#caught in a blizzard masterlist

[heartpascal]

you’ll find the key

▹ — joel miller x platonic!f!reader

▹ — summary: part five of if the door wasn’t shut — after feeling hopeless, you decide it’s time to heal

▹ — a/n: guys, i apologise for the wait! usually it doesn’t take me so long to write but this was a bit of a struggle!! i hope it lives up to any expectations :( i love you guys sm <3 pls leave ur thoughts + feedback and if u would like to see anything else in this series !!!

▹ — warnings: bad mental health, arguments, like two much needed hugs, so many apologies (my brain is failing so please tell me if there’s anything i’m missing!!!)

▹ — general taglist: @auggiesolovey @just-kaylaa @evyiione @lemonlaides @fariylixie0915 @erensloveinterest @dazedshoon @faceache111 @randomhoex @canpillowscry @sleepygraves @pedropascalsrealgf @star-wars-lover @coolchick333 @soobsdior @ilybbg @rvjaa @oliest19xx @pedropepsi @sunflowersdrop @truthfuleeyours

masterlist

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR

check out howl’s song associations!

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It was still storming outside.

Snow was coming down in heavy bouts, swirling all over the place with the force of the wind, and it was almost a goddamn blizzard. The ground was covered in it, and if it weren’t for the people already out in the streets, using shovels to dig away the snow in front of doorways, you were sure everyone would’ve gotten snowed in.

Not that you were going anywhere, anyway.

You hadn’t left Jesse’s side since you had gotten back to Jackson, after Tommy had a talk with you. They told you he was going to be absolutely fine, that all he needed was rest and to keep the wound clean. You still worried about him.

Part of you, despite knowing that what happened wasn’t your fault, still felt guilty. Out of the two of you, you were the more experienced one, and you should’ve known better, right? Should’ve caught wind that something wasn’t quite right sooner? You should’ve done something, protected him better, maybe?

You didn’t know exactly what you could’ve done differently, and you tried not to think of the possibilities, because the last thing you needed was to drown in guilt when you already felt bad enough.

Tommy’s chat with you hadn’t helped, either, and you know it was only because he cares, but it still hurt. The way he had looked at you, so angry, and scolded you for going back out there, for going after Joel when you and Jesse had barely made it out yourselves. He had called you irresponsible, which you would’ve argued against, if you hadn’t felt so guilty over the events of the day, if you hadn’t been worrying about Jesse.

You didn’t want to think about him being right, about how you could’ve gotten Jesse killed today, or yourself, god — Joel could’ve died, trying to save you. But was that really your fault? You wondered if everyone blamed you for Jesse getting hurt, as much as you blamed yourself.

“Are you really brooding, right now?” Jesse croaked, startling you from where you stood at the window beside his bed, staring out at the swirling snow. You turned to him, seeing his raised eyebrows, and felt almost thankful about the annoyance that arose when he looked smug, like he was right. “Unbelievable!”

“I’m not brooding, you asshole.” You murmured, unconvincingly. Jesse grinned, shaking his head at your denial.

“Oh, you so are.”

“I should’ve let them finish the job.” You responded flatly, breaking into a smile when Jesse laughed. The quiet lingered for a moment, both of your smiles slowly falling as the weight of everything that happened registered between you. “I’m sorry.”

Jesse’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked at you, his fingers picking at the edge of the blanket settled over him. “For what? Saving my life?”

“No, Jesse, I should’ve never put us in that situation. Especially after Pete left. I know better.” You replied, stepping towards the guy who had quickly become your best friend. You shook your head, eyes flickering around the room, until they settled on him. “Tommy took me off patrols, anyway, so.”

“What?” Jesse questioned, mouth hanging open. “Why?”

You stared at him, blinking in your confusion, and you tilted his head back to check his eyes were focused, that he wasn’t concussed, or something.

“Do you not remember what happened?”

“I remember just fine, thank you.” He responded, eyebrows creased as your hand left his forehead. Both of you wore incredibly confused expressions, neither knowing what the miscommunication between you could be. “Why would Tommy take you off patrols?”

“Jesse, you could’ve died.” You said, watching his face for the reaction, as if the information was new to him.

“Yeah, but that wasn’t your fault! You’re the one who saved me, who got me out. I don’t understand.” Jesse said, voice raising as he got slightly heated. He lowered his voice when he sat up, and pulled at his stitches, hissing in pain.

“No, I got us into it, and I was lucky to get us out.” You told him, as if it was a confession, and you frowned. You didn’t want to think about what could have happened to Joel, didn’t want to say that for once, the world had been on your side, letting you get him out, too. You didn’t voice it, but you don’t know what you would’ve done with yourself if he had died, trying to save you.

Jesse shifted, voicing your name, but you stopped him, smiling tightly in his direction. “It’s fine, Jesse. It’s for the better. Besides, means I’ve got more time to do my pottering.” You teased, though the words didn’t quite reach the way your teasing usually sounded. “Anyway, Dina showed up.”

“What? Why? Did she actually?” Jesse asked, his eyebrows raised as he looked to you with suspicion, like you were about to be making fun of him.

“‘Course she did. Whole town knows what happened, and she was worried about you.” You said with a grin that didn’t meet your eyes.

“The whole town?” He questioned, shutting his eyes and dropping his head back with a groan when you nodded your confirmation. “My family are so going to kill me, aren’t they?”

With a laugh, you reached forward to mess up his hair, “Oh, Jesse, you sweet thing. We’ve already devised a plan on how we’re going to do it.”

He slapped your hand away, glaring, but a smile pulled at his lips. He knew it wasn’t true, knew you were just entertaining his dramatics. What he didn’t know, was that his family had already been in, had already scolded you for getting their golden boy into trouble.

You moved back to the window, seeing a man across the road had given up on shovelling the heavy snow away from his door. Something heavy had settled on your chest, and you took a deep breath to try and get some oxygen past it. You didn’t blame Jesse’s family for what they had said to you — if you had been in their position, you probably would’ve been the same. They hadn’t quite approved of you, anyway, so you didn’t take it too personally. You were more than aware of everything you had done wrong.

Somebody cleared their throat in the doorway to the room, and you turned away from the window to see Joel stood there. He nodded his greeting to Jesse, a tight smile on his face.

“C’mon, kiddo, Tommy wants you to head back to the shop.” Joel said, repressing the sigh that wanted to leave his chest when you only nodded, stepping away from the window with a final glance outside.

“Well,” You said to Jesse, trying to muster up your best smile, “Duty calls, I guess. Feel better soon, okay?”

He called your name when you walked away, passing Joel as he stood beside the door, but you ignored it, feeling that weight grow heavier. Joel followed after you, a frown on his face.

You knew the route out already, and figured Joel was just the messenger, but he followed along, a few steps behind you as he limped on his injured leg. The wind was harsh when you opened the door, and you shivered when snow was immediately blown in your face. You lingered in the doorway, both hesitant to go out into the awful conditions, and feeling bad for leaving Joel hurrying on his bad leg.

Joel didn’t say it, but you knew he was here because Tommy didn’t want to see you. You couldn’t say you were surprised — not after just how angry Tommy had gotten. His face had been red, the steam pouring from his ears practically melting the snow around him, and it was the first time he had ever yelled at you.

“You doing okay?” Joel asked, hesitantly, as he paused in the doorway beside you, watching you as you wrapped your coat tighter around you. He knew that nothing was fixed, not even close, but there was something.

“I’m fine, Joel.” You replied, and he could hear the exhaustion in your voice, the way it pulled on your words. It was easier to hear than it was to see, but he just caught the slump to your shoulders, the way you held your eyes shut for a moment, before going to brave the snow.

He walked beside you as you headed towards the ceramics shop, your pace a touch slower than usual. You shoved your hands in your pockets, eyebrows creasing when you realised you must’ve taken your gloves off at some point. You tried not to sigh when you realised that they were probably lost, and just decided to chalk it up to another disappointment in an incredibly frustrating day.

When you arrived at the ceramics shop, it was a mission to get through all the snow that had started blocking the door. You would probably be snowed in, by nightfall. Joel helped you get rid of as much of it as possible, his gloved hands doing most of the work after your bare ones become too numb to continue.

You opened the door, feeling heavier than you had in months, and left the door open as you moved to the back of the shop, turning on the heater that sat there. You let your hands linger in front of it, just gritting your teeth at the sting that followed from warming them too quickly.

Joel lingered in the doorway, frowning at you, and furrowed his eyebrows as he called your name, watching your turn to face him. “I’m sorry.”

You gaped at him, stunned.

“You should have gotten a choice. It wasn’t my place to decide that for you, or to leave without havin’ a conversation.” He continued on, his words jumbling the slightest bit. “I still think you stayin’ was the best thing for you, the safest thing, but for whatever it might be worth, I am sorry.”

When your silence lingered, Joel nodded tersely, and stepped away, smiling tightly as he left the shop, shutting the door behind him. You blinked at the closed door, unsure what to do, unsure if you should have said something. But even if you should’ve, what would you have said?

It wasn’t okay, not in the slightest, and everything around you seemed to be crumbling. Tommy wasn’t speaking to you and Maria would be more than upset with you, too. Jesse was in the infirmary, and that was on you. And even as you looked around the ceramics shop, all you saw was cracked paint on the walls, and dust that settled no matter how many times you wiped it away.

Hell, even the misshapen plates and bowls on the shelves just made your chest hurt. You didn’t feel any sort of pride for this place, anymore, and it was painful. It stung at the deepest parts of you, and you just settled down on the dirty floor in front of the heater, holding your head in your hands as you blinked back tears.

Why did you think you could do this?

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Initially, you didn’t intend on avoiding Jesse.

In fact, you had plans to go and visit him the day after everything went to shit. It was just that when you opened the shop door, the outside looked far too unfriendly, and you knew his family would be in his infirmary room.

Perhaps it was a cowardly move, staying at the shop, locking the door and pretending the outside world of Jackson didn’t exist. Really, you were going to go and see him the next day. Swore to yourself that you would. But when the next day came, you didn’t even attempt to unlock the door to leave, figuring that it would be best to just leave him and his family to it. Dina was probably with him, too, so your absence wouldn’t be felt all too much.

Each day you said you would go, started with you justifying your staying in the shop. It went the same way, waking up and thinking you should go and see him, but the moment you got into the front of the shop, you thought better of it.

You blamed it on everything but what it actually was. Whether that be the snow, the heater in the shop that broke, the concept of him having quality time with his family… you used it all to reassure yourself that he didn’t need you by his side.

Besides, you knew he wouldn’t be in the infirmary for long. And by the fifth day, there was a knock against the shop door, barely heard over the howling wind outside. You remained in the back room, telling yourself it was probably nothing important, and after the heater broke, you couldn’t afford to open the door, anyway.

Even with the door closed, your breath misted in front of your face, and you had to rub your hands together more than once to generate heat, especially considering you seemed to have misplaced your gloves.

On day six, you kept all the lights off, and didn’t bother to poke your head around the doorframe to see who was knocking at the front door. After a few moments of loud knocking, his voice called out your name, and you were sure he was likely squinting through the shop window, trying to catch sight of you.

You barely even noticed the way you held your breath so it wouldn’t cloud the air, and alert him to your presence. You pretended the harsh exhale after he left was just a sigh of exhaustion. In some ways, you guessed it was.

By day seven, he knew what you were doing.

“Open the door,” Jesse yelled, still knocking wildly against the wood, and you were sure he was peeking in the window, too. “I’ve been to Tommy’s, the dinner hall, the greenhouses, the stables, hell — I even went to Joel’s. I know you’re here, stop hiding.”

You stayed in the back room.

After a while — much longer than you expected, especially given the still-awful weather — Jesse gave up, leaving the door at last. You frowned at the empty can of food in front of you, chest aching from the cold and everything that had happened over the past few days.

You hadn’t left the shop in the past seven days, surviving off of the short supply of long-life food in the cupboards. But that was your last can of it. As much as you knew you would have to leave, have to go get some more food in order to survive, you still didn’t want to. You didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want them to see the shame that was so visible in the curve of your frown, the dip of your brows.

It made it easier to hide, knowing Jesse was the only person looking for you. There had been no sign of Tommy or Maria, which pained you, but didn’t surprise you. Part of you wondered if they’d ever speak to you again, but you didn’t want to linger on the question, too afraid of the answer.

It was day eight that you had no other choice — the temperatures were dropping even further, and with no heater it was becoming too cold for you to take. The need for heat and food led you to the dinner hall, which was surprisingly empty, and you settled at your usual table with a plate of cooked food, feeling the chill that had begun to settle in your bones fade.

Most people would be staying inside their homes, the cold too much to bear, so you were surprised when Ellie waltzed into the hall, eyes scanning the room as she made her way over to grab herself some food. You dipped your head when she began looking in your direction, and clutched at the fork in your hand, holding your breath.

“So you are alive.” Ellie drawled, settling down in the seat opposite you with her plate in front of her. “You know your friend has been coming ‘round for the past few days, won’t leave us alone.”

You shrugged, not knowing how to respond.

She sighed, poking at the food on her plate. “Thanks for going back for Joel, by the way.” She pretended not to see the way your head snapped up, eyebrows furrowed as you looked at her.

“I wouldn’t leave him to die out there,” You said, after a moment, the words hesitant as they left you. “Especially when he went to try and help me.”

Ellie nodded, shoving food into her mouth, and you quickly followed her action. The silence between the two of you stretched uncomfortably, and you hated how everything had changed. Why couldn’t they have just let you come with them? Why did they have to push you so far away?

“He’s a good guy,” Ellie said, a frown on her face. “He makes stupid decisions, but only because he cares about us.”

You looked at her, wondering when the two of you had grown up. You remember the jokes you had shared during your travels, the way she had been able to make you smile even when doing so seemed impossible. She had made life in the apocalypse almost bearable, and now here you were, sat at the same table, but miles apart.

“Maybe, but you were right about one thing. I don’t know what happened, so if you ever want to talk about it, I’ll listen.” You told her, instead of acknowledging her words about Joel. You didn’t want to think about him. You didn’t want to think about any of it.

It would be painful, you were sure, to hear about everything they had experienced. You could guess that a lot of it wouldn’t be pleasant, and it would likely hurt to hear about all the things you had missed out on, all the things that maybe you could’ve protected them from. But you were willing. It wasn’t forgiveness, it wasn’t a ticket back to being in each other’s lives, but it was progress.

And progress was all that you could offer, so it would have to do.

“I’ll, uh, keep that in mind.” Ellie said, a tight smile on her face as she looked at you, her eyebrows slightly raised in surprise at your words.

You nodded, and the two of you ate in silence.

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After stocking up on some more long-lasting cans of food, you were prepared to hunker down in the shop for a while longer. You hadn’t been able to trade for another blanket like you had hoped, but you weren’t all too surprised. With the stormy weather, everybody wanted more warming supplies.

You had survived worse conditions, though, in worse places. One harsh winter in Jackson wouldn’t kill you, even if your heater was broken, and you still hadn’t found your gloves.

The shop door was locked once again, and you had taped the bottom of it to try and stop the cold draft from seeping into the room. You considered bunkering down in the back room, taping the door shut and staying in there with all the blankets and layers you had, but you thought better of it. You wanted to be able to hear the front door with ease, still on edge after the ambush with Jesse, especially considering the raiding attacks that had slowly begun to ease off.

Despite whatever had gone wrong, however angry Tommy may be, you knew he’d rely on you if the time came. You were sure of it. Everything the two of you had built couldn’t have been toppled by this one event, right?

Your gun was still laid by the shop door, and your ammo never left the jacket you always wore. Just in case. If anything were to go wrong, you wanted to be ready.

The call of your name shook you from your racing thoughts, the contemplation of everything that could happen pausing as your head snapped up. Maria’s voice was loud, and she hadn’t knocked. You didn’t have a surname — didn’t know whoever came before you long enough for them to tell you, didn’t know everyone who came after long enough for them to share their own. So she settled on your first name, yelling it loudly.

“Open the door!” Maria demanded once again, kicking the bottom of it with her foot. “Come on, open it. You’re not fooling anybody, and it’s freezing out here, little Troy can’t stay out here too long.”

With a sigh, you stood. She knew how to get to you — bringing baby Miller was a harsh plan, especially because it gave you no choice but to let her in. Not that it was much warmer in the shop than it was outside, but she didn’t know that.

You unlocked the door, pulling it open just to fit yourself into the crack of it. Facing Maria was terrifying, because you didn’t know what to expect. Even as she held on to baby Troy Miller, who was bundled up in more layers than you could count, she was totally unpredictable. She could be in a motherly mood, or that merciless Jackson council member.

“Hi,” You said, nervously. “What’re you doing here?”

She raised her eyebrows, stepping forward until you’d opened the door for her to step inside of the shop. Maria’s stern expression immediately fell, and you could feel nerves building in your stomach.

“Is your heating out?” She asked, turning on you suddenly, harshly. When you nodded meekly, she handed Troy over to you, not faltering even when you opened your mouth to voice your confusion.

He babbled at you, a toothy grin on his face, and you held on to him tighter. It hit you then, how much you actually cared about these people. Your brain short-circuited when you thought about something bad happening to this family, and it made you feel sick. Suddenly, you were regretting the meal you had eaten with Ellie.

“Well, I think Jeremy should be able to fix it up.” Maria sighed, standing from where she had crouched down to inspect your broken heater. “But he’s way busy with other heater issues. Come on, you’ll stay with us.”

“Maria.” You urged, repeating her name another time when she didn’t answer you, too busy thinking about options and solutions, as always. “I’m fine. Go home.”

She sighed heavily, turning to you with that stern look she’d been wearing since the moment you were left behind in Jackson. “I know you and Tommy are going through a rough time, but he loves you, and if he knew you’d been living here with no heat?” Maria shook her head with scoffed laughter, not reaching for Troy even as you offered to hand him back, instead moving to pack some of your clothes into a bag. “Come on, let’s go home.”

“It’s not my home, Maria,” You said softly, perhaps the softest she had ever heard you.

It was disquieting, at the least, for you to behave in such a way. Throughout the whole time Maria had known you, you had been sharp edges and bitten words, even when you had grown to care for them, that hadn’t changed all that much. It was a constant, your stubborn attitude and harsh nature, always slamming doors shut too hard, always charring food when you were unsupervised, because you’d turn the heat up too high. You were impatient, practical, realistic. You weren’t soft.

Maria’s face curved into a frown, and she stopped her presumptive actions in packing up some of your things. She looked at you, looked at the lines that were beginning to dig into your expression, looked at the way your shoulders slumped as you held on to her son.

“Maybe not,” Maria offered, and looked around at the shop that was not as pristine as the last time she had seen it, before looking back to you. “It could be, though.”

You shook your head, sighing but not finding any relief from the action, only feeling the same tightness to your chest. “I’m not a Miller.” You said, and it was true, because the space behind your name remained as empty as ever, that absence something you had felt your whole life.

“You’re as much a Miller as I am, as he is.” Maria reasoned, gesturing towards her son in your arms as she looked at you. She didn’t want to say too much, didn’t want to overwhelm you, but you had practically been adopted by the two Miller brothers. Two men who were so far from perfect, who made so many mistakes that they almost lost you, who cared too much. Hell, even if you weren’t consciously aware of it, you had adopted their mannerisms and tendencies.

It showed in the way you held Troy, the same stance that Tommy used. It showed in the frown on your lips, that looked far too much like Joel’s to be a coincidence. The furrow between your brows reflected Joel and Tommy’s own, a crevice built from worrying and frustration and anger. You reminded Maria too much of how Tommy had been when they first found him — eyes glassy, lost, and without purpose.

She had seen the change in you since you had been left in Jackson, so many ups and downs, but you had been doing better. And now, here you were, looking more lost than you ever had.

“That’s not true, Maria.” You replied, tense. It wasn’t true — Troy was a Miller by blood, and Maria was a Miller by marriage. Both choices that Tommy had made. It wasn’t the same for you, it couldn’t be. Tommy had never chosen you — Joel had dropped you in his lap before running away, and didn’t that make you the furthest thing from a Miller?

“It is true.” Maria refuted, stepping forward to hold a hand firmly against your face. “You’re a Miller, no doubt about it. Now come on, we’d better get going. Got a lot to talk about.”

She was finishing shoving your things inside of the backpack at her feet in a few moments, and was swinging it over her shoulder before you could protest, making her way out of the door. Holding her son, what choice did you have but to follow?

