s why we’re gonna get you cleaned up in into bed.”

Your response isn’t more than an affirmative grunt, but you can get the words past your throat.

Eventually, after a blur of motion and lights and almost getting sick on the way up, you’re in your room. You don’t want to be in here.

Natasha guides you to your bed, keeping you steady as you sit down. Before she can pull away your hands grip her shoulders like a vice.

You don’t even realize you’re crying. “Don’- Мама don’t leave. Please don’t leave.” You don’t want to be alone. You just want to sleep but you can’t sleep because when you sleep your mind attacks and attacks and attacks and you can’t keep dealing with this forever you’re so tired.

“Hey hey, no i’m not going anywhere детка. Im not leaving, but i need you to breathe, please.” You can’t stop yourself from closing your eyes. You hate the way she’s looking at you, she looks so sad and you’re the one doing this. God look at you, look how pathetic you’ve become.

“I ju- I just wanted everything to stop. i wanted to be normal in sorry. i’m sorry мама i’m sorry i’m just tired i’m sorry.” The words get caught in your throat and choked out in a sob. You try to pull back, hide in you pillows and shut out everything, but natasha’s returned grip is solid and fierce, yet gentle, and kind, and she pulls you into her chest as you fight every cry that bubbles up.

“Let it out малышка, don’t fight it. It’s okay, i’ve got you. I’ve got you, love.” Her hold on you grows tighter and you can almost feel your chest open just from her words. No matter how much you were taught and built against it from birth, Natasha was your lifeline.

Minutes or hours later, you’re cries turn to whimper and the bone-deep exhaustion makes itself known again. Your arms feel so heavy, you can barely keep your puffy eyes open and you just want to sleep for the next month.

“Hey,” Natasha says it so softly she’s worried you’ll miss it, but she doesn’t want to startle you. “Let’s get you changed. I’m just gonna grab you some pajamas, okay?”

You must’ve nodded, because natasha moves and you faintly hear your dresser draws move. You’re half asleep as natasha helps you change into comfier clothes, you’re eyes aren’t even open once she’s tucked you and herself into bed and holds your head to her chest.

“I love you so, so much малышка. Got to sleep, okay? I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Your answer is a whisper “I love you, мама.”

You’re out like a light, you limbs heavy and mind blissfully quiet. Natasha hardly sleeps, thinking only about you and the conversation you need to have.

——

part 2!!!

[real-jane]

drifting (13) *end*

[cw!bucky barnes x female!reader]

summary: bucky saves the life of a woman when she’s buried in an avalanche. faced with the possibility that his cover might be blown, bucky must keep the woman alive, and try to keep her from finding out who he is… or what he’s done.

how long can he hide?

warnings: emotions. lots of 'em. fluff abounding. nick fury goes soft. author entirely ignores consequences.

word count: 6.7k+

a/n: this is the end, my loves! thank you so much for your patience as i finish this last installment. there will be an epilogue, but here's where the main story leaves us.

series masterlist

***

Arnim Zola has always been an unimposing man, but something about seeing him stretched out on a cold metal table makes him seem unimportant. His face is slack; the beaded glue at the corners of his eyes indicates they’ve already been sealed shut by the coroner, as have his lips (which pull at the center because of gravity, giving him a thin grimace). Though he was killed because Soldat snapped his neck, there is evidence this wasn’t the only injury to his person. But Bucky can’t say, or won’t—something she doesn’t begrudge him for considering the amount of trauma Arnim Zola put them both through—so the visible blood is set dressing.

Her father, head of HYDRA, blooms a ruddy brown stain beneath his solar plexus.

She isn’t sure why she asked to see him, except his death isn’t real until she has. After everything she and Bucky went through, the man responsible for it all is… a sack of bones and skin. A shell. A hollow victory. Whatever being lived in that body had at one time been quite caring to her, and that’s why it rankles. But she didn’t know, when he read to her of hobbits and wizards, just how evil he was.

Helmut Zemo was not to be trusted, but why would he have lied about something so horrible? “He wanted to discern if the Asset could still feel.”

Who in their right mind would ever accuse James Barnes of being unfeeling? Surely not the man who held her face in his hands before the nurse took him back into surgery and said “I’ll be fine. I promise. I’m okay, doll, I won’t be long,” before kissing her forehead like he had just told her he was going off to war, and he’d be home once the whole thing had blown over. In reality, even when he was the Asset, he was emotional. It wasn’t apparent at first, but once she cracked his shell, he was intense. Now, he is careful with her, but he still feels his emotions on a full spectrum.

She hopes Bucky isn’t panicked, being alone in the OR with a strange doctor and beeping machines. Dr. Banner won’t have to cut into him, or draw any blood to remove his arm, based on what Nat said. Still. Imagining him going catatonic given his current post-triggered state has her pacing in the morgue.

The fact that her father lays on the table before her hasn’t sunken in. The last time she saw him, she was his Mark. No longer. Y/n braces her hands on the cold metal beside her father as a red memory flashes.

Nothing is sacred. His final words to her before forcing Soldat to dig his knife into her belly.

“Some things are sacred, Папа. Despite everything you did?” She clicks her tongue. “You never could touch Bucky’s goodness. I bet that killed you. Knowing your experiment backfired. Not only did your ultimate soldier fall in love with your little girl–it didn’t end in Belarus. 

“I remember how you talked about him, when you thought I was asleep. I would sneak out of bed, and sit outside your office door and listen. You worshiped Soldat like a god. One time–” Y/n is caught off guard by the wave of clarity in the memories unlocked. She scrubs a hand over her face. 

“One time he came through the door and I wasn’t expecting it. He scooped me up and put me back to bed. I turned nineteen days prior. You forgot. He didn’t. He had been standing behind you, while you lorded over some peon agent, folding me a rabbit out of paper.”

With hair shorter than it is now, falling into his eyes, Bucky had knelt beside her cot (which was once again located in solitary confinement after an outburst had led to isolating punishment) and handed over his gift. She hadn’t known his name back then. He hadn’t been able to recall it himself. But he knew hers, and he whispered С днем рождения, and tucked the paper rabbit between her fingers. 

“He hadn’t even kissed me yet,” Y/n sighs. “But he was so gentle. He knew you’d be furious if you found me listening at the keyhole, but I was so desperate for any attention from you, I didn’t care. I was finally an adult… waiting for you to remember me. Well. You did. When I was part of your quest to make sure your soldier was unbreakable. 

“I don’t hate you for it, I wish I did–but maybe in your fucked up way, that was the last way you knew how to show me you loved me. That man has given me more reason to live than you ever did, for all your idioms about love being honest and kind. You were right. If only you could’ve been my doting parent instead of this ugly person. My Папа. You were everything to me until I was old enough to manipulate–mother and father. Now you’re a corpse.

“That’s–that isn’t true. I had Nat. Thank god she got out. You know what’s really sad?” She shrugs. “Nobody’s left to bury you. They asked me what I’d like done with your body, as if I even get a say. You’re gonna go to a body farm in upstate New York so students can study you. Because, see–I don’t think you earned a peaceful rest, and forgiveness wasn’t a value you instilled in me.”

As angry as she feels, it’s grief which wrings her ribcage. Despite everything, it is desperately sad to know that he’s well and truly gone. “Я тебя люблю, Папа.” Because she does love him. The line between such affection and hatred is fuzzy.  

She covers the face of the man who shares half her DNA with the sheet. When she turns on her heel and meets Natasha at the door, she leaves behind the lion’s share of resentment. In its place, she only has one remaining emotion for Arnim Zola. Sadness.

***

Bruce Banner is a deft hand with a laser pointer. It doesn’t require sedation for the titanium cybernetic weapon to be removed from the housing fused with Bucky’s shoulder; an hour of Banner’s diligence with a tool of his own invention, carving away wires and severing connections, and the implant is no longer attached to his body. The doctor takes extra care to be sure that his socket bears no exposed wires, and a nurse plops a set of clean sweats into Bucky’s lap.

A warm bundle of nervous energy collides with his chest as the nurse escorts him back to the med bay waiting room, once he’s given the chance to bathe. She wraps her arms around his waist, and he can’t help but chuckle. Y/n isn’t alone, but Natasha busies herself answering messages to give them the illusion of privacy. Steve is nowhere to be seen.

“How are you?” Y/n asks his sweatshirt. 

Bucky taps her cheek so she’ll look at him. Her eyes are wide, until she reads the look on his face. He can’t quite make the words come to describe how he feels to be permanently separated from the bionic limb, because most of the ones which spring to mind are fragments of the sensation currently coursing through him. The sting in his eyes betrays some kind of relief, or grief perhaps. His posture is unbalanced, and almost weak… and free. But still on a precipice between always belonging to HYDRA, so. Bucky attempts to make anything come out of his mouth.

“Конец эры,” she suggests. The end of an era, the most painful road. Her hand hovers over the empty sleeve at his side, and she puts herself to work cuffing it up. He studies her face as whatever thoughts she’s having flicker across her expression. She doesn’t hide her concern, nor does she hide the smile which pulls at her mouth when she clocks his damp hair. 

“They let you clean up. Good,” she huffs. “I hope you got better than the god-awful locker room showers.”

Bucky rubs her arm. “Doesn’t hold a candle to the cabin’s water pressure, does it?”

“Suppose HYDRA did one thing right, in all this.” She tries to laugh it off, but she can’t keep eye contact. 

“So it’s confirmed.”

“Nat got the full report. There were cameras,” she says softly. “They must have planted the coordinates in your mind at some point. Maybe gave you the idea during the altercation in St. Louis.”

“Shit.” He looks at the red-head. Natasha nods once when she notices his attention has shifted. She stands, holding out her phone.

“The tech is pedestrian. The cameras took still photographs every thirty seconds. Three cameras in each room, five outside.” Natasha folds her arms.

The photograph on the screen was snapped from above, depicting the living room of the cabin. The quality is grainy. The two of them are seated on the couch, and Y/n’s head is laid against his shoulder. Bucky holds a book in hand, but he’s not looking at it. He’s watching her in curiosity. Bucky glances at her now, and she worries her lip between her teeth. 

“How did you get this?” he asks Natasha.

“There was a thumb drive amongst Zemo’s things. He likely intended to use it as leverage for a lighter punishment, were he to be captured alive.”

“Must be thousands of images,” Bucky says. “How far back do they date?”

“A few days prior to your arrival. Tech estimates there are some forty-thousand just of you two.”

“They saw it all.” 

Bucky hands Natasha her phone back, and squeezes Y/n’s shoulder. “How much have you looked through?”

“None,” she says. “I don’t want to watch us through their eyes.”

“There is one you should see. If nothing else.” Natasha flicks her finger until she finds what she’s referring to. “Maria sent me a few highlights, but this made me proud, Пчёлка.” 

She waits until Y/n gives her consent, and turns the phone to display the photo in question: her, kneeling on Rumlow’s chest with only socks on her feet, pressing a knife to his throat. Her mouth is poised mid-sentence, and Bucky looks on from behind her. 

“You’re probably mouthing off,” Natasha says lovingly.

“Can’t help it,” Y/n laughs. “He brought out the worst in me!” Curiosity gets the best of her and she swipes across the screen. The image prior depicts something else, which Bucky would rather nobody else have access to, especially the suits and egos of SHIELD.

It’s him… clutching her against his chest for dear life, demanding she explain why she had a phone all that time. The camera angle doesn’t allow for his face to be seen, but it does capture her stricken expression. He remembers the way the quilt felt stifling, but not how her legs were twisted up in the sheet. Just his own panic, how his anger rose into a fever pitch even as he held her so tightly her joints might have groaned. 

“How could I know you? Why do I know you–”

“There is only one possible way, but I don’t know. My memory is like Swiss cheese, even after my treatments–”

“How?”

No… The intrusive vision fades back into the past where it belongs. Bucky grasps her wrist and eases the phone out of her hold, which has turned desperate. Natasha takes her device back with a regretful grimace. Y/n’s fingers are frozen open until he slots his in, cradling her palm… she squeezes back in thanks. 

“Definitely don’t want to see more,” she breathes. 

Natasha brushes her arm. “Okay. No need.”

Y/n clears thick emotion from her throat. Bucky hugs her against his chest, his arm draped across her sternum. He kisses the crown of her head the way he wanted to do when he found out she wasn’t who he thought… it was mere days ago, but it might as well be decades. Time never has meant much where she is concerned. Two weeks in isolation together established a lifetime of familiarity, and–

“What now?” she murmurs. Her free hand grips his wrist for purchase. 

“Well–” Natasha’s phone buzzes. She answers promptly. “Yeah? Okay–no, we’ll meet you there. None. Actually…” She trails off, glancing around the med bay, which… the ward is strangely empty. There are no nurses puttering around, no more agents waiting on the fringe with guns trained. In the time it took for Bucky to be released, the medical bay was vacated, and in all the excitement of looking through the footage, she hadn’t noticed. The Black Widow bows her head, a smile pulling at her cheeks, which belies either exasperation or amazement. Maybe both. 

“Nat?” No mistaking the deep voice which calls out into the silence. 

“Steven,” she sighs. “Are you sure?”

He’s practically yelling, like he’s running. His voice is clear as day. “Mind’s made up, sweetheart. Fury said there’s nothing he can do, so. It’s in our hands. The all-assemble alert went out ninety seconds ago, so you have about five minutes to meet me in hangar C before anyone realizes what’s happening.”

“You’re not off the hook.” Nat waves for her two companions to hasten towards the stairwell. 

“I’ll think of more ways to make it up to you.” 

“Still top of my shit list.”

“At least I’m at the top.” His tone is mischievous, like he’s grinning on the other end of the line. Natasha hangs up on him while rolling her eyes dramatically, but her face is pink.

She shoulders the door open and leads them at a bracing pace, down four flights of stairs to the bottom floor. Bucky allows himself an instant of amusement over the fact that he and Y/n are in matching sweats. It’s almost precious (if such a word can describe Bucky Barnes). Dueling blues with SHIELD printed on their arms and legs, looking like they’re about to lead some kind of aerobics class. She peeks back at him for the millionth time to make sure he’s at her heels, and catches him with his eyes glazed over, and Bucky’s suddenly aware they’re being led down a dark corridor in the basement of the compound. 

“Nat–clue us in?” Y/n asks, when her sister-in-arms wrenches open yet another gray door with no window and ushers them through. The red head smirks.

“Fury can’t–won't help. So. We’ve progressed to Plan B.”

“Steve’s just gotten a pardon. He’s really willing to risk it?”

“Yes. He’s trying.”

“Natasha. Бабочка–”

“Stop. We only have about two minutes.” 

They tumble out of a heavier door (which requires Bucky’s kick to force open, between rust and painted-over hinges) into a small hangar. Natasha breaks into a sprint, heading for a quinjet, one of only three aircraft being housed in the veritable warehouse. Overhead, a loud alarm starts to blare.

Natasha winces. “Shit–pick up the pace!” 

The engines of the jet roar to life. Natasha slams her fist into a button beside the belly hatch of the jet, but she’s not quick enough for the rush of agents, pouring through the door which had allowed them into the hangar and another one at the opposite end. The grand door rises slowly, while Natasha puts herself between Bucky, Y/n, and the agents. A heavy hand lands on Bucky’s shoulder.

“Get in, you two.” Steve. With his arm bandaged, wearing a flight suit. 

“Do what he says,” Natasha barks over her shoulder.

Y/n shakes her head in disbelief. “This is crazy–”

“Bee, I love you, get on the fucking airplane.” Natasha brandishes her guns as if she personally can take on a passel of SHIELD agents. Bucky doesn’t need to be told twice, so he hops inside the aircraft and tugs Y/n up behind him. Steve gives him a salute. 

“Natasha?” Cap calls expectantly.

“Go, Rogers!” 

“I’m infirm, sweets. I was recently on morphine. Should I really be flying this thing?”

“Swear to god,” she grumbles. She looks back at Steve with a hard stare. He points to the empty bucket seat beside him with an innocent, pleading smile. It takes her a split-second of exasperation to decide. Then she slams the closing mechanism for the plane at the same moment Steve begins driving forward. Nat grabs his face and kisses him. Hard. She sits, buckles herself in, and flicks the switches Steve can’t reach, given his bandaged arm. 

“Why aren’t they shooting?” Bucky breathes. 

Steve gestures to the open hangar door. Standing in the doorway, with his arms crossed… in equally casual sweats, with sunglasses on (and a bandage taped from temple to nape), stands Nick Fury. He raises a hand to his ear. Nat’s phone rings.

She lets out a long sigh. Steve extends his hand to accept the responsibility, but she answers on speakerphone, for the benefit of the whole cabin.

“Nick.”

“What are you doing?”

“He needs help.”

“Do you know how many conventions you’re breaking–he’s an international fugitive.”

“He was a prisoner of war, Nick,” Natasha scoffs. 

“You couldn’t wait an hour for me?” He throws his hands up in annoyance. “I’m reasonable. I’m worried about Senator Payne, I had to make sure word hadn’t reached him yet. And that T’challa was prepared to accept a fugitive into his protection. Again.”

Steve’s mouth drops open. “Sir–you told me you couldn’t help him.”

“What can I do, Rogers? I’m a pencil pusher. I’m not a doctor. What use is Nicholas Fury to a man who needs real medical help?” Fury scoffs. “But our allies in Wakanda have a pretty clear idea how to treat him. If you had been patient… waited for me to finish making arrangements, you would be aware that the King has accepted my request to give Barnes asylum.”

Bucky’s heartbeat roars in his ears, and he can’t make out anything else but the thrum of his blood. But there are fingers in his, clasped, keeping him grounded. The trade of Steve and Natasha’s voices bounce around in his brain. 

“So he’s free–” Steve sounds ready to cry.

“As long as he surrenders himself into Wakanda’s care, he’s not my biggest concern. Seems I’ve had a rat in my ranks, and who knows how long it will take to suss out if Rumlow had devotees.”

“So.”

“Email me your flight plan, so this is slightly above board? I hate doing anything under the table.”

Natasha snorts. “Says the man who faked his own death.”

“Don’t give me a reason to turn that jet around,” Fury chuckled. “Go. I’ll speak to you once you land.”

Y/n’s head falls against Bucky’s shoulder in relief. Steve turns, best as he can given his bandages, and he smiles at his dearest friend. 

“Ready, Buck? It’s gonna be about… two hours in the air.”

“And then…?”

“First,” Y/n says, drawing his attention, “they’ll probably put you into cryostasis for a few days to calm your nervous system. That’s what they did for me. Your body is probably in crisis mode. It’s not safe to start treatment until your cortisol levels are low…” 

She continues explaining what’s supposedly going to happen to him once they reach their final destination, but all Bucky can do is lay his head back and study her. She leans towards him, absently finding the highs and valleys of his knuckles with the finely-filed points of her nails. There is something about her expression–sad, determined to comfort him, panicked… Bucky pulls her hand, tugging, tugging, until she stumbles forward and catches herself on his knee. Y/n’s glassy eyes stare up at him. He winds his arm around her waist to steady her.

“Jamie,” she whimpers. He noses her cheek.

“You’re sad.”

“No, I–no.” She plays with the strings on his hood so she doesn’t have to look him in the eye. “They let me see him.” Her voice is pained. “I’m… I know he is better off dead. But I just–”

“Zola?”

“Yeah. I feel awful. And all I want–all I really need in this world is for you to be okay. I shouldn’t think about him.”

“He’s still your father,” Bucky finished. 

She nodded. “Is it terrible? That I’m heartbroken.”

He adjusts her so she’s seated on his lap. “I don’t think it has to be bad. Or good. It can just… be. Right?” 

