#But! it would have been a shame to leave the backside blank

[marikodraws]

A Knife Cuts Deeper on the Way Out

Part 2 of my accordion book comic project! Part 1 >here<

[whipped-for-kpop-fics]

Thinking about; C.SC dog walk meet cute

I just watched two people walking their lil doggies meet and greet each other like it's a regular occurrence and it's cute af so now this is on my mind

Wordcount; 833

A/N- I didn't name "your" dog both because my mind blanked and I thought you can just imagine it to be called whatever you want that way <3

-Other Writing - More Coups thoughts; 1, 2 & 3 [all three are NSFW]-

A month or so back you moved to a new neighbourhood with your cute lil doggo

Of course, a dog needs walking and your dog likes routine a hell of a lot so every morning you take her for a walk down the same route

And although it's barely 6am during these morning walks thanks to your job starting at 7am, there's always this guy walking his own dog

Every morning regardless of the weather, you see this guy in sweatpants and hoodie, hood pulled up to shadow his face walking his little white dog

It always amuses you that although the guy looks like he couldn't care less how he looks, the dog is always brushed neatly with cute bows and clips and an adorable raincoat or jumper when the weather calls for it.

You've definitely noticed the way that when the dog is wearing a jacket, the man is wearing one that almost matches It's pretty fucking adorable, really

It takes a few weeks and just vague waves of greeting from across the street before you two actually cross paths properly

On this day, there's some kind of worker barrier on the path ahead of you, so you cross the road and walk on the other side

Your dog is not happy about this at all so you literally have to carry her across the road and when you put her down, she plops her backside down and refuses to move or look at you

"Having trouble?" The amused male voice makes you look up from where you're crouched in front of your dog trying to convince her to keep walking and you'll cross back over in a minute when it's possible

Of course, it's the hoodie guy, from this close you can see that he's got a face mask on and you briefly wonder if he always does

Shame, you had been kind of curious about what he looks like

"Yeah, she's a creature of habit." You sigh and point over to the barrier causing him to look over and hum in understanding

"Ah, yeah, Kkuma is the same." He motions to his dog, today wearing a cute frilly harness with a matching bow between her ears.

"You look absolutely precious, Kkuma." You inform, causing the dog to perk up and trot towards you. "May I?" You ask the man, hand lifted a little. He nods and you think he smiles by the curve of his eyes, so you look back down and offer a hand to Kkuma who sniffs it then happily moves closer to allow you to give her attention.

"And may I?" The man asks, now crouched too, closer than before by a fair amount, motioning to your own dog. You nod so he reaches out.

At first, your dog entirely ignores him but he makes a soft little sound and that gets her attention

Soon you're both crouched there petting and cooing over the other's dog, each of whom is lapping up the attention happily.

"Ah, we should really go." The man comments after catching sight of the time on his expensive watch. "Gotta get this one to the sitter ready for me to get to work."

"Oh, same, actually." You agree after checking your own much cheaper watch so you both get up

Just as you're leaving he calls out. "Hey uh, it's nice to meet you, maybe we can make this the new routine?"

"Maybe, if you tell me your name, stranger with a cute dog."

"It's Seungcheol," You tell him yours in return which he repeats softly. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Same time tomorrow,"

It's not many mornings after before Seungcheol asks if you two would like to join them for their evening walk

And then you both develop new evening habits and discover a new route to walk together

Conveniently, it takes you by the lake and stalls there where he always buys you both a hot drink if it's cold enough and something else if he can't use that excuse

It occurs to you early on that the evening walks feel very much like dates

But officially, your first date comes after a few weeks of morning and evening walks when Seungcheol finally reaches for your hand to entwine your fingers and asks if you'd like to meet earlier tomorrow for dinner

He says you, of course, can bring your dog because he plans to cook for you at his place anyway and Kkuma will love to spend more time with her bestie and-

You cut him off by pressing your connected hands to his lips You wanted to kiss him but decided it should probably wait until at least the first date

And of course, as soon as Seungcheol has his arm around you on the couch after dinner to watch a movie, both dogs curled up together on Kkuma's bed, you take your chance and kiss him

When you leave later, it's with another kiss and a promise of 'same time tomorrow'

A/N; Alternative title is "Same time tomorrow"

[feitan-apologist]

Feitan x Reader (Not SFW)

Content Warnings: 18+ only, Noncon (dead dove do not eat), kidnapping+imprisonment, whipping, orgasm control, forced orgasm, verbal degradation

AFAB reader

Synopsis: reader is a beginner nen user and has been investigating the phantom troupe. instead of killing them, our smol sadist decides kidnapping them to play with might be more fun :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The moment you regain consciousness, you know something is wrong.

Your awareness comes back slowly, dragging itself up out of a murky haze, and with it discomfort. The first stirring of alarm comes when you try to move your arms. Still shrouded in fog, you strain for a few futile seconds before realizing that your arms are tied behind your back, you think with rope, and you can’t move them at all. The stiffness in your shoulders tells you that you’ve been positioned like this for a while.

Instinctively, you call forth your En, wanting to know where you are and what - or who - is around you. But when you reach for the power that’s simmered under your skin for the past year, always ready, always accessible, something just… doesn’t connect. You still have a life force, obviously, but it feels blocked off somehow, like it’s just beyond your reach, fingertips brushing it but unable to grasp ahold.

The twinge of alarm in your chest has ballooned into panic, and you start to sweat, heart hammering against the inside of your chest. From the feel of it, your ankles are tied to the legs of a narrow table that you’re currently bent over, holding your legs spread open; in addition to your arms bound behind you by an intricate braid of rope that secures you from shoulder to wrist, you can feel something fitted snugly around your neck. As you open your eyes, seeing nothing but a blank, dark wall in front of you, your attempt to lift your head is stopped with a jolt as the short chain attaching your collar to the table snaps taut. And most insidiously, the chilled air brushing against your skin tells you that you’re completely naked.

As your brain processes all this new information, a single coherent thought pops into your head - oh, fuck.

“You’re awake.”

The quiet voice behind you makes you freeze. You stop breathing, every muscle tense, as the voice’s owner slowly steps into your field of vision, and when you see who it is, you could swear your heart stops beating.

“Feitan.” Your strangled whisper, barely audible even to you, prompts the corner of his mouth to rise imperceptibly. The Phantom Troupe’s torturer stands relaxed before you, shirtless, pale chest shining in the dim light. His face is impassive; he seems completely emotionless as he stares down at you, bound and growing increasingly panicked before him.

“You can’t use your Nen,” he says in that soft, unsettling voice of his. “I’m sure you’ve noticed by now. But there’s no point in trying. You can’t escape.”

“W-Why am I here?” you choke out, every muscle in your body still rigid. You can’t stand to meet his gaze; instead, your eyes stare straight ahead, unblinking.

“You were getting a little too nosy for our liking. I was just going to kill you, but when we were going through your computer, we saw some… interesting things in your search history. I was so surprised, a bland little thing like you… I decided it would be a shame to kill you without playing with you first.”

You recoil in disgust at his choice of words. What the fuck?? What is he talking about? Your mind scrambles for a response, but he continues before you can get a word in.

“I can tell you’re afraid.” He removes a hand from his pocket and cups your chin, tilting your head as far as the collar and chain will allow and forcing you to lock eyes with him. He smiles, and your blood runs cold. The look in his eyes is unmistakably that of a predator sizing up its prey. “That’s good. You should be.”

With that word, he releases you, striding back around the table where you can’t see him. You strain your head, trying to track his movements, but the collar gives you a very limited range of vision. “Wait!” you cry, “what are you - please, what do you want? I’ll - I’ll give you what you want, just please let me go.” Your voice comes out terribly weak-sounding, and you inwardly scream, pulling against your restraints with a renewed vigor, desperately trying to conjure forth the Nen that continues to elude your grasp. He snickers, the sound coming from a good distance away, so you jump in shock when his hand caresses your ass a moment later, leaving goosebumps in its wake. You shrink from his touch, shrink from the thought of what your revealing position, bent over like this, implies. No… he wouldn’t… he can’t…

“I already have what I want. I’ve caught you, and now I get to have my fun with you.” There’s no mistaking the glee in his voice, filling you with dread, your mind whirring ever faster toward the inescapable truth of the situation. His hand slips away from your ass, and you hear a faint rustling - he’s holding something, but you don’t know what. The seconds tick past, no indication of movement from behind you, and you find yourself holding your breath in anticipation. Your heartbeat thuds against the table, against the inside of your chest, the utter silence threatening to drown you, the blood roaring in your ears, what is he going to do to me, oh god oh god oh god-

Your thoughts are cut off as the whip cracks across your ass, hard, and you scream - honestly at first merely from the shock of the impact and the loud noise, adrenaline numbing your senses. But a moment later the pain registers in your brain, a line of white-hot fire running across your backside, and your throat tightens, breathing growing fast and shallow. “Feitan, please-”

“Oh, that hurts, does it? I thought you were tougher than that.”

The whip slashes you again, lower this time, leaving another line of heat in its wake. “Stop!” you cry, desperately fighting back the tears forming in your eyes. He laughs wordlessly, letting a long, silent second stretch out before slashing you again, then again, each crack of the whip punctuated by your cries. You strain your head, trying to see where he is so you can anticipate when the next hit will come, but he’s out of your field of vision - the only thing you can see is the blank wall in front of you. He’s varying the amount of time between whips on purpose, you realize, sometimes landing three or four in agonizingly quick succession, sometimes letting long seconds stretch between each one. The anticipation has you shivering, squirming in your tight constraints, not knowing when the next lick of pain will cut into your flesh. He’s trying to get inside your head, amplify your fear and helplessness, make you weak.

And fuck, it’s working. You’ve taken worse than this in training, far worse, and he’s right, you are tougher than this. A whipping should not be enough to have you undone, tears now streaming down your cheeks, body flinching as the blows land across your exposed ass and thighs. Except… training had also never left you with this terrible tension between your legs. The criss-crossing web of angry red marks Feitan’s whip had created were practically glowing with heat, and while the stinging, burning sensation was undoubtedly painful, with the anticipation and the fear and your adrenaline-addled brain… it also felt a whole lot like pleasure.

As the whip landed again, the cry you let out was unmistakably close to a moan. You could hear the delight in Feitan’s voice as he stepped closer, running a hand across the angry flesh of your backside, his cool fingers tracing the lines he’d made. “Like I said, I was surprised at the things you watched to get off. We share many of the same tastes, you know. But between the two of us, we both know which one is the little masochist.” At the word masochist, his hand dips between your legs and strokes the wetness that’s gathered there. You gasp as his fingers find your clit, swirling over it in a motion that draws a moan equal parts shame and desire from your lips. “What a fucking slut you are,” he murmurs, “getting wet from me whipping you. You’re pathetic.” You cry out as he slides two fingers into you, curling them against just the right spot.

“Don’t,” you whimper, “please.”

“Oh, you don’t think this feels good?” Feitan asks. “Fine. Maybe you’ll prefer this.” His fingers slip out of you and you can hear him rummaging with something underneath the table. Realization dawns on you as a telltale buzzing starts up, a moment before he presses the vibrator against your clit. You moan, back arching involuntarily as you press down onto the wand, shame flooding through you a moment later at how good it feels.

“No, stop, don’t… don’t make me-”

“Oh, I’m not making you do anything,” Feitan says, securing the vibrator in place and sliding his fingers back into you. He leans over you, drawing his fingers in and out in a slow, consistent rhythm. “It’s not my fault you’re a little painslut that gets off from me hurting you.” He lowers his head to your bare shoulder, and as you feel his cool breath on your hot skin, you wonder if he is bizarrely going to kiss you. When his mouth meets your flesh, however, it’s his teeth that sink in, eliciting a new, different sort of pain. You can’t help but moan as he harshly works his mouth on you, sucking and biting your skin in a way you know is going to leave a bruise. You writhe, trying to get away from the sensations of pain, of pleasure, the two almost indistinguishable now, overwhelming you. You realize with horror that you’re already well on your way to orgasm - usually it takes you longer than this, but fuck, you can’t help it, you can’t stop the bombardment of stimuli hitting your body, his fingers working expertly inside of you, the burning marks covering your backside, the vibrator inescapably pressed against your clit.

“Please stop,” you beg, humiliated, desperate, you can’t come from what this monster is doing to you. Being degraded like this is bad enough, but you can’t give him the satisfaction of enjoying it.

“Getting close, are we?” Feitan leans further over you, whispering his next words directly into your ear. “Don���t you dare come without my permission. Understand?” When you don’t respond immediately, he grabs a fistful of your hair with his free hand and pulls, hard. You yelp, and quickly stutter your assent, yes, you understand. “Good.” He lets go of your hair, releasing the tension on your scalp, but in the next moment his mouth is on the side of your neck, working his teeth into the soft flesh above the collar. You jerk away but are stopped short by the chain, and he digs his teeth in so hard you’re afraid he’s going to draw blood.

It’s jarring having him so close, so intimate. The faint scent of his hair, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, the wet heat of his mouth - it’s a disgusting parody of the intimacy shared by actual lovers. You close your eyes, squeezing out the tears still freely flowing, and try desperately to dissociate. You don’t want to be here, trapped in your aching body; you will your mind to go anywhere else, to drift off in some fantasy that will let you escape the horror of what this man is doing to you. But you can’t. If it were purely pain you had to endure, you’d be able to do it, you were sure, but you’d never had to contend with someone using your own body against you like this.

The seconds tick past as you writhe and moan and shake beneath him, gritting your teeth, breath coming in short gasps, and then - you can’t do it. Your resolve breaks, you can’t do it, you can’t hold back any longer, you feel like you’re going to explode, and you let the pleasure come freely, gasping as you reach the edge. Remembering his threat, you ask through clenched teeth, “Can I come?” Feitan leans back, huffing out a breath, and you can feel the self-satisfied smirk on his face. He’s won.

You don’t understand when the stimulation suddenly disappears, his fingers slipping out of you and the vibrator pulling away. Your pussy clenches around nothing, desperately seeking the pleasure that was there a moment before, the orgasm still so close. A sound of utter betrayal escapes your lips as you realize what he’s done.

“What? Weren’t you asking me to stop just a few minutes ago? I thought this is what you wanted.” The glee in his voice is unmistakable, and in that moment, you hate him with every cell in your body.

“You fucking basta-Aagghh!” your words are cut off as the whip slashes across your ass again, catching you completely off guard. You sob in anger and pain as he whips you hard, five times in immediate succession. The brief break your tender flesh had been granted only heightens the pain as five fresh marks join the lattice of swollen lines covering your ass and thighs. “Fuck!” you scream, fresh tears springing to your eyes.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Feitan says derisively. In the next instant, he’s pressing the vibrator against your clit again, laughing at the way your body immediately reacts, arching into the stimulation. You can’t fight the whimpers escaping your mouth, every muscle in your body tense and shaking as the orgasm previously denied to you builds back to a crescendo.

“Please can I come?” you cry, and the fact that you already know the answer doesn’t ease the agony as Feitan pulls the vibrator away, leaving you teetering on the edge but unable to push yourself over. You sob as he whips you again, no longer making even the barest effort to hide your pain and frustration. You realize distantly that you’re breathing too fast, too shallow, and your head is spinning; it’s a good thing you’re laid out on this table, because there’s no way you could remain standing right now.

Done with the whip for the moment, Feitan leans over you, sliding two fingers deep into your cunt and rubbing your clit with the other hand. “Do you know how absolutely dripping wet you are right now?” he murmurs. “It’s pathetic.”

“Fuck you,” you reply through gritted teeth, but then he curls his fingers in just the right way, and- “Aaahhh, pleeeease may I come?”

“No,” he replies, voice full of malicious glee, pulling away, and you brace yourself for the whip you know is coming. You’re caught completely off guard, then, when he presses the vibrator against your clit just moments later, and you’re immediately pushed back to the edge.

“OhhhhfuckcanIcome?” you gasp, and when he pulls the vibrator away, the noise you make is one of absolute despair. You’re exhausted from the pain, from the stress, from the edging; you’re dimly aware of how not in control you are, mind clouded over with fear and desperation and the overwhelming desire - no, need to come, you’ve never been this desperate in your life, and while you hate the man standing behind you with your whole being, you’re also utterly dependent on him for the release your body is begging for. “Feitan,” you whimper, “please, I’m begging you, please, stop, I need to…”

“Oh, you need to, do you?” He runs his hand over your ass, fingers grazing over the lines he’s left, dipping lower to teasingly trace over your cunt before returning to their original path. “You’ll just die if I don’t let you come, will you? Is that how this works?” He laughs at your quiet stream of pleases, muttered almost unintelligibly as you shake and cry before him.

His hand disappears, and suddenly he’s in front of you again, crouched down so that your eyes are level with his. His fingers curl into your hair and yank, forcing your eyes open, and you stare at him through a haze of tears. “You want to come? Earn it. And don’t even think about biting me - you won’t live long to regret it.” He stands, hands fumbling with the front of his pants, and you understand as he frees his cock and shoves it against your lips. You hesitate, recoiling at the thought, but as he grabs your hair again and pulls hard, you open your mouth for him.

Feitan doesn’t hesitate to shove his cock down your throat, making you gag and struggle to turn your head away, fighting his grip. He holds himself there for a long moment, then pulls out long enough for you to gasp for air before shoving himself in again. You struggle to control your tongue and lips as he fucks your mouth in earnest, staying just shy of the point that will make you gag but setting a rapid pace that almost immediately has you struggling to take in enough air. You’re torn between a desire to make this as unpleasant as you can for him and just wanting it to be over as quick as possible. Not that you have much control over that anyways - both of his hands are tangled in your hair now, controlling the speed and angle of his thrusts, and you can’t so much as turn your head away.

“Look at me,” he growls. You strain to meet his gaze at this awkward angle, and a jolt runs through you as you lock eyes. His face is twisted into what could only be described as a manic euphoria - eyes wide, pupils dilated, a slight sheen of sweat coating his temple, and a smile of pure, sadistic delight on his face. It’s the expression of someone unhinged from reality - and who’s loving every moment of what they’re doing.

Feitan pulls out of your mouth suddenly, leaving a strand of saliva hanging from your lips to the head of his cock. He surprises you as he releases his grip on your hair and lowers a hand to caress your cheek; the gesture is soft, completely incongruous with the rest of his actions. “You look perfect like this, you know,” he says quietly. You stare back at him in shock, at a loss for words. What is that expression in his eyes? If the thought didn’t strike you as absolutely absurd, you’d call it affectionate.

You don’t have time to say anything, though, as he strides around the table again and positions himself behind you. You let out a choked cry as you feel something hard press up against your opening, and within the next moment he’s pushed inside you. The “No” dies on your lips as he slides in deep, stretching you out, hitting every nerve inside you, and your back arches against your will. You don’t want it to feel good, you don’t want this at all, but the fresh tears that slide down your cheeks as he begins fucking you aren’t ones of pain. Your body screams in pleasure every time he slams into you, rough and fast, his hands gripping your whip-damaged hips, and you’re reminded just how close you were to coming before. The slight gasps coming from behind you tell you that Feitan is getting there as well, and you fleetingly rejoice at the thought that this will be over soon.

The sound that leaves your mouth when he reaches down to rub your clit would have made you ashamed, before. Now, the only thought in your head is of release. You’re at the edge again immediately as his fingers practically attack your clit, rubbing too hard, too fast, it’s almost painful, and you don’t even attempt to ask before letting the orgasm bloom inside you. In that moment, everything falls away. Your entire awareness is focused on the pulsing heat between your legs and his cock still pounding into you, your pussy clenching around every thrust as you come harder than you ever have in your life. You don’t know if you scream or sob or stay silent. You aren’t aware of anything besides how unimaginably, exquisitely perfect you feel.

It’s bliss.

.

You barely notice as Feitan comes inside of you, pushing in as deep as he physically can before eventually pulling out, leaving you limp on the table. You don’t know how long you lay there, eyes shut, mind drifting in and out of awareness as he does god knows what in the room behind you. You like it this way. It’s so much easier not to think.

When he eventually walks around into your field of vision, he’s fully clothed, face covered by a bandana, his earlier expression now replaced with the usual impassivity. He crouches so his face is at eye level with yours and gazes coolly at you. “You disobeyed me.”

“I - what?” you mumble, raising your head.

“You came without asking permission,” Feitan says calmly, drawing a knife from his pocket. You stiffen, eyes wide as he raises the blade and delicately traces your jaw with it, keeping the pressure light enough to not break the skin. “I told you you’d regret it if you disobeyed me. And you did it anyways. You’re even more of a masochist than I thought.”

“No - I - that’s not-”

“Shut up.” The blade is at your lips now, tracing the outline of your Cupid’s bow. “I made a good choice when I brought you here. You’re going to be a very entertaining little pet. Now-” he stands abruptly. “I’ll be back in a few hours. I’ll punish you then.”

You twist your head around as you try to follow his departure from your field of vision, a sense of relief filling you at the thought of even a temporary reprieve. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he says from behind you. You jerk as he clicks the vibrator to life and presses it against your overly sensitive clit, trying to angle your hips away. He only pushes it harder up against you and secures it in place against the table with what sounds like a metal clamp. “Maybe this will make you more obedient.” You squirm, arching your back and wriggling your hips to try to escape the stimulation, but it’s no use - the vibrator is pressed up snugly against you, and it won’t budge. Your stomach drops as you realize how he’s going to leave you.

“Wait!” you cry, mind racing for something to say to make him change his mind.

Your answer is the slam of the door behind him as Feitan walks out.

[peachyteabuck]

under cover of darkness

summary: a 24-hour convenience store, the night shift, and the man who gets you through day. 

a commission for @lovelycarose​

pairing: eliot spencer x reader

words: 5510

trigger warnings: mentions of a break-in with canon-level violence, fluff, mentions of an unspecified chronic pain disorder

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

There are some good things about the night shift. It’s easier to balance classes and your precarious mental health, plus the pay wasn’t terrible – a few extra bucks per hour were thrown your way after eleven and before five.

So you kept with it, one earbud in so you could listen to music while the hours ticked by at a pace so slow it felt like some supervillain had not only completely frozen time – but was also determined to thaw is at room temperature.

That was another thing about the night shift – the customers. It was mostly regulars, or tourists who forgot something at home but didn’t want to spend airport prices for a travel sized container of deodorant. None of them really stick out, none interesting enough to stick in your brain for long as you mindlessly pack their various items into white plastic bags.

That is, until he starts coming in. Tall and impossible big – it’s hard not to marvel at him as if he was a breathtaking skyscraper, like you had never seen something so magnificent. His flowing dark brown hair, his tight jeans…it’s all nearly too much for eleven-at-night-you. (Also for “I haven’t had sex in so long and I think I’ve eroded the ridges on my vibrator from using it so often and holy shit I would do anything to have that man under/above me” you, a you only made stronger and more desperate by how late it was and tired you were.)

He walks around with the confidence not often seen in newcomers, your eye used to college students too drunk to stand up perfectly straight. You’re used to people stumbling around with eyes-half closed, rubbing their temples as the bright white lights feel like cheese graters shaped like ice picks against their already hurting brains. You’re used to watching them stumble around, using some Neolithic instinct to find the cool fridges where they’ll rest their faces against the glass for an oddly long amount of time before opening it up to grab as many Gatorades as they could hold before attempting to grab one or two (or five) frozen pizzas, never able to access the higher order thinking necessary to understand that maybe grabbing one of the baskets by the entrance is important.

Or, on the other end of the spectrum you’ve come to know as normal: soccer moms searching for alcohol for their husband’s post-game barbecue. Moms with large dark circles under their eyes who probably read (and watched) the Fifty Shades movie unironically but still feels weird when their husbands suggest having sex in any position besides missionary with the lights off. Moms who went to college just to meet some mediocre-looking frat boy who votes Republican just because his father did and thinks thirty seconds of oral is enough foreplay.

They don’t spend as much time in the store as the drunk/high students, but it’s still just as entertaining watching them grab the food and drink – but not before lingering in the makeup aisle, staring at bold shades of red and waterproof mascara and the bright hair dye whose advertisements have terribly applied photoshop.

No matter the type – no matter the customer – they were nothing like the man who stood on the other side of the store, staring intently at your soft drink selection. None of them were beefy men with crumpled grocery lists, permanently furrowed brows, and the most beautiful five o’clock shadow you’ve ever seen. None of them wear thick black work boots that make not a single sound as they walk around the store, none of them wear jeans that are so criminally tight around a perfect ass.

Not even a perfect ass – the perfect ass. It’s symmetrical, looking as if it was drawn by a pin-up artist in the 50’s whose specialty involves drawing super buff men in poses meant for petite, slender women with perfect curves. As he walks you half expect sparks to form on his backside as if you were in some kind of Anime, or for each individual cheek to bounce up and down on their own asynchronous accord. Normally you’d be terrified of being caught staring – of him turning around and catching your eye and mocking someone like you for having the nerve to be attracted to him.

But that doesn’t happen, because for once in your life the universe is kind to you. For once in your life you’re allowed to listen to music and stare dreamily at the hot guy who checks the ingredients on every snack dip option you have available before choosing three different ones with a small, disappointed huff.

You watch him with that same silent intensity as he fills the bright red carrier he grabbed without a sound when he first strutted in, the packaging of the items crinkling being the only way to track his location when he steps out of your eyeline. If your boss wasn’t the one on security cameras you’d be angling all of them to follow him around the store, your eyes hungry for another look at him at whatever angle and whichever quality you could get. You feel like a fangirl obsessed with some boyband, your heart rate determined by the amount of the mountain of a man you can see between displays of holiday-themed candy and cheap make up.

You’re not sure how long it is before he’s approaching your counter (time appears to have lost all meaning the second he stepped into the store), but whether it had been five minutes or five years, he still takes your breath away. As he steps closer you realize he’s fucking massive – something your grandmother (a wonderful woman, but one lacking when social situations called for, among other things, any kind of brain-to-mouth filter) would call a “shit brickhouse.” He doesn’t even need one of the baskets as he prowls the aisles – scanning every item like a lion watches the Sahara through tall grass. It’s hard to look away, to go back to the book you’ve been trying to read the same page from since long before the little automated bell above the door had announced the man’s arrival – but the only distraction before had been the tiny, exhausted voice in the back of your mind that was shaming at you for not sleeping before the night’s shift.

Now, though, the voice has quieted to allow your tired eyes to follow him, pupils tracing along every inch of him.

The man checks out without a word; shaking his head when you ask if he has a rewards card and paying in cash. When you give him $7.26 in change, your hands touch for a brief moment and you nearly stop breathing – lungs suddenly void of their capacity to hold air as sparks fly from his callous fingertips to the bottom of your spine. He pulls away, eventually, because he has to – depositing the totality of the meager amount of money you’d just handed him into the donation box plastered with facts about victims of domestic violence right next to your register.

The box is made of an opaque deep purple plastic, the coins making a loud clink sound as they crash into the near-empty container. The man stares at it for a moment, swallowing an apparent lump in his throat as his eyes go blank for a fraction of a second before he digs into his pockets and fishes out a thick wad of perfectly folded five dollar bills before stuffing them into the hastily cut slot at the top.

Neither of you say anything as he does so, you too stunned by his generosity and him too occupied with making sure he had no more money hidden in his pockets to try and muster some vague capacity for speech. Still, as he turns and leaves, you cough to clear your throat and call out a loud and slightly hoarse “thank you!” to which he just turns and gives you a small smile in return.

The moment between the pair of you is fleeting but still makes your heart beat rapidly in your chest, swelling until your lungs feel tight against your ribs as you struggle to breathe. Fuck, you think. You haven’t felt like this since middle school when Jamie told you that your Katniss braid was adorable and you followed him around for two weeks until he agreed to take you on a “date” during lunch. You don’t even know this man’s name and you’re fawning over him as if you have another girlhood crush.

God, you need to learn his name.

Luckily, you find out the next time that his name is Eliot, even though the name embroidered in red above the right pocket of his dirtied coveralls says “Evan” in a fancy looped script (whatever, you don’t question it. You regularly wore your roommate’s sweatshirt from her alma mater even though you didn’t attend the university – must be the same thing, right?). That time all he buys is hair ties and chapstick – lots of hair ties and chapstick, just another thing you don’t question – but stays to talk with you about the Robert Frost poem you were annotating.

“Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening?” he reads aloud, smiling a little as he does so. “Is that for class, or…”

“It’s for class, but I’m liking it a lot more than the other obligatory readings for my degree,” you tell him a small laugh. “Do you enjoy poetry?”

Eliot shrugs as he grabs the full bags. “Oh, ya know. Just the occasional piece. You have a good day now.”

You smile as he walks toward the exit, butterflies pounding in your stomach once more. “You too!”

God, you think as he disappears from eyeshot. You’ve got it bad, girl.

He comes in again, irregular in each way except for the fact he arrives. Sometimes he’s clean cut, standing straight as he takes his sweet time wandering the store – as if he has nowhere to be, no need to rush around.

On those days, he buys a lot of things. Duct tape, orange soda, hair ties, sour candy in all shapes and colors. He makes conversation, asking about the book you’re reading or what you’re listening to, asking about your classes when you wear a jacket embroidered with your university’s logo on the front. On those days, he waits a little – even when all his items are bagged and there’s no real reason for him to stay – picking up on anything that would give him another thread of conversation to pull at.

“Something new?” he asks when you dogear one of the first few pages of a poetry book your friend had lent you.

“Yup!” you perk up just at the sight of him, cheery now more than you had been the entirety of the day now that he’s arrived. “Told a friend of mine about the assignment I was working on the last time you were here, and she shoved this anthology into my hands.”

You like those days – you look forward to them each time you step through the large door marked “EMPLOYEES ONLY” in large white letters that stand out against the incredibly depressing brown that’s been peeling since the day you interviewed here, spots covered sparsely by the maintenance guy who you’ve never seen. Those days are good, fun – they make you smile hours after he leaves and occupy your thoughts until you go to bed, sometimes even making it into the margins of your notebook when you’re zoning out in class.

Sometimes, though, he comes in nearly limping – at least one eye blackened and dark navy baseball cap pulled as far down his forehead as he can.

It scared you the first time, watching as he grunted with each step, every item he grabs from the shelves seeming like it pained him, his face scrunching into a wince each time he raises an arm above his ribs. You checked his items (bandages, ice packs, gauze, antifungal cream, a few first aid kits) with bated breath, terrified of making his mood worse.

It isn’t until you tell him the total, until you finally look up from your hands – that you finally look him in the eyes. They’re always warm like plate of freshly baked macaroni and cheese (and always make you feel just as gooey), but now appear to be clouded with a type of pain you can’t pin down. He doesn’t say much – or anything – as you bag his items, placing them gingerly into the paper bag as if it was an extension of him.

You try to keep a happy face throughout the entire ordeal, not wanting to push him in case what happened was particularly bad. Eliot gives you a similarly small, but earnest one in return – even if he barely hides the wince in his side as he does so.

But that was the first time things seemed a little off – your first time, specifically – and the others get easier as time passes.

At first, “easier” meant a return to days similar to the good ones – telling him things about your day as you ring up all his first-aid related items. He doesn’t respond with as much enthusiasm, doesn’t have the same witty banter – but gives you a small smile that you recognize nonetheless. But then, as the weeks bleed into months, you learn how to handle both the terrible days, the bad days, and the good days all the same.

It’s on one of the good days that he buys tampons, a piece of every kind of chocolate item you sell, and enough Acetaminophen to knock out a horse.

“Your girlfriend is very lucky,” you tell him, blushing as you bag the items. For a minute you think you’ve embarrassed him, crossed some line as a sickening silence grows between you two like mold on two-week old leftovers in a fridge that was turned off. It’s just as disgusting, too, which is why you’re so happy that he still gives you a small smile when you dare look up from where your scanner’s red line centers on the barcode of one of the tampon boxes.

“Nah, just,” Eliot’s plump lips look so kissable it makes your heart pick up. “A roommate, uh. She needs this. Her boyfriend is doing some game night thing and couldn’t pick it up. So I, uh. I got drafted.”

You give a little snort as you grab the receipt, smiling wide as you place it in the bag. “Well, your roommate is very lucky to have you.”

Eliot laughs as he grabs his stuff, cheeks heating up as he blushes. “Can I kidnap you for a little while so you can come remind her of that?”

In a rare moment of confidence, you lean forward and grin. “Is it kidnapping if I want it?”

The blush rages as he sputters a response, eyes downcast as he turns to leave. You get no witty response back, but the way he turns to wink at you as the automatic doors part is enough of a rebuttal for you to feel satisfied with your quip.

No matter what kind of mood Eliot is in, you look forward to his visits, watching and talking with him. Each evening you get ready for work you wondered if he would come in that night, if you would be able to tell him about the dumb thing this guy in one of your seminars said, or how you won an argument during bar crawl over the weekend using some of the random things he had taught you during the very conversations you now wish to have with him. It’s nice, the nicest thing you have in a long time – and somehow that doesn’t scare you, and somehow that makes you feel even better each time you see him.

But then “The Day” happens, and it changes everything.

The evening of “The Day” you woke up from your pre-work nap with this unexplainable feeling that something was going to go wrong. This feeling deep in the bottom of your stomach that you can’t quite place, one that makes the back of your knees sweat and where your ribs feel just a little tighter. Each and every sound – the cars that drive way too fast down your street, the creaking in your house, the dogs that bark obnoxiously – seem loudly, harsher than usual. When you sit up in bed when your alarm goes off it’s like you can feel the muscles in your back contract, feel the bones in your joints grind against each other. There’s some electricity in the air like when it’s right before a storm – only the sky is clear and your weather app doesn’t predict any rain until next week (and, even then, it’s only a drizzle).

At first you think it’s just a bad pain day; not bad enough to keep you home, or make you forget even the idea of doing anything besides groaning in pain in your bed and taking as many pain medications as your doctor says you’re able to. Still, it’s quite noticeable, and occupies your thoughts as you go through each part of your pre-work routine. Even as you shower, turn on your coffee pot, do the minimal make up required to make it look like you didn’t just roll out of bed or are some Victorian orphan plagued by tuberculosis and possibly a deep sadness embodied by the terrible weather that crashes outside their overcrowded London orphanage – you can’t seem to get rid of the proverbial dark cloud that settles itself between your brain and skull, clouding your thoughts and making your stomach hurt just a little.

It doesn’t get better when you get into work, either. There’s a tenseness in the air you can practically taste – electricity in the air that settles over your skin and makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up straighter than the carefully constructed sales display of some B-list celebrity’s nail polish collection, the one you spent hours fussing over during one of your very rare day shifts. It somehow only gets worse when Eliot arrives, whistling some tune that normally would be wistful and happy, but given the context sounds like something straight from a horror movie trailer that invades your otherwise-sweet daydreams for weeks to come; one of those songs that everyone knows but no one knows the name of that sounds really creepy when played slowly over a clip of some old, beat-up doll being held by an adorable little blonde girl with black-out contacts in.

You don’t tell him to stop, but the tune does slow when he notices your tense state when he passes to get to the soft drink aisle. When he gives you a questioning look you just shrug, hoping he forgets (or finds it in himself not to ask) about it by the time he finds what he needs. Judging by the song, lack of list, and spring in his step – it’s a good day, one where he intends to meander around the store and grab whatever it is catches his attention. Today that appears to be anything with sugar, most notably soda in every color but orange.

At some point he finds his way closer to you – more specifically he finds his way to the chocolate aisle, which faces your register – and strikes up a conversation. It’s just small talk, and doesn’t do much to distract you from the twisting in your gut, but you appreciate his efforts nonetheless. The small talk just feels like a dead-end – a polite road to nowhere that feels pointless to engage in. Still, it’s Eliot, so you give half-hearted answers and ask half-hearted questions and hope he doesn’t press you too hard on your slightly-sour mood.

And, because it’s Eliot, he draws a few small laughs and a couple of tiny smiles and it’s…nice. It’s not the usual “Good Day,” but it’s not a bad one, either.

But then it happens. And it happens quick – all of it.

Three men, dressed head to toe in black, enter guns a blazing as if they own the place. They’re wearing masks over everywhere but their eyes, the thick, black material likely silencing their voices if they weren’t screaming at the top of their lungs.

They enter in an oddly-triangular formation – one you’d describe akin to the Charlie’s Angel’s post if you weren’t scared out of your fucking mind. One of them runs to the aisle where you keep cold medicine, the other ransacking the liquor aisle and shoving heavy glass bottles of your most expensive bottles of alcohol into the black duffel bag slung around his shoulder. The last one – the one you think is the leader – keeps his eye on you as he steps closer to where you are at the register.

It’s the scariest fucking thing to ever happen to you, and what occurs next happens too fast for you to describe.

You blink once and find that you’re staring down the barrel of a handgun that’s definitely loaded and definitely has the safety off. The end shakes just a little, as if the robber is nervous, and you wonder why he’s the one scared. Both of your hands are up in the air, elbow bent at a ninety-degree angle while sweat pools at your brow and your bottom lip trembles. It’s the most terrified you’ve ever been in your entire life, and if you had enough in your stomach you throw up, you totally would’ve.

But then – Eliot.

You’re screaming at him to stop, to get away and hide and what are you doing? They’ve got a gun! Get away! You could be hurt! Eliot!

But then you realize that, holy shit, he’s actually taking the guy down. Holy shit, Eliot just punched that dude in the face. Holy shit, Eliot just punched that dude in the gut. Holy shit, Eliot just disarmed that dude while punching him.

It’s only when the guy that targeted you is screaming in pain from a dislocated shoulder that the other two realize something’s up and come rushing towards the man that stands just in front of your register. You’d scream if you weren’t stunned – eyes not sure where to look as Eliot disarms them with the grace of a professional ballet dancer at the same fucking time. He’s fierce but controlled – not breaking any bones but definitely leaving some bruises as he knocks them to the ground and kicks their guns across the carpet.  

It’s then – when the inferior robbers are writhing in pain on the ground – that he grabs the leader by the collar of his black hoodie and pulls the teenager’s wincing face close to Eliot’s raging one.

“I will give you one warning,” he hisses, teeth bared like an angered wolf as he spits. “one warning to leave this place and never come back. If this,” his left hand raises to gesture to you in all your petrified glory. “Nice lady tells me that you have returned to so much as buy a single stick of gum, I will track you down and find you and make sure you pay for the damage you’ve done here today. You got that?”

The still-masked teenager immediately nods furiously, eyes wide with terror and legs already kicking at the ground to leave.

Eliot gives a small, faux smile, and shoves the kid back down onto the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of him. “Good, now get the Hell out of here and don’t come back.”

Without hesitation, the would-be robbers scatter as fast as their damaged legs can carry them, clutching their bags to their chests as they rush to their crappy getaway van.

If you weren’t scared shitless you’d admit you’re a little turned on at the feat, especially as Eliot flips his hair from his face as he watches them speed away.

Your boss appears a few seconds later, apparently one more to watch from his safe room in the back than to interfere. Thank Heavens Eliot was here, you think. Facing those three kids on your own – even if they were, indeed, kids – makes your blood pressure spike once more.

“Should I call the cops?” he asks, looking at the wreckage around the store. The only silent alarm is located under the counter where the register is and, given your petrified state, you weren’t one to trip it.

Eliot just sighs and shakes his head, kicking a broken bottle of whiskey that for sure was going to stain the carpet. “No, they can’t do much – those kids probably don’t have a record and I don’t think you’ll get much out of ‘em if they do find the bastards. They’re young, broke, and I don’t know how much priority your case will be given.”

Your boss sighs, rubbing his face. It’s not as if they stole more than a few hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise, but being the victim of a robbery is still both tiring and rage-inducing – especially when someone like him has gone so long without incident.  “But, I, what am I supposed to do? I just-“

Eliot grabs his wallet from his back pocket, reaching into it to fish out a small, professional-looking business card that he hands to your boss. “Call the number there come sun rise and tell them Eliot referred you. They’ll help you out with whatever you need.”

The man who signs your paychecks furrows his brow and reads the block print allowed. “Leverage, Incorporated? They can help me replace what I lost?”