The two of you were silent on your journey to Rancher Street, and you felt the nerves bubbling up from your stomach, leaving an unpleasant tingling in the back of your throat. It was tense, though that could have been all from you. You were still holding Troy, having him half buried in your jacket to make sure he wouldn’t be cold, despite the fact your jacket wasn’t the warmest.

When you arrived to her house, Tommy wasn’t there. She didn’t say anything, so you didn’t mention it, much preferring to ignore the issues that would likely arrive whenever he returned. Instead, you settled Troy down, removing some of his layers at the rush of warm air that came the moment you stepped through the door.

Your hands were tingling, in a strange state between feeling and numb after the sudden temperature change. You settled them under your legs when you sat down on the couch, Troy at your side as Maria clambered about the kitchen, having already dropped your bag down beside the sofa.

When she came back, it was with a steaming mug that you recognised — one of your very own design. It was a dark green, close to black, and had your poor recreation of a bear on it. You remembered thinking it was going to come out brown, remembered the shock when it was green.

She handed it over, and you used the hand with slightly more feeling to take it from her, holding it close to your chin to allow the steam to flow over your features, warming your nose. “So,” Maria said, drawing your attention from where you’d been keeping an eye on Troy, keeping the hot mug away from him. “First, you and Tommy fight, and then you ignore your best friend?”

You stared at her, teeth clenched in shock, and recalled the way Ellie had mentioned the boy. Clearly, he was pestering everybody who knew you. Maria’s eyebrows raised, looking expectantly at you.

“‘M not ignoring anybody.” You murmured, voice catching in your throat as you spoke, and you took a sip of boiling hot tea to get rid of the lump that had formed. The burn soothed you, in a strange way, warming your insides the slightest bit as you breathed steam.

“Mhm, is that why he’s been ‘round here, bugging us ever since he got out of the damn infirmary?” Maria asked, expression tightening slightly as you winced, and knew she had got you.

You shook your head, moving your other hand from underneath your leg to cradle the mug in both palms, breathing a relieved breath at the warmth finally reaching your fingers. “Doesn’t know how to stop, does he?” You said, moving your eyes to the swirling drink in the mug, not looking up even as Maria hummed. “I’ll tell him to leave you be.”

“Ah, but that would require talking to him, which you clearly haven’t been doing.” She told you, a slight teasing lilt to her voice, to make it seem less serious than it truly was.

Maria remembered the night you and Tommy had arrived home, with you shoving at his shoulder whilst he laughed loudly, a bright teasing smile on his expression. It was probably the lightest she had ever seen the two of you, with Tommy not feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders for just a moment, and you smiling like you hadn’t faced unspeakable things. She remembered the way you had scrambled to correct Tommy’s statements, whacking a hand against his forearm when he interrupted you.

She remembered Troy waking up from where she hadn’t long settled him down, and remembered the way you had immediately gone to calm him down after hissing a “Look what you’ve done now!” at Tommy, who had only laughed.

Maria remembered the way her head had settled against her husband’s shoulder, exhausted to her very bones, motherhood feeling much harder than she remembered. Especially with her aged bones, keeping up with a baby was more difficult than she remembered. She didn’t want to think about what it would be like when he could actually run around. Maria had just been grateful to have you there, to be able to rest with Tommy, trusting you to look after her son.

You challenged her motherly instincts, sure, but Troy was on another level — it was a lot more to deal with when your child wasn’t basically self-sufficient.

“I’m going to,” You said, though there was doubt in your voice. “I am.” You repeated, as if that would solidify your statement, as if it would make it any more truthful.

“Listen,” Maria sighed, saying your name, and waiting for you to look up from your mug before she continued. “I know what happened on that patrol. I know. And it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault, so why are you ignoring Jesse?”

You swallowed, scratching a fingernail over a small crumb of clay that hadn’t gotten smoothed down before being fired. “I just… I care about him, and he could’ve died, Maria. Tommy was right, I—I was irresponsible, and I could’ve gotten us both killed.”

Maria shook her head immediately, picking Troy up when he began to fuss, and she stopped you. “No, Tommy was speaking from a place of anger. Of fear. You did everything right.” She affirmed, staring intensely at you, as if daring you to argue against her. “Except, maybe, going after Joel, but I know why you did that. I get it. If I had been in your position, if it were my…— I would’ve done the same thing.”

“I just didn’t want him to die, because of me.” You said, voice quiet again, and Maria’s heart ached for you, something squeezing so tightly in her chest that it physically hurt. “I don’t want Tommy to hate me forever, either.” You added after a few quiet moments, eyes following a bubble around the edge of the mug.

“He doesn’t hate you, kid, not at all. He was scared, he didn’t want to lose you.” Maria reasoned, but you still didn’t feel better, not after just how angry he had gotten. Not after he had practically shoved you out of his sight, the moment he was done yelling, unable to even look at you. Not after he had sent Joel as a messenger, refusing to speak to you himself.

“Maybe,” You offered, because it was the best you could do. You couldn’t agree with her, couldn’t disagree, either. The only person who would actually be able to decide those things was Tommy — and he was nowhere to be found. “I’ll talk to Jesse.” You decided to say, in the end, hands gripping tighter on the mug. Just saying it aloud made it seem all the more real, and you regretted it a moment afterwards, thoughts stuck on what Jesse would say, what his family would say.

“Good.” Maria said, nodding at you, “He’s a good kid, he deserves to know his friend is still here.” She stood to her feet, heading to the kitchen with Troy in her arms, waiting for her to feed him.

Twenty minutes later, when Maria had gone upstairs to put Troy down for a nap, the front door banged open, a rush of cold air being let in.

“Maria!” Tommy yelled out, his voice panicked, and you could hear him shuffling through his bag in the still-open doorway. With furrowed brows, you placed the cold mug down on the floor beside the sofa, standing up and making your way to peek into the hallway. “Maria, you here?” He shouted again, more desperate this time, and when you finally saw him, you saw that he had snow still clinging to him, and he had brought clumps of it in on his boots, slowly melting puddles on their floor.

“Tommy?” You questioned quietly, both not wanting to speak to him, but also getting increasingly concerned by his behaviour. His head snapped up to you, and he blinked in surprise, his shoulders slumping and hands pausing in their rummaging.

“Oh, thank god.” Tommy said, approaching you quickly and wrapping his arms around you tightly before you could get a word in. You blinked, shocked, and slowly wrapped your own arms around the man, who just held your head closer to him in return. “You scared the shit outta me.” He admitted, a slight tremor to his voice. He breathed out a heavy sigh, arms squeezing, and you wanted to look at him to express your confusion.

“Is everything okay?” Maria asked, a slight panic to her own voice, but she relaxed at the image before her. Tommy’s eyes opened as he rested his head on your own, and he looked to his wife as he nodded gently.

He moved away from you slightly, hands moving to hold your shoulders tightly, finally able to see your confused face. He sighed, his shoulders dropping like they had been holding the weight of the world. “I went to the shop, wanted to apologise. Couldn’t find you or your things, and it was freezing.” Tommy told you, his head dropping until his chin rested against his chest for a moment. “Thought you left.”

His arms pulled you back to his chest, and you didn’t resist him, though your heart was racing in your chest, blood rushing in your ears.

Maria frowned, “I didn’t know you were going. The heater’s broken, so I told her to stay with us.”

Tommy nodded again, his breath held in his chest as he let his heart rate calm down. You let him hold on to you until he was ready to let go, just keeping your face hidden in his shoulder as your arms wrapped loosely around him, fingers numb from the cold once again.

When he finally released you, you took a small step back, cheeks warm with remaining shame from your last conversation with the man. The rest of you, however, was freezing, especially since you had removed your multitude of layers in the warm house. Tommy frowned as you shivered, cursing under his breath as he turned to shut his front door, his frown deepening when he saw the water covering the hallway in front of the door.

He waved Maria away when she gave him a stern look, and she nodded once she saw his expression, smiling tightly at you before heading back upstairs to settle Troy back down, after he had been fussing from his father’s shouting.

Tommy turned to where you stood, hands wrung together to try and generate some more warmth between your digits. He sighed again, a seemingly very common thing for him at the moment, and he stood up straighter to talk to you.

“I’m sorry,” He told you, his voice reflecting his words in its apologetic tone. “I should never have spoken to you the way I did. Wasn’t fair of me to blame you for things that weren’t your fault. Or for me to judge you for doin’ exactly what I would’ve. What I should’ve.”

You stared at him, at the way his hands clenched and unclenched into fists at his sides, a slightly nervous habit, you had noticed.

“Tommy, you were right,” You responded, continuing on even as he shook his head, “I messed up, and I could’ve gotten Jesse, or Joel, or even myself killed.”

“No.” He said firmly, reaching out and holding onto your shoulders once again, his grip tight as if you might slip away. “I was wrong. You hear me? I should have been proud, proud that you were so brave, that you saved your friend and your— and Joel. I should have been proud that you made your way back, that you did it without some old shithead tellin’ you what to do.” He rambled on, shutting his eyes and looking almost regretful.

You ducked your head, feeling far too emotional, a lump formed in your throat at his words. Just somebody who you looked up to, who you trusted, telling you that you hadn’t done anything wrong… it was almost too much.

As many mixed feelings as you may have had over the whole situation, the most prevalent one was guilt. It had been surrounding you, weighing so heavily on you, hell, you didn’t even realise how much it had been pulling you down until Tommy came in, lifting it all off of your shoulders.

“You did good, kid.” He told you, squeezing your shoulders, and you hated the way your lip started trembling.

“Stop, you’re gonna make me cry.”

Tommy laughed, the sound watery and almost broken off, “You can cry as much as you want.” He pulled you in, feeling your arms squeeze around his middle as he held on to you so tightly, he was almost sure he’d never let go again.

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

Your closed fist was raised up to the door, a hair’s width away from making contact with it, but you had frozen. And it wasn’t because of the cold.

There was something that had settled heavily in your stomach, making your whole body feel heavy and slow. You felt, distantly, like you might throw up with the way it was sitting, but tried not to think on it too much. You were aware of the way your chest was rising and falling, almost too aware, and you tried to put it out of your mind as you attempted to steel yourself.

“You gonna knock, or are you just gonna keep standing there, looking stupid?” A voice asked from behind you, making you spin on your heels, fist pulled away from the door. You held a hand against your chest, breathing a heavy sigh as you saw the culprit of the scare.

“You’re an asshole.” You murmured, eyes studying your beaten up boots that were covered in melting snow. You looked up to him, and felt some relief when you saw Jesse crack a slight smile at your reaction. It faded far too quickly for your liking.

“So?” He prompted, eyebrows raising at you.

You frowned, repressing the urge to grumble at him, but you knew that he should’ve been the one angry at you. Hell, he probably was. “I just came to say… I’m sorry.”

“For…?”

“Are you kidding?” You asked, annoyed. But when his expression didn’t budge, you sighed through your nose. “Okay. I’m sorry for ignoring you after the infirmary, and I’m sorry you got put into the infirmary at all.” You said, looking back down the where the melting snow was seeping into the hole at the side of your boots. You should probably get new ones.

Jesse didn’t say anything for a moment, and you picked at your fingernails while you stared at the ground, your nerves sending your pulse into a fluttery mess.

Finally, you heard him snickering, and your head snapped up. “Well, I just can’t believe this. You, apologising?” You glared as his smile slowly grew, though you knew that the whole thing wasn’t quite solved, at least it was good to know that Jesse was still acting his usual asshole self with you. “Come on, you little asshole.” He said, gesturing for you to follow him. You did.

He glanced at you every so often, shaking his head at your stoic expression.

The two of you arrived at the dining hall soon enough, standing in the queues silently whilst waiting to collect food, until Jesse nudged you and led you over to the table you so often shared.

“You do realise I would never blame you for something that happened on patrol, right?” He asked, eyebrow raised as he awaited your response, shovelling food into his mouth as if he was starving. He reminded you an awful lot of Ellie, in that way. You wondered if they had met.

With a roll of your eyes, “Well, now, yeah. Do we have to talk about this? I said sorry, didn’t I?” You murmured the last part, shovelling your own food into your mouth, refraining from rolling your eyes again when Jesse snickered at you.

“How could I forget? You prefer to brood rather than talk about your feelings.” He responded.

“Okay, I don’t brood—”

“Yes, you do—”

“And do you enjoy talking about… feelings?” You said, ignoring his interruption. He stared at your raised eyebrows, the expectant look on your face.

“Sometimes, I do.”

“Maybe when it comes to—”

“Dina!” Jesse said in a high pitched tone, cutting you off and looking at you with widened eyes. You looked behind you, seeing the girl of the hour approaching your table, an amused look in her eye. She nudged you with a grin as she walked past, sitting on your left and smiling widely at Jesse’s surprised expression.

After settling down, she looked back up to meet Jesse’s eyes. “What? Cat got your tongue?”

You snorted out a laugh, not expecting to hear such an old expression coming from her — it sounded like something Joel might say. Jesse glared at you, unamused by the grin you and Dina shared.

“Yeah, Jesse.” You goaded, smiling at his indignant huff. “Not want to talk about feelings, anymore?” You asked. You leaned backwards as he swiped his arm out, trying to knock the cutlery from your hand as it was heading towards your mouth. Dina laughed at his failed attempt.

“So you two are talking again, then?” Dina said when her laughing faded, and you glared at the way Jesse grinned, unhappy with the fact he was telling her such things. You supposed that you couldn’t blame him — after all, you had spoken to Maria about it. It just so happened that Jesse was your only friend your actual age.

“Unfortunately.” You grumbled, eyes narrowed at the man.

“Unfortunately,” Jesse mocked, making a face at you. “Somebody finally came to their senses!” He said, after he was done poking at his food as he frowned at you.

“Somebody is having regrets about it.” You responded in turn, smiling sarcastically at him.

“Back to normal, then.” Dina concluded, smiling when the two of you nodded. She didn’t know you all too well, but from the time she had spent with you in Jesse’s infirmary room, she was a fan. You clearly cared about Jesse, way more than you would admit, and she could admire that.

You looked at Jesse, “Back to normal.” He echoed, smiling at you.

You pretended that the sigh you let out wasn’t one of relief.

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

“You should really clean this place up, you know.” Jesse commented as you unlocked the door to the pottery shop, his eyes scanning around the room, the chill to the air making him shove his hands in his pockets. He looked at the dust covering the surfaces you usually cut clay on and raised his eyebrows.

“Well, I’ve been a bit busy.” You replied, moving to the newly fixed heater that Tommy had brought over when he walked you back to the shop that very morning.

“Oh, yeah, avoiding me.” Jesse said, grinning mischievously when you shot him an annoyed look over your shoulder, focusing on turning the heater on, placing your freezing hands in front of it when it finally started shooting out some warmth. You sighed at the sting, just glad to feel your hands once again.

You sat down on a dusty stool, turning to Jesse when he sat down beside you, relishing in the heater that was finally working. “Okay, so maybe I’m not the best with… feelings.”

“No kidding,” Jesse snorted, his smile fading when you stared at him, deadpan. “Sorry, go on.”

“But I can say that I do care about you. Sometimes. When you don’t piss me off.” You told him, drawing in a shaky breath that filled your lungs with cold air. “I just… relationships are complicated, you know? And painful, a lot of the time. I didn’t wanna go through that again, I guess, but you’re persistent.”

Jesse smiled as you spoke, somewhat amused by your words, but even you could see the softness to it. The absence of that teasing edge his grin usually held. It was reassuring.

“If this is about Joel—” Jesse attempted, shutting his mouth when you cut him off.

“—It’s not about him.” You interrupted, quickly, the back of your neck feeling hot despite the heater being quite far from you. “Or maybe it is, I don’t know.” You added on, after thinking about it for a second. You generally tried not to think of Joel, or the whole situation with him and Ellie, but could it really have effected you that much? It’s not like Joel was the first person you had lost.

He was the first to walk away without a fight, though.

A small part of you fought that fact, because he came back. Did that not mean anything?

“Can I speak yet?” Jesse asked, a slight teasing lilt to his voice. It brought you out of your thoughts, and you smiled despite the topic at hand. With a nod from you, Jesse went on, “Thanks. I’m just saying, maybe Joel isn’t all that bad. I’m not defending what he did, but the guy clearly cares about you.”

“So I should just— just forgive him? For leaving me?” You asked, looking at Jesse as if he had all the answers.

“I don’t know, that’s up to you,” He said. “Maybe you don’t need to forgive him. Maybe it’s time to just… move on with your life. Forget about what he did, and focus on what he can do. You miss him, don’t you?”

You frowned, looking away from the intensity of Jesse’s gaze. The two of you were friends, yes, and he was the closest friend you’d ever had, maybe besides Ellie. But being so open, it was strange. Likely the effect of the apocalyptic world you lived in, and perhaps it was another difference between that world and the little safe haven of Jackson, Wyoming.

“‘Course I do. He and Tess… they were everything I had.” You replied, your eyebrows creasing at the thought of the woman, at the memory of your life in Boston QZ. It made you realise that it had been a while since Maria had cut your hair, and Tess would’ve chastised you for not reminding her to cut it if you had let it gotten this long in Boston.

It all felt so far away.

When you thought of Tess, your heart ached. Though, it wasn’t quite the same as it had been on your journey with Joel and Ellie. You felt her absence, maybe more than ever, but it wasn’t all bitter. You felt… appreciative of her. She may be gone, but at least you got to have her for a time.

You really wished that she could’ve seen this place, though. You often wondered if she would’ve liked pottery.

Joel would probably know.

“Tess may be gone, but Joel isn’t. Not anymore.” Jesse reminded you, hesitant in his words. You realised that you had never really told him, or anyone, about Tess.

“Y’know, if Tess were here, she’d probably tell me to get over myself,” You laughed at the thought, a sad, watery laugh, but Jesse smiled with you despite not knowing the woman. “She’d kick Joel’s ass, though.”

“Is that even possible? Joel’s like… badass, man.”

“Nobody was more badass than Tess. She was awesome. Used to boss Joel around, all the time, she ran half of the smuggling underground at Boston.” You smiled when Jesse raised his eyebrows, surprised. “And she used to cut my hair. Always told me it was better to keep my hair short, even though she had long hair.”

“Bit hypocritical, isn’t it?” Jesse asked, humour in his words.

You shrugged, “Think she was just trying to keep me safe, in her own way. Tess didn’t want to keep me, to start with. Joel convinced her.”

The more you thought about it, the more you realised that it really was because of Joel that you were allowed to stay with the two of them. You remember hearing them argue on a few occasions, something about a great family that Tess knew nearby. But Joel had never let you go too far.

He’d told you about Tess’s family, though it wasn’t really his place to do so. He had done it in an attempt to comfort you one night when you were young, after you had gotten upset at Tess disregarding you yet again. Joel had explained that she didn’t like getting attached to anybody, especially kids, after she lost her own child. He had told you that it was what they had bonded over, at the start.

“Sounds like this Joel guy really wanted you around, huh?” Jesse said teasingly, only grinning when you narrowed your eyes at him.

“Shut up, you asshole, when the hell did you get all wise?” You asked, glaring at him as he feigned an innocent look. You cracked first, smiling at his expression, feeling a softness to the grin as he matched it with one of his own.

“Distance makes the heart grow wiser, I guess.”

“It’s fonder, Jesse. It makes the heart grow fonder.”

“Shut up, I’m the wise one here.”

You looked at Jesse then, as the two of you shared a laugh, and you wondered if this is how friendship felt before the apocalypse, or if that warm feeling in your chest was exclusive to post-apocalyptic relationships.

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

“Didn’t think you’d be coming back here.” Joel commented gruffly as he made his way to the kitchen with a nervous energy about him.

“Me neither,” You said idly, watching him fumble around the kitchen. You wondered if it was just a Miller thing, being terrible in the kitchen. It certainly seemed like something Joel and Tommy had in common, but you hadn’t really thought about it when Joel had asked if you wanted some tea, in a bit of a panic at your presence.

He didn’t say anything in response to that, seemingly mulling your words over. Joel didn’t really know what to make of your presence, certainly not expecting to see you at his front door when he opened it.

“Oh, wait,” You said suddenly, causing him to look over to you in the doorway from where he had been about to put tea in the two mugs in front of him. You pulled your backpack around on your shoulder, digging through it for a moment before pulling out a bag. Joel’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked between you and the bag, waiting for an explanation. “Look.” You said, handing it over to him.