Her eyes flicker from side to side as she studies him. She keeps looking at his mouth, but their proximity to their companions on the small jet keeps him from kissing the sad expression off her face. She tucks his hair behind his ears. 

“Mm. I miss being off the grid,” she says lowly. “When this is all over, let’s go away.”

“Wherever you want.” Bucky graces her bottom lip with his thumb. “You could teach me more recipes.”

That entices a smile from her. “What do you want to learn?”

“Anything.”

“Prepare for departure.” Natasha’s voice startles Y/n from his lap, but she already seems less dour. They buckle themselves in.

What else could they have, if they go someplace far away? In a house that belongs to her, what would she want–what else could he give her? Is this possible? Bucky has never imagined having a future in order to plan for it, but. What if?

“Bookshelves?” he breathes.

She laughs. “What?”

“Do you want bookshelves?” Bucky repeats. The jet rumbles along the runway unimpeded, but the force of the movement makes all four of them lean back.

“Hmm. Yeah,” she smiles. “For your four books.”

“It’s aspirational. If I have to build them with one arm, so be it. Besides, you can put stuff on them, too.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t have anything of my own. I left it all in Belarus, and I haven’t had a chance to accumulate anything since.”

“Oh. I—nothing? Then, um. We will find you things. What do you want?”

“I want it all, Jamie,” she whispers. “If you wanna live in an apartment in Brooklyn, let’s go. Cave in Iceland? I’m there. Books, burnt pasta, six feet of snow. Doesn’t matter. As long as you’re there, and you’re okay.”

Her sweet words hit him square in the chest. He can’t help but smile. “This Shuri… she’s gonna help.”

“Mhm.”

“And you’re going to stay–”

“Barnes,” Natasha interrupts, “if you think anybody could keep her from your side, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Y/n winces from embarrassment. Bucky leans over to feel the heat of her cheek against his lips. “I’m persistent,” she admits.

“Stubborn, more like.” Nat winks over her shoulder. 

“Cleared for takeoff, Cap.” The voice over the comm speaks curtly. 

“Ready?” Steve asks. 

Bucky looks to Y/n, and she smiles in encouragement. “Guess so.”

And though Bucky is entirely unprepared for whatever is supposed to be waiting for him in Wakanda, he closes his eyes. He fixates on the shelves he’s going to build for her, and mostly the fact that he’s never picked up a hammer in his life but that he can learn. Apparently he’s going to have a life of his own, where his major concerns might be learning to cook from a beautiful woman (who is even lovelier in his jeans), and finding things to do which don’t include dirty work for major terrorist organizations. Imagine that.

***

Whatever he expects out of Wakanda, his expectations are blown out of the water. Not the least because the moment they land on the grand rotunda, they are met by the King, himself… and a young woman who launches herself at Y/n for a hug which nearly has them both toppling over. The laughter is joyous. The other woman says something in her ear, which makes Y/n peek back at Bucky and extend her hand to him. 

They’re led through a palace, and he isn’t one hundred percent certain his feet are on the ground. At one point, Steve pats his back to make sure he’s alright. Everything is too much. His muscles tug on his bones as his adrenaline finally wears off, for the first time since the safety of the mountain haven–he’s sore. His eyelids strain, he’s sure his eyeballs are bloodshot. Things are too loud. Lights are violently bright. He’s pushed to sit on something with light padding. His breathing is clipped. 

In a second, the room is empty of all other occupants. Her hands are on his cheeks, easing him to lean forward until his forehead is pressed to her shoulder.

She rubs circles at his nape.

“We’re okay,” she soothes. He turns his nose against her neck as if to say I don’t believe you. “Breathe.”

His chest catches on a ragged breath as he tries to match the rise and fall with her body.

“Mmm. Good. They’re gonna help you. You’re safe.”

“Can’t trust my own mind,” he manages, which only summarized a fraction of the paralyzing exhaustion which chips away at his mental walls. 

“Yes you can. James, look at me.” When he does, her eyes are tearful. “You have always fought through the fog. You’re gonna come out of this strong, sweet man.”

“Think so?”

“I know it.”

“And I’m worth… all this–” Bucky gestures broadly to the room he has only begun to take in, what could only be called a hospital room in the most pedestrian of terms because it has windows at least three stories tall. 

“Yes,” she says. 

That’s the beginning and the end of it. He’s heard the finality in that tone before. The shorter her answer, the more certain she is. Bucky is so overwhelmed between the lights and sounds, and the woman, and the possibilities of what’s to come (even though she told him in great detail–he cannot remember one word of the procedure she outlined)... he tucks his hand into her pants pocket and tugs her in between his knees, which makes her laugh and hold him closer. 

“Could use a cigarette,” he says, as evenly as possible given how panic still courses through his veins.

She rolls her eyes. “There he is. You should quit.

“Hm?”

“I’m sure it can’t touch those infallible lungs of yours, but it’s not especially good for your breath. Which I do care about, if you’re curious.” She runs a knuckle over his lips, and he perses them to meet her touch.

“How did we get here?” he mutters.

“Hmm?” 

“Here, doll.” 

“Would you like to be kissed, Jamie? Seems like it.” Her smile curls up at both corners.

“Hmm. My head is killing me, trying to make room for all these new memories–”

“So, yes?”

He narrows his eyes at her lips specifically, which makes them split into a full-on grin. “I could’ve hurt you back there. And you’re concerned about my smoking habit–”

She steals his speech with the softest brush of her mouth against his. “No. You wouldn’t.”

“I stabbed you, once.”

“No… that isn’t what happened.” She levels her face with his so he has to look her in the eye.  “Didn’t matter what orders Zemo gave. You were frozen with your knife digging into my shirt too lightly to ever draw blood. For all the lousy things they put in your head, you wouldn’t hurt me. So. I… forced you. God–you panicked after I lunged forward, you pressed your hand so hard over the wound that I could feel my heart beating against your palm. You got me to Bucharest. I don’t know how. It’s, what–a full day’s drive, if you speed? You must have. On the back of a bike, too.” 

Bucky frowns. But for the life of him, even with the string of new memories, he can’t remember such a thing. All he recalls is holding the knife… and her bleeding. The fact that she made that choice for him stings. Y/n brushes his cheek with her thumb. 

“I knew it wouldn’t end, and I wanted you to be free of me. Because he’d stop lashing out at you, and you’d survive long enough to escape. And–sorry.” She stares up at the ceiling as a wave of emotion hits her. 

“Why are you sorry?”

“I don’t know,” she hiccoughs. “What’s fresh in my head right now is the look you had on your face, knowing you had to leave me in Bucharest so you could protect my cover.”

“You screamed for me,” he realizes. The echo of her call comes to him. 

She swipes at her tears. “Until I was hoarse.”

“Are you…” Bucky scratches his jaw. “I don’t know how to ask this.”

“Ask, Jamie. Please.”

“Are you upset to remember everything?” He braces himself.

“Are you?”

“I haven’t had the luxury of remembering anything for seven decades, doll. Painful as it is. Makes it easier, I think.”

“No more mystery, there. When Zemo was trying to set me off, I was sorting through some precious times we had. Things we got away with,” she says, biting her lip.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know how we managed it. You spent the night with me! In a girl’s school–more than once!”

“Yes I did,” he says sheepishly, but he can’t help but laugh. He hasn’t had the same amount of clarity about the return of their shared memories–just that they’re still there, in his head, and that they’re accessible. But he does innately know how much he used to risk to be with her. The duality of two separate lives together, both so precious… It's heady. 

Sensing another rush of overwhelm, she kisses his forehead, giving him permission not to rush a walk down memory lane.

Y/n worries the pad of her pointer finger into the crease between his eyebrows until his scowl relents. “I can’t go in there with you,” she murmurs as a nurse comes around the corner with a data tablet in hand, most of her attention focused on an upright bed, which stands at an incline on a silvery base. A glass tube hovers above the bed, ready to slide down over the occupant. “But I’ll be here. Right next to you when they let me, even if you don’t know I’m here.”

“Doll,” Bucky sighs, “I appreciate everything you’re doing to help me relax but… I think it wouldn’t be such a bad idea for you to get looked at, too. Please–please don’t take that the wrong way–”

“Hush, дорогая. I will.”

“Good.” 

“I gotta take care of me if I wanna take care of you.”

“And… that’s something you want?”

“James Barnes,” she laughs, “I’m starting to think you don’t know me at all!”

He growls, wraps his feet behind her knees to keep her close. “I will know you if I lose all my faculties and can only relate by sense. I know your heart, doll–любимая. Oh–Do you like that?” The grin on her face says that she greatly enjoys the idea of being beloved. “I’m scared shitless. I like hearing you say it. Please tell me again.”

Her kiss this time lingers on his plea. “Hear me out: I want you. I like everything about you, even though you snore–see if Shuri can fix your deviated septum while she’s up there, will ya?” Bucky pokes her in the side in retaliation and she squirms in his grasp, but she persists with glee written all over her face. “I’ve always known that I’m complete because of you. How could that change? No–Jamie, ignore the memories of Belarus for a second. Do you realize how much our two weeks in that cabin meant to me? I’ve never had something so intimate as that time. That was you at your most raw, and I wanted two more weeks. It’s not the prospect of you being stable which makes me want you at my side. Okay? I want to look after you because if I don’t, my heart is gonna stop beating. I need you. In every version that may exist, and if there’s a new iteration of James Barnes on the horizon, I will happily greet him with open arms. But you’ll always be my Jamie, yeah? Forever. You’re Steve’s Bucky, but you’re my Jamie. Моя любовь.”

He doesn’t realize that his eyes are wet, too, until she’s cupping his jaw. “Jesus. What are you doing to me?” he chuckles.

She wrinkles her nose. “You’re a sap.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I like it.” 

“Best thing I ever did was dig you outta that snow,” Bucky says, pressing a lingering kiss to her palm.

“You’re loopy.” She nods to the approaching nurse. “Hi.”

“Hello, Ms. Y/L/n. It is good to see you again.” The nurse smiles warmly. “You are looking well. Mr. Barnes–are you amenable to an intravenous drip line? To rehydrate your body before entering cryostasis.”

“How are you with needles?” Y/n asks. 

“Rather not go near ‘em, I–if given the choice.”

“Not a problem,” the nurse says. “We can hydrate you the old fashioned way. Takes longer.”

“He has time.” Y/n clasps his shoulder. 

“Very well.” The nurse takes his vital stats (noting that his blood pressure is a little high), and gives a more thorough explanation about what he’s in for once he steps into that cryo-tube. It makes him flinch away from Y/n’s sympathetic touch. Thinking about being on ice again reminds him what usually comes after. It does help to sip on the water he’s handed, if for no other reason than shifting his focus.

When it’s time to proceed, the nurse invites Bucky to step forward. There’s nobody holding him at gunpoint, or threatening a zap to the temple; in fact, all of the nurses who float in and out of the room are pleasant, and they all seem to know his companion enough for a personal greeting. He may not trust anyone, but he trusts her. So.

She takes his hand and walks backwards, leading him to the chamber. “They’ll put you out before you ever feel the least bit cold,” she tells him, when he involuntarily shivers.

“Remind me how long,” he asks.

“Two days.”

“I can do that.”

“Yeah.” He steps up toe-to-toe with her so she has to crane her head back to look up at him. Those beautiful eyes crinkle. “A kiss for the road?” she asks. Bucky can’t bring himself to care about the nurses preparing the room. Just the sweet request.

They’ve shared many soft moments together. This is different. There is nothing to hide. Nobody is after them, neither of them are under any kind of despicable influence… They both are nearly delirious with exhaustion, and letting down from the trauma of nearly being separated again, and maybe that’s why kissing her feels new. With raw nerve endings exposed, and no walls up between them, it’s just sweet. A little needy when she teases the seam of his lips with her tongue, just enough to send a jolt of even more intimate moments through his mind and straight to the part of his body pressed against her hip. But he isn’t embarrassed. She’s everything. He takes little drags from her perfect mouth, and smiles at the involuntary whine at the back of her throat when he reluctantly pulls away.

“Two days,” he reminds her. She presses up on her toes and hugs him around the neck. Bucky lifts her off her feet with his arm around her waist. “Я тебя люблю,” he tells the smooth skin below her ear.

“Я тебя люблю.” 

***

“How’d he do?” Steve paces just outside the door to Bucky’s room, while Natasha sits crouched against the wall. They both smile at Y/n as she exits, but Steve still looks worried. 

Y/n reaches for his elbow. “He’s okay. Sent him off to sleep thinking about bookshelves.”

Cap chuckles. “What?”

“He’s set on the idea of building shelves, apparently that’s comforting,” she giggles. “You could’ve come in.”

“Nah. I’ll see him on the other side.” Steve says it flippantly for how serious his expression is. She squeezes his arm. They’re all nervous, especially Steve, but there’s no better place for Bucky to be. The fact that Cap didn’t ask to see Bucky before they put him under was a surprise. Her heart clenches for the sad look on his face.

“You okay, bee?” 

Y/n sighs. “I will be. I’m gonna sit with him for a while, but my stomach growled so loud in there–”

“I’m your man,” Steve says firmly. “Got any allergies I should be aware of?” He’s already backing away, ready to run his errand.

“No,” she says. “Bring whatever you can carry. Oh! Steve–coffee. Forget food. I want the good stuff.”

He pauses. “...what is that?”

“Biggest cup you can find, Steven.” Natasha hooks her arm through her friend’s and winks at the man. 

“Got it.” He practically skips off down the hallway to find the best coffee in Wakanda, looking very determined despite having a bandaged shoulder.

“You convince him to rest, yet? He’s gonna tear his stitches.”

Nat snorts. “I thought I did. Then I made the mistake of telling him that I love him, and he got a second wind.”

“Oh?” Y/n beams.

“Don’t. I can feel my coolness fleeing my body already.”

“No… still pretty badass, even if you are in love with a Boy Scout.”

The Black Widow groans. “Don’t remind me.” She lays her head on Y/n’s shoulder all the same. “They’re ready when you are.”

“Hmm. I need a little bit, first. Just to sit with him.”

“You didn’t tell him?”

Y/n shakes her head. “He would’ve worried. But. I need it. Get back to me, you know?”

“I put a bug in Ramonda’s ear about something, in case thinking about bookshelves isn’t comforting enough for your cryo-sleep.” 

“Yeah?”

“Once Bucky’s been through the deprogramming and officially cleared, of course. I may have suggested you just stay in Wakanda. Ramonda thinks that is a ‘fine idea’ and she’s making inquiries.”

Y/n blinks. “You’re talking… like. Living here.”

“In lieu of letting you two disappear. Seemed more stable. What do you think?”

Y/n turns in Natasha’s arms and hugs her tight. The ‘thanks’ is stuck in her throat, but Nat hums. “Thought you’d be happy about that.”

“I am. I’m…”

“You’re not meant to be a SHIELD pawn, bee. I know that the happiest you’ve ever been in your life was when you were in that cabin, with that man. I hope that this will help him feel strong, but it may take a while. You both enjoy solitude. You have friends here. And I’ll visit as often as I can.”

“Nat–I love you. I can’t believe you’d do this for us–”

“Oh please, I was a goner for you the second I saw your innocent face. I do love you, though.”

***

She sits for hours in a hospital room with only one other occupant, listening to the slow but steady beep of the machine monitoring his heart. Sipping coffee from a mug which could only be qualified as a vat, she stares out over the incredible capitol city, which thrums with the hum of vibranium tech. It is so strange. For so long it seemed like she couldn’t have anything which belonged to her. Now… there’s a yellow pack at her feet. Inside, three very good books and one which Bucky Barnes loathes. A wallet with a photograph of a young soldier who holds her heart. Clean, folded clothes which belong to the soldier in question. A knife from WWII. A journal… She sets the mug on the table, and pulls the red book from the pack. The pages are squished around a pen, marking the next fresh page–what?

I love her. If something happens to me, I need her to know.

The phrase is only written out once, but his scratchy handwriting is unmistakable. It’s steady. It’s a lucid thought, written sometime between when she found it and when they were found. Her eyes well up. She glances at the chamber, which is so iced over she can’t even make out his form, but… god, she thinks. I know, Jamie. 

She finishes the rest of her coffee so quickly that it burns her throat a bit, but she taps out Shuri’s code on the comm tablet.

“Hey,” her friend answers on the first ring.

“I need you to make something for Bucky. Something he can have once he’s healed.”

“Ooh. Tell me.”

“How much do you know about bionic limbs?”

The End.

Epilogue

***

Thank you so much for reading! :)

tag list: @peterhollandkait @abitgryffindorky @hogwartsahist0ry @idgafiamallthefandoms @mysticatto @im-just-star-dust @light-through-stained-glass @ginger-swag-rapunzel @sanguineterrain @honeywithemoney @nahthanks @lalalalokii @themorningsunshine @mumbles411 @slutforsexyseabass

kate’s masterlist - my bucky barnes masterlist

[thescarletwitchsapprentice]

A Pure Soul: Nearly Taken (Yandere!Wanda Maximoff x ADD!autistic!reader)

*Not my GIF.

Summary: The day (y/n) comes back to the compound after being told all those nasty things takes a toll on their mental health and self-esteem. Unfortunately it gets to a point that Wanda hoped it would NEVER reach.

Request?: Still none.

Word Count: 3,456

Warnings: Ableism, eugenics mention, r-word slur, attempted suicide, attempted overdose, hurt and comfort.

Notes: This is a sort of “in-between scene” from “A Pure Soul.” The rate of suicide is 3 times higher in autistic people because of the world’s lack of understanding and willingness to accommodate us. Plus being told the world would be better off without you, along with people looking for ways to make sure we’re not born....that’s gonna take a toll. So it makes sense for these feelings to emerge.

=============================================

You know that the world isn’t very kind to the disabled.

You know that the world wishes people like you wouldn’t exist.

But that doesn’t make what happened hurt any less.

You were out shopping when you ran into your best friend from high school. Except....this friend wasn’t the same as you knew them. No, instead they showed you their true colors.

“Oh hey, (y/n),” they said.

Tone has never been your specialty.

“Hey!” you exclaimed happily as you were looking through the books at your local bookstore. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you! How are you?”

“Better. How’s the treatment coming along?”

This confused you.

“Treatment?”

They nodded.

“For that disease you call autism.”

This struck a chord, and it struck HARD. How could they say something like that?!

“D-disease?!”

They smirked.

“I mean, it just makes us humans lives harder to be around your kind.”

What?!

“What the hell’s gotten into you?!” you exclaimed. “I thought you were my best friend!”

“Oh?”

They pretended to wrack their brain.

“Oh! Yeah, I was such a great actor in that part. I should get an Oscar. Here’s the tea; I lost a bet and had to be your best friend for those four hellish years. I can’t believe they wanted me to suffer that much.”

Your heart began to crack. It was all....an act?

“You took my high school years away from me, made me miserable. I could’ve won prom royalty, but no one voted for me because I associated myself with your species. I’m glad you’re out of my life now. You’re nothing but a burden and the world would be so much better off without you. Why not do us that favor?”

Your heart shattered. You were so plagued with shock that you didn’t notice them push you to the ground and spit on you before walking away with a satisfied chuckle. For the next few minutes, you couldn’t say or do anything. You were just frozen to the spot, their words bouncing around your head.

Finally you were able to feel both the physical and emotional pain. Pursing your lips, you got up, kept your head down, and quickly left the bookstore, trying not to let the tears fall.

===============================================

In the elevator, heading up to your floor, you can barely form a new thought. All you can think of is that hurtful interaction. 