Eliot nods, placing a comforting hand on your boss’ shoulder. “Everything.”

Immediately the man nods and steps away to go out the back exit, leaving you and Eliot in the center of it all.

It’s then – just as you’re alone – where the sun’s just coming up and the large windows in the shop allow its warm light to bath the both of you in a beautiful soft orange. There are no other customers there, and with your boss preoccupied with calming himself down, it really does feel like it’s just you and Eliot – just the two of you with the whole world still asleep around you. It’s nice, perfect.

He’s the one to break the silence, voice gruff as he flashes you a small, shy grin. “So, uh…you want to go for coffee?”

Your heart rams in your chest even louder than when you were staring the possibility of a gunshot wound to the face, the poor organ exhausted as your brain screams at you to accept his generous offer. It takes what feels like an eternity to muster up the courage to do so, but before you can Eliot’s already speaking once more.

“Not that you, uh,” he clears his throat. “Not that you should feel, uh, pressured, or anything. I just mean like, hey, you worked all night and just went through a pretty rough event, and you’re probably tired, and probably pretty hungry as well, and a coffee place just opened up a street away that I’ve heard good things about. I’ve wanted to try it out, for a while actually, and I wanted to, uh, see if I’d have the honor of you joining me…”

“Eliot,” you laugh as you step closer, placing your hand on his face to guide his eyes to yours. “Don’t be stupid. I’d love to go with you,” he smiles and it warms every bit of you. “Just let me grab my bag and clock out, I’ll meet you outside in a moment.”

He sputters through an “okay, sure, yeah,” before you both turn to leave – him out the front doors and you behind the large one your boss had just been hidden behind. Your hands shake just a little as you insert the little card into the dinosaur of a machine, the loud noise and sputtering sound it makes now white noise as you grab your purse and rejoin him outside.

When you arrive at the coffee shop (aptly named “The Bean Spot”) you order a caramel latte with a cheese Danish, Eliot getting a simple black coffee with cream along with a walnut muffin. You wait for your breakfast in relative silence, neither you nor Eliot sure what to say after such an event. When the food and drink are handed over to you, you find a spot tucked in the back with an excellent view of the whole place.

The coffee shop is nearly empty since it’s still so early in the morning – the only patrons coming in, getting their coffee, and zipping off to the next part of their day. It’s nice to be the only inert thing, the movements of the people around you providing a nice cover as they zip past, locking you and Eliot in your own little world as the world stretches its arms and prepares for another day of hustle and bustle.

By contrast, you and Eliot are wide awake, laughing as you swap horrible roommate stories and whatever else comes to mind. He asks about your degree but has enough class not to ask you about your graduation year (a rare feature of conversations these days), talking to you about all the books you’ve read and professors you’ve liked.  

It’s odd – not bad, per say – but odd nonetheless, to be able to talk freely and openly and having him in front of you, within arm’s length as your knees barely touch under the small table. Seeing him in this space, a space more conducive to conversation and watching his hands as they pick at his blueberry scone and watching his mouth as the corners of his lips twist into a smile every so often and watching –

You blush at your own serial-killer-like thoughts, trying to suppress them with another sip of way too expensive but totally worth it coffee.

Eliot notices, because of course he does. “Hey, you alright?”

You nod, trying to calm your racing heartbeat. “Y-yeah, just-“

He smiles warmly, one hand moving to cradle your chin – to guide your downcast eyes to his. “It’s weird, seeing me in a new place, isn’t it?”

Once again, you nod. “It’s not that I don’t-“

“It’s okay,” his smile widens even as he now avoids your gaze, his hands moving to his lap as he fiddles with them. “It’s…I understand. Trust me, I get it.”

You exhale deeply, your shoulders falling a little. “I’ve thought a lot about this moment for, like, since you walked into the store for the first time…to have you here,” you gestured vaguely to the rest of the coffee shop, to the very few customers and baristas chatting about something you can’t hear and don’t care to pay attention to. “It’s…I don’t know. It’s not as if you’ve fallen short of expectations-“

Eliot gives a little chuckle, mumbling an “I sure hope so” with a glimmer in his eye that makes you want to jump on his lap and kiss him right there. Somehow, you find it in you to continue.

“It’s just super, super weird,” you tell him honestly. “And I don’t like it.”

The man in front of you leans forward, placing a hand over yours to calm you down.  

“How about we get out of here,” Eliot murmurs, voice warm and thick like the caramel drizzle over your latte. “I have an espresso machine at my place, and could make you homemade baked goods a million times better than whatever you bought, and we can continue this in a space where the baristas don’t misspell my name on overpriced coffee.”

He gestures to the cup labeled Elliott, wincing as he does so. It makes you laugh, and you nod in agreement. Together you down the coffee and throw the empty cups along with the wrapping for your pastry away. It’s natural – the way the two of you move – as if you’ve known each other for a millennia, as if whatever it is between you two that’s formed is already as strong and sturdy as an oak tree.

Eliot places one of his large hands on the small of your back as you exit the cafe, thumbing at the fabric of your sweater as you wait to cross the street. It’s comforting – just a flash of the fire that he started for you back at the store a mere hours earlier, heat warming your blood from your toes and up your spine. As he guides you to his apartment his hand finds yours, his fingers fitting neatly next to yours as he points out parts of the city you’ve never slowed down enough to see.

You may not have known Eliot for very long, but even within that short amount of time (and even shorter conversations) he had become a safe house for you, one that you could easily make a home.

And, unbeknownst to the other person, the both of you intended on doing just that.

[cordytriestowrite]

Disclosure

Bucky x Reader

One Shot

Summary: "Bucky and I slept together." "Twice."

"I'm just saying. Who hasn't had gay thoughts about Captain America?"

The silence that followed Tony Stark's outburst was so palpable you could almost taste the half-hearted denial in the air. The urge to laugh started to boil in your chest and even though looking around you were not the only one stifling a chuckle you didn't want to be the one to break in what was supposed to be a very formal meeting. You covered your mouth with your hand, attempting to look like you were rubbing a bit of something from the corner of your lip, when you caught the eye of the one person you shouldn't be sharing a moment with in a meeting like this. He didn't seem to hold the same levity in the situation and gave you a cheeky half smile and a wink, nodding his head to the blushing blond next to him as if asking if you agree with Tony. 

Your challenging brow asked him the same thing before turning pointedly away.

"Thank you Tony for that, uh, insight" Maria said, staring studiously at the digital pad in her palm. "But I meant physical relationships need to be disclosed. Not...thoughts you might have about another member of the team."

Behind Maria Hill, Nick Fury rolled his eye and turned toward the large windows, his back the only thing anyone would probably see for the rest of the meeting. 

"But, what is the purpose?" Vision countered, genuinely curious. 

"Is the disclosure of our relationships necessary to do our duty?"

Despite the obviously budding romance between Vision and Wanda both seemed pretty adverse to admitting it out loud in front of the whole team. Not that you were one to talk, you hoped you could leave this room with some secrets still intact.

"It is necessary," Fury's tired voice easily called everyone's attention. He didn't turn around, but you could see his fingers tighten around his wrist where they were clasped behind his back. "In case romantic relationships compromise a mission or, a relationship brings about unwanted media attention."

"Fury, I'm sure everyone has been very careful." 

Steve, still red at the crests of his cheeks, couldn't help but speak for the team. It was noble of him, but you knew it wouldn't help. Fury and Hill wouldn't be satisfied until they uncovered all they think needs to be disclosed. 

You dared another look in Bucky's direction, but his head was tilted to give Steve his attention, nodding along in agreement. You absently mirrored his nod. 

"All relationships? Even a one night stand?" 

The intensity with which you turned your head resulted in an audible pop in your neck. Sam's gaze was steadfast on Hill despite the curious glances coming his way. His hands were intertwined on top of the long table, thumbs swiping through the air restless with nerves. As the silence stretched half a second too long the curious glances became pointed and accusatory to the other onlookers and it's then that you realized one pair of eyes was steadfast in its staring contest with the control panel just to the right of the door.

Natasha's expression was cool disinterest, but the stiffness of her bottom lip revealed that control was on the cusp of wavering. 

A lump the size of a peach pit formed just below your voice box putting pressure on the secret you were hoping to keep inside. You were a team right? And a team has to look out for each other right? You knew Natasha's life was a closed book and her love life even further buried under lock and key and six feet of concrete. You caught the blink-and-you'll-miss-it shift in Sam's attention, recognized the shine of fresh tears rimming Nat's blank stare and that peach pit in your throat grew larger and larger until you couldn't keep the words in anymore.

"Bucky and I slept together."

There was no dramatic gasps or fainting, but a groan resound from one side of the table.

"Twice."

You practically lunged across the table to smack Bucky in the temple for his comment, your face growing hot. He allowed your palm to make contact, only offering up puppy dog eyes and an over exaggerated pout.

"Pay up Tony. I told you." Rhodey chuckled with his palm open next to Tony's head which was now cradled in his palms. 

"FRIDAY, send the funds to the smug bug over here." 

"Of course, sir. Congratulations Mr. Rhodes." FRIDAY replied seconds later and if it was possible for the AI to sound smug it absolutely did. 

Maria and Fury shared a quick glance before Fury turned back to the window. With a slight frown Maria began tapping into the pad now clenched within a white knuckled grip.

You didn't know who to glare at; Tony and Rhodey for their bet or Bucky for digging your shame hole a little bit deeper. Convinced looking anywhere near Bucky's direction would somehow aggravate things further you directed your anger at the former pair.

"You bet on us?"

Rhodey gave a quick what-can-I-say shrug before continuing to rib Tony who apparently would not catch a break today, but it seems neither would you.

"And will this...arrangement continue?" 

Arrangement. What a nice way for Maria to ask if you were going to continue fucking each other's brains out. It's not like you could help it. After the first time you had told Bucky this was a one time thing, a fluke, though you hesitated to call it a mistake. The second time just somehow happened and realized your one time fling could rapidly develop into a habit. Still, you knew the right thing to do was tell them what they wanted to hear.

"No."

"Probably."

Now you were mirroring Tony's posture, heels of your palms pressed to your forehead with your face pointed toward the table top. You didn't understand why Bucky was sabotaging you. All you wanted at this point was to leave the meeting with your dignity intact.

"Well which is it? No or probably?" Fury asked, his voice edged with frustration.

"No!"

"Probably."

"What the fuck Bucky?" You practically shouted, your voice pitched with a slight hysteria. 

It wasn't until Bucky got to his feet that you realized you had stood. He met your eye, his own stern yet vulnerable as he searched your face. The muscle in his jaw tensed for a moment before he cycled a deep breath through his nose.

"I was going to ask you out, after this meeting. Hell, I've been wanting to-"

He cuts himself short, his lips twitching into a smile stifled by tugging teeth. You had seen this before, this adorable way he terribly tries to hide his grin. It had been only minutes after you had hastily donned your clothes and insisted what just happened would never happen again. Looking back you make a heart stuttering realization. Bucky was probably going to ask you out like a proper gentleman after you did the not so proper naked horizontal thing, but instead you rushed out of there like an idiot. He had done the same tug to his lips when he approached you last night too, but you hadn't even let him get a word in before your mouths were fused together and hands began to grab at clothing. 

Well you may have fucked up his opportunities before but like hell you would let another chance pass either of you by.

"Maria." 

Your voice was the only sound in the pin-drop silent room. All eyes were on you, but your attention was solely on Bucky and the way his teeth were loosening on his lower lip and allowing his gorgeous smile to spread wide.

"I'd like to disclose my current relationship with Bucky Barnes."

You stood there, a pair of grinning idiots, before Bucky leaped straight up and over the table, scrambling to place his backside on the edge and nestle you between his legs with his hands on your hips. 

"You mean it?"

You nodded, already leaning in to kiss him so your forehead ended up rubbing up and down his once or twice. There were wolf whistles and jeers and laughter and if you weren't so damn happy you would have felt the embarrassment more pertinent to the situation at hand.

"Stand down soldier." Steve joked, reaching across the table to pull at Bucky's shoulder and separate your lips. Bucky laughed but listened to his captain, sliding off the table and walking back around to his seat. 

"Okay but seriously none of you have thought about this ass?" Tony exclaimed in disbelief as he pointed to Steve's tush which was now at his eye level with Steve's change in position. Fury finally turned around to face the team, looking tired and sounding just as much.

"Agent Hill just put Tony's...thoughts down in the file. I have a feeling we'll need media cleanup at some point."

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Jonsa - “From Instep to Heel”, Part 7

Finally catching up on posting my chapters on tumblr now that I’ve got the time to do the freakin’ formatting, lol.  I’ve been lazy.  My bad.

“From Instep to Heel”

Chapter Seven: Taken

"(His calloused palm at her thigh, the graze of his fingers along the edge of her smallclothes, the hot pant of his breath at her ear.)

Did you like it?

The question presses sharp and insistent at the edges of her mind." - Jon and Sansa. Like the curve of the horizon, when the moon breaks from beneath its bow.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 fin

* * *

"You slept well, I hope, brother?" Aegon's eyes crinkle with his smile as he bites off a piece of salted seabass.

Jon offers a tight smile in return, leaning back in his chair at the table, shoulders bunched. Aegon does not wait for the ladies of the house to join them, tucking into his breakfast with poised and slender hands. Jon picks at a piece of brown bread, eyes lingering over his untouched plate. He glances to the door again, half expecting Sansa to walk through it this very moment. "Not particularly," he sighs, tearing off another piece mindlessly.

"Yes," Aegon muses, "I see you're clearly distracted."

Jon raises a brow at him.

Aegon continues chewing, waving a hand nonchalantly, knife in his grip as he speaks, "The first night can have that affect."

"And you've enough under your belt to advise me on it?" Jon bites out, tongue smarting instantly when the words leave his mouth. He pulls a sharp breath in, turns his gaze to the table.

Aegon stops chewing, swallows slowly – demurely. A humoring smile tugs at his lips. "A wife is different."

Jon does not argue him that one, but he decides to keep his thoughts on the matter to himself, drawing his shoulders back, trying to ease some of the tension there.

Sighing almost wistfully, Aegon sets his cutlery down. "Daenerys has not changed much since that first night." A chuckle lights his lips, almost nostalgic. "Still as demanding and insatiable as ever."

Jon scrunches his nose in distaste, resisting the urge to reach for his wine, wash the lump of bread in his throat down.

"I don't imagine Lady Sansa was so, however."

Jon's gaze snaps to his brother, hand clenching into a fist atop his thigh. He draws a slow, tight breath in.

Aegon cocks his head at Jon, leaning back easily in his chair, eyes glinting sharply – a violet lance cut through the brisk, morning light streaming through the windows. He smiles again, the ends of his lips curled like the whip of a dragon's tail. And then he returns to his food, resuming his meal smoothly. Another bite. A slow, long chew.

Jon watches his brother, knuckles white. "Is this really the conversation you want to be having over breakfast?" he manages tightly.

Aegon makes a small sound of contemplation in his throat, glancing back up at Jon. "My appetite isn't so easily curbed, brother. Is yours?" Aegon swallows, a flash of teeth peeking out beneath his curved lips.

Jon grinds his jaw, his bitterness curling like smoke in his chest – sour and lung-scraping.

Aegon continues with ease. "I do hope at least you enjoyed your evening, brother. Mine was terribly lonesome." He laughs, short and disturbingly bright. "Daenerys would not have me last night."

"I can hardly suspect why," Jon snaps dryly, mouth clamping shut when he realizes what he's said.

Aegon watches him with unblinking eyes, rolling the food around his mouth leisurely, wrists resting atop the table edge, cutlery still in hand.

Jon thinks of the petal crushed under Aegon's boot in the garden, and the flick of the riding crop to the backs of his calves, and the smooth, weathered stone sitting pointedly atop their father's desk.

And then he thinks of the way Aegon had stepped back from Sansa at the wedding feast, a relinquishing sweep of his arm and a brotherly smile aimed his way – how he had not objected to Jon's intrusion, nor his brusque manner.

Jon swallows tightly.

But of course.

He should have known better. Aegon forgets little, and forgives even less.

Jon smooths his hands along his thighs, chest constricting, waiting, poised at a knife's edge.

(He should have known better.)

Aegon leans forward across the table, smirk adorning his lips, brows arched in a conspiratorial look, as though eager to share a well-kept secret. "You've never spilled in a woman before, have you?" he asks softly, almost carefully to any other ear.

Jon hears the edge to it, easily enough.

He works his jaw, eyes fixed to Aegon.

His brother leans back smoothly, smirk still curling the edges of his lips. "Too fearful of spawning a bastard, weren't you?"

Jon has no answer for him, can only turn his gaze away, fix it glaringly to his wine glass, feel his skin prick with a resentment too familiar.

"They're not such terrible things, you know – bastards," Aegon says nonchalantly, setting his knife down to reach for his own glass, bringing it to his lips before he pauses, as though in sudden remembrance, "When properly kept."

Jon blows a breath through his lips, heated and halting, unable to keep the glare from his gaze when he looks back to Aegon.

His brother only offers him a lifted brow, lips stained red with wine when he pulls the glass from his mouth.

Jon feels the words brimming in his throat, rancid and airless – a choke, a strangle – feels his mouth open even still, a recklessness blooming beneath his skin, as heady as it is unfamiliar, and –

The door swings wide, Sansa stepping through, Rhaenys following behind her with a dour expression.

Jon swallows that slice of shame back down –stinging and raw.

"Sisters," Aegon greets, and Jon does not miss the address, nor does Sansa, it seems, as she stops short, blinking doe-eyed at him for a spell, before she's nodding her greeting, cheeks a faint pink, stepping gracefully toward the seat beside Jon. She doesn't meet his eyes.

Rhaenys lets out a scoff at Aegon, shaking her head with pursed lips, settling into the empty space beside him.

Aegon cocks his head in question, eyes drifting to the closed door. "You seem to have lost my wife along the way," he says, amusement lilting his tone.

Rhaenys reaches for the sugared plums instantly. "Daenerys says she's too ill to break her fast with us this morning." Sucking a piece of fruit between her teeth, Rhaenys sends a meaningful look Aegon's way, swallowing after a pointed chew. "She sends her regards." A sugared smile follows the words.

Jon manages to bite back his scoff. It isn't the first time Daenerys has sought to spite Aegon with her absence.

Aegon picks the napkin up from beside Rhaenys' plate and raises it to her with an arched brow. She takes it with a roll of her eyes, dabbing at her sugar-smeared mouth. "I'll have to see to her later, then." His gaze flicks to Jon and he has the unexplainable urge to grab for Sansa's hand next to him. He resists the inclination – only barely. "Make sure she's not too unwell," Aegon finishes, his violet gaze settling back on Rhaenys

She's already filling her plate, well past the conversation.

Beside Jon, Sansa is quietly cutting into her own food. He takes a breath, wills the lingering rage from his face, tries to smooth his brow and his frown and his hardened gaze, dipping his head to catch her eye. "My lady?"

She flickers soft blue eyes up at him and for an instant, they stay staring at each other.

All at once he remembers the way his palm had fit around her thigh and the gasp she'd sounded at his ear and the drowning, bone-singing heat of her when he'd finally sunk inside her. His gaze flicks to her mouth, and watches it purse.

When he glances back up to her eyes, he finds her staring unblinkingly at him, fork halted halfway to her mouth. She clears her throat, settles the fork back to her plate.

Jon glances away, wiping a hand down his mouth. A gruff exhale leaves him, and he reaches for his own fork, eager for a distraction. "I'm sorry for leaving before you woke this morning," he says softly, careful not to let the conversation reach his siblings' ears. He glances up to find the two already occupied by their own discussion, and looks back to Sansa with a barely discernible sigh of relief.

She only nods, glancing down to his hands as he digs into his quickly cooling roast.

"I...had matters to attend to," he mumbles.

He feels the lie shrivel up along his tongue even as it tastes air.

Blessed air.

And that's what he had needed – after waking groggily in the early hours of the morning, body curled loosely around her sleeping form, half-hard at her backside, and he'd wanted nothing more than to trail his fingers down the smooth line of her arm, and then lower over the curve of her hip, her skin warm and supple to the touch, and he'd nearly rocked into her on instinct, lulled by sleep and hazy desire, before the night rushed back to him in a flood of memories.

The pained whimper she'd tried to smother when he'd first entered her, the stiffness of her frame, muscles bunched achingly tight, the way she'd squeezed her eyes shut, those soft, iridescent blues blanking out into shadow -

The way he'd clearly hurt her.

(Warnings mean little to nothing in this house, and Jon should know that by now.)

He swallows thickly, pausing in his determined cutting, eyes blinking furiously down at his plate.

Jon had torn himself from the bed that morning, dressed as swiftly and quietly as he could, and then left Sansa to her slumber.

He tells himself it couldn't have been helped.

He'd tried to be quick about it, tried to bring himself to completion without prolonging her pain, and truth be told, it wasn't particularly difficult when she was so warm beneath him, so soft and breathy, so tight around his cock.

It's easy to get lost in Sansa Stark, he finds.

Except, there's a smaller, more insistent part of him, that tells him he is wrong.

"I intend to do my duty," she'd said, and it had been his unraveling

Jon glances up to Rhaenys, finds her watching him with a perceptive stare. He growls his frustration beneath his breath, tearing back into his food.

Sansa does not answer him, only nods mutely, gaze flicking back to her own plate.

His eyes sting.

And what a stupid, foolish hope.

(The realization is blinding.)

He understands now, what he'd been so adamant to smother before, what he'd been unable to admit to, even in the darkest parts of him.

He wants her.

He wants her – maddeningly.

"You will never be more to her than duty."

He only wishes she wanted him back.

* * *

"Alright, I've been patient enough I think," Margaery says on a laugh, shuffling closer to Sansa in her seat. "You must tell me how the wedding night went. Was it everything you'd hoped for?"

Sansa blinks alarmingly wide eyes up at Margaery, hand stilling halfway off the table, cream puff caught between her thumb and forefinger. "The wedding night?" she manages after a gulp.

Margaery cocks her head, a mischievous smile tugging charmingly at her lips. "Yes, of course. From what I saw at the feast, your Jon simply couldn't wait to get you back to your chambers." She shivers deliciously, leaning closer to the younger woman over the armrest of her chair.

Sansa drops the pastry in her hand back down to her plate, going for the napkin in her lap, throat tightening. "Yes, well, it was...unexpected." She smooths her hands over the napkin in her lap, the breeze from the open gardens fluttering strands of copper around her face.

"I'm sure," Margaery smirks. She urges her on with a waving motion of her hand.

Sansa bites her lip, and then she turns fully in her seat to face the Tyrell, brows furrowed sharply. "Margaery, he... he tried to touch me... well, there." She bites her lip again, a flush of remembrance branching through her, cheeks heating.

"I should hope so," she says, a laugh bubbling at the edges of her lips, before she catches the expression Sansa wears, her smile wilting instantly. She clears her throat, straightening in her seat. "And that...unsettled you?" she asks now, voice calmer.

Sansa wears a worried thumb into her opposite palm, watching the motion. "I didn't want him to," she says, and she remembers, instantly, the heat that had suffused her when he did, the almost uncontrollable urge to shift her hips up toward his touch, to chase that fluttering thrum of nerves that ricocheted through her. She clamps her mouth tight around the words, chest tight with her embarrassment.

Oh, but what would Margaery think of her? What would her mother think of her?

"Sansa," Margaery says, infinitely soft, her gaze concerned, body shifted toward her. "Did he..." She stops, brows bunched tightly together, voice working over hoarse words. "Did he hurt you?"

Sansa blinks back up at her, head shaking vehemently. "Oh no, I mean, yes, well – Mother always said – I mean –" Sansa sighs, takes a deep breath, tries to control her raging heart. "I knew there would be some pain the first time, but I... I didn't..."

Margaery's hand curls over hers in her lap, stilling the nervous motion of her thumb against her palm. The touch is light, comforting. "Sansa," she begins, eyes imploring on hers, "When he kissed you, when he touched you, did he not – "

"Oh, he never kissed me."

Margaery blinks at her, suddenly alarmed. "Sansa."

"I couldn't... I couldn't let him."

Margaery's brows dip down in confusion. "You couldn't...?"

She shakes her head, hand turning beneath Margaery's to link her fingers through hers, palm to palm. "I wasn't ready for that. To be kissed – oh, but I want it to mean something, Margaery. I want it to be more than expectation, and I couldn't help remembering all those stories from the books, and the songs, and the tales, and is it wrong? To want such a thing? Even still? Is it wrong, Margaery?"

It was too intimate.

His hand on her thigh, and his stiffness pressed between her legs, and the heat of his bare stomach braced against hers and still -

None of it could compare to the intimacy of his breath fanning her lips, his dark stare through the candlelight, the pink tip of his tongue edging out to wet his lips.

He could fuck her ragged and still, she'd never be as breathless as she'd been in that moment, when he'd stared at her, leant down, moved to take her mouth with his.

To taste and touch and know each other.

To share breath.

No, Sansa had not been ready for such intimacy. And even when he'd slipped inside her, and even when he'd spilled inside her, and even when he'd fallen asleep beside her once they'd taken their turns at the wash basin – even then -

She couldn't let him kiss her.

Margaery rubs a comforting thumb along her knuckles, a sad sigh leaving her. "Oh, dear girl."

"It will come with time," Sansa says reassuringly, mostly to herself. "With care and time, I will try to love him. And maybe then..." She trails off, eyes glancing over the table. She never finishes the thought.

Margaery stays silent at her side for many moments, just holding her hand, letting the silken afternoon light dance across the table set. And then she makes a sound like a hum, thoughtful and cautious, leaning back in her chair as her hand slips from Sansa's. "Sansa, let me ask you something."

She raises a brow in question, expectant.

Margaery seems to mull over her words a moment, expression still cautious and concerned. "When he touched you – when he tried to... to ease you – did you like it?"

Sansa's mouth parts, cheeks heating.

(His calloused palm at her thigh, the graze of his fingers along the edge of her smallclothes, the hot pant of his breath at her ear.)

Did you like it?

The question presses sharp and insistent at the edges of her mind.

Sansa swallows tightly, eyes searching Margaery's. "That would be... improper."

Margaery cocks her head, voice still soft and careful. "Why?"

"I do not love him." The answer leaves her far more readily than she expects, and it carves a longing in her chest she isn't prepared for – a gentle throbbing between her ribs. She swallows back the trepidation.

Shifting in her seat, Margaery inclines her head toward Sansa, eyes focused. "And what if I told you that didn't matter?"

Sansa stares at her, brows scrunched in thought, hands bunching together in her lap once more. "What do you mean?"

Margaery blows a steady breath through her lips, a thoughtful expression gracing her face. "What if I told you, there can be pleasure regardless of love? What if I told you, you deserved it, even still?"

Sansa blinks at her, a frown marring her features instantly. "But I don't..."

"Dear girl, there is already enough grief in this world without you sabotaging your own marriage. Let the man please you. It seems he wants to, at least, which is more than can be said of most husbands."

Sansa's frown deepens, an uncomfortable warmth unfurling in her chest, something close to yearning, if she lets herself linger on it for too long. "And what makes you think he has any interest in that regard?"

At this, Margaery throws a baleful look her way, lips pursed as though in disappointment. "Anyone who saw him with you at the wedding feast couldn't say otherwise," she remarks pointedly.

"Gods, but that was embarrassing," she sighs, shifting uncomfortably in her seat, hands tightening in their hold atop her lap.

Margaery seems to notice the shift, straightening somewhat, interest piqued. She rests her hands along her armrests languidly, a finely-arched brow aimed Sansa's way. "Was it, now?" There's a devilish curve to her lips that Sansa thinks she should be wary of, but she's too caught in her remembrance of the night to notice.

She huffs her irritation. "Of course," Sansa presses on a heavy exhale, chin turned up. "To be so... so rude and brazen, in the midst of everyone, and to the crown prince! To paw at me like some... some... possession. To touch me so in public." Sansa scoffs, her derision staining her tongue. "No, no, I did not enjoy that one bit." Her chest heaves, her hands wringing in her lap, tongue caught behind her clenched teeth.

Margaery merely peers at her.

She finds the look disconcerting, a hesitance washing over her when she looks at the Tyrell, suddenly small and unsure in her midst. "What?" she asks tentatively, barely trusting the word.

A slow, knowing smile slips across Margaery's lips, her hand reaching for Sansa's once more.

Sansa startles at the touch, but doesn't pull away. She glances down to their joined hands, finds her gaze fixed to Margaery's sun-touched hand as she swipes a comforting thumb along her knuckles once more.

"You know," she starts, the hint of a smirk playing at her lips, "It'd be okay if you did, Sansa."

Sansa only furrows her brows at the words, her confusion lighting her face.

Margaery's smirk goes full-blown. "If you enjoyed it, that is."

Sansa pulls her hand from hers, a sharp breath sucked through her lips. "Margaery!" she scolds, even as the smile touches her lips.

But the other woman only laughs, settling back along her chair. She takes a moment, smothering her chuckle behind a graceful hand. "Don't be so cruel to yourself, dear girl." Her smile grows fond, and then an abstract sort of sorrow lines her face, softening her beyond measure. "You don't have to love him," she says, hand tightening over Sansa's. "That's not what this is about."

Sansa sighs, her humor leaving her instantly, eyes drifting to their joined hands.

"We women deal with enough pain in this world without having to endure it from our husbands," she says solemnly, hand tightening over hers. "Take your pleasure where you can, Sansa. And do not be ashamed of it." Her eyes are fervent on hers, imploring, and Sansa feels her chest constricting beneath the look.

Did you like it?

Sansa thinks of the way he'd yanked her to him, the dark gaze he'd leveled Aegon with, the greedy press of his fingers along her ribs.

Did you like it?

Gods help her, but she did.

And nothing had scared her more.

* * *

Sex becomes perfunctory.

"I'll be gentler," he says on the second night, voice hesitant – the pale imitation of an apology, even in its sincerity – and Sansa fiddles with the tie of her robe, standing near the bed.

He's watching her from the threshold, his tunic already unlaced, and when she nods in response, a cool breath leaving her with the motion, he takes a breath, flexes his hands at his side, and then strides across the room toward her.

It begins anew.

They each know what is expected of them, after all.

When he eases into her this time, it's impossibly slower, a long, ragged breath leaving him, his jaw clenching at the effort. Beneath him, Sansa bites her lip, seizing up again, staring up at him in the dark, never looking away, and he has to glance down to her chest, the edge of her shift still adorning her, has to brace a hand along the bed at her head and still himself, let her adjust.

She reaches for his shoulder with a gentle squeeze, an indication to move, and Jon does.

Her legs fit around his hips easily now, her hands more sure at his shoulders. Every night, he still finds hazel oil at her folds when he sets himself to her entrance. Perhaps he is foolish in hoping to find otherwise. She doesn't jump like that first night anymore though, when he touches her between her thighs to line himself up.

He never touches more – knowing how unappreciated it is.

He never tries to kiss her either, and he thinks he hears the light breath of relief escape her lips when he drops his head to her shoulder instead, unable to bear her gaze any longer without wanting to crash his mouth to hers, to hike her thighs higher up his hips, to reach between her legs and ease some of that tension out with a wet thumb.

So, he braces his mouth to her shoulder, panting into her flesh, pumping into her with a steady, even pace that draws no whimpers but draws no winces either, and this he will have to be satisfied with.

Because if he cannot bring her pleasure than at least he can avoid bringing her pain.

He tries to make it good for her, in what little ways he can – always settles her with the pillow beneath her head, tries to massage the smooth flesh of her thighs when he's spreading her wide, manages to keep his teeth from catching along her collar bone with his ragged need, never drops atop her when he's finished, passes her the wet cloth from the bedside basin first and keeps his dark gaze turned from her when she's sopping up the seed spilling from her cunt with flushed cheeks and a still-heaving chest.

One night he swears he hears her breath hitch when he angles himself deeper, strokes inside her along a spot that has his eyes rolling back, her nails digging into his shoulder blades as her knees tighten at his waist. But when he finally looks down at her, her eyes are closed, her brow scrunched, as though she is trying to ride something out, and Jon thinks it must be pain.

He curses himself and draws back out, keeps to shallower thrusts, misses the curl of her nails along his back when her grip relinquishes him.

Another night she lets him cup her breast through her shift, his hand toying at the end of the fabric until she nods hesitantly, his rough palm closing around the mound unsurely, the sigh raking from him when he feels her heat beneath his touch, her heartbeat beating a rhythm against his palm, and he squeezes – gently. She arches imperceptibly, a sound curled in her throat, and she turns her head away. He barely contains his growl of impatience, dipping his head to her throat instead, lips latching to the skin there and palming at her through the shift, rutting until he spills, and her heartbeat never wanes, still frantic beneath his hand. He stays inside her for as long as he can get away with, pulling from her when she touches a delicate hand to his neck, the press of her fingers light enough to send him spinning, aching and desperate again.

He rolls from her with a hand raked through his curls, jaw clenching, his control like a taut string she plucks at precariously, unknowingly.

Because her every sigh he wants to drag out into a breathy moan, every rise of her chest he wants to bow into a delicious arch, every purse of her lips he wants to draw into a needy howl of his name.

To have her writhing beneath him, whining at his ear, coming apart for him with a splintered cry and her cunt clenching around his cock, to watch her break and crest and surge beneath his hands, to drive her to madness for him.

To draw it wildly from her – like a snarling wolf.

To sink his teeth in her and let her do the same.

To taste.

Sansa buries her face in his shoulder when he grunts his release atop her, a low curse panted in her hair, his fingers dug into the flesh of her hip.

She'll drive him mad soon, he knows.

She sleeps always with her back to him.

Jon takes to sparring with the eldest Stark often, a means of releasing some of the frustration he cannot release upon her, and Robb offers little but a raised brow when he comes demanding his presence in the training yard with a scowl and a nod jerked in the opposite direction. Robb always follows with a laugh, and more than once, Jon has found himself panting ragged at the end of a fight, tugging the collar of his tunic open harshly, chest heaving, sweat matting his curls to his forehead, and his body's absolutely thrumming, absolutely screaming beneath his skin, ready to rip and roar and -

And fuck.

Jon rakes a hand through his hair roughly, catching sight of Sansa at the edge of the training yard, gripping at the column she leans against, watching him with unblinking eyes.

He thinks he must be imagining the way she licks her lips, the way she bares her throat just so, the way her nails curl along the column.

(Because he can't be the only one – he just can't be.

Even when every trembling line of her body is telling him otherwise.)

Jon frowns at her presence, mouth opening, but never getting the chance to speak.

"It's been a while since we've had a turn, brother. Shall we?"

Jon's gaze whips to Aegon coming up behind Robb, swinging a blade casually, the hilt rolling through his fingers with practiced ease.

Robb frowns at the motion, eyes alighting the blade. "Live steel, my lord?" he asks cautiously.

Jon bites his tongue.

And so, the punishment continues.

Aegon's eyes dance with violet exhilaration beneath the afternoon soon and Jon nods toward Robb, motioning for him to join his sister. "Step aside, Stark." It isn't said callously, but Robb seems to recognize the edge to it regardless. He joins Sansa at the edge of the yard without further word.

Jon sighs, catching the blade Aegon tosses his way, and the spar begins.

Aegon has always been exceptionally good with a blade, but Jon's always been better. He weaves around Aegon with surety, stepping lightly, letting his blade miss just barely, letting Aegon's swings avoid him just barely.

It is a dance he learned the steps to long ago.

He is a well-kept bastard, after all.

Jon swings low – too low. And Aegon parries it easily, as he'd expected, knocking him back, and Jon stumbles a step, muscles tensing in anticipation, ready for the blow, as he turns his head just enough to miss the brunt of Aegon's responding swing, but not enough to miss the slice of the tip up his jaw, a thin arc of blood catching the air and Jon winces at the pain, a hand clamping over the wound when he stumbles back.

Aegon smiles triumphantly, blade stilled in an over-arch.

Sansa's gasp of "Jon!" has him nearly biting down on his tongue, and it takes all of him not to turn to her, a feral sort of need curling in his chest.

Aegon's blade tips into the dirt. "Well fought, brother." The words are accompanied by an appreciative nod, a narrowing of his eyes, fair skin glinting with a sheen of sweat that Aegon somehow manages to make look graceful rather than grimy.

Jon pulls his hand from his cut, collaring his glare, a tight swallow his only answer.

And then Sansa is at his elbow, one hand turning him in her grasp and the other reaching for his jaw. He pulls from her more harshly than he intends, but he doesn't think he can manage to bear her searching touch or her scrutinizing gaze this very moment.

Sansa retracts from him slowly, clearly hurt by the rejection of her touch.

Jon closes his eyes, breathes deep, opens his eyes on the exhale.

Aegon is standing with his hands behind his back, sword still held in his grip, head cocked toward Sansa. "Did you enjoy the match, my lady?"

Sansa opens her mouth, closes it, folds her hands demurely before her. "You are an exceptional swordsman, my lord," she says softly.

Jon's gaze snaps to her finally, watching the way she doesn't meet Aegon's eyes, her thumb rubbing over her knuckles in a motion of unease. He narrows his eyes at her.

"Well," Aegon begins, a light smack of his lips following the words, "With such a fair lady in the audience, I imagine it is any man's wish to prove their prowess." His smile branches out like a spill of rich wine, his head dipping down toward hers, voice lowering. "I admit, I am not immune to such powers, my lady," he says without faltering, eyes never leaving hers.

Jon glances to the side, fist already curling, tongue already tart with his rage.

"You're too kind," Sansa answers, and Jon feels her gaze on him, her figure a rigid line in his peripheral.

Jon presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, holds it there, tries to drown out the rush of blood.

To rip and roar and fuck.

His hands burn for her – maybe especially so with Aegon eyeing her so intently.

But his brother only chuckles, glancing back to Jon. "You should tend to your husband, Lady Sansa." His voice goes hollow – a dead expel of air. The ends of his mouth ease down, his smile uncurling like smoke. "He's bleeding," he says, sharp and cursory.

Sansa's hand slips along Jon's elbow, curling along the crook of it. "I shall," she says evenly, no tremble to be heard.

Jon, however, is practically quaking with his fury.

It doesn't abate until Aegon is stalking from the courtyard, until Sansa is turning him in her hands for another look at his jaw, huffing at his reluctance, until he meets Robb's eyes over her shoulder, intent and watchful.

Until Sansa is tugging him from the yard and he's trailing after her skirts, mouth full of useless words, his hand clutched in hers.

Until the spot between her shoulder blades becomes a blur beneath his heavy stare.

Until he is too far gone to ever turn back now.

* * *

"Take off your tunic," she says, wringing out the cloth in the basin beside him. When he doesn't move to do so, Sansa glances over to him, finding him leaning with his elbows over his knees, a bemused brow quirked. She resists the urge to roll her eyes. "The blood will set if we don't clean it immediately," she explains, motioning to the splatter of blood along the collar.

Jon considers her a moment quietly, and then he's reaching along his back for the material, tugging it up and out of his breeches, over his broad shoulders and head. He bunches the tunic in his hands, holding it out to her expectantly, chest sweat-lined and sun-kissed.

Sansa keeps her gaze deliberately fixed to his as she grabs for the soiled garment, handing it off behind her to the waiting handmaid without breaking her stare. Her throat flexes tightly, and Jon seems to catch the motion, a slow, predatory smile tugging at his lips, half hidden in his beard.

Gods, but she can clearly see every sinewy cord of muscle she'd only ever seen before by candlelight.

The handmaid exits the rooms with the tunic swiftly, closing the door behind her, and then they are alone.

Jon leans back in his chair slowly, hands sliding over his thighs, shoulders pulled back as he watches her.

Sansa frowns at the deliberate display, reaching for his chin with perhaps a bit too much force and turning his head away from her. "We'll have to clean the cut," she gets out in a hoarse voice, dabbing the wet cloth to the wound.