He took the bag, opening it up and unable to help the grin that broke onto his face at the sight of coffee beans, the scent of them immediately soothing some of the man’s tension.

“Where’d you get these?” Joel asked you, his voice lighter than you had heard it since Boston. The sound of it made you grin, despite everything.

“Found ‘em on a patrol, a while ago. Been hiding them from Tommy, so don’t tell him.” You responded, realising that this was probably the lightest conversation you and Joel had held for a very long time. How long had it been?

“Wouldn’t dream of it. He’s a thief, always has been.” Joel said, smiling. “Right, the tea.” He said after a moment, placing the bag of coffee beans beside the mugs he’d set out.

You snickered as you noticed the mugs, grinning as Joel turned to you in question. “Seems like Tommy’s not the only thief in the family.” You said, gesturing toward the white and orange mug he’d placed down, recognising it from the batch you’d given Tommy and Maria.

Joel, at least, had the decency to look slightly embarrassed about stealing the orange coloured owl mug you had made and gifted to his brother. Either that, or embarrassed about getting caught. It had slipped his mind, really, more of a habit to grab it out of the cupboard, considering it was the one he used all the time.

He opened his mouth to try and craft some sort of defence, but felt any words he might’ve had die on his tongue as he turned to you. Seeing you smiling, well, it wasn’t exactly an unfamiliar sight. You often smiled at Tommy and Maria when he caught sight of you with the two of them, hell, you smiled a lot around that friend of yours, Jesse. Joel even remembers the times you would smile back in Boston, even though life in the QZ was much harder than life in Jackson.

But it had been a long time since Joel had seen you smile in his presence.

Each time you and Joel interacted after he had left you behind, your face had a way of falling, of crumpling in on itself before it hardened, staring at him with an expression of stone.

It had his heart aching in his chest, finally seeing you smile around him. He hadn’t realised quite how much he had missed it.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, after he stayed silent for a moment too long, the smile on your face fading into something of confusion. Joel shook himself out of his melancholy thoughts, clearing his throat and offering up his best smile in return.

“Nothin’,” Joel answered. “Nothin’ at all.”

You let his response linger in the air between the two of you for a few moments, and it seemed that the both of you were thinking of how life used to be. You were a long way from Boston.

“I could’ve made you your own, y’know.” You said, after a the silence stretched on, reaching out and picking up the mug he had stolen, looking at all the imperfections that had seemed invisible, all that time ago when you had made it. You’d like to believe you were much better in your craft, now.

“I like this one, just fine.” Joel responded, plucking it from your hands with a raised eyebrow. You snickered at his actions, moving to look around the kitchen, missing the soft grin stretched over the man’s face.

“God, you fixed that?” You asked suddenly, taking a wide step to look at the slight imperfection on the countertop, where you remember carving a deep gash in the material one night by shattering a particularly heavy plate upon the counter. You were almost sure it wasn’t fixable, that perhaps it could look better, but would always be extremely noticeable.

Joel nodded, back to his task of sorting out tea, but spoke when realising you were faced away from him. “Oh, yeah. Took me a couple tries, though.”

You hummed in response, going back to looking around the kitchen that you remembered so well. Most of the damage you had caused on the room had been fixed, which created a strange feeling in your chest, though you couldn’t tell quite what it was. Relief? Disappointment?

It wasn’t as hard to be in this house as you had expected it to be. You were awaiting that crushing feeling in your chest, that emptiness that left your ribs aching. Surprisingly, you felt… light, almost.

Joel didn’t know exactly what to expect.

On one hand, he wanted to feel hopeful, to belief that this would be the beginning of your relationship with him healing. But then on the other hand, he was reminded of just how much he had hurt you, of the tears that had spilled from your eyes when he had left you behind, the grit of your teeth when he had returned. He tried his best not to expect anything at all, to just remain… happy that you were here, in this moment.

Even if there were no other moments like this one.

He tried not to focus on how much that thought hurt.

“You and Ellie settled in, then?” You asked, trying to fill the silence in the room. There was also that part of you that wanted to know, that wanted to know everything.

Joel repressed the sigh that built in his chest. “Gettin’ there. She, uh, she’s had a tough time, but you know Ellie. She loves to be gettin’ into everybody’s business.” He refrained from looking in your direction when he asked you the same question. “You settled in alright here?” He wanted to add more on, but thought it best not to try his luck.

“I guess so.” You responded, thinking of how different your life was now, to how it was back in Boston, or even to how it was when you were on the road with Joel and Ellie. “It was… tough at first, but Tommy and Maria were good to me. And I got the shop, so.”

“And that boy?” Joel asked, trying to remain casual, though you heard the suspicion.

You smiled at his question, at the way he avoided looking at you. Back in Boston, when you had been much, much younger, Joel had tried to get the thought into your brain that boys were bad. He was protective of you, and distrustful towards the world. You couldn’t blame him.

“Jesse? He’s, uh, he’s my best friend.” You told the man, shaking your head at the way his shoulders relaxed the smallest bit. “He’s a good guy, you know. I care about him.”

As protective as Joel was, though he knew that he didnt really have any right to be, he couldn’t deny that it was nice that you had a friend your age. That you could count on someone, could trust someone, out of your immediate circle. He remembers that you had been lonely in the QZ, with only him and Tess for company, nobody your age that you could speak to or trust.

It had been a relief, almost, when you and Ellie had developed a friendship on the journey. Joel only hoped that the two of you could have that again.

“I’m happy for you, kiddo.” Joel responded, the nickname coming out almost like a reflex, like it was involuntary. It was what he had always called you, though, so you weren’t surprised.

“Jesse, uh— it was actually Jesse’s idea for me to come here.” You said, and Joel couldn’t deny the relief that spread through him when you didn’t immediately reject the nickname, or pull away at the sound of it.

Joel floundered for a moment, looking for something to say, eventually settling on uttering a quiet, “Sounds like a smart kid.”

You smiled, taking the mug off of Joel as he finally finished making the tea, avoiding your eyes. “I guess.” You replied, cradling the warm ceramic mug tightly in your hands. “Somehow, he seems to know what I need to hear, before even I know.” You said, humour coating your fond tone.

Joel smiled. “Sounds familiar. Tess was always like that, with me.”

It was one of the first times Joel had openly mentioned her name since she died. For some reason, it made your shoulders feel much lighter, like the burden of not being able to talk about her had been weighing you down.

“I miss her.” You confessed, looking for his reaction.

“I do, too, kiddo.” Joel admitted, his words softer than you had ever heard them. You thought about what it must’ve been like for him, to lose the companion he had held as close as he dared for close to two decades. You couldn’t imagine.

You hesitated, opening your mouth, before closing it again, only going ahead when Joel gave you a reassuring nod. “You knew her much better than I ever did.”

“I suppose.”

“Do you think you could… I don’t know, just— just tell me about her, one day?” You asked, the hope in your words making Joel’s heart ache.

“‘Course. I’ll tell you whatever you’d like to know.” Joel said, smiling gently at you, nodding his head towards the living room, a soft look on his face as he sat down beside you on the couch. “Ask away, kiddo.”

You were quiet for a moment, feeling lighter than you had possibly your whole life. “Do you think she’d like pottery?” You asked, sharing a knowing smile with Joel. He laughed at the concept, something so amusing about the idea of Tess Servopoulos, the renowned smuggling boss, sitting in your shop and making dinnerware.

“If it was with you, I reckon she’d have liked anything.” Joel responded, something truthful to his words.

You smiled, and asked more about her.

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

if the door wasn’t shut taglist: @sleepylunarwolf @am-i-shit-or-am-i-the-shit @mandowhatnow @aphrcdites @doodlebob-mp3 @rrickgrrimes8 @nikt-wazny-y @fallenoutofrose @wrathofcats @kakimakiloh @pinkpurplepuffs @ameagrice @optimisticprime3 @httpjiikook @hnslchw @ioonatv @ackermanbitch @jay1bird23 @martinsmomo @brilliantopposite187 @calumhoodssidehoe @truthfuleeyours @code-roevember @cappucinolia @wrappedinfiction @angelmenace @your-shifting-gurl @gimalo135 @xaimary @v-linelicker @imonmykneessir @kayler-23 @dilfdemolisher @pedropascalslilbaby @rh1nestonecowg1rl @randomstory56 @ipadkidsworld @kobababysblog @wren-ly @morganfullaaa @theyoutubedork

[inkedinshadows]

ACOTAR Masterlist

Last update: 11/16/2024

Fic recs: @readinshadows

Hello and welcome 🌸 I'm Yenni (or Yen), I'm 22 and I'm Italian! At the moment I write only for Azriel, but maybe in the future I'll write for more characters, who knows. I hope you'll enjoy your stay here and if you want to chat, I'm always up for it 🩷

If you want to know me a bit more, see my introduction post ✨️

💖 --- > Fluff

❤️‍🩹 --- > Angst

❤️‍🔥 --- > NSFW

🌼 --- > personal favorite

Azriel

A Helping Hand ❤️‍🩹🌼 (completed)

The bond snapped for Azriel the moment he saw her, thrown into the Cauldron with Elain and Nesta. Now, he wants to help her as she struggles to cope with what happened.

Echoes of the Bond - part 2

Where You Belong 💖 - part 3

Unraveling Truths ❤️‍🔥 - bonus scene

What Truly Matters ❤️‍🩹

After the war, Y/N has fallen into an unhealthy routine of training and pushing everyone away. But Azriel had enough of it and wants to know why she’s doing it.

Nights and Days ❤️‍🔥🌼

Azriel and Y/N are on a mission in Illyria, but while they go from one camp to another, they're caught in a snow blizzard and are forced to find shelter in the closest inn. Thanks to the shadowsinger, there's only one bed.

Little Rainbow 💖🌼

When you can’t comfort your baby daughter, you bring her to her dad, who always manages to calm her down.

Play It For Me 💖

You hear music coming from somewhere in the house, and when you go to investigate, you find something completely unexpected.

Lazy Mornings 💖

Azriel really loves to wake up next to you.

Red or Black

Cassian insists on helping his sister out when she needs to choose an outfit for a date.

Random Azriel headcanons

Kinktober 2024 (multi-character)

Azriel Appreciation Week 2024

Lovely dividers (here and in my posts) by @cafekitsune

[astroboots]

EVERY YOU EVERY ME #9

COLLABORATED WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: You get a new mysterious co-worker.

Word count: 8,100

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[Previous] [Next]

August 1st

Nearly pancaked by grand piano falling from the 8th floor outside of favorite cafe. No casualties (except the piano).

August 5th

Freak blizzard out of nowhere during lunch. Nearly crushed by large icicle dropping directly outside the exit of the Chrysler building. No other known casualty.

August 6th

An escaped hippopotamus from the Bronx zoo ran 11.3 miles, nearly got stampeded when exiting hotel for work. No casualties.

August 12th

Tornado appeared inside the Guggenheim museum, nearly squashed by large falling statue. Nobody nearby was seriously injured.

It's already mid-August now. You've used up more than a month of your allotted three. It means you don't have much more time to waste, but that knowledge does nothing to help you in figuring things out. 

You’ve compiled a comprehensive list of the Universe's ongoing murder attempts, determined to keep track of them all. All in all, there are 37 incidents and counting that you’re aware of… and they’re all different. 

They differ in severity. They differ in scale and they differ in frequency. Sometimes it can take weeks, sometimes days, sometimes within hours of each other. If there’s any sort of pattern to them—anything that might help you predict what will happen next or how to stop it—you can’t see it.  There’s nothing that gives you any hint or clue as to where you can start to make progress with solving this mystery.

The one thing you have been able to observe from cataloging these incidents is that Miguel was right about what he told you that day at Starbucks: the universe is ramping up. Each attempt is becoming more and more bizarre, defying the very laws of physics and nature in its attempts to snuff you out. Before this, in all of your years in New York, you’ve never heard of a blizzard in July or a tornado indoors. 

With the escalating dangers, Miguel is more on guard than ever. Sticking close to you at all times like a particularly insistent herding dog that’s always a few inches from nipping at your heels. Even when he’s seemingly preoccupied by something else—reading a book, folding clothes, eating a crate of kit kats in one sitting—you can always tell that he’s keenly aware of and attuned to your every minute move. 

Practically, the only time he lets you out of his sight is for bathroom visits. 

Work is still a point of contention between you two. He hates that he can't enter the building to monitor you at work and make sure you're safe, and after that incident when you caught a co-worker trying to take a surreptitious selfie with Spiderman while Miguel was loitering around in the windows, you’d banned him from climbing and scuttering around the exterior of the building like some deranged squirrel. 

It’s made him even less pleased about your whole work situation, something he’s not shy about sharing with you. Every morning when you are about to leave for work, Miguel will stand by the door with that ever present frown and ask you: 

“Why are you still going into a job you hate when there’s only two months left?”

This morning, you sigh as you reach for your jacket and messenger bag. 

Part of you completely understands and even agrees with his logic. If the end of the world is only two months away, why go back to that shithole everyday? You could go to Disneyland. Eat fancy croissants in Paris for breakfast. Have Lyla fake a reservation at an all-inclusive yoga retreat in Bali. You could be living your life like every moment is your last. 

The thing is though, as delusional as it may be, you’re not ready to bet on the world ending just yet. 

“Miguel, I fully intend for the universe to still be around in two months. And I don’t want to be unemployed when that day comes. I’m not some trust fund baby. Once we figure this thing out, you’re gonna be free to go, and if you take Lyla with you, then what am I supposed to do? Live on the streets? Rent in the city is ridiculous, and my rent-controlled apartment got blown into a million pieces.”

For once Miguel doesn’t seem to have anything smart to say back. He tilts his head, quietly studying your face. Then after a long pause, he gives you a curt nod, as if something clicked into place. 

"Fine."

You stop mid-way through zipping up one of your boots to eye him suspiciously. 

Okay, that’s… different.

In all the mornings you’ve repeated this argument, this is the first time he’s simply accepted your explanation without sassing you back. He just gazes right back, apparently unperturbed, and holds the door of your hotel room open for you, ready to walk you to work. 

There is definitely something going on inside his head, because this stubborn dummy never lets anything go without a fight. You just don’t know what it is yet. 

By mid-morning, you've forgotten all about your suspicions, too busy dealing with the aftermath of your coworker's incompetence. You're not entirely sure how they managed to corrupt the Excel formula you’d painstakingly inserted to make sure all the numbers add up correctly, but two hours later, you're still trying to get the data to compute properly. 

It’s the kind of mind numbing task that lets your mind wander, and you spend most of that morning wondering what Miguel is up to. He’s probably lingering near the building, eating mini donuts by the dozens from that food truck that is always parked around the corner. 

There’s a pointed series of knocks on your cubicle wall. The noise is grating, and it makes the whole of your back seize up because you recognize that signature knock from sound alone. It’s your boss, probably here to ask if you have capacity to take on more case evaluations. 

And sure enough, as you reluctantly turn to look, you see her, toothy smile and all, looking down at you in that hammy and strained way of hers. 

“Are you busy?” she asks. “I just wanted to introduce you to the newest member of the team.” 

She gestures to the person standing beside her. Your gaze goes up over their insanely long legs, up and over the narrow and tapered waist and torso, up over the wide chest and broad, broad shoulders, and even before you get to the familiar face, you already know who you are looking at, because no one else is that tall.

Your mouth gapes open wide in shock.

This stupid motherf-

“This is Mickey O’Hara,” your boss introduces, simpering up at him. (You didn’t even know she knew how to simper.) 

Has Miguel gone insane?

What is he playing at?!

He didn’t even bother to change his name properly!

And the man looks unfairly good in office casual! He’s dressed in a white, well-fitted button down shirt and dress pants. Wearing ridiculous thick-rimmed glasses that would belong on Gregory Peck. Riotous curls are as messy and wild as ever, not having even bothered to comb it back. You don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling, the subdued get-up only makes him stick out like a sore thumb.

“Mickey is our newest hire,” your boss continues, batting her eyes at him. “He's interning with our team as a junior insurance claims adjuster and will be shadowing you for the next two months.”

After that, Miguel truly is with you everywhere you go. 

He spends most of each workday sitting on a spare chair in your small cubicle, the two of you squeezed into 6'x6', shoulder touching shoulder in that tiny, cramped space.

A superhero he may be, but Miguel is a terrible office worker. He seems completely bamboozled by the copier, and you quickly learn not to ask him to do any copying or scanning or even pick your printouts from the printer, because he always manages to mangle the process, coming back with crumpled up prints or half-shredded paper that looks like budget confetti.

Before the week is over, he’s gained a reputation with the rest of the team as the handsome-but-useless junior that can’t even make coffee for shit.

Most of the time, he doesn't even make an effort to look like he’s doing any actual work, just sits right next to you, and reads books all day long. When you scold him and ask him to at least pretend like he's doing busy work, or he'll get fired, Miguel will just shrug and quietly hum back at you, engrossed in whatever latest sci-fi book his nose is buried in. 

"If they fire me, I'll just have Lyla hack into their HR system and rehire me."

Then there’s the way his sleeves are always rolled up halfway up his arm, hugging tight around the firm muscles of his forearm. The peep show of gorgeously tanned skin that is always on display for all to see. It's obscene. 

He’s maddening and distracting. 

Still, you can’t be too mad about his presence. The office is a much more treacherous place than you’d initially thought. It’s a danger zone of death traps. 

One morning when you’re in the supply room, getting a new pad of post-its from one of the massive industrial shelves—the ones that are supposed to be bolted to the wall for safety—suddenly crumpled, taking half the wall with it and nearly flattening you. That was almost game over for you. Squashed like a bug and entombed under a pile of archived TPS reports. 

Then there’s that time with the runaway elevator when the supposedly secure and unbreakable industrial cables snaps, with you in it, falling through 40 floors. And you still shudder everytime you walk past the copy machine because of that time it tried to electrocute you. If Miguel hadn’t been there for all of these incidents, you’d be a goner. 

Another upside is that it’s also nice to have a cubicle buddy. On slow days, the two of you kill time watching YouTube origami tutorials and practicing with post-its stolen from the temporarily-relocated office supplies. 

Despite having hands the size of a giant, Miguel is surprisingly good at it. Delicately folding paper cranes, butterflies and flowers that sit in the place of pride atop of your computer screen, compared to your questionable attempts that usually wind up in a crumpled ball in the trash. 

With Miguel there, your days at the office are never boring or predictable in the way they used to be. It no longer feels like you are just going through motions. It's almost… fun. 

If there wasn’t a cosmic executioner’s ax looming over your neck, you don’t think you would mind spending every day with him like this.

You take it back. You do mind spending days with him like this. Miguel is the worst. 

You've been doing data entry all morning, and the man will not shut up about how primitive Excel is. 

“Malo! I don’t understand how your company relies on this software. There are so many data consistency issues! It completely lacks data validation and integrity checks, and it’s too prone to human error when entering crucial data, which results in–” 

You take deep calming breaths as you continue to type, trying to pretend his rant is white noise.  

The previous day's near death experience—an electrical surge from the printer, trying to finish what the copy machine started—also wiped out one of the file servers, and now you and half your department are stuck manually re-entering three years worth of data.  

Two hours in, your fingers are aching, and you're about ready to start banging your head on the keyboard out of frustration. (Or banging the keyboard on Miguel’s head if he doesn’t shut up.)

Like he can hear your thoughts, the man in question obligingly stops talking, and there’s a moment of blessed silence before your chair glides smoothly and suddenly to the left as Miguel rolls you out from in front of your computer. Your first instinct is to wonder what new danger he’s saving you from, but no… He’s just moving you out of the way to make space for him to drag his own chair in front of the screen. “Enough,” he says firmly, already typing out some unintelligibly complex code at a speed that far outstrips your own personal best of 67 words per minute, “I can’t watch you keep doing this when it’s so simple to automate.”

You sometimes forget just how smart Miguel is. 

True, he can’t seem to work the office printer, but he’s a genius scientist who single-handedly built an A.I. sophisticated enough to hack into financial institutions and topple governments. He successfully invented a machine that travels between dimensions. Every other sentence coming out of his mouth sounds like something that would confound Stephen Hawking. You don’t know why you’re surprised he’s able to automate Excel spreadsheets. 

It doesn’t take him very long at all. 