Burden, your kind, your species, disease....

It all hurt. 

And the worst part is that you can’t help but think that they’re right.

But your thoughts are jolted by the elevator bell. As usual you find the Avengers hanging out in the lounge. Nat and Clint are chatting with Wanda. Tony and Peter are working on homework. You can barely see what the others are doing. 

Almost instantly, Wanda’s eye falls on you. She has a smile on her face, but it falls when she sees you, as she instantly knows that something is wrong. 

“(Y/N)!” she whispers worried.

She rushes over and gives you a gentle hug, but you practically squeeze the life out of her. The other Avengers also come to your aid. 

“What happened?” Wanda asks you.

You gulp as she and Nat lead you to the couch.

“I....” you begin as you sit down. “I was out shopping....and I ran into my best friend from high school....”

You tell them the entire interaction. Shocked looks are nearly all around by the end.

“That’s seriously messed up,” Nat says in a mix of disgust and anger.

The others nod in agreement, except for Wanda. Instead she begins to tear up. 

“My sweet angel,” she weeps softly as she hugs you closer and pets your head. “Oh, my sweet, sweet angel. None of what they said is true, not one bit of it. You’re an absolute joy to have around and you’re one of the kindest souls I’ve ever met. You bring so much to the Avengers and to our lives. Autism is not a disease. It’s a part of who you are, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

“Wanda’s right,” Peter nods. “You’re wonderful, (y/n). You’re one of the best friends I could ever ask for.”

“And you bring a lot of new perspectives,” Nat adds. “You came into our lives when we needed you the most, especially Wanda.”

They all take turns giving you words of comfort and encouragement as well as letting you cry. Wanda stays the closest to you, to no one’s surprise, hugging you tightly. Her embrace is exactly what you need right now; so warm and loving. 

Tony, though not the most emotional person, does feel sympathetic and even angered at the person who said that to you; even though you’re on the opposite side of the Accords, he decides to get your favorite food for dinner. It’s not the greatest gesture of sympathy, but it’s definitely something. After that, you take a nice, warm shower and get into some fresh, soft pajamas. Wanda’s waiting for you in your bedroom, and surprises you with some soft socks that match your pajamas.

“I removed the fabric tags too,” she tells you.

Your heart melts a bit more for her. How someone as kind, attentive, and loving as her could ever be considered a terrible person is beyond you. You let her put them on your feet and they feel amazing. You wriggle your toes in them, smiling. 

“You like them?” she asks you.

“I love them,” you giggle before turning to Wanda. “And I love you.”

She smiles and gives you a kiss on the forehead.

“I love you too, my angel.”

The two of you spend the rest of the night together, cuddling up close with one another, watching sitcoms, singing quietly. You doze off in her arms.....

But that doesn’t mean it’s over.....

==============================================

You’re not someone who easily forgets how things make you feel, and what that person said still makes you feel like shit. Now whenever you go out, you’re worried that you’re going to run into them. You keep your guard up and walk as quickly as you can. Every outing feels like a fight for survival, but you try to stay strong so that you don’t bother the others. You try to keep a smile on your face. You need to be strong.....

.....But even the strong reach their limits.

It’s a little after you found out they became catatonic. You’re at a coffee shop, nearly empty, when someone else walks in. It’s a friend of that person. You keep your head low as they place their order; four cups of black coffee, extra hot. Your anxiety is increasing, but you don’t want this person to think you’re weak. You keep your back to them, hearing the door open again. 

The other person is called for their order. Maybe you can finally get out of here.

The next thing you know, you feel something steaming hot being poured down the back of your shirt, on your head, thrown in your face, (which you luckily cover most of with your arms) and splattered on your arms and legs. Standing up, you cry out in pain as you whirl around to see 4 people from high school, among them the friend of your former best friend.

“It’s your fault my best friend can’t function, you retard!” the friend snaps as they push you around roughly.

“No one wants you on this planet,” spits another.

“You’re nothing but a parasite!”

“You just weigh people down!”

“You’re an embarrassment to society!”

“Why don’t you just end this?”

“It’ll be better that way!”

“Your birth was a mistake!”

By this time, you’re hardly a thread’s width away from a meltdown and you look at the cashier for help, but nothing. You try to take out your phone to call for help, but you end up slipping on the coffee, falling to the ground hard and in an odd position, hearing a crack. Pain surges through your body as you look at your arms; burn marks are beginning to form.

After they kick at you for a bit and spit on you, they leave. You look up at the cashier. 

“Why....didn’t you help?” you whimper with a whistle in your voice.

No answer. 

They don’t help you up either. Crawling to the door, you use a nearby booth to bring yourself back up to your feet. Suddenly you feel an intense surge of pain in your left leg, and not just from the burns. You look to see that it’s swollen and turning reddish-purple. You reach into your coat and get out your phone only to discover that it’s dead. Wanda’s going to be worried sick....you hate making her worry, and she’s been worried sick these last few weeks to the point where it’s taking a toll on her; so on the way back, you decide to take one worry out of her life for good.

======================

It’s dark when you get back to the compound. And lucky for you, the elevator is closed for repairs. You limp up the stairs, finally reaching the compound. As quiet as a dust mite, you open the door, biting down on your lips to keep yourself from crying out in pain; unfortunately, your lips took some burn damage as well. Limping to the bathroom, you shut and lock the door. You search the medicine cabinet and find some pills.

“This should do the trick,” you whisper.

You try to quietly position yourself on the floor so that you won’t hit your head. You want to be able to pass as peacefully as possible. But something gives in your left leg and you fall, letting out a loud cry of agony. Realizing your mistake, you quickly fiddle with the lid of the bottle as you hear footsteps rush in. You finally get the lid open and begin to pour out the whole bottle into your hand, hoping to get it in in time--

Click!

The lock turns scarlet, clicks, and the door swings opens. 

“(Y/N)!”

A terrified Wanda immediately snatches the pills and bottle from you with her powers. She makes them disappear before heading to your side, tears already flowing from her eyes.

“My sweet angel.....” she squeaks as she kneels in front of you gently taking ahold of your hands. “I didn’t realize you were feeling this terrible. I’m so sorry things have reached this point.”

You look away guiltily. 

“No, I’m sorry....it’s my fault. I never said....anything. You....you’ve been so stressed these past few weeks....all of you. I didn’t want to make it worse on you, so....I just kept quiet.”

Wanda shakes her head.

“You have nothing to apologize for, (y/n). It can be scary, but there’s no shame in reaching out. We all need help sometimes.”

Other footsteps rush in.

“What happened?” Nat asks. “Did (y/n)---?”

“Almost,” Wanda gulps. “We need to get them to the emergency room.”

“I’m fine,” you lie.

“Are you fine?” Wanda asks.

You realize that it’s pointless to lie, and you shake your head.

“No, I’m not....”

“Then we need to take you to the emergency room.....”

That’s when she sees the burns and leg.

“Especially to treat these.....what happened?”

As they carry you to the car, you tell them about the run-in at the coffee shop, them pouring the hot coffee on you, how they were telling you all of these things, how the cashier did nothing to help, how you heard that crack. Both of them are disgusted and horrified at those monsters.

“I don’t care what they say,” Nat tells you as they get you inside. “I’m glad that you’re here.”

“I am too,” Wanda agrees as she gets in the front seat. “We’re here for you.”

“But.....my autism.....”

Wanda gently takes ahold of your fingers, careful to avoid the burns.

“My angel.....I can only imagine how isolating it feels to be in a world that’s not made for you, but your autism is part of who you are. It’s what makes you unique. If the world refuses to accommodate for people like you on their own, we’ll help them to see that they need to, and we’ll help advocate with you.”

Nat nods as she starts the car up and the three of you head for the ER.

“I....I feel selfish worrying you like this and even attempting....I just thought....you’ve been so stressed and I thought it’d be better to take one worry out of your life.”

“You have nothing to feel selfish about,” Wanda assures you. “What you did wasn’t selfish. You’re in pain, and wanting to do something to stop that pain isn’t selfish. But there are better ways to deal with the pain, and I want to help you with those. (Y/N), I can say with 100% certainty that I’m glad to have you in my life, through the good and the bad.”

Tears flow down your face as the three of you silently drive to the ER.

=============================================

It takes several hours for you to be treated, along with a few more hours of consultation for your mental health. Some of the burns are treated through surgery, so you have to stay for a little over a week to make sure you recover and stabilize. Your leg is put in a cast, and Wanda comes to visit you everyday. You feel much better with her and Nat.

A psychologist comes in to discuss a safety plan with you. You decided to ask Wanda if she’d come and discuss it with them. She said yes and Nat also decided to help. You all work out what works in terms of coping mechanisms, people you can talk to, calming techniques, etc,. The psychologist also recommends regular counseling. Wanda asks if there are any remote options for counseling, as it’s going to be difficult for you to get there with your leg, (Also, she’s a little worried that the therapist might try to take you away from her, but she does show concern for your leg) and to her relief, there is. 

You’re discharged after about a week, but you’re not to be left alone for a few days to another week or two, just to be sure. Well, it’s more of Wanda’s recommendation than psychologist’s orders, but the psychologist also thinks that that could be a good idea. You’re not really complaining; it’s more time to spend with Wanda. And she’s certainly not complaining either.

For that time, especially, she makes sure you know that you’re loved, wanted, valued. She practically dotes on you; as if she hadn’t been doting on you before, she’s especially pampering you now. The other Avengers also get the 411, and decide to help. If you need pain or sleep medications, one of them brings the proper dose to you. They take turns spending time with you and getting to know you more. If they need to go out on a mission, Wanda volunteers to stay with you, but if she’s absolutely needed there, she entrusts your care to Vision, a robot who’s exceptionally caring. You and Wanda regularly discuss possibly adding him to the relationship, but you’re not sure if she’s being serious or not. 

On one night, Wanda’s caring for you. After applying the prescribed cream on your burns, she helps you find an oversized t-shirt to wear as PJs. 

“This one’s softer than the others,” you note.

“I went looking for a shirt with a softer material than normal,” she tells you as she prepares a small dose of melatonin for you, one that you’ve been taking to combat the nightmares of those events in the hospital. “I know how much it tends to make you feel discomforted if there is one. I also made sure it was a tagless shirt.”

You smile and sigh.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve an angel like you, Wanda,” you tell her.

Hearing this she smiles and blushes.

“If anyone’s the angel, it’s you,” she says as she gives you the melatonin. “You’ve been there for me even when I’m at my absolute worst.”

“So have you.”

You take the melatonin before Wanda brings you your toothbrush and toothpaste. You brush thoroughly before spitting it into a cup that Wanda disposes of. 

“You know, I could go to the bathroom and do this myself,” you tell her kindly.

“I know,” she sighs. “I’m just worried, my angel.”

“What if I wash my face tonight with the door open?” you suggest.

Wanda gives this a little thought and nods. 

“I can work with that.”

Using your crutches, you walk to the bathroom where you sit on a stool in front of the sink. You wash and dry your face before heading to the bed with Wanda helping you get tucked in.

“You’re seriously an angel,” you tell her. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone outside of my family that’s been as concerned about my well-being as you.”

“And you’re too sweet,” she smiles again as she finishes getting ready for bed herself. “If anyone’s the undeserving, I don’t deserve you.”

“No, it’s the other way around,” you say.

“No, I’m certain I’m right.”

You giggle.

“Wanda, if we try to prove one right over the other, we’ll be going at this all night.”

She smiles as she goes over to the other side of the bed. 

“Well, I know you’re an angel,” she tells you as she gets under the covers. “You came to me in a dark time, and you shone a beam of sunlight through the shadow.”

The two of you look at each other as the fairy lights hang above you. Of course you’re looking at the bridge of her nose, but you can’t help but glance up at her eyes a few times; one time they catch you, and they are stunning. They’re like emeralds to you; vivid, entrancing, mystical. Just a single glance, and you know there’s so much to know about, so much to discover, and you become lost in them. 

“I’m so proud of you, (y/n).”

Wanda’s gentle voice echoes against your eardrums and dances around your mind, soothing you into drifting even more. But then she boops you on the nose, making it twitch like a bunny’s and snapping you out of your trance.

“Huh?” you ask, looking lost.

Wanda giggles.

“You are too cute,” she tells you. “I was saying that I’m so proud of you for pushing through all of this. It’s not the easiest thing to do, and.....well.....I’m glad you’re still alive, my sweet little sunbeam.”

You blush upon hearing this and turn away, but Wanda gently redirects your face forward.

“There’s no need to hide, my angel. I want to see your lovely face.”

At that moment, you begin to feel drowsy and bring yourself closer to her.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank you enough, Wanda,” you sigh.

She brings you in closer and you melt into her embrace.

“Being with you, and you being safe and happy and alive.....that’s the only thank you I need.”

Leaning in, she kisses you gently on your forehead and you shyly return one on her cheek. 

“Goodnight, my angel,” she tells you as she brushes a strand of hair out of your way.

“Wait,” you say as she turns to switch the lights off. “Will....will you sing me those lullabies again? Please?”

“Of course,” she smiles. 

Turning the lights off, she returns to embrace you and softly sings the Sokovian lullabies her parents used to sing to her. As you drift off to sleep, you don’t know what’s going on in her mind. What’s going on with her mind? Her master plan, of course. Tonight’s the night she will finish what she started. Those monsters at the coffee shop messed with the wrong person. For the past few nights, she’s been paying them visits, doing the same things she did with your former best friend, and sending subconscious suggestions for them to gather in one place, thinking they’d be safer together. And now they have.

Tonight she’s going to make sure their minds are gone for good, but not before making them feel the pain and agony she imagines you felt. Her anger with them is in full throttle, so it’s going to be even worse for them. Telekinesis, fear projection, hypnosis, inducing extreme fear, she’ll do whatever she has to. Wanda will not leave until they’re nothing more than hollow husks, shadows of their former selves. With how they’d been acting on those nights, and how much Wanda has done so far, it won’t take too long. 

Because no one-and she means no one-gets away with hurting her precious angel.......ever.

[fulltimemoaner]

Zhongli is prosecuted for giving his Gnosis to the Tsaritsa, leaving him and Childe no choice than to flee to Snezhnaya.

Basically, some thieves cut Zhongli’s hair and Childe slaughters them because he really liked his hair.

Childe’s warm hand had felt comforting on his waist, even if he was hidden in a cloak under the warm sun of Liyue, being sneaked out of his homeland like the fugitive that he had become, like the land below him had forgotten the gentle rumbling of his energy and the security of his spears. He had fought back the urge to cry, thousands of years of protecting his safe harbour pointing their treacherous fingers at him. Yet, unlike Azhdaha, there was no bitterness, no disgust towards his beloved humans that had so willingly shunned him after news of his contract with the Tsaritsa had surfaced. In fact, the adoring citizens of Liyue had issued a warrant for him, for the Archon’s head that had wished to sign with the Fatui and sell out their safety.

Zhongli did not wish for the dominion of his beliefs, nor for acceptance, because mortal life was too brief and brittle to understand the gamble of him keeping his Gnosis when he could feel the claws of erosion leeching into his sanity. To their eyes, he had been their loving and protective God, who couldn’t be wrong, who would continue to reign for the millennia to come. The rusty floorboards had creaked underneath his feet, and he had caught the last traces of his homeland’s sun before he had been ushered to the basement of the ship for the first few hours, until they had been a safe distance from Liyue.

The adepti had weeped for this outcome, yet he had begged them not to rain down their vengeance on the mortals, to be gentle and understanding. He had entrusted them with the continuous protection of their harbour.

And the next air he breathed was that of Snezhnaya, the first light he saw was cold and fragile. He had emerged from his murky cabin in the early morning and had approached the railing that separated them from the freezing ocean. The rippling wind whipped back the hood of the heavy coat Ajax had provided him with, and now his hair waved in the wind, his eyes staring emptily into the distance as his skin itched from the cold. The Tsaritsa had accepted him as a fugitive asking for protection, and now, as his hands gripped the railing, he realised he hadn’t been that far away from home since the Archon War.

He looked up, feeling the soft tears that clung to his eyelashes freezing over, the sun obscured by a thick layer of clouds. How he missed the gentle breeze already.

The same went for Snezhnaya itself, it was cold enough to make his breath catch in his throat and his lungs ache. Ajax had taken his scarf off and wrapped it around his neck at the sound of his laboured breathing, then adjusted it to make sure it was covering his mouth and nose. Zhongli’s eyes had been curious as to why the ginger had been so gentle the past couple days, even the snark and edge having left his voice. Perhaps he felt for him. At least the gaze of the locals was gentle and welcoming, for the most part, offering him local delicacies and flowers before he and Childe could even reach his home. The Harbinger had been welcomed back like a hero, with huge bouquets and a massive meal prepared by his family.

Zhongli had been catatonic, at best, but at least, he had found some comfort in talking to the children, who were, as always, excited and easily impressed by his stories of dragons and extinct creatures.

He had stayed indoors for the first couple of days, too reluctant to go exploring on these foreign lands, but eventually, his confidence started building up again, so he picked up the small bag of money that Childe left for him every morning. -Zhongli had given his allowance of the two previous days to the little kids, since he hadn’t gone outside and concepts such as saving were nonexistent in his brain-

The attire, that he was getting used to. He wasn’t a huge fan of wearing boots, but he could say their smooth leather sealed him from the snow pretty well, and that the heavy coat felt strangely comforting around his shoulders. More than once, he had overheard people calling him the golden devil, which he considered to be quite endearing in its own, clueless way.

He stepped by a merchant’s booth with imported stones, including what they described as Liyuen Cor Lapis and Noctilucous Jades. He leaned in a bit closer for observation, and the merchant seemed to shift uncomfortably, which pretty much told Zhongli that these were, in fact, fake. He straightened up again, unable to resist teasing the merchant. “Are these imported straight from the chasm?”

The shopkeeper’s eyes seemed to go wide, and he quickly tried to dodge the question. Thankfully, for him, a whistle tore through their ears and made the young foreigner turn, his eyes narrowed.

“Lovely accessory you have there, good sir.” A young man smiled, accompanied by three others. “Looks like the real thing too.” The Snezhnayan man caressed the piece of jewellery that held Zhongli’s hair into a neat ponytail in a leery way. The ex archon didn’t move, only observed with caution, his piercing gaze saying more than words ever could. “Say, you aren’t, by any chance, the Tsaritsa’s guest from Liyue harbour?”

The other men chuckled and Zhongli glanced at the merchant, who started packing up his items hurriedly, seemingly intimidated by the gang. “Why, yes, I am.” He said neutrally, his voice a notch lower than friendly.

“Huh, you have nerve, saying that so openly.” The Snezhnayan’s fist twisted around the half-golden ponytail and pulled Zhongli’s head back. “You owe us, since we so willingly welcomed you here.” The stranger smirked, reaching behind his back for a folded knife. “I’m sure we could sell Morax’s hair for quite a fortune.” Another yank to the head and Zhongli blinked apathetically. “Aren’t you fighting back?”

“I have no interest in fighting mortals.” Zhongli shrugged. “My hair is my hair. Three years to grow them back is like the blink of an eye to me.”

The man’s eyes flickered with fury at the stranger, and he brought that dagger into his coal hair, severing the strands roughly. Zhongli’s eyes stayed unmoving, hostile, hateful, in a way. The lump of hair fell into the snow unceremoniously, and one of the others scurried to grab it.