Jon lets out an exasperated sigh, but does not fight her touch, letting her clean the thin cut down the length of his jaw. Sansa is focused, brow furrowed, swiping the blood clean that she can through his beard, dipping it back into the water, wringing it out, drawing it further and further down his jaw. She hardly notices the soft puff of his breaths or the way he watches her out of the corner of his eye, so intent on her task as she is. She cocks her head to see the underside of his jaw, to swipe at the blood drying there, tipping his chin in her delicate hold, and he acquiesces easily. But the light isn't good, and it's a bad angle from where she stands at the edge of his knees, so when she presses into them on instinct and he parts them for her, her skirts brushing along the inside of his thighs as she steps into the vee of his legs, she doesn't even note the shift, instead, taking advantage of the new position to better see the trail of blood drying along his throat.

She bends further, hair slipping over her shoulder, fingers perched beneath his jaw. Another swipe of the cloth. Slow and measured. Sansa watches the faint bob of his Adam's apple, the flex of sweat-soaked skin across his throat, and suddenly she remembers the way that throat had looked above her just the other night, with him braced atop her, driving into her with sure and steady thrusts. She remembers the clench of muscle along his neck when he'd spilled inside her.

Sansa's lips part, an unsteady breath leaving her. She's suddenly very aware of how close she stands to him, the steady rise and fall of his bare chest beneath her, how she need only lean a handful of breaths closer to bury her face against his neck. She presses harshly along the half-dried blood marring his jaw.

"You could have parried that last swing," she manages in a thin voice. She clears her throat, swallows back the quiver, hopes he doesn't notice it.

Jon doesn't answer her.

She frowns at the silence, wet cloth dipping along the edge of his collar bone now. She huffs. "Why didn't you?"

Jon takes a slow, deep breath, and Sansa can't help the way her eyes drift to the broad expanse of his muscled chest at the motion. She averts her eyes quickly.

And then he's reaching for the hair spilling over her shoulder, fingers snaking around the end of a softly curled tendril. Sansa stills with her hand at his throat, glancing at the gesture from the corner of her eye.

A sound brews in his throat, low and contemplative, his dark eyes fixed to the strand of copper between his fingers. "At our wedding feast," he begins, ignoring her question, "When you danced with my brother – were you not as upset with his familiarity as you were with mine?"

Sansa grips the cloth between white knuckles, drawing back enough to properly look at him. His hand at the edge of her hair keeps her from stepping back out of the space between his legs. She wonders if he intended it so. She stays resolutely silent.

A short, subtle quirk of his lip lights his face before it's gone. "Or did you welcome it?"

Sansa swallows tightly. "A lady must always be courteous."

Jon's gaze drops to her laced-in side, the fingertips of his free hand suddenly grazing the edge of her waist. His voice is low and breathy. "And your compliment on his swordsmanship? That was courtesy?"

Raising her chin, Sansa watches him with wary eyes. "A lady must also be conscious of her station."

Jon scoffs at the word 'station', his hand folding more surely around her waist, giving it the slightest tug so that she stumbles even closer, her hands going to his shoulders to steady herself. She sucks a sharp breath between her teeth at the jostle, watching as he gazes up at her, his face hovering just above her stomach. "A lady must be so many things," he mocks, his other hand curling tightly over the hair in his grip. "One has to wonder if she manages to ever be herself amidst all that decorum."

She remembers his warning to curb her tongue, suddenly. She smarts beneath the hypocrisy. Sansa's chest tightens with her frustration, the air stalling in her throat. She stares down at him with an air of incredulity.

Jon's hand branches over her waist possessively. "Or have I simply married a pretty little doll? Easily filled with other people's opinions about what she should be?"

Sansa's eyes narrow so quickly he almost misses it, her jaw clenching beneath her ire. His responding smirk incites her more, and she's reaching over to the basin then, dropping the cloth back into the water unceremoniously. "I've watched my brothers sparring often enough back home to recognize a thrown match when I see one."

Jon's hand tightens over her waist, his mouth pursing up at her.

"If even I can see it, who else do you think has noticed?" she says sharply.

Jon untangles his fingers from her hair.

Sansa raises her chin, a tight breath drawn through her lungs. "I doubt Prince Aegon would care very much for you coddling him, were he to know." She moves to step back, but he reaches for her with both hands now, gripping at her hips, steadying her against him as he glares back up at her, eyes hooded and dark.

"You have a particular interest in what my brother cares for?" he intones darkly, fingers curling tight along her hips, bunching in the fabric of her dress.

She glares back just as intensely, trying to ignore the way his steady grip lights a heat even through her heavy skirts, his fingertips marring the curve of her hips with his imprint. A long, charged moment passes between them, with neither relenting, until finally, Sansa brushes a delicate hand to the cut at his jaw, eyes still steel, mouth still cut into a sharp frown. "I'll call Maester Gregor to stitch that for you." She doesn't acknowledge the quiver underlining the words – swallows them back quickly. Her hand falls from his face. "Have you any further need of me, husband?"

Jon grinds his teeth, still glaring up at her, a shadow passing over his face, and then gone. He releases her instantly, almost forcefully. "No," he says simply, gaze falling to the wayside.

She steps from his overwhelming presence immediately, pretending to miss the clench of his fists along his thighs when she does.

"My lord," she says, nodding in farewell, before turning for the door and never looking back.

* * *

Daenerys is pregnant.

They discover it when she doesn't arrive for breakfast one morning, Aegon striding into the room to his chair, hands resting along the back of it as he blinks dazedly at the table.

Rhaenys pulls the spoon from her mouth. "No Daenerys tonight? Is she ill again?" A worried furrow of her brow mars her features.

"I've just come from the maester," he says slowly, eyes drifting to his sister's. "She's with child." He releases the words on a heavy breath.

Sansa's mouth parts, her shock overcoming her for a moment, before she regains her manners, setting her napkin to the table with a warm smile. "That's wonderful news, my lord."

His gaze flicks to Sansa, settling on her a moment, before returning the smile with a lilt of his lips, an appreciative nod. "Thank you, Lady Sansa."

"How is she?" Rhaenys asks, spoon stilled over her grapefruit.

Sansa glances to the princess at the tender exhale of her words.

Aegon steps around his chair, settling a hand at the back of Rhaenys' head. "It is no more than the common sickness, they say. She is well." He offers her a reassuring smile, fragile and barely there.

The image is striking to Sansa.

Aegon's hand falls from Rhaenys' hair when she nods in answer, lips pressed into a concerned but warm smile.

"Congratulations, brother," Jon says beside her, voice gruff as he leans back in his seat. "It's what you wanted, isn't it?"

Aegon looks at him, then to Sansa, and then just as swiftly, back to Jon. "Yes," he says, "It is." A lick of his lips, hands returning to the back of his chair.

It's a decidedly delicate flicker of movement, nothing deliberate about it. It's almost...unnerving, in its fragility – the way Aegon's fingers curl around the back arch, the way his chest fills with his breath, lips turning up into a faint smile.

Sansa shifts in her seat, hands smoothing out over her thighs, before curling in her lap. She glances to Jon out of the corner of her eye. He's staring at his plate now, his hand curled into a loose fist along his armrest, and he's so close, she realizes suddenly. Close enough to touch.

Her hand moves to curl around his forearm, hovering hesitantly in the air, before retracting back to her lap. He takes no notice, and Sansa breathes deep, settling the roaring pit of her stomach.

To taste and touch and know each other.

She sighs, eyes flicking back up toward Aegon. He's watching her steadily, and Sansa almost startles at the look. She flutters another encouraging smile toward the prince, throat tightening. "I'm sure you're very happy," she says.

Aegon cocks his head, a thoughtful purse to his lips. "I am, my lady."

Jon picks his fork and knife up beside her, cutting into his food with a single-minded focus. "The quail's getting cold."

Sansa turns to him, mouth open to scold his brusqueness, but she sees the tight clench of his jaw, and her mouth closes abruptly.

It isn't until later, when she's walking the gardens arm in arm with Margaery beneath a slowly waning sun, that she thinks on it again.

That stiffness in his jaw, the muscles of his arm flexing – all cold and callousness when he's bristling beneath something, and yes, she's become accustomed to his moods long enough to notice when he's bristling.

She wonders when that happened.

Maybe it's because she knows now, the gentle ease that can be found in his palms, the vulnerable quake that can be found in his breath, the decidedly not cold and callousness of his gaze when she's spread beneath him, taut beneath his fingers like the chord of a harp.

Maybe it's because of the way he looks at her these days.

Maybe it's because she's starting to look back.

"Margaery," she says, clearing her throat.

The Tyrell cocks her head to listen, a quirk to her lip in answer.

Sansa's hand tightens along Margaery's elbow. "Do you think Aegon and Daenerys love each other?"

Margaery laughs, short and bright, tapping Sansa's hand affectionately as they continue their stroll. "I think there are many things those two feel for each other, but I cannot rightly say whether any of it is love." She offers an impish grin. "Why do you ask?"

Sansa's gaze turns toward the path, lips pursed. "I don't know. I think I just..." She sighs, shaking her head. "I suppose there must be something of love between them, indiscernible as it may be to others."

Margaery plucks a nearby low-hanging flower off the vine, twirling the short stem between her fingers as they continue. "Because they're expecting?" There's something incredulous to her tone. "Sansa, any beast can breed."

She's taken aback by the words, even as softly-crafted as they are, melodically spoken, no hint of malice.

(The image of Jon, sweat-lined and panting above her, streaks through her mind. Her stomach turns without warning.)

Sansa bites her lip. She thinks, instead, of the look Aegon had let flutter across his face, perhaps even without meaning to, earlier that morning.

More exposed than she's ever seen him, except perhaps during their dance at her wedding, his eyes sweeping out over the room for his salt-haired wife upon her question.

"It is the wish of every marriage, is it not?"

Sansa blinks back the memory, another one stealing swiftly behind it. Jon's breath fanning her lips, his chest hard-pressed to hers, a dangerous glint to his eye – how the heat of him had burned her to the bone when he took her in his arms across the dancefloor, even as her sharp tongue cut into him with a branding chastisement.

He'd only held her tighter, never relinquished his hold, let her rebuke him without interruption.

That heat hadn't dissipated until well into the night, long after he'd spent inside her for the first time, long after she laid awake staring up at the canopy, listening to his soft breaths behind her, wondering if sleep eluded him as well.

She thinks she should have turned to him then, broached the silence, reached for something tentative and shadowed between them – something to hold onto in the comfort of night, where they may be free to be 'Jon and Sansa' outside of 'husband and wife'.

(She hadn't though, in the end. She'd only pulled the sheets up to her chest and turned her face into the pillow, craven and lonely – but mostly –

Mostly, afraid.

Of herself, more than anything.)

"That's not it," she tells Margaery, brows furrowing, steps never stalling. She glances out across the gardens, catches sight of the fountain coming around the bend, the faint light of dusk glinting off the waters like a mirage. She keeps her silence for many moments, watching the soft splash of water as they glide past, her throat tight.

Margaery fondly taps her cheek with the flower, a cheerful motion, even when her voice goes solemn, hesitant. "Is this about you and Jon?"

Sansa gives her an exasperated look but Margaery is undaunted. She merely raises a brow, a pointed look thrown Sansa's way.

"Jon and I – we..." A heavy sigh, a one-shouldered shrug. "We're still learning each other."

Margaery gives her a sharp look, barely managing to keep the disappointment from her face.

If she thinks Sansa a coward, she kindly doesn't say so. It wouldn't matter, though.

Sansa already thinks herself coward enough.

She sighs again, brushing a tendril of hair from her face. "Gods, I'm pathetic."

Margaery stops then, her hold on Sansa halting her as well, and she turns fully to her, eyes searching hers, lips tipped into a pretty frown.

Sansa blinks at her, brows raising in question.

Margaery takes a breath, hand sliding down Sansa's arm to clasp along her own palm. "Do you think Daenerys happy?"

She blinks at the question, glancing down to their joined hands, and then back up. Margaery is staring at her intently, and Sansa finds herself growing hesitant under the gaze. She fumbles for her words. "I don't..."

"In your eyes, does she seem happy to you?"

Sansa clamps her mouth shut, the words stalling along her tongue. She takes a breath, shakes her head almost imperceptibly. "No," she manages, a soft expel of breath.

Margaery only nods, a gentle thumb grazing over her knuckles. "And do you really think a babe is going to change that?"

Sansa bites her lip, a sudden sorrow lighting her bones. She thinks of Daenerys' self-assured words and her perfect posture and her unabashed gaze, all exceedingly graceful, and yet... somehow empty.

It saddens something great in Sansa.

"No," she answers – truthfully.

Margaery looks at her a moment longer, contemplative. "A babe is not the highest aspiration of love, Sansa, no matter what your Septa told you," she scoffs gently.

Sansa opens her mouth –

"Nor should it be," Margaery continues, hand tightening over hers.

Sansa's mouth clamps shut, her brows furrowed.

"Duty is all well and good, Sansa, but will it keep you warm at night? Will it weather the years with you? Will it grow old and grey beside you?"

Her chest aches at the words, her eyes stinging suddenly. She lets out a rueful laugh, the sound catching in her throat. "Take my pleasure where I can?" she asks, repeating Margaery's earlier words with a sardonic smile.

The other woman only offers a comforting gaze, patting her hand once more before releasing it, winding her arm through hers and continuing their trek through the gardens. "Quite," she says succinctly, chin tipped high.

The light has grown dim across the gardens, and they turn back toward the keep in unison. Sansa considers the other woman a moment longer, before leaning into her, whispering almost conspiratorially, "Do you think pleasure can become love with time?"

Margaery mulls the question over, rolling the stem of the forgotten flower between the pads of her fingertips once more. "Perhaps. For some."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then it is still pleasure," she says simply.

Sansa raises her brows at that, tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

It's not an untruth, really.

And what guarantee does Sansa have that her union with Jon will nurture love? What guarantee has she at all that he even wants the same?

Sansa looks ahead, steps light and even, hand crooked into the hollow of Margaery's elbow.

Wolves have never been craven things.

So why should she start now?

Sansa draws her back straight, eyes instinctively searching for the high window that is hers and Jon's bedchamber.

Yes.

She will take her pleasure where she can.

"Sansa, would you..." Margaery trails off, fingers clenching around the flower in her grasp, a nervous sort of tremor making her shake her hand out, tossing the flower to the wayside with a long look. She breathes deep, tucks her hand more surely into Sansa's arm. "Would you find it terribly improper of me if I asked to write your brother back at Winterfell?"

Sansa turns wide eyes to Margaery, but the other woman's staring intently ahead, cheeks deceptively unflushed in the growing shadows, a nonchalant sway to her walk that is entirely too contrived in Sansa's eyes.

She smiles devilishly. "Well, I don't think he'd particularly appreciate letters from a strange woman, even one of such a noble house."

Margaery glances at her, brows raised, mouth parted with no sound coming out.

Sansa can hardly contain her giggle. "Though my brother Rickon is too sweet to tell you such himself," she teases.

Margaery stops, mouth gaping, and then a laugh breaks from her, a hand swatting at Sansa's arm good-naturedly. "Sansa, you terrible thing, I meant Robb," she near shrieks in laughter.

"Oh, Robb, is it? Just Robb? Not 'Lord Robb'? So intimate already?" Sansa cannot curb her smirk as she watches Margaery huff.

"You're teasing me."

"And rightfully so." Sansa beams.

Margaery tuts dramatically. "I find this friendship terribly one-sided, Lady Sansa. I am aghast at your insensitivity to my plight."

"Oh, how unladylike of me."

Margaery nuzzles at her cheek, laughing.

Sansa can hardly imagine why such a self-possessed woman would need her approval or opinion, but she is glad to give it, nonetheless. She clutches at Margaery's arm, keeping her close, smile never breaking from her face. It's a meaningful look she gives her, a warmth blossoming in her chest. "Take your pleasure where you can, Margaery," she says.

Margaery presses a swift, full kiss to her temple, smile etched against her skin, hand braced to the back of her head. "Then I shall," she whispers gleefully.

Sansa shakes her head at her, pulling back slightly. "Though I do imagine Robb is like to be the one to write first. Horrendous restraint, that one."

Margaery's laugh fills the night air.

Sansa is warm all the way back to her room.

* * *

Sansa sits at her vanity table, turning the vial of hazel oil over in her hand. She glances back up to her reflection in the mirror, braid undone over her shoulder, the thin silk robe parted over her white shift, the faint outline of her breasts barely visible in the flicker of candlelight atop the vanity.

And this is what Jon sees each night before they go to bed.

Sansa sighs, placing the vial back on the table top.

Do not be ashamed of it, she tells herself, repeating Margaery's words like a mantra. But she doesn't quite understand how it works without it.

She closes her eyes, thinks back to that first night he'd slid his fingers up her folds, and the jolt that shot through her at the touch. She curls her fingers around the edge of her shift at her thighs.

Maybe it all starts there.

Her knees part hesitantly, her eyes still fluttered closed, drawing the hem of her shift up her thighs, settling it at her hips. Taking a long, slow breath, feeling the tightness pricking at her chest, she trails a finger over the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh, dipping down between her legs.

She imagines spreading her legs for him, the warm, rough pressure of his palms urging her thighs apart, settling his weight in the cradle of her hips.

A shuddering sigh escapes her parted lips. Her hand presses against her clothed cunt, a sharp drop in her gut jerking her hips unconsciously at the motion. She snaps her eyes open.

Her image in the mirror is the most scandalous Sansa has ever seen, thighs parted eagerly, shift bunched up at the waist, chest already heaving, cheeks flushed, and then there – there – her cunt pushing toward the pressure of her palm, fingers curling down over her smallclothes. She gasps at the image, her hand retracting, and she brushes something – gods, something wonderful, a shudder racking her, a soft moan caught between her teeth, surprising herself, and before she even knows what she's doing, her hand is returning, seeking that spark, that surge, fingers more sure now, pressing over her smallclothes for something – for –

"Ah!" Sansa whimpers, hips jerking, fingers finding home. She rubs at the soft nub through her smallclothes again, feeling the dampness, head lolling back, hips bucking up into her own tentative touch, and another moan makes it past her clenched teeth, nearly loud enough to cover the sound of the door unlatching, but not quite, and Sansa rips her hand from between her legs, fumbling to replace her shift, smoothing her breath out, feeling that clench in her cunt even now, aching and eager, and she bites down on her lip to keep from trembling just when Jon stalks through the door.

Her eyes catch along his in the mirror when he stops short, the door slipping closed behind him.

For the horrifying stretch of an instant, Sansa thinks she's been caught out.

Her mortification is almost enough to drown out her arousal.

(Almost, but not quite.)

Jon's brow furrows as he steps toward her. "Are you well, my lady?"

Sansa releases a forced chuckle, a practiced scoff. "I'm still unused to this heat," she says, brushing the hair from her shoulders, hoping the light sheen of sweat at her brow is not construed otherwise, nor the faint flush of her cheeks she still catches in the reflection.

Jon stares at her a moment, considering, before nodding silently, seeming to accept her answer, and then making his way to the bed. He sits along the edge and goes to remove his boots.

Sansa feels the air rake from her chest in faint relief. Her body is still wound tight, her skin thrumming, heat lancing through her, and she watches Jon undress in the reflection of the mirror, hands curled over her knees in anticipation, lip caught between her teeth.

He's down to his sleeping tunic when he sits back along the edge of the bed again, his back to her, a heavy sigh leaving him.

Sansa stands with a surety she hasn't felt in many moons. She makes her way to the bed, settling along the opposite edge. In her peripheral, she can see the vial of hazel oil still lingering atop her vanity – untouched.

It will be the only thing untouched tonight, she promises.

With trembling fingers, she begins to slip the robe from her shoulders. It flutters to the furs just as Jon's voice hits the air.

"Forgive me, my lady, but I – I think I've had the wrong of it all this time."

Sansa stills, hands curled along the material of her robe, ready to drag it from the bed, her gaze flicking over her shoulder toward him.

His back is still to her, his hands hung between his knees as his elbows rest along his thighs.

She licks her lips, shifts to pull a knee up along the bed, angled toward him. "My lord?"

Another sigh racks him, and he's rubbing his face then.

Sansa's chest tightens inexplicably.

Jon straightens finally, turning so that he can meet her gaze across the bed. "When you said you wanted to be a proper wife."

Her mouth opens, words ready along her tongue, but the look in his eye stops her.

They stay staring at each other across the bed, half-turned with their backs to each other, half-leaning into the other's words.

And then Jon offers a rueful chuckle. "You wanted civility, not affection."

She thinks she means to say something, she must, she surely will but... but the words lay dying in her throat. She swallows them back like turned wine.

"But I'm a bastard," he says, gaze falling to the bed. "And it seems I exceed at neither." A light quirk of his lip, the curl of his fingers in the furs, fist white-knuckled and stiff.

Her gaze stays rooted to that fist, chest rising slowly and steadily. Her throat is dry, her tongue heavy. She does not meet his eyes.

"I apologize, my lady," he says now, turning from her fully, back a curved line, like a scream.

Or a howl.

Sansa blinks back the imagine, eyes stinging uncontrollably. She shifts over the bed toward him, hand outreaching. "Jon - "

"We should get some rest." He goes to put out the bedside candle, dousing their room in darkness.

Sansa can still follow his outline in the dark, still make out his form in shadow. She has grown used to the shape of him, the weight of him. She has learned to find him in the absence of light.

"Jon, please, I – "

"It's okay, Sansa," he says lowly, already turning under the covers, gaze fixing to the canopy of the bed. "Duty can take a night's respite."

Sansa curls her lip back in a trembling grimace, hand bunching in the furs, that sting at her eyes a sudden, wet sheen. She blinks back the tears in the cover of darkness, grabbing for her ends of the furs. She shuffles into her side of the bed, curling on her side, watching him.

He takes a breath in, heaves it back out.

Sansa curls her fist beneath her chin, huddled in the furs. "I don't think you exceed at neither," she says softly, watching him in the night.

He makes no move to turn to her, but she can see his eyes searching the dark – skyward, unfixed.

She almost reaches for him.

But instead, her hand stays bunched in the furs beneath her chin until sleep takes her, Jon's outline painted in shadow against the backs of her lids.

* * *

Jon wakes groggily to a noise at his ear, the film of night still dowsing him, sleep still fogging his mind. He blinks in the darkness, a grumble lighting in his chest. He's laying on his back, a warmth at his side, a steady rocking. Another sound at his ear – low and breathy.

Jon stills.

He blinks again, quickly, a hand rubbing at his eyes, straining to see through the shadows as he turns his gaze to Sansa beside him, half-draped over him. She's on her stomach, one of her legs thrown over his, fist bunched in the sheets at her cheek, her warm center pressing into his thigh and she's – she's –

Jon's throat goes dry.

Sansa rocks into him in her sleep, slow and even, rubbing herself against his thigh. Even through his breeches and her rucked up shift, he can feel the throbbing heat of her, her cunt damp against him. Another sigh leaves her, and Jon's gaze snaps up to her face, watching her lashes flutter in her sleep, her mouth pursing tight. He takes a moment, blinking wildly at her, jarred by the sight of her. And then he shifts just slightly beneath her, pressing his thigh more firmly against her.

The soft moan that leaves her has the blood rushing to his cock instantly. His mouth drops open as he watches her. Another rock of her hips against him, a keening sound in the back of her throat, and Jon's breath comes quicker, his thigh pushing against her cunt on each intoxicating grind.

He can feel his growing hardness pressing into the thigh she has between his legs and he shifts slightly on his side to better fit into her rocking. His eyes never leave the enthralling expression on her face, watching the scrunch of her brows, the purse of her lips, the pale column of her throat flexing as she strains in her sleep, drawing closer to him, back arching as she grinds against him, and she's wet, Jon finds, so unbelievably wet, and his mouth goes slack, his breath hitching, a maddening haze overtaking him, and he grabs at her thigh before he can stop himself, fingers inching up past her bunched shift, fixing to her hip. His fingers dig into her flesh, dragging her into him, grinding her against the hard muscle of his thigh, eyes fixed to the look of rapture on her sleep-touched features. His hand reaches further, encouraged by her breathy moans, grabbing at her ass and dragging her harshly against him, pressing his cock into her hip as his thigh wedges further between her legs, pressed up against her slick cunt, that sodden, intoxicating heat of her, grinding her against him, and the chest-rattling groan rakes from him before he manages to bite it back.

Sansa stills.

Jon's breath stalls in his throat and he stills as well, blinking deliriously at her in the dark, hard and aching at her hip, fingers digging into her flesh.

Her lashes flutter, her fist uncurling in the sheet beneath her, eyes lifting in a sleepy daze to catch brilliantly along his. Her breathing is short and shallow, her body stretched taut, a line of precarious rigidity. She blinks at him, her eyes focusing in the dark.

Jon barely breathes. They lay staring at each other, chests heaving, legs entangled. He watches the light of recognition in her eyes, even amongst the shadows, the flicker of a tremble at her lips, her tight swallow as she fixes him with a wide-eyed stare.

And just when he's about to release her, to draw back, to turn from her in heated shame and attempt to will his straining erection down, curled as far away from her on the bed as he can be – he catches the tentative shift of her thigh against him.

Her mouth parts, her breath hitching, and he doesn't dare move. She's still staring at him when she shifts again, this time just as hesitant, but it's a shallow rock of her hips rather than the simple press of her thigh.

Jon sucks a breath between his teeth, fingers tightening over her hip.

She seems to catch the reaction, because then she's biting her lip, brows drawn down in concentration, eyes never leaving his when she rolls her hips very purposely, very surely against his thigh now, a thready moan building in her throat.

Jon's control snaps. He grips at her thigh, pulling it from between his legs, ignoring her delicate whimper at the loss and shifting her so that her leg is swung over his hip instead, angling them so he's on his side fully, pressed into her, his other thigh braced at her center now. She sighs at the return of the pressure, an instinctual roll of her hips meeting him when he presses more forcefully into her. Her eyes go hooded, fixing to his mouth, the hand that was bunched in the sheets reaching tentatively toward his hip, anchoring there to steady herself against his thrusts. Even in the dark, he thinks he can see the pinks of her cheeks at the motion, at the steady rock of their hips, her cunt rubbing incessantly at his thigh through their clothes, and the thought has him impossibly harder, groaning in the space between their panting mouths.

"That's it," he tells her, voice gravelly from sleep and desire, hand guiding her hip against him. Watching her chase her pleasure like this, her cunt soaking him through his breeches, her chest heaving, her lip swollen and plump beneath her teeth, eyes hooded and fixed to his – it has him near on delirious. "That's it, Sansa, just like that," he grinds out.

She moans so prettily at his guidance that the sound staggers the breath in his chest. He ruts into her mindlessly, watching her face screw tight. His hand leaves her hip and fumbles for her shift, tugging the sleeveless thing past her shoulder, almost baring a breast entirely when he stops his frantic tugging, glancing back up at her, eyes boring into hers. She nods fervently, never stopping her grind against his thigh or her enticing mewls. Jon doesn't wait for a second confirmation, yanking the material down, breath catching when a perfect, pale breast spills out, nipple a dusky pink and pebbled to hardness. He cups her eagerly, groaning at the responding sigh that leaves her. He palms at her breast as she rubs herself more fiercely at his thigh, her hand curling tight at his hip.

Jon licks his lips, hungry, aching for a taste of her, growling impatiently as he dips his head down and takes her nipple between his lips, lapping at her, sucking eagerly. Sansa cries out, arching into him, panting above him.

"Fuck," he groans into her skin, teeth catching at her nipple, relishing the tremble that racks through her. His hand returns to her ass, hauling her against him, rutting shamelessly against her still-clothed cunt like a green boy. Jon imagines the slick heat of her, that tight cunt sheathed around his cock, so absolutely drenched for him, as he fucks her senseless, burying himself deep inside her again and again. He clamps down on her nipple, tongue swirling over the pebbled flesh, moaning with her in his mouth, sucking her harder.

"Jon," she gasps sharply, and the sound of his name in her breathless voice has him quaking, so painfully hard against her, wedging his thigh up, grinding her against the lean muscle of his leg, mouth releasing her breast on a needy growl.

"Come on, Sansa, just like that," he grunts. "Harder. Yes – fuck, just like that." His teeth catch at her collar bone, his tongue lashing at her sweat-slicked skin. "I want to feel that hot, wet cunt rutting against me. Want to hear you moan with me between your legs."

And she does moan – loudly – at his urging, grinding wantonly against him now, nails digging into his hip. Her eyes screw shut and Jon pulls back just enough to watch her, just enough to catch the disarming scrunch of her features as she chases her high, whining low in the back of her throat, pressed nearly flush up against him. "I want to see you cum for me, Sansa," he groans out, gaze fixed to her, breathless, and she cries out sharply, shuddering against him, wet and throbbing at his thigh, fingers like talons at his hip, face screwed tight, and it's the most erotic thing he's ever seen, the pleasure crashing through her. He's spilling instantly, vision going white, grunting into her shoulder as his hips jerk painfully, the force of the hardest orgasm he's ever had washing through him in waves and waves and waves.

It seems an age before he's able to regain his breathing, his thoughts.

"I've got you," he mutters, voice coarse, rocking into her languidly, steadily, drawing her close. Her hand edges up from his hip, gripping at his tunic, an anchor. She's trembling, her chest heaving, her mouth at his ear. "I've got you," he says again, swallowing thickly, ignoring the sticky mess his seed has made in his breeches, against her shift.

Like a fucking green boy.

Jon sighs, biting back a curse.

(Too far gone to ever turn back now.)

Sansa's fist doesn't unfurl from his chest until sleep well and truly claims her.

"I've got you," he breathes into her hair, ragged – taken by the sight of her.

Taken – wholly and recklessly.

"I've got you."

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 23

Read on AO3. Part 22 here. Part 24 here.

Summary: Apparently, you can't get yourself to enjoy a dinner party, even if you're the guest of honor.

Words: 4700

Warnings: egregious dinner party antics, Hux is a bitch, Handmaid AU

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: I've never really written anything like this before. I'm not really sure what I'm doing. This chapter was like PULLING fucking TEETH. Would really love feedback/input/criticism.

Regardless, I hope y'all enjoyed. I am SO HAPPY the Daddy kink was well-received--we're all going to hell, yay!

I always want to stress how grateful I am that I receive the kind of interaction that I do. I feel so lucky and blessed to have folks like y'all. Thank you so much, I love all of you very much. <3 

The longer you sat, the deeper the burn at your backside became. The aloe that Ren had so generously applied had long worn off, at this point, but the real issue was the swelling, the heat, like a bubbling sunburn that had managed to sear itself across your entire ass. How generous of him, too, to supply you with this right before an event that required sitting.

It was only minutes, now, until the guests would arrive, and Emma and Rose were twittering in the kitchen, preparing the finishing touches on the meals. You, Johana, and Kylo Ren sat in the ornate dining room, with its tiered crystal chandelier and wall-to-wall windows that opened out toward the garden. At the long, mahogany dining table, the married couple were appointed at the heads, with you at the center, like an entertainment piece. The table had already been prepared with nine settings. The silence was so thick you could hear your blood in your toes.

Johana sighed. “Only a few people agreed to come, after all, Sir. Very short notice.”

“Mm.” Ren provided no evidence of interest or investment in what she had said.

“You know, Sir,” she said, “I’m doing this for you. For us.”

“How thoughtful of you.” 

“It is, isn’t it?” She sat back in her chair, arms crossed. “If only you could afford me the same grace.” Her eyes laid on you. “Not that it’ll be a problem too much longer, I’m sure.”

Swallowing, you stared at your hands. Ren hadn’t offered you a glance since he’d sat--hadn’t even offered a word when he’d dropped off your clothing at your door. Johana kept sticking you and her husband with sharp, suspicious glares, as if she could smell the sex on you, could see the leather marks on your thighs, could hear the words lingering on your tongue: yes, Daddy.

You pinched your legs together, fighting a shiver, fighting disgust with yourself. Back in reality, your willingness to break for him brought a nauseating chill to your stomach. After all, here you were, ready to perform for his friends, the very men who had shackled you to a dress and womb-service or death. Here you were, obedient and eager, with all of the humanity and agency of a pet, but with a hidden array of tricks that consisted of beg and swallow.

“Dolpheld Mitaka and his Wife have arrived, Ms. Johana.” Emma’s voice snapped you to attention, and you shifted, hoping to ease some of the pain. 

Following Emma’s introduction, a young, boyish man entered, his Wife--a small, timid-looking thing--on his heels. He nodded to Ren, glimpsing you for a brief second before avoiding your gaze, cheeks tinged pink.

Dolpheld focused on Ren, he and his Wife sitting across from you, near Johana. “Uh, sir, your…” 

“Per request of Snoke,” he replied. “I wouldn’t choose to share my table with a Handmaid.”  

Johana snorted, and Ren’s gaze daggered her. She cleared her throat. “Ofkylo plans on staying out of the way, doesn’t she?”

You gazed at your fists as they tensed in your lap--but you nodded. The name Dolpheld was familiar--he’d been the Commander of one of the Handmaids at the Resistance base. A cold rush coated the inside of your chest. You hoped she’d gotten away. Looking at him, though, he seemed harmless, almost pathetic. Hadn’t Ren said a few old men? As for Dolpheld’s Wife--she appeared intent on ignoring your existence entirely, which was fine by you, anyway.

Emma darted in again. “Armitage Hux and his Wife, ma’am.”

Armitage. From behind Emma emerged a stiff, reedy man with coiffed copper hair and an expression that managed to communicate both complete disdain for every living creature and unbearable smugness. His Wife was boxy and brown-haired, the type of person of which nothing notable could be said other than her utter lack of notability. It seemed strange to see these two wallpaper women at the same table as Johana--in role, like them, but in personhood, incongruous. 

“Ren,” said Armitage, the name rolling off of his tongue with hidden mirth. “Mitaka.”

“Hux.” Dolpheld nodded, looking at the table. His Wife appeared similarly occupied. 

Armitage and his Wife sat across from you, too, with Armitage taking a seat next to Ren. You looked between them, wondering if they knew of each other’s dalliances, or if the fact that Commanders brazenly fucked their Handmaids was an accepted fact of Gilead. Though you knew Ofarmitage didn’t just consider her relationship fucking. Horrifically, you felt the same way about yours.

“Imagine my surprise when we were offered a dinner invitation to your home,” Armitage said. “I can’t remember the last time we dined together, Ren.”

“Unsurprising,” replied Ren. “Your memory is frequently faulty.”

“At least my judgement remains intact.” He smirked. “Or did I mishear the reason for the invitation?”

“No, you didn’t, Commander Hux,” said Johana, folding a napkin over her lap. The other Wives looked at her with widened eyes. “We are here to discuss a possible resolution. Once--”

“Ms. Johana!” Emma squawked, for some reason breathless. “Commander Snoke--”

Before Emma could finish, an older man pushed through the threshold, accompanied by a young, blank-faced woman. His head was misshapen, craggy--a scar of war, you presumed, that had grown now into his flesh. One of his eyes bulged precipitously above his cheekbone, the other dug into his skull, the skin of his cheeks stretched like wet linen over his face. He wore a deep yellow suit jacket, threads interlaced with thin strands of red and gold. 

The very second he entered, Ren stood, eyes aimed at the floor, and you blinked, tensing your jaw to keep it from dropping. Armitage followed, and then Dolpheld, their Wives in their shadows as the man meandered his way to the side of the table that you sat on, his Wife next to you. He remained standing, surveying the table--against your better judgement, you met his gaze. A tiny smirk formed on his lips. 

“Good evening, everyone.”

His voice froze your blood. This was the same man from the recording. The man who had spoken to Ben Solo. That man, this man--they were all--

“Commander Snoke,” said Armitage and Ren, in unison. Dolpheld cleared his throat.

“Let’s be seated, shall we?” 

Snoke lowered himself to the table, and the other men mimicked him. The air had thickened to a degree that you found your own chest tightening for the lack of oxygen. Next to you, his Wife was robotic in her focus, her body iron and unmoving. You marveled at her beauty--other than Johana, she was one of the only genuinely pretty Wives you’d seen. Examining her closer, she wasn’t just young, either. She was young. Perhaps not much older than eighteen. The thought made you shudder.

The Marthas swished into the room, doling out salad onto the tiny plates at everyone’s place settings. As they served, Johana straightened, meeting Ren’s gaze from across the table. He was silent.

“Commander Snoke,” she said. “As you know--”

“Kylo Ren,” said Snoke, ignoring Johana completely. She blanched. “Your initiative on the western front brought us another victory. A very cunning move you made, heading off their supply route. Their soldiers were going to starve before they submitted to Gilead forces.” A low, dark chuckle left him. “An excellent maneuver that Armitage could learn from.”

Ren lowered his head, brow cocked. Armitage’s eyes narrowed, and he cut into his salad.

“Speaking of learning,” the redhead said, “Mitaka, I recently learned your Handmaid went missing.”

Dolpheld seemed focused on avoiding any involvement in this conversation. “Uh, yes. Yes, we did… experience that.”

“Strange.” Armitage’s attention flicked from you to your Commander. “Ren, aren’t we here for a similar issue? Your Handmaid going missing?”

Anxiety clogged your throat. You studied your salad as if it had become the most interesting collection of green leaves and croutons you’d ever seen. 

“Well,” said Johana, “not exactly--”

Armitage waved her off. “Right, yes, his suspension, isn’t it? For botching some ability to prevent Resistance interference?” His scrutiny returned to you. “Very foolish of you, Ren. For all we know, she could be with the Resistance now.”

“There was no evidence of any Resistance involvement,” Johana said. “As far as we know, it was a rogue Guardian.” She sliced apart a leaf of lettuce. “Right, Commander?”

Ren’s brow twitched. “Yes.”

“Rogue Guardian,” Armitage mused. “Interesting. Mitaka, didn’t your Handmaid disappear in much the same way? Middle of the day? During daylight? Guardian interference?”

Dolpheld glanced between Ren and Armitage, shrugging. “I suppose so, but the investigation was inconclusive, so--”

“That’s right!” The grin on Armitage’s face could split steel. “The investigation was inconclusive. If only we could’ve gotten more information to help guide us.” He turned to Ren. “Maybe we could talk to that Guardian your Handmaid was found with.”

An image in your mind: pop. Ren’s face was blanker than polished stone.

“Ah, that’s right.” He snapped, feigning a realization. “We can’t. You killed him. Shame, that.” Sighing, he popped a piece of lettuce into his mouth. “Is that type of behavior really something we should be lifting a suspension for?”

“There was good reason my husband acted as he did,” Johana said. “The Guardian had a gun with him.” She stared directly at you. “Isn’t that right?”

Every pair of eyes at the table aimed at you, like you’d tripped a sensor, set off an alarm--or maybe that was the alarm inside of your brain, wailing in panic. It wasn’t like you had to lie, but there was something about being complicit in this game that made your palms sweat.

“That’s… right,” you said. “He. He did have a gun.”

Johana gestured toward you. “The situation was dangerous.”

Armitage chuckled. “Oh, please, every smuggler carries a weapon. What we want to know is if he was part of a larger organization.” His eyes, a roaring seafoam green, bored into you. “There’s a rumor the Angel and Wife he was working for are part of the Resistance.”

The pressure in your throat choked your words. You sought help from Ren, but his stare was directed at Johana--you followed it, meeting her gaze.

“Go on,” she said. “Tell them how you ran.”

Swallowing, you fiddled with your fingers. “I ran of my own volition,” you said. “I asked a Guardian, he said he’d help. That’s it.” You shook your head. “I didn’t meet anyone from the Resistance.”

Johana shrugged, returning to her food. “That’s it, then.”

Armitage took a bite, chewing. After a moment, he frowned. “A Guardian agreed to help you?” he asked. “In exchange for what?”

“You know Handmaids.” Johana’s expression stilled your blood. “They only have a few valuable things to offer.”

Heat rushed you, and you dropped your head, examining your folded hands in your lap. For once, you wished you were wearing your wings so you’d have a better chance to obscure your reddening face. Even if you had been in a position to disagree, you knew that Johana was trying to protect you--if only secondarily to her own interests.