Within minutes, he’s finished, hitting enter one final time, and then you can see all of the cells rectify themselves one by one. Errors disappear and new corrected information appears, data populating blank cells and aligning itself in tidy rows. 

You lean in closer to get a better look. Your elbow snags the edge of your coffee cup and the cup topples over, splashing runaway hot coffee across your hand.

Before you have a chance to react, there’s a strong pull backwards. Miguel is already grabbing you and pulling you sideways into his lap and out of the firing range.

The cup clatters off the edge of the desk and onto the floor. The rest of the burning liquid never had the time to land on you. 

Then you’re sitting on top of him, confined in the much too small seat of the office chair that can barely fit him and his broad backside, and much less the both of you. But if it’s uncomfortable, Miguel doesn’t show it. He takes your hand in his to inspect it carefully.

The patch of skin burns and stings, but you can’t tell if it’s from the coffee or his burning touch that makes you feel like there’s liquid fire simmering in your veins. 

“You okay?” he says, his voice right in your ear.

He is so close. Surrounding you. Broad arms locked around your waist and the firm muscles of his thick thighs under yours.

“Yeah,” you manage, nodding slowly. Your tongue feels heavy and dry in your mouth.

He quietly drags your hand closer to his face, then blows on the back of your burnt knuckles to soothe the sting. 

“Better?” 

Those stunning eyes are staring into yours from inches away, cut cheeks right there, nose barely brushing against yours, and – god, is he close. Too close. 

Miguel is always in close proximity to you these days. Never more than a couple yards away, but save for life or death situations, the two of you do not find yourself like this. He only ever holds you when you’re crashing through the skies or about to collide with a runaway vehicle. This is different somehow. 

Your heart feels like a trapped bird in your chest, fluttering so fast and panicky it might burst from inside out at the proximity. 

“I– um– ah…” You’re not saying any words, just making strange noises in your throat like a squawking bird. 

Your eyes flicker away from his face avoidantly and from the corner of your eye, you spot Matt from accounting spying on you from the cubicle across. 

Oh god. This probably doesn’t look great, does it?

You’re sitting on a co-worker’s lap in the middle of an open plan office. Compromising does not even begin to describe the position you two are in.

Jumping off his lap, you quickly stand up and turn away, trying to ignore the flustered heat in your cheeks. 

You walk back over to your chair, about to sit yourself back down, but there’s spilled coffee everywhere. The dark brown liquid quickly sinking into the already stained fabric of the seat.  You need to clean this up or else your chair is going to smell like expired coffee for the rest of time. Grabbing for your bag, you start digging for some tissues so you don't have to walk up to the supply closet.

You pull out item after item. Tampons. Sunglasses. A half-eaten chocolate bar. More tampons. New wallet with new ID, (expedited, all courtesy of Lyla). A handful of pennies. A random pamphlet. Still no tissues though, so you upend your bag onto your desk, wincing at the clatter. 

How on Earth have you accumulated this much stuff in the few short weeks since your apartment was destroyed?  And how on Earth do you not have any kleenex or napkins or anything in your handbag?? 

You paw through the mess, hoping for something useful, then swear as some of it spills over onto the floor. Ducking down, you crawl half under your desk, collecting wayward tampons and receipts, until your eyes pause on the pamphlet.

Not just any pamphlet. It’s yellow and bright with Whoopie Goldberg's face in the corner. It's the map you received from the fortune teller lady. One of your many misfires.

Now that you look closely at it, there are faint lines that seem to glow faintly in the dimness under your desk that weren't there when you were looking at it in plain daylight.

You pick it up and unfold it, laying it out on the floor. It looks like it’s been written on with some kind of a glow-in-the-dark marker, but it’s not dark enough for you to see clearly. You need to get somewhere darker to test your theory.

Backing out from under your desk, you get to your feet and head briskly off down the hall. You barely make it three steps before Miguel’s on your tail, his towering height blocking out the bright LED lamps above as he follows after you like the world’s biggest duckling. 

“Cielo, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you murmur curtly under your breath. The heat from before is still riding persistently on your face, and you quicken your steps, hoping it doesn’t show. 

You half run to the end of the hall until you reach the small supply closet. When you open the door to step inside, Miguel is right behind you, apparently trying to squeeze himself in after you. 

"We won't both fit in here!" you scold as you close the door after you.  His unhappy expression is the last thing you see as darkness envelops you in the pitch black.

There’s a niggling feeling of guilt that wiggles down into your skin. But you remind yourself that you can always steal cupcakes meant for clients from the conference room to make it up to him. All will be forgiven if you appease his sweet tooth. 

Ducking your head to stare down at the map clutched in your hands, you squint your eyes in the dark to study it closely. There's a small star glowing bright in the middle of the map.

It's a literal star map.

She gave you a location.

You're standing in front of an old stone building at 177A Bleecker Street, smack in the middle of Greenwich village with its picturesque ivy covered old brownstone houses. 

Then there's this monstrosity: Sanctum Sanctorum. The infamous residence of Dr. Strange.

The mansion is built in a mix of a Victorian and Gothic style as if the architect couldn't make up their mind and just decided 'why not both?' Throughout the rooftop, there are ornate carvings and intricate stonework that you suspect was meant to lend it a mysterious air, but instead the place reminds you of Disney’s Haunted Mansion ride attraction. 

You bring up your hand to the old knocker, gripping it firmly. Your lungs tighten, breath constricting in your chest as you hesitate, unable to bring yourself to pull the brass down to make contact with the wooden front door. Instead you’re holding it still in the air. 

Maybe this isn’t a good idea after all. How are you going to explain this? 

‘The universe is out to get me, please send Avengers to help.’

Isn’t he just going to think you’re nuts? One of those delusional Supes-fan with munchausen syndrome?

"We can still leave," Miguel says. 

The man's been protesting every step of the way here, buzzing in your head about how much of a bad idea this is.

You frown, turning around to him. "I want to do this,” you answer. 

His continued opposition is the final push you need. You bring down the knocker against the front door and tap it repeatedly. 

There's no answer.

Part of you has to fight the urge to turn your feet and flee, saving yourself the embarrassment. But before you do, there’s a loud creak and a heavy scraping noise against the entrance as the double door swings inwards and slowly opens. 

No one greets you by the door. The entryway before you is empty, revealing a grand imperial staircase leading to the second floor, curving upward into a majestic spiral on each side of the room. 

It looks deserted. It’d be impolite to just step inside without someone to greet you and explicitly invite you in. But the doors did open to let you in. 

You look at Miguel, unsure of what to do, but the man does not have the same compunction for politeness that you do, he’s already walked in, shoes and all, straight into the main hall. 

“Can we just get this over with without you making your usual stupid grand dramatic entrance?” Miguel says into the empty room seemingly to no one in particular and you don’t know who he thinks he’s talking to. 

A ring of ember and fire sparks into existence out of nothingness in the center of the room. The ring grows wider, and you can see hints of another room inside of the circle: one decorated in a different decoration style than the current room you’re in: moroccan seats and plush cushions with oriental wooden carved furniture. 

A man steps out from within that room to stand in front of you both. The ring of light closes behind him once he’s made it through. Clad in a rich purple tunic and dark robes that is monk-like in appearance. Miguel steps in front of you, tucking you safely behind him. 

"You're not Strange," Miguel sneers, and you want to smack him. Why does he always have to be this rude?

"Oh, I'm quite strange. But I am not the Doctor. I am Wong. I’m the Sorcerer Supreme and guardian of this place." The man’s voice is calm and formal, and he holds himself with a stately manner as he speaks. 

You pop out your head from behind Miguel’s side. "We’re here to see Doctor Strange." 

At the repeated mention of Strange, the man’s formality seems to fall away, an expression of irritation bleeding into his features. 

"Let me know when you find him. Because he is not here."

"Where is he?" Miguel asks, and there’s that contempt rumbling in his voice again. 

"I do not know. Probably playing hooky again. The man comes and goes as he likes." Wong makes a muttering noise under his breath as he continues. "Treats this sacred place like a summer gig at McDonalds."

Your chest deflates. How are you supposed to get Dr. Strange to help you if he’s not even here?

"I need help,” you plead with Mr. Wong. Maybe he can help you if Dr Strange can’t, he is the Sorcerer Supreme after all, supreme is the highest level, right? This might even be an upgrade from Strange. “I know this sounds crazy, but I think the universe is out to get me." 

Wong just looks at you, expression unchanging, and okay, yeah, that was maybe not the best place to start. You take a deep breath, trying to figure out how to make yourself sound less paranoid.

"I've almost died 40 times since the beginning of the summer. I just want to know why this keeps happening and how to make it stop."

You dig into your bag, pulling out the folded map. 

"We talked to a fortune teller in Chinatown, and she gave me this map. It led us here, and I'm really, really hoping you can help me."

Wong dips his head down to the map, "This is a celebrity home star map," he says, with a straight face and a neutral voice that only slightly betrays that he thinks you're batshit crazy.

“I know it sounds crazy, but-”

“Sanctum Sanctorum opened its doors for you, which means it wanted me to meet with you. I believe what you’re telling me.”

Oh thank god.

You tell him everything, rambling on as you try to explain what’s been happening and what little you know about it as best you can. The near death experiences, Miguel being a Spiderman from another dimension, the destruction of your apartment,  the unnatural phenomena and the universe’s escalating attempts on your life. 

Wong is quiet throughout, studying your face with grave concentration as you speak. 

When you’re finally done, he sighs with deep weariness that emanates from the core of his soul. He looks down on his feet, tapping them in deep consideration.

"I have an idea,” Wong says cautiously, “I could perform a Multiversal Divination on you, that might give us a clearer idea of what we’re dealing with,” 

“What does that mean?” Miguel asks, anger vibrating off his skin and boiling in his tone.  

This man needs to calm down. You clearly need to take him to anger management, because since the moment he’s stepped into this place he’s been on the edge (even more so than usual).

“What does a ‘Multiversal Divination’ entail?” he continues, “Is that some magical mumbo jumbo that’s going to hurt her? Because if so we’re not–”

“I’ll do it,” you say, interrupting his objections, and you sidestep Miguel who is scowling, mouth already parted in yet another protest, to stand in front of Wong. 

Wong looks to you and then Miguel, then back at you again, caught in the awkward stalemate, before you interrupt. 

“Please, I need answers. Whatever it is, if it might help, I want to do it.”

Wong nods, stepping closer to you. "This will feel a little bit strange," he warns with the bedside manner of a patient doctor.

His hand comes to your collarbone and he places his palm there with a gentle push. There is barely any effort put into it, but you feel the force of it as if you had been slammed with the full force of a six ton truck. Your body wants to leap out of its skin. It is the sensation of being dumped in cold water from head to toe. A shock runs through your entire nervous system.

Images flash before your eyes, flickering by too fast for you to process. They’re vivid and bright. Glimpses of a scene: your apartment, your work, your commute home. Each of them expiring in a fraction of a moment before you have a chance to latch on and make sense of any of them individually.

You see yourself in picture after picture. Except slightly different in each. Short hair. Long locks. Curly.

In some you're wearing glasses instead of the contact lenses that you usually use. In others, you’re sporting the piercing you wanted to get at 16 but never did. Sometimes you have tattoos, sometimes not; occasionally you’re covered in them. Dyed hair, in every color of the spectrum: pink, blue, purple. A myriad of versions of you, of every variation of the decisions you could have possibly taken in your life. 

There are pictures of memories you have had and not had. They rush in and flee before you're able to grab hold of one.

Captured moments of lifetimes you have never lived.

It's overwhelming. You don't understand what you're seeing. There’s pandemonium inside your head.

Then everything slows to a crawl.

The scene unfolding before you is one that you immediately recognize. An image that you'll never forget.

Window after window after window flashing you by. You know this view. Have seen it twice before. The same view of the Chrysler building as you were falling. But it's different this time. 

The sky isn’t blue, nor is it gray. It’s a pink and an abnormal purple, a color you’ve never seen on it before and it looks both beautiful and completely wrong. There’s an angry tear in the sky, cracking at the edges with static. The whole of the sky looks like it is going to cleave in two and bring the whole world with it. Is this the future? Is it the past?

There's no pain, but somehow tears run down your cheeks uncontrollably.

In the distance you hear Miguel's voice, muted even though you know from that tone that he's furious and must be bellowing loud enough that it echoes through the walls. It sounds like you are underwater, and you have to strain to make out what he is saying.

"Why is she crying?" He's definitely shouting, voice raw and growling. Is this part of your memory or is it happening in the now? "You're hurting her."

The ground approaches. 

"Stop! Stop!" Miguel's voice is shouting, but there's no way to stop this. Everything is going too fast this time around.

Miguel is here, tearing through the sky towards you. But you know it's too late. He's too far away. He can't save you this time.

Then everything does stop. 

No images in your head. No noise in your ears.

Everything goes black, like the ending of a movie.

Then you hear a thud.

It's loud and close and real.

You snap yourself out of your fugue state, to see Miguel towering over Wong's body where the Sorcerer Supreme lies, limp and lifeless on the ground.

“What did you do!? Are you out of your mind?" you shout, running up to them.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Wong isn’t moving, not even blinking!

"He was hurting you!" Miguel roars. 

"He wasn't hurting me, you big doofus!" you shout back, and it’s only then that the fury in Miguel’s eyes seem to abate. 

"What's wrong with him?” you ask, bending down Wong’s limp body on the ground. “Is he dead!? Did you kill him?” There's a rising panic pushing inside your throat.

"He's just paralyzed."

"He’s para– What do you mean paralyzed? What did you do to him?"

"I just... I bit him," he uses a finger to part his lips slightly, pushing the upper one up just enough to reveal the sharp edges of his fangs. "There's toxins in them that can have a paralyzing effect."

You glance back at Wong. He’s still worryingly still. 

“Is there some kind of way to un-paralyze him!?"

"It was just a small bite," Miguel says, ducking his head down sheepishly to stare at the floor, like a scolded boy. "I didn’t use that much venom... It’ll wear off. He shouldn't be out long. Maybe half an hour or so."

“I’m sorry. So, so sorry,” you tell Wong fervently, hovering over him. You can see his eyes tracking yours and the rise and fall of his chest, and you breathe a sigh of relief at the proof that he’s still alive. “Do you, um… Do you want me to help you up?”

“He’s not gonna want to move for a few more minutes,” Miguel interjects from behind you. “Moving will be incredibly painful until the venom wears off the rest of the way”. 

What the actual fuck!?

You throw a glare at Miguel, as you loop an arm under Wong’s waist, “Well help me move him so he can be more comfortable.” 

At your command, Miguel helps you prop the man up against the wall in what is (hopefully) a more comfortable position, and then you sit next to each other and wait.

"I can't believe you bit the Sorcerer Supreme," you mutter under your breath. “Miguel, you can’t just–” you cut yourself off, too frustrated to find the proper words. 

"I'm sorry,” he says, grimacing at your scolding, looking regretful for once as he ducks down his gaze. “You looked like you were in pain".

Your anger subsides, if only slightly at his repentance. 

“It still doesn’t make it okay. You can’t just attack someone like that! He was trying to help us.”

He doesn’t say anything more to that, just stares down at his feet in contrition. 

The two of you sit in the silence. 

Your mind goes back to the surreal experience you just had. The myriad of thousands if not millions of images that were flashing through your mind at the speed of light.

The warped shape of your world, the jarring images of it distorted and wrong, as it started to collapse. 

Miguel had said that didn’t he? That the universe was going to ramp up its game and if it didn’t succeed, it would eventually self-destruct in its mission to get you.

It takes 26 minutes. The first sign that the toxins are wearing off is that Wong is able to wiggle his toes. His recovery accelerates after that, he's able to move his fingers, then the muscles in his face until he's able to form a grimace. He doesn't look happy, and you don't blame him.

After another five minutes or so, he's able to speak again. 

"Strange way of expressing gratitude, literally biting the hand that helps you."

You get up on your feet to help Wong, and Miguel moves next to you. 

“No, you stay there! Don’t move,” you order, and even though he scowls, Miguel complies. 

You hunch over next to Wong, and help him sit fully upright. He stays seated, but dusts his robe off from the caked soot and fine layers of dirt. 

“This has happened in other dimensions,” Wong tells you. “And if we don’t stop it, our universe will be destroyed.”

“How do we stop it?” you ask. 

“The universe wants you dead. It won’t stop until it achieves its goal.”

Your stomach drops. 

“So in order for this to stop… I need to die?”

There’s a look of barely contained fury burning in Miguel’s red eyes that seems to vibrate out of his skin and pounce. But he doesn't, this time he remains in place, visibly restraining himself, still following your orders. 

“There is that option, or you will need to find the reason for why it wants to kill you. And you need to find it soon, because you don’t have a lot of time left. You will have even less time once the people of this world realize the threat you present to the continued integrity of this universe.” 

“Are you threatening her!?” Miguel demands, and somehow even though you didn’t hear him move, he’s right behind you, red eyes glowing, shoulders rising, looming over Wong, ready to cut him down at any further hints that the man might be a threat to your safety. 

Wong doesn't seem deterred in the slightest. 

You have to give it to the Sorcerer Supreme. He's a brave one. It took you weeks before you stopped being intimidated by the man, and Miguel’s never bitten you. 

“I am only telling you what the universe tells me. And it tells me that you do not belong here at all. The universe thinks neither of you belong here.”

You think back on fortune teller's drawing of the poorly drawn circle and stickfigure of you that’s speared with arrows.

"What if we went… somewhere else?" Miguel asks.

For the first time since he entered this house, his tone is no longer dripping with anger. “What if we left this universe and dimension?”

The image of white blankness enters your mind at his words. You shudder at the reminder. The cold numbness of the void and the sensation of nothingness. Dread fills your veins. A cold clammy sweat flashes hot and cold against your skin at the memory.

Wong tilts his head up in deep consideration. “That might work. This universe would slowly return to equilibrium with her gone. But… This will just start again in any new Universe. Most likely she wouldn’t be able to stay. She might have to leave every dimension she's in for the rest of her natural lifespan. A life spent always on the run.” 

Wong pauses as he glances over to you with sympathy and concern in his gaze. “Is that something you would want?” 

What is the alternative here? To lie down and die?

“Yes.”

“One month’s time, you need to find a way to leave this dimension before then.”

Back at your hotel that evening, you wake up to the sound of distress. Muffled whimpers and quiet moans. 

By habit, your eyes roam the room, seeking out Miguel in the dark. He’s lying on the sofa from across the room and even in this distance you can make out that his body is writhing beneath the covers. But you’re groggy and too sleep-drunk to make sense of what you’re hearing or seeing. 

There’s murmured noises from him, and it takes you far too long to understand what’s going on. 

He’s having a nightmare. 

Tugging off the blanket on top of you, you get up and scoot over to the end of the bed over to him. Miguel looks like he’s in pain. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead as he tosses and turns, face pinched in pain and distress. Now that you’re closer, you can make out words in the sounds he’s making. 

“Quiero quedarme contigo. No te vayas, no te vayas,” he keeps murmuring. 

He looks exhausted. Which, of course he is. He's been on constant alert trying to protect you. Fighting off supernatural weather phenomena, blocking hazardous furniture and fighting off charging hippos out of nowhere. Of course he's worn out.

“Shhhh, It’s alright.” you whisper to him, reaching out to gently stroke his arm, attempting to soothe him. “It’s okay.”

He groans unhappily in his sleep, burying his head into the cushion.

“Quiero quedarme conti–”

"Hey, hey, Miguel,” you tap insistently at his shoulder now. If you can’t soothe the nightmare away, then maybe you can at least wake him up out of it, “It's okay. Wake up."

This time his eyes slam open, wide with adrenaline and shock, and he shoots upright, head whipping from side to side as he scans the room. Every inch of him prepared to leap into a fight.  

“What’s wrong? What’s–”

“You were having a nightmare,” you explain to him. 

He stiffens at that, dropping his eyes to stare down at his lap unhappily. 

“Shit, did I wake you?” he runs a hand over his face, then lays back down, “Sorry.” 

Silence blankets the two of you, and you don’t know what else to say to him. Except just that you want him to be able to rest–truly rest–after the day, week and month you’ve both had. You don’t want him to have to go back to snatching moments of troubled, uncomfortable sleep on that stupid, too-small couch.

“You could come sleep on the bed with me,” you offer, “That couch is nowhere near big enough for you.”

"It's fine," he mutters, "It's been fine the last month, and it's fine now."