“Yo,”

Zhongli’s eyes flickered from the thief to the source of the familiar voice. Relief washed over him at the sight of ginger hair and ocean blue eyes, that slender figure hugged in his winter attire that Zhongli rarely saw him in. A primal sense of grounding gripped him, almost like the essence of his home, which he had eternally bound to Childe’s smiling face. Unorthodox, he knew, but he was like an oasis of familiarity that the weather hadn’t manage to freeze over yet.

“Where is your Snezhnayan upbringing, picking on the Tsaritsa’s guests?” Ajax sighed, walking leisurely towards Zhongli. “I have eyes and ears where my hands can’t reach, and right now, mr. Zhongli is under my supervision.” His hand found its familiar spot on the God’s waist, his eyes scanning for any traces of harm’s way on him. His hand reached the back of his head before his eyes did, and they narrowed dangerously. “Ah, is that what you were going for? It’s a shame.” Zhongli felt uncertainty creep up his spine at the shift in the Harbinger’s tone, still wishing for no harm towards the mortals.

“Ajax,”

“It’s a shame,” Childe continued, cracking his neck to the left, then to the right with a relieved smile. “Because I happened to love his hair, and I don’t take kindly to things being taken away from me.”

“Ajax, let’s go home.” Zhongli grabbed his wrist, the whole group of thieves frozen in fear at the sight of the Fatui.

“No, no. We can’t do that. When someone kisses you, they expect a kiss back, no?” Ajax stepped forward and stretched his arm out, his hydro dagger appearing into his hand. “You might not want to shift the tides here, mr. Zhongli, but these rascals are my own.”

“Run!” The leader of the thieves screamed, but they didn’t stand a chance. Childe threw the dagger first, hitting the middle one between his shoulder blades. Blood gushed out in waves and Ajax laughed joyfully, running to the gurgling body to pull his weapon out, then join it into a larger pole-arm. A jump and a couple of spins and heads went flying, legs were severed, and the snow was painted an abysmal red. Childe leaned his head back, feeling the wind swipe his hair back and freeze his smile in place. The weapons vaporised in his hands, and he slowly lowered his gaze to Zhongli, stood meekly by the scene of the slaughter. Childe wrestled the hair out of the dead man’s grip, for the sake of retreating the luxurious clip that his lover favoured since he first met him. “Measly thieves. Someone has to be the sacrificial lamb, the subject to teach the others a lesson,”

Zhongli’s eyes eased shut when Ajax closed in on his space, leaning close to his face and pushing the small accessory into his gloved hand. “I love you.” Ajax whispered, pressing a gentle kiss into the corner of Zhongli’s brow. “And I intend to keep you safe here.”

“They wouldn’t kill me, Ajax.” Zhongli sighed deeply, leaning into Childe’s neck. “They wouldn’t be able to.”

“No one will dare to try anymore.” The Harbinger’s hand nestled to the small of the ex archon’s back, pulling him close to his body. He started to caress the back of his head with his free hand, trying to feel the roughly cut strands through the fabric of his gloves. “I’m sorry they touched you.”

“You’re more sad about that than I am.” Zhongli smiled gently and pulled the Harbinger’s head down to press their foreheads together. “It will grow back in no time.”

“I’m a mortal like they are.” Ajax whispered sadly, his eyes easing shut. Zhongli pressed a fleeting kiss to his lips in response, trying to ease the pain in his lover’s voice.

“And I’m eroding, so let’s try to outlive each other.” Zhongli chuckled, making Childe squeeze him close, a neediness evident in his touch. “I want to live like mortals do, with you, Ajax. That’s why I’m here.”

“Please, don’t say such things to me.” The Harbinger breathed deeply, trying to choke down a few stray tears. “I promise I will make your stay worthwhile.”

“I know.” Zhongli kissed his jaw quickly. “You can start by taking me somewhere, I’m freezing.”

“Right.” Childe laughed, reaching out to grasp the ex archon’s hand and pull him away from the bloodied grounds. “I’m taking you for lunch. I will tell some underlings to clean up the mess.”

“You could had been more clean about it.”

[polishksiezniczka]

By God's Grace | Camerlengo Patrick McKenna x Reader

You believe Patrick, your lover, to be dead after the explosion but are eventually reunited.

Notes: AU—Patrick is the good guy! Angst, romance. Also, I can’t help but get serious Obi-Wan vibes again from this oneshot ?? I am definitely picturing a similar reunion between you and your dashing Jedi lover when he returns to you after a dangerous, far-off mission (minus the Italian, LOL). 1.4K words.

Thank you to the lovely @quiescentcrepuscular for being a phenomenal beta reader!

By the time you learned of the situation, it was too late: the helicopter had taken off, Patrick its doomed pilot. As you watched him ascend higher and higher into the night sky, you nearly became catatonic. You couldn’t bear to witness the man you loved so deeply die alone and afraid while you stood there, completely helpless.

So you ran back to the Swiss Guard’s headquarters, tears blinding your vision. You couldn’t calm down and slowly felt yourself pulled down into a spiral of panic. As you ran, images of Patrick replayed over and over again in your head. Your first meeting. When he reciprocated his feelings for you. Your first kiss. The first—and last—time he told you he loved you. The last time you had been together...

You had rushed to his side with Lt. Chartrand after discovering him lying on the floor of His Holiness’ study, his chest badly burned by the brand.

“Whatever happens, know I’ll always love you,” he had whispered hoarsely, so that only you could hear, his fingers ghosting over your hands as you cleaned and dressed his wounds.

“I know, Patrick. I know,” you replied, your eyes still fixed on his chest as you hushed him gently. “And I will always be here for you.” Your voice dropped to a murmur. “I love you...”

The memory of your distracted nature stained your last moments together—how you wished you could relive those moments again! Shaking your head, you squeezed your eyes shut, trying in vain to shut out the anguish which you now felt, but grief coursed through your body so violently you began to feel physically ill. Your lungs burned from overexertion, exhausted by both your sprinting and crying.

Why hadn’t you done more to comfort him? Why hadn’t you gazed into his beautiful, caring eyes one last time?

You did little to stop the loud sob which escaped your throat, surely drawing the attention of the Swiss Guards at the door to the command center, but you didn’t care about them, nor anyone else for that matter. Your entire world had died with Patrick.

Why had you not told him how much he meant to you? How much you cared for him? Loved him more than life itself?

You collapsed onto a sofa then, weeping bitterly. “Please, Patrick, please forgive me. Please…”

----------

You couldn’t tell how much time had passed when the door beside you burst open.

“...it is truly a miracle, what happened to the camerlengo!” At first you barely registered Olivetti and Commander Richter’s presence until you heard his name. You froze.

“What about the camerlengo?” you cried out, abruptly wrenched from your grief.

“Didn’t you hear? He survived the explosion!” Your heart stopped, barely processing the words coming from Olivetti’s mouth. “Before the bomb detonated, he was able to parachute out of the helicopter. He saved us all! Sia Lode a Dio!” he marveled.

“Where is he?” you demanded frantically. “Where is he?!”

Before Olivetti could even finish his sentence, you were already flying out the door, on your way to the hospital.

----------

You nearly let out a cry of relief upon seeing Patrick. Doctors and nurses fluttered about him, attending to his wounds. He looked so small and fragile in the moment, far from the confident man of God you knew. But that didn’t matter. He was alive. Your beloved. Your Patrick. Alive.

“M-Monsignor!” you exclaimed breathlessly.

His eyes immediately locked with yours, and you saw his heart break. Your eyes were likely still red from crying, tears glistened against your cheeks, and your windswept hair indicated your haste. He stared at you incredulously, afraid that you were merely a hallucination brought on by one of his injuries.

“Miss Y/L/N…?” Even in this state, he remembered his propriety, bringing tears to your eyes.

You needed to pull yourself together, lest you make a scene. You cleared your throat. “Monsignor, I have urgent news from the US Embassy. About the incident.” You gazed at him in earnest, silently begging to speak with him.

He tore his gaze away from you; his eyes darted about, as if deep in thought. Then, he spoke:

“Starò bene. Se ci scusi, sorella.”

You offered your arm to him, which he eagerly slipped into yours, carefully making your way to the hallway with him. Once out of view, he whisked you into an unoccupied room and shut the door.

Your reaction was immediate: you bolted into his arms and held him tightly, burying your face into his neck with a sob. You were careful to brace your weight against him, remembering the angry red marks of the brand which marred his beautiful chest. He held you just as passionately, stroking your hair and tenderly rubbing your back.

Although his scent brought you instant, indescribable comfort, your bawling only intensified. You felt his skin grow warm from your tears and ragged breathing despite his attempts to hush your incoherent babbling with his soothing voice. “Oh darling, shhhh. Please, don’t cry. Shhh…” He leaned back to study your flushed, tear-stained face, his hand coming up to cradle it. “I’m here, I’m here.” He lightly brushed his thumbs over your cheeks to wipe away your tears.

You stared up into his beautiful eyes, bringing your hands to his face in turn, memorizing its angels and curves with your soft fingertips. You felt him lean into your gentle ministrations, his eyes squeezing shut in sheer comfort.

“I thought that I would n-never s-see you again. I th-thought I had lost you f-forever.” You choked back a sob. The shakiness in your voice made it difficult for you to speak coherently as the tears relentlessly streamed down your face.

He clasped his hands over yours. As he slowly revealed his cerulean orbs to you, you noticed the luster of tears. “Never, angelo mio,” he whispered ardently, turning his head to softly kiss your palm. “Never. By God’s grace, I returned to you.”

He kissed you softly then, assuaging your fears; you tasted the saltiness of your tears lingering on his lips. As if to reassure you of his presence, he rested his forehead against yours. You remained like this for several minutes, the peaceful silence interrupted occasionally by your quiet sobs or the soft words of affirmation Patrick whispered against your lips.

You finally leaned back, your eyes immediately filling with tears as they scanned his face. “Y-you’re hurt,” you lamented softly, brushing back the few pieces of hair which had fallen into his face. Angry red gashes and bruises riddled his face and torso, and you longed to kiss each and every one, to hold him until he was no longer in pain. “I’m so sorry...” you whimpered.

As your eyes continued their frantic scan, Patrick brought you back to reality by whispering your name, pleadingly, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Cuore mio…look at me.” Your eyes found his effortlessly as he caressed the nape of your neck, the sensation sending shivers down your spine. “I’m all right. All that matters is you are here, safe, with me.” He smiled then, his eyes crinkling endearingly. “And I would never leave you without saying goodbye.”

You sniffled and let out a soft, choked laugh as you watched his face brighten. “Patrick, my love,” you whispered reverently, “I’d be lost without you.” You paused, cradling his face once again. “I love you more than life itself. Please…I don’t ever want to be without you again.”

His gaze softened as his eyes welled with tears. “Ti amo,” he replied, laying a soft kiss on your cheek. “Ti amo,” he repeated, planting another on your opposite cheek. He looked at you lovingly as he leaned forward. “Ti amo…” he murmured, capturing your lips in his. ¤

Translations

Sia Lode a Dio! = "Praise God!"

Starò bene. Se ci scusi, sorella. = "I'll be okay. If you'll excuse us, sister."

Cuore mio = "my heart"

Ti amo = "I love you"

Taglist: @seraferna @lemairepstuff

[elriel-sparkleshadow]

Elriel Month - Day 1 (Rosehall)

I was excited to participate that this project by @elrielmonth and I hope you like this little fanfic.

Roses have always had a special meaning in Azriel's life and when he goes to visit his mom in Rosehall, she gives him advice about a girl who has been filling his thoughts.

Roses, Azriel was never able to understand the connection he had with these beautiful flowers, but they were always present throughout his life. Perhaps it was because of the tea his mother gave him on the days when he was able to visit her when he was little, or because the remedy used on his scars had been made from these flowers, or simply because he always liked to admire the contrast in the soft petals and the sharp spines. That must be why as soon as he can buy a property with his own money, he didn't have to think long before naming her Rosehall.

He rarely went to the property, with all the work he had to do on behalf of the night court, but he spent at least once every 15 days to see his mother and have a tea made from the beautiful flowers she picked in the garden. In this time, as he entered the garden and noticed the dozens of roses that had blossomed along the way, he could not divert the thoughts that filled his mind with just one name: Elain. The friendship between them had blossomed since the first time Az accompanied her to the garden at Rhysand's house, Elain was in a catatonic state at the time and he still clearly remembered the relief he felt when he noticed her improvement, the small smiles that gradually she started to give and the conversations that arose between them. With her he was never afraid to be himself, to tell about his day or his past, she never shied and little by little he was trying to spend more time with her, if only to listen about the plans she had for the garden, to talk about any random subject or just to be in comfortable silence. Elain had a sense of humor that could make him laugh, his jokes were clever and acid and he was amazed to hear her speak, in fact, lately, he was amazed even to look at her from the corner of his eye or notice her presence, it was as his whole body sang when he noticed that the seer was close by. Her body shivered when she noticed the accidental brush of her fingers while he helped her in the garden, or when they were gathered for dinner and she appeared in the living room with that smile that made her heart race. It was as if somehow theirs eyes always met when they were in the same room, and as dangerous as that was, he couldn't deny that he loved playing that game and seeing which one would look away first.

Gradually he was trying to get away, he knew the danger he was running when he let his feelings unfold and he felt that for his joy and also for his pain, Elain felt the same. She had a mate, one she didn't want and didn't like, but it was still complicated and Az didn't want to disturb her happiness, even though something in her heart told her that their happiness was destined to walk together.

"You’re quiet today" his mother said and raised the cup to her lips, watching him over the rim.

"I'm always quiet" he replied stirring his own tea and she smiled, placing the cup on the table between them and approaching to take his hands between hers.

"Today you’re more" Az met his gaze and sighed, it was difficult to hide anything from his mother, even though he was the spymaster.

"It's ... it's complicated." he looked away and released his hands, taking the cup and looking at the submerged petals at the bottom.

“It's that girl, isn't it? Elain? ” his mother was smiling and he felt his cheeks flush, it was like he was a teenager again when he was at home.

"As I said, it’s complicated." his mother continued to smile and he took a sip of tea, just to have something to do.

"I would like to meet her" - Az almost spit out the tea and looked at his mother with a raised eyebrow.

"Meet ... Elain?" he asked quietly as if it were secret and she nodded quickly.

"Yes, she seems to be important to you and I would love to meet her"

"Mom, it's not that simple, I already told you that she has a mate and I don't know if ..." his mother looked at him impatiently and lavished a hand to interrupt him.

“Azriel, things are only complicated when we continue to complicate them. Bring her here the next time you come, I’m sure good friends can go out together sometimes and from what you’ve already told me, she would like to see this garden." his mother was serious and he smiled when he noticed his own personality emblazoned on her.

"She would love to" a smile appeared on his lips, thinking that once again roses would be intertwined in his life since Elain seemed to have a special attachment for these flowers.

"So it's agreed." his mother took the two cups and stood up, walking towards the house and he accompanied her while carrying the tray with cookies and kettle.

"Now tell me what are you going to give to her in the solstice." his mother put the utensils in the sink and turned to face him. "And don't even try to deceive me by saying you didn't buy anything, I know you very well."

"I would never lie to you." he smiled and kissed her on the forehead.

"Remember that necklace I mentioned the last time I visited..."

The sun was setting outside, while Az revealed details of the necklace with a rose-shaped stained glass she had bought for Elain, and his mother smiled, already imagining who would soon meet the famous Elain Archeron, whom she already loved only for the details that Az told her and for the happiness that Elain seemed to bring to her son.

[jaeheewillalwaysbemyfav]

Hello! I have a request for the obey me bro! Could you write some hc abt a MC who would see the boys as lovely (each for their reasons) and would considers them more like cute little beans rather than demons, spoiling and pampering them as if they were children, giving them candy or patting them on the head to calm them down, buying them stuff... and so MC would be completely oblivious to their attempts to flirt! (like : you want a kiss? what if I pinched your adorable cheek instead?)

Ooooh boy this is both adorable and hilarious! I’m gonna do just the brothers for now, but if you want to see others lmk!

Content Warnings: References to spoilery stuff for Lucifer, Asmo, and Belphie’s sections, Asmo’s section also contains alcohol/clubbing

MC Treating the Brothers Like Cute Little Beans

Lucifer

MC hits Lucifer like a fucking freight train. They’ve been kidnapped and dragged to Hell, and their response to living with seven demons is... Well, he’s not sure what to call this.

The behaviour isn’t malicious or threatening, beyond dealing some serious damage to his Pride(tm), so what is he really able to do? Is this some human custom? Will he offend them if he asks them to stop? He’s supposed to be accommodating of them for the sake of the exchange program, but the last person to be so soft with him is...

He decides to deal with it. The heart-shaped foods when it’s MC’s turn to cook, the little presents, the... headpats, and other doting measures MC deems necessary. He only asks that they refrain from doing so around others, especially outside of the House of Lamentation. If Diavolo saw him like this, he’d never live it down.

And it eventually becomes quite endearing. Lucifer finds himself anticipating MC’s affection, and notices if they stop. It’s while he’s been swamped for an especially long time in paperwork that he realizes he misses it. Who knew a human like them could stir up these feelings in him...

Lucifer comes to the conclusion that if MC is so essential to his life, he should let them know. But the Avatar of Pride isn’t about to say, “Your babying has made me fall in love with you,” so instead he opts to start flirting. He gets MC fancy gifts, his touches start to linger, and he even invites them out to dinner.

And none of it gets a reaction. They coo over the gifts and smile at the increased attention, but the idea of romance seems to fly right over their head. He offered to take them to Ristorante Six and they pinched his cheek! He is The Lucifer, the son of the morning, the embodiment of pride, and a human just giggled at him and called him “such a sweetie” for trying to ask them out on a date!

Oh no. He will not let this human get the better of him. Lucifer will find a way to make his intentions clear, and this human will see him as a serious candidate to be their partner.

Mammon

Mammon lives a rough and tumble life. He’s energetic and loud, and his schemes to get riches often put him at odds with those around him. He can con people, and he can survive hostility, but MC is not the type of thing he deals with often, if ever. Part of him is convinced this is fine: he’s the GREAT Mammon, of course this human is all over him! Another part of him is flattered and greatly appreciates the attention.

But there’s a growing part of him that’s concerned that they think he’s some kind of adorable pet rather than a powerful demon. And he’s not sure if he really minds that.

He flips between grinning broadly and boasting about receiving MC’s attention, and putting on an act of being upset at being coddled by some weak human. Stop packing him lunches, MC, he can make them or buy them himself! No, don’t take it away! ...yes, he likes the apple slices.

Whenever he’s upset, Mammon will storm over to MC’s room and start grousing about whatever is troubling him at the moment, be it some plan of his that failed or his brothers’ teasing. When MC starts stroking his hair and making shushing noises at him to calm him down, he’s initially flustered and offended - he’s not a child, MC! - but his weak spot is his head, and the pats win him over in the end.

It’s become something of a ritual if he’s being honest.

MC also leaves him all these little gifts, and - that’s it. This human’s wormed their way into his heart, there’s no way he’s letting anyone else have them!

Mammon tries a variety of convoluted ways to try and “confess” to MC, but it never works out the way he wants, either because of some outside force or because MC themself just... isn’t taking the hint. He’s going to have to be as direct as possible about his feelings... Shit.

Leviathan

This must be some Normie Tactic, Leviathan thinks as MC ruffles his hair while he complains about his older brother not paying him back yet again. His crippling lack of self esteem won’t let him view MC’s intentions as genuine, and he reacts to every gift or compliment with immense suspicion. The only people who are this nice to someone always do it because they want something, and once MC figures out he’s just some yucky otaku, they’ll lose interest.