Armitage motioned to you. “Commander Snoke,” he implored, “do you see what we’re keeping in our homes? A Handmaid who offers up her body in exchange to escape Gilead? This is one for the Colonies, at least.”

Your heart stalled, your jaw tightened.

“I don’t think that would be necessary,” Johana replied.

“It very well may be.” He shrugged. “If she allows just anyone to utilize what God has provided for a specific purpose--”

“That’s exactly it, she could be pregnant,” Johana said, “and--”

“It was a momentary lapse in judgement.” Ren finally met your eyes. “Her re-education is progressing smoothly.”

Snoke hummed in thought, glancing between you and your Commander, his gaze peeling you apart--then leaned toward Ren, murmuring something, and Armitage sneered as the two men entered a private conversation. Silence settled over the table; you noticed not a single Wife had taken a bite of her food, other than Johana. Not that you were particularly interested in eating, either. Something about the atmosphere, maybe. Or all the guests who had the power to end your life.

Soon, the Marthas were ushering in the main course: some sort of pork tenderloin, you gathered, with what looked to be a cranberry jam and a smattering of watercress on the side. You sighed. Gilead had done nothing to endear you to vegetables, no matter how frequently you were eating them. 

Across the table, Ren and Snoke were still muttering to each other. Your Commander’s demeanor seemed changed in front of this older man, like a living echo of the person you’d heard on the recording--Ben Solo. Ren had said he was dead, but watching him now, with the slight hunch to his shoulders, the flickering eye contact, the unguarded ache in his pupils, you wondered what dead truly meant in this world. Gilead had blurred the lines of existence to meaningless muddle. After all, you might call yourself dead, too. 

You wondered who Ben Solo might have been. You wondered if who you had been might have liked him. 

“You know, Johana,” said Armitage, eyeing Ren and Snoke, “it’s really too bad that you don’t have gatherings like this more often.” He signaled the rest of the table. “Don’t you all agree?”

The Wives, ever silent, nodded. Dolpheld appeared noncommittal, in agreement only out of what seemed to be obligation. How had someone so doughy and tender earned the rank of Commander?

“Well…” She offered a half-smile. “Never really had an occasion for one as of recent, I supposed.”

“But you and Canady had them all the time, didn’t you?” 

Canady. You remembered that name. Ren had used it during the hushed conversation he and Johana had shared in the hallway. That must have been her husband--the one who had died during the revolution. 

Johana’s back stiffened, adjusting her grip on her fork as she supplied Armitage with a tight grin. “We did,” she said. “Often.”

“I thought so. I remember those parties. Don’t you, Mitaka?”

“I, uh, I guess so.”

“They were lovely,” said Mitaka’s Wife. 

“Oh,” Johana mumbled, “thank you. Yes. We did enjoy them. Those were the days. We were all so young. Parties then were… well… now we have gatherings with multiple courses. All of that.” She paused, swallowing. For a moment, her gaze met yours, then returned to her plate. “God has truly blessed us. We couldn’t ask for more.” 

“Right,” said Armitage. “Must be difficult, though, having to deal with Ren’s behavior.”

At the head of the table, Kylo Ren acted as if Armitage had spent the entire dinner with his mouth sewn shut. He was intent, listening to whatever was being said by Snoke.

“Not that it’s bizarre, considering what he’s done in the past. The equipment ruined, the meetings thrown off-kilter. You remember, don’t you, Mitaka?”

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“I remember,” said Mitaka’s Wife.

Mitaka groaned. “Honey, please--”

“I remember, too,” Armitage’s Wife added.

“Brilliant.” Armitage took a bite of his food, chewing triumphantly. “Can’t imagine what it’s like being married to him. A true, enduring woman, you are.”

Johana’s face paled. She glanced across the table to Ren, who was still engrossed in Snoke’s quiet speech. Her lip trembled, and she shrugged, pushing a piece of pork in her mouth. You watched Armitage, who, despite having picked off half of his plate, was appearing more voracious by the second. 

“Yes,” she said, “well--”

“And Canady was a good man,” Armitage continued. “When was he killed? Three? Four years ago? How long have you been married to Ren?”

Perhaps to anyone who didn’t know her, Johana appeared the picture of composure. But you could see the twitch at her jaw, the frustrated flutter of her nostrils, the whitening of her tiny knuckles. She took another slice of pork, gnashing it with her back molars. 

“Three years this December.”

Armitage nodded. “Of course. That was such a brilliant sacrifice Canady made, really--Ren was right to order it.”

Johana stabbed into her watercress, silent.

“Don’t you think it was noble that Canady--”

“I think Ms. Johana is tired of talking about her deceased husband.” 

The words shocked you as they entered the air. What shocked you more was that they had left your mouth. The rest of the table appeared equally flabbergasted, the scraping of forks and knives halting, the dining room flooded with flummoxed silence. The only people who hadn’t appeared to notice were Snoke and Ren--but for Ren’s part, he’d ceased speaking entirely. You couldn’t hear Snoke’s words over the ringing of your own ears, the deafening thump of your heartbeat at your temples. Johana gazed at you, lips parted, as if she was seeing you for the very first time.

“Is this how you allow your Handmaids to speak to you?” Armitage’s brow was cocked, but he turned to Dolpheld, sparking a new topic. 

You met Johana’s eyes again. Her chest fell in a slow breath, and she broke the stare, turning to her food. Exhaling, you shook out the tremble in your hands, shifting to relieve some of the ache that had built at your backside. As the din in your head dimmed, you glanced at your Commander, wondering what had him so captivated.

“While we’re on the topic, we did find the body on the side of the road, as you described. One bullet hole to the skull.” Snoke dragged his knife through the soft meat on his plate. 

“Yes.” Ren’s gaze was vacant. “Efficient.”

“Well, you always are,” Snoke replied. “And you had an excellent idea to string it up near the border. After even a couple of days, it looks ghoulish.”

Your stomach churned. For some reason, you’d hoped the Resistance had managed to get Poe’s body, bury him properly. The thought of him hanging somewhere along the borders of Gilead, his pretty face pecked apart by birds--if you had been hungry before, you certainly weren’t, now. The fact that it had been your Commander’s idea somehow made it worse.

“It lured out a pocket of Resistance members at the border trying to reclaim the body,” Ren replied. “We killed them all.”

The more words you caught, the sicker you became. You wanted to be thankful that it meant that Finn and Rey were still alive--but the thought of any deliberate death at Ren’s hands was emptying you of gratitude.

“Really?” Snoke said. “You plan to display them, too, I hope.”

“It’s already been completed.” 

At some point, sweat had drenched your back. You desperately needed Ren to stop talking--he spoke as if they’d hung draperies, not bodies. It didn’t seem possible that this was the same man who’d coddled you to his chest, who’d pressed his lips to your forehead, who’d carried you like spun glass to your bedroom. This man, the one who’d rended your ribcage open with a desire to be known, be seen, the one who had, just hours ago, fucked you until you sobbed and smothered your ass in welts--this was the very same man openly admitting to slaughtering and hanging bodies of other humans for the benefit of your own continued enslavement.

You wanted to explode out of your skin. Perhaps what was worse was that, in reality, it did seem possible, and you’d known it was possible--the memory of Poe’s hot blood on your face cemented that. You’d just willed yourself to forget, allowed yourself to drown in the pointless, foolish desire to be your Commander’s equal. To be, in his eyes, alive. As if you could redeem the devil. As if the devil could redeem you.

“You’re managing to accomplish quite a bit despite your suspension,” said Snoke. “I suppose that’s the benefit of managing an independent militia.”

“I hope to prove to you and the Council that my limited access to the main command is unwarranted.”

“Hm.” Snoke sat, considering Ren. “Yet you didn’t seem interested in proving that when you left your post.”

Ren’s jaw stiffened. At the other side of the table, Armitage leaned forward, ear toward Snoke.

“You made an idiotic, irresponsible decision and abandoned your command during a critical period.” Snoke’s voice was low, harsh. “A decision only a child would make.”

Despite this, Kylo Ren said nothing. He stared into his plate.

“Your accomplishments with the Resistance at the border are meaningless--not when we have interference under our own noses of which you inexplicably destroyed our ability to obtain any further knowledge on.” Snoke released an empty laugh. “The more responsibility I award you, the more reckless you become.”

“Commander Snoke, my performance has been exemplary these past three--”

“And for what, Ren?” Snoke’s hand was tight around his knife. “You abdicated your post, left our armies without direction, killed a possible Resistance member, incapacitated our intelligence--for what?” 

Ren’s mouth opened--but Armitage spoke.

“Commander Snoke, I actually heard something interesting.” To your horror, he was staring at you. “There was some report... of an inappropriate relationship between Ren and his Handmaid.”

Your heart disintegrated. Thousands of thoughts stormed your mind at once, chasing breath from your lungs, petrifying your muscles, inspiring sweat at your hairline--what did he know, when did he learn, how long had he sat on this, and who told him--yet through the flurry, there was only one identifiable constant, a bell in your brain. 

Ofarmitage.

“Fascinating.” In a slow, controlled revolution, Snoke turned, leaning past his Wife, his stare spearing you. “Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve heard of such a rumor.” His beady eyes flitted over you. “But for this Handmaid?” He scoffed. “Really.”

“Commander Snoke, you should remember that previous Handmaids in this home were dispatched due to no interference on my husband’s part,” Johana interjected quickly. “It was at my behest.”

Snoke continued to act as if Johana were a tiny blue fly on the wall. “So is this why you did it, Ren?” he said, leveling you with the garrote of his gaze. “All of that for… this?” 

You bit your lip. He had some nerve to allow his voice to drip with that level of disgust. Beside him, Ren was silent, avoiding your eyes. 

“What is it?” Snoke said. “What’s special about her?”

The question made your heart ache with an unarticulated anguish. It wasn’t just about you. It was the sameness you’d found in each other’s eyes, the admiration for the possibility in the stars, the gnawing need to know that wrenched you both from your own pedestals of reason. You’d stirred his relics of doubt, he’d awakened your latent compassion. It wasn’t just you--it was the both of you, fettered to Gilead and each other by the very same chains.  

“Let’s hear from her, then.” Snoke eased forward in his chair, a smug grin tearing the fabric of his face. His knife was still gripped in his palm, resting on his plate. “Why do you think Ren sacrificed all of that just for you, hm?”

You sat, glancing over the table, flesh crawling as every sticky gaze studied you. It was as if black coffee had spilled over your tongue, drying it, the bitterness biting at you from the back of your throat. Gathering courage--or something like it--from the depths of your diaphragm, you leaned over the table, returned Snoke’s stare.

“What does it matter why he sacrificed?” you asked. “Doesn’t my uterus hold enough value to justify it?”  Perhaps that hadn’t been courage. Perhaps it’d been stupidity. 

But what crossed over Snoke’s face wasn’t rage. It was curiosity. “It matters because his motivation for sacrifice determines where his loyalty lies.” His thin lips curled in a grin. “With Gilead? Or with you?”

“So a person can’t sacrifice for a Handmaid without betraying Gilead?”

“No.”

“Then why have Handmaids at all? How else are you populating your country?” Your voice was growing louder than you intended. “If the Commander sacrifices for me, it must be for the value that was given to me by you.”

Ren’s eyes, dark with something unknowable, glimpsed you for a blink. The table was silent. You swallowed. 

“Fascinating,” said Snoke. The knife trembled in his hand, rapping the plate. “Your proposition is that I gave you this value? That it was not ordained by God?”

You nodded. “Why would God give me a mind and tell me not to use it? Why would he give me a body that needed to be controlled?”

“Your error is assuming God gives reasons for anything.” Snoke’s knife rose from the plate, stuck in his quaking fist. 

“Then,” you replied, neck stiff, “it seems that he gives just as many and as valid reasons as you.”

Snoke slammed the knife into the table, a crooked smile on his pale face, Wives recoiling in squeals, except for his own, who remained perfectly porcelain next to you. Johana’s arms snapped to her sides--both you and her sought out Ren, who sat. And did nothing. Your hands began to quiver. What had happened to you will be safe?

“Precocious little thing you have here, isn’t she, Ren?” Snoke’s arm shot out, his gnarled hand snatching your chin. “What exactly have you been teaching her during these re-education sessions?” With surprising strength, he yanked you forward onto the table. The texture of his skin was like papyrus. “Can you tell me what you’ve learned?”

You leered at Ren, internally begging him to see you. His eyes were distant, focused on the wall. “Obedience,” you said. “Honesty.”

“Seems you could still use a bit of humility.” He turned back to Ren. “What do you think, my boy? Christine is new to the home, but we could always use a Handmaid.” The bones in his fingers crushed your chin. “Maybe I could take her off of your hands for a month.”

Ren’s eye twitched. 

“Commander Snoke, please excuse me.” Johana’s voice was followed by the release of his grasp as she wrenched his arm down, pulling you out of your chair. “I must admit that I provided her with a little medication before dinner for nausea. I think it must be getting to her.”

“Nausea medication.” Snoke scanned you like you were meat. “For what?”

“I told you that she might be pregnant, sir.” She was still ushering you out of the room, her little fingers manacles around your wrist. “I’m going to get her to bed. Please, please excuse her behavior. She’s never like this.”

“Never,” Ren said, finally exercising his mouth for something other than looking fuckable. He met your eyes, and you glared at him, internally cursing him, cursing yourself for trusting him.

Johana rushed you through the darkened halls, her hands urging you forward, mumbling under her breath as she whisked you up the stairs and into your bedroom. When you crossed the threshold, she nearly shoved you onto your bed, gasping, sweat decorating her forehead. Baby hairs had sprung free from her braids, curling at her nape, at her temples. She examined you, shaking her head.

“Are you an idiot?” she said. “Do you have a deathwish?”

You shook your head. “No, Ms. Johana--”

“Oh, don’t Ms. Johana me,” she said, swatting at you from a distance. “You know exactly what you were doing down there. Now we’re lucky if the Commander ever gets his suspension lifted. He’s supposed to be re-educating you.”

“Well…” You shifted, fighting the urge to seethe at the scrape of the mattress on your ass. “He is…”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure.” Sighing, she wiped her palms on her dress, smoothing over the wild bits of her hair. She shook her head. “Thank you, by the way. For what you did.”

“Oh.” Blood rushed your cheeks. “Well, Armitage seems like a jackass.”

“Oh, Lord,” she said, “you don’t even know the half of it. He and the Commander used to...” She stopped herself, cast her eyes over you, reminding herself of your role, and cleared her throat. “Look. Don’t say anything else. Don’t do anything else. Just stay up here for the rest of the night. I’ll handle this.” She turned, shutting the door behind her--but before it closed, she added, “Goodnight.”

You laid back on your bed, deflated. “Goodnight, Johana.”

[avaria-revallier]

Chapter 7: A soft landing

Chapter 1 -start here

Chapter 6

Bella hurried back to the clearing as fast as her injured leg would let her. The bag with the herbs pressed against her aching ribcage.

When she reached the clearing she could only spot Dwalin and Nori. The thief was about to leave while Dwalin only stared at his back with an unidentifiable expression. Did she miss something?

“Dwalin? What happened?” she asked from behind him, feigning ignorance.

Of course Gandalf had showed up. The trolls turned to stone and the others were on their way to inspect the troll hoard. They wouldn’t have much time to rest. Maybe a few hours before Radagast turned up and with him the orcs and wargs. Luckily, she had already grabbed her backpack when she fetched the herbs.

“Bella! Let me get Oin to check you over. Where does it hurt? Come here, sit for a moment! Are you thirsty? Shall I get you some water?” Dwalin grabbed the bag from her arms and gently nudged her to a log nearby.

“I am fine, really. Just bring me to the others. We are no longer safe here.” Determined, Bella grabbed onto her brother's forearm.

She was half leaning on him and half dragging him into the direction Nori went off to earlier. Bella was right, he realised. They were no longer safe. If the trolls had come down from the mountains then even the main road was no longer safe.

Together they made their way toward the cave Fili and Kili had spotted. Gloin and Nori were busy burying a small chest. A smile stole itself on her lips. That small stinking chest had given her quite the headache back in Shire. So much gossip over such a small amount of gold. This was nothing compared to the treasure hall of Erebor.

Sitting down near the entrance, she held her face up in the sunshine. The warmth made her forget the pain in her body for a while.

A shadow fell over her and as she opened her eyes she stared directly into the deep blue eyes of the dwarven king. Bella took her time examining his face. He would look so much better with a smile on his face. Instead, he was frowning once again.

“How may I help you, master Oakenshield?” giving her best not to wince while standing up she asked him with a steady voice.

This whole situation was new for her. The dwarven king had never really cared for or about her before. He had even wanted to leave her with lord Elrond! Truly strange… Well, it might have been her fault as well as she had stuck to Gandalf for the better part of their travels before and only kept whining about her home and all the comforts she had to leave behind. How shameful of her! They had lost their homes and hadn’t left them willingly.

A pang of guilt hit her stomach. She had been so wrong in the past. This was a good enough reason to improve the present. She would have to improve herself to change their fate and hers at well.

“Well,” he started, averting his look from her intensive staring, “Here! Just take it… Might be your size.” He rumbled low while shoving a small leather sheath in her arms.

Sting. He had found her trusted traveling companion. The small sword lay reassuringly in her palm.

“Thank you.” she breathed.

Joy flooded her heart and mind. Later, she would blame her further actions on her brain malfunctioning at that very moment.

“Thank you so much, Thorin!” lunging forward, she embraced the stern king, giving him a big kiss on his cheek before happily making her way towards the grey wizard.

Thorin stood there. Petrified. Did she just? She did… She…

A muffled snicker followed by the thudding sound of a hand colliding with the back of a head confirmed his fear. She did!

‘Oh Mahal! This was more than confusing. Were hobbits such affectionate beings? Yes, that must be the case. She would have done the same for every other member of the company,’ his own train of thoughts made him angry.

“Nori! Gloin! Hurry up!” he grunted down the cave, turning his back at his nephews.

Those two rascals were still snickering and hiding the fact rather poorly. Bofur on the other hand laughed openly. Dwalin looked at him as if he had been the one kissing the lass. Mahal, how the burglar had already changed his cousin.

Dori, Ori and Gloin returned, having packed their rations and gear. Sadly, only four ponies and Gandalf's horse were left. The rest must have bolted when they had been busy fighting and, well… trying not to get eaten.

He would have to tell Ori once again to leave the record for this day blank! He wouldn’t need to be reminded of the shame when he had to cry out that they had parasites…

A crashing sound and loud cursing made him draw his sword and whirl around to face the possible threat head on.

Bella smiled. It had been ages since she had seen the brown wizard. He was still the same Radagast she remembered. A bit skittish, but full of love for the animals around him. The rabbits pulling his sled had always fascinated her. Curious, she stepped nearer. One of them lifted its head, looking into her eyes.

The dwarrows were still discussing whether to trust the newcomer or not. Sure, Radagast might have made quite the entrance, screaming and cursing, and the stick insect in his mouth along with the nest in his hair were rather off-putting, but he was a kind soul and not one to be corrupted.

The rabbit nuzzled its head into her hand and after a short while she was surrounded by the furry lot. They were gentle as if they knew of her injuries. Suddenly, the ears of their leader perked up and his nose twitched nervously. The wargs. How could she forget that?!

“Watch out!” she managed to scream, before the first ugly monster broke through the bushes and launched at Thorin.

It was killed quickly and now everyone shifted their attention towards the approaching enemy. Well, not all the attention. Gandalf shouted at Thorin and Thorin shouted back at Gandalf demanding to know who else would have known about their quest. She saw the look the leader of the company gave her. It made her heart freeze.

“I will draw them off!” Radagst offered.

“These are Gundabad wargs!” Gandalf warned his friend.

“These are Rhosgobel rabbits. I’d like to see them try!” the brown wizard puffed proud.

They ran and hid. The ponies were nervous and Bella's heart pounded against her damaged rib cage like it had been doing once long ago. This was exciting and nerve-wrecking, but it made her feel alive!

At the very moment when Thorin nodded at Kili to shoot the approaching warg together with its rider, Bella nearly jumped out herself. She was more than ready to take on the enemy once again. Dwalin held her back by gently grabbing her arm. He was right. Kili could handle this. He was an amazing archer and a great fighter. He needed this experience to grow. It would be good for him.

“Where are you leading us?” she could hear Thorin’s whispered question towards Gandalf.

Thorin surely wouldn’t like the answer and Gandalf knew this fact as did Bella, so he kept silent. They came closer towards the large rock formation that marked the entrance to the secret passageway into the hidden valley. Well, the last few hundred meters were open terrain. There was no way to hide anymore. Running would be the only option.

She prepared herself mentally for the pain that soon would be raging in her entire body. Each step had sent a wave of pain through her body, but the occasional breaks while they were hiding made it easier to catch her breath. The last part on the other hand would be not as forgiving. Maybe they would be lucky and lord Elrond would suddenly appear, together with his hunters.

Taking a deep breath, she readied herself to sprint whenever Thorin would give the signal. Without a warning, two tattooed arms lifted her off the ground and placed her on the last remaining pony.

“Why d-” Thorin's signal interrupted her question.

Kili and Fili slapped the frightened pony to encourage the poor thing to run even faster. Howls, barks and several orders cried out in black speech followed, leaving the rabbit sled alone.

The pony was definitely faster than she would have ever been on foot, injured or not. Still, it was way too frightening to break through the two wargs ahead, let alone blindly jump into a small opening between the stones. Panicked, the steed looked around, searching for a way out. A warg used this chance to jump at them, its jaw wide open. In a split second, the pony decided between being eaten by a warg and jumping into a cave, the cave being the winning option.

The sudden movement made Bella lose her grip and she slipped off of the back of the pony, landing on her backside. An arrow flew past her, grazing the warg’s ear. This distraction gave her enough time to scramble back onto her feet and limp as fast as she could towards the passageway.

Kili cursed while Fili changed his direction, running past her. Thorin cursed as well, but far more creatively than his nephew. Dwalin roared while swinging his battle axes. ‘How she had missed this before?’ she wondered, Bombur and Bifur had already vanished into the opening. Bofur helped Ori and Dori while Nori sent another one of his knives flying before jumping down as well. Balin had the nerve to lecture his brother not to be reckless and ‘cut the crap while you are still able to’. Oin and Gloin must also already be down there as she could hear them shouting for the others to come down.

Dwalin turned around, a grim expression on his face, grabbed Kili and Fili, each on one arm and jumped down as well. Thorin was still waiting for her at the entrance, his sword ready. Bella quickened her speed and prompt stumbled, falling into the dwarven kings arms and pulling him down with her.

She landed rather soft on top of Thorin. Her eyes tightly shut, she didn’t dare to move. Carefully, she opened her eyes slightly, only to look into the King's face. It was rather dark in the cave. She wasn't able to make out the expression on his face. In a rather poor attempt to separate herself from Thorin, Bella placed her hands on his chest. She tried not to think too much about how muscular he was. Slowly, she started to separate herself from him, wiggling around trying to find a position that wouldn’t hurt too much. Bella tried not to put any weight on her injured legs or any other parts of her that were hurting. Well, the only part not hurting at the moment was her head, but she could feel a headache rising.

Two big, strong hands on her hips made it impossible for her to move any further. The dwarven King had held her down in this rather shameful position.

Thorin took this chance to search her body for injuries. He grunted, displeased as she flinched under his touch. Somehow it made the King angry to see her hurt. And somehow, it felt nice to have her near. Bella started shifting again. She didn't know what exactly she was supposed to feel at this particular moment. It felt great to be able to be so close to him. But at the same moment, she felt a pang in her heart. This was not her Thorin. And this was not right.

She opened her mouth, ready to give him a piece of her mind when a growl from behind interrupted her. In the first second, she thought it was a warg, but then the growl evolved into a wave of dwarven curses spoken in Khuzdul. Gently, two arms wrapped around her from behind, easily lifting her up from Thorin. She recognised the tattoos on the arms. The warmth on her hips disappeared. Her body reacted to the sudden cold with a shiver while her heart winced to be separated from her One.  

Her brother held her protectively in his arms, standing with his back towards his king and putting himself between her and Thorin. She knew that dwarrows were protective, but she never thought that Dwalin would defy his king. This was a completely new experience for her. She didn't want to be in between the two of them, she didn't want to be in between anything. If she hadn't known what would have come next, maybe she would have stayed with Lord Elrond.

A furry body slid down into the cave, taking all the unwanted attention of her and presenting a way for Thorin to hide his embarrassment.

How in the world could he have let down his guard in such a critical moment? His palms still felt the softness of her body. There was something familiar in the way they touched, but he was quite sure he had never seen the hobbit lass before. Still, when Dwalin separated her from him, he wouldn't have liked anything better than punching his best friend in the face and getting back what belonged to him.

To get his mind off those strange thoughts, he shifted his attention towards the dead warg. An arrow was plunged into the throat of the monster. Separating the arrow from the body, he inspected it.

“Elves!” he spat out.  

As if to answer his angry grunting, the sound of a horn broke through the cries from outside. The company started fidgeting nervously, looking for a way out. Up and out of the cave was not an option and Thorin nearly sighed with relief when Bofur shouted that there was another way. It was a narrow pass seemingly leading deeper into the mountain, but it was rather bright, so maybe, just maybe, they had a chance.  

The passageway was too narrow for Dwalin to both carry Bella and fit through it himself at the same time. So, he had no other possibility than to walk behind her, lending her a helping hand and steadying her whenever she staggered. Whenever he wasn’t fast enough to catch her and, as a result, she would crash into a stone wall with a hollow thump, he would wince. Not being able to help her nearly drove him insane. His mood dropped with every passing second.

Seeing how Thorin looked at her with that worried, sad and longing look made him angrily clench his fists. He had no right to ogle his sister like that!

“It is as beautiful as I remembered.” She mumbled under her breath.

Dwalin wouldn’t have heard it if Thorin hadn’t lifted his head as soon as she opened her mouth. Both of them looked at each other in confusion. Had they heard right?

In front of them, a beautiful valley lay. The valley of Imladris where  the last homely house was. The tattooed warrior grumbled a curse in the wizard’s direction. To guide them right towards those damned elves! Thorin seemed to have the same thoughts. He finally stopped looking at Bella and glowered at the grey-hatted man.

Why must dwarrows be so bloody stubborn, wary and suspicious of each and every person they meet?! Bella had found herself in the middle of a small circle built out of muscles, sharp axes and rumbling growls. She could only shake her head at their overprotective behaviour. Lord Elrond would have never allowed harm to befall his guests. Here, in the last homely house, they would be just as safe as in Beorn's hut. A smile lightened up her face as she thought of the large man who was gentler than anyone could have ever imagined.

She shifted her attention back when the sound of a horn sounded in the distance once more, announcing the return of the elven king. The circle tightened around her even more. Gandalf watched their actions with amusement and when Bella locked eyes with him he chuckled at her distressed expression.

Thorin muttered something to Dwalin, too quietly for her to understand. But the two dwarves nodded in grim agreement, not letting the elves out of sight.

Lord Elrond returned with his hunters not a second too late. Lindir seemed a bit troubled by the gruff and dirty company that appeared on their doorstep. Led by Gandalf the Grey of all people! The exchange of greetings, compliments and courtesies gave Bella a chance to remember the lessons of elven language she had all those years before.

“Lord Elrond, it is good to see you again. May I request to visit your infirmary?” fighting her way out, she glared at Fili and Kili trying to pull her back.

The dark-haired elf lifted one brow at her request spoken in elvish. The pronunciation was not bad and gave evidence that she had been learning the language for quite some time. Lord Elrond looked at Gandalf. It was a  long, questioning look. The wizard only shrugged and searched his pockets for his pipe weed.

“Of course, little one. But you have to promise me to tell me all the exciting details of your journey over dinner. We hadn’t had a hobbit here in forever, and especially not one traveling with the dwarves, no less.” He smiled, waving Lindir over.

The king’s attendant picked her up with ease, earning a surprised and an acknowledging squeak from the hobbit and an angry uproar from the company. Threats, insults and crude curses were thrown at the elves until Gloin stormed forward, swinging his weapon to daunt the elf holding Bella. It didn’t work. Lindir only looked down at Gloin with an unchanged countenance.

“Food,” Bella hurried to say, “he offered us to stay for dinner, freshen up a bit and rest.”

The adrenalin slowly vanished from her system. The pain returned, stronger than before, and Bella wished for nothing more than a hot bath, a change of clothes, some food and a soft bed.

Dwalin stepped forward in an intimidating manner. He pushed Gloin aside and straightened his back. With his arms crossed, he looked up and, in his eyes, she could see the gleam of an idea. The idea to kick Lindir into the hollow of the knee and snatch her from his arms.

“What are you planning to do with my sister, elf?” his voice was deep and threatening.

Lindir only raised an eyebrow, looking down he smiled coldly, “If you happened to notice, your ‘sister’ is seriously injured.”

Dwain’s hands twitched as if he wanted to deliver the first punch. Right in that moment Fili and Kili appeared on each side of the warrior. They looked determined.

“We will come with you.” Fili decided, while Kili nodded agreeing, “Can’t let you alone with them!”

Bella smiled. It was not convincing and far away from reassuring, but from her position, held by Lindir, she was finally taller than all of the members of the company. They looked worried up to her, big pleading eyes and protective sternness in their faces. They meant it, she realized. Tears started to fill her eyes, not out of pain, but happiness. Even Thorin fidgeted from one leg onto the other, trying his best to not meet her eyes. He stared at Lord Elrond, but still observed her out of the corner of his eye.

“That is very sweet of you, but I do prefer to bathe alone,” Bella chuckled.

Her chuckle quickly changed into a cough and a few drops of blood blemished Lindir’s perfectly white robes. The elf frowned displeased down at her. With a sharp nod towards his king, he hurried off to the healing quarters, taking her with him. Over Lindir’s shoulder, Bella could catch a glimpse of Thorin’s expression. Was that jealousy hidden behind the usual frown?

Chapter 8

@stuckupstucky

General things:

If you want me to tag you as well, please just send me a message.

If you like what you have read consider reblogging my story for others to enjoy too.

I am always open for asks and requests for shorts of our favorite dwarrows!

[azure-steel]

@mercyxkilling​ said: mercy drew in a breath, steeling herself for the impending confrontation that awaited her once she crossed that threshold. she’d gotten into a fairly heated argument with cloud while they were on their last assignment and she probably... no, she KNEW she could have handled it better. but being emotionally inarticulate rendered her incapable of having a constructive conversation as opposed to a screaming match.

but she needed to repair this. they couldn’t continue to work together if things felt so off. so with that she stepped into the mess hall and sashayed across the room to his table, but before she spoke the woman turned to give a few of the crew sitting nearby a sharp look as she cleared her throat. they needed no more than that, recognizing this as a signal to get the fuck outta dodge.

once they were gone she seated herself not in a nearby chair but on the table. mercy maintained a bit of distance between them, but made sure they were still close enough that he’d be able to read her expressions and know that she was coming from someplace genuine.

“i know that you’re prob’ly still mad at me, but i hope you’ll still give me a chance to explain myself.” but then she was quiet for a long time after that opener, and she turned away so she could avoid his gaze. “i’m really bad at this. but i’m gonna give it my best shot. so just... listen.” reaching up she ran her slender fingers through her hair as she searched for the right words, looking nothing like her usual confident self. “i yelled at you. and i’m sorry i did. i shouldn’t have, and i acknowledge that. i was wrong. don’t tell anyone that, though. i have a reputation around here.”

mercy was trying add a bit of levity to the situation. she’d never been good at handling anything too heavy. and admitting to being wrong or talking about something like this was uncomfortable probably not only for her, but for cloud as well. but she had to do this.

“i just need you to know that... i’m not mad that things didn’t go as planned or that the deal fell through. there’ll be others and it’s not like we’re hurting for money. i was mad because... i saw you out there, and you were just... i don’t know, my man, it was like you just were holding back or you gave up or you didn’t care. i don’t know what’s going on, and you don’t have to tell me anything unless you want me to know. that part is fine. what isn’t okay is watching you convince yourself that you can’t do something or that you aren’t capable or whatever. i can’t say for sure but i know there’s something going on up there.”

she lifted her gaze to look at him and pressed a finger to her temple to emphasize her point before going on. she was speaking pretty fast, clearly trying to push through everything because she has no idea what she was doing.

“i just. i would never, ever ask you to do something that i wasn’t fully confident that you were capable of handling it. and not only handling it, but fucking crushing it. i would never set you up to fail because, despite what it might seem like, i actually care how you feel and want what’s best for you. you’re part of the crew now. i’m here to support and protect you. so you need to know that no matter what you think of me or what you have in your head holding you back... you’re absolutely better than what you think. you need to give yourself more credit. so the next time you and i go out, promise me you’ll do better. because you absolutely can and you absolutely will, because you’re capable of handling anything i ask of you and more.”

and then she heaves a sigh, as if that was the signal that this whole awkward experience was finally over. mercy then stood up straight again and motioned over her shoulder.

“yeah, so. this was real weird so i’ll be in my cabin so i can spend the next foreseeable future stressing about what i said. let me know if you need me okay? my door is always open.”

before she left, though, she made it a point to rest a hand, gentle and light, upon his shoulder, lingering for a moment to offer him an uncertain kind of smile. at least, though, it was genuine. and with that she disappeared into the corridor so she could retreat to her room. Unprompted Ask - ALWAYS ACCEPTING

He’s had a face like a slapped backside since the unfortunate spat. Cloud was no stranger to confrontation, hell, sometimes he even thrived on it given the right circumstances and on occasion the wrong circumstances. What he didn’t enjoy was being chewed out in front of colleagues for a mistake he’d made in the field. Cloud knew he’d fucked up, fucked up majorly and with consequences which affected the entire crew, but there was something about Mercy’s humiliation tactics which didn’t sit well with him.

In fact it settled in his guts like a stone.  Though he guesses all of this isn’t aided by the fact that his failing was down to something so very deep rooted and difficult to shake; a very simple lack of self-confidence, despite the cocksure demeanour he enjoyed fronting. Though he worked well under pressure there were instances - just like this one - where everything just went blank. 

Still, if she was going to scream at him the way she had done, he would have much preferred it been away from the many ears who had been unfortunate enough to witness it. Though he guessed a bullet to the back of the head would hurt far less than how she’d bruised his ego just now even if he was already dragging it behind him after that sorry show he put on today. Still, this hadn’t stopped him yelling back, cussing her out and ultimately throwing his hands in the air and stalking off. He’d been advised by a couple of the guys that perhaps retaliating wasn’t the best course of action, though they were swiftly met with a steely gaze and a sour expression, deeming Cloud practically off limits to anyone else for the remainder of that day. 

He was used to being on his own anyway, he liked it this way, right? With any luck they’ll just drop him off on the nearest moon and leave him there. Wouldn’t be the first time.

That was until the very source of his foul mood appeared within the archway of the mess, and she was making right for him. Needless to say that Cloud didn’t feel ready for another throat slitting, though rather than physically remove himself from the situation he chooses to remain seated (with his feet crossed upon the table of course in his act of immature defiance) and offer the woman a disdainful glare.

It seemed however, a verbal lashing wasn’t what she had in mind, and it showed mostly through her offset expression as well as the casual way she settled herself upon the table, though this was after she’d shot her men a glare of her own to disperse them from the hall, and Cloud was certain one of them had offered his ‘Sorry, man, you’re on your own’ face as he upped and left. He didn’t motion to shift his feet to make way for her though, Cloud was nothing at all if not utterly childish when it came to matters of discipline and it was rather apparent that he held issue with authority; and if Mercy had learned anything today it was the fact that Strife did not like being proven wrong. 

So the sullen expression remained even as that irritation towards the woman who pulled him up on his failings began to turn inward, even when his gaze had sunk so low beneath the weight of that knowledge - that he was a liability, and it wasn’t until now that he realises there’s no worse feeling than knowing you are the weakest link in the chain. And yet there was something good to be taken from all of this, Cloud knew, because she wasn’t casting him aside but offering a chance to better himself, a chance to prove her right, not wrong. 

When was the last time anyone had this much faith in him? When was the last time he’d been offered this level of compassion? Cloud couldn’t quite remember, and it only made this whole situation sting that little bit more. 

He remains silent throughout her spiel, arms folded defensively, legs still supported on that table in the guise of a barrier between them and allowing the shame of what happened that day to filter into his face. And he had no grounds to argue or defend his corner, because he knew, deep down in his heart of hearts, that everything Mercy said... was right, not that this knowledge made it any easier to hear. Cloud reacts only to that hand on his shoulder, gifting the contact only the slight lilt of his head and a glance out of the corner of his eye. The woman vanishes out of sight then, leaving him to lament on the events, how he could have performed better, how he could have done things so differently... how he’d actually deserved to have his hide tanned for such a blatant blunder on his part. 

And Mercy had enough about her to apologise for her outburst when she really didn’t need to... surely that said far more about him than it truly did about her. 

Cloud isn’t entirely sure how long he sits there, feeling sorry for himself and just wondering for the life of him how to let it go and move on. Maybe it was his turn to clear the air instead of sitting back and doing nothing like usual. Upon exiting the mess hall, he’s actually surprised that he catches her only moments away from vanishing into her cabin; the urge to bail was strong and his legs threatened to turn him right around and retreat back the way his came, though it seemed his mouth was working faster than his basic impulses.

“Mercy... wait...” he calls, though not without the hue of uncertainty hanging in his tone and he stands there for a moment just staring back at her, to gain his bearings and muster the courage he needs to just close that insufferable distance. 

“I don’t want you going in there regretting you spoke to me. ‘Cos this ain’t about you and your management style, yeah? It’s about me and my inability to just... let go.” There’s a crease to his brow, uncertain, defensive and he swallows audibly in a frail attempt to gather himself and simply offer an explanation. 

“I don’t wanna make excuses, but... there’s a lot about me you don’t know, and I ain’t sure I’m ready for you to hear it. Not yet. But, I’ve never been a part of anything before, not really. Always on the outside looking in, no handles of control, just... freefalling and hoping for the best. Always just... the rat. Disposable, easily replaced, only good for making up numbers, you know?” Cloud’s unable to maintain eye contact with her, and not for the want of trying, and with a brisk hand through his hair does he puff out an exasperated sigh, frustrated with himself it seemed before delivering a non-committal shrug. 

“You give me a chance that I never thanked you for, and then I do so by screwing up. And I deserved everything I got thereon after, I did. You ain’t telling me shit that I don’t need to hear, or even shit I don’t already know. Usually they don’t bother at all and I go on floundering to the next problem until I fuck up again.” He’s rambling, he realises, and he rubs the back of his head somewhat bashfully, uttering a chuckle through his nose, a low and deeply unhappy sound. 

“I let you down. I let you all down and I take full responsibility for that, I’ll own it because it’s mine. I promise it won’t happen again, I’ll do better in future, yeah? Just... thanks, for not giving up on me. Enjoy your evening, Mercy.” Cloud leaves it there with a single respectful nod before he’s turning on his heel and making his way back down the hall, just eager for a scalding hot shower to wash away the unpleasantness that was today. 

[devil-kindred]

the right moment

Pairing: Samuel Drake/Evie Crane

Rating: M

Warnings: a bit of smut (though i didn’t get too overly detailed)

Summary: When Sam pays a visit to Nathan and his family, he brings along an item he's had for years and asks his little brother for some advice. He wants to propose to his long-time girlfriend, Evie, but doesn't know when the right time to do so is. Nathan's advice? When the time is right, you'll know. Sam's not sure how to take the (rather unhelpful) advice and, when Evie pays a surprise visit, he decides what better time than now? What follows is a succession of failed proposals before he finally discovers that the right moment is sometimes when you least expect it to be. [Or rather; a 5 + 1 fic detailing the five times Samuel Drake tried to propose to Evie and the one time he finally did.]

WC: 11.7k | 1/1 | ao3

Tagging a few people who might be interested in reading: @vvitchofhemwick @tommymillers @chyrstis (if you want to be untagged just dm me!)

-

It’s a little before noon on a sunny, perfect day when Sam and Nathan Drake steer the boat back to the dock on the Fisher-Drake property. They’d taken the boat at Elena’s urging for an early morning run and had spent most of their time on the water reminiscing about their lives and just how far they’d come over the years. 