"It's not though. You're clearly not sleeping well.  I should have asked you before.  I'm surprised your back isn't already killing you—that sleeping position looked painful."

His head darts down, eyeing his own spread legs that are sticking out into the empty air from the bottom of the couch. But he doesn't concede the point.

"Please?" you try again, "It will make me feel better."

Apparently all you needed to do was ask, because Miguel immediately complies like your request was a decree. He gets up, pulling the quilt with him, his mop of curls in adorable disarray as he drags his feet over to the other side of the bed and flops down with a loud thump that makes the whole mattress bounce underneath you.

You can feel the pull of the sheets where his legs threaten to brush up against your bent knees, and you're beginning to realize you didn't think this through. Even in the big bed, there's only so much space, and he seems to be taking up most of it.  

He's close, and you can't seem to peel your eyes away from the strong line of his throat. Can't help the way your body reacts. Your pulse starts to race, heart kicking up hard and fast against your ribs.

Miguel turns around to observe you with narrowed eyes. “You okay?” 

Shit! Did he hear you? That timing was too on the nose. You nod at him a little bit too frantically and you sound high-pitched and skittish even to your own ears. 

 “Yes of course, why wouldn’t I be?”  

“Your heart is beating really fast.”

Fuck. He could hear you. Of course he can, he has super hearing powers doesn’t he? 

“I’m just tired,” you stammer out, wrapping the blanket close to your chest for layers as a shield from his super hearing. 

Miguel doesn’t push it. He turns back around, letting his head drop down the pillow. 

The distance between you has been growing smaller and smaller with each passing day together and you think you have been crossing an invisible line that you shouldn’t be crossing as of late. 

You think of the closeness of him in the office, the weight of his arms on your waist as he held you in his lap. His eyes on you. The bare skin of his broad back casually revealed to you when he was changing. The same back that you find yourself staring up at in this moment. 

“Go to sleep,” Miguel rasps from your side, and you nearly jump out of your skin in surprise. 

You close your eyes, but somehow in the dark you become even more keenly aware of his presence in the bed with you. Your heart seems to skip a little bit faster as the seconds pass, each beat a little bit harder. 

There's a quiet sigh, then a much louder exhale, as he turns back towards you in bed. 

"What's wrong?" His voice is still gruff with sleep.

"I can’t fall asleep,” you say, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. “Can you talk? It might help me sleep."

He snorts with a laugh. The sound of it makes something pleasant skitter up the length of your spine. He's got a nice laugh. It's a shame he doesn't laugh often.

"What's so funny?"

"No, nothing. Just... some things never change." Even in the dim of the unlit room, you can see the smile on his lips.

"What do you want me to talk to you about?" he asks.

You tilt your head, considering it. Miguel rarely gives you a carte blanche to ask him for information. Logically, you should use this moment to seize a tactical advantage and ask him for all the salacious details that you know he’s been keeping from you. But as you wrack your brain for questions, the only ones that come to mind are disappointingly ordinary. You just want to know more about him. Small, silly, personal details, the way he seems to know everything about you. 

"Tell me about where you're from," you request, "Your dimension. Your hometown." 

He shifts on the bed, lying flat on his back until he’s staring up at the ceiling with you as he reminisces. 

"It's called Nueva York. It's significantly more technologically advanced than this dimension. Definitely cleaner. People aren't as big of assholes as they are here. Public hygiene is way better, everything doesn’t reek of piss. Oh, and there’s not a rat epidemic in the public transportation system there." 

His head turns to his side to look at your face, and he gives you a small mischievous grin as he continues. "Food is healthier. You don't get junk food there."

The words should be complimentary, but from his tone of voice and what you know of his eating habits, you think it’s probably a win for your dirty, rat-infested dimension.

"Lots of skyscrapers and neon-lights everywhere. It's colorful."

He pauses, as if he's struggling to find anything more to say about the place. Then his head tips to the side, meeting your eyes, and his gaze is soft. 

“I'll take you there," he promises, voice quiet and warm and it makes something sweet and honeyed trickle inside your veins pleasantly. 

“How?” you wonder.

His smile drops, replaced by an unhappy frown. “Not sure yet, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Can’t we just open up a portal like last time?”

He shakes his head. 

"The last time I took you through the portal, it was meant to take us back to my dimension.  But I built the parallel universe traversal device to transport me—and only me—through the multiverse."

He reaches out to you, fingers wrapping gently around your wrist. The contact makes your skin tingle, but you don’t pull away. 

"I wasn't thinking last time. We can’t take the risk of winding up back in the void.” 

He’s mumbling now, nearly asleep. His eyes half-shut as he blinks slowly, struggling to keep them open as he slowly blinks.

"Someone that disappears in the void, they'll be erased from existence and out of every timeline. No one will ever remember you or know you existed. It's as if you've never existed at all."

You eye the watch on your wrist. The slight sheen of the bed light reflecting against the shiny glass.

"Can we modify the watch?"

"Firstly, not a watch", he reminds you by rote as he fluffs up his pillow with his arm. 

"And second..." he pauses, eyes drifting up to study the ceiling before he shakes his head, "I've tried. It doesn’t work. The power source isn’t powerful and your world is not technically advanced enough for me to build an upgraded self-sustaining fusion power source that would be needed. It’s how we ended up in the void.” 

Worry burrows into your chest, and your gaze drops down from his face. It always feels like you’re taking one step forward and ending up two steps back. Futile and hopeless but that’s what you get for trying to fight against the will of the universe. 

"Go to sleep," he says again, his hand coming to rest gently on top of your head, "I'll figure it out, don't worry.”

You smile, warmed by the comforting gesture and his reassurance. 

“I won't let you get hurt this time."

…‘this time.’

The promise cuts through you like glass. Sharp and jagged and clawing its way into your chest until it hurts you to breathe.

Miguel is talking to you, but you don’t think it’s you he’s thinking of when he says the words.

He attacked Wong without a second of hesitation when he thought you were hurt. He's exhausting himself half to death to protect you. But you know that he’s not really doing any of this for you. 

It’s not your comfort he was thinking of when he cradled your burnt hand and gently blew on your fingers. It’s not your love of egg tarts that makes him save the flaky pastries for you when the two of  you go out for dinner. It’s not you—has never been you—that he’s seeing whenever his eyes linger on your face when he thinks you’re not paying attention. 

You're riding on the emotional coattails of the other you. The unwavering loyalty that he had for her has transferred to you now that she's gone.

He must have really loved her. 

There’s a sharp fissure in your chest, and you try to swallow down the thistle of needles that’s found its way into your throat, only to discover that your saliva tastes sour and bitter. 

Closing your eyes, you can see an image of yourself smiling with him, laughing with him, holding his hand. Except it’s not you. 

It’s her. 

Other-you, with the wedding band and the happy life and– And somehow better hair too, the lucky bitch!

Except… she wasn't lucky, was she? She's dead.

She’s dead, and you still resent her for what she had with Miguel. It's such an ugly feeling. 

You squeeze your eyes shut as hard as you can, but the image doesn’t go away. Nor does that acrid taste in your mouth. You can't help it. This irrational and childish madness is eating into the edges of your mind. You're envious of your other self. 

God that’s fucked up. 

Does someone like you even deserve to be saved at all?

~ Next Issue

Credits & Dedications: To @thirstworldproblemss for all the rubberducking we do together on this silly little story. Thank you so much for sitting with me and making this fun! I love you 234238472938492374923 x infinity and back again.

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.

[littlexdeaths]

𝕚𝕥’𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕞𝕠𝕤𝕥 𝕨𝕠𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕗𝕦𝕝 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕪𝕖𝕒𝕣…

hello everyone! i wanted to throw together a fun little writing game to get everyone in the holiday spirit! ❄️

anyone is welcome (and encouraged) to play!

this game will begin on december 1st!

rules: please pick one (or as many as you’d like!) of the prompts from the list below. it can be with any character in the stranger things universe. you can spice things up, keep it fluffy or make us cry, whatever your heart desires! all i ask is you finish and post all of your works by midnight on december 24th!

and the most important rule of all, have fun!

i can’t wait to see what everyone comes up with, so please tag me in all your lovely creations!

and use the tag the #thetwelvedaysofpromptmas 🎄

also a little shout out to both @undead-supernova and @uglypastels for helping me come up with some of the prompts ♥️

⋆⁺₊❅. day one: snowed in or caught in a blizzard

⋆⁺₊❅. day two: whatever you do, don’t feed it after midnight

⋆⁺₊❅. day three: you’re stuck chaperoning the annual snow ball with your nemesis

⋆⁺₊❅. day four: mistletoe mayhem

⋆⁺₊❅. day five: meet the parents…with a twist

⋆⁺₊❅. day six: battle of the christmas decorations

⋆⁺₊❅. day seven: you need a last minute gift, but man that salesclerk sure is cute

⋆⁺₊❅. day eight: snowball fight

⋆⁺₊❅. day nine: a very merry hellfire

⋆⁺₊❅. day ten: ghosts of christmas past

⋆⁺₊❅. day eleven: you find mysterious tracks leading away from your window in the freshly fallen snow

⋆⁺₊❅. day twelve: spending christmas/christmas eve in the ER

i will make a masterlist of all the promptmas fics as they are posted, so be on the lookout for that.

happy writing! ♥️

[winterarmyy]

Plot Twist | Part I

An arranged marriage with mafia!bucky.

Run-through: I just need to get this out of my system. Most of arranged marriage mob/mafia!au I've read has a strong/bratty reader. And a really mean/asshole Bucky. Which is absolutely fine btw but its getting repetitive for me. I wanted to see a reader who's actually soft but fierce when she wants to be. And Bucky who is generally cold and seems to be married to his job but notices small things that the reader do, thus subconsciously started to care about her. They don’t hate each other, nor do they are infatuated. I don’t know if this exist, so I decided write it myself just in case. Enjoy!

Navigation: Part I | Part II | Part III* (end) | Extra

Words: 1.1k++

Pairing: beefy mafia!bucky x female!reader

Warnings: just fluffy and wholesome stuff here. Nothing graphic or explicit.

P/S: I like to write in 3rd pov btw. There's a few mentions of y/n sometimes too. Beware of the grammar mistakes, English is not my first language. This might be 2-3 parts type of fic, so tell me what you think so far.

Read my other works here: Masterlist

“He's late.”

The soft clinking sounds of his rings colliding with each other and onto the dresser woke her up from her deep slumber. Though her body remained still, her mind continued to wonder,

“Late. Again.”  She thought.

The sound of fabrics rustling about hinted her of what was happening beyond her closed eyes. The shut of the bathroom door confirmed her speculations.

“So, what if he came back home late? Why does it concern you?” She questioned herself.

Only a fool would believe if she said that she didn't care at all about the whereabout and well-being of this man. He is her husband after all.

Six months ago, she stood on the alter with that man. They swore an oath. They sealed the kiss. He was hers and she was his.

James Buchanan Barnes; Bucky was what he preferred to called. He is what every man wants to become, and every woman wants to be with.

An Adonis of a man; impossibly tall, 6'5"; body armored with thick layer of muscles. Bucky is huge, that if he trapped her against the wall, she might just see the resemblance of him to a grizzly bear. His dark hair flowed just above his shoulder and his steel blue eyes were as cold as his personality.

Though she wouldn't compare him to a frozen blizzard during the winter, he was more like the first day of snow, when the white flakes started to fall.

Cold enough to make you shiver and warm enough to lure you out but most importantly, obscenely beautiful.

However, of course, the main reason of the marriage set up by her father was not because of how beautiful he is, but to fulfil his hunger for power. As if the territories that their family has wasn't enough, her father arranged this union to extend his reign.

Y/N protested at first but knew better than to fight against her father. Being raised in such family, at a very young age she learned to think always ahead; pass the emotions and intuitions. What's the rational and logical way to solve a problem.

Took her a week to wrap her head around the matter, research about Barnes and go through the agreement between her father and her then husband to be. Barnes had listed some main demands regarding the union and although most of them were about their business, but one particular demand had caught her attention.

“After marriage, the couple must be faithful to one another. Any romantic/sexual relationships prior must be severed/resolved immediately. Failed to do so will result to termination of the contract.”

“Hmm. Interesting.” She thought.

Not that she was in any relationship at the time, and all the research result to possibly positive outcome. So, in the end, she complied.

Which then explained why she was sleeping in Bucky's bed six months later.

“I know you're awake.” Bucky's gravel voice startled her internal thoughts. She could feel the indentation of the mattress on his side of the bed, the fresh and clean scent wafting from him. She nearly purred from a sniff of it.

She slowly opened her eyes as if she was trying to peep and god what a sight to see after a restless sleep; Bucky's idea of pajamas was basic pants and nothing above and Y/N didn’t know what to feel about that. Does she hate it? Absolutely not. Does she like it? Well, he is easy on the eye indeed.

The room was dimly lit, but she could see his slightly damp hair; it looked longer than it is dry. Her eyes followed the outline of his body leaning against the bed. The soft light reflected on his metal arm particularly follows the gold lines decorating the dark surface.

She often had intrusive thoughts of tracing the lines; what would it feel like against her fingertips. Does he feel anything? Is it cold? Will it feel good? 

“You do know that it’s a waste your time to wait for me, right?” He huffed a heavy breath. She could hear the fatigue in his sigh.

And how does Bucky know that she waited for him before admitting her defeat to the drowsiness? Somehow, Bucky always managed to know things, to the littlest matter, even when he’s million miles across the world.

Just like when she found a copy of Pride and Prejudice on the bed a few months ago. The day before she received it, her copy was drenched in coffee; a young woman bumped into her in front of the café she often visit. He was in Russia that time. “Was it Clint? Did he tell Bucky?” she wondered.

“Whoever said I was waiting for you?” She scoffed, yet if the room was well lit enough, Bucky would’ve seen how playful her expression was.

He hummed a deep voice, “Hmm.” there’s a hint of doubt in his tone.

Y/N quickly follow her previous sentence, “I was simply enjoying my reading, that I lost track of time.” She shifted to face him and tucked herself further into the blanket, hiding the lower half of her face as she looked up at him. She wondered if he could tell that she was smiling just from her eyes.

Bucky’s gaze remained still on her, as if he was trying to reach into her soul, before he leaned closer to peek on the book on the table. Pride and Prejudice written on it.

He chuckled, which was rare. At the least the real ones are.

Of course, she had seen him smile and laugh countless of time. Especially during those gala they often attend. But those were just another set of armor he wore on a daily basis.

Bucky tried to bite back a smile, sinking his teeth into his lower lip, “Lost track of time, huh?” Yet, somehow Y/N can hear the smile in his tone.

“A good read?” he asked as if he did not know why his wife brought up about the book. She never said anything about the gift; not a thank you or a complaint. 

She simply cherish it in her own way. He heard from Clint that she rearranged her whole bookshelf just to make space for the book he gave her. Maybe this was her way of saying thank you.

He had been giving her books every week, since.

She pulled the blanket away from her face, lips curled into a genuine smile, “Always.”

Bucky preened to her reply before suddenly, “Okay, enough chit chat. It’s late.” he said almost monotone sounded, as he made himself comfortable under the blanket.

Before she could overthink of what went wrong, why the sudden drop of chemistry; that was when she felt his hand roamed to find hers. Bucky brought her palm closer to his face, she could feel his hot breath against her cold skin. 

He leaned his lips on her palm, leaving a soft and tender kiss as he mumbled, “Goodnight, doll.”

Rush of red shades bloomed on her cheeks, before caving into the feeling of his stubble on her hand. She gently caresses the side of his cheeks, hoping it soothes him to sleep. 

The corners of her lips curved upwards into a smile, "See? Like, the first day of snow."

Part II >>

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: It’s my first fic so... share your thoughts? ily 🤍

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [6]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - 3.9k words

There should be blood.  

You’d never have thought you could experience such visceral, rib-crushing pain, with so little blood.  

It feels like blood, the hot foam spraying from your mouth as you cough so viciously, forcing as much of it as you can out of your aching lungs. It feels like blood as it pours from your nose, thick with mucus, the delicate skin of your swollen sinuses and closing throat burn like you’ve inhaled blistering steam.  

But it’s only water. Saturating you inside and out, dripping from orifices and off extremities, you shiver violently as if you’d been left in the blizzard – though you don’t feel cold. Your body smoulders with adrenaline, so ravaged by the carnal desperation to survive that your heart still blazes hot and your muscles burn with the acid of exertion.  

Your jittering fingers are weak, barely strong enough to grip the soaked rag from your face and drop it to the plastic floor with a splat.  

Your lungs gnaw for oxygen, too anguished to swallow a breath to sate the need – you only sip at the chemical air as you attempt to roll yourself off the steel table; now that no masculine claws hold you down to it.  

The impact as you land face-down on the linoleum tosses an animalistic squeak from your throat. Purely mechanical; the whine of deteriorated, corroded machinery.  

But you alert the skullhead, all the same. Your hunter turns his head over his thick shoulder, just enough to look down at you, as the other tormentor marches out of the cell and slams the door behind him.  

You’d like to run. You dream of it, as you float in between states of consciousness – you see yourself leaping to your feet, tearing open that door and jetting off down the hall – only to open your eyes again, to blink, and see the speckled vinyl under your nose.  

He simply stares at you. Observes you as if he is intrigued by your suffering.  

You see his boots, hardly able to lift your head enough to see him in his mammoth entirety. The boots take hesitant steps in your direction, heavy and thumping on the floor, you feel the vibrations of his weight across it. Your reaction to his approach is reflex – a shriek, sudden adrenaline giving you the strength to push yourself up just enough to scurry backwards away from him, though still unable to stand.  

“You’ll survive,” he says under his breath, but it sounds more like a promise than an admonishment. You glare up at him. Panting like a trapped rabbit. Vision faded and throbbing.  

“I can’t – I,” your attempts to beg get caught in your swollen throat, wet and desperate, “please, I can’t take – please don’t do it anymore. Not again, please–”  

“There’s not going to be any more water,” he grunts, through teeth, as though irate that you had made him say so.  

A soaked sob escapes you, indeterminable whether out of relief or simply your body shutting down. You attempt to wipe away the wetness on your cheeks with trembling hands. 

“Promise.”

In your utterly fevered mind you cannot not understand the source of your audacity to request such a vow, from a man so plainly without morals, and yet your tongue forms the plea nonetheless. “Please.”  

And after a tense pause, he surprises you. With a beleaguered huff, he answers; “Okay.” 

Your sticky eyes flit across his features, from under your brow, you attempt to thank him with a shaky nod. He crouches slowly in front of you, rests his elbows on his knees. His shadowy eyes seem to catch the light of the glaring overheads, the colour of burnt honey, the first time you’ve been able to see them. Maybe it’s because he’s not scowling. 

“Don’t get your hopes up,” he mutters, muffled by the dense knit of his mask. “You’re not done here.”  

Your appreciation is quick to sour. Your lips curl into a vengeful line, but your eyes betray the cracks that spider through your veneer; brow twisting into an expression of misery despite trying to contain it, you cry. Breaking out in stunted sobs. Sucking in squeaking breaths to fuel the next ones.  

He’s adept in keeping you confused, the fucking beast, not allowing a single expectation to form, a single prediction to prove correct. Rewrites his code just as you begin to translate it. You can beg at him, but only so long as he is entertained by it. You can seethe at him, but not so viciously that he is compelled to punish you.  

Does he want you to submit to him? Does he want you to fight him? Despite your attempts you cannot determine. Up until now you’ve been walking the line between both, careful not to tip too far in either direction.  

Now you are running on pure instinct. Your torture has, for now, rinsed away any mask you have tried to maintain. Leaving only the raw, dripping, desperate organs that you consist of. Burgundy and beaten.  

He reaches forward, calloused hands slipping indifferently under your arms and lifting you up with him as he stands, hoisting you like you’re a limp cat. It’s odd feeling his bare skin on yours. So far only gloved fingers have grazed you. It’s warm.  

“Can you stand?” He asks, monotonously and impatiently, ensuring you interpret no kindness in his concern.  

“Think - so,” you shudder, not yet quite able to create cohesive words.  

He lowers you to your feet, you tap the floor with your toes to ensure you can grip it as he removes his hands from you. Your knees wobble like colt legs as your weight returns to them, you’re rendered dizzy by the sudden verticality. And, wholly unintentionally, your arms jut out on reflex to prevent yourself from toppling over, bound hands landing flat on his upper stomach. You feel his muscles tense rigid with the touch, skin burning hot through the fabric of his black half-zip fleece – for a brief, nauseating moment, you find comfort in it. Heartbeat. Breathing. Human.  