Except now he’s at a convention, dressed in a handmade and Completely accurate Lord of Shadows cosplay, and MC is dressed in an equally impressive Henry cosplay, and they’re holding his hand and asking him what merch he wants. And it hits poor Leviathan right then and there that MC is just doing this because they think he’s...

Well, he’s not sure what they think of him. The gifts, the comforting, the kind words, they all would normally read as flirting, but MC never seems to actually go anywhere with that? They’ll hold his hand, but just to make sure they don’t get separated. They’ll hug him, but only to cradle him when he’s feeling upset about something. They even gave him a kiss once, but it was on the forehead!

Is MC bad at flirting? Are they teasing him? Is this just how they are with everyone, and he’s perverting their friendship because he wants something more?

“So, have you made up your mind yet, Leviachan?” MC asks, giggling at the cutesy nickname for their favourite little bean.

“Will you just stop TEASING me already?!” the bean shouts in response, breaking their Platonic Hand Hold for dramatic effect. “If you really l-like me, just tell me! And if you’re just doing this to make fun of me, then cut it out!”

Leviathan turns beet red as he processes what he actually just said. He scrunches his eyes shut, unwilling to face MC’s rejection.

Instead, he feels a soft hand take his. “Silly Levi, of course I like you!” MC says. “You’re so adorable when you’re all flustered like that.~ Now come on, best friend, I saw a TSL poster that would be a great fit for your room!”

MC promptly drags him off towards a booth, having clarified absolutely nothing for the poor Avatar of Envy. Of all the genres his life could have become, he had to be stuck in a rom com...

Satan

Oh No. Satan tries very, very hard to be taken seriously, despite being the personification of Lucifer’s wrath and the youngest of the brothers in terms of actual age, and a human treating him like an adorable kitten or beloved grandchild is going to get on every single one of his nerves. His self-control is famously ironclad though, so he’s able to get through it with fake smiles and clenched fists.

It doesn’t hurt that MC also flusters his brothers, especially a certain someone, to an unprecedented degree, and Satan finds this very amusing. When he’s not up to humouring MC’s bizarre affections, he’ll proverbially wind them up and point them at whichever brother most recently slighted him, saying “Oh, Mammon’s been feeling a bit down lately... MC, you should go make sure he’s okay,” or, “Lucifer seems really overworked, doesn’t he?”

But his anger can’t be contained forever. Eventually, on a particularly bad day when MC is being especially persistent, Satan snaps. With a crackle of power, his demon form rushes to the surface as he vividly recounts all the horrible things he’s going to do to MC if they don’t stop with their incessant coddling-

MC responds by waltzing up to him and petting between his horns, saying that it’s healthy to vent your frustrations, and oh isn’t his feather boa so handsome!

Satan freezes. He forgets why he was mad. He forgets why he’s ever been mad, or ever felt anything else ever. Either MC is completely fearless or they... they’re not scared of him. They trust him.

He spends the next week catatonic under a pile of blankets or pacing his library of a room, sustained by tea and biscuits brought to him by a cheery, if somewhat confused, MC.

Dammit MC, ya broke him

Asmodeus

Unlike his brothers, Asmo is very familiar with this kind of attention, and he eats it up! He’s used to people giving him gifts or calling him pet names or even getting handsy with him, and he knows exactly where this is going to lead. So everything MC throws at him, he sends right back with flirting of his own.

“Asmo, your skin is so soft!”

“Thank you, darling! If you want, I can show you how I keep it this way... But I might need some help getting the moisturizer everywhere...”

“Awwww, you can’t reach your back? But you’re usually so bendy!”

They don’t quite respond to his attempts at getting spicy the way he expects, but the delayed gratification just makes it even more exciting!

Except... it keeps going like this. MC hasn’t responded to any of his suggestive pick up lines or his lingering touches with anything more than a fond smile and a peck on the cheek. This causes Asmo to do something he usually hates to do: reflect.

MC’s gestures were all very sweet, yes, but if they were trying to ply him with sweets and little fashion shows and going out dancing with him, they would have tried to sleep with him by now. But that seems to be the farthest thing from their mind.

Does MC just happen to... like him? Not to lust after him, or find him beautiful, but really, genuinely think he’s worth their time, no strings or favours attached?

Unthinkable.

The next time they go clubbing together, Asmo goes overboard with the Demonus and ends up piss drunk at the bar, sobbing in the arms of a much less tipsy MC.

“I just don’t understand!” he laments as MC fondly strokes his hair. “What do you want from me? Am I not enough? How is that possible?! I’m-I’m the- *hic*- I’m the embodiment of Lust!” His words slur more and more as he continues, his rant becoming unintelligible. “I can give you anything you desire! Who wouldn’t want that?”

MC pulls out a makeup removing wipe and carefully removes Asmo’s smeared mascara from his cheeks. “Don’t worry, you’re still the most beautiful demon in the Devildom to me, Asmo-chan~” they say as they boop his nose with the wipe.

What is he going to do with them? And what are they doing to him?

Beelzebub

When MC first meets Beel, he’s very hungry, and thus very grumpy. They quickly figure out that a steady supply of snacks drastically improves his mood, and make it their personal mission to keep their favourite giant beanstalk happy and munching. Beelzebub, for one, is completely on board with this, and will in turn tolerate MC’s... unique brand of affection. How can he really complain, anyway?

Even if they fling themselves at him at high speeds, he doesn’t mind catching them because he knows they probably have some homemade goodies on their person ready to reward him. A part of him wonders if this is some way of training him to respond to their commands even without being able to call on their pact, but they’re so unwaveringly doting that his suspicions can’t stick.

MC is also his biggest cheerleader at his games, and there’s something really sweet about seeing a small human in a stadium of demons screaming louder than anyone about their precious lovely Beelzburger’s athletic prowess.

The clinginess, the gifts, the relentless adoration, and yes, the many snacks all warm Beel up to MC very quickly, and he decides that he really likes being around them and wants to return the favour. Unlike his brothers, Beel’s quite emotionally intelligent, and goes for the direct route in his confession.

Which completely flies over MC’s head. They don’t flat out reject him, but they also don’t exactly respond in a way that suggests they even fully understood exactly what Beelzebub meant when he said, “I really love you, MC, and I want to make you as happy as you’ve made me.” He thought he was clear, but apparently not.

Maybe he needs to speak their language?

MC begins finding half-eaten treats accompanied by notes written in Beel’s blocky handwriting, and notices that the Avatar of Gluttony has been vocalizing his feelings about them a lot more than usual. They find this absolutely delightful, and relish in the attention, but even still, there’s no moment of realization.

Have they been flirting with him the whole time and take his reciprocation of their affections as an unspoken acceptance of their feelings? Or do they still not understand what he’s trying to convey?

Beel wonders if he’ll ever know the truth.

Belphegor

At first, Belphie couldn’t care less about how the human treats him. He just needs them to get him out of this stupid attic. Their babying is easy to play into: he leans into the “poor helpless small bean baby brother locked away in the attic :’(“ sob story to get MC to work on freeing him faster.

But of course, organically making pacts with six powerful demons is going to take a while, so MC has plenty of time for their coddling shenanigans in the meantime. Despite the threat of Lucifer looming over them at every turn, MC still manages to sneak Belphegor small gifts or fresh linen. One time they even bring him a cow plushie from his formerly shared room with Beel. It has a new collar though, with a tag that says, “I hope this puts you in a good MOOd! :D”

That cow joke would be later known as the thing that kickstarted Belphegor’s existential crisis.

The denial is easy to keep in place, at first. Belphie is faking his whole persona, why wouldn’t this human be doing the same thing? They could just be trying to win him over in hopes of making a pact with him as well; they seemed strangely keen on the concept of collecting them from his brothers, after all. And besides, MC is human, and he hates humans.

Yes, that is familiar, that is safe. Humans are awful, and this one is no exception, even if they insist on kissing his forehead through the bars to the attic and giving him presents with increasingly terrible and saccharine puns on them. The denial runs so deep that he ends up getting angrier and angrier as MC continues their coddling.

It all culminates when they finally open the door to the attic. Free, furious, and ready to enact his revenge, Belphegor makes the first move to kill the idiotic nuisance that’s been a thorn in his side since he decided to start hating them day one. He offers to hug MC (to get their guard down so he can kill them, not because he actually wants to or anything...), but when he moves to wrap his tail around their throat, they spasm out of his grip, shrieking.

Terrified that they’re somehow aware he was planning on taking them out this whole time, Belphegor tries to back away in search of a weapon or an escape route, but is stopped by something latched onto his tail.

It’s MC. On their knees, stars in their eyes, hands wrapped around the base of the fluffiest part of the Avatar of Sloth’s tail, tickling themself with it and giggling violently.

Belphegor blanches. “Are you really this stupid?! Do you know what I just tried to do to you-” He lets out an undignified shriek of his own as MC gently, but insistently, tugs on his tail to force him to come closer to them.

He finds himself in MC’s lap, being held like a child. They cuddle him closer to their chest and say, “I know you want to be a big scary demon-” he is dammit, if it wasn’t for his hesitation their stupidity, they would be dead right now, “-but I know you’re just sad, and angry, and alone. So you can’t scare me, Belphie-bean.”

Belphie-bean. The Devildom’s biggest traitor has been defeated by cow puns and Belphie-bean. Belphegor falls asleep in MC’s arms, the first of many naps taken to process this development in the sick joke that is his life.

[lit-in-thy-heart]

don’t stay in my sleep

loosely inspired by @donttouchtheneednoggle and their tags

read under the cut or on ao3

(warning for gagging and retching)

‘If Gwaine needs to fight again, he’ll need all the strength he can get.’

Gwaine closed his eyes, resting his head against the wall. Somewhere, lurking in the depths of his mind, he knew that no amount of strength would enable him to win the next fight. The cuts across his back stretched like nooses when he moved and every breath was a knife angled through his ribs. He wanted nothing more than to sleep for eternity.

When he opened his eyes, Elyan was beside him. Gwaine felt his fingers curl around his own, pushing the bread towards his mouth. ‘Eat it, Gwaine, please.’

‘You didn’t take any,’ Gwaine hoarsely whispered.

‘I don’t need it.’

Shifting with a grimace, Gwaine breathed heavily and raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘You were catatonic, El. You need it more than me.’

Elyan’s voice was firm. ‘I’m not depriving you of food.’

‘Neither am I. Take it.’ Gwaine’s gaze darted back to Elyan’s face. It had become more familiar to him, during the past few days, than ever before – more familiar than the constellations that had guided his way when he had been alone. It shone just as brightly, too, with each breath of Elyan’s able to rearrange the stars as easily as breeze stirring dewed grass. ‘Please, El. I-I don’t think I could keep it down.’

It wasn’t a lie; Gwaine had lost count of how many blows to the stomach he had taken. He pushed the bread towards Elyan, silently pleading with him. After a moment’s hesitation, the other knight gently extricated the bread from Gwaine’s hand and looked down at it, thinking.

‘We could split it in half,’ he suggested.

‘I wasn’t exaggerating. I genuinely think it’ll come right back up.’

‘Can you at least try?’ Elyan’s next words were no louder than the tentative rustling of leaves in the midst of a storm. ‘For me?’

Gwaine, who had spent his whole life putting greater value on other people and their lives, wearily held out his hand. ‘I’ll try.’

The kiss that Elyan pressed to the top of Gwaine’s head was fleeting and, had Gwaine not trained himself to be acutely aware of every foreign touch for his own protection, he would have merely perceived it as a lock of his hair falling out of place. But he had become as familiar with Elyan’s touch as he had with his face, taking every opportunity to grasp his arm beneath his own fingers, and Gwaine closed his eyes. He’d always thought he’d die alone but perhaps, when he did, Elyan’s body would still be warm. As long Gwaine held on long enough for Elyan to slip away first. In no world should Elyan ever have to watch him die with no comfort but the knowledge that he himself would soon join Gwaine.

Opening his eyes again at the fragile weight of the bread falling into his palm, Gwaine glanced towards Elyan’s hand. Satisfied that he had indeed split it in half, Gwaine raised the measly morsel to his mouth and suppressed the urge to gag. When he’d been wandering, a square meal had been difficult to find and he’d rarely shunned anything edible that had come his way, but this was another level. There was more mould than bread and it was when it touched his lips that Gwaine began to retch.

Feeling his core contract, Gwaine dropped the bread and doubled over, pushing all his weight into the hands that fell to the floor. Tears were collecting at the corners of his eyes and, throat burning, he spat out a string of saliva. Nothing else would resurface; it had been a lifetime since he had eaten anything substantial enough.

A soft pressure alerted him to Elyan’s touch and his hair was held away from his face. ‘I’m okay,’ Gwaine weakly said, trying to swallow. ‘I’m okay.’

Even sat down, his legs trembled.

Elyan was pressing his forehead against the back of Gwaine’s head. ‘You’re not okay, Gwaine. Do you want water?’

‘We don’t have any of that,’ whispered Gwaine, taking deep breaths and doing his best to ignore his screaming ribs.

‘I can get some.’

Gwaine focused on his breathing. ‘Yes, please.’

He was not, however, so focused as to not notice the distinct sound of an incantation being murmured as Elyan drew away his head. But Elyan knowing magic was the least of his worries.

‘Here,’ breathed Elyan, hands bumping against Gwaine’s face. ‘It’s not much.’

Raising his head, Gwaine looked towards Elyan’s cupped hands and caught his own reflection shaking in the water trapped between the other knight’s fingers. ‘Where did you learn to do that?’

‘You pick up a lot of skills when travelling,’ Elyan vaguely replied.

That was the final proof that they were not going to make it out alive; Elyan would never have confessed to having magic if he had even the faintest hope that they’d survive long enough for Arthur to find out.

‘I don’t suppose you know anything that can blast the doors off?’

A smile flickered on Elyan’s face. ‘Drink, Gwaine.’

Lowering his head, Gwaine’s lips grazed Elyan’s fingers as he slowly drank the water, deliberately leaving a substantial amount before leaning against the wall again. ‘I can’t drink any more.’

‘Gwaine.’

‘You need it too.’

Holding Gwaine’s gaze for several seconds, Elyan finally tilted back his hands. Through darkening vision, Gwaine could just trace the path of the water as it travelled down Elyan’s throat. Catching sight of Elyan’s lips moving, Gwaine waited for the sound to reach his ears. ‘I wish I could fight with you.’

‘And have you take all the glory?’ Gwaine drowsily murmured. ‘I don’t think so.’ At a frantic touch on his face, Gwaine’s eyes fluttered open – not that he’d even realised they had started to close in the first place. ‘I’m still here, El, don’t worry.’

‘I wasn’t worried,’ Elyan said, voice soft. ‘I was just—Yeah, okay, I was worried. Don’t tell anyone.’

‘Not even the gods?’

‘You’re not going to die, Gwaine. Not without one last attempt to stuff eight pickled eggs in your mouth at once.’

‘Nine.’

The curve of Elyan’s lips bore more beauty than a strung bow, or a lyre, and Gwaine groggily reached out to brush against it with his fingertips. ‘Nine, then. You know how much Merlin has been looking forward to seeing us both try that.’

Gwaine could feel his eyes closing again and, too tired to seek permission, pulled away from the wall to fall into Elyan’s lap. ‘El?’

‘Yeah?’

‘You know you’re stuck with me for good now, right? There is no other better tavern brawl partner in all five kingdoms.’

The fingers that had tumbled into Gwaine’s hair were cautious, as if Elyan were planting wildflowers over a grave. ‘And here I was, hoping for a peaceful life.’

‘We can have a peaceful life if you want. Just after I’ve stabbed some more people with broken glass.’

Bowing his head, Elyan rested his forehead on Gwaine’s. ‘Sounds like a plan.’

And, as Gwaine reached out to clasp Elyan’s wrist, he tethered his life to the weak pulse beneath his fingertips, his own swelling in response like a bird’s call. Perhaps they would sing together for many years to come, or perhaps their melody would be lost to the grieving wind.

[rhetoricalrogue]

Five More Minutes

Inspired by all the talk about various detectives turning and knowing that Astrid needs to be Dramatic™️ at times, here she is, giving her boyfriend (and mother, and honorary mother figure, and best friends, and...) grief post-turning. This most likely would take place a couple of years into a relationship with Adam, and she’s had a while to decide that this is the path she wants to take for the rest of her (hopefully long) life.

As always, Fiona belongs to @asaucyginger. I borrow her from time to time for shenanigans and to antagonize Adam. Astrid also has Chris Hemsworth giving out complements as her alarm clock on her phone, but only has that alarm on when Adam’s not around since while she may appreciate waking up to the sound of her celebrity crush, she knows the feeling is most definitely not mutual for Adam.

She slept for a solid week after making the transition from human to vampire. It’s wasn’t even a typical for her type of slumber - eyes twitching behind closed eyelids, breath soft and limbs relaxed - she slept as if she were literally dead, stiff, no movement whatsoever. If it weren’t for the sluggish single beat of her heart every ten seconds (Adam knew, every count of ten had been absolute torture until he heard it beat again,) Agency doctors would have deemed the procedure a failure.

One of the few positives for her being unresponsive after her change - a change that had been fairly uneventful, boring even, blessedly peaceful in it’s own way with a minimum of pain - was that she hadn’t been awake to witness the doctors perform surgery on her leg to extract the various screws and plates that she had lived with since she had been nineteen. Adam wondered how their absence would change the way she fought, seeing that she and Fiona had worked to design a swordfighting style to accommodate for a weaker knee and to protect her ankle.

The scar would remain, the doctors told them both, fairy and vampire momentarily setting aside their differences for the person they both loved as they had both paced the waiting room in worry. There was a slight tone of apology to that announcement, but both of them had breathed a sigh of relief.

One of the things Astrid had worried about was losing her scars, voicing a fear that everything her body had gone through in her short thirty-three years of existence would be wiped clean and rendered meaningless. Adam hoped she would be pleased when she discovered it hadn’t, even though the last traces of the scar Murphy had inflicted upon her had vanished, her new nature taking care of what Agency magic and medicine had started. He wondered if she would be relieved to have it gone, seeing as its presence had always bothered her and she took pains to hide it, even though it hadn’t been that visible to the ordinary eye.

Since she’d still been unresponsive after the first hour, her first feeding, and every other feeding since, had been done intravenously. Adam watched through the security cameras as Elidor had carefully set her up for the transfusion. No one had voiced it out loud, but everyone knew about how she had bitten Murphy in a similar situation. If she had bitten off a piece of his face as a human, there was no telling what she could do as a vampire if she suddenly woke up and had a negative flashback response. To his credit, Elidor had been unafraid, patting her limp hand and holding a cheerful, one-sided conversation with her the entire time.

A day passed and visitors arrived at the observation room. Markus and Tony became fixtures, both refusing to leave even after Tony almost got into a fight with security about not being allowed into Astrid’s room. She was too unstable, they said. There was no way to know how she would react if she woke up: she might be fine, she might decide to make a snack out of one of her oldest and dearest friends. It took both Fiona and Markus to talk him down and lead him back down the hall before he got kicked out of the facility.

Adam and the rest of Unit Bravo learned a lot of goofy stories about Astrid from the other three. Markus tended to stick with anecdotes from battle re-enactments and drunken post-fighting party hijinks while Tony went on tangents about their many annual Fancy New Year’s Eve parties in the City. Fiona’s voice grew soft as she recounted Astrid’s childhood and what it had been like to be a caretaker turned honorary mother figure to her since Astrid was two. Rebecca, who hadn’t budged from looking at her daughter through the monitor, thanked her for being there for Astrid when she couldn’t.