“I still can hardly believe it.” Sam says, as the Nate docks the boat and the two of them disembark. “You happily married, living your life to the fullest with your wife and daughter… How did I become an uncle before you anyways?”

“It’s usually the other way around isn’t it?” Nate answers with a laugh, turning to gaze back at his home with a fond smile. “Man, it wasn’t easy to get this far… But I think back on it and can’t help but feel that everything that happened to get to this was worth it. Some things could’ve gone better, though. Preferably not thinking you were dead for a while would be one of those things.”

“Yeah, well if we had to do again I’d rather not be stuck in jail— Panamanian jail— for a couple years. If it weren’t for you and our thrilling adventure, I’m not sure I would’ve ever met Evie.”

“Couple things have to go wrong before they can go right.”

“Sure seems like it.” Sam laughs as he follows Nate down the dock and halts, stopping his brother just a few feet shy of solid ground. “Hey, Nathan, speaking of Evie and our adventures— I wondered if I could ask you a question real quick.”

“Sure, what is it?”

“When you uh…” Sam glances around as if checking to see if anyone was in earshot and lowers his voice before he continues. “When you proposed to Elena, how did you know it was the right time?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean, ‘what do I mean’? You wanted it to be a romantic thing, right? Like a… a good memory. Perfect, right? How did you know that it was the time to ask?”

“I just knew. I don’t know how else to explain it, Sam.” He grins at his brother, playfully elbowing him in the ribs. “Finally gonna settle down after all this time? Sure took you long enough.”

“Oh, shut it.” Sam grumbles, elbowing him back. “So you say, you just… knew. That worked all well and good for you, but how will I know when it’s the right moment?”

Nate shakes his head, “I can’t give you the answer, Sam. All I can say is that when the moment’s right, you’ll know.” With that bit of helpful— or unhelpful, if you were to ask Sam— advice Nate departs, patting Sam on the shoulder as he leaves the dock and strides up the beach to the house.

Sam stands on the dock overlooking the ocean for a few moments after Nate retreats, his brother’s words weighing heavily on his mind. “You’ll know.” He muses aloud, walking off the dock and onto the expanse of white sand beach the Fisher-Drake house resides on. “And just how do you know, Nathan?” He sighs and stares out at the ocean once more as if the rolling waves will hold the answer to his woes— until a woman’s voice breaks his train of thought. 

“Well, hello handsome.”

“I appreciate the the observation, but I’m afraid you’re wasting your time.” Sam laughs good-naturedly, waving a hand to ward off the compliment as he turns to face the woman who spoke to him. “I must inform you I’m a taken⏤” His mind goes blank as he sights her and walks, at first slowly, then rapidly towards her before he scoops her up in his arms and spins her around.

“Can’t believe I actually managed to surprise you for once.” She says, her arms around his neck and her legs firmly around his waist as he buries his face in the crook of her neck and she strokes his hair. “I missed you.”

“Ah, jesus, Evie.” His voice is muffled, and her laugh is music to his ears. “I thought you were stuck in Glasgow?” He lifts his head to look at her and eyes her smug smile with caution. “Evie.”

“I was stuck in Glasgow but Alessandra pulled some strings and gave me her ticket so I could surprise you.  Hell, she surprised me too. She was so excited to finally meet everyone⏤ I still can’t believe she gave up her ticket.”

“The same Alessandra that's madly in love with Victor?”

“That’s the one. She’s still coming⏤ hoping to relax and maybe get an interview with Nate and Elena if they’re so inclined as to indulge her⏤ but she won’t be here until next week.” Evie leans back in his arms slightly and raises an eyebrow. “For shame, Sam, you’re not going to ask me how long I’m here for?”

“Well, now that you’ve said it, how long do I get my beautiful girlfriend all to myself?”

“You do realize you have to share me with your sister-in-law?” She laughs, amused at his slightly wounded expression. “I want her advice on some of the extra photos I got from my last project.”

“Eh, so Elena gets to borrow you for a bit. Still all to myself, more or less.” He shrugs, “So exactly how long are you here for?’

“Same amount of time as you.”

“I get you for the whole month? Really?” He gives another quick spin causing her to burst into laughter again and cling tighter. “For real?”

“I got paid well enough from the last job that I can more than afford to take a vacation. So I’m yours for as long as you’ll have me.” The last part is spoken softly and Evie gives a delighted squeal when Sam smacks her ass, “Samuel!”

“Best plan to stick around for quite a while then.” He says cheekily and kisses her⏤ full of love, passion, and the promise of what’s in store later on. It would be a blissful moment… if it weren’t for Nathan interrupting.

“Hey, keep it PG you two! Child on the beach!” Nathan yells faintly from further down the stretch of sandy terrain, Cassie’s laughter carrying down to them on the wind.

Sam ignores his younger brother’s words for a moment longer, slipping his hand beneath the back of Evie’s tank top and grinning into the kiss at the shiver his actions elicit. He breaks the kiss with another smile, retracting his hand from her shirt, and gently drops Evie back onto the sand.

“Resume our reunion later?”

“Later.” Evie agrees with a smile, taking Sam’s hand as they walk over to greet his family.

-

The two of them spend most of the day and night with Nathan, Elena, and Cassie. What was initially intended as a brief family gathering, quickly turning into time getting away from them. Evie shares the not so fun elements of trying to fix her canceled flight situation— something she’d never have been able to remedy were it not for Alessandra and Elena’s help. Elena’s involvement earns a shocked response from both her brother-in-law, which she more or less expected, and her daughter which came as quite a surprise.

“I can’t believe you kept Aunt Evie’s visit a secret!”

“You can believe I kept it a secret? You should be more shocked that your dad managed to keep quiet about it. He’s got a big mouth.”

“You knew? Nathan!” 

“Hey, hey!” Nate yells, ducking to avoid the throw pillow that flies his way after Sam’s words. “I was sworn to secrecy! My wife is a very convincing woman.” He lobs a pillow back, but misses his mark and hits Elena instead who jokingly declares ‘war’ and a massive pillow fight breaks out. The chaos carries on for some time and is, unfortunately, not limited to their living room and by the time everyone tires themselves out, the house is in complete disarray.

“Oh, we really made a mess. I don’t even know where half of these belong. Is that a couch co—“ She breaks off in another laugh as Sam whacks her backside with a throw pillow, which he then promptly tosses back onto the chair he thinks it belongs to. “Didn’t get me enough times during the pillow war?”

“Mhm, there’s not enough time in the world for it to have been enough.” 

“Yeah, well remember that for later because I—“ She smiles and ducks away from his reaching hands, darting out the open doorway as he follows suit. “Need to go get changed before dinner, and you can help tidy up the mess we made while I do.”

“Not even a kiss before you go?”

“One kiss.” She relents, letting him wraps his arms around her and rising onto her tiptoes for a kiss. Sam grins and dips her, giving her second, and then a third, much longer kiss. “I said one! You are insatiable.”  She breaks away from his grasp, wagging a finger at him with a laugh. “Seriously, I need to go change. Please help tidy up for me?”

“Whatever you want, doll.”

He smiles fondly as Evie turns and disappears down the hall, the sound of the front door swinging open and shut telling him that she’d finally gone to change and that their current fun was done for the time being. He chuckles to himself as he gathers up the cushions and pillows strewn across the floor and sets about trying to put things back to the way they were.

“Uncle Sam?”

“Hey, Cassie. How’s my favorite niece?”

“I’m your only niece, Uncle Sam.” She rolls her yes, then breaks into a smile when Sam makes a face and points at the large cushion held in his hands. “That goes on the big chair at the dining table. Also, dad says to tell you dinner’s ready.” A pause before she adds, “Aunt Evie must really love you, since she came all this way to see you. I’m glad she makes you happy. Mom and Dad are too.”

-

Later in the evening, when the remnants of dinner have been cleared away and even later still, after an admittedly decent movie, Sam finally steals Evie away from his family under the guise of finally calling it a night. The two get as far as Elena’s studio before things change course and Sam suggests going for a walk along the beach instead.

“It’s a nice night,” He says, waving a hand at the moon and expanse of stars glowing brightly overhead. “what do you think?”

“I think a moonlit walk sounds very romantic.” She steps close as he drapes an arm across her shoulders and the two of them begin their slow stroll across the beach. “Careful,” she teases, “if your brother sees he’ll know you’re actually a big softie on the inside.”

“Eh, Nathan can think what he wants. So long as you’re happy with me secretly being a big ‘softie’, that’s all that matters.”

“So long as you’re happy, I’m happy. Looks like we have some company.” She adds, stepping out of his embrace to greet Victoria— who’s abandoned sleeping on the guest house deck in favor of coming to see them. 

“Evie, love. There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you for a while now.” Sam says, slowing his steps as Evie starts to trail ahead— laughing softly as Victoria bounds around the edge of the water. He sinks to one knee in the sand, one hand reaching for his pocket as he calls her name. “Evie⏤” His words cut off in a loud ‘oof’ as he’s tackled backwards into the sand, forty pounds of fluffy golden retriever parked atop him.

“Victoria!” Evie half-laughs, half-scolds as the dog wags her tail and sticks her nose against Sam’s shirt in hopes of a treat. “Get off of Sam, girl. Come on!” Evie wave a hand and jogs a few steps away, patting her leg as Victoria bounds away from— and off of— Sam. “I bet there’s yummy treats in the house, hm?” She says, crouching down to ruffle Victoria’s fur with a smile. “Cassie knows where they’re at doesn’t she? You better go get her!”

As Victoria runs off in the direction of the house, Sam— still sprawled on his back in the sand— utters a heavy sigh and closes his eyes. He can hear the soft crunch of sand underfoot as Evie walks back to him and he opens an eye to catch sight of the hem of her dress swaying the breeze.

“What were you saying, Sam?”

“Oh nothing important, really.” He waves her away as she offers a hand to help, sitting up and brushing grains of sand from his arms and shirt all while Victoria— who had apparently changed her mind about treats in favor of keeping the two of them company— plops down on the sand and wags her tail. He reaches out and gives the dog a pat on the head before she runs off— finally called back to the house by Nathan, who was waving from the front porch. “Hey, why don’t we go to dinner tomorrow night? Just the two of us?”

Evie studies him with a quizzical expression, one eyebrow raised as she waves a hand towards the beach house. “Don’t you want to spend time with your family? I thought Elena had an evening planned?”

Sam shrugs and stands, patting his pockets for his cigarettes and lighter— before remembering he quit smoking years ago— as he stalls. “I mean, of course I want to spend time with my family. I just thought maybe we could use some alone time. I’ll talk to Elena in the morning.” He gives up the misguided search and wraps an arm around Evie as they begin the trek down the beach to the guest house. “If she has something planned, we’ll do dinner— just us— another time. I’ve got you for a whole month, maybe longer. What’s the rush.”

-

True to Evie’s question, Sam finds that Elena does, in fact, have an evening planned the next day. As well as the next couple days, and he’d be lying if he were to say he didn’t find it a little discouraging for his plans. A few nights later, however, Sam is finally able to take Evie out on the town for a night. He books a reservation at a nice restaurant he was recommended by Nathan and promises a lovely, much needed— in his mind— night away from family. The settle into a cozy candle-lit booth upon arrival at the restaurant— named Arturo’s— and have a peaceful, romantic evening. A night that should, theoretically, check all the boxes for an absolutely perfect proposal. When the waiter offers a cocktail menu post-meal, the two of the them deliberate for a moment before deciding that a drink or two couldn’t hurt anything.

As it turns out about an hour or two later… drinks were actually a bad idea. 

“Wow, what was in that?” Evie giggles, clinging to Sam for support as they both stumble up the stairs of the guest house. “I need to know what brand of tequila that was. I’ve never had a drink that strong before. I didn’t even have that many!”

The both of them manage to stumble inside without doing any damage, and upon making it to the hall, Sam leaves her side briefly— entering the bedroom and earning himself enough time to stash the ring box back in the bedside drawer before turning to find Evie clinging to the doorframe with a stricken expression.

“Evie, doll, what’s the matter?” He tries to keep the panic in his voice low, but between fearing she’d seen the box and the expression on her face the emotion was more than a little difficult to keep under control.

“Room’s spinning.” She murmurs, mercifully still keeping ahold of the door frame as she sways and slowly slides down towards the wooden floor. “Oh, I don’t like this ride.”

Sam crosses the room as quickly as he can without losing his own sense of balance and gently grabs her in a bridal carry, standing with her held tightly in his arms before walking slowly to the opposite side of the room— both for Evie’s benefit and to try and alleviate the onset of his pounding headache. What brand of alcohol indeed. He sets her down on the bed, then grabs her again when she sways violently; catching her before she can hit the floor. “You know what? Good idea, the floor is good for tonight.” He grabs the spare blanket from the end of the bed and lays it out before throwing down two pillows and grabbing the duvet. “We’ll just lay right here,” He lays down next to Evie, taking her hand as she rests it against his chest. “and we’ll be good as new come morning.”

“Mhm.” She murmurs incoherently, snuggling as close to him as she can possibly get without being on top of him. “Sam?”

“Are you going to be sick?” He asks, wearily. “Because I love you with all my heart, I really do, but I don’t think I can—“

“I’m glad you talked to me that day in Madrid.”

“Oh,” Sam murmurs, taken by surprise. “well I’m glad I talked to you that day too, doll. Who knew that asking a very pretty woman to do a little recon for me would lead to ten long years of a relationship.” He raises their entwined hands and presses a soft kiss to her fingers. “I can’t think of a single thing I’d change about our meeting. Well, except the part about being shot at and maybe the bit about your camera getting destroyed… and not being entirely truthful about why I wanted pictures of that one specific portion of the ruin.” He laughs quietly, “I consider myself a very lucky man that you didn’t seem to hold that against me when we met again.”

His remark is met with silence and Sam turns his head to find Evie fast asleep, her face upturned towards his own. The sight brings a smile to his face and he holds her hand a little tighter as his own eyes slowly drift closed— following her into a peaceful slumber.

-

Much as was the case with the romantic dinner, it’s almost a week before Sam has the opportunity to steal Evie away again. It takes a lot of promising to spend time doing various activities with everyone over the next few days before he can finally convince Nathan to agree to another night without the two of them. In the end, Sam gets his wish of another romantic evening with Evie. He rents a car from town and sends Evie a simple text that tells her to be ready at six and to wear something comfortable. She exits the guest house five minutes prior and is pleased to see the sly smile on Sam’s face fall— replaced instead by an openmouthed stare as she walks towards the car he’s leaning against. 

“Well?” She asks, twirling around so the hem of her dress flares around her legs. “Think this is suitable for whatever you have planned for the evening?”

“More than suitable.” He answers, finally finding words as she steps forward and places her hands against his chest. “Where have you been hiding that? I didn’t see it in the closet.”

“I have my hiding places.” Is all she says in answer, resting against him. “I’m a little amused that a short little sundress elicits this reaction from you.”

“It’s more you than the dress, though I’ll admit the length certainly caught my attention.” He lowers his voice as he leans down for a kiss. “Are you even wearing anything under that?”

“Maybe…” She murmurs, reaching up to run her fingers through his hair. “You can always find out later if you’re curious…”

Sam lingers for a moment, giving a gentle squeeze to Evie’s hip before he straightens and steps away, taking her hand and walking her around to the other side of the vehicle. He opens the door for her and drops her hand only when she’s settled into the passenger seat. 

“Such a gentleman.”

“I try, doll.” He shuts the door and circles around, getting in the driver’s side and starting the car— reaching over for her hand as he drives up the road and away from the neighborhood. “Any guesses to our evening?”

“I know we’re going somewhere and it’s not to town because you just turned the opposite direction… so no, I don’t really have a guess. I’m sure it’ll be nice, though. All the things you��ve had planned so far have been.”

“I aim to please.” He says with grin, as they coast along the road going out towards the bay and to a higher portion of the island.

Evie fiddles with the stereo, flipping through stations and static until she settles on one that comes in loud and clear. She smiles softly at the song playing from the speakers— a sultry love song and reaches out to take Sam’s free hand in her own. He gives a quick glance and a smile in her direction before returning his full attention to the road, gently squeezing her hand. The two of them sit like that for the rest of the drive, the island scenery flying past until Sam slows the car and pulls into a overlook at the top of the island. He pulls over at a perfect time, the sun just beginning to sink below the horizon as he puts the car in park.

“What do you think?”

From their vantage point high up above the rest of the island, they can see the vast ocean stretch out before them and the light of the sinking sun glimmering against the gently rolling waves.

“It’s beautiful, Sam.” She pulls her hand free from his own with a gentle smile, drawing her knees up onto the passenger seat and turning to face him. “Think you could move your seat back just a bit?”

Sam raises an eyebrow but complies, moving the seat back and laughing when Evie climbs over the gearshift and straddles his lap. “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind when we came up here—“ Evie stills, having already gotten his pants half undone and leans back, ready to climb back into her own seat.. “but I’m not complaining.” 

She shakes her head, gripping a fistful of his shirt and pulling him towards her for a kiss that delves into much more and by the time the sun has fully set, neither of them can see through the windows.

-

The next day finds Sam in what’s become his usual spot in terms of mulling over his plans… and how the perfect moment he’s been searching for has been thwarted at every turn. He reaches into his pocket and holds up the little velvet box, wondering how something so little could be the cause of so much stress in his life after so many years of not being any sort of problem. He turns at the sound of approaching footsteps, tensing up but then relaxing when he sees it’s only Nate.

“Hey, Sam, have you seen⏤” Nate stops short in his approach and does a double-take at the item held in his brother’s hand, then rushes over to him, quickly checking for Cassie— and more importantly, Evie— before he continues. “Holy shit, you bought the ring! When did you finally have the heart to separate yourself from her for more than five minutes? ”

“Actually,” Sam grins good-naturedly at the teasing remark, turning the box in his hands as his brother thumps him on the shoulder. “I’ve had the ring for about five years.”

“What? Come on, there’s no way you’ve had it that long.” At Sam’s nod, Nate gives him a gentle shove⏤ laughing just a little when Sam fumbles to keep ahold of the box and utters a thinly veiled threat about someone going in the ocean if the item he held were to fall in. “Why haven’t you asked her then? If you’ve had the ring for that long you know you’re serious about it.”

“I just... want it to be the right time. To be perfect, y’know?”

“Is that why you asked me for advice when you first got here?” Nate laughs, shaking his head as he looks at his brother. “If you’ve already got the ring, you’ve clearly thought about it and you’ve been with Evie for a long time. Any moment you’d choose to propose would probably be unexpected and damn near perfect at this point.”

“I don’t want it to be near perfect. It needs to be absolutely perfect, Nathan. I want her to remember this as a good thing.”

“Why wouldn’t she? Do you think you’ll get married and then one day she’ll wake up and think she made a mistake? Jesus, Sam. If she hasn’t decided you were a mistake yet, she’s not going to now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, just⏤ Hey, Hey! If I go in the ocean so is the box because I’ll take you with me!”  

While the brothers Drake are somewhat playfully tussling on the dock, Evie is having a bit of a tussle of her own, albeit a verbal one.

“Ok, I’m leaving!”

“Stop!” Elena calls, halting Cassie in her trek past the kitchen. “Checklist: phone, charger, keys?”

“Check, check, and... check.”

“And what time do you have to be back tomorrow?”

Evie smiles at Cassie and holds out the carton of cherry tomatoes who smiles and takes one, popping it in her mouth before she answers.

“Dinner time.”

“Which is?” Elena prompts as she leans against the kitchen counter.

“Six-thirty?”

“Six-thirty. Tell May’s parents we say hello.” She gives Cassie a hug and returns to chopping up vegetables.

“Bye Mom, bye Aunt Evie!” Cassie yells over her shoulder as she heads out the door.

“Be sure to say goodbye to your dad and Uncle Sam!” Elena shakes her head with a smile when she gets a muffled ‘ok’ as a reply. “Can you hand me the tomatoes?”

“Sure. Hey, when did she start calling me ‘Aunt’ Evie?” She questions as she hands over the container.

“About... four months ago? Don’t be so surprised, Evie. You’re a close friend, you’re with Sam, we see you often. You’re basically family in all but name now. Speaking of—“ Elena halts, looking down at the half-empty container with a laugh. “Evie, you ate half of the tomatoes!”

Evie grins in response and reaches into the grocery sack on the counter beside her and pulls out another full container of cherry tomatoes. She pops the lid and swaps the half-empty container for the full one, swiping another tomato out of the container she took from Elena. “What? They’re good!” She says, as Elena laughs again and shakes her head.

“Back to what I was saying. Speaking of Sam—“

“Oh no.”

“No, no, it’s just a question. How are things?”

“Things are good.” Evie answers, leaning back against the adjacent counter as she speaks. “He seemed genuinely surprised when I showed up here.”

“Which means Nate didn’t spill the secret.” At Evie’s questioning gaze, Elena adds, “He saw the sticky notes in my office about your arrival time and making sure the guest house was stocked with enough stuff for two people.”

“Ah, gotcha.” She sighs happily and smiles. “Like I said, things have been good. The surprise went without any issue and he’s been so romantic this past week!”

“Oh? Come on, give me some details!”

“Well, the first night I was here we went for a walk on the beach after dinner, and then a few nights later we went to this really nice little restaurant in town— They had the best food but...”

“Oooh Arturo’s?”

“Yeah!”

“Oh they have the best food but the drinks are really strong, right?”

“So strong!” Evie laughs, “I felt so bad for Sam, I can’t even remember what I ordered but it tasted great— only problem is the room was spinning by the time we got back to the guest house. Would you believe me if I said we ended up sleeping on the floor?”

“Oh yeah,” Elena says as she laughs at the thought. “You’re not alone in that regard. Nate and I have had a couple nights like those too.”

“Oh, and then the other night he rented a car and we went for a drive. Watched the sunset and then stayed out to look at the stars.” She sighs, lost in the thought, but quickly realizes that Elena hasn’t said anything. She glances her way, then shakes her head in warning. “Elena.”

“Evie.” She replies, with a grin and a raised eyebrow. “He took you to one of the overlooks, didn’t he?”

“Well…He did, but—“

“Let me stop you. You’re going to say ‘nothing’ happened and, as your friend, I’m going to give you a word of warning that ‘nothing’ is exactly how Cassie came into the world.”

“Elena!”

Evie jumps with a start, nearly sending the tomatoes flying when she hits the container with her elbow at Nathan’s protest. She busies herself with moving it out of range as Nathan and Sam enter the open kitchen.

“It’s the truth, Nate. You were there too.”

“Still.” He says, giving Elena his best puppy-dog stare in a silent plea to not share anymore about the subject. “You don’t have to share all the details.”

“Oh believe me, that’s not anywhere near detailed. I could tell Evie all about it, but I think she’d appreciate being spared the mental image and your brother could probably do without hearing about it as well.”

Sam chuckles as Nathan and Elena playfully bicker, walking over to lean on the opposite side of the counter, and fixes Evie with his most charming smile. “Hi, there.”

“Hi.” Evie answers, breaking into a smile when he waggles an eyebrow. Only to giggle a moment later when Nathan, finished pleading with his wife, thumps his brother on the shoulder.

“Not where we eat, Sam.”

“Nathan!”

“Don’t ‘Nathan’ me. I’ve heard about way too many of your escapades over the years to trust you. I know better.”

“The Fisher-Drake kitchen is a neutral zone. Got it.” Evie says, with a barely smothered laugh as she helps Elena gather up plates and utensils so the table can be set. “We’ll just have to count that one as a loss, Sam.”

“Not you too.”

-

After lunch is finished and the quartet has dispersed through the house, Sam sets out to find Evie and give some alone time— and perhaps another attempt at popping the question — another shot… if the moment happened to be right, that is. He peeks into the kitchen and upon finding Nathan taking care of the dishes, turns his search elsewhere. The hall turns up empty and he’s not about to go searching through the bedrooms, so he turns his efforts to checking the living room and— thankfully— ends up finding just the person he’s looking for. He lingers for a moment in the doorway, then stealthily makes his way over to the couch while Evie has her attention focused elsewhere and gently tackles her onto the cushions.

“What’s gotten into you?” She asks, giggling as he peppers kisses all over her face and wriggling a bit beneath him when his free hand ghosts along her side.

“Oh, just thrilled that we’re finally alone.” 

“Uh, Sam⏤”

“Not alone, actually.”

Sam stills, then turns to face the couch opposite the one he and Evie are seated on, finding his sister-in-law watching them with an amused smile. He laughs it off and gently tugs Evie’s shirt back down from where it had ridden up. To her credit, Evie only looks mildly embarrassed and even laughs when Sam gives a joking “Right, what were we talking about?” as he moves to the other side of the couch.

“Elena and I were discussing gear. I was just telling her about the camera you bought me after I broke my old one in Rio.”

“Ah, right the uh… fancy one with all the lenses.” When Elena raises an eyebrow, Sam admits, “Honestly, I didn’t know a lot about cameras at the time. I just went into the first store I could find that sold cameras, told the person in that department that my girlfriend had just broken her very expensive camera that was extremely important for work, money was not an issue, and just to bring me the nicest camera they had for professional photography.”

“Well, you must’ve done a good job in getting your point across. From what Evie’s told me, that’s her favorite one to use both for work and personal shoots.”

“It is. You did a great job, Sam. Not to mention it was incredibly sweet of you when it was my own fault that it ended up broken in the first place.” Evie snuggles up to Sam on the couch, resting her head against his chest as he wraps an arm around her and smiles down at her.

“Sure must’ve done something right if you’re still with me after all this time.” Sam replies as their eyes meet. The both of them must be starring a bit too intensely and just a tad too long as Elena interrupts them with a pointed cough and they both guiltily turn their attention her way.

“Would you two like some alone time?”

“No,” Sam sighs in defeat but makes sure to keep his tone at least somewhat playful. “I suppose I can let you can have her for the afternoon. Nathan had some things he wanted to show me anyways.”

“Are you sure? Because I can vacate so long as the two of you promise to keep your clothes on while you’re on my couch.”

“… I’m not sure we can keep that promise. Right, Evie?”

“Sam!”

His laughter echoes through the room as he gives Evie a quick kiss and a wave before he exits the living room, leaving the duo with the promise that he would get his incredibly beautiful— a remark that makes Evie cover her face and sigh at his dramatics— girlfriend all to himself the following morning.

-

“So, what would you like to do today, love?” Sam asks over breakfast, watching as Evie blinks at him over her cup of coffee. “I’ve got you to myself all morning, so I’m completely at your mercy.”

“Completely at my mercy, hm?” She smiles before she takes another sip, humming as she runs through the options on her mind. “Why don’t we explore the town? We didn’t get to see too much of it the last time we were there, given that we were both too drunk to be concerned with anything aside getting back home.”

“If you want to explore the town, we’ll explore the town.”

“Perfect. Do you think it’d be a long walk?”

“Shouldn’t be too far, maybe fifteen minutes or so? Give or take.” He returns Evie’s smile with one of his own. “Just let me know when you’re ready to go and we’ll head out.”

Scarcely twenty minutes later, Evie and Sam head up the hill and through the neighborhood to town. They pass a handful of shops, restaurants, and even a few bars—not yet open, of course— as they wander through the streets. They walk a couple of blocks, only stopping every now and again when something catches their eye, before their path takes them to a bridge spanning across a bustling street below. Evie walks to the side of the bridge and peers down in curiosity, her delighted gasp catching Sam’s full attention. 

“Oh, look a market!” She grabs Sam’s hand and tugs him along, eager footsteps carrying the both of them down the closest flight of stairs towards the market below. “Come on, I want to look at everything!”

“Only if you promise to slow down so we don’t both fall down the stairs.” He says with a laugh, adding “I know I can catch you, but I don’t think you can catch me, doll.”

Evie shushes him but heeds his warning, slowing her footsteps to a normal pace as they continue down another set of stairs. When they hit street level she drops his hand and dashes away, her delighted cry of ‘oh, look at all the flowers!’ Sam’s only indication of where she’s disappeared to as she gets lost in the crowd. He gets a glimpse every few moments as she weaves her way between all the people gathered in the market and does his best to keep up⏤ in the end settling for just making his way towards the flower stalls. He’ll find her sooner or later. He makes his way through the crowd and finally catches up to her at a stall packed full of fragrant flowers, all in various shades of blue and purple.

He pulls out his phone and snaps a photo as she leans towards a cluster of flowers labeled ‘hyacinth’⏤ capturing her serene expression and the beauty of the sunlight glinting against her hair.  She turns towards him at the sound and shakes her head, waiting patiently as he walks over to her. He drapes an arm across her shoulders and smiles down at her before waving a hand at the array of flowers.

“If I would’ve known you loved flowers this much, I would’ve made sure you had them in the apartment back home at all times.” When she raises an eyebrow, Sam amends, “... not that we’d usually be home to take care of them. Right, maybe fake flowers then. They can’t die, so you can have them forever.”

“You’re too much sometimes.”

“That’s fair.” he muses, kissing the top of her head. “Well, if you can’t have them back home... why not pick out some here? We can keep them in the guest house and either give them to Elena to keep after we leave or we can just toss them after our stay is over.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, there’s a bunch of empty vases under the sink⏤ plenty of options for something to keep them in. Pick out whatever kind you want, or kinds, they’re for you after all. Make yourself a bouquet, doll! I’ll buy you whatever your heart desires.”

“Oh? What if I desire something that can’t be bought?”

“Then I’ll have to find a way to work some magic. Unless you’ve got a different thing in mind. In which case, some arrangements can be made.” He leans down to whisper in her ear. “All you have to say is when.”

Evie coughs discreetly as the flower vendor eyes them with scrutiny and Sam straightens with a smile. She run her fingers over one of the hyacinth stems and hums as she weighs her options. “I like both colors. Can we make a bouquet with both the blue and purple?”

“Whatever you want.” He answers, leaving her briefly to talk to the vendor who comes back and gathers the flowers from the buckets they were arranged in. Once the flowers have been bundled and wrapped in paper he hands over a handful of bills— more than necessary but tells the vendor to keep the change. “You helped me make my girl very happy. Have a good day!” He yells, with a chuckle and a wave as Evie tugs him along to their next market destination.

He nearly thuds into the neighboring market stand of the one she stops at, when they finally come to a halt, her vibrant green eyes alight in awe as she studies the various intricate jewelry pieces on display. Sam can’t help but shake his head at her enthusiasm and the way she’s looking over the array of bracelets and necklaces. “You know,” he says as he leans close, “that one with the pendant matches your eyes quite well and it’d sit just above⏤”

“I promised Alessandra I’d find her something nice as a thank you for helping me get a flight to see you.” She interrupts, giving him a warning look before he can finish his sentence. “So if you want to help me find one that might suit her tastes?”

“I can certainly try but you know her better than I do. Maybe that red one with all the stones? She seems to like that color. Or what about⏤” He crashes into Evie when a passerby collides with him and two of them nearly upend the stall. He reaches out to steady both himself and Evie as he studies the crowd. “Watch where you’re going, yeah?” He calls with more than a little annoyance in his tone as the individual walks away and pays the two of them no mind.

“I’m so sorry,” Evie apologizes to the stall owner, who waves a hand nonchalantly and merely says it happens all the time. “By chance, would I be able to purchase this?” 

“Could I purchase this as well?” 

“Sam,” Evie glances his way after paying the stall owner and shakes her head. “You don’t have to keep buying me things.”

“Let me spoil you, doll. You came all this way to see me, it’s the least I can⏤” He reaches into his pocket and freezes, realization dawning on his face. “Son of bitch! You!” He yells as he quickly scans the crowd, then finds the person he’s looking for about five stalls down and runs towards them.

“Sam⏤” 

“Be right back, doll! Just need to have a nice chat so I can get my wallet back!”

He chases the individual through the market, leaping over chairs and vaulting over low tables in his pursuit. The chase takes him through another section of the market, down two alleyways, and through several bushes before he catches up to them in picturesque area with a large fountain and a fantastic view of the horizon. Sam stops to catch his breath, holding a hand out towards the thief who eyes him warily. “Look, I get it. Greatness from small beginnings and all that, but I really need you to give me back my wallet. Just hand it over and you can walk away.”

The thief looks him over, then bolts. Sam swears and gives chase, tackling the culprit into the grass and yanking his wallet from their grip. Target acquired, he moves to climb off of them but isn’t quick enough and promptly gets an elbow to the face. Sam topples backwards as the thief gets to their feet and runs away, disappearing back into the crowd without a backward glance. Hurried footsteps ring out on the stone path leading to the fountain and Sam winces, raising a hand to his face and the sore spot just beneath his right eye. He can already tell that he’s going to have one hell of bruise come morning.

“There you are!” Evie runs over, dropping to her knees beside him in the grass as he props himself up on his elbows and she looks him over in worry. “Oh, you’re hurt! Tell me you didn’t try to fight them?”

“I didn’t. All I did was politely ask for my wallet.” He jerks when she gently touches the blooming bruise below his eye. “Had to tackle them to get it back and apparently I didn’t let them go fast enough.”

“They punched you?”

“More like elbowed me in the face.”

“Oh, Sam.”

“Wish I could say you should see the other guy, but I’ve been on my best behavior so it would be a lie.” He chuckles as Evie’s expression grows even more concerned and shakes his head, “Swearing loudly in the middle of the market aside, of course. Hey, since I’ve got you down on the ground with me in the middle of this very picturesque park and just chased down a thief, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

Sam reaches into his pocket of his jeans, intent on revealing the velvet box that’s been carried with him almost every day since she arrived… but only finds his wallet. He laughs nervously, the first time Evie’s heard him do so in almost nine years, and checks the other followed by his back pockets. Empty-handed, and thus ringless, Sam panics. “Evie, doll, have you uh… seen my lighter? Or do you perhaps have it on you?”

“Sam,” Evie answers with a frown and confusion mixed with suspicion warring in her gaze. “You quit smoking four years ago.”

“Ah, so I did.” Sam takes a breath and sits up. “Hey, Evie? Forgive me, I love you, and I promise I’ll be right back.” He bolts before she can stop him, sprinting in the direction he saw the thief go in though he knows it’s a long shot at best. He dashes through the crowd on the far side of the park and scans the area for any side paths or inconspicuous exits, relying on his years of treasure hunting to try and think like a thief. It takes one to know one after all.

He spots a side street to the left and dashes down it, emerging in another bustling park full of people. Unfortunately, the culprit is nowhere to be found. Sam  spits out a string of lengthy curses that would make even the most vulgar of people color a few shades and offers an apologetic smile at a woman who passes by— glaring all the while — with two children in tow.

“Really fucked up this time, didn’t I?” He muses, intent on finding his way back to Evie when his phone rings. He answers without checking the screen, leading in with a sheepish laugh. “Hey, doll, I swear I can explain⏤”

“Explain what?” 

“…Nathan?”

“Didn’t you check before you answered the phone? Yes, it’s Nathan. So what were you needing to explain to Evie?”

“Nothing.” Sam says quickly, jogging back to the side street. “Did you need us to pick up something while we were out or…?”

“No, I’m pretty sure Evie picked up anything we could’ve needed when she grabbed groceries the other day. I just called to let you know you might be missing something important.” Nate pauses, then laughs at Sam’s bewildered silence. “Maybe a little box with a ring in it?”

“You’re joking. You better be joking, Nathan.”

“Nope, I’ve got it right here in my hand. You know, you’re lucky I found it before Elena or Cassie did.”

“Where was it? Are you⏤ Seriously? Out of all the fucking places I could’ve left it⏤ No, no, it’s fine. Just hang onto it until we come back. I bought Evie flowers so I’ll hide it again when I put those away.” He emerges back in the original area he’d left Evie in and finds her perched on the edge of the fountain, staring up at the statue of two lovers in the center. “Thanks again, Nathan. I gotta go, I’m back with Evie. We’ll see you later.”

She turns her head at his approach and offers a soft smile. “Find what you were looking for?”

“No,” he answers sheepishly, sitting down beside her on the edge of the fountain and gently bumping her arm as he reaches out and rests one of his hands over her own. “Turns out I left it at Nate and Elena’s. I’m sorry for running off on you.”

“It’s alright. You wouldn’t have dashed off like that if it weren’t important, though I do wish you would’ve been honest about it.” Sam hangs his head in shame, gaze downcast in response to her words. “I won’t ask because I’m guessing it’s meant to be a surprise but just say you lost something next time, okay?”

“It really is meant to be a surprise for you and it was… rather expensive. So I just said whatever came to mind. Didn’t want to ruin it. You… ready to head back for the day?”

“Yeah, I’ve got my flowers and the jewelry I bought. Plus the one you wanted to buy me. The vendor said it was a two for one deal, but I think they felt bad about what happened.”

“Sorry.”

“For getting your wallet stolen?” 

“Evie.”

“It’s fine, Sam. Really. I promise. Let’s just go home, ok?”

Sam gives her a look that says he doesn’t quite agree or believe her but nods and drapes an arm around her shoulders as they walk back to the car. The drive home is mostly quiet, interrupted only by Evie cheerfully singing along to songs on the radio in an attempt to get Sam to cheer up. Her efforts work for the most part and she’s able to a least get a chuckle out of him when she bumps up the volume and dramatically sings along to a cheesy love song. He seems to be in better spirits by the time they return to the Fisher-Drake residence and is all smiles as Cassie greets them, even encouraging Evie to go with his niece as she eagerly asks about teaching her to surf. 

“Well… it does sound fun and if your uncle is okay with being without me for a bit?”

“Go have fun, doll.”

Evie glances back at Sam one more time before following after Cassie, who’s eagerly sprinting towards the main house to fetch her suit and board. As Cassie disappears into the house, Evie veers off to the guest house and goes inside to change. Sam reluctantly takes advantage of the time alone to take a solo stroll along the far side beach in attempt to rid himself of his somber mood. Another thwarted attempt isn’t the end of it all, and it certainly doesn’t mean he can’t try to propose— again — another day at a hopefully more opportune time. It’s not the end all be all, really. Yet… Sam can’t help but feel discouraged when faced with the fact that each time he’s tried to ask Evie to marry him at what he thought was the perfect time, it’s been ruined.

 He comes to halt a good distance down from both the guest and main house, staring out at the ocean as his thoughts mirror the turmoil of the waves. Is he really just that bad at timing? Or is it a sign that perhaps Evie deserves better than anything he can offer her? The thought only sours his mood further and he scowls at the rolling waves, not hearing the footsteps slowly approaching where he stands until it’s too late.

“Been together a long time, haven’t ya.” Sully’s voice shatters Sam’s train of thought and he chuckles just a little when he turns to face him in surprise.

“Ten years.” Sam answers, shaking his head as he looks back at the horizon. “I wasn’t sure you were actually going to join us, old man.”

Sully sighs and takes another sip of his beer as he overlooks the ocean⏤ choosing to ignore Sam’s jokingly intended remark. Nate had warned him that Sam had seemed off upon his return with Evie and asked Sully to offer what advice he could, though Sully himself wasn’t quite certain he was the right person for this particular job. ��She’s a rare woman.” He begins, pausing for a moment as he tries to find a way to best broach the subject with Sam. “Surprised she’s stayed with you all these years. You’ve never seemed the type to be a one-woman kind of man.”

“That’s a bit of a low blow, Victor.”

“I’m just speaking the truth here.” Sully protests, already off to a bad start. A stretch of uncomfortable silence falls, broken only by the sound of the crashing waves and Evie’s laughter from further down the beach as Cassie tries to teach her to surf to little avail. “You ever gonna tie the knot?”

“I’m working on it.”

“She might not wait around forever.” Sully’s way of saying ‘keep trying, kid’ that thankfully seems to get him somewhere.

“I said I’m working on it. I’ve got the ring. Had it for five years now.”

“Sam, if you’ve had the ring for that long why haven’t you—“

“Oh, not you too. I’ve already had this lecture once this week.” Sam holds a hand up as if to ward off Sully’s next words and finds the weight of the stare focused on him to be even worse than whatever he’d been about to say. “Fine. What is it this time, Victor?”