His monstrous hand moves disinterestedly to your wrists, and he clutches them tightly – your stare darts to meet his. His eyes are cautious, scrutinising, blond eyelashes flittering as his glare dances around your face, reading words on a page.  

You expect him to scold you, or tell you that won’t work as if you had done it purposefully to endear yourself to him – but he silently peels your hands from him, pushing them towards you so they sit under your chin.  

“Ready to see your husband?”  

Ghost is well acquainted with terror. Both endured and inflicted. And after years, decades, of suffering his own, he has become a savant in that specialty. Injecting the fear of God into those that cross him, only to remind them it’s him they should pray to.  

But it has never made him feel so sick.  

So nauseated.   

A silent pleading in your touch. Accidental and yet so careful. It turned him to stone, the moment the pads of your fingers landed on him, the resting of your wobbly weight in your hand against him. A gentle and ruthless reminder that despite being a foreign, machiavellian, billionaire warlord;  

You’re just a girl.  

Too scared of him to beg, too frightened to fight, too small to try. 

The bitterness of guilt bubbles at the back of his tongue. Acrid enough to make him swallow. A taste he had long forgotten. Your red eyes gaze at him wetly and nervously, smeared black by the makeup that has been liquefied by your torture and your tears. And he feels guilty. 

Christ. Pathetic.  

He’s got one job to do. One objective. Prevent the mass murder of thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions. Your husband is an orchestrator of death and agony. You are the leech at his ankle, bleeding him of that evil.  

You’re ready for your only purpose here. To be used as leverage, to coerce and extort a terrorist kingpin. To be shaken, tearful, yet still alluring enough to remind him of the cost of his sin – losing the only thing that lets him pretend he’s more human than creature. You.  

Your reaction to the mention of your husband is unreadable. Nervous and yet hopeful. Scornful and yet tender. But you are speechless, only whimpering as your lungs readjust to the ability to breathe, as your fight-or-flight begins to settle back down into dark dejection. You stay quiet as he once again pulls that black hood over your head, not bothering to tighten its fastening.  

With a commanding grip of your upper arm, he guides you with a push, keeping you in front of him so you don’t trip on your feet. And you need that balance, clearly, squeaking and stumbling over your weak legs as he takes you to the door. You land with your back against him, unintentionally using his rigidity to keep you stable.  

Unlocking the door, he nudges you through it, steers you down the clinical hallway; a continual tunnel of plastic, painted cinderblock walls, droning fluorescents, heavy steel doors. He ferries you to one in particular, marked No Entry, and kicks it open – it leads to a steel staircase, spiralling deep into the subterranean basement of the compound.  

The guttural roars are already audible from deep below. They echo through the cement chute, reverberating like the cries of angered spirits from the walls, chattering the rusting stairs as they creak with the weight of him.  

You let out a yelp, tripping over your feet as you attempt to descend the stairs with him; you tumble knees-first onto the steel and cry out from behind your blinding hood. Firm grip not waning, he prevents you from falling any further. Fuck’s sake.  

“C’mere,” he chuffs, disgruntled, lowering himself to scoop you up. Tosses you over his shoulder. You feel different. When he carted you to the helo, you were unyielding, stiff, hot – every muscle, every breath begrudging your abduction. Now you’re damp and flaccid, cold like a wet cloth. You hang from his shoulder like he might be able to wring you out. It makes his job easier. It makes his stomach churn.  

A minute of raucous cries growing louder, Ghost reaches the door, hauling you like a body bag. Thick, steel, no window. He knocks in code. One-two, one, one-two-three.  

Shut up, shut the fuck up – he hears through the door, some shuffling and and the odd thud.  

The door squeals open. Price stands in its frame – bloody, swearing, red on his neck and veins bulging in his temples.  

“Simon,” he greets through his jaw, “good timing.”  

Ghost nods, adjusting you on his shoulder with a jolt, you respond with a squeak.  

Price sucks his teeth, an air of disapproval, he raises his eyebrows. “Glad you’ve kept her alive for us, eh.”  

Fuck off, captain.  

He feels the urge to defend himself, but he bites his tongue. No sense in attempting to prove he’s not as barbaric as they think he is, while you’re wet, half-naked, and near-dead slung over his shoulder.  

Price steps aside to allow Ghost through – the room is dark, lit only by the down-lighting of the bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling. Raw concrete walls, cement floor, the odd steel shelving housing old tools and electrical paraphernalia.  

In the centre sits your husband. Victor Zakhaev. 

Duct-taped to his chair, hands bound to the armrests, ankles tethered to the legs. Shirtless, dripping with sweat, skin red and purple and speckled with blood. What a fucking sight to behold. Ghost’s mood is lifted just at the vision of his much deserved agony.  

His eyes swollen nearly shut, thick with the blood that pools under the surface of his skin – he looks up, scowling, glare catching on the ass of the woman carried into the room.  

“What the fuck,” he mutters, teeth bared. 

Ghost carts you towards the seat across from your husband. He drops you down into it, too carefully, makes sure you don’t land too harshly. You whimper nonetheless – panting, shivering, negligée still too sheer from the wetness of your torment.  

“Mia?” Zakhaev grunts, squinting, his tone more bitter than concerned.  

Price, having locked the heavy door, strolls to stand behind you and abruptly tugs the hood from your head. You wince in the sudden brightness, head bolting around as you hastily absorb your surroundings. He watches as your gaze lands on the man across from you, chest hitching as you hold your breath.  

“Victor?” You breathe, a whine, he cannot determine if out of fear or relief. “Слава богу, ты жив.” Thank God, you’re alive.  

“Что ты им сказал?” What have you told them? 

Seething. Accusatory. No concern for your wellbeing. Ghost suddenly feels he overestimated your value as leverage.  

“Ничего, малыш, я им ничего не говорил.” Nothing, baby, I haven’t told them anything.  

You little liar. Are you attempting to spare yourself the wrath of your husband? Are you trying to ensure you remain useful by keeping your husband on your side?  

Cleverer than he thought.  

Do you love him? 

You know that face.  

That lour.  

The stare your husband gives you when he hates you. When you disobey him. When you disappoint him. The hatred that reminds you how replaceable you are. How easy it would be for him to leave you in the snow-blown wilderness and let you die, how little he would care if he did so.  

You had at first found it almost amusing, that your militant abductors thought they could use you to extort him. As if he cared about you enough to bother spilling a single secret in exchange for your life.  

But, you now know what awaits you if it doesn’t go the way they want it to. Your usefulness will expire. Your time will be up.  

And now, aching, exhausted, withering, your beaten mind only yearns for comfort. Something familiar. The care of a man that isn’t itching to murder you. You just want him to love you.  

Despite how long, how ardently you scorned him and the life he forced you into – now, you miss it. You long for it. Your heart leaps back mere hours ago, when he kissed you, when he held you, when he whispered his Cyrillic pet names in your ear. Mere hours ago, you hated it. Looks like you got what you wished for.  

“Xерня.”  Bullshit.  

You feel the jagged rock rising in your throat, and you release it with a sob, eyes swelling with tears as you longingly glare at him.  

His wounds upset you. Bruises and slices and welts. You wish you could just float back to the estate with him, put ice on his injuries, apologise for ever wishing that you could inflict those wounds on him yourself. You had everything and you forsook it.  

“Я этого не делал, обещаю. Я тебя люблю.” I didn’t, I promise. I love you.  

The man whose voice you recognised, the one you had named The Captain, steps around your chair, stands in front of you with a roll of duct tape in hand – a shrill tear as he pulls off a piece. You tilt your head to glare up at him, and he takes you in his hand. Sticks the strap over your mouth, silencing you. 

He moves aside, your eyes once again land on your husband. Even more hateful than before. You hope he can see in your eyes how devotedly you love him. It mightn’t even be true, but you cling to it, with nothing else left.  

Your hunter re-enters your line of sight, sauntering behind Victor, leaning against the concrete wall, returning to the shadows. He crosses his arms, spectating it as if it were sport. He meets your eye from under the darkness of his mask. Fucking animal.  

The Captain grumbles from elsewhere in the room, amongst the clinks and clatters of whatever tool of suffering he prepares. “Had no idea your wife was so pretty, Victor.”  

Victor scoffs, as though amused, still harshly disdainful. “Как ты думаешь, почему я женился на ней?” Why do you think I married her? 

Captain chortles. “Mh. Not sure why she married you, though, eh?”  

“Take a guess,” your husband snarls, switching tongues. You know the answer, don’t you? His wallet. His empty promises.  

“Can’t be for your looks,” the Captain jeers. The familiar clicks of a spinning barrel ring out from where he stands. “I expect you lovebirds are familiar with русская рулетка.” Russian roulette.  

Your heart drops like steel.  

Your tongue forms your pleas behind your lips, as if you could speak them, instead you just moan and quiver in your chair, hoping they’ll listen. 

You jerk your head to see the Captain approach you. Behind you, he puts a warm and gentle hand on your shoulder, and you feel the sharply cold point of the revolver’s mouth against your opposite temple. You can only whimper, too terrified to tug yourself away, deathly afraid the gun will go off with the slightest movement.  

Please don’t kill me, you silently beg, entreating eyes land on your hunter. He observes disinterestedly. Please don’t let him kill me.  

“Alright, Victor,” the Captain drones, nudging the pistol at your forehead. “Tell us about London.”  

“Пошел на хуй.” Go fuck yourself. Victor spits, the apprehension in his voice belying the venom in his throat.  

“We know you’ve got WMDs in production. You know you’re only delaying the inevitable, right?”  

“You’re full of shit,” your husband growls. “You think I’m stupid? You have nothing.”  

“You’d be surprised.”  

Click.  

You scream – jolting unconsciously as you feel the gun crack against your temple – chamber empty. One down. Five to go.  

Your husband jumps, glowering at you, then the Captain, shuffling in his chair and out of breath.  

“Иди на хуй! Fuck you. Fuck you,” he roars, neck straining with his intensity. “You’re too fucking noble, Captain. You’re going to murder a woman in cold blood? No, you don’t have it in you, Ты жалкий хуй.” You pathetic fuck. 

“London. When.”  

“You’re stupider than I thought if you believe this will work.”  

Click.  

Your throat burns with the intensity of your crying, shrieking in horror as you survive yet another pull of the trigger – the click as loud as the eruption of a bullet. 

“You’ll really let your wife die for your lost fuckin’ cause, Victor?” The Captain admonishes him, grip of your shoulder firm and bizarrely comforting – your sanity begins to drift away from you, you watch as it fades.  

Victor releases a huff of scornful laughter. “Lost cause? You are desperate, Captain. Desperate enough to bring my wife into this.”  

“She’s one of many options,” the Captain threatens, “not a last resort.”  

“You’re a fool. It might be your first time killing a woman, it’s not mine.”  

Click.  

Your screams turn to whimpers, heart and lungs depleted of all strength, eyes itching with the flood of tears that flow from their swollen glands.  

“Do it. Go on. You fucking asshole.” Your husband goads him, shaking with fury, he averts your gaze even still  

Click.  

“Two left!” The Captain roars, “the odds really are in Mrs. Zakhaev’s favour, eh? Now we’ve got a fifty-fifty chance, don’t we.”  

“Fuck you. I’m not telling you anything. Not for that whore.”  

You sob, head tumbling from your shoulders in defeat and exhaustion – you'll die here. Two chambers left, one containing certain death. Your fucking husband will let it get down to the last round just to prove his obstinance. He’d let a bullet blast through your head just to prove a point.  

“It’s two simple things, Victor. Only two things you need to spill. When your fucking cabal of Soviet pricks is hitting London, and what with. Is that really worth her life, mate?”  

The Captain slips his hand under your jaw, lifting your head to realign it with his pistol. Victor glares at you. Finally meets your gaze. His eyes are small and black, beady like a shark, furious that you’ve put him in this position.  

“I’m not as pathetic as you, Captain,” he shouts, knuckles white, he shakes the steel chair like he might break it.  

Click.  

This time, you shriek, so certain that would be the end – no, another blank shot, another roll of the barrel. Which leaves the last chamber.  

Now it’s an execution. Now, you cry, and writhe, and tug, and kick, and scream – wordlessly begging, anything to plead with your husband to just tell them! It can’t be that horrific. It can’t be worth more than your life. He can’t love you that little.  

“Doesn’t seem like your wife is ready to die for you. Listen to her.” The Captain snarls, his thumb on your jaw, the revolver cold on your forehead. “It’d be such a waste. An awful shame to lose such a beauty. Wouldn’t it?”  

Victor’s skin is burning red, thumping with rage, he glares at you so viciously it terrifies you that he might tear free from his restraints and kill you himself. Something you always feared might happen eventually.  

He snorts loudly, hurling a lump of thick saliva onto the cement floor with a loud spit.  

“Go on, Captain, fucking shoot her,” he roars. “I’m not weak, like you. She’s just a fucking whore. I picked her up from the streets. And I married her for her cunt – and there are plenty of nice cunts out there. You think I give a shit what you do to her? You’ve probably already fucked her, I bet. Did she ask you to put your cock in her? It’s all she’s fucking good for, and she’s not even that good at it. I'm sure she bent over the second you broke into my house, you son of a bitch. Tell me, was she good for you? She’s not very good at listening to me, so maybe not. She’s good at sucking cock, though – did she offer that to you? It’s the only thing she knows how to do. I bet that’s why you haven’t fucking killed her already. You’d be doing me a favour. She spends my money like it’s fucking hers. You’d be saving me money if you put her down like the worn-out bitch she–” 

Bang. 

Wailing in horror, you’re certain that was your demise, that you had just drawn your last breath – briefly wondering if your spirit had already drifted from your filthy body, a death so instant that you were spared the agony of a bullet tearing through your skull.  

But you open your eyes, trembling, sobbing, dizzied by the sudden silence; to see your husband’s head hanging off his shoulders. A fountain of maroon blood. The splash and dribble of it pouring thick from the red crater in the centre of his forehead. It lands on his knees, drips from his fingers, puddles on the concrete floor around his feet.  

Behind him, your hunter.  

Gun raised. Still smoking.  

“Fuck’s sake, Ghost,” the Captain chides loudly, releasing his grip on your head, dropping the gun from your temple.  

You release a heaving breath, almost fainting with the relief, your vision begins to fade.  

“Had to shut him up,” your hunter grunts. Seems nonchalant about his sudden murder. Irritated that he had to waste the bullet.  

“Why? We were just getting him talking.”  

The hunter sniffs, rolling his head on his shoulders, cracking his spine.  

“Just had to.” 

[yourlittlebunnyy]

blizzard -azriel x selaene

masterlist

this little fic can be read alone or as a little prequel of a court of shadows and darkness ♡

summary: Azriel and Selaene share their first kiss.

warnings: fluff

wc: 1.3k

enjoy💙

Azriel knows Rhysand's sister; he knows who she was. He saw her once, an infant in her mother's arms, and never again.

Now Rhysand's mother, their mother, no longer lived with them, and although she visited them often, she never took Selaene with her. It was up to her brother to update them on her condition though: Selaene is strong and healthy, her wings big and fast, her beauty equal to that of the Moon itself.

The only thing he remembers about her are her violet eyes.

Eighteen years after her birth, now that she has finally come of age, it was Rhysand himself who introduced her to his brothers, asking them to help train her. To protect themselves.

When Azriel first lays eyes on Selaene, his breath catches in his throat. His own shadows seem to admire her gently as they dance around her. Azriel tries to call them back, but they are too delighted by the little Selaene.

She is introduced first to Cassian, who offers her a smile full of mischief and touches her hips a little too much when he embraces her, causing a twitch of Rhysand's nose. Azriel, internally, also has a similar reaction, and he does not understand why. He dismisses the thought believing it is because he already sees her as a little sister to protect. But oh, how wrong he is.

When the heir to the Night Court introduces Azriel and Selaene, he finally has a chance to look into those two purple pools full of dreams and life. She does not recoil from his shadows or disgust at his scarred hands, and he offers her a genuine smile, the rare kind. They seem to observe each other for years on end when a cough, Cassian, he realizes, interrupts them. He wants to roll his eyes at his childish behavior, but he restrains himself. He silently escorts Selaene to the small cabin where the three siblings live, and seats her while he stays to listen to her talk to Cassian. He remains silent, seemingly disinterested, but he is listening to every single word that comes out of the young girl's mouth, wanting to hear more, more, more.

A deep friendship is born between Selaene and Azriel, different from that between Cassian and her, who joke like two brothers.

No, between her and the ShadowSinger there is something more intense, more complicated. It doesn't escape the eyes of Rhysand how the two exchange glances that they think are discreet, only to blush whenever they are caught. Or how their hearts beat slightly faster every time they accidentally brush against each other.

As jealous as he is of his sister, he knows Azriel would treat her well. Azriel has always loved with all of himself, and he knows that with Selaene it would be the same.

The night when everything changed, however, was when during one of the usual blizzards of the Illyrian steppes. Azriel had to seek shelter in the cabin where Selaene and her mother live. He knocked several times, and when no one answered, he decided to enter anyway.

The young Fae, who was surrounded only by the melodic sound of the piano and her own voice, heard neither the knocks on the door nor the male enter.

When Selaene sings the little songs she so enjoys writing, she sees and hears nothing but the music - she is in love with it. And she certainly does not expect visitors, her mother is not home, and now that she is finally alone she can give some vent to her emotions by singing.

Azriel freezes just as he enters upon hearing Selaene's angelic voice and the sweet symphony of the piano. His feet move before he can stop them, and he follows that delightful sound until he reaches the living room doorframe.

He lays eyes on the figure of the female, dressed in a thick wool sweater from her brother and nothing else, playing and singing and giving all of herself as she does so. It strikes a part of his heart he did not know he had. The shadows do not control themselves, and they wrap around her and dance between the tiny fingers that move the keys. She does not notice, too absorbed in the music.

Azriel does not know what to do, but he cannot take his eyes off her in any way. Her voice, she...

He doesn't want to admit it out loud, he doesn't even want to admit it to himself, but the ShadowSinger is falling madly in love with Rhysand's sister.

And today, after seeing her so... bare. So free of masks, in an intimate moment with herself -- he is no longer sure he can hide it. He has to leave, or he might do something stupid, and Rhysand might kill him.

But she decides to open her eyes at that very moment, the notes of the piano slowly fading to an end. And that's when she notices the shadows moving around her.

She has never been afraid of them; that is another thing Azriel loves about her.

She laughs as she savors the feel of the cool wind they leave on her skin. Moments later, she realizes that Azriel must be somewhere nearby if they are here. And indeed, as she turns to take a look around the room, she finds him there, eaning against the doorframe with his arms folded, an indecipherable expression on his face, and his usual shadows around to give him an enigmatic look.

"Azzie! How did you get in?" Selaene asks positively surprised. He smiles at her before approaching her. He is a little unusual, she thinks, he is different than normal. He seems agitated under that mask of indifference.

"There's a blizzard outside and I thought I'd ask for shelter here, I knocked and no one answered. So I went inside and ... well, I found you." He tells her as he gets closer still, closer than he ever has. The young girl's heart beats faster and faster, and she hopes he can't hear it. But, of course, he can.

"I didn't know you could sing." He tells her, and the way he does it, slightly whispered, as if they are talking about their little secret, pleases her. It makes her realize that she would like to share all these little secrets of hers with him, and she would like him to do the same. She trusts him with her own life.

"I ... yes, sometimes it helps me release negative emotions." She answers uncertainly, laying bare a part she had never told anyone, not even her brother.

"You are very good, Selaene." He tells her getting even closer, and the Fae can feel his warm breath on her face. His hazel eyes look at her so intently that Selaene is convinced he can see right through them. She responds with a shy thank you.

He approaches her again, his lips brushing hers, and with his breath mixed with hers he asks her, "May I?" And he is so sweet, so full of affection that it is the Fae herself who kisses him, leaving him slightly surprised. She has never kissed anyone, and it takes a couple of seconds to get her bearings, but Azriel holds her up and guides her into it, causing them to pull away breathless but happy. Selaene can swear that their hearts beat at the same rhythm. The male holds his hands over her face, while she holds them on his shoulders. They look into each other's eyes, an awkward silence between the two, before they burst out laughing in each other's embrace.