On the sixth day, the doctors allowed Cashew in, thinking that a familiar pet would bring her out of her catatonic state. Cashew, Adam was relieved to see, was unfazed by his mistress’s transformation. He merely gave her chin a few headbutts while honking plaintively before curling up at her side, his head resting in her elbow and his feet fitting into the palm of her hand. After an hour of no response, Cashew was put back into his crate and taken back to Adam’s room in the Facility. Adam knew that he wouldn’t stray far from the place until Astrid could go home, so prior to her turning, the two of them made sure Cashew would be comfortable there. Aside from a few honks to let them know he would have rather preferred his own home instead of the temporary setup, the cat had seemed fine.

Adam broke rank on the seventh day. He didn’t know if it was his fear that the woman he loved would never wake, agony at being so close yet so incredibly far from her for an entire week, the fact that he desperately needed to sleep - Nate had begged him to rest, promising that he would wake him at the slightest hint of change. Adam had refused; how could he sleep with Astrid in this state? - or a combination of the three, but in the early hours of the morning, he silently made his way out of the observation room, moving past everyone dozing in chairs and cots that had been set up for them, and walking purposely down the hall. The lone security guard only made the barest of attempts to stop him before standing down, most likely because the look on Adam’s face had stopped them in their tracks.

Astrid’s room held a faint antiseptic scent to it, most likely from the wipes used on her arm for her daily transfusions. The monitor she was hooked up to beeped in time with the slow beating of her heart and now that he was there with her in person, he could see the shallow, barely there rise and fall of her chest as she drew breath. Adam sat at the edge of the bed and counted: ten beats for her heart, twenty for her breath.

“Must you be so dramatic?” he asked, his hand reaching out to bring hers up, his lips pressed against her knuckles before turning her hand over and leaving a lingering kiss to her palm. “This has gone on long enough, don’t you think?”

The video in the observation room, no matter how crisp, had failed to capture the almost luminous quality of her skin correctly. She’d always had a healthy glow to her pale skin, but now it was highlighted even more. The freckles that dusted the tops of her cheeks and across her nose were still there as well, but they were subdued, like constellations obscured by a cloudy sky. Adam winced at the thought, knowing Nate could come up with a better metaphor.

He pressed a second kiss to her palm, then another to her wrist. Aside from the barest of changes to her complexion and a brighter, healthier sheen to her copper hair, Astrid had not changed. It wouldn’t have mattered to him one way or another: Astrid was Astrid no matter what she looked like and he would love her in any form she took, but he knew it would matter to her. Adjusting to whatever new preternatural abilities she gained would be an ordeal in itself, adjusting while feeling like a stranger in her own body would have added a level of difficulty to the process.

“I know you hate to wake on time, but please.” Adam reached out with his other hand and tenderly cupped her cheek. “Wake up. For me.”

Moments passed. Three heartbeats, two exhales. Adam hunched down and pressed his face against her chest, silently hoping to feel her fingers comb through his hair. “You’re forcing my hand,” he told her, gathering her close. Moving until his mouth brushed against the shell of her ear, he closed his eyes and grimaced. “The things I do for you.”

“Hey you. Yes, yes, yes you. Today is your day. You’ve got this. You’re absolutely crushing it at everything you do.” He leaned back when the familiar sound of her heart sounded at eight seconds, then another at seven. “You’re more than capable of taking on the world, the whole world, by storm.”

It was faint, but he swore he saw her eyelid twitch. “Speaking of the world, did you know that it’s a better place with you in it?” He brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek. “You’re strong, you’re confident. You’re intelligent, you’re charismatic. On a scale of one to ten, you are an eleven.” He held his breath, desperately trying to find a change as he continued to recite words from a video she’d set as her usual alarm clock. The heart rate monitor next to the bed gave one beep, then two, the long, flat line on the screen making more regular jumps.

It would figure your blasted favorite actor would cause a reaction, he thought, pressing his forehead to hers. “You make me want to be a better man. Astrid, please. Open your eyes.”

One heartbeat, then two, then more until Astrid’s heart gained a cadence that was oh so familiar to him. Her breathing patterns reminded him of lazy Sunday mornings, of her asleep in his arms and half-mumbling about five more minutes. You’ve had longer than five minutes, he thought, hand tilting her face up. He didn’t have long, even if people woke to cause a diversion, until Agency doctors burst in with protests about how unsafe it was to be in such close proximity to a newly made vampire, no matter how well-fed they ensured her to be.

Astrid would never intentionally harm him, he knew that fact down to his bones. His faith in her was the reason he held no fear as he kissed her, hoping that the wishes he held back for her safe return to him would take root.

There was a twitch, the barest feeling of being kissed back that had Adam slowly sitting up straight so he could better look at her face. Ever so slowly, Astrid’s eyelashes fluttered until she blinked up at him.

“Hi.”

Adam let out a relieved laugh, heart soaring at the sound of her voice, cracked and groggy from sleep as it was. “Hello.”

She took a deep breath and blinked again, looking as if she were taking a mental inventory of her surroundings and wincing at every sound. “It worked?”

He nodded. “It did.” Reaching over, he turned off the monitor so it wouldn’t continue to irritate Astrid’s sharper hearing. “How do you feel?”

She peeled off the sticky sensor from her chest and made a move to sit up, Adam standing and offering his hands to assist. “I feel…” she looked around, her hands squeezing his. “Different, but sort of the same? I can’t describe it. I’m me, but…”

“Take your time.”

She grinned as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, eyes instantly locking onto her leg and shoulders sagging in relief at the sight of a familiar scar. “Sort of have all the time in the world now, don’t we?”

Adam pulled her to her feet and held her close, fingers sinking into her hair. “That we do.”

“So, how long was I out? Did we miss that special on the History Channel we were going to watch while sipping on blood bags and eating a cheese board?”

He held her closer, the side of his face buried against hers. “Astrid, you’ve been asleep for a week. We most certainly missed the show, but I recorded it for you to watch when you’re ready.”

She jerked up, the top of her head banging against his chin. “What?” her voice was louder than normal and she winced at the sound. “A whole week?”

“Trust me, it was troubling for us all too.”

Her eyes widened. “Cashew! Who’s been taking care of my cat?”

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Adam settled for raising an eyebrow instead. “Our cat. Don’t worry, I made sure he didn’t starve.”

She froze, head cocking to the side. “There’s someone coming down the hall.” Her nose crinkled a bit. “This is so weird, how the hell do I know that’s Tony by smell alone?” She sniffed again. “And why does he smell like the cotton candy from that boardwalk we always go to on his birthday?”

“You’ll get used to it. I don’t think you’ll have a lack of vampires ready to help you answer any questions you may have.”

Astrid’s arms tightened around his waist and he felt the barest of trembles. Knowing her as he did, he knew she was trying to put on a strong front as she attempted to center herself in her new reality, acute senses and all. “I do have one question,” she stated, head against his shoulder.

“What is it?”

“Would it be possible to get a few minutes to myself? Markus is coming down the hall with like five other people and…” She looked up at him, the barest hint of fangs peeking out from behind her lips. It was maddeningly endearing. “I love them all, but it’s a little much?”

He nodded, kissing the crown of her head as he did so. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He had his hand on the doorknob when she called back to him. “Once you stall them, will you come back? I don’t really want to be alone-alone, and you…”

He understood the look she gave him, the unspoken sentiment that hovered between them. There would be time later to express it - and how light he felt, knowing they had today and tomorrow and a million other tomorrows after together! - but he knew what she meant. The noise and the presence of others may be a bit much, but just being around her was a balm to his senses, the sound of her voice soothing, the feel of her hand in his right, clicking into place as if he had been made to be at her side.

She was his home, and it still astounded him (and most likely would forever astound him) that she regarded him as hers.

Adam nodded, his mouth curving into a smile that matched the one Astrid gave him. “Always.”

[ffangirlingsince2001]

The Witcher and The Princess: Sparks

Geralt x Reader

Geralt of Rivia is not a babysitter, he is not a bodyguard, and he has no interest in transporting princesses across the continent. Until gold is offered and for the next 90 days he’s saddled with a chirpy, bubbly, princess, who is betrothed to the prince of Narok and has a desire to see everything before she’s trapped behind another set of walls.

Warnings: angst, a taste of smut, drinking

Geralt watched as she limped down the stairs, the first smile he had seen in days worn so comfortably it was a shame it had taken him so long to see it. She sat across from him without ordering breakfast.

“Sore?” he asked, and she shook her head, lying with ease.

“Where’s Jaskier? I want to thank him for his hospitality.”

“He left this morning, a party to attend I believe.”

“I think we should leave today too,” she announced, “There’s another town a few miles down the road. It’s on the coast and I have a good friend from back home who lives there.” She looked so hopeful that he found it difficult to even consider saying no.

“Okay,” he answered, and she practically leapt across the table to throw her arms around him. With soft lips, she planted a kiss on his cheek, dousing him in appreciation. She flew up the stairs, the limp almost nonexistent when she didn’t even give her feet time to touch the floor.

When she returned to his side, she wore a dress of pink cotton and the corset that made him imagine her in ways that even the innocence of pink cotton could not dissuade. She was glowing as she led the way out, beginning the walk towards the town limits with a skip in her step.

“Would you like to ride with me?” he asked before he knew what he was saying, and quickly tried to cover up the attempt for closeness with logic, “Because we left your horse behind.”

“As long as Roach doesn’t mind, she had a rough day yesterday too.” As Y/N brushed her hand down Roach’s muzzle, Geralt felt his insides grow warm, unable to bury his affection when someone showed his horse as much care as he did.

“She’ll be okay, and the faster we make it there, the faster she can rest.” That earned him another grin before she reached out a hand. It was a struggle to get his own hand to move, his mind trying to process the consequences of pulling her onto his horse.

Situating her behind him would press all the softest parts of her against him. Her hands would wrap around his torso, tightening with every jostle until he would be able to focus on nothing but the feeling of her body encompassing his.

Though he was sure placing her in front would be so much worse. She would reside directly beneath him. Her hair would brush against his nose, filling his senses with the intoxicating smell of roses and sugar. Every time he looked down her hemline would pose no longer protect him from the sight of soft flesh. He would have his arms wrapped around her, and when she inevitably relaxed against him it would be no different than cradling her within his bed chambers. And worst of all, she would in between his legs, jostling against him with every movement. And when he found himself unable to control certain animalistic tendencies there would be no hiding it.

She was to sit behind him, for both of their sakes.

He was right of course, about the challenges of her sitting behind him. Her arms wrapped around him and she leaned in close, still bouncing with the excitement of seeing her friend. He could feel every inch of her, but what he didn’t account for was the feeling of being between her legs. Sitting there, feeling them tighten against his hips took his mind to place that he did not dare to venture. He struggled to force the thoughts out of his mind, it was the incessant imagination that made him lash out at her. The frustration that he was unable to act on the vulgar images his mind conjured had caused all their problems previously and he was determined not to let it happen again. It was not her fault everything she did made his stomach do flips. It was not her fault that every time she spoke he could focus on nothing but her lips and the way they would feel wrapped around him. And it was definitely not her fault that he wanted to drag her from his horse and fuck her against the nearest tree until she was raw and limping for the rest of their journey. So, he did his best not to think of the princess riding behind him at all.

The town was not far, and just as she said the ocean crashed against the edge of the town in a way only poets could dream of. The moment they entered the town, she slid from his horse and he let out a mental sigh of relief. He watched as she ran down the street, slipping through merchants going about their daily business. She turned a corner and disappeared from sight, tugging him out of his catatonic state. Urging Roach forward he followed her and was greeted by the sight of her flinging herself into the arms of a young silversmith. She thew her arms around his neck and pulled him tight, laughing with glee as he did the same. He drew closer and he could hear their happy reunion.

“Y/N, how are you here?”

“I’m travelling to Narok, and I begged my escort to stop here. I couldn’t stand the way we parted being the last time we saw each other.”

“Why Narok?”

“Marriage,” she replied darkly, and then shook her head, “But that is the last thing I want to discuss. Come, meet my Witcher.” At the sound of his title, the silversmith’s eyes darted to him and the widened.

“Your escort is a Witcher? Why not your guards? Is he truly capable of protecting you?”

“Of course, he is!” she defended, slapping a playful hand against his chest. “I appreciate your concern, Adam, but he has gotten me this far without incident. I will not have you question his abilities, especially in my presence,” she defended, catching Geralt’s eye as she did so.

“Of course, I just want you to be safe.”

“I know, and that is why I wish to keep you around during our stay in your city. I wish to see everything before we are forced to continue our journey.”

“I would love nothing more than to be your guide,” Adam responded, and she jumped with glee before turning to Geralt with wide and pleading eyes. The plea was clear. ‘Let me experience the world without a shadow’ it screamed, and he nodded, warning her that for her safety it was best if she was back by dusk. She nodded and took Adam’s outstretched arm, allowing him to lead her away from the Witcher.

True to her word she returned as the sun was setting. She smelled of salt and fire when she did so, and explained that there had been a bonfire on the beach when he asked about the lingering smell of smoke. He gave her a brief once over, checking for any wounds as he tried to appear as apathetic as possible. When he was satisfied that she was safe he gave a silent nod. She grinned and kissed him on the cheek once more before allowing Adam to drag her to the center of the pub where people were dancing to the tune of a mandolin.

He had succeeded in appearing apathetic, but he was anything but. Worry had etched itself across his forehead every moment she was gone and as she reappeared, he had wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms. And now, as she danced with Adam anger was bubbling within him, waiting for the chance to pull the young silversmith limb from limb. His hands were all over her as they danced. They lingered at her hips and bunched the fabric of her skirt. As she twirled around Geralt knew the look Adam was sending her way. Longing for once was and a lusting for what rested in his hands now. She was laughing all while he did so, catching his hand and allowing him to spin her across the makeshift dance floor. Her fingers brushed away stray pieces of hair, lingering on his cheek and tracing his neck with remembrance of the past. The clear past between the two grew only more obvious when a slow tune came on and they held one another close with aching familiarity.

Geralt downed more liquor than he had in months as he watched them, until he could take no more and left to their room, hoping that sleep would ease the aggression coursing through his veins and the tightness in his pants. He laid in the dark, unable to sleep for half an hour when the door creaked open. A ray of light struck his face and he watched Y/N slip inside as quietly as she could. She was still panting from the dancing, chest heaving in the golden light of her candle.

“Geralt?” she whispered, and he grunted in response, “Are you alright?” He grunted again. She was always asking if he was okay, as if she had nothing to do with the agony he was forced to endure day in and day out. “Are you ill? I can call for a healer.”

“I’m fine.” She set the candle down and approached him, kneeling beside the bed.

“Are you sure?”

“How do you know Adam?” he asked, swiftly throwing the attention from himself.

“He used to work in the palace.”

“And what was your relation?” Geralt was sitting up now, looking down at the sight of her resting on her knees between his legs. He fought to rid the idea from his mind, but it seemed to have dug its claws in.

“I don’t quite understand what you mean,” she whispered, and he growled, pulling her to her feet and pushing her against the wall. She didn’t struggle as he had expected her to but looked at him with apt fascination.

“I mean how did you interact. How often did you sneak from your bed to meet him in the dark of night? How often did the innocent princess wed to another allow temptation to guide her? And what exactly did temptation bring?” he growled, and she froze, revealing that he was correct in his assumption.

“I- I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she whispered and he smirked, trapping her between his body and the wall as ale began to make decisions for him.

“Well, I know he didn’t truly ravish you based on the way his eyes were imagining it tonight, so I ask again. What did you allow the lowly silversmith do to you?” She struggled at his insult of the silversmith, but he held her far too tightly. “Did you let him kiss you?” he asked, leaning in until their lips were mere centimeters apart. When she did not answer he tutted softly. “Come on Princess, I need an answer.” She nodded, eyes wide and lips parted. “Where?” Silence again, but this time he took a different route in pulling the answers from her. He pressed his lips to hers with rough admiration and pulled away. She gasped at the removal of contact and he pressed his lips against her throat, sucking gently at the soft skin. “Did he kiss you here?” she nodded, and he moved to her shoulder, kissing her again. “Here?” She nodded once more, and he moved his lips to where the slopes of her breast began. “What about here?” She shook her head and he pulled away, surveying her as a predator does their pray. “What else did you let him do?”

“Nothing,” she replied, and he shook his in disappointment.

“No need to lie, Princess. Nothing bad will come from a little honestly, especially when you are so very wound up. So, tell me, what did he do to you?” She remained silent and gasped when he pulled her onto his lap, bunching her skirt at her hips and running his hands along her thighs. She was so soft beneath him, her hips rocking forward ever so slightly even as he did nothing but touch the outside of her thighs. He slipped a hand beneath her dress and cupped her center. She let out a soft moan, hands finding his hair as she rocked forward with more need. She was velvety in his hand, her core so wet it seemed it was melting at his very touch. Her breathing turned into needy whimpers, struggling to feel more friction between her core and his hand, but he was not done interrogating her.  “If you don’t want to tell me what he did, tell me instead why he was sent away.”

“Someone caught us,” she moaned, still caught in the high of his pleasure, and he froze, hands clenching against her flesh. She yelped and tried to pull her away, her core pulsing against him in protest, but he did not relent.

“And what were you doing when they caught you?” All of the sudden a smirk appeared on her face, any fear she had before dissipating in an instant, and she grabbed onto his shoulders pulling herself forward. She pressed against him and leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“We were in an empty hall. And he had me pressed to wall, my legs wrapped around his waist,” she said and he growled, hoisting her into the position she had described. Her legs tightened around him and she pressed kisses against his neck. “And I was moaning so loud it was a wonder someone hadn’t caught us sooner. If they hadn’t caught us, I would have let him take me in that very hall.” Geralt growled and pressed his lips to hers. He was hard against her, straining against his pants as she rubbed against him. “But they sent him away and I was forced to endure hours of lecture, about the sanctity of remaining pure for one’s husband,” she whispered, grinding against him as she pressed kisses against his chest, but at the moment she mentioned ‘husband’ Geralt froze. What the hell was he doing? She was to be wed and he had her wrapped around him like a common minx.

He was supposed to keep her safe, but defiling her would do anything but, so with great effort he pulled away, unwrapping her from his body. And pulling away.

“What just happened?” she asked through pants of frustration.

“Your husband,” he growled, and she had the audacity to look bewildered. “I will not take you away from your husband. I apologize and assure you it will not happen again.” She looked like she wanted to scream, or worse cry, but she only nodded and stepped away from him, smoothing down her dress.

“Yes, my husband. I hope this will not make things uncomfortable.”

“It will not,” he assured her, and she nodded with an unexplained sadness and retired to her bed, allowing Geralt to do the same, and revel in the frustration he had created for himself.

Tags

@mallorydoesstuff @facelessfiction @aphadriel-fanfic @raspberrydreamclouds @thegreattodd @saint-hardy @ravenclawsstolemybunies @queenofmankind @britty443 @lonewolf471 @utterlyhopeful @persephonehemingway​

[miss-kittys-magical-library]

The Ides Of March

(A Darren Treacy x Jeanie Turner mini-series)

Prologue - Bad Romance

Word Count: 1815

Warnings: language, violence, murder, mention of sexual assault, angst

A/N: On Saint Patrick's Day, Darren and Jeanie start receiving ominous, cryptic text messages claiming to be from the future. Play the game; save Darren. Jeanie's rules are simple enough: If Dazz can catch her out in Dublin, he can have her any way and anywhere he wants. So how did a night of wild sex and whiskey lead to murder? *Spoilers for Love/Hate series 3*

Sequel to “The Sinner’s Prayer” Part 1  Part 2  Part 3

There are tiny moments that contain millions of choices we all make. It's not a choose your own adventure; there's not always time to think cohesively. Add in copious amounts of liquor and sex and a person may become impulsive. As Jeanie cocked the gun pointed in Nidge’s direction, she found herself in the middle of one of those flip-of-the-coin situations.