“Just... maybe you’re getting cold feet about it.”

“Are you kidding me?” Sam laughs and waves a hand in Evie’s and Cassie’s direction. “I’ve been with Evie for ten years. Ten. What’s there to be apprehensive about?”

“Well, from what Nate said and what I’ve seen you’ve never been one to be tied down. You’re the poster child for commitment issues, for christsakes.”

“Oh you’re one to talk. What about Alessandra, huh?”

“I’m an old man, Sam. She’s a lot younger than I am and that’s a whole different ball game.”

“Oh really? How is dancing around committing to a relationship for three years any different than you trying to tell me that I’m having second thoughts about my girlfriend who I’ve been with for ten years?”

“Sam⏤”

“You know what, Victor? Maybe I haven’t asked her yet, not because I’m doubting that it’s what I want but because I want it to be perfect for her. Because I think she deserves better than some idiot who can’t get the question right on the fifth try and maybe, because every single attempt I’ve made at trying to make this the best I can has been ruined by something!”

A blanket of silence falls, interrupted only by the sound of the rolling waves, as the two of them stand awkwardly before each other. Sam runs a hand through his hair and looks skywards, slightly ashamed at his outburst… and the fact that Evie⏤ not to mention the rest of his family⏤ had likely heard him. It was certainly looking as if the evening could and would be far worse than the day had been. Sully taps a finger against his beer bottle, then sighs.

“Listen, Sam, I shouldn’t have pushed you on the whole thing with Evie. But that bit about Alessandra and I⏤ that was uncalled for.”

“Truce?”

“We’ll call a damn truce.” Sully answers gruffly, laughing a bit despite himself when Sam thumps him on the back. “One last thing though…”

“Victor⏤”

“Now, hear me out kid. You’re so concerned about it being absolutely goddamn perfect… maybe that’s your problem. You focus too much on the details and when things start going wrong, you get the idea in your head that it’s not good enough for her. You love her, don’t you? Want to spend the rest of your life with her, settle down, have a family of your own? Then that’s all that matters.” Sully pats him on the shoulder and adds, “That girl loves you more than anything, Sam. It’ll be perfect for her no matter how you go about it.” as he walks back to the main house to say goodnight to Nate and Elena before he heads back to town and his hotel.

“Thanks, Victor.” Sam mutters, heaving a sigh before starting down the beach⏤ intent on finding Evie and getting her away from his niece so everyone, Cassie included, could finally call it a night. The expanse of beach is empty, even the dock void of it’s usual four legged occupant and it’s at that moment that Sam realizes just how late into the evening it’s become. “Well, guess everyone’s headed in for the night.”

He walks down the beach a ways, then crosses to the guest house and waves to Nathan who yells “goodnight!” as he lets Victoria, who’d been waiting patiently on the front deck, back in for the evening. Sam enters the guesthouse with a tired sigh and is disappointed when he finds both the kitchen and living area empty. His shoulders slump a little at the idea that she may have already gone to bed without him, but he perks up at the sound of movement from the bedroom.

Sam quickly makes his way through the guest house and dramatically leans around the bedroom doorframe, a frown etching itself across his face as he finds the bed and surrounding area as empty as the rest of the rooms. He straightens and crosses to the bed, dropping onto it with a sigh of defeat as Evie emerges from the bathroom damp haired and wearing a robe.

“I wondered when you’d come in.”

“I thought you’d gone ahead to bed without me.” He answers patting the space beside him and grinning when Evie offers a soft smile and a shake of her head. 

“You know I can’t sleep without you.” 

“All those nightly phone calls would seem to suggest that but I can never be too sure.” He pats the space beside him once more and flashes a triumphant grin when she complies.

Evie sits down next to him and lets him take the towel from her without any fuss, closing her eyes as he gently towels her hair dry. It’s something she’s told him time and time again that he doesn’t have to do for her but he always insists⏤ cutting off any protest she makes by remarking that it never tangles when he does it. It’s a small thing, true, but it’s something he’s done for her since they first moved in with one another all those years ago. 

“You seemed upset earlier. What were you were talking with Sully about?” She muses, only becoming concerned when Sam’s movements still and the towel slips from her hair as he stands and walks back to the bathroom to hang it up without a word. “Sam?”

“It’s wasn’t anything important.” He walks back into the bedroom and lays on his side of the bed, one hand tucked beneath his head. “Lay down with me? I haven’t had you to myself all day.”

Evie sighs playfully⏤ as if it’s some big ordeal⏤ and cuddles up to him, resting her head on his chest as he wraps his free arm around her. “It’s not like you to get upset over things you don’t think are important.” She feels Sam wilt beneath her touch and sits up, her gaze soft as a look of defeat crosses his face. “I’m not going to push you on it… but I do think you could use something to take your mind off whatever it is that’s bothering you.”

“What’d you have in mind, doll?”

She doesn’t answer, merely climbs onto his lap and loosens the belt of her robe with a raised brow instead⏤ an action Sam returns with his signature grin. He rests his hands on her thighs, slowly sliding his palms up the soft skin and beneath her robe… and quirks a brow when he finds far less fabric than he expected. 

“Planning on seducing me, were you?” 

“I still can if you get your pants off.”

“Just my pants?”

“Well, it’d be a lot more fun with all your clothes off but I can make do if you’d rather be lazy about it.” She teases, laughing when he presses a hand to his chest as if wounded. “So how about it?”

“Hm,” he muses, sliding his hands back down her legs until they rest just above her knees. “I’d say have at it, and that this reminds me of our first date. You know, I still think a hat really would’ve made the whole thing. I’d b⏤”

“I swear if the word stallion leaves your mouth, you’ll be sleeping in the living room.” At Sam’s laugh she tacks on a stern, “I’m not joking.”

“I’m just playing, doll. Not about the memory, of course.”

“I can see your⏤ point!” Evie’s voice cuts off in a small shriek as Sam quickly flips her over and pins her to the mattress. “Sam⏤” She barely gets his name out before he’s leaning in for a kiss and any and all coherent thought flies out the window.

His hands are as busy as his mouth, deftly tugging the top her robe open and sliding ever downwards to undo the belt holding the rest of it closed. He stops for a moment when her fingertips slide beneath the edge of his shirt, grazing just above the top of his pants and tracing lazy circles against his skin.

“Evie, that is… very distracting.”

“I don’t think it’ll be any fun for you if I’m the only one naked.” She counters, ceasing her movements to tug at his shirt instead. “Take your shirt and your pants off and then you can get back to what you had planned.” She adds, looking up at him with a seductive grin.

Sam rocks back onto his knees and yanks his shirt over his head, tossing it off into the depths of the darkened room. He undoes the button his pants and climbs off the bed to let the article of clothing fall to the floor. He fixes his gaze on Evie, love and lust glimmering in his eyes, as he drops his boxers as well before he gets back into bed with her— Evie’s barely half-closed robe the only thing keeping them from being skin to skin. He places a hand on either side of her and settles between her legs, a smirk gracing his face at the way her mouth drops open and her pupils blow wide. It’s far from the first time they’ve done this, but Sam’s a bit proud to say he gets the same reaction every time.

“Think you could lose that robe now?”

Evie nods and quickly wriggles out of it, her giggle as Sam yanks it out from beneath her and tosses it into the depths of the bedroom replaced by a soft moan as he rolls his hips and grinds down against her. She returns his movement with her own, nails digging into his back as she bucks her hips upwards— her eagerness earning a laugh from Sam as he kisses her. They continue this way for some time, wandering hands sure to leave marks as things become more and more heated. 

Eventually the two of them decide enough is enough— Evie’s annoyed whine when Sam retreats only further cementing the fact. “Sam, I swear— Just—“

“Ah, small problem, doll.” Sam stills, his hands firmly locked on Evie’s hips to halt any further movements she might attempt to make. He presses his forehead against her own snd loosens his grip, a disgruntled sigh escaping him as he speaks. “I don’t know where I put the condoms.”

“Is that all?” Evie asks with a hint of a smile and amusement barely hidden in her voice as she runs her hands along his shoulders, down his arms, and back up again. “Sam, it’s fine. I’m okay with it if you are.”

“Are you sure?”

“There’s no guarantee one time will be the charm, you know.” She lifts a hand to the nape of his neck and runs her fingers through his hair, gently urging him down to her. “Even if it were guaranteed... well, I have to admit a little baby version of you would be very cute.”

Sam pulls back to gaze at her, adoration heavy in his eyes. “What did I do to deserve you.” He murmurs, leaning back down to kiss her as he takes himself in hand and presses inside her. Evie exhales a breathy moan into the kiss as he slowly rocks his hips into her own, setting a slow and sensual pace. He trails a line of kisses to her neck and nips at the skin, smirking when she digs her nails into his back as he gives a particularly hard surge of his hips. “God, I love you.” He murmurs, sliding a hand beneath her back in an attempt to press her even closer.

“I love you too, Sam. More than— Oh—” She stops talking and clings tightly to him, on hand tangled in his hair and the other entwined with his own as they both cross the edge one after the other.

-

Sam wakes hours later, rolling onto his back and glancing to his left, where Evie lies sprawled languidly next to him with the blanket drawn up over her chest. She’s sleeping soundly, apparently exhausted from the day’s⏤ and night’s⏤ events. He smiles to himself and rolls carefully onto his side as he reaches over to open the top drawer of the bedside table. He spots the familiar box and breathes a sigh of relief, thankful that Nathan had stashed the object where he’d been hiding it for the entire stay thus far. He chides himself for ever leaving it out in the open to begin with and takes the box in hand as he rolls back over, thumping his head back onto the pillow. “Attempt number five, another failure. I can’t believe I’ve messed up every single time.”

“Messed up every time at what?” Evie asks with a yawn as she moves over to snuggle up to him and rests her head on his chest. Her gaze settles on the object held in his hand and she squints at it in confusion, still slightly sleep addled.“Sam, what’s that?”

He stiffens, fingers closing around the velvet box in an attempt to hide it. He chides himself for getting it out; even more so for taking it out post-sex. How on earth was that romantic? He tells himself he can play it off, wait and see if she falls back asleep, bluff, anything. Until Evie sits up, the sheet clutched against her chest as she stares him down with a still sleepy emerald gaze.

“Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine.” He hesitates, then sighs in defeat as he sits up as well. “This is not how I wanted to do this. I mean, we’re alone which was part of the goal but I wanted it to be— Evie? Doll, what’s on your mind?”

“Sam, are you...” She says, voice soft and hesitant as he studies her.

“Am I—“

“Are you... breaking up with me?”

Out of all the things she could’ve said, all variations of ‘proposing’ in his head, to say that was the most unexpected would be an understatement.

“What? Am I— Am I breaking up with you?” He drops the box on the bedside table and reaches for her, warm hands pulling her close. “Jesus Christ, Evie, no. Why would you think that?”

“You led with how it wasn’t how you wanted to do this and I just thought of all the things you tried to do this past week... I thought maybe you were trying to soften the blow.”

“... Do you want to break-up?” He asks carefully, brow furrowed in worry as he looks down at her still holding her tightly.

“No, of course not!”

“Oh, good, good. That is a relief, let me tell you.” Sam kisses her on the cheek and then on the mouth— long and deep. “Oh, I could not have screwed this up any more if I tried.” He murmurs as he breaks the kiss and releases her from the embrace while he leans over to grab the black velvet box again. This time, he holds it normally and makes no attempt to hide it as he watches her reaction.

“Sam?”

“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. I bought before I even had a plan for how I was going to do this. Jesus, I even asked Nathan for advice.” He shakes his head and glances down at the box held in his palm. “He said when the moment was right, that I would know.” He falls silent for a time, rubbing his fingers across the soft surface before he speaks again— looking into her eyes this time. “The moment’s been right for a while, even more so since you surprised me here. I just... wanted it to be perfect. Romantic, something you’d remember for all the right reasons.”

“Oh my—“

“So, knowing full well that I have screwed this up worse than anything else I’ve ever done, I’m going to try anyway.” He opens the lid and holds it aloft towards her. “Miss Evelyn Crane, my absolutely beautiful Evie... will you marry me?”

Evie drops the sheet, flinging herself towards him and wrapping her arms around him— nearly knocking him flat. She holds him tightly and he makes a weak joke “that bad, huh.” when he hears her choke back a sob, then laugh.

“Oh, Sam.” She moves back, putting just a bit of space between them and clutches the sheet to her chest with one hand while scrubbing at her tears with the other. “Hang on, I need a minute.”

“If you’re going to say no, I’d rather you just put me out of my misery.”

“Samuel.”

“Kidding.” A pause, “I deserve the full name, I did use yours. My mistake. Start over when you’re ready?” She laughs and he takes that as a yes. “Miss Evie Crane, will you marry me?”

“Yes.” She leans in and cups his face with both hands as she kisses him. “Yes, Sam Drake, I’ll marry you.”

Later that morning when the sun has finally made it’s ascent and most of the Drakes and their visitors and have settled onto the front porch, Nate finally checks his phone and sees he’d received a message from his brother in the early morning hours along with a photo.

Sam [2:06 AM]

It’s official!

[Attached is a photo of Sam and Evie kissing, her hand held high in his own to showcase the sparkling ring on her finger.]

“Alright, he finally did it! Elena, look!”

“What happened?”

“Your Uncle Sam finally proposed to your Aunt Evie.”

“They’re getting married? That’s awesome!” Cassie turns to face Sully, who’s already nursing a beer in the early a.m. “Uncle Sully, doesn’t that mean it’s your turn?”

The table erupts in laughter as a sputtering Sully nearly sprays his beer across the expanse of white sand beneath them.

“She’s not wrong, Sully. Elena and I got married, Sam and Evie are getting married... you’re the last one left.”

“Nate.”

[daybreak-academy-fanfic]

Daybreak Academy: Chapter 81

Case of Gula

Summary: In which Gula has an unconventional way of scoping out a local graffiti artist. Word Count: 1,483 First | Previous | Next ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆ ⚬ ☆

Well, there was no way that Gula could deny this particular stunt. Someone had spray painted a rather massive mural on the backside of the Leopardus boys' dorms. The most unfortunate shame was that it wasn't a bad mural either. It depicted a leopard, crouching as if it were ready to pounce on its prey. Behind it was a near midnight sky colored with Daybreak Academy’s signature colors: ivory cream and purple. If you looked close enough, you could almost see each individual hair on the leopard and the white glistening in its eye.

Gula brushed a hand against the mural, admiring the amount of detail that had gone into it. The paint had gone dry but the color was still vibrant. Whoever had done this had finished it recently. If not early this morning, then it must have been late last night. Gula's eyes traced from the main mural to the signature- a tag in this case consisting of bubble lettering with the artist's initials. At least, he assumed they were the artist's initials, and not some dedication to who the mural was designed for.

The Leopardus headmaster took a step back from the mural and placed his hands on his hips. He knew bits and pieces of the art scene. He knew that this paint certainly was not water based, as it didn’t show any sign of dripping. The vibrant colors also indicated that it was a good brand of paint too; barely any filler ingredients that would make the color duller in comparison. Gula gave a small, thoughtful hum to himself as he started to pull out his phone. He had an idea, he wasn’t sure if it would work or not, but it was definitely worth the shot.

He punched a number in his phone and waited for it to ring over. Just when he thought that he was going to get voicemail, the friendly voice of the music director (who also happened to keep a tight booking on the auditorium) answered her phone.

“Hey Ms. A,” Gula greeted with a chipper tone. “I've gotta question; is the auditorium booked for anything this afternoon? I've got some kids I need to guilt trip.”

. . .

If there was one thing about Leopardus students, it was that if they were called for an unannounced assembly, they either looked completely annoyed or totally guilty. Gula learned far long ago that the kids who looked the most guilty, were not the ones he needed to rat out. Not during these seemingly random assemblies for just the Leopardus house, any way.

Gula gave a small head count to make sure all the Leopardus students were in attendance before starting his speech.

“Good afternoon, everyone!” he greeted in a loud, but not demanding, voice. “Everyone enjoying the first Monday in November?”

The auditorium then chorused with various degrees of enthusiasm. Gula couldn’t help but smirk. The faces on the students may change, but their attitudes never did.

“Sounds wonderful.” he said to them with a grin. “Now, I’m sure you’re all wondering why we’re having this little assembly. You see, either early this morning or late last night, someone gave the backside of the boys’ dorms a little makeover. Since I know the true artist isn’t going to show themselves that easily; I’ve set up a little test. Behind me is a large canvas- just large enough so everyone can spray paint a little something onto it. Doesn’t have to be big or bulky, I just want you to pick up a can of spray paint, make an impression on the canvas, then go on your merry way. I’m going to go by year first, then alphabetical order. Which means our first subject will be… Hana Aeducan.”

With this, Gula’s little theory and test was now underway. One by one, year by year, Gula called up every Leopardus student at Daybreak Academy. He watched as they picked up a paint can, did a small tag (or, in some cases, a single line), then left the stage without another word. The students who were shaking so hard that they could barely hold the cans straight gave him a good chuckle; they obviously were not the ones he was after.

He gave nods to the students he saw more regularly. In fact, a part of him expected Ephemer to question this assembly in one way or another, and that kid sure did not disappoint.

“Why are you doing this?” the 16 year old asked with a raise of his eyebrow once the two were close enough.

“Because if you did it, I would have already found out.” came the instant retort and knowing grin. Ephemer couldn’t argue with that; he even gave a small half shrug of indifference.

“Fair enough.” he decided before getting a good look at the spray paint cans.

“Let's see…” the boy went on to muse, possibly with full intentions to annoy Gula, “Which kind has the most vibrant color...?”

Gula cast the student a small side glance. “Ephemer, I have no idea; it's all the same color anyway. Just pick one and tag it already.”

A small chuckle came from Ephemer’s lips as he picked out a spray paint. He did a small heart with the letters ‘E+A’ inside of it before leaving the stage. Gula let out a light laugh of his own before calling up the next student.

As he started to go into the later years, Gula was starting to wonder if he had been wrong. Perhaps his theory was off and it wasn't a Leopardus student that had tagged the dorms? It wasn't too uncommon for there to be overlap in student abilities, after all. But he had been so sure that it was someone in his house. The level of skill he had seen usually did come from Leopardus students. It wasn’t until Gula called up a Ninth Year student named Jake that he completely changed his mind about being wrong.

Jake, like many others before him, gave Gula a skeptic raise of his eyebrow before looking down at the spray paint. His first instinct was to grab the first can he saw, but then the young man paused. He hesitated, for only a moment, before moving his hand over to a different brand. Gula watched with interest as Jake shook the spray paint can as he tried to find a blank spot on the canvas. The young man then started a bubble outline that clearly gave away his initials.

If Gula wanted to, he would have ended the assembly right then and there. But he didn’t. He had to keep up the charade for a little bit longer- if only for effect.

. . .

Jake didn’t bother knocking on Gula’s office door before entering. Not that Gula was particularly strict on the choice. In fact, he had been waiting for Jake, sitting at his desk with his head resting on knitted hands.

“So you decided to give the back of the dorms a little makeover, huh?” the Leopardus headmaster teased. Knowing that he had been caught, Jake’s entire body stiffened for a moment before it turned into annoyance.

“So what?” Jake impatiently questioned. “Am I suspended now? Have to clean the whole mural by hand, or something?”

Gula lulled his head from side to side as he considered the idea. “No.” he decided. “If fact, I brought up the idea with Ira and the rest of them, and we were all agreed; how would you like to decorate some other bare areas around campus? There's this real ugly area behind the cafeteria that should really be cleaned up. A bit of color there would do wonders, don't you think?”

Jake looked like Gula had up and punched him in the jaw.

“You're not mad at me?”

“Oh I was,” the Leopardus headmaster agreed, “But then I saw the technique that went into your last piece. Did you outline everything first, or just go with your gut?”

For a moment, Jake just continued to give a dumbfounded stare. Eventually, he sputtered out a bewildered, “I used a block out method. Big shapes first, then fine tuning them into smaller details. I've never actually outlined anything before.”

Gula gave a very impressed nod at this discovery. “Impressive,” he even approved. “Hope it's not going to take too long- you're gonna get paid by the hour.”

“I… I'm what?”

“Didn't I mention? This isn't just a volunteer job, we're paying you. Invi rearranged the budget already. Aren't you special?”

Jake stood frozen in shock. Eventually, in a strangled voice, he tried to stammer. “T-thank you Headmaster… Headmaster Gula! I… Thank you!”

Not for the last or first time that day, Gula gave his student a knowing smirk. “My pleasure.” he told Jake in a pleasant voice. “Just don’t do it again. Our budget ain't that high.”

[rwbyremnants]

WARNINGS: Just a lot of drama.

Yikesss sorry about this one for those of you who were expecting a lot of smut. Next time will be more fun I swear!

=Chapter 9

That night, Ruby was barely able to sleep. Their session had been beyond fantastic as usual, which usually left her exhausted enough to start napping in the car on the journey home; but this had been completely different. There were a few flirtatious comments between them both on their journey, but nothing more. And even when laying by Penny's side, she couldn't sleep. She just kept thinking about what had happened.

Winter liked her. She must have liked her. All this time, it had been right under her nose, she was just too blind to see it! And what did she do? Nothing. She bottled things up as usual, too scared of her own feelings or a sense of judgement to confess how she really felt. There was a possible relationship right there that would make her feel complete, the perfect complement to her emotional closeness with Penny, and she was too scared to grasp it.

No more, she said to herself. She was tired of lying awake in fear; she had to do something. Whether it helps or not, I have to tell her.

And the next day, she did. After dropping off her father at Yang and Weiss's, the nervous little brunette drove straight to Winter's. No prearranged session, no word of warning. Just her dropping in out of the blue. It was completely different from any contact she had with Winter before. When she knocked at the door, she could already feel her heart pounding.

"Just a moment," she heard distantly. There was a long pause, some approaching steps. Then she heard a gasp. "Ruby?!"

An instant later, the door was being unlatched and jerked open. There stood Winter, dressed in her usual business best. It looked as if she were about to leave for some meeting or other, even though she had yet to slip her heels on over her nylon-covered feet. Makeup already impeccable, she blinked slowly, baffled and waiting for an explanation.

"I need to talk to you." The look on her face spoke volumes about her desperation. She looked as though she had already been worrying for days – because she had. "Is this a good time? Or should I…?"

"Well… I have about fifteen minutes, I was just going to head out a little early. Come in, come in."

To drive the point home, she stood back and opened the door a little wider. Doing as asked, Ruby paced inside immediately. If it was anything minor, she would have arranged to come back another day, especially with Winter seeming to have plans. But she was in need. Right away, she walked into the living room, standing rather than sitting just yet.

"Sorry to show up so out of the blue like this."

"My red rose out of the blue," Winter joked with a quiet smile, picking up her heels and sitting in the chair. "Go ahead. What's up?"

"W-well…" Before she entered the door, she had rehearsed this in her head. Exactly what she would say, possible responses and outcomes. Now…

Blank. Her mind was completely and utterly blank. Why did she even come here in the first place? She clearly wasn't ready, not for this.

No! she told herself, shaking her head again. You can NOT do this again, Ruby Rose! You have to say something now – or no more cookies for a week! Swallowing, she continued to stand by Winter's sofa, staring outward rather blankly. "I-I've… been thinking. About our arrangement, what it means to us both."

"Have you?" Winter asked mildly as she pulled one shoe on. Carefully, as if knowing that Ruby was having trouble and that the best thing she could do for her was to be indifferent; to not overreact.

"Y-yes." Nerves were getting to her again. Not even a few seconds into the confession and she was already beginning to feel that she couldn't continue. Powering through, however, she looked back toward Winter. "The way you treat me… i-it's different, from how other Doms treat their subs. I saw in the club, they treat them as their friends, or casual hookups. The nice ones still care, sure, but they don't seem to go… above and beyond. And like… the more sessions we do, the more I begin to realise… y-you treat me like Blake would treat Sun. Still as a Dom, but… more. There's more set up, more care. You go over the moon and back to impress me with everything, make sure I’m safe, a-and happy."

Slowly, as she had continued speaking, Winter's eyebrows drew together. She had picked up the other heel, but it simply lay in her hands as she processed Ruby's words. Finally, she shrugged and tried to respond as best she could.

"That's because you are more than that to me. You're a friend, and a family member. And… I care about you very much. You're right that if it was purely a Dom-sub arrangement with someone I only know from The Clamp, I wouldn't be quite as caring; professional, and considerate, yes. And I'd definitely stop them from winding up in Cinderella's clutches regardless," she added with a frown.

"It's not just about Cinderella," she pushed ahead, finally finding herself sitting on the arm of Winter's sofa. Looking down a moment, she seemed to think a little longer before speaking up again. "You bought so much for our scenes, spent so much on me, just for a little fun. You brought a chapter of a book and film I love to life, for God’s sake!"

Again, Winter had to blink, before laughing - it was the kind of unsure laughter of someone who doesn't know what to think about what they're hearing. "But… but that was what you wanted, wasn't it? Is that what this is about, worrying about the cost? I told you, that doesn't matter to me. Seeing you happy is worth it."

"N-no. That's just it!" Looking straight at her instead, it seemed she was finally coming to the conclusion of their small talk. "You do all this, just for me. You do everything to make me happy… and it does make me happy, happy someone cares about me so much. But I can't help but feel that…" Moment of truth. The first phase of her confession, finding out how Winter felt…

"That you care about me as more than a friend. More than a family-in-law member."

The elder of the Schnee sisters didn't respond at first. She simply stared at the coffee table between them, trying to process what she was being asked-but-not-asked. Or, perhaps more accurately, trying to find how she was going to respond to it.

"Well… I… don't know what's making you think that. Is there something wrong with me wanting to treat you well? To show that you're not just some sub? That may be true, but the way you're saying it… is it such a bad thing to care about you?"

"No, it's not at all!" It seemed not to have come out how she intended. Not only did Ruby gain no knowledge, she had potentially insulted her. That was the last thing she wanted. Now was her only chance. "What I'm getting at I-is… I-I care about you, too. A hell of a lot! And the more I've been thinking about it, the more I've been realising - I care about you more than I would an average friend, even best friend. You're… on the same level as Penny." Swallowing one last time, she finally managed to find the courage. "What I'm trying to say is that… That I-"

But there was a clear clattering of the lock again at the door, one loud enough to stop her in her tracks. The worst thing was the voice that accompanied the sound – one that seemed familiar.

"Snowbird, you in? I have had a real crappy day, I swear to God."

Eyes flying wide, she turned to Ruby and hissed in a low but urgent voice, "I need you to go hide immediately. I'm sorry, but if our arrangement really does mean anything to you… this is very important. Go!"

"B-but-!" Another shush from Winter stopped the thoughts in their tracks. Doing as asked, Ruby made a quick dash for the bathroom, slowly shutting it behind her so there wasn't too much noise. What was going on? Curiosity got the better of her; she she pressed her ear against the door to listen in.

"Customers, they are fuckin' jerks. Bar told me to go home early cause they could tell I was too pissed off not to take it out on some random sap."

"That's a shame," Winter was saying. Her voice was slightly more strained than usual, but not by much. "I know you like that job most days of the week. You… haven't been partaking of their stock again, have you?"

"Nah, we just got a bachelor party. Told them they had too much, they got pissy. Nearly picked a fight with me, I swear. But home now…"

By this point, Ruby knew she recognised that voice. There was no way it could be who she thought it was… could it? She needed to know. Gently easing the door further open, she slowly looked through the crack, revealing it to be…

Exactly who she dreaded it was. There stood a salt-and-pepper haired man, who had just wrapped his arms around Winter. The man who pulled her close to him and was smirking suggestively was one of the worst people she could ever see in this situation.

Her Uncle Qrow. Winter was living with her uncle.

“Now, now,” Winter cooed, her voice pitched so low that Ruby couldn’t have heard it if the door were closed. It wasn't quite affectionate in the way of a girlfriend, but more like… the term "fuckbuddy" that Yang liked to use seemed applicable. "You know I don't have time for this; I'm off to a meeting. I didn't think you'd be home now, anyway."

"Awwww, you sure they can't wait twenty minutes? You know it only takes me that long to make you scream." Smirking downward at her, he gave her a light grasp on the backside. "Especially if that bed frame of yours is involved, hmm?"

This was even worse for Ruby. Not only was she having to deal with the knowledge that one day, her uncle could walk in on them in any moment, but now… it seemed they were both sleeping with the same woman. While Winter had been her Dom, she had still been with her uncle! That crossed all kinds of awkward lines!

Winter's giggle and "Ooh" didn't help matters much. But then she did say, "Tonight. Just corral your horses for the time being, and we will revisit this when I'm back." Then, as an afterthought, she cleared her throat and said, "Why don't you take a little nap? Might help you relax after work… be ready for plenty of action later."

Qrow only seemed to chuckle, even if he was retracting from her grip. "You're telling me to be a lazy ass today? Wow, are you feeling okay?"

"Fine, fine. You've earned it for tonight." In return for him squeezing her behind, she delivered a quick swat to his. "Get in there and relax a bit. I have to be off, anyway."

"I’ll spare myself that kind of relaxing, if you wanna do a scene later. I know you’re happy when it's extra hard." Still, he obediently followed the request. He headed straight for the spare bedroom, thankfully not noticing the slightly ajar bathroom door and little Ruby's eye peeking through it, watching his every movement.

Her own uncle… Winter had been living with him for months. None of this was mentioned, and yet, it was still going on. This was madness! Sick!

The minute the bedroom door shut, Winter started pacing down the hall, as if to open the door. But when she saw it was already open and Ruby was peering through, she waved at her to come out - while her other hand raised a finger to her lips, cautioning her to be quiet.

She would have been, anyway. More from shock than anything else. She was still trying to take everything in that had just happened. Qrow, all this time she had no idea it was Qrow. Nor did she have any idea that they were doing scenes together, something she should have probably guessed when they were both in the same club! God, she felt stupid.

Once they were back in the living room, she pointed toward the bedroom, talking in a hushed voice, "Qrow?! My Uncle Qrow?!"

"Ah," Winter breathed. Her expression had already been strained from the near-miss… but now it fell entirely. "So… you recognised him."

"Of course I recognised him! The man more or less raised me with Dad for over ten years!" Now that Ruby was beginning to come to terms with it, she was becoming more angry than anything else. A mixture of angry and sad. Even if she was keeping her volume down, it was obvious. "Why didn't you tell me that he's living here?! That you and him are a thing, too?! That's kinda something you oughtta tell his niece before you start any hanky panky!"

"Let's discuss this on the way to my car," Winter whispered as she moved to pick up her briefcase again. Her actions were highly anxious, but she was trying her best to remain calm. "Otherwise, he may come out to see why I haven't left yet, and perhaps I'm wrong, but I think you'd rather not have this discussion with both of us."

While she wanted to continue ranting, that was a fair point on Winter's behalf. The last thing they needed was for Qrow to know this was happening, as well; that would be awkward for both of them to explain. Reluctantly agreeing, she walked ahead to the door, waiting outside of it for Winter to follow.

Once on the other side, Winter locked the door and began speaking the moment she turned away from it. "So you do have a fair point. I know that… because of the familial situation, maybe I should have told you. On the other hand, it wasn't really any of your business."

"Wasn't any of my- that's my UNCLE!" she repeated again, without holding herself back on volume this time. She remembered her apartment was soundproofed, so there was no chance of him hearing. But didn't exactly realise the rest of the building was not. "It may not be my business normally, but like, isn’t this kind of a different situation?! You just kept banging my uncle and tried to make sure I never noticed!"

Taking off at a fast clip, Winter led the two of them to the elevators as she hissed, "Exactly. Because my arrangement with him is no one's business whatsoever. Just like mine and yours isn't his business, either. That's how this is supposed to work, you know."

"Don't lecture me on how this is supposed to work!" she snapped back. Regardless of the fact she quite honestly wanted to get away from Winter right now, she entered the elevator, keeping right to one corner and out of the way. But from her scowl, she was still livid. "I thought 'None of your business' meant somebody like Sun or Blake! I didn't realise that meant 'Family members included'!"

"He is a friend. To me. Don't forget, he's your uncle, not mine." Sighing, she thumbed the button and they began to descend to the parking levels. "Look. I am sorry that you finding this out upset you, but I stand by what I said; you didn't have any more right to this knowledge than he does. Maybe I should have thought through the discomfort of the situation a little more and been more careful, but that's not the same as saying I was obligated to disclose."

"No, you're not. But like, maybe you should have considered how I'd feel about it before you started training me! Especially if… If you really…" She couldn't even finish that sentence anymore. Now that this information had come to light, she didn't know what to think. As much as she wanted to ignore it all, simply push it to the back of her mind and ignore it had all happened, she couldn't. This was far too big to sweep under the rug.

When Ruby didn't go on, she sighed. "What? So now you think I don't care about you just because I have arrangements with other people? It's not even as if you and Qrow are my only 'clients'; Glynda, for one, has asked me to put her through a few more sessions. And there are others I haven’t told you about, because it’s not pertinent to you and I. The whole point of this not being personal is that it's not supposed to be personal! And before you get any ideas, no, I didn't intend to ‘collect’ an uncle and a niece; it wasn't something that tickled my fancy, and I never thought of you while with him, or him while with you. And I am very serious about that."

"Well maybe I came today to make it a little more personal!"

In that moment, silence fell. All she could do was take a few deep breaths to calm down. While before she was filled with anger and sadness, now that they had come to this crossroads, she felt something else: fear. This definitely wasn't how she was supposed to confess her feelings…

"Yes, I remember," Winter breathed softly. "But… obviously I can't take that to heart yet. Now that this has changed the discussion." Regret was heavy in her features as the elevator doors slid open, and she began walking through the garage. Continuing to follow, Ruby made her way toward her little red car that looked inferior compared to the rest of the vehicles in the garage. How fitting with her current emotions.

Before she completely parted ways with Winter, however, she spoke up again. "So that's it? I just accept it and we don’t change anything, me and him hiding from each other and I have to deal?"

"Why not?!" Winter burst out, stopping in her tracks to glare at Ruby. "What's wrong with the way things have been until now? Everyone got what they wanted! I… may have wanted more, but I was satisfied, and so were you, and so was Qrow! What’s the harm?!"

Glaring right back at her, she was barely able to hold her tears back anymore, feeling the odd one or two falling down her cheek. "The harm is I thought you liked me! Liked me enough to let me know this was a thing, anyway! Of course I feel weird about it! You'd feel weird if I was sleeping with your dad, or with Weiss, wouldn't you?!"

"RIGHT!" Winter burst out, striding right up to Ruby, face livid. The mask of calm she always seemed to wear was now gone, and the sheer level of fury was all the more startling for it. "Because I have no idea what it's like to have family and sexual escapades get a little too close for comfort, DO I? You wouldn't do that to ME! Oh no, of COURSE not!"

"THAT ISN'T FAIR!" She yelled right back, hands curling into fists to try and hold in her anger. "You can't do that! It’s not my fault that you went through all that shit! Don't you throw that at me!!!"

"YOU FUCKED ME IN FRONT OF MY FATHER!" Her chest was heaving, eyes wild. Ruby took a step back when she realised what they were talking about: not some old issues about her prostituting herself to protect Weiss. No, not that; something much more recent. "I bet you haven't had a bad night's sleep about it since you did it! Have you?! Never once cared, never… didn't consider that maybe you shouldn't have done that, even though I was clearly aroused! Have you?!"

The younger girl’s lip wobbled for a second as she dealt with the storm of emotions threatening to make her burst into tears. "WRONG! I haven't slept, not one wink! And since that time, barely at all, because I thought that… thought that you loved me as much as I love you! You have no idea-"

"I DO, Goddamn you! Even after that, after y-you poisoned my dreams, I still…" Now Winter's tears were falling as well. "How am I supposed to be in the same room as him ever again?"

Stopping in her tracks, Ruby waited right by her car door. She hadn't unlocked it yet, and for good reason. Winter was really hurt, about that? She had assumed that was something that she had enjoyed, given her response to it in the midst of their play, but now upon realising it was damaging…

"Holy shiz, I… Winter, oh my God, I'm sorry," she said quietly. "You didn’t say- okay, I know that doesn’t mean you weren’t hurt. I'm sorry I fucked up, okay? But that doesn't… doesn't mean I'm not hurt still by this. I know I shouldn't… but I just feel… feel inferior."

"Well, you shouldn't." Winter pushed a hand into her face, letting out a laugh that was more like a sob. "Now I'm going to have to fix my makeup before the meeting." Waving away that observation, she stood straighter, looking down at Ruby with a wrung-out, haunted expression.

"You think if anyone else had done what you did to me while I was talking to him, I would have pushed through it? Would have continued play? I would have kicked them out of my life completely. Never to come back. It's just… maybe, if we had discussed it beforehand, it would be another story. But you made an assumption that because I was still turned on from our play before he came in, that you could just… start in on me. And I thought I could handle it, so I didn't really try to stop you, and then…" Her head hung. "And then I was too ashamed of enjoying it to ask. I didn't want to admit it was happening, or… I don't know."

Now sadness was starting to return with a vengeance. She didn't even want to look at Winter in that moment. Seeing the damage she had done would be far too much for her heart. She had come to settle things, to pursue an incredible relationship; this was the last thing she wanted. To not just have muddled things, but to have learned she had hurt her in their previous session. She couldn't take that.

"I really am sorry," she repeated, finally unlocking the door of her car. "I-I… I don't deserve you. I'm sorry I ruined everything."

And with that, she got in, belting up and starting it before she could even reply. She needed to get back home, somewhere she could deal with her feelings.

But Winter wasn't quite finished, it seemed. Through the pane of glass and over the roar of the engine, she could just barely hear, "Ruby? Ruby, I…" And then more words that weren't loud enough.

Not loud enough to stop her. As tempting as it was to turn back, Ruby stuck to her intent, driving past Winter and out to the main road. She wanted to look back, but knew the pain would only be too great if she did. Through tearful eyes, she made her way home.

----------------------------

Penny had just returned from a job interview herself. Everything had gone quite well; they really responded well to her attitude and politeness, and said they were excited to contact her soon! Her mood felt impenetrably positive. Maybe their lives were about to go smoothly, after all.

That was, until she heard the tires squealing and the car screeching to a halt in the driveway. Someone else was not having quite as good a day. Soon enough, the door swung open. Ruby was certainly glad that she had dropped her father off before all this began; she couldn't deal with him right now. All she wanted to do was lay down and cry.

And that's what she did. Assuming that her girlfriend was still out, she went straight to the living room, throwing herself across the sofa and snatching the nearest cushion, cuddling into it as closely as she could and began to let the tears flow. Finally she could sob as loudly as she wanted, out of view from anyone who would judge her too harshly.

At least she assumed so. It was several minutes before Penny approached from the kitchen, walking softly enough in her socks that she wasn't heard. But she finally whispered in a fearful tone, "Ruby?"

Ruby gasped. Sniffing and wiping away the few tears, she turned to face her, just managing to strain her voice. "H-hey. I didn't know you were back."

"You don't have to pretend you weren't crying for me," Penny told her very simply as she knelt by the couch. "What's the matter?"

Joining Penny was a small grey Corgi, tail wiggling away as he looked up at her. Seemed he too could sense something was wrong. Mostly in need of something to cuddle other than a cushion, she shifted over on the sofa to sit upright. After picking up Zwei to place him on her lap, she patted the space by her side, inviting Penny up.

"Things went… really wrong."

Penny did join her, sliding an arm around the small of her partner's back. "In what way?"

While her hands were occupied with Zwei, she leaned against Penny instead, nuzzling her head right into her neck as she sniffed again. She barely even knew where to start! "So many, Penny. I… I fucked up. Badly."

"Shhh, shhh," Penny soothed her, hand petting along her back. "You're okay. It's okay, I'm sure you didn't mean to do whatever you did. I know you better than that, Ruby."