"My brother will kill you." She tells him with her face hidden in the crook of his neck, still giggling.

"He can try." He pinches her side affectionately, causing her to pull away with amusement.

"Ow!"

"Do you want to sing?" She looks at him surprised.

"Can you sing?"

"Of course, I am called ShadowSinger for a reason, you know."

[thecapricunt1616]

Promptober Day 3 👻

𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐛 (𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐭) : “We aren’t gonna die, Syd. Can you fuckin find your head it’s startin’ t’freak me out that I’m the calm one so far” he said, turning the fog lights on as well.  “Can we please just stop somewhere like- like- a rest stop or something? Until this passes ahh! Oh my god!” Syd screeches as the car slides for a moment over black ice and grabs onto Carmys knee for comfort. He jumped at her scream, gripping tighter at the wheel “Syd there’s no rest stops we’re in the middle of the fucking Italian valley!” He said frustratedly and she awkwardly removed her hand from his thigh. Shit. She thought to herself, he was right.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: AAA Welcome to Promptober day 3 featuring our loves Syd and Carmy! No smut this time, but I haven't written them in a minute so I wanted to warm myself back up with some cute fluffy fluff! I hope you enjoy 😊 Reminder that you can view my schedule & masterlist for this celebration right 🦇here🦇! You can also view the same for my 2024 Kinktober celebration right 🎃here🎃! If you'd like to be added to the taglist, just comment on the according masterlist & I will add you going forward! 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.2K 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Fluffy fluff, only 1 bed trope, Swearing, Anxious Syd & Carmy haha 𝐃𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐬: @/𝐒𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐤𝐚-𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐬

“Jesus Christ this fuckin came outta nowhere” Carmy mutters. The windshield wipers on their rental car were going as fast as they could, but he was still having a hard time seeing the road. 

“Carmy I told you this was a bad idea! Were literally gonna spin out and die. I knew it was gonna snow!” Sydney huffs, turning down the radio more because she had anxiety that Carmy wasn’t seeing as well with that as a distraction. 

“We aren’t gonna die, Syd. Can you fuckin find your head it’s startin’ t’freak me out that I’m the calm one so far” he said, turning the fog lights on as well. 

“Can we please just stop somewhere like- like- a rest stop or something? Until this passes ahh! Oh my god!” Syd screeches as the car slides for a moment over black ice and grabs onto Carmys knee for comfort. 

He jumped at her scream, gripping tighter at the wheel “Syd there’s no rest stops we’re in the middle of the fucking Italian valley!” He said frustratedly and she awkwardly removed her hand from his thigh. Shit. She thought to herself, he was right. 

They had come to Italy for some new culinary inspiration, but also to put in a special order for a certain type of cheese that you couldn’t have shipped by the company so Carmy was going to vacuum seal it and buy a special bag for it to take it back with them. 

It wasn’t that that she thought was fucking crazy, it was going to a town that was famously known for its Skiing 2 weeks before thanksgiving. Meaning winter was just starting to pick up, and they’d likely get caught in a blizzard. 

As much as Carmy tried to convince her that per the weather app it was just going to be bitterly cold the week he had planned for them to go, Syd had a bad feeling that the weather would take a turn for the worse and they’d get caught in a blizzard, and per usual- Syd was right. Thankfully in the distance, they saw lights indicating a business of some kind. 

“Oh thank god. Were stopping.” She said more as a statement then a question, if she was honest with herself it sounded quite like a demand.

“Yes Syd, we’re stopping” Carmy sighed a bit. Not because he was upset with her, but because she proved him wrong - yet again. There was a light above the sign that read “Columbina Albergo” Carmy wasn’t too good at Italian, but he quickly understood the hotel to be called Little Dove Motel. 

It made his heart skip a beat, how romantic could a motel be. A dead one at that. There was only 2 other cars there, and the place wasn’t the most slightly- but it would do. “Alright I guess…uh. Yeah let’s go get a room I guess? I’m sure they uh have…double beds” Carmy said as he turned off the car and pulled up the hood of his white hoodie and opened the car door. 

The wind nearly stole Sydney’s blood orange and floral patterned scarf and she quickly grabbed it walking quicker as Carmy held the door open for her. 

“Buona Sera!” The woman at the counter chirps and Carmy nods politely. 

“Buona sera! Uhh… unaaaa…” he thinks for a moment trying to recall the bit of Italian he’d brushed up on before they came over “ah! Per favore, Una letto matrimoniale” He said and the woman nodded pointing to the sign that read it was €30 per night. He dug out his wallet and handed over 3 €10 notes and she put it in her register before grabbing the hanging set of keys with the room number and handing them over 

“Grazie, Buonanotte” she said and Carmy nodded, turning to Syd and handing her the keys 

“It’s room 11, I’ll bring your stuff just go warm up s’cold out there” he said, opening the door for her again. Even though it was freezing, she felt her cheeks flush with heat at how gentlemanly he was being. 

“Yeah send me into some random motel room where there could be a killer lying in wait?” She teased, heading down the row of rooms to find number 11. 

“You have a big mouth. Just scream an' I’ll come running don’t worry” Carmy mused, unlocking the rental car to gather the suitcases. By the time he got to the room, Syd was sitting on the single full sized bed with a teasing smirk. 

“You need to brush up on your Italian more, Chef” 

Carmys cheeks heat to a deep shade of pink, looking around the room to see that there was no  couch, just a small arm chair and he sighs deeply, rubbing over his face and tossing his pillow on the floor 

“You can have the bed” he muttered, tossing her her backpack and she giggled a bit

“What- scared I’m gonna touch you? We can put pillows between us if you want” she said and he raised his brows, looking at her in slight disbelief. 

“No- no m’not scared just…I dunno if you’re seein’ someone I wouldn’t want my girlfriend sleeping with her business partner” he said before he could think and he rubs his chin nervously as she started cracking up. 

“Yeah. No im not seeing anyone, but also don’t go saying you slept with me on this trip, I don’t want that rumor on my name” she teased as she opened her backpack, grabbing her pajamas “I’m gonna call the bathroom first, so…just call me when you’re changed I guess” she said and headed into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. 

Carmys heart was thumping, he could have sworn he had requested a room with a double bed, and the office hours listed on the door said they had made it just in time before she closed for the night - so no switching. 

He quickly tugged off his jeans and hoodie, putting on a white T-shirt and grey sweatpants, pulling the sheets back and getting the pillows situated. Carmy had a crush on Sydney since he’d met her, but of course, with his testy past with relationships - he was afraid that persuing someone he held so dearly to him would quickly end up in explosive flames. 

On the other side of the bathroom door, Sydney was in a similar panic, currently asking herself if she should keep her bra on, because it was like - respectful or whatever, or if she could be comfortable and take it off. She weighed it in her head for a good 5 minutes before hearing Carmy clear his throat and say 

“Uh- Syd n-not rushin’ you- jus’ wondering if you wanted to watch that movie still?” He called through the door. 

She quickly decided it would be better to just take it off so her back wouldn’t hurt in the morning and quickly puts on her old childish gambino shirt and a pair of sofee sleep shorts and opened the door “yeah- yeah” she swallows thickly when she saw that Carmy had a clear dick print in his grey sweats. 

“Okay- cmon” he patted the bed next to him, grabbing his laptop from his bag and resting it on his lap as he turns it on. 

She sits next to him, criss cross, her knee draped over his thigh because they were so close. Carmy felt as if his hands were shaking, Syd felt as if her heart was going to fly out of her chest at any moment.  It was going to be a long night.

Fin

Tag List: @carmenberzattosgf @daysofyellowroses @mouseymilkovich @gallaghersgal @carmybrainworms @l4long-winded @babyspiderling @southsideserendipity @djlnkaled

[yaut-jaknowit]

Can you please write Older yautja x f reader. Like a really big old yautja cheif. The reader is native american (not that it matters) and an overly energetic girl. Very fluffy n cuddly. Reader is whining about the cold and snuggles up to the elder n gets a little frisky he's grumpy but willing to help out. Thank you!

Pet names: Girly, little one, my girl, etc

Kinks: softdom, possesive, breeding, mild somnophilia

Hold You

Pairing: Woftik (Male Yautja) x AFAB Reader

Warnings: SMUT, softdom, possesive Yautja, breeding kink, light size kink, knotting, light aftercare, P in V, soft sex, fluff, use of very feminine pet names. You know the drill people lol

Word Count: 4516

Summary: Yautja Prime is a large planet. It sits in the designated zone for life to sprout. And life easily thrives all over the place. Even when a bitter cold takes over the poles. Woftik lives there with you. Life is great. Until the frozen lands are swallowed with a blizzard. All the two of you could possibly do was wait out the storm with each other.

Author Note: I'm so sorry this took a bit to get to. I had gotten caught up with a few self-interest writings. I do promise, I'm working on the ones that people have requested. Also, I do love all of your requests guys!

Masterlist

Ao3

In the middle of the equator and the poles of Yautja Prime, it had weather closer to earth. Closer to said poles, an actual four seasons will cycle every year of the planet. Though rare, some Yautjas will live up towards the poles. A select few clans have laid down claim to vast, cool plains of barren lands and ocean.  

Off of the top of your head, you could remember the clan Woftik was part of and another his clan was affiliated with. Nacht Klinge and Snoq are the clan names. There were two more, you believed that survive in the colder climates. Truly, you didn’t mind the cold as much, enjoying on some days. While on others, you snuggled up to your Yautja and napped content.

Today was no different. A blizzard had wiped the Nacht Klinge clan off of the map currently. It was far too dangerous for even a Yautja to step foot outside without being lost. There wasn’t nothing out there worth the risk in the first place. Food, water, entertainment, warmth all bundled into one place. No one could drag you out there if they wanted to.

That meant, you found yourself pinned to Woftik’s meaty side. One of his thickly corded arms thrown heavily over your shoulders. Just the weight alone had you trapped. Woftik wasn’t moving anytime soon. It seemed, neither were you.

The Yautja had his eyes closed, ears open, and body sagged into the couch. Your little warmth wasn’t attentive but it had him satisfied. He let loose a rumble that vibrated across the expanse of his torso. You giggled and squirmed in your spot, unable to move much.

As time went on, the fire that Woftik had built sometime before, had dwindled. With the harsh cold threatening to breakdown the door and environment you lived in, you felt the crisp, frosty air biting at your exposed skin. Despite the blazing heat warming up your side, it wasn’t enough to hold it back. Your body was raked with a shiver. That caught Woftik’s attention.

His dark, almost black, brown eyes opening and flicked down to you. You gazed up at him with doe eyes. “It’s getting cold,” you explained and trembled again. It wasn’t on purpose.

Old Woftik grumbled, not out of annoyance, just a noise he regularly makes and lifted his arm off of you. His heat fleeting away the moment he did. This was an open opportunity though. You leaped off of the couch and raced over to the fireplace.

Orange, glowing embers produced heated that fell over your goose bumped skin. At this distance, the cold was chased away once more. You reached next to the mantle and grabbed three chopped logs, as much as possible. They were carefully placed on top of the dying fire. Next, you mindfully leaned in, still a safe distance away and gently blew.

It helped stroke the ember, pushing oxygen towards them. They grew bright with flames flickering to life once more. Those flames licked up at the logs a few times as you did this over and over. Until the logs finally caught the fire and burned. You smiled to yourself and stood back up. With one move, you pivoted around to face Woftik.

The elder was the spitting image of tranquility. Arms hanging on the back of the couch, legs spread far wider than necessary. His head leaned back and exposing his throat to you. Not a single muscle was tensed or twitching. Softly, his chest rose and fell with quiet breaths. You didn’t let your smile fade at the sight of him.

Instead, you skipped up to him. Woftik made a noise that kept solidifying his growing age. His Adam’s apple bobbing with the sound. You took the initiative to climb into his lap and straddle his wide waist.

Woftik didn’t move a muscle. Your hands touched at his midriff before sliding up to his wide shoulders. For a male, this Yautja was massive in mass and height. He rivaled a few females that live among his clan. Yet, Woftik’s color has been adapted to his environment over decades of living here.

An off color of white painted his skin. Though white was considered a curse among many of the clans that lived towards the equator. For him, it was a gift. To hunt and live in a climate this harsh and deadly required skill and great camouflage. Maybe that’s why he’s chief of the Nacht Klinge clan.

Similar to all of his kind, he was only adorned with a loin cloth – albeit thicker. The bulky size of him kept him far warmer than you in this kind of weather. Another adaptation for the climate. If he were outside when the weather was normal, a furred covering would hang from his shoulders. Woftik would wear shoes as well. It was too cold for him to go bare foot like the rest of his kind at the equator.

In the safety of Woftik’s dwelling, he sat almost naked and lax. You wrapped your arms around his neck and rested your chest against his. A short purr vibrated from deep within his barrel torso. You quietly laughed and shook your head.

With the newly rebuilt fire rewarming the house once more, you softened against Woftik. One of his massive arms encircled your form. It kept you snug to him. You release a sigh of content, a hidden smile gracing your features. Barely above a whisper, you mummer, “love ya, ya big giant.” Woftik’s arm flexed just a hair. You felt it though and didn’t let your turned up lips fall.

The temperature continued to drop throughout the day. It sapped up your heat, even your own Yautja started to feel that annoying bite at his heels. He threw his other arm over you, encasing your frame. You canted your hips to scoot forward, to somehow press yourself into his skin. Maybe, somehow get underneath it to steal all of his warmth.

You stuttered with a gasp at the accidently stimulation of your clit skirting across Woftik’s loin cloth. An all too familiar heat bloomed over you features. A new fire sparking to life deep within your stomach. You whined and snuggled deeper into him. This time, you grounded your hips down on purpose. Your eyes rolled back. Woftik’s deadly claws poked into your feeble flesh.

Now, with the feeling starting a fire across your skin, you couldn’t stop thinking about it. About him. It would help keep you warm in this weather, fire or not. You let an arm fall from around his neck and settled on his navel, nails lightly scratching. “Woftik,” you softly cry his name before picking up your head to look at him in the eye. He was already peering down at you, mandibles tense. You had started a gentle fire, not the one in the fireplace.

“What do you want, little one?” he muttered lowly and bent down the best he could. His face was close to yours. You felt the warm, moist exhale flutter over your features. He was close enough to make out the texture of his dark eyes. Darker than usual as need grew within them.

A heavier blush blanketed your cheeks at the name he called you. One he didn’t let fade. Woftik shifted his hands to engulf your hips. With those limbs, he forced you to grind up against him. You sucked in a sharp breath of air between your clenched teeth. “I asked you a question, girly.” You keened quietly and ducked underneath his chin to hide in his neck. But the white Yautja wasn’t gonna let that happen.

With a hand, he pinched your jaw and softly brought you back out. “Little one,” he spoke with a hardened, lax tone. You couldn’t help your hips jutting forward, knocking your clothed cunt against the slowly growing bulge in his pants. Woftik squeezed your chin for a moment before untensing.

“You,” you quietly stated. Woftik was eating this up like a hungry, starved man. From the usual bouncing, talking ooman on daily basis you were, to this. Such a nervous, needy, little ooman, embarrassed about asking for something so normal.

The old Yautja rumbled a noise of thinking. His dark eyes never leaving yours. “You already have me,” he stated a fact. Here you were, plopped on Woftik’s lap, humping against him like a needy little girl.

You keened with a pathetic whine and finally met his eyes. They begged for him silently. They were filled with emotions, flooding them fully. Woftik used a thumb to rub along your cheek bone. Your whole body went slack in his hold. “Yeah, I know. Such a good little ooman for me. Will you let me take you?” he whispered into the cooling living room. “I’ll keep you warm and safe with me.”

How could anyone say no to him when he speaks like that? Woftik was the best person – alien or not – you’ve ever met. His hands were gentle each time they laid on your feeble skin. His words always had you smiling or keening. His eyes had yours captured each time they met.

Your head was quick to nod. “I want you, love. Please, keep me warm.” To sell the whole show, you shivered, partially fake. Truly, it was dropping in temperature inside of his house.

Woftik grumbled a noise of old age and content before letting his hands skirt underneath your shirt. The blazing heat that radiated off of his skin left a hot trail of the skin he touched. As much as you wanted to hide in the safety of his neck, you didn’t want to part from his eyes. You searched through them and found all the love he had for you stored within them.

“Then, you’ll have me.” One of his hands roamed north before settling over the swell of one of your breasts. You sighed softly at the feeling. The hand on his navel scratching once more. The thick muscle there rippled at your touch. He didn’t let that distract him and run a talon mindfully over a pliant nipple. It immediately had blood rushing to it, growing hard underneath his administration. “Your body knows who I am, doesn’t it?” Your empty cunt clenched at his words.

A warm, short gush of slick dampened your underwear. A new flush of blood brushing over your cheeks. You couldn’t look him in the eye anymore and found the ground more interesting. “Sweet girl, look at me,” he called out to you. In return, you whine and kept your chin tucked down. “Come on, let me see your pretty eyes.”

Relenting, you lifted your head, eyes finding each other. “There’s my girl. I can smell you thick in the air-hey don’t look away now. There you go, keep your eyes on me. You smell like heaven.” Your heart thundered in your ears, almost drowning out his words. It stuttered in its bony cage. How could he talk… fuck you.

“Now, lets get these pants off of you.” Woftik helped lift you up and off of his lap. Your legs trembled at first when you added weight to them. With him right there though, he kept you up and removing your leggings at the same time. His arms flex with use of his muscles. Your lips pressed together, eyes roaming over him.

Once your leggings were tossed to the side, you shivered at the biting cold and leaped into Woftik’s lap. Without hesitancy, his large arms encased your form once more. You hummed at the skin-to-skin contact. “Hm, you’re so warm, love,” you muttered against the giant wall of muscle your head was laid on.

With your shirt still on, Woftik slid a hand underneath and had it returned to its original spot. A groan sounding from the back of your throat. His moves weren’t harsh or demanding, gentle like a waves lapping at a shore.

His free hand slipped between the apex of your plush thighs and cupped your moist core. A gasp tore at your throat from the sudden move. Your spine curved to pressed your hips more against him. He rumbled a chuckle and palmed at you. The move rubbed over your soak clit as his fingers teased your folds. One move and he could be buried inside of you. Yet, the Yautja didn’t let that happen. His digits just stayed still like a statue.

A whine built up in the back of your throat. “Love, I need more.” At your begging, Woftik rested his thumb on top of your nub. Immediately, your muscles tensed and waited impatiently at his next move. When he didn’t, you took it upon yourself to hump against him. The former embarrassment slipping away from you like water. “Fuck, like that. That feels so good.”

Woftik felt pleasure wash over him in a heady amount, soaking into his bones. Despite a want to move that hand coated in your slick, the Yautja pinched at your nipples instead. This distracted you from jerking your hips, you bit at your bottom lip.

Now, he took it upon himself to start a slow, mindful rubbing over your clit. The sticky slick coating your cunt easily allowed for him to pass over your nub. You released your lip with an airy cry, hands clawing at his exposed shoulders. The cold forgotten about now. A wall built to deter it away from the safety of your Yautja.

In tandem, your hips rocked against Woftik’s hand, further increasing the pressure. The Yautja watched, raptured with the way you moved with a desperate need. Your eyes hooded over, bottom lip captured between dull teeth. You were heavily breathing through your nostrils before you started to pant.

He let his upper hand abandon your breast to skim up to wrap firmly around your neck. Your eyes snapped open to stare wide at him. With a thumb, he stroked your jawline. “I didn’t say stop, pretty girl,” he huskily whispered. Your eyes rolled up. You didn’t realize you had stopped moving until he said something. You didn’t waste a second to begin again. A new fever rushing into your veins.

“That’s it,” he growled lowly. You squeaked, hands grasping at his skin. It had to be the combination of everything. Him, his noises, his body, his warmth, his hands, everything. It was affecting you. His last encouragement was the final nail in the coffin.

Your back arched, chest pressed up against him. A hardy gasp tore at the back of your throat, causing a cracking sound. “Fuck!” you spat out and refused to still, jutting your hips without rhythm till the end. A new gush of fluids coating his massive hand between your thighs. Despite the Yautja forcing you to look at him, your hooded back over. The bliss ebbing away from the blood that filled your veins.

When you officially slumped against his broad form, head resting on his shoulder. Woftik dragged his lower limb from between the apex of his body and lifted it in front of his alien face. From the corner of your heavy eyes, you watched as the Yautja licked your juices off. You mewled while humping, horny at the display.