She followed every hint, every cryptic text from a burner phone that was meant to prevent this exact instant. But the vile leader of an IRA faction lay slowly dying from internal injuries at her feet. Siobhan, softly sobbing hid her face in Tommy’s shoulder. Darren, behind her, still held the keg by the handle. Nidge was the only one who could square up. He was pacing like a trapped animal, enraged and seething. Jeanie never faltered in her aim.

“We're done here, Delaney,” the words came out distorted. “Right now. This was a nice night. I saw a great concert. I drank loads of fucking liquor. I have had more sex in the last few hours than I have in the last few years. I literally got eaten out in a pub loo. I'm getting divorced, and if Trish was smart she'd get a divorce too.”

“Red-” Darren tried.

Jeanie spun on him, the gun pointed too close for either’s comfort. Darren’s eyes like a deer in headlights. “I'm not losing you. I'm not letting this life eat anymore of you. Siobhan already paid the price.”

“Just put the gun down please. I'm only trying t’put him out, love. Look at the bastard.”

“It's a butterfly effect, Dazz. You're already too much for them.” Tears threatened Jeanie’s eyes.

Darren put his hand on the muzzle of the gun cautiously and pointed it down to the floor. “What the fuck are ye talking about? Jeanie, you've been barking all night. Not that I don't appreciate the craic,” he smirked, “Or the shaggin’. The panic attack when we walked through the door earlier. How did ye know about Git?”

Jeanie fished in her cleavage for her mobile and tossed it to Darren. He opened it up and used his own for comparison. He studied the texts on both screens with confusion in his eyes.

“You've been getting them too, right?”

“But how?”

Only Darren and Jeanie existed right now. And the soft gurgling of Git as he drowned in his own blood. The choked crying of a young woman who had been assaulted. They were alone, but aware. So deeply aware of their situation.

“Oh please, can ye even fire a fucking gun?” Nidge’s voice broke through.

Jeanie whirled again, her arm around the side of Darren's friend. It was all fluid. Her arms moved with resistance like underwater. The gun aimed somewhere towards the back of the basement or front. No one was sure. It was just where she pointed the gun and pulled the trigger.

One by one dominos topped in a new pattern. Siobhan screamed, but the sound was deafening so her panic was muted. The gun kicked back causing Jeanie’s elbow to vibrate. Almost like someone checked her reflexes with a small hammer. A burst of concrete where the bullet hit a wall, and Darren dropped the keg with an even louder crash.

In Nidge’s terror, he went to flee from Jeanie's bullet . His entire weight landed on Git’s face. Nidge’s trainer came down with a sickening crunch like a knife in butter. Git’s face was the butter. The gurgle ceased.

The last domino fell. Jeanie dropped the weapon to her side and staggered backwards into Darren’s arms. He tried to take the gun but she jerked it away.

Instead he switched gears and mumbled nonsensical words of comfort. “I've got yous.” and “Jeanie, it'll be ok” She stared up at him as a tremble rolled through her. Darren put his hand on her face and sort of started fixing her hair. Then, with a turn of her head, Jeanie vomited absolutely everywhere.

“Lovely. Just fucking lovely,” Nidge said. “Typical Americans.”

Darren held Jeanie by the arms and bent to look her in the eye. “Alright, sweetheart? Nidge and Tommy and I have t’ take care of this. Why don't ye call Laura or Ewan, and have them come get the pair of ye. Siobhan too? Get her cleaned up and get some sleep. Crash at my gaff, ok?”

Jeanie was numb. Catatonic almost as Darren and Tommy formed a circle. Their heads literally together as they attempted a plan.

Jeanie straightened her back and made her way to Siobhan who held herself tightly. Like she was trying to fade into the background. She put her arms around the young woman who started with a jump but relaxed into Jeanie. The gun finally out of her hands and on the desk beside them.

“Here's what we're gonna do, ok? Do you want me to call Trish or Mary? You aren't gonna clean yourself or even pee. We're gonna take you to hospital. They'll clean you up and take samples. Then we can get you some tea and a warm shower and a nice bed. Dazz has a nice bed. Then I'll get Layton, and bring him to you. That sound good?”

Siobhan nodded softly in agreement, but her uncle wasn't having it. He shoved Darren and Tommy aside to bellow at the two women huddled in the corner together. His finger pointed in Jeanie’s face.

“She’s not gonna do a goddamn thing you say. You're gonna sit right here while Uncle Nidge and the boys clean up this bitch’s mess.”

There was not a single thought that went through Jeanie's head. Was this how Darren's brain was wired to live this lifestyle? Just react and pay for it later while you're trying to live until the next job.

But she was done, she knew that much. Done being left behind. Treated like she was the good little obedient housewife. Having men tell her what she can and can't do. Shut up, sit still and be a good girl. But open your legs. It was being done that caused her to hold the gun up again and point the barrel to Nidge's forehead.

“Darren doesn't work for you anymore, Nigel. Tommy, you can stay here or you can take care of your wife. No one owes him any loyalty.”

“Come on, I didn't mean bitch. We just have to fix it. Then you and Treacy can do whatever.”

Jeanie cocked the gun again until it clicked, “No. You can call Elmo or Fran. Can't call Aido can you? Seeing as you got him shot. Dazz gave you a lung, the love of his life, his sister and his fucking mind. He's not giving you or this bullshit anything else.”

“Red-”

Jeanie swung the gun on Darren without thinking. He flinched and ducked, But she kept her wits about her. She aimed the gun at Nidge once more.

“Dazz, take your shoes off,” she instructed.

“What?”

“You're standing in this cunt’s blood. Take your trainers off and leave them. Socks too, and stand behind me. Then text Ewan and tell him to meet us here with a car. We're going to your flat, then my hotel to pack our bags after we shower and set these clothes on fire. Then we are getting all of our money, our passports and our IDs. Say goodbye to Mary and the girls, and we are going away. Tibet. Phuket. Bali. I don't give a fuck, but we’re flying first class.”

Darren complied. Jeanie couldn't believe it. They shared a look. She couldn't tell if it was relief or the devil in his blazing green eyes, but she was emboldened by it as she bent to take off her own boots. Her focus on Nidge never faltered.

“Ewan said he'll be here in ten or so. Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

“I'm not above shooting this bastard in the head for you, Dazz. I'm not saying we are settling down and having babies and happily ever after or some shit. I'm saying I don't want you to die. If we have to run half way around the world to make that happen..” Jeanie's body started to quiver. The adrenaline was running out. “First I need a Bloody Mary and some French Toast.”

-------

Jeanie exhaled for the first time in nearly 24 hours. The exhaustion finally set in as she laid back in the ridiculous bed chair thing from“upper class.” She and Darren were beyond first class, they were elite now. Even if it was only for the twelve hours it took to get to Thailand.

She could see his far too short hair sticking out on the other side of the wall. She knew at one point he would sneak in to be with her if only for a little while. Jeanie made him look a bit nicer than his typical trainers and hoodies and denim. She was in a sundress herself. They both knew dressing up was not fitting in. Neither felt they fit in here.

“You good, Dazz?”

“I t’ink so. Still trying t’figure out how we went from shagging in coat rooms and back rooms and toilets to watching an IRA boss,” Darren raised his eyes, “to being on this plane. We have forty.. Enough money to live, maybe years where we're going.”

“You couldn't keep living that life, Darren. Nidge was off his fucking rocker, and everyone around him is gonna pay for it.”

“Rosie would've never done this, you know that right?” He looked plaintively over at Jeanie as she climbed up onto her knees.

“Her loss is my gain though. I know you love me, but I'm not sure about my own feelings. I do care about you alot. I'm probably a danger junkie, so we could end up bored of each other without the fear of being caught or you not having any jobs. Or you could wear colors and learn to meditate, and I'll get a pet monkey and cut all my hair off.”

“Don't ye dare!” Darren laughed. “I'll become a Buddhist, just don't cut that hair.” He twisted his fingers up in it before reaching up to kiss her sweetly. Just a hint of his tongue.

“Fine,” Jeanie rolled her eyes. “But I still want a monkey. We should get some sleep.”

They kissed one last time before she laid back down and closed her eyes. Jeanie knew Darren would be on his side when he would begin to dream. His hand tucked under his cheek and head, mouth slightly agape. She pictured it in her head as she drifted off herself.

“How DID we get here?” she thought before dreaming herself of a game that started in sex but ended in murder.

Tag list: @sean-falco @robertsheehanownsmyass @nightmonsters @super-unpredictable98 @elliethesuperfruitlover @slutforrobbiebro @frogs--are--bitches @forenschik @bisexualnathanyoung @sugdenyoung

[lailyn]

Take My Breath Away Part 3 (Complete)

(TW: Paraysis, Angst, Sap so sticky it'll give you sticky eyes)

The first few weeks after Loki awakened from his month-long sleep were the hardest, on Loki and Stephen both. 

Stephen had anticipated hard times ahead, had even braced himself for the worst, but nothing could have prepared him for Loki's reaction upon discovering the true extent of his disabilities. 

Given the choice, he would rather face Loki's wrath than this complete and utter silence; if not for the despair in Loki's eyes every time he tried to move his legs and failed, Stephen would have thought Loki had slipped into a catatonic state.

Hell, catatonia would have been easier to handle than this stony muteness. If open communication had been scarce before, it was nonexistent now. 

If brought food, Loki would eat. In the absence of it, Loki would not ask.

Carrying him to the commode for daily toileting was solely Stephen's duty. That was the only good thing about Loki's muteness; the only evidence of his displeasure was a deep frown that began to leave permanent lines on Loki's face the thinner he got.

Loki did not ask if the paralysis was going to be temporary, and Stephen did not tell him that it was likely to be permanent. It was not important. 

Then suddenly, out of the blue, Loki began to speak. 

That night it rained heavily in New Asgard. Having bundled Loki up in his furs, Stephen settled down in front of the fireplace as was his routine; getting into bed with Loki still awake was unsettling, the way his sunken eyes would follow Stephen everywhere, saying everything and at the same time, nothing at all.

"Go home, Stephen," a voice, rough from disuse, pierced the silence, and he nearly fell out of his chair.

"Loki," he gasped, heart beating at a hundred miles per hour. 

"Go home," the pale figure on the bed repeated, before it closed its eyes and said nothing further till days later. 

Wong had paid them a visit, bringing news from the Sanctum and arms overflowing with gifts from Bruce and Tony.

All is well, his fellow Guardian assured him. Take as much time as you need. I've got your back. 

Stephen had never been more grateful for the very few people in his life he could call friends. 

*********************************

 

 "Who is Jonathan Pangborn?"

Stephen paused in the midst of upending the last scoop of protein powder into the tumbler and slowly raised his face with dread.

"Wong mentioned the name when he came to visit yesterday." 

"He...was a patient of mine.” Stephen closed the lid over the tumbler and gave it a good swirl before making his way back to the couch. “Well. Not really. I turned him away because his spinal cord was permanently damaged and there was nothing modern medicine could do."

He waited until Loki took his first sip of the liquid breakfast before speaking again. "The Ancient One got him walking again by teaching him how to manipulate dimensional energy to his advantage."

Loki did not raise his face, but the almost imperceptible spasm of his fingers as they tightened around the tumbler gave him away. 

"You do not approve?" he asked quietly. 

When Stephen did not answer promptly, Loki decided probing further was the only option left to him. He did not expect his boyfriend to be forthcoming to begin with, but Stephen’s reticence was wearing him thin nonetheless. 

“There has to be an explanation as to why you are refraining, when such treatment exists.”

Stephen sighed and raked a hand through his hair in frustration. “Did Wong tell you how Jonathan Pangborn lost it all back and is now worse off than before?”

“Are the Masters of the Mystic Arts aware of just how little faith their Sorcerer Supreme has in their own métier?”

“The sorcerer who ripped the magic out of Pangborn and left him lying on the floor of his garage for days was a Master of the Mystic Arts,” Stephen retorted. 

Loki looked up in alarm.

“I will not have that happen to you,” Stephen vowed. “I will have you back on your feet and at your full strength even if it kills me. And I will do it my way.”

And that was the last time they ever spoke of Pangborn and the last time Loki doubted Stephen over some well-meaning but unsolicited advice.

*************************

 

 Stephen wiped Loki’s front first, suppressing the urge to count each rib as he worked his way down. The once toned, if not a little lean, torso had lost most of its musculature and as he followed the groove of Loki’s concave abdomen, the lump in Stephen’s throat grew. 

Before emotions could take over him and render him ineffective, Stephen moved on to Loki’s back. He lifted Loki’s hair off his neck and carefully wiped him down starting from the nape down to the base of Loki’s spine. 

He worried that he had been taking too long when he could sense Loki shivering; Stephen was just about to wrap a clean towel around his lover’s shoulders when he realised that Loki was weeping.

“Hey,” Stephen walked his knees across the tiles and crouched in front of Loki. He peered up anxiously. “What’s wrong? Am I hurting you?”

Loki shook his head. He could hardly speak for the deluge of tears draining down the back of his throat from the futile effort of holding it all in. 

“This is beneath you,” he wept.

What could Stephen say when no words existed that could assuage the pain in both their hearts? What reassurances could he give that Loki would not find empty and invalidating?

He could not very well ignore Loki and say nothing, could he?

It was an impossible situation. Keeping silent was a crime in itself, as evidenced by Loki’s apocalyptic downward spiral into despair and self-loathing. 

“Just leave me,” Loki begged. 

Stephen shook his head. “No way.”

Of course anyone could perform this task. Any of Loki’s servants could. 

But would a servant be as gentle with Loki, as empathetic, as unconditional? 

Loki hung his head low, his hair falling over his face. "I will not have you debase yourself like this, Stephen."

Stephen combed Loki’s wet locks away with his fingers. 

"Do you remember the first Broadway show I took you to?" 

Loki nodded, his thin shoulders hitching with silent sobs. 

"Live in my house…" Stephen began to sing softly, quietly. "I'll be your shelter.." 

He pulled the towel off Loki's shoulders and over his head.

"Just pay me back in one thousand kisses…"

He dried Loki's face with the towel gently, "Be my lover, and I'll cover you…"

Loki's face crumpled, and because Stephen simply could not bear the sight of more tears, he grabbed the back of Loki’s head and pressed their foreheads together. 

“Don’t take this away from me, Loki. I need this.” 

He kissed Loki’s lips and cursed the salt he could taste on his tongue. “I need you.”

*************************

 

 “Stephen.”

“Hmm?” Stephen paused in the middle of flexing and extending Loki’s knee. They had skipped only a day of rehabilitative exercise and already the limb felt stiff and disjointed. 

He carefully placed Loki’s leg on his lap and turned his full attention to his lover, who had been staring at the ceiling for the past fifteen minutes. “What is it, Loki?”

“I don’t blame you,” Loki said. 

Stephen knew better than to ask as to what Loki was alluding to. There was no bigger elephant in the room, certainly not since Loki had fallen ill.

“It was my choice.”

The gentleness with which Loki delivered his acquittal was something Stephen was not expecting and it threw him for a loop; his rebuke came across brusque and sharp in response. “I shouldn’t have let you.”

“It was my choice,” Loki repeated adamantly. “I will not ask if you knew this was going to happen - "

"I didn't," Stephen insisted. "Loki, I swear, I didn't know."

"It doesn't matter," Loki said, his tone soft despite the flatness of his voice. "Given the choice, it is one that I would make, again and again."

“Even after everything?” Stephen demanded. “Honestly how can you care so little for yourself?”

“I am not sorry for what I did, Stephen,” Loki said stubbornly. “This is a necessary pain.”

"Why?" Something surged in Stephen and it felt too much like rage to be anything else. "Why do we have to be this?"

"Surely it doesn't surprise you anymore?" Loki sighed, closing his eyes.

He did not like seeing Stephen upset. It was not the first time Loki's self-sacrifice schema had driven a rift between them, and it would not be the last.

"It was just the flu, Loki."

His eyes still closed, Loki reached up a hand, relying on memory to brush his thumb along the high arc of Stephen's cheekbone. "It was not necessary for you."

Stephen's vision blurred but no matter how much he blinked, it would not clear. "Is that how you justify this?"

Loki's hand fell away but Stephen grabbed it on its way down and held it up again, palming it in place. If Loki would not see him cry, he could damn well feel the tears for himself. 

“Do you ever think about what it feels like for me, seeing you like this?" Stephen asked, his voice cracking. “It breaks my heart, Loki.”

Loki clawed the suede couch and pulled his upper body up with a strength he did not know he possessed. Just as he was about to fall backward from exertion he caught Stephen around the waist, and Stephen his back. 

They held each other in the awkward position for what felt like hours, neither pulling the other up or down, both suspended in perfect balance. 

“For that...I am truly sorry,” Loki whispered. “Forgive me.”

Stephen laid Loki back down on the couch again when the trembling became too tremulous to ignore. “I already did.”

He picked up Loki’s slim ankle and dotted feathery kisses up the bone-thin shin, “I always will.”

All of a sudden, Loki gasped and bucked violently.

“What is it?” Stephen asked, running his hands frantically all over Loki’s body, expecting to find some source of pain. Instead he saw awe and delight. 

“I can feel that,” Loki breathed out. 

“What?” Stephen asked, just as breathlessly. 

“Kiss me again,” Loki ordered. 

Holding Loki's foot aloft, Stephen pressed a kiss to the bony ankle, all the while keeping a doubtful eye on its owner. 

The enraptured expression on Loki's face was all the confirmation Stephen needed and before he could stop himself, he lunged. 

"What does this mean?" Loki pummelled Stephen with question after question. "Is this good or bad? Am I getting better? Stephen, what - "

But he could not complete his sentence for apparently simply embracing was not enough; the utterly speechless Stephen needed to kiss him too, this time on the lips.

"Oh, Loki," Stephen's merry laughter rang sweet and clear as bells, the sheer relief permeating every note. "Loki, Loki…"

 *************************

 

It did not take long for the news to spread. Either there was a hidden camera somewhere in the room streaming live feed to every mutual friend they knew, or Stephen's network of social contacts had now included Loki's brother.

Thor appeared not a day later, his guarded optimism cutting through the shadows like a beam of warm sunshine. 

"Is it true?" He boomed.

Loki maintained a straight face, tipping his chin in the direction of his wiggling toes.

Thor's nose flared as he visibly struggled to contain his emotions. 

Loki sighed and reluctantly stretched out an arm, finally taking pity on him. "Brother…"

Thor closed the last few yards to the couch in a sprint.

"I worried you," Loki murmured. 

"You fool," Thor said affectionately, accepting the unspoken apology by tightening his arms around his brother in a fierce embrace. "You didn't worry me one damn bit."

 *************************

 

“I can do it, Stephen.” Loki grabbed the glass from the tray with one hand and physically pushed Stephen backward with the other. “I’m not an invalid.”

Stephen warily watched Loki take a few gulps at once. 

"Hey, easy - " He was about to warn Loki to take it slow, when he was unceremoniously shot down with a scathing glare. 

“Say ‘easy’ one more time and I will smother you in your sleep.”

Stephen smiled. Loki’s threats were some of the most colourful he had heard in all his career. “Beats ripping my heart out and serving it to me still warm and beating.”

“That was yesterday,” Loki grumbled.