"I did though…" Sniffing again, she tried to nuzzle even closer. "It was something I did… I pushed the limits, I went too far…"

And with that, she went on to explain everything. She explained the session, where she had managed to get Winter off with her father right there in the room. She then explained what happened when she went over to tell her how she felt, how it turned out Winter's roommate was Qrow all this time, and how he was also doing sessions with her. In the end, she ended up crying again, whimpering as she cuddled Zwei closer.

Penny let her weep for some time before she bothered to respond. Minutes had gone by with her doing no more than shushing her and petting along her back. When Ruby's voice finally got a little less distraught, her sobs quieter, she spoke up.

"So… I promise I will try to be impartial. You both have very good points."

"I completely screwed it up, Pen," she confessed, sniffing once more. "How could I be so selfish? I should have asked her before doing that. And with Qrow I… I don't even know."

"You should have asked, yes. Personally, I find the idea of doing that in front of anyone's relatives to be disgusting, but I understand it was the heat of the moment… and that for other people, it's not the same as for me." She was being completely matter-of-fact, never taking her hand away from Ruby's back as she explained her point of view.

"I know… I know I just… I wasn't thinking. I guess I…" Blinking again, she didn't know what to really say. There was no defence for her actions; she crossed the line, that was that. "I guess I was trying to prove that I'm brave, a-and sexy? Not some… some little girl who thinks she’s grown up just because I’m over twenty-one."

"I'm sure she doesn't see you as a little girl, Ruby." Kissing the top of her head, Penny went on, "As for Qrow, I can see both sides of the issue. I don't really think either one of you is 'wrong' in this situation. Even if Winter should have considered telling you to make sure no one was left feeling uncomfortable, it wasn't an obligation; from what I understand, most Dom-sub relationships have sort of an unwritten 'non-disclosure agreement', don't they?"

"But my uncle?!" Thankfully, Ruby had calmed down a little more. Being nuzzled up to her girlfriend while having a warm pooch on her lap was certainly helping. Idly petting through his soft fur, she sighed. "I know it's dumb. But it just makes me think dumb things. What if she was sleeping with my dad? With Yang? I thought… thought she would understand why I was flipping out."

"I'm guessing that she expected you would feel this way if you found out. So she didn't tell you." Shrugging, Penny also reached over to scratch Zwei's flank. "But I definitely understand your feelings. If I found out my partner was sleeping with anyone in my family, I… well, I honestly can't say how I would react. But I wouldn't be thrilled."

"It's not the whole idea of 'I've put my mouth where my uncle’s dick has been', like I think she thinks. Like, that’s definitely gross, but she can sleep with who she wants." There was no other way to put it, as much as she wanted to word it better for Penny. Sighing as she scratched behind the dog's ear, she looked at the ground blankly. "It's… different. I can't explain why, or how, but it's the feeling that I’m not good enough, or something, so she needs someone else. Is that weird to think?"

Frowning, Penny turned to her. "But didn't you say she told you that she cares for you, after all? I mean, I know it was in the middle of an argument, but it's still her feelings."

"I know… but why should she care now?" Able to feel the tears returning again, she moved one of her hands to Penny's shoulder, using it to hug her move closely. "She said she cared, I told her I want more, she wanted the same… but I more or less spat in her face and made it all about me. I don't deserve love after that."

"What are you saying? Of course you deserve love!" With a quiet sigh, she embraced Ruby back, nuzzling into her head. "Of course you were both upset about this happening, and an argument occurred. Maybe in a few days, when things have calmed down-"

"I don't think so, Penny," she whimpered. The hand on her shirt began to grip tightly as she took in a few more shaky breaths. "If she poured her heart out to me and I cared only about myself; then what good would I be to her? I'm surprised you put up with me sometimes…"

"Don't do that to yourself," Penny admonished gently. "You were very upset. I understand that, and Winter probably did, as well. But if you want to take some time away… I will understand that, too. This is a unique situation." Kissing her head again, she added in a soft whisper, "And I'm not going anywhere. Don't worry."

Another few shaky breaths, and Ruby found herself leaning against Penny fully. The grip on her shirt loosened again, now that she was positive Penny wouldn't be leaving any time soon. Still, she wasn't in the mood to make herself feel any better. "I seriously don't know why you put up with me… I vent to you about all this stuff that shouldn't matter, about other people, other sexual situations. God… I just feel so selfish."

"And I didn't want you to start dating Winter. That felt very selfish. Human beings are selfish creatures, Ruby. Being selfless isn't the goal; it's to acknowledge your selfish desires as what they are, and work past them. That's all we can hope to do."

"You… didn't?" Taken aback, Ruby backed away from her lover for a moment, looking her in the eyes. "Then… why did you let me? I asked you if you were okay with it, and you said ‘yes’. Are you… really not okay with it?"

Penny laughed at her confusion and fear, but it was a gentle laugh. "Yes, I am. Because I want you to be happy. But that's not the same as wanting you to date her. Like if you donate blood; you don't actually want someone to stab you with a needle and drain part of you away. But you do want the other person to have the blood they need. That's far more important than worrying about your own momentary discomfort." In an undertone, she added, "Which is why I try to get to the Red Cross a few times a year."

"But… me having feelings for her…" Shuffling a little more was enough to prompt Zwei to finally hop off her, scampering straight into the kitchen afterwards. Ruby continued to look at Penny, still checking. "You know that means I'd be treating her the same as you, right? As in, romantically? That's what… what I meant when I asked."

"I see." Debating inwardly for a moment, she said, "Would you treat me as lesser than Winter? As inferior to her?"

"No way!" she reassured, finding herself gripping her shoulder again. "Absolutely not. You'd both be the same. Sure, I'd see you more, because I want to live with you; but neither of you will be inferior, I could never do that to you."

"Then why would I have a problem with that? You're happy, and you care about me the way I care about you. That's fine with me. Even if you end up dating three other women, as long as I don't get forgotten, I see no reason to be upset."

Continuing to stare a moment, Ruby was close enough to tears again. She really did have the perfect girlfriend, even if she didn't have Winter in the end. Perhaps there was still a chance, but perhaps not. Either way, Penny would be by her side. She leaned forward, kissing her lips firmly. Penny didn't hesitate in the slightest to return the kiss, pulling Ruby in as close as was possible. Grateful to have her home, and to have helped console her at least somewhat. Her hands drifted up and down her back, then settled into squeeze her even tighter.

When they broke apart, Penny whispered, "Listen. Whether or not anything was anyone's fault, you've obviously had an upsetting day. Why don't you sit back and let me make you some chicken soup and a grilled cheese sandwich? I won't even make you eat Daiya this time!"

"When you cook it, Daiya tastes fine! It's just when I try it… Well, the bathroom got a few visits from me." She hesitantly began to let her go, but before Penny could leave the room, she asked, "Maybe we could put on a movie too? I think Frozen is on Netflix…"

The ginger shook her head as she stood up, smiling. "You always reach for Disney when you're down. Set it up while I get cooking." Once reaching the door to the kitchen, she looked back. "And Ruby?"

Just as she fetched the remote and sat back down, she looked back toward her girlfriend. "Yeah?"

In her usual, oddly formal singing voice, she started singing, "I love you more today, than yesterday…" Even once she had backed into the kitchen, she kept going: "But not as much as tomorrow…"

Her girlfriend belting out oldies was all it took for Ruby to finally smile again. And she did as she nuzzled back down in the sofa, setting up Netflix. At least now Ruby was in lighter spirits, she could focus on what they were to do in the future; what she should do in regards to Winter. That was, if she even wanted to pursue her after this.

But at least Penny was still with her, and didn’t even hate her for figuring out she might be polyamorous. That would see her through anything to come.

----------------------------

Winter was exhausted down to the bone by the time she returned from her meeting. Everything had gone quite swimmingly; a new and promising young singer looked to be interested in signing to their label. That was good for business.

And so what if she had lost Ruby? It had never been a truly permanent arrangement. The whole idea was only to train her to be a better sub and then hand her off to another, trustworthy Dom. There was no sense in getting upset about it.

Except there is, an inner voice kept whispering. You liked her. You both liked each other a great deal…

Shaking her head, she stepped off the elevator and strode purposefully to her apartment door. Working herself up about it again would solve nothing. It didn't before the meeting, when she bawled in the car and made herself even later by having to touch up her makeup again, and there was no evidence that it would now.

Sat on the sofa by the time she got back was her roommate. As usual, with a bottle of non-alcoholic beer in his hand, and watching an old sitcom on TV. Nothing there had changed, at least. No doubt, however, she would have wished he was in bed, rather than sat there to remind her of the offer she had given before she left.

But that reminder never came. Instead, he watched as she entered the room and kicked her shoes off, barely saying a word. Other than, "Good meeting?"

"Fine." The answer was curt and simple. Turning toward the kitchen, she asked, "Are there any more of those in the refrigerator?"

"I think there's a couple in there. None of the real stuff, though." Unusual. Winter never particularly enjoyed beer. That was one sure sign that something was wrong. But rather than pry for now, he shuffled to one side of the sofa, giving plenty of room for her to sit when she returned. "What's the occasion, Snowbird? Run outta wine?"

"Need something stronger, and I don't want to uncork a bottle, and deal with the cork potentially breaking or… or whatever." Plopping down next to him, she took a healthy swig. "Ohhh, what a day."

"Thought you said the meeting went well?" Right away, he put his arm down across the back of the sofa behind her. Although he made no attempt to pull her in just yet, he was clearly showing he was there for her somehow. "Wanna tell a dusty old Qrow about it?"

Though it was only scarcely bemused, she did snort at his remark. "Not particularly. I… think this is something I'll have to handle alone."

She had been raising her bottle again, but after speaking the last word, she hesitated. Froze in place. Looking toward her rather than the TV, he seemed to question things in his own head for a moment. That was until eventually, after another swig, he tilted his head.

"This wouldn't have anything to do with your little 'friend' in the bathroom earlier, would it?"

Slowly, her head swung around to point at him. "My… what?" Gulping, she looked away again. "What did you see?"

More than anything, Qrow was amused. That much was shown by the small smirk on his face. "I saw a beady little silver eye spying on me when I went back to my room. Now, I don't know about you, but I don't know too many people with silver eyes. Do you?"

Immediately, she lowered her head to look into the mouth of her bottle, trembling with the effort of keeping her reactions calm. "I see. So… you know. What's been going on."

For a moment, he tried to distract himself by swirling the bottle a few times. It wasn't a situation he cared to talk about too much, but now that it was in the open, there was no choice. It would do no good reacting the same way Ruby did. Instead, he let out the breath he was holding. "If it helps, I've known way longer than she has."

"What? You… how could you have? We were both very careful! What did we mess up? How did you know?"

Putting the bottle down on the coffee table rather than distracting himself any further, he shifted his position more to face her. "You were careful, but you forget I'm a veteran. I can't exactly shut off noticing the small things. Like a couple of missed calls and texts coming through while your phone's been on the table." Lowering his head slightly, he added, "Or seeing her in the parking lot a couple of times just before I headed to Tai's."

Her mouth flattened into a thin line for a moment. Then she whispered, "I might be angry with you for lingering to see who I was with… if I weren't clearly the villain of this story."

"I never lingered. I noticed," he corrected. Although as he shifted back into a comfortable position again, he confessed, "Only time it counts as snooping was when I listened after I saw that beady eye. Didn’t hear much, but I get the picture; you like her."

"Oh, did you follow us down to the garage?" Winter demanded. "That would be the only way you could have heard that part. We didn't discuss much in the apartment today."

"Winter, I'm not attacking you here," he reassured her, leaving a moment for her to calm down before he spoke again. "I heard how she was talking, then how you responded; it made sense. If you didn't like her that way, you'd just kick her out when she got pissy. Over and done with."

Looking down again, she contemplated his words. Took another swig to give herself more time. Then she whispered, "If you knew… then why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you confront me, tell me to stop? I'm… you should have heard her screaming at me. She hates me now."

It was a fair point. Why didn't he? All this time, he knew his niece was getting involved with his standing fuckbuddy, but never said a word. In fact, he left more often, made it easier for Ruby to come over – for them to have sessions.

"It's not my place to tell you what, or who, you do," he started, picking his own drink back up. "I figured she must be giving you something you need, considering you've been in much better moods for a while. You're doing it when I'm out and I’ve never had to even see you guys hug, let alone anything worse, so I see no problem here. It’s… a little weird, yeah, but could be worse."

"It doesn't matter now. But… I appreciate your discretion." The tears were falling, even though she had been clamping down on her emotions, straining to keep herself from letting anything through. "Sh-she's gone now, and… and you don't have to worry… because she hates m-me, and… it doesn't m-matter anymo- anym-mo-"

"Hey, hey, hey." Almost as soon as he had picked the drink up again he found himself having to put it back down to wrap his arms around her, pulling her into his welcoming grasp. No moment was spared before he ended up stroking her hair, remembering that was one of the few ways to calm her down completely. But from the shaking of her voice, he could tell she would need more than a simple hug.

"What's wrong with me?" she growled into his shoulder finally, at least two minutes later. "Why am I s-so… insane?! I hate myself, I can't even h-handle the only th-thing… I work, and I take care of her, and y-you take care of me, and I was happy, and n-now it's all wrong!"

"Nothing is wrong with you, ya hear me?" He continued to pet her hair, scratching gently at her scalp to help speed up the soothing process. "She'll get over it. Ruby doesn't hold grudges. She's just… she'll just be a li’l squirmy because she found out her uncle is still getting frisky in the sheets, that's all."

"I'm disgusting!" she half-screamed into his shirt. It seemed that now that she had let loose her emotions, they would keep coming relentlessly. "Y-you're family, I should never have let this happen! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, I don't know what I thought, I just liked the way everything was! You're both so important to m-me!"

"Stop that." He couldn't bear to hear her talk about herself that way when she was already dealing with so much. Holding her head delicately, he pressed his lips against her forehead, leaving a gentle kiss there. "And you're important to both of us, even if she's a little upset. You're not disgusting. You're human, and so is she. You both make mistakes."

Shaking her head, she whispered, "I shouldn't have told her. I was never going to tell her how I felt, I… had to be ready to let her go when she w-wanted to move on. But I failed, she… she dragged it out of me." Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she pulled back a little to whisper, "I thought I learned my lesson after… after Yang… but I'm still trying to control everything…"

"Hey come on, this is hardly comparable to… that. She may be Yang's sister, but I very much doubt that kind of thing would happen again." After a while, he started to relax his hold on her, just enough to give her the freedom of laying however she wanted against him. "I know Rubes. She'll be fine after a while. Right now, she's in shock, but then she'll be all over you like white on rice once she realises she was an dope for reacting how she did. Give it a few days."

"Is she, though?" The corner of her mouth twitched up hopefully. Fearfully. "I… know it can't be the best news you've ever found out, that I'm sleeping with both of you. But you really didn't hate me for it?"

"I'm not exactly pleased, put it that way. But I'm not going to scream at you for it. Like I said, it's not my choice who you do." Though his own mouth began to twitch into a smile. "So long as it's not while I'm here, of course."

"It never has been," she swore to him, face completely serious. "It wasn't today, either; she… she came here unannounced. I didn't…" Her face fell again, but she didn't fall to crying again. Not quite. "It might be my own wishful thinking, but I'm almost positive she came purely to confess her feelings."

"Ah… well, that makes things a little more awkward," he admitted, scratching the back of his head as he thought. Although he and Winter were on closer terms than most Dom-sub relationships, it wasn't more than that. He could tell it wasn't on Ruby's level. "Well… what did you tell her?"

Pursing her lips, she sighed and said, "You came home before I got the chance to answer her properly. But… I think I let it slip when we were arguing." She looked away. "Not that it matters. I don't know anything about… those kind of feelings, anyway."

Tilting his head, Qrow went to swirl his own bottle of beer once more to check if there was enough in there to make it worth drinking. "The way you try to clean up my sorry ass all the time says otherwise. And I'm… well, me." He shrugged his shoulders, giving her a light smile. "Just because you've never had this sorta thing before doesn't mean you can’t. Or shouldn’t try."

Winter thought upon that while he drank, head down and expression strained. Turning to the side, she whispered, "I am… too broken to be that person for anyone. Even a second person for Ruby. You and I work because we don't expect those feelings from each other; friendship and blowing off steam, we can handle. I can handle." Her eyes began to stream, despite that she wasn't truly crying. "And it's selfish for me to want to be with someone who I can't give my heart to… since I don't have one."

Rather than reply with words, he instead looked straight at her. Then after a moment, he placed his free hand against her neck, caressing it gently. Checking something surreptitiously. "You got a pretty quick pulse right now for someone with no heart, then, you know that?"

"Don't make light of me!" she breathed, but there was no real power in her words. "I'm… rotted fruit, damaged goods! I know I'm not technically dead, but… but what's the point in trying to sell someone defective merchandise?!"

"You need to stop doing that to yourself, Snowbird." Seeing that wasn't working, he finished the last of his beer and set it down before wrapping his arms around her, pulling her close so he could cuddle and kiss her forehead again. "You went through a lot of shit; I know that, she knows that. But you’re blaming the wrong person; those guys are the broken assholes. You’re not ‘damaged goods’, you're a person; a person who made a mistake. A human."

Winter couldn't deny that his words made sense, even if they felt wrong in her heart. So she spent a few minutes simply crying up against his chest, drinking in the comfort he offered.

"She has Penny," was the simple statement she offered when she could. "I… don't know why she would want me, too. But… thank you for s-saying what you said."

"You really gotta stop putting yourself down," he repeated, still gently stroking her back and leaving the occasional kiss in her hair. "I mean it. You always talk about yourself in such a bad light… but there's a lot of good in you, Winter. Just wish you could see it."

"All that good is me trying to make up for all the bad." Taking a deep breath, she ran a hand through her hair. "And unless you really want to thrash me with the whip tonight, I… don't know if I'm up for anything. Sorry."

Another smile pulled at his lips as he pulled her in closer a moment, speaking sarcastically. "Oh no, we don't get to bang it out tonight because you're too upset. Oh woe is me, I'll have to get myself off before I go to sleep. What a cruel world."

Laughing against her own desire to do so, she said, "I'd help, but… for some reason, I don't think I should tonight. For her." Then she sighed, rubbing at his broad back through his shirt. "But you don't have to leave the room for it, if that'll help."

"Hey, you need a good cuddling before I need to strangle the snake. So that's what you're gonna get. Priorities." This time when he reached over, it was for the TV remote, which he held out to Winter. "So choose what we're watching, and we'll just lay here and let the rest of the planet worry about itself for a while, alright?"

Even as she was still settling in against him, she asked, "You really want to hang out with somebody this mopey?" When she got no answer, she went for a different question. "Are… you okay with Harry Potter?"

[iilko]

hi iilko! i hope ur having a nice day! i hav this idea for a while now and i hope youre caught up with the manga so may i request a scenario with muichirou and his fem s/o who fights alongside with him against koku, but she ended up dying and mui surviving? months prior to that, they both decided to get married once they defeated muzan and are old enough, and they both wear a ring that they would replace w a real one once theyre old. upon remembering this convo, mui just breaks. thank you

Mono No Aware.

count: 1k words.

苦あれば楽あり。

The thought tended to flee from him before he could utter it out loud, but Tanjirou enjoyed how Muichiro’s household looked from afar. How the sakura trees cradled and hid the home from the onlookers and outsiders. The blessing of spring was that the trees birthed mutations of pink petals that puffed and covered every inch, giving them the illusion of a sakura forest.

Yet, in a season like winter, they became cold and barren, like a being stripped from its warmth, like Eve (the life-giver, naïve woman who cursed the flesh) after struck with the shame of being naked. Then, his shelter became noticeable and the world could see it.

In seasons like those, the former pillar wouldn’t step into the place.

“Ah, Muchirou.” Tanjirou settled himself down onto the engawa. “Did you plant another tree today?”

“… Two today.”

“Ah,” He tugged at the ends of his sleeves, sweat seeping through the cuffs, “I’m sorry, I was running late so I couldn’t help!”

“It’s fine,” Muchirou shuffled in his crossed position, he leaned his back to the wooden rail behind them and scratched his right bicep, the scarred bicep floating and wiggling in response. A painting of scars littered his body as the soft light slightly hit them. “You travel a lot.”

Tanjirou chuckled, “that I do.”

They hadn’t reached the middle-half of being twenty. Yet their bodies carried rivers of scars and wounds that spoke of an older, morbidly nostalgic time. As kind as their hearts could be to others, the skin of a former slayer would always be so tough and cruel. Time healed many wounds but not enough, and not the ones that mattered.

He found it tough but manageable living in an era of peace. War and bloodshed still carried on under his eyelids and at night you could hear the voices––– cinematic and life-like. He had the ghosts of the fallen stand beside him as he slept. Life, mentally, was never silent.

He was sure Muchirou could relate.

Those gradient locks were always in a single braid, resting down to the tailbone. His pale skin lost its glow from the scratches that marred his skin like a thin woman’s hair. His deep eyes were narrow but that infamous passive glint was stronger than ever. He said more than he would in the past but spoke less. Almost living in this weird plane of being.

He couldn’t help but play with the word if, if she was still here… Who would he be now?

“I’ve run out of seeds, though. The birds have eaten a lot of them.” Muichiro admitted.

“I’ll buy you more then” Tanjirou exhaled with a softness, “so you’ll never run out.”

He hummed, “she would’ve fed them back to the birds, anyway.”

Kamado laughed. Light and airy, “still, would’ve kept some to plant, no?”

Muichirou did not give him an answer but Tanjirou didn’t need one.

There was a river. It ran from the mountains down through the towns. On its journey, it often made a route behind Tokito’s household, where it would splash against the salty river rocks and little rolls of bumps on the earth. The process was loud enough to hear through the tatami rooms, and it’s chattering spoke for them when they were stuck in their silence. When Tanjirou couldn’t say what he was here for.

Then,

“Did I do enough?” He whispered through the rivers.

Tanjirou could hear him loud and clear.

“You always do.”

Muichiro felt sick when he saw you like this.

Your hurried steps alongside him and Gyoumei were hushed and light. The sheathed claymore you wielded so tight in your grasp made each individual knuckle popped under your skin. Your eyes were dry and burned with holy fire.

It was that aura of a shining beacon, the grace of felinity, and the energy of warzone–– all bombs and pipes that only you radiated. Your face hot, your breathing became heavier, your legs rose higher with each step, and you exploded with a diluted hubris to ease the people around you. To convince everyone that you had it under control.

You were digging your funeral and were waiting for the right time to fall into it.

Yet, when Gyoumei was ahead, you stopped, pulled him to the side and told him not to die. Your warm, calloused hands squished his cheeks as you rested your hot forehead against his. In a firm, beckoning, and tender voice you told him, “don’t you die on me.”

‘Don’t you die on me.’ You said it and soused it with love. Now, those words were morbid and achingly haunting.

You pecked his chapped lips, and the smoothed jade that jumped above your valley winked at him. His eyes went down to the jade bracelet on his right wrist, his words still lost in his throat.

You let go of him and stumbled back to inspect, your expressive eyes invoked a sweet melancholy (it was SAUDADE; a kindling affection sticky like mochi but an accepted destiny lingering under it), before you gleamed a smile, “I still want to get married, y’know.”

Maybe, if he had said it back to you before Gyoumei had called out for the both of you and before the shifting rooms violently pushed you from his space, you would’ve lived.

“Stop looking like that.” Those were the words refused to leave his mouth, he remembered his lips even trembling just to spit them out. His stomach dropped and the world collapsed.

Stop looking like you’re about to leave me.

Tanjirou then put his hand into his laid coat, “right, Muichiro, it’s finally done. I’m sorry they took too long but sending such a small thing overseas can have it lost in a lot of things.”

Initially, it was just a small black box. Those scarred fingers pulled back the top and revealed two rings carved out of pure jade with a centerpiece of a lighter, brighter gem all accented with a gold bezel ring.

“Do you like it? It’s fancier than I expected but…”

“Will you help me put one on?” Muchirou asked and Tanjirou agreed with eager.

When placed, the ring flaunting on his marred digits, the corners of the younger man’s lips pulled.

“It’s glowing.”

“Mui, do you want kids?”

Hazy eyes peeked up at you, before directing their attention back to the frog on the lily pad, his crouched form unwavering. “I haven’t thought that far, probably not.”

You pouted falsely and made your shoulders deflate as you turned your head away from him, “wow, that’s not what I wanted to hear at all.”

“Do you?”

“No, but I’m still kind of disappointed.”

“Oh,” Muchirou said lamely, “sorry.”

You rolled your eyes and sighed, making quick steps towards him. You crouched beside him, shoveling your skirt beneath your bent backside then turned to meet his blank stare, “you were supposed to say maybe, Mui.”

“Why?”

You could see the blurry confusion in his eyes and pursed your lips to stop your laughter. You punched him lightly with a fist and hopped an inch closer to him, placing your sight on the frog too.

“Just in case we think about having some.”

“I don’t want any right now.”

“Not in the future, though? When we marry?”

He didn’t answer you then, not until the frog hopped onto another lily pad. His eyebrows bumped together.

“You want to marry me?”

“Of course,” you smiled, “I love you.”

Shock looked hazy in his pupils, and it would leave his eyes to burn into embarrassment on his ears. The stoic look he was so infamous for melted with the small smile on his lips and pink cheeks.

“Okay.” He nodded, his eyes never off you. He wasn’t sure about love most of the time, and what it could mean or be but he didn’t mind learning with you. Never you.

“After, Kibutsuji is done for.” You nodded curtly, “we’ll get married in a forest of sakura trees and our rings would be made of that pretty rock we found. Oh! and we’ll invite everybody.”

“Okay.” He said softly and you arched a brow at his face, “what is it? Why are you making that face?”

The frog hopped and Muichirou’s grin grew a tad wider, “I don’t know, I can’t really stop!”

“You’re so weird!”

“It’s because of you!”

Could one die looking heroic? Of course, you could leave this earth as a hero but could you die looking like one?

If it was, then could you die looking like you were in love? Perhaps, that would just be dying with a smile on your face.

Muchirou believed you died being violently, helplessly, foolishly in love.

You were in love with your family, your friends, humanity, earth, good, and maybe him. There had to be some if you wanted to marry him but maybe not enough if you left this earth knowing you were to die.

He kind of got love now, it was when he hated your absence far more than he loved your presence.

The sight of your body being impaled by the roots of his ancestor would never leave his mind. Along with the sight of his parents, the sight of Yuchiro.

It always felt as if they were always in his grasp and that he was never quick enough, never strong enough. The ones that mattered always died when he was still weak. At that moment, he knew was strong enough to have saved his mother and father. Weeks ago, he was strong enough to stop Yuchiro.

Years later, in a home hiding in a sea of sakura trees, he was strong enough to save you.

None of it mattered if they weren’t there, though. That’s the catch, no matter how strong you get, there was a time when you were too weak and couldn’t do anything, and that will always haunt you.

As Muchirou stood in front of your glorified grave with its white Chrysanthemums, yellow Camellias, petals of Sakura, and blue Sweetpeas, he came to a solution. It was a solution that took years to make.

He couldn’t have been strong enough for you, but he’d strong for himself and the others that needed him. It was the most he could do and it was what you would’ve wanted.

But for today, he’d plant another flower, the red spider-lily, place your ring on the top of the tombstone and cry out the last of his tears.

The river silenced itself, so did the branches, and the wind, and allowed him to cry one last time.

Sakura (櫻)/Cherry Blossoms: 物の哀れ (The pathos of life, the sensitivity to ephemera)

[sethrine-writes]

Wrapped Up in a Bow

Fandom:  Devil May Cry 5

Pairing:  Dante x F!Reader

Words:  1662

Warnings:  Explicit content, sexual content, spicy stuff

Commission Request:  900 words, with a light daddy kink, size kink with SDT, rough sex, and a special something wrapped in a bow ;)

A/N:  This is a commission for the positively lovely @catastrophes-light, who is gifting this fic to their dear friend, @escendoll! Happy Birthday to you, dear!

------

Considering it was your birthday, you fully expected to come home to something from your boyfriend, as he had a penchant for wanting to spoil you on special occasions. It usually wasn’t anything extravagant; most often, he liked to surprise you with silly, sometimes lewd little gifts that ended up heartfelt in some way or made you giggle and fall that much more in love with the man.

Dante was just that way, and he never ceased to amaze you with the things he could come up with.

Last year, alone, you were given a full-year calendar that had some tasteful nudes of himself for each month, all his poses flirty and playful and practically dripping with sex appeal. You were also given the unedited photos in a little envelope, just for your viewing pleasure. You expressed your delight over the gifts by promptly jumping his bones and enjoying the rest of the night in your shared bed, cake included.

As ridiculous a gift as it may have been, it was just as thoughtfully silly as you had come to expect from the demon-hunter, and each one was just as good, if not better than the last.

So when you received a text from him around your lunch break, you couldn’t help the giddy anticipation that began to build during the next five hours.

‘Be ready to play when you get home, Babygirl. <3’

---

The apartment wasn’t much different when you got home, save for the trail of multi-colored flower petals that trailed from the front door and further inside. You removed your shoes and placed your keys on the hook, following the beckoning colors as they led you through the living room, past the dining room and down the short hallway. The trail disappeared beneath your bedroom door, of which had been left just slightly ajar, soft, warm light coming from the visible space there.

You took a deep breath, letting it out quickly in anticipation, then began to slowly push open the door-

The sight before you had you nearly doubled over in laughter immediately.

Dante and his ever-confident self was sprawled out on his side in your bed, one leg bent up and one arm holding his head up in a seductive sort of pose. He was completely naked, already hard and ready to get things going, which would have been enticing on its own…if not for the fact that he had a bright red ribbon wrapped around his hips and, much to your absolute amusement, his cock, the silky material brought together in a large bow just under the head.

“Hey there, Babygirl,” he greeted, smirk still in place despite your raucous laughter. If anything, it was exactly the response he was looking for, and he was more than pleased to have gotten what he was looking for.

“Da-Dante, oh my God,” you spoke through your giggles, moving closer when he tilted his head in invitation, “H-how did you…haha! How?!”

“It’s harder than it looks,” he said, wiggling his brows, and you were in full-out laughter all over again.

You had definitely expected something extra from him, and you weren’t disappointed in the least.

Settling down a bit, you leaned in and pressed a smiling, welcoming kiss to Dante’s lips, the demon hunter reaching up as you pulled away to bring you back down for a more heated, more lingering one.

“Welcome home,” he said, voice dropping an octave in invitation, and if that wasn’t a clear sign of the mood shifting, you weren’t sure what was.

“What a welcome,” you answered, reaching out to run a gentle hand across his face, allowing your nails to drag down the side of his neck until your palm was flat against his chest. “The man I love, naked and in my bed, a nicely wrapped package for me to unwrap-“

“I did say be ready to play.”

You mirrored Dante’s smirk as your hand continued its trek down his body, nails once again making an appearance down his toned stomach. Your touch grew light the farther you roamed, tickling at the trail of silver-white hairs leading to your birthday gift. Just as gently, you traced the laced ribbon along sensitive, turgid flesh, delighting in Dante’s quiet, hitched intake of breath at the action. Fingertips tapped against the red bow, just barely glancing against the swollen head of his rigid cock.

“Can I make a suggestion, Daddy? I’ve been awfully good since my last birthday.”

It wasn’t often you called him that, and the following groan was just as satisfying as your touch against his skin. Dante took a moment to answer, but his words were promising, as was the fire in his eyes as he gazed at you.

“Whatever my Babygirl wants.”

---

“Da-Dante, oh, please!”

Your keening was met with a low, rumbling growl, the baritone of the sound shaking your insides in a pleasant way. You were on your front, ass in the air and face all but pressed into the bedsheets of your own accord, all but drooling as your trembling fingers clutched to whatever they could to ground yourself.

Behind you, Dante’s massive presence enveloped you with its heat, the gentle scrape of plated scales against your flesh as he carefully pushed into you setting off all sorts of signals within your body. Had you the ability to turn and see your lover in his full demonic form, you would surely combust on the spot.

You groaned obscenely as he steadily pressed on, the burn of the stretch sending pleasant tingles up your spine. Dante was well endowed by normal standards, but to take him in his demonic form, having already been through a hefty round of fucking to get you ready for so much more, was a feat you were more than eager to conquer.

Time was almost irrelevant at that moment, as the stretch, the burn, the movement of Dante behind you seemed never-ending until it suddenly was. He was flush against you, your body filled to its absolute limit, and then some. Dante was huffing above you, his breaths massive and warm enough that you could feel them against your sweaty back.

Delirious on the feeling and still just on the side of cheeky, you clenched around him with a hitched groan. His response was immediate – a sharp thrust forward that had you squealing and scrabbling behind you, reaching for him in some capacity at the overwhelming feeling of him completely overtaking your senses, only managing to brush the hide of his thigh with your fingertips. You stilled a moment after, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath before the main event.

Dante shifted after several long minutes, pulling away and pushing back into you with a slow, steady movement. The slide was delicious, your inner walls almost tingling with the heat of his massive cock entering you. Even in the haze of your desire, however, there was something more you still craved from him.

“N-hah! Not…n-not…glass,” you managed to gasp out, voice wispy and barely heard above your sharp breaths and pleased moans. You were all for him being sweet and gentle, from time to time, but you knew what he was capable of, and he knew you could take it.

A rumbling growl from behind you was your only warning before Dante’s massive hands took hold of your hips, his palms nearly burning against your skin, and began a devastating pace. You screamed in delight as his armored hips smacked against your backside, each thrust hard and purposeful, exactly what you were wanting.

You could damn near feel him in your throat, he was thrusting so deeply into you, and you loved it. You loved the rough treatment, loved how he handled you like a little plaything at your own request. No matter the situation, he was always attentive to what you wanted, and he was able to find satisfaction through that, alone.

Beneath you, the bed creaked ominously with your combined weight, with each brutal thrust forward Dante made into your willing body. Tears were streaming down your face, the pleasure-pain overwhelming you in the best way, maddening as it was enticing. The sounds of your lovemaking were obscene, though you could barely hear them over your own blissed-out noises, too far gone to even care, one way or the other.

Dante shifted above you suddenly, pulling your hips higher until he was practically holding your bottom half in the air, your back bending to accommodate the angle. His next thrust into you shot immediate tingles throughout your body, and a blissful wail left your throat as all your muscles seized for the briefest of seconds with the mind-numbing pleasure he was providing.

Barely half a minute into the new position, and you were cresting, choked cries sounding off as you reached your peak, mind shattering until you were left a blank slate for just the barest of moments. When the world came back to you, Dante was still hovering above you, smooth skin pressed to your own as his hips remained flush against your backside. He was running his hands along your trembling body, his breathing nearly as labored as your own. It was a shame you had missed out on his own release. You knew, firsthand, just how glorious it could be.

You reached for his hand with shaking fingers, and he was immediate in providing the touch.

“Best…best birthday present, ever,” you breathed out, a touch of a laugh leaving you with Dante’s own answering chuckle.

“A gift that keeps on giving,” he said, words most assuredly a promise as he gave a teasing push of his hips. Your response was an immediate keening sound, followed by aftershocks of pleasure shaking your limbs. He remained still after that, choosing, instead, to press gentle kisses along your shoulders and against your hand joined with his, his next words sweet to your ears.

“Happy Birthday, Babygirl.”

[snickerl]

Of Monsters and Men, and a Woman.

- I think I smell smoke. -

I wished we had seen a dialogue like this in season 11.

Many thanks to the more than helpful @chekcough and @unremarkable-house for volunteering as beta-readers and their valuable input.

Tagging @today-in-fic

“Oh, isn't this nice? A family reunion."

A cold, familiar voice suddenly filled the air and made Mulder and Scully look in the direction it was coming from. A figure appeared slowly from the shadows a weapon trained at them, showing them a smug smile.

"Spender," Mulder spat.

They had been trying to find an exit out of the huge, run-down and abandoned factory complex where they had found Jackson hiding from his pursuers. Initially, the boy hadn't been willing to let his birth parents interfere, insisting he could look out for himself, but eventually, he had called for Scully through the communication channel he had used before. He was still a teenager, only seventeen years old, traumatized and alone after the assassination of his adoptive parents. Of course, Scully and Mulder had rushed to their son's side, armed and more than ready to protect him from whoever wanted to harm him.

They hadn't expected their old foe to show up at the scene, though. Not after the enemies had been presenting themselves as Purlieu lately. But the agents should have known better, should have anticipated that this man was pulling the strings in the background and would make his appearance somewhere along the road. So, here he was: Carl Gerhard Busch, C.G.B. Spender, Cancer Man, the Cigarette Smoking Man...good God, if there was one person they could name as the evil incarnate, it would be him.

Spender's voice was sugar-sweet but full of dishonesty as always. "Hello, Fox. Dana. I see you have reunited with your offspring after having cut the ties so harshly when he was a baby. Congratulations. I'm happy for you." A disdainful sneer was spreading on his face, proof of his feeling of superiority. He pulled a trademark cigarette out of his pocket with his free hand, put it to his mouth, fished for a lighter in the same pocket, lit it, took a slow, deep draw, then calmly watched how the smoke was leaving his mouth. "The three of us haven't seen each other in a while." His eyes fell on Scully. He scrutinized her from head to toe, unable to conceal that he liked what he saw. "Dana, you look fabulous. What a great pleasure to see you again after all we've been through together."

Scully took a few steps backward, wrapping her arms around herself. "I can't say that I'm sharing the sentiment. If I had been given a choice, I wouldn't have gone through anything with you," she snapped.

Spender only smiled at the unfriendly retort as if he hadn't expected anything else from her. He hadn't been lying though, he was enjoying this immensely. He had been looking forward to this particular moment for a very long time and he was going to savor every minute of it.

"Why so rude, Agent Scully? I remember fondly the nice little road trip we took some years ago, the three days and nights we spent together, the gourmet dinner at a deluxe restaurant prepared by a renowned chef. I will certainly never forget how stunning you looked in the dress I gave you. The black one with those little straps and low neckline." His eyes fell on her chest. "I sincerely hope you let Agent Mulder see you in that dress."

"I burned it," Scully hissed. The knot deep within her tightened. Of course, she remembered the trip, but not with the same glee as the Smoking Man. She felt shame and embarrassment, even guilt when she thought of how naïve and imprudent she had been to follow him without telling Mulder. Not only had it left her with nothing but a blank CD-ROM and empty promises but also with a cracked partnership. It had taken them a while to repair their relationship, until Mulder was able to forgive her and Scully to forgive herself.

"What a pity. It was such an expensive dress. And it suited you so well. You were a feast for the eyes for everyone in the restaurant that night, Dana."

Spender let the words roll off his tongue with a delightful smile on his lips. Unabashedly, he ogled Scully's body, his eyes wandering slowly from her slender waist, across her chest, and up to her face. He looked into her eyes probingly before starting to walk around her, giving her the once over. When he took a luxurious draw on his cigarette, his eyes resting on her backside, Mulder had enough.

"Cut the crap, you sick bastard! What do you want?"

Spender kept his eyes on Scully for another beat, then turned around in exaggerated casualness, tsking and looking at Mulder with disapproval.

"Fox, that's not the way you should speak to your father."

A sour laugh escaped Mulder's throat. He shook his head and threw a side glance at Jackson. The boy had no idea of what was going on in front of him but watched the adults intently. His biological parents had a history with this threatening old man, but not a friendly one. The way they had been addressed by their first names instead of their customary way of calling each other by their last names had sounded like a mockery, not like a sign of familiarity or friendship.

Spender had his weapon pointed alternately at each of them and enjoyed his position of advantage. Scully had positioned herself in the line of fire in movements so small they were barely perceptible, sheltering Jackson off the weapon's potential trajectory. This, thankfully, had gone unnoticed by Spender but not by the boy, and it made him feel protected and cared for but also anxious. This man meant business, that much was clear.

"If you came here to satisfy your sick need of feeling more powerful than us, go ahead. Make fun of us, remember all the moments you held our lives in your hands, but leave our son out of it. Let him go." Scully's voice was strong and full of determination. If she was apprehensive, she did a hell of a job not showing it.

"Aaaw, mama bear is protecting her cub,” the Smoking Man snarled. “How sweet. You should have stood by your son during his childhood instead of giving him to two ignorant and completely overstrained people who'd never had the ability to protect him. Did you really believe it would be that easy to hide him?" He fell silent as if giving her time to answer, watching as Scully exchanged an anxious look with Mulder, he then chuckled. "I always knew where he was. I knew of his broken arm at the age of five, I attended his Little League games, watched him celebrate his first home run, and I know his childhood sweetheart's name was Chelsea."

"What the fuck?" Jackson cried out, shocked by what he was hearing. He had no idea who this man was and why he had such an interest in him. Before he could say any more, Scully took a few steps forward until the man's weapon almost touched her chest, shielding Jackson even more. Her back and shoulders were straightened and her chin was up, but her face had lost its color. She was pale and her voice was a bit shaky now.

"Ever heard of the Constitution, Spender? The 14th Amendment and the Right to Privacy?"

Her question was met by a laugh. Spender put his cigarette to his lips, drew with relish, then let the butt fall to the ground and stepped on it. The grinding noise of the sole of his shoe stubbing out the smoking butt on the floor reverberated through the place, grotesquely amplified by the high concrete walls surrounding them.

"Is that really meant to be a serious question, Agent Scully? You know as well as I do that the Constitution is nothing more but the democratic fig leaf for governmental institutions to pretend they let legitimacy and righteousness guide them. You and Agent Mulder also haven't always played by the book as far as I remember, so spare me your moral indignation."

"What is your interest in our son?” Scully asked. “Have you been afraid of losing your power over us, is that why you spied on his childhood? To use him as leverage over us after all?"

The Smoking Man shook his head and grinned. "Agent Scully, I've never lost my power over you. Have you forgotten the little something in your neck?"

Jackson didn't understand what this meant and why it was knocking the wind out of his birth mother. The man's words were clearly meant to provoke her, and it was working. She gasped and touched a spot at the back of her neck right at the bottom of her hairline. Jackson didn't know what that 'little something' was and what it had to do with anything, what he saw were Scully's trembling fingertips rubbing a spot on her neck as if it itched. The man definitely had succeeded in rendering her speechless.

Not so Mulder. He looked like he was regurgitating a dustball when he spoke and his voice sounded like a rabid dog's growl. "You son-of-a-bitch!"

"You have something to say, Agent Mulder? Fox?"

"Scully asked you a question. What's your interest in Jackson? Why are you here?"

Spender only hummed, pulled another cigarette out of his jacket and lit it. The package was empty now. He crumpled it up and let it fall to the ground next to the butt he had thrown there already. Jackson had to think of his mama who had taught him never to litter. Despite the tenseness of the situation and the much worse things this man was clearly capable of, this childish act of disrespect made the boy's blood rise. His birth parents were scared by this guy who was playing a game of cat-and-mouse with them, that much was obvious, and Jackson asked himself if they remembered that he had a biological advantage he could use to chase this unbearable chain smoker away.

"I told you at the very beginning that I was looking forward to a family reunion. Have you not listened? A father wants to see his son once in a while," Spender supplied.

"Bill Mulder was my father, you have never been a father to me."

"Well...son...genetics don't lie. A biological fact is a biological fact. You may call Bill Mulder whatever you want, all you got from him was his name. But that's another story. Anyway, I wasn't talking about you and me, Fox."

As the last words were leaving his mouth, Spender turned away from Mulder and laid his eyes on Jackson. The boy froze, every muscle of his body strained. Mulder and Scully looked at each other with slack expressions on their faces. The already strung up atmosphere was tensing up even more.

"Who were you talking about then?" Mulder hissed.

Of course, there were not that many other possibilities of who he could have been talking about. Although Mulder, Scully, and Jackson were anticipating an answer, they were also fearing it. It seemed like time was standing still. Somewhere in the factory there had to be a broken pipe because the constant dripping of water could be heard. It echoed through the deserted place, which was cold, dirty, and scarcely lit. The way the Smoking Man's face was illuminated whenever he drew on his cigarette reminded Jackson of his first slumber party when his papa told creepy stories and scared them holding a flashlight under his chin. This man was also creepy, but not in a playful manner like his papa. This man was dangerous and Jackson felt unease running up his spine as the man fixed his cold eyes on him, saying nothing, simply staring at him.

When Spender finally chose to answer, all three of them seemed to hold their breaths. Looking noticeably at Jackson and in a tone of voice more suitable for ordering a glass of Chardonnay in a fancy restaurant than wrecking the life three people had just begun to re-establish together, he said, "well, Fox, if you can't put two and two together yourself, it shall be my pleasure to break this to you: when I said I was looking forward to seeing my son, I was talking about this young lad here."

Boom! The bomb had exploded and nobody had thought of taking cover.

Scully's head flew around. Her hand had left her neck and clutched at her chest instead. She bore her eyes into Spender’s as if she wanted to read his mind, backing away from him at the same time. Mulder's brows were drawn together, his glance darting between Scully and Spender looking for answers in their faces. Jackson was just standing there like a pillar of salt. This guy, this horrible smoker, had just suggested he was his father, now being the third person claiming this particular family bond with him.

How had his life become such a mess? A few months ago, everything had still been fine. He had some peculiar abilities, granted, but he knew how to handle them...most of the time. He had a mama and a papa who loved him dearly, he had a home, he had friends. His life was in order. And then the broad-shouldered men in black suits had shown up, sitting for hours in armed dark limousines across the street, observing him, and an alarm inside his head had gotten off. Then the visions had started, visions of spaceships, of a worldwide pandemic, an apocalypse, and of a woman with red hair. All of this had brought him here, to an old, chain-smoking moron who was telling him he was his father. What a freak show his life had become.

“Bullshit!” Mulder grunted eventually, pulling Jackson out of his dark thoughts. “After all these years, you think we’d fall for your dirty tricks, Spender?" Scully's hand was still pressed to her chest. Slowly moving further away from the Smoking Man she whispered, now unable to conceal her apprehension, "what exactly are you implying?"

"I'm not implying anything, just stating the biological facts. Aren't facts something you've always been so keen on finding, Doctor Scully? And the fact is that I am William's...uh, sorry, young man...Jackson's father. He is my son, not Agent Mulder's."

Hearing him speak it out loud only made things worse. All the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room. Mulder, Scully, and Jackson could barely breathe. The mere idea was earth-shattering. It turned their world upside down, a world that had just begun to reset since the three of them had been reunited. Jackson looked helplessly at who he believed to be his birth father - Mulder - the man who had hugged him so fiercely while whispering in his ear, "I've been looking for you forever", and "I held you when you were a baby".

Mulder was thunderstruck himself, hit to the core, struggling to process the words the old man had just spoken. It was Scully who rediscovered her voice first. "I've never heard such nonsense," she grunted, parts of her self-confidence regained. "If it wasn't so damn sickening, I'd laugh. Wouldn't I know if we had intercourse?" Mulder's face contorted into a pained grimace at that. He winced unmistakably, earning himself the Smoking Man's pitiful smile. Then Spender turned toward Scully again, the corners of his mouth curving up in a smug smile while answering her in a too-sweet voice, "how would you know? You were sedated."

Mulder groaned again, but Scully remained composed, stoic almost. "You mistreated me while I was unconscious."

It came out like a statement, not a question. Jackson was impressed by how calm she sounded. No, impressed was the wrong word. Confused. How could she make such an outrageous allegation and remain so cool? Unlike her, Mulder was not able to keep his composure. The words were growing from the deep of his throat, raw and desperate. "If you harmed her, you’ll pay for it. I will make sure you do, even if it's the last thing that I do."

"I didn't harm her, I gave her what she longed for the most. What you couldn't give her, Fox."

"What do you mean?"

"Hadn't you donated sperm for Agent Scully to get pregnant just a few months earlier, and hadn't the procedure failed? Well, I was more successful," Spender said with twisted satisfaction.

Scully threw Mulder a worried glance and wrapped her arms around her waist once again. She swallowed uncomfortably before she spoke. "You impregnated me? You?" This time, it was a question. An unsettling, agonizing, disgusting question.

"Not the way you may think, Dana. With science. I got you pregnant with science. I had the best doctors care for you and perform the transfer of the ova we had gotten from you, inseminated with sperm I had provided. You would have been thrilled to be a part of a scientific experiment of this immeasurable value, had I been able to tell you then."

The man was speaking in a manner so calm and unfazed he really had to believe that what he was saying was totally normal, whereas, in fact, it was totally crazy. The words 'sedation', 'insemination', and 'experiment' were swirling around in Jackson's head and it made him wonder what kind of trouble he had ended up in. This crazy shit, which had started with the men in the black suits following his every step, seemed to get weirder every day.

"Those weren't doctors, those were rapists. You are a rapist. You hadn't gotten my ova, you'd taken it from me against my will. That was medical rape, twice, and no scientific experiment. Highly unethical and a violation of my right to physical integrity. I can't remember signing a declaration of consent."

Again, the restraint with which she was talking was remarkable. Mulder, who could hardly contain himself, who looked like he wanted to put his hands around Spender’s neck and press until the last bit of air left his lungs, was puzzled by her cool demeanor. Hadn't she just been told that their baby wasn't theirs but hers and…? He couldn't even bring himself to think the unthinkable. The mere thought of it made him want to gag. It would mean Jackson wasn't his son, but his half-brother. It would mean Scully hadn't conceived, carried, given birth to and nursed his son, but that Cancer Man's. He felt a tingling sensation at the back of his throat.

Spender clicked his tongue. "A declaration of consent...you amuse me, Agent Scully. You of all people should know I act on behalf of a circle of people who don't let formalities bind them. Your consent is irrelevant. We are working toward a larger goal, a goal you know fairly well."

"Creating a superior race and ruling the world," Scully spat out indignantly.

"Creating a human-alien hybrid, achieving what herds of scientists have tried but failed so far. William was our first success."

The world started to spin around Jackson. What had this caricature of a human being just called him? A human-alien hybrid? He had understood by now that this kid they were talking about all the time, William, was him. He was Jackson Van De Kamp formerly known as William, the Alien. How on earth had he been drawn into this crazy shit?

"He isn't yours, he is ours. Mulder's and mine. He is not one of your lab rats. He is our son, and we made him."

She sounded so sure and Jackson wanted to believe her so badly. He didn't want to have anything to do with this unhinged, nicotine-addicted lunatic. He didn't want to be special, let alone superior. He wanted normalcy, he wanted to be just a normal boy. Kids his age shouldn't have to deal with crap like this. He wondered how his birth parents had managed to get themselves into this fucked-up mess and if his adoption had anything to do with it. His birth mother, Dana, had talked about bringing him to safety when she had spoken to what she had believed was his dead body in the morgue.

The Smoking Man was standing in front of her, towering over her. His legs apart and his chin up, he was looking down on her with a self-satisfied expression. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly before he spoke. "Dana, how can you be so sure?" The way he called her by her first name again, his voice a mix of superficial friendliness and subtle wickedness, made Jackson's blood run cold. He didn't know this man who was inhaling one cigarette after another, but he radiated malice with every fiber of his being. The way he conversed, how he played with his birth parents, how he gloated when he was shooting his poisoned arrows at them. But what was clearly meant as a fatal wound bounced right off of her this time.

"Do you really believe I was so naïve as to accept my pregnancy as a God-given miracle?” she asked, her lips curving into a slight smile. Spender's expression froze. “I knew my medical condition, that I was barren, a situation you were not entirely blameless in. Of course, I asked myself how I had been able to conceive. Emily's short life and what had been done to me during my abduction was ample proof of what you and your kind were able and willing to do. I needed to know my baby was normal and healthy, so I sought proof of what I felt so strongly - that my baby was Mulder's.” She looked at Mulder, throwing him a reassuring glance before she turned back to Spender and continued. “I’m a scientist, and scientists conduct scientific tests to get proof. That's exactly what I did. As soon as William was born, I had a DNA paternity test done. Three times. I supervised all three procedures myself to be a hundred percent sure the results were reliable. They were, and they showed a match between Mulder and William. There is no doubt whatsoever that they are father and son."

The Smoking Man's once self-assured outer appearance was cracking even more. He nervously fingered the lighter in his hand and his right eyelid twitched when he spoke. "That's impossible! I watched over your insemination. I was told the transfer of the fertilized eggs had been a success. And you were diagnosed as pregnant shortly thereafter, weren't you? So it had to have been successful."

"The transfer might have been successful, but that doesn't necessarily mean the eggs made it into the uterine wall, especially if there already was an egg attached to it, an egg that had gotten there naturally. I did the math, believe me. I calculated the possibility of ovulation, natural conception and implantation back and forth, it's highly plausible that I was already pregnant when you took me on your little trip. Unbeknownst to me, and obviously also unbeknownst to you and your so-called doctors. They neglected to test for pregnancy before they performed the transfer, which is, by the way, a standard procedure in every fertility clinic."

Spender's cool appearance was now falling to pieces before their eyes. He looked like a deflating balloon. He hadn't seen this coming. Just a few minutes ago, he had felt so superior, but this woman was making him dizzy with her scientific narrative. "I...I don't believe this," he stammered.

"I was pregnant with Mulder’s child," Scully continued coolly. "A real scientist rules out everything that has the potential to ruin an experiment, but your doctors weren't thorough enough. Too bad for you.”

She waited, letting her words take effect. After what seemed an eternity to all the people listening to her, she went on.

“You were wrong all these years believing William was your genetic offspring. You may have a biological connection to Mulder, but that's all there is. You don't belong to this family, it's just the three of us: Jackson, Mulder, and me. Now get your sorry ass out of here before I put a bullet through your head for all the times you abused me and the ones I Ioved."

Spender swallowed all of it, every word, and he had difficulties getting them down. But he was a vicious man used to dealing in vicious circles, he wasn't knocked down easily. He wouldn't have survived all these years among reckless men, had he not had the capacity to take a blow. He strolled over to Scully slowly placing one foot in front of the other, his eyes never leaving her. He drew a circle around her so small he was almost touching her, lighting yet another cigarette he procured out of a new pack.

"I am the one with a weapon in my hand, Agent Scully. You are aware that I could shoot you before you even pulled yours out of the holster." His firearm trained at her, he circled her once more until he came to a halt in front her, eyeing her intensely. "Give me your gun!” He demanded harshly now, holding out his hand, palm up.  

Jackson was amazed by how fast the man had recovered. His ice-cold eyes, bereft of any sign of emotion, bore into his birth mother. She held her ground for a moment but then obeyed and handed him her gun. Then he turned to Mulder who reluctantly pulled his weapon out of his hip holster and let it dangle on his outstretched index finger in front of the man's face. The smoker unhooked it with a satisfied grin and put it away. He was in possession of three firearms now, he held all the power despite the momentary crack in his façade a few minutes ago. "Do you still feel like threatening me, Agent Scully?" he asked, mocking his now defenseless opponents.

"One day, you will pay for what you've done, Spender. One day, justice will be served and you will rot in hell where you belong," Scully spat at him, her chin up.

Jackson admired her for her bravery, for how she stood up to that man who was holding all the aces. The boy hummed a low-key Hallelujah, so silent only Mulder, who was standing right behind him, could hear it. He acknowledged it in return with a muffled snorting only audible for Jackson. Father and son in shared admiration for this tiny woman's greatness.

Scully had impressed Spender too, but he wouldn't let anyone know. He made sure to thread enough irony into his voice replying, "ah, Dana, let me compliment you on your bravado and your optimism, but for men like me, there will always be a way out. I'm not so sure about you though. It seems to me your current position is quite precarious." He lifted his gun, pointed it at her forehead, and released the safety catch. The metallic click was so loud, amplified by the surroundings, it made Mulder's and Jackson's eardrums vibrate.

Mulder's right hand tingled. Not many people knew he still carried a second weapon at his ankle. If only he could reach down there, he might be able to get it out before Spender realized what was happening. He bent forward and groaned, holding his stomach with both hands as if he was about to throw up. When his ankle was within reach, he slowly stretched his right hand out, continuing the gagging sounds to keep up the illusion. He was almost there, could already feel the hard steel under the fabric of his pants leg, when the sound of a weapon falling to the ground echoed through the factory hall.

Mulder looked up, expecting to see Spender's gun still aimed at Scully's head, but what he saw was Spender's face twisted in horror. He was holding up his empty hands and was gasping for air like a fish out of the water. Mulder had never seen this man in anything but a smug pose, arrogant and overbearing, but this was fear, mortal fear.

Mulder rose completely and caught Scully's sideways glance. By the look of the confused lines on her forehead, she was as clueless as he was about what was going on. They both watched as Spender stumbled a few steps backward and tripped over his own feet transfixed by something behind them. His mouth opened but no words came out, only a choked scream. Scully and Mulder looked wildly around for the source of his terror but saw nothing. The building was completely empty save for them and quiet but for the whimpers of the now weak, powerless man.

Mulder looked over at his son and noticed that he was the only one who seemed to be in control. And then realization dawned him. Jackson was pulling one of his tricks. He was creating an alternate reality for Spender, maybe one of his gruesome monsters. Mulder couldn't tell, he couldn’t see what Spender saw, and neither could Scully, given the puzzled look on her face.

In the end, it didn't matter what the smoker saw, the only thing that mattered was that he got on all fours and started crawling away, whining like a baby. Watching him coil in mortal fear was striking a chord within Mulder that surprised him. He never imagined he could rejoice in the suffering of another human being, not even a man he loathed from the bottom of his heart, but all he could feel was satisfaction. It would have been easy to reach for his weapon now and bring this to an end for good, to make Spender pay with his life for all he had done to them, but Mulder couldn't bring himself to do it. He just watched as their enemy of twenty-five years got awkwardly to his feet, his tail between his legs, and started running without turning back to them once again.

When the Smoking Man was gone, Scully turned around to look at Mulder and Jackson. "What the hell was that?" she asked, still unable to understand why he had fled. "One minute he’s threatening to shoot us, and the next he can't get out of here fast enough."

"Jackson?" Mulder only said, throwing his son a challenging look.

"He must have seen something that scared him a bit," Jackson replied looking at the space between his feet.

"A bit? He was terrified!" Scully said.

There had to be something really interesting on the floor because Jackson wouldn't look up to meet his birth parents' eyes. "Yeah, well..."

"You created a false reality for him, right? Like you did for us when we were at your parents' house."

Jackson answered Mulder's question with a shrug of his shoulders. He had used his powers more than once for the wrong reasons, to tease people or scare them just for fun, and had been berated for it repeatedly. This had seemed like a good moment to use them, but he wasn't quite sure if it would be appreciated or not. "Someone had to do something. I couldn't stand this asshole and his self-satisfied grin any longer," he offered as an explanation.

"Why didn't we see it?" Scully asked.

"I didn't make you see it, only him."

"You can decide who sees what you create and who doesn't?"

Jackson nodded. "You were the only one who saw me as Peter Wong in front of the hospital."

Scully's heart ached a little thinking back to that moment. She had been longing for contact to her son for so long, and then he had been standing in front of her, talking to her, touching her, and she hadn't known it had been him. She had felt a strange connection to this man who had bumped into her, who had been so compassionate about the broken snow globe and who had smiled at her when she told him she liked this particular windmill she was holding in her hands.

"Did you bump into me on purpose?"

"Sure."

"Why?"

"I was curious about you after what you'd said to me in the morgue."

More heartache. Unknowing of what he was doing to her, Jackson continued. "You sounded so sad and so...honest. And I also had to make sure you'd gotten my message about the windmill. The snow globe in your hands showed me you had."

"So our meeting at the gas station wasn't a coincidence either."

"Of course not. I had something else to say to you."

If filled her with joy that despite her giving him away as a baby, he had wanted to establish contact. Even if without revealing his identity.

"The Malcolm X quote," Scully supplied.

"Right. I hoped you'd draw the right conclusions and realize it was me you'd talked to."

"Mulder recognized the quote and we both realized at the same time it must have been you. My heart almost burst when I saw myself talking to my son, my living son, on the surveillance tape."

"Surveillance tape?"

"The gas station had a CCTV system," Mulder explained. "On the surveillance tape, you were being you and not some pickup artist."

"Yeah, well, my mind is just so strong. I can manipulate people's perceptions but not a machine."

"Still, it's a powerful talent you've got there," Scully noted.

"A talent?" Jackson chuckled. "I see it more as a curse. It makes me an outsider. People think I'm a freak. Which I probably am. It has come in handy a few times lately though."

Scully took a step toward him. She would have liked to embrace him, pull him to her chest, just like Mulder had done at the motel when the two had first met, but instead, she only put her hands on his shoulders to make him look at her. "Listen, Jackson, you are not a freak. And none of this is your fault. You are who you are because you are our son, and from now on, Mulder and I will care for you. We will protect you. You are not alone."

As much as Mulder enjoyed watching mother and son talk to each other, he also got increasingly nervous. What if Spender had a backup? What if he knew and simply forgot for a moment about Jackson's ability to create alternate realities and realized he had been fooled once he had run far enough and cooled down his nerves? They had to get out of this building and off the premises as quickly as possible.

"Guys, let's get in the car and out of here. Spender doesn't work alone, and I don't want to be here when one of his cronies shows up to finish what he hasn't been able to do."

"You're right, Mulder. Come on, Jackson. We'll get somewhere safe," Scully said, nudging the boy forward with her hand on his shoulder.

They ran outside through the same steel door the Smoking Man had fled through and jumped into Scully's SUV. Mulder took the seat behind the steering wheel, Scully the passenger seat. Jackson climbed into the back. "Buckle up, Jackson," Scully tossed over her left shoulder in full maternal mode, "we will have to take some unexpected turns if someone follows us."

But no one followed them. It was a quiet ride, each of them taking their time to process what had happened and what had been said in the factory building. It was Jackson who finally broke the silence.

"You really are my parents, right? Both of you." His eyes met Mulder's in the rearview mirror, Scully turned around in the passenger seat and looked at him. It took him a moment until he was able to meet her intensive gaze, but then the direct connection enabled him to clarify. "What this man said was bullshit. That I am a product of a scientific experiment, that he...uh...that he made you pregnant with me against your will."

"He tried, but he failed," she said, maintaining their eye-contact without blinking. "I am absolutely certain that you are our son, Jackson. Mulder's and mine. You are not an experiment. You were conceived in an act of love." Scully glanced briefly at Mulder after having put so much emphasis on the word 'love' that her voice trembled. He kept his eyes on the street but nodded and smiled. "Not in a laboratory," she concluded.

"But..." Jackson left the rest unsaid. He threw his hands in the air and let himself fall back against the backrest.

"But what?" Scully probed.

"Why am I like this? So...creepy?"

Scully unbuckled her seat belt and climbed across the middle console into the back to join Jackson. She didn't want to talk to him about this any longer twisting her neck. She needed to be able to look him in the eye. She would have wanted to take his hands in hers and squeeze them to assure him but didn't dare. "You are not creepy," she said, laying her hand gently on his lower arm instead, hoping he wouldn't pull it back. He didn't. Not instantly anyway, but after a short moment. She berated herself inwardly for invading his personal space against her better judgment. Had she known that he didn't mind her touching him as much as she thought and that his awkwardness around her was caused by not knowing how to interact with a woman he felt so close (she was his mother, for God's sake) and yet so distant rather than resenting her, it wouldn't have hurt quite that much.

"You haven't seen what else I can do, Dana. Uh, you mind me calling you Dana?" Jackson asked, suddenly uncertain.

"Oh, uhm...no, not at all. Dana is fine."

"I mean since he," Jackson tilted his head in Mulder's direction, "calls you Scully."

"Well, that's a thing between us going back to the time we started out as co-workers. People outside of work usually call me Dana. Friends and family anyway. So Dana is perfectly fine."

It was a start, wasn't it? Scully didn't dare to hope that one day Jackson would call her something more affectionate, like 'mother' or maybe even 'mom'. She had been a mother to two children and had never been addressed as such by either of them. It was a wound which had never healed.

Unaware of Scully's inner struggles, Jackson resumed, "great! So, Dana, you haven't seen me do these other things I'm capable of. Like make people explode, for one. You were freaked out, weren't you?" the boy asked looking at Mulder who was observing them in the rear view mirror more than he should, given the fact that he was running at more than 80 miles per hour. "I was glad you made me duck!" he joked from the front, but the joke never made it to the back. Scully and Jackson were too much involved in their conversation to appreciate his effort.

"Whatever it is that you are capable of, Jackson, it doesn't make you a freak. Most certainly not in our eyes." Scully did her best to assure him of Mulder's and her determination. He needed to know that this time they would stand by him come what may. "You are our son, our flesh and blood, and we love you. Even if you might think otherwise because you were given up for adoption."

"But why am I like this? If you are my biological parents, and I wasn’t created by this chain-smoking moron, why am I not normal like you? You seem like pretty normal people to me. You are not some aliens or hybrids or whatever this guy was saying I was. You may be a little crazy, but still, you're normal, everyday people."

Scully sighed. "As you might have guessed, we have a history with this man, this chain-smoking moron. He's been using us to his own ends, mistreated us, harmed us time and again. I was abducted as a young woman and had become involved in a sinister, abhorrent plan of a group of ruthless men. Unethical tests were performed on me and my DNA had been tampered with. And the same happened to Mulder, only a few years later. He had been experimented on, manipulated, and mistreated so much that he almost died."

Scully saw no use in telling Jackson that Mulder had indeed been dead and buried, and that his coming back to the living had been nothing but short of a miracle. What the boy was hearing had to be disturbing enough, giving him more disconcerting details wasn't helpful, so she continued with the facts he needed to know to get the picture.

"What I'm trying to explain to you is that our genomes have been manipulated, and I take it that's the reason you are who you are. You're a combination of both of us. It's for everyone to see in your looks. You have Mulder's hair and his height, and you have my eyes and my freckles on your nose. Your abilities...well, they are likely a result of what they have done to our genetic material. I don't have any other explanation."

"Wow," was all Jackson said, "you aren't as normal as I thought."

"A lot of people would call us crazy as well. And a bit spooky. At least when it comes to me," Mulder tried for another joke but failed again. Neither Scully nor Jackson laughed.

"You already had powers as a baby, Jackson. You had spun the mobile above your crib once in a crying fit, and you had made a piece of rock hover above your face. And when I had realized that there were people out there holding an interest in you, the man you just met being one of them, I thought the only way to protect you was to hide you in another family far away from us."

"You gave me away to protect me, not to get rid of me." He didn't need to pose this as a question, he had understood.

"Yes," Scully breathed. "It was the only way to get you out of reach of these people."

"Well, your plan obviously didn't work out. The things he told you about me, they were all true. It creeps me out to imagine this maniac has been watching me all the time."  

Jackson thought back to his childhood, to some of the events the Smoking Man might have been present at: his first day of school, when he scored the decisive penalty which had secured the championship for his soccer team, prom night and his first kiss... A cold shudder ran down his spine.

“Spender might have watched you, but so have we," Scully said, only now taking the time since she had climbed into the back to buckle herself up.

"You have?" Jackson asked incredulously.

"We have?" Mulder echoed, looking flummoxed. Scully had never told Mulder that for all these years someone had been holding a hand over their William, someone who hated the Cigarette Smoking Man just as much as they did. She had feared that had Mulder known there was indeed a way to their son despite the closed adoption, that one day he would have tried to track him down.

"When I gave you up, I asked a friend to keep an eye on you because I knew that if we did, we would lead them right to you. His name is Jeffrey, and he helped me find you when you started communicating with me through the visions. I demanded he breaks the promise to never disclose your whereabouts to me."

Mulder took a sharp intake of breath. His molars were grinding when he asked, "you hired Jeffrey Spender to protect our son?"

"I didn't hire him. He..." Scully was struggling for words. "Mulder, you were gone, I was all alone in this and I didn't know what to do. He had come to me, had tried to protect William from you-know-who by secretly injecting him with magnetite. Jeffrey Spender was the only ally I had."

He'd been injected with what? Magnetite? For protection? Jackson remembered how the results of his blood work had always made his doctors frown. This story was getting crazier by the minute. But there was something else that had piqued his interest even more. "Spender? This guy's name is Jeffrey Spender? Haven't you called the smoking asshole Spender, too?" Jackson asked.

"Yes. Jeffrey is his son and my half-brother," Mulder explained. This new information cleared something up Mulder had racked his brain over for some time. "Now I understand why he called me when you were in the hospital after your seizure, Scully. I didn't know what to make of his warning on my voicebox that someone was coming after us."

"This man's son helped you protect me? He's worked against his own father?"

"This man is also my biological father. It speaks for itself that both his sons loathe him that much, doesn't it? It speaks for how profoundly evil he is."

Jackson let that sink in for a moment. He couldn't imagine a life where there was so much hatred, so much mistrust, and fighting against each other. He had been brought up by people who loved and cared for each other, he had always felt safe and protected, at least until these strange men in black suits had first shown up. He didn't know his birth parents very well yet, but Dana had spoken of love, both in the morgue and just now, and Mulder acted like he cared about her very much. They were good people, driven by love, not by hate. They made him feel cared for. Since the assassination of the Van De Kamps, he had felt alone and entirely on his own, but it seemed he had belonged to someone all the time. Maybe he had been wrong, maybe Dana and Mulder, his birth parents, were able to protect him after all. He could at least give it a try, couldn't he? "Where are we going?" he asked.

"We have a house out in the countryside," Mulder answered from the front. "It's secluded and well protected. We should go there, get a hot drink and some food and decide in the comfort of a warm, safe place what to do next. We'll be there in about an hour."

"Good idea, Mulder. Let's go home," Dana agreed.

Jackson turned his head away from Scully on the word 'home' and looked out of the window to hide his happy smile. His limbs felt light all of sudden as if a lead weight had been lifted off his body. He was glad that the rest of the trip was silent, that neither of them tried to engage him in a conversation. Mulder focused on driving them to their place as fast as possible, pushing the speed limit, and Dana leaned her head against the headrest. Surprisingly, she was asleep in a matter of minutes.

"She always falls asleep in the car," Mulder said when he caught Jackson's puzzled look at her sleeping form. "The motion lulls her to sleep."

Jackson only nodded. For the rest of the ride, he watched the dark scenery passing by outside with a feeling of warmth spreading through his body. The feeling replaced the cold fear he had been so used to during the past months, and it was more than welcome.

[vuotristearchive]

𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍  𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐈.

𝚌𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚊  𝟸𝟶𝟶𝟾.

𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙖,  𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙮.

X

𝐉𝐀𝐍𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐘.

roman   is   running,   the   white   expanse   of   the   fields   that   surround   him   blurring   together   to   create   one   blank   canvas.   the   fresh   snow   is   untouched,   save   for   the   paw   prints   that   now   litter   the   trail   that   he   leaves   behind   in   his   wake.   one   moment   he’s   alone,   and   the   next   he   isn’t.   a   flash   of   brown   behind   him   urges   his   body   to   slow,   every   cell   inside   him   reaching   for   her,   his   break   neck   speed   now   turned   down   to   a   gallop.

calla   nudges   him   with   her   nose,   violet   eyes   flashing   something   mischievous   as   she   trots   next   to   him,   her   tongue   drooping   from   her   canine   mouth   in   a   silly   expression.   if   he   could   laugh,   he   would.   instead,   he   yips,   letting   his   tongue   fall   from   his   own   mouth   to   mirror   her   expression.   he   can   see   the   way   her   eyes   brighten   at   his   gesture,   and   before   he   knows   it   she’s   off.

roman   watches   as   calla   runs,   already   ahead   of   him   by   a   couple   hundred   feet,   but   he   lets   her   have   another   second   to   get   ahead   before   he’s   bursting   with   energy   -   following   right   after   her.   she   can’t   outrun   him,   they   both   know   this,   but   he   lets   her   regardless.

he’s   soft   for   her,   his   love,   his   life.   he   watches   the   brown   wolf   with   pride,   and   it   reminds   him   that   in   another   11   months   she’ll   be   his   forever.   roman   thinks   he’d   run   after   her   for   the   rest   of   his   life   if   that   was   what   she   wanted.

𝐅𝐄𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐘.

they   spend   valentines   day   together.   roman   and   calla   have   never   missed   celebrating   the   occasion   since   they’ve   known   each   other.   he   buys   her   flowers   every   year,   white   lily’s,   and   they   visit   cafe’s   and   art   museums.   calla   wonders   at   all   of   the   great   paintings,   always   overwhelmed   at   the   beauty   of   their   country.

before   the   day   ends   roman   takes   calla   to   his   favourite   church,   and   the   sunset   outside   sets   the   holy   grounds   on   fire.   the   stained   glass   litters   the   pews   with   a   mirage   of   colours   and   light,   and   underneath   the   spray   of   rainbows,   roman   thinks   that   calla’s   never   looked   so   beautiful.

“what?”   she   asks,   grinning   at   him,   violet   eyes   searching   his.   he   reaches   out   for   her   hand,   and   she   squeezes   his   fingers   in   return.

“nothing,”   he   says,   and   he   makes   sure   to   tell   his   father   when   he   gets   home   that   this   is   the   church   he   wants   to   marry   her   in.

the   next   day   when   he   comes   to   visit   her,   he   tries   to   ignore   the   fact   that   the   flowers   he   bought   her   are   sitting   in   the   garbage   bin   outside   her   house.

𝐀𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐋.

spring   has   finally   arrived,   but   the   snow   on   the   ground   has   yet   to   melt.   calla   wants   to   take   a   walk   in   the   forest   behind   roman’s   house   one   last   time   before   the   sun   turns   her   favourite   weather   into   mush,   and   she   convinces   him   to   come   along   with   her.

it   didn’t   take   much.   so   they   walk   hand   in   hand,   treading   deeper   and   deeper   into   the   forest.

one   burst   of   energy   is   all   it   takes   for   calla   to   go   sprinting   ahead   of   him,   rippling   and   pulsing   out   of   her   human   body   as   she   bounds   into   a   pile   of   snow,   landing   in   a   heap   as   she’s   replaced   by   a   large   lump   of   brown   fur.   roman   watches   with   a   smile   on   his   face,   arms   crossed   as   she   flips   and   turns   around   and   around.

finally,   she   raises   her   head   and   looks   over   at   him,   wondering   why   he   hasn’t   joined   her   yet.   theres   a   clump   of   snow   laying   on   the   tip   of   her   snout,   and   her   piercing   violet   eyes   watch   him.   suddenly,   she’s   bounding   his   way,   and   he   braces   himself   for   impact   as   she   knocks   him   to   the   ground   with   a   thud.   when   they   land   together   on   the   cold   ground   she’s   already   shifted   back   to   a   human,   with   her   fingers   wound   tightly   around   his   neck.

she   looks   wild,   brown   hair   tousled   by   the   force   of   her   run,   violet   eyes   flashing   aggressively   -   like   they   weren’t   both   predators   here.   like   roman   was   the   prey   and   she   could   destroy   him   at   any   minute.

“i   could   kill   you,”   she   whispers,   fingers   tightening   around   his   neck,   and   he   lifts   a   hand   to   wrap   his   fingers   loosely   around   her   much   smaller   wrist.   staring   up   at   her,   he   smiles.

“so   kill   me.”

𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘.

“she   doesn’t   want   to   spend   time   with   me,”   lumine   says,   brushing   her   hair,   but   through   the   mirror   roman   can   see   that   his   older   sister   is   watching   him   with   concerned   eyes.

“i   know,   i’m   sorry.   calla   is   just...”   he   trails   off,   unable   to   find   the   right   words   to   say.   sometimes   it’s   hard   for   roman   to   even   spend   some   time   alone   with   her   himself,   let   alone   convincing   her   to   try   and   get   along   with   his   sister.   he   didn’t   know   why   she   refused   to   be   around   his   family,   especially   considering   he’d   always   done   his   best   to   be   around   her   father   -   who   she   adored   more   than   anybody   in   the   world.   wrongfully   so,   roman   thought,   the   man   never   paid   any   more   attention   to   her   than   he   did   to   his   wife.   all   he   cared   about   was   roman’s   father   himself,   his   best   friend.

“i’m   just   saying,”   lumine   speaks,   returning   roman’s   attention   back   to   her.   he   looks   up   at   his   sister,   who   looks   nearly   identical   to   him   in   human   form,   despite   the   white   coat   she   takes   on   whilst   being   a   wolf.   “you   can   always   tell   father   that   you   want   to   postpone   the   wedding,   no   one   would   hold   it   against   you.   i   think   she   should   spend   more   time   with   us   before   you   decide   anything.”

“but   i   want   to   be   with   her,”   roman   shakes   his   head,   frowning.   he’s   not   frustrated   at   lumine,   he   could   never   be.   he’s   frustrated   at   himself,   at   calla,   but   why?

“but   does   she   want   to   be   with   you?”   lumine   asks,   and   it   feels   like   roman’s   entire   being   has   been   cleaved   in   two.

𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑.

“hey,”   roman   calls,   tugging   on   calla’s   hand   to   slow   her   down.   she’s   always   trying   to   run   ahead   of   him,   to   get   away,   run   as   fast   as   she   can.   he   doesn’t   understand   why   she   won’t   walk   beside   him   and   enjoy   the   night.   it’s   the   clearest   their   sky   has   been   in   weeks,   and   now   that   they’ve   finally   got   some   time   to   be   alone   together   roman   just   wants   to   bask   in   it   and   in   her   presence.   

but   calla   just   wants   to   get   away.   roman   doesn’t   understand.   

“hm?”   she   replies,   regarding   him   with   softness,   eyes   of   adoration   that   always   make   his   worries   disappear.   she’s   always   looked   at   him   like   this,   and   yet   he   feels   like   there’s   something   different   in   her   heart.   but   then   calla’s   arm   loops   around   his   own,   puling   him   close   as   her   head   rests   against   his   shoulder,   appeasing   him.   he   drops   it.

“i   love   you,”   he   says.

“i   know.”

𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑.

he   stood   at   the   alter   for   an   hour.   his   face   had   burned   with   embarrassment,   and   even   more   so   with   disappointment.   there   were   no   signs,   no   reasoning   she’d   ever   given   him   that   would   make   him   think   that   she   wouldn’t   be   there.   he   loved   her,   what   had   he   done   wrong?

it’s   when   he’s   packing   up   his   things   to   leave,   not   wanting   to   meet   the   many   faces   of   the   families   that   had   attended   the   ceremony   in   hopes   of   forging   new   pacts,   does   he   see   her.   she’s   standing   outside   his   window   wearing   a   dress,   she   wears   an   expression   of   cool   and   calm,   but   underneath   it   he   can   sense   her   anguish   and   her   shame. 

“calla,”   he   says,   eyebrows   furrowing,   heart   wrenching.   “why   didn’t   you   come?”   he   whispers,   knowing   she   can   hear   him,   and   she   shakes   her   head   in   response.   she   looks   away,   to   something   far   off   in   the   distance,   then   looks   back   at   him.   “calla,”   he   says   again,   hands   gripping   the   window   sill.   he   wants   to   jump   through   it   and   go   to   her,   but   then   what?   was   he   angry   or   was   he   sad?   what   was   she   doing   here?   he   couldn’t   wrap   his   head   around   any   of   it.

“i   couldn’t...”   she   replies,   voice   weak,   hoarse,   like   she’d   been   crying.   roman   remembered   the   tone   well,   especially   on   nights   when   she   could   not   get   the   attention   she   wanted   from   her   father.   she   often   cried   then.

“come   with   me,   we   can   talk   to   our   fathers.   we   can   redo   this.”

“i   never   wanted   to   be   with   you.   i’m   sorry   i   couldn’t   love   you   the   way   you   loved   me.   i   tried,   roman.   i   tried   so   many   times.”

“what   are   you...?”   he   asks,   speechless.   he’d   been   so   sure.   had   it   all   been   a   lie?   “calla!”   he   shouts,   but   it   isn’t   enough   to   bring   her   back.   

she’s   running   away   again,   dress   torn   into   pieces   at   the   shift   between   human   and   wolf.   roman   feels   like   he’s   been   watching   her   backside   for   so   long   that   when   she   leaves   him   now,   it’s   as   if   it   was   always   meant   to   be   this   way.