Some twenty minutes later, he proudly presented Stephen with a very empty glass. It was the first meal Loki had eaten in its entirety without coughing or choking, and Stephen could not contain his joy. 

“Stop kissing me!” Loki flailed amid the flurry of kisses Stephen was showering his face with. 

He must have been reduced to laughing, for never had he seen Stephen look so spellbound. "What?"

"You're beautiful." Misty-eyed, Stephen fingered the corner of Loki's mouth. "Never thought I'd hear you laugh again."

"It's a one-time thing," Loki said, but his facial muscles were starting to betray him again; now that he was regaining strength day by day, they were back to their mischievous selves, and Loki found himself quickly losing to their autonomy. 

"I can't stop smiling," Loki grumbled, "but this isn't me." 

"Sure." Stephen's own wistful smile widened into a grin. "I totally believe you."

 *************************

It was on a bright, sunny afternoon a few weeks later that Loki decided he was going to walk. 

"Outside," he requested. 

Despite making the fastest progress Stephen kept saying he had ever seen in a patient in all his years as a neurosurgeon, Loki had been far too embarrassed with his still-unsteady gait to venture beyond the confines of his bedroom.

"Are you sure?" Stephen asked quietly.

"Yes," Loki said with a calm confidence. "I am ready."

"Where would you like to go?"

"I want to be where people and noise are plenty."

Stephen laughed at the strangely-worded yet quintessentially Loki request. 

A New York minute later, they found themselves wading through the crowd at Times Square.

It was hardly the most relaxing stroll, but Loki had asked for chaos, and there was no place on earth more chaotic than the Big Apple.

The thought of Loki ambling slowly amid unapologetically impatient New Yorkers had worried him initially, but for some reason, people veered out of their path, parting around them without so much as a dirty look. 

Still, Stephen kept a steadying hand on the small of Loki's back. A powerful thing, force of habit. 

Before long, they reached the theatre district and Stephen's mind flew to the time when they first started seeing each other and how Loki would drag him to see a new play every chance he got. 

"Stephen, look." Loki's face lit up in multi-coloured lights from the billboard overhead. "Rent is showing again."

"Huh." Stephen could not believe his luck. "They must have revived it."

"Perhaps we should ask inside if they have last-minute tickets," Loki said slowly, trying to hide his excitement. "You...could ask nicely for a discount?"

When Stephen did not answer, Loki looked down to where Stephen had suddenly dropped to one knee.

"Stephen?"

"I'm just doing your laces," Stephen mumbled. 

Loki frowned. "But I'm wearing...loafers…"

His heart stopped.

"What is the meaning of this?" Loki whispered, every drop of blood draining from his face.

"Loki Odinson…"

Stephen's voice quaked but the hope in his eyes was as bright as the gleaming band in his hand. "Will you do me the honour of being my husband?"

Loki could not breathe, could not think -

What was happening to him?

"Come on, dude, just say yes!" A voice he had never heard before jolted him out of his stunned reverie.

Stephen was still staring up at him in earnest, and Loki had never seen a face as kind, eyes as gentle. 

A crowd had formed around them but in that moment, there was only him, and Stephen, and the promise of love everlasting and a 

"Thousand kisses," Loki vowed, tears quicky filling his eyes, "You...will take payment in kisses, yes?"

Stephen answered serenely, "Yes." 

"Then...yes." 

The crowd around them erupted in wild cheers as Stephen leaped to his feet and slipped the ring onto Loki's hand, which was shaking harder than Stephen's for once -

"A thousand sweet kisses," Stephen gloated and he leaned in to claim their first kiss as the newly betrothed. "Starting now."

[your-highnessmarvel]

For Better or For Worse

Requested by Anonymous: Now we ALL know Chris wants kids. If you don’t know that you’re not a real fan. But what about a fic where the reader can’t have kids and she wants to break up with Chris because she thinks that’s what’s best for him?

AN: ok this is like... really angsty and i got carried away in it and idk... im kinda sad today. on another note! i got a B+ on an essay exam i thought i canned so yay

Warnings: angst, language

*gif not mine

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MASTERLIST

You reread the text message again.

Hey baby. Sorry for not being able to make it today with you. I am hopeful! Let me know as soon as you get out! <3

Your left knee bounced. Your stomach twisted. The TV in the left corner of the room buzzed some news about COVID-19, but you couldn’t care less. A stranger next to you shuffled his feet and it was so loud. It resonated in your skull, climbing down your spine. 

“Y/N?”

Your head snapped up. The doctor stood with a smile on her face, dossier in hand, door open behind her. 

“Yes,” you said. 

“Come with me.”

You followed her through the door, the back of her white lab coat stark. It felt like you were following her to your doom; to the pits of hell and beyond. Your heart raced as you passed through the familiar doors and sat on the same leather chair as before. 

But last time you were with Chris. Last time, he was here, holding your hand, as nervous as you were. 

“Okay, Y/N, how are we doing today?” the doctor asked, sitting directly in front of you. You had a queasy feeling, watching her sparkling white smile and her vivid eyes. 

Did she have good news?

“Nervous,” you admitted. Your mouth was dry. You just wanted to know the results. 

The doctor’s face went soft and she opened the dossier, revealing a small stack of papers; all the tests you’d done with her. 

“It is as we feared, Y/N,” she said, hands on the table. “All the tests show that your eggs are barren. I am very sorry. I know how much having a child of your own means to you and your husband, and I know this must be terrible news. There are, however, alternatives, like adoption.”

There was a burning so intense in your chest that you feared you’d pass out. It was like someone lit a fire between your ribs and was cooking you from the inside out. Involuntary tears spilled from the edges of your eyes, gliding down your cheeks, clinging to your jaw as desperately as you’d clung to the hope of baring Chris’s children. 

Your hands balled into fists. Eyes closed. Breathing slowed. You could hear the doctor speaking, but it was as if through water. She was saying something about this process of multiple tests, all of them negative, proving that you really wanted to be a mother and that would be a plus on the adoption forms and you’d be considered a good candidate. 

You didn’t want to adopt! You wanted to conceive a child, half of you and half of Chris. To have a piece that was the both of you, together. To see if your child would have Chris’s smile or your hair or his little dimples. You wanted to see which part of your character they’d inherit. Or maybe they’d be more like Chris. 

“I...” You looked up through tear filled eyes, but only say the shape of the doctor who’d just told you you’d never have children of your own. “I’m going to go.”

“Would you like me to call your husband?” she asked, seeing your state. 

“No.”

The last thing you needed was to tell Chris right now. He’d been so hopeful that this final test, this final and last try would be a miracle. Even if it was just one child, one would be enough, one would be your saving grace. 

He’d hate you. Of course he would. With time. There is not a thing in the world Chris wanted more than children. Little boys and girls running around, playing hide-and-seek. Teaching his daughter to drive. Teaching his son to cope with his feelings in a healthy way. Showing his kids the aquarium. Snow fights. Autumn leaf piles. Swings. Sand boxes.

He’d resent you. Of course he would. With time. He’d find a way to leave you because he couldn’t stand to know his biggest wish was dead. He’d marry someone else, someone fertile, someone able to give him a piece of himself fused with a woman he loved. 

He’d forget you. Of course he would. With time. After his children would be born and they would grow up in front of his eyes, he’d forget the woman with a rotten womb and empty ovaries. 

You hadn’t noticed, but you’d somehow managed to walk out of the office, down the stairs, and out into the parking. The sun was out, high, hot. Sweat formed on your forehead, in the palm of your hands, behind your knees. 

You had a sudden, harsh thought. You knew exactly what to do. 

You texted Chris to call you when he had the time. You got into your car, like a ghost, like a phantom, and sat there holding the wheel. It was warm and hard, the heat of the summer cooking up the car. You looked in the rearview, at the empty backseat. There would never be a little one sitting there, in a baby seat or as a kid or as a teenager with their friends. 

There would never be.

The phone rang. 

“Hello.”

“Hey, babe, how did it go?” There was so much hope in his voice; the ring of his tone and the cracking. He had so much hope and you were about to squash it between your fingers like ants. 

“Where are you?” You tried to sound normal, neutral, but there were still tears drying on your cheeks. 

“Is everything alright?”

“Chris, where are you?” Now, you sounded angry, impatient, and you hated it, hated the way you were talking to him. He didn’t deserve it. 

He gave you the place he was at. “It’s a set so come by the back gate and I’ll be waiting there, okay?” His voice was harsher, less hopeful, and there was a hint of knowing. Knowing exactly what you were coming to say. 

You drove there in silence. No music. No humming. Catatonic. Your mind was blank, the roads busy, the streetlights bright, your thoughts a mess. There was an ache in your stomach, deep and hurting, as if you’d been cut open from sternum to belly button, and the wound was festering. 

You were minutes away from ending the most beautiful part of your life. 

You parked awkwardly on a curb but who cares. The little walk from your car to the gate was hard, your knees trembling, feet numb. Chris was waiting at the gate to let you in, a wary look tearing his features apart. 

As soon as you were through, he put his arm around your shoulders and kissed your forehead. “Y/N,” he mumbled. “Are you okay?”

He smelled so familiar and felt like an anchor. It was an instinct to lean in, forehead against the crook of his shoulder. It was all so familiar. The glint of the ring on his finger. The smell of the detergent he used at home, the one you washed all your clothes in. 

“Can we talk in private?”

His eyes slid down to the ground, a tick in his jaw. He knew. But he didn’t know all. “Oh, baby,” he murmured, but pulled you along to his trailer. 

Inside, it smelled like his cologne. There were a few dirty dishes in the sink and you smiled because Chris never liked to wash his dishes and you were always the one picking up after him. He liked to vacuum though, and it showed in the pristine floors and sparkling shelves that he’d dusted. 

He grabbed your hand and led you to the couch. He sat beside you, shoulders turned to you, eyes searching your face. He saw the dried tears. The trembling lower lip. 

“It was negative?” he asked lowly, running his fingers over your knuckles. 

“Yeah.” You bit your lip. “Again.” 

He sighed and leaned his head on your shoulder. There was a moment of silence where you just stared at the blank TV screen, listening to Chris breathing against you. 

“We’ll find another way,” he said, lifting his head. “We’ll go through another round of IV.”

You shook your head. “The doctor said I’m barren, Chris,” you said, fighting tears. “There is literally nothing we can do anymore.”

He grabbed your hand with both of his. “Adoption.” He said it as if it was a miracle cure. 

“No, Chris, I want a child of our own.” You bit your lip, tears fighting to slip from your lashes. “A little girl with blue eyes or a little boy who is as stubborn as me.” And this time, you did cry. And you saw just how hard Chris was fighting his own. 

“It’s alright, baby, hey.” He took your head in his arms, bringing you against the safety of his stern chest. 

You let yourself sob against him, wetting his sweater, grasping onto his shoulder. He rubbed his hand up and down your back. He set his wet cheek against the top of your head. 

Hiccuping, you pulled away from him, wringing your hands. “Chris, I... I’m...” you trailed off, raking a hand through your hair. “I’m gonna... go live with my mom for a bit.”

He frowned deeply, suddenly changing from sad to confused in a matter of milliseconds. 

“No, Y/N, no, no, why?” He leaned in, looking at you deeply, blue eyes searching yours. He held onto your hand so tightly it almost hurt. 

“Chris, you don’t deserve this,” you said, sniffling. “I’m never going to give you a little girl to teach her how to drive or a boy to go to shows with. We’re never gonna have babies in the bed with us in the morning. We’re never going to watch little league games. Daycare. Potty training.”

He stood, thumb to his lips. He was angry, tension roiling in his muscles. “I can’t believe it,” he growled behind clenched teeth. “I can’t believe you’d think I wouldn’t want you because you can’t have biological children with me. Do you think I only want you for that? You’re not a machine, Y/N. You’re not broken. You’re my wife. I pledged to love you for better or for worse. We will work through this. I promise you.”

He knelt before you, eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. He grabbed your hand, held it to his heart, looking up at you imploringly. “Don’t ever think that. Ever.” He reached up to wipe a tear from your cheek. “I’m not going anywhere. Yes, I want kids. But I want you, more than anything. We’ll get a dog. Or a cat. Or both. But I’m not separating from you, okay?”

There was a hole in your chest, and it was aching, and it was healing, and you wanted to cry from joy and fear and powerlessness. “Oh, Chris.”

“No,” he said, lip trembling, tear rolling from the corner of his cheek. “No. Don’t leave me. Don’t. We will work it out.”

You leaned in, kissed his cheek, where the tear was settling, tasted the salt of it. “Okay.”

He sighed of relief, embracing you softly. He pressed his cheek against yours. He was shaking like a leaf. “I love you, and I want you to remember that forever,” he whispered. “I won’t let you go for anything in the world.”

You nodded against his shoulder. “I love you too, Chris.” 

He pressed his thumb against the ring on your finger. The ring he’d given to you on the day of your wedding, where he’d vowed to love you forever and always. Where he’d kissed you in front of both of your families. Where he’d tied himself to you in the holiest of ways, binding you to him and to his care, and vice versa.

He was remembering you, remembering himself, the reason why that ring was on your finger. For better or for worse. And this was the worse, but you’d live it together. You’d overcome it together. No matter what.

[peterxwade24]

BWYD Chapter 38

Parent Swap

The three almost siblings sat at a table, Marinette facing the window while Matthieu sat closest to the door. Three chocolate cupcakes sat on the table, not a dollop of frosting in sight.

“How have you been?” Jocelyne asked, her eyes flicking over Marinette as though she could take in every change the girl had made since leaving her home. “Have they been good to you?”

“Your boys are nice to you, aren’t they?” Matthieu implored, looking over her as he had become accustomed.

“When Batman and Red Hood finally moved me from Paris, they put me with Ubaba. Ubaba gave me several siblings, brothers and sisters, who care for me like you two did.” Marinette picked at her cupcake, surprised when the chocolate cake gave way to a blood orange compote in the center. “My oldest brother, Dick, and one of my middle brothers, Duke, are here with Damian, Colin and I. My second oldest brother, Jason, is just in town for a little while to make sure I don’t have another catatonic episode before he’s going back home. My three sisters, who are all so much like you, like doing my hair. My other middle brother, Tim, helps Ubaba run the family company that Ubaba’s parents founded.”

Jocelyne nodded, a smile on her face. “I like your necklace.”

Marinette touched her necklace. “It was Maman’s. A lady who was like a grandmother to me found it for me, after our home burned down I never thought I’d have anything from them ever again.”

Jocelyne nodded and placed her hand over Marinette’s hand resting on the table. Matthieu smiled sadly.

Lou, ever the diligent partner, went about running the shoppe for Jocelyne while she was busy talking with her almost siblings.

---

Dick rushed into the cupcake shoppe, his eyes scanning the interior before they landed on the form of his sister. “Tiny Bat!” He vaulted over the tables and chairs, Duke running through the closing door behind him.

“Oiseau bleu! What’re you doing here?” Marinette frowned, pulling protective instincts from her two almost siblings.

Jocelyne forced herself between the two Wayne siblings while Matthieu pulled Marinette behind him. “Excuse you. Who do you think you are?”

Duke bounded across the shoppe to stand beside Dick. “We’re her brothers. Who’re you?”

“Oiseau blue. Oiseau jaune.” Marinette sighed and placed her hand on Jocelyne’s shoulder. “They’re Ubaba’s sons, two of my older brothers.” She paused and frowned. “How did you find me?”

“So, Tim may or may not have put a tracker on everyone’s phones so we all know where everyone else is, and when Damian and Colin came home but you still hadn’t, we waited a little while longer. But as the time between the boys coming home and you not coming home almost reached an hour, we decided to track your location?”

“Tim-Tam and I will be having a discussion.” Marinette sighed and pressed a kiss to Matthieu’s cheek. “You two, on the other hand, need to learn to call first.”

“We were worried. Especially after what happened last time.”

“That doesn’t count.”

---

Marinette frowned at her brother on the computer screen. “Tim-Tam. Why did you bug my phone?”

“I bugged everyone’s, not just your’s.” Tim sat back in his desk chair and ran a hand through his hair. “We need to be able to find everyone at all times, especially since Diana vacated the city a few years before you guys popped up and you’re only letting the family in.”

“Tim-Tam. If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume you guys didn’t trust me. Oh wait, the only one who initially believed I was capable of being a vigilante like the rest of the family was Damian.” Marinette frowned and shook her head. “I’ve gotta go. Oiseaux bleu and jaune are making me participate in a family day tomorrow.”

“Bug-” Tim started to say before Marinette ended the call and closed her laptop.

She sighed and pulled her hair out of the ponytail she’d pulled it up into. She looked around her room, Oberon and Houdini curled up in a stray ray of sunshine, before her eyes landed on Tikki. “Hey, Tikki?”

Tikki turned to look at her holder. “Oh Marinette.” Tikki put down the cookie she was eating and zipped over to Mari. “You have the support of your team, the support of Damian, and all of the kwamis support you. Queen Hipplyta and the Amazons support you, I’m pretty sure if we asked Arthur King of Atlantis would support you.”

Marinette nodded and cupped Tikki in her hands. “Thanks Tikki.” Marinette pressed a kiss to Tikki’s forehead. “Some days I swear you’re more of a parent to me than Ubaba. Granted Grampa Alfie has been more of a parent to most of my older siblings.”

“Oh Marinette.” Tikki wrapped her arms around Marinette’s finger and frowned. “You’re not the first Ladybug to see me as a parent. You are the first one who’s seen me as a parent without also seeing Plagg as a parent.”

Marinette shrugged. “I guess I need to convince Adrien to swap kwamis with me for a little while then.”

---

Marinette walked into school the following Monday wearing an olive green shirt (which was nearly two sizes too big), over a black skirt and black tights, she wore one black boot with red laces and a red boot with black laces. Her hair was pulled back in twin bubble braids and tied with little black canary ribbons. She quickly spotted Adrien and skipped over to her blond friend. “Hey ‘drien.”

Adrien jumped as she linked her arm with his. “Oh. Hey Mari.”

“So, I have a question. Do you see your pocket-sized god as a parent? Because if the answer is yes then we should switch pocket-sized gods so that we both see them both as parents.”

“I mean, yes, but why?”

“Because our dads suck and we deserve cool parents.” Marinette smiled. “Come on. Please.”

Adrien sighed before pulling Marinette into a quiet alcove. “You swear you’ll give him back after you see him as a parent?”

“I swear on my parents’ graves.” Marinette took out her earrings, allowing them to revert to their charged state of red with black polka dots, and watched as Adrien pulled off his read which reverted to its charged state of black with a green paw print. She handed over her earrings, which turned into a red and black spotted ear cuff, as he handed over his ring which became slender in her hand.

Adrien put the ear cuff around his ear, where it lost its red and black appearance and took on the appearance of a silver vine shaped ear cuff. “Take good care of him.”

Marinette slipped the ring onto her right-hand middle finger, where it lost its black and green appearance and took on the appearance of a Wonder Woman double-ring spanning her middle and ring finger. “You take good care of her. I can deliver some cookies if you need me too.”

“That’d be great.” Adrien smiled and slung an arm around her shoulders. “And we can refer to it as a parents swap!”

“Please be careful with Mom. She can be temperamental if you’re mistreated.” Marinette smiled and led him to the classroom.

“Dad just sleeps all day. But he likes cheese, the runnier the better.” Adrien separated from Marinette at his desk and watched as she shot him a thumbs-up as she climbed the stairs to sit between her brothers.

Taglist: @dast218 @amayakans @toodaloo-kangaroo @crazylittlemunchkin @marinettepotterandplagg @duckies16