Woftik grumbled his elder noises of content. “Hm, always so good for me.” Then, the Yautja tilted his head back to gaze down at your loose form. “Do you know what you do to me, little one? Do you know how hard you get me? How desperate you have me right now?” If you had a sober mind, the blush coating your cheeks could be from him.

All you could do for the moment was make a pathetic sound from the depths of your chest and bury your face in his neck. “Oh no, no, no. You don’t get to hide away from me now. I want to watch you come on my cock next, sweet girl.”

“Fuck me, please,” you groaned into his neck without thinking. Your body tensed a second after those words had left your mouth. Had you just said that?

The alien in front of you rumbled his low laughter. “That’s what my good girl wants, doesn’t she?” You forced yourself to bite at your bottom lip. At this point, it has had to bleeding or rubbed raw. After all the times you’ve constantly agitated it. A part of yourself would be surprised if it wouldn’t hurt in the morning. “Come on, tell me that you’re my good girl.”

Your hips rolled subconsciously. That’s when you felt a bulge in his pants. Without meaning to, they moved against the bump you had felt. Pleasure shot up the length of your spine all over again. With the combination of him calling you his good girl and the proposition of what’s to come, your walls clenched emptily.

“Your good girl,” you whined. You needed him now.

One moment, Woftik had you on his lap. The very next second, you were slammed onto your back on the couch cushions, legs spread wide. The oxygen in your lungs forced out at the sudden pressure. Any sounds of surprise couldn’t reach the air. But there wasn’t a hint of fear in your eyes as you stared up at the lumber giant above you. Woftik had you pinned to the couch, calm as ever, gaze locked onto you. One hand was wrapped snuggly around your throat. His other had found its way to your navel and gently held you there.

With his lower limb, he retreated it to pull off his pants. They were moved down enough for his cock to spring out and slap against him navel. A thick bead of precum leaking from the head, dripping down the length of him. Such an alien look to him that’ll have you always satisfied.

His size matched his body. Thickly corded and large. A vein ran down the side before disappearing where the noticeable lump of his deflated knot. He was a bright, neon green, just like his blood. At the sight of him, your mouth watered.

Your eyes lifted up to find his nearly black eyes on you, heavy with lust. Without even needing to say a word, you knew what he was asking of you. “Fill me, love.” Woftik didn’t need to ask again. With one hand, he lined himself up with your dripping cunt and pressed forward.

The head of his flat head popped inside before he stilled. Both of you relished in the delicious feeling seeping into your veins. Your head leaned back with a keen sounding from you. “You feel so good, little one. So tight and I’m barely inside of you,” he groaned and forced himself  to still for your benefit. Past interactions have taught him well.

Woftik was gentle, mindful on his actions until his hips finally kissed your inner thighs. The two of you cried out, heads thrown back at the same time. His hands squeezed temporarily. Before the one on your neck slid up to tangle in your hair. He tugged on the strands to force you to look at him again. “That’s all me, little one. Pauk, yeah. So pauking tight around me.” That lower hand touched your navel again and pressed down. You harshly gasped.

With a newfound energy, Woftik snatched one of your hands and pressed it to your navel. He preformed the same action as before. Your eyes widened, unable to look away from his dark ones. You felt the giant twitch inside of you. You could feel him with your hand, deep inside of you.

“I’m so far inside of you. So deep. I’m inside of your womb. I’m going to fill your womb with my seed. Breed you so full of me.” For a lumbering giant, he knew how to use words for his advantage. You throbbed, walls barely able to even move with him inside of you. “Pauk, I love when you do that. You love the way I’m so far inside of you.”

Yeah, you most definitely do. He’s ruined you for anyone else. And it wasn’t just the sex that convinced you to stay with him. He may have been an ass in the beginning, but he was the best thing you had back then. You were glad to have stayed with him, through the dangers of his life.

“I do. Now, fucking pound me,” you demanded and wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down. His warm breath fell over you at each exhale. One deep inhale filled your lungs with his earthy scent of wildlife and nature and salt.

He didn’t need to be told twice at the order of his mate. With one pull of his hips, almost removing himself from you, he thrusted forward. The slap against your thighs wasn’t harsh or painful by any means. This was the beginning after all. He wants to savor the moment for however long he possible could.

On the other hand, you were loving every, single second. His girth pressed every crook and nanny inside of you. You were seeing stars, despite the vanilla pace he usually sets up.

Woftik’s tresses fell around you in a curtain of light green. With the leftovers of your sober mind, you turned your head and captured the end of one of them with your lip. Woftik slammed his hips particular hard against you. It sent your body sliding up before he pulled you back down flush with him. “Do that again,” he begged and partially draped himself over you. His weight kept you trapped.

At his request, you suckled on the end of the one you caught. Woftik grounded his hips hard into you, only thrusting them while holding you down to the couch. It had your clit scrapping across his pelvis. You squeezed like a snake around him at the harsh stimulation. He yowled and shuttered above you, a beautiful sight before you. You felt that familiar heat blooming back into your chest.

The Yautja didn’t speed up but kept the punishing harshness of his hips snapping to you. He fell to his elbows, chest to chest with you now. You were completely pinned between him and the couch. There was nowhere to go. Not that you wanted to leave anyhow. This is where you wanted to be. This is where you are meant to be.

You keened a particular thrust that had you seeing stars. Your whole body shuttered, walls fluttering around him. Woftik snarled huskily above, mandibles clicking wildly. “You’re mine to breed. Mine to fill. Mine to love. Mine to pauk.” Your hands clawed at his back, probably not leaving any sort of marks. Yet, the alien shuttered as if you had hurt him.

“All yours, love. All you-oh!” He firmly rewrapped his hand back around your throat, once he had realized it slipped away. Woftik watched the way your eyes rolled back up into your head, eyelids hooded. You squeezed him once more, dragging him closer and closer towards the end.

His growing knot kept catching on your entrance, almost locking him prematurely inside. As much as he wanted to stop anything from preventing a smooth thrust, he was too far gone. He used the muscles that lined his broad back and waist to keep slamming his hips against you. There wasn’t anything that could pull him away from you. You were his. Through and through.

With the slight increase in his rough pounding, his skin rubbed against your erect nipples. Bliss was thrumming throughout your whole body. From the tips of your toes to the top of your head. You were soaking in it with your mate fucking you into the living room couch. The harsh, winter cold no longer a problem from the heat the two of you generated. No fire was needed for fiery love you held for each other.

One particular slam had you sobbing, body threatening to curl into his blazing body. “That’s it, little one. Be my good girl, come for me. And I’ll fill you with my seed as you’re mine,” he praised into your ear. Harsh clicks following afterwards. He cursed in his own language, losing his ability to speak ooman for the moment.

A body splintering orgasm pushed you right off of the edge. Everything went white, body tense and writing against Woftik’s never ending moving form. There was static in your ear. The only thing you could hear was a far off scream echoing in your ears. Your throat started to burn, vibrating for some odd reason.

Then, as your soul returned, you realized it was you who was making that noise. The rest of the air in your lungs left and forced you to sputter for more oxygen. You were panting, roughly and rasping inhales. Sweat dotted your half naked form. The shirt that hung off of your shoulders was sticking to your skin like an uncomfortable second layer.

You tried to gather your thoughts for a second only to feel a painful slap meet your thigh. If it wasn’t for the strong body pinning you down or the sturdy hold clasped around your throat, you would’ve been thrown far up the couch.

An all too familiar pressure burst inside of you, locking. You keened at the feeling, back arching off of the couch. Woftik’s snarl vibrated across the expanse of your skin. His native language falling off his alien tongue in heady mouthfuls. Your name cried out like a prayer along the words.

With a shaky, weak hand, you cupped his lower jaw. This had him opening his eyes, hooded and heavily to stare down at the mess he made of you. He purred thickly once he did.

There was so many emotions swirl inside of those gorgeous eyes of his. Not just the lust or subdued hunger for you. No, the affection he has that stems from deep within his soul shone through. You felt yourself completely soften at the sight.

The limb on your throat shifted to mirror your action. Woftik leaned forward and softly knocked his forehead against yours. “You did so well for me, sweet girl,” he breathed in to your ear, breathing faster than usual. You smiled up at him with a tilt of your head. “Yeah, you did so pauking good for me.”

Now, the blush blanketing your cheeks wasn’t from your exertion or former embarrassment. It was due to his new words. Instead of shying away, you kept your gaze on him. “Thank you, love. That was amazing, just like you.”

Woftik tensed before sputtering. You giggled softly at his reaction before rewrapping your arm back around him. He relaxed in your hold and let the moment carry on. Until you felt the dreading cold nip at the skin exposed to the house’s air. You whined and wiggled underneath him. “Wof… it’s getting cold again.” There wasn’t much he could do until his knot deflated. So, you had to wait until then. Don’t fret, the Yautja ensured you kept warm underneath him.

[larkspyrr]

chapter ix — and all i can breathe is your life (wc. 4.6k)

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Lucy, the beautiful, loyal creature that she was, carried Wriothesley directly to you like a creature possessed, hooves stamping at the earth in a furious gallop.

She missed the trees closing in on either side of her by mere inches—whip-thin branches lashed against Wriothesley’s face and arms and chest, drawing blood wherever they bit into his skin. He didn't notice.

Finally, the lush green gave way to a barren little camp, and as Wriothesley slid out of the saddle, all he could see was you.

You were on the ground, cornered against an old tree with your legs pulled up against your chest, smears of blood on your neck and hands. Your hair and clothes were matted to your skin by something too light to be blood but too dark to be sweat. The unmistakable smell of gasoline permeated the entire camp, and Wriothesley suppressed a gag at the overwhelming odor.

Your eyes were wide with fear, but your brow and jaw set in defiance. Scared, but not cowering; not conceding defeat.

His eyes were drawn to a flash of light near the opposite treeline. Fire flickered from the head of a torch held by a man who was—who was fucking smiling—

Every part of Wriothesley's body thrummed with violence, his vision pulsing against his shoulder with glacial wrath. He felt frost gathering at his hands, the familiar frigid mist condensing into the unforgiving steel of his bespoke gauntlets. He basked in the weight against his hands, tightened his fists with the reassurance that he would never be unable to help those he cared about again.

He looked once more to you. To ground himself. To remind himself.

He stepped into the clearing.

The blizzard followed.

Wriothesley fought like you danced.

He was lethal; graceful. Beautiful. You had seen him in the ring, time and time again, but nothing could have ever prepared you for what he would be like when lives were on the line—your life. He was fluidity; he was raw power; he was precision and brutality. Those gauntlets you had only seen a few times before concealed the kind hands you’d come to know so well; channeling ice and snow and biting, savage cold into overwhelming waves of frigid righteousness. A one-man fortress, hewn from ice.

You gasped as a shaft of ice impaled the ground not far from where you sat, startling you from the viscous haze of awe and terror that clawed at your throat. It caught the sunlight, out of place, stark against the verdant green, glittering, wicked, and sharp.

Your eyes shot up. Wriothesley caught your stare for only a fraction of a second before sending out another cascade of ice toward the Treasure Hoarders, but the flick of his gaze to the shard told you everything you needed to know.

Wriothesley was giving you the choice. You were not powerless—not this time, not ever again.

Your heart hammered like a drum. You didn't hesitate, your body knowing what you'd choose before you had even consciously made the decision, darting forward of its own accord across the frosted grass. On shaking knees, you began sawing at the bindings around your wrists with hurried, cautious precision, freeing your hands to quickly untie the ropes restraining your ankles. With your movement unrestricted, you felt the first full breath fill your lungs in far too many fear-stained minutes, the cold air crisp and dizzying.

You were not powerless.

Paquette may have robbed you of your choice once before, nearly stripped you of so much more than that, but he could decay in the Abyss for the trouble; for believing that he could coerce and manipulate you into compliance. Into submission. Nothing would keep you down again. Nothing would keep you from standing at your rightful place: the world unfolding before you, the wind at your back.

This shard of ice was the reminder you needed—that you weren’t done, you were never done, not as long as you still had a way forward.

You leapt, diving for the brush, praying that the Treasure Hoarders hadn’t noticed you were loose as you turned all of your focus toward the dark thicket. You didn't so much as wince as thorn and bramble bit into the soft flesh of your palms and wrist; you continued patting through the tangle desperately, searching for—

There. Cold, hard Fontainian steel. Your fingers curled around the familiar hilt, feeling as your power rushed back to you like water from behind a collapsing dam, flooding all of your senses. All of your limbs vibrated with restless energy; with the hunger that had hounded you all your life, insisted that you were meant for something else than what you had been born for.

One look over your shoulder had you adjusting your grip and charging forward.

Wriothesley's eyes flared with surprise as you spun into the fray, knocking away the enormous claymore before it could make contact with his gauntlet. The woman wielding it nearly screamed in frustration as she beheld you, upright and furious before her, but just for a moment, your eyes were elsewhere.

You felt your face heat from that mere moment of Wriothesley's focus—of having those blazing eyes focused solely on you, a pride and a hunger reflecting right back, a perfect mirror of your own.

You stood firm by his side, sword drawn, and felt as though your soul was lifted on a brisk winter wind.

After some time, the clearing was finally quiet, the ringing in your ears replaced by roaring silence; your wrath now calmed to an echoing emptiness.

Your assailants hadn’t stood a chance. They attempted to regroup, to recover, but they could do nothing in the face of your joint onslaught, twin fangs of ice and steel. Quickly, so quickly, the five lay on the ground, unmoving. Dead or unconscious, you couldn’t say. You didn’t care. Bodies dotted the clearing; you could see some of their chests rising and falling in the stillness.

Over. It was over. Your body felt stiff.

You heaved but the air seemed to go right through you. Your lungs burned. You were unsure of how to loosen your fingers from the hilt of your sword. It seemed that your limbs had reached their limit for obeying your command, leaden in this bloody aftermath. Your eyes struggled to focus on your surroundings.

“Hey. You alright?” Wriothesley said from somewhere outside your blackening vision, voice muffled as though he were underwater; or maybe it was you who was submerged, somewhere deep and murky in the Fontemer. Everything was quiet, muted, sluggish.

Nausea roiled in your gut. You'd spent hundreds of hours sparring over many, many years. You'd fought harder battles than this in the ring, and yet this had been so unlike anything you’d ever experienced before.

You had fought; you had won. But the adrenaline was gone. The thrill had faded. You were not dead. You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn't breathe.

“Hey,” Wriothesley said again, slow and careful. There was a hint of something in his tone; worry, maybe? For you?

Why? You were alive, weren't you?

“Talk to me,” he said.

You were alive. Somehow. You were still alive.

Wriothesley had come. Even after you'd hurt him with open eyes and a shuttered heart, he'd found you. You had wanted him away, far, far away; you hadn't pulled your punches, repaying all the kindness he’d shown you with cruelty and dishonesty. You had aimed to sever; to break.

The look on his face had haunted you every moment since. The tragedy of your killing blow, the shattering of a promise. You had let it burn itself into your retinas, a reminder of the consequences for your myopic selfishness; for thinking that you could have it all, your family's happiness, your independence, and maybe even... maybe—

It was foolish. Impossible. Your waxen wings had been reduced to nothing more than drops in the sea, and you barreled down, down, down alongside them.

And here Wriothesley was, his good heart made plain with peace offerings disguised as spears of ice, and you had fallen in seamlessly by his side, happy to take even more that you were not owed; whatever he would give you.

Saved from the plummet you had earned yourself. You thought you’d never see him again. You couldn't bring yourself to look at him.

You fought to regain your composure, taking stock of what your senses were telling you—using them to center yourself. You were still covered head to toe in accelerant—a strangely alluring odor, thick and sweet. Your hands were frozen and shaking, your eyes wide and bone-dry. Slowly, your vision cleared bit by bit, and your eyes fell on a shaft of wood that lay beneath the reddened edge of someone’s coat. Charred but unlit; impotent.

You turned to further observe the camp and your eyes immediately fixed on the dark silhouette of the duke as his gauntlets clicked away in a flash of frost, faster than a blink. The wisps of blizzard that still remained dissipated as though the storm had never raged at all. A bird from somewhere in the wood began to sing again, life slowly creeping once more into the forest, unbothered by the violence that soaked the ground at your feet.

Your mind raced, spinning and spinning like a wheel in fresh mud. Wriothesley walked toward you, each step even and deliberate and you stubbornly looked away once more, but he was undeterred; his every footfall like a brand on your skin until he finally stopped, too close, not close enough, lifting his hands—when had he removed the fingerless gloves?—the bare skin of his scarred, freezing fingers sliding across your cheek, into the hair behind your ears; holding your face in his palms like you were something to be cherished, smearing the blood on your neck, your lip.

You allowed it. You swallowed the pulse of shame that threatened to overcome you, grappling with the instinct to flinch away from his touch, even as you craved for him to press closer, to drive his fingers into your jaw hard enough to leave a mark.

Your gaze flicked once more to the extinguished torch only a handful of steps away. The promise of death that had been smothered by a sheet of hail and rendered benign.

You screwed your eyes shut. You had been so close. So sickening close to—

“Look at me.”

His voice was quiet but calm; it was a command. A buoy in disquiet waters.

You exhaled. Reached for the salvation. Trusted Wriothesley to keep your head above water.

Your eyes finally met his.

His eyes—the exact same shade as the Fontemer—held yours, evenly, calmly; no further trace of the cold fury or the hurt or the defiance, only—

Archons damn it all.

Your free hand lifted to grip at his elbow, his sleeve bunched in your trembling fingers before you even realized you’d moved. He continued to hold your face, gently rubbing his thumb along the line of your cheekbone, beneath your eye, tracing a path so like the one that curved cruelly just beneath his own.

You breathed. He waited for you to speak.

“You're here,” you whispered. Your voice had never sounded like that; so hoarse, so quiet. The words scratched your throat.

Wriothesley’s eyes wrinkled at the corners, just barely. He held you afloat, kept you from drowning. “I'm here.”

You blinked, shaky breaths coming faster. Your rapid pulse had nothing to do with the fight. “Why?”

“Because—” he began, but then frowned and went silent, a clear, abrupt end to the thought he had started. You nearly winced as his hands fell away from you, your fingers flexing in his sleeve against your will, reluctant to let him go. You loosened your grip, letting your hand fall back to your side. You buried the ache. You didn't have the right to ask for any more than what he gave. You had already taken enough. “Because regardless of... everything else that's happened, I would never let anything happen to you if I could help it.”

Your face burned and you swallowed, wrenching your eyes away, already feeling bereft at the absence of his palms on your skin. You breathed, counting the steady ins-and-outs as you continued to regain control of your body. You scanned the clearing; eyes catching on the prone figures scattered throughout, the clumps of fabric mottled with dirt and blood.

“...Any dead?” you asked finally, dreading the answer and resenting your weakness for it.

Wriothesley scowled, looking up from the bandage he had been adjusting around his forearm. “...No. Banged up but alive. I figure the knowledge that they will have to deal with me for the foreseeable future should bring me satisfaction, but it does not.” He paused, eyes lowering to glare at the shallow cut on your neck. There was something like disgust on his face and you nearly recoiled at the sight of it. He stares at you for a moment too long before shifting his attention back to the camp. “Nothing I could do would ever be enough.”

“What do you mean?”

Wriothesley pauses and shakes his head, brushing off your question entirely; an unexpected surge of irritation rising in your chest at the dismissal, but you swiftly push it back. He cleared his throat, and you recognized the shift back to Warden. “Neuvillette will be here shortly and each will be taken in and charged in accordance with their crimes.”

“I…" you began, and then exhaled roughly. "Thank you. For finding me. I would have died if you had not.” You fidgeted under his frustratingly unintelligible gaze. "Your Grace," you finished awkwardly.

Wriothesley's expression shuttered and he sighed, turning away. You wanted to scream, to run for the hills, to shake him, to pull his face down to yours and erase that stony expression for good.

Wriothesley, on the other hand, seemed to not want much at all.

“Let’s get you home,” he said.

You nodded, but then stiffened as a thought dawned on you—one you had nearly forgotten in all the chaos. Something you needed to do; to see for yourself.

“Wait," you started, your voice catching. You realized for the first time that Lucy had somehow returned, and Wriothesley was patting her snout, murmuring to her too quietly for you to hear. He paused, looking over his shoulder at you, one dark brow raised. "Please, just... give me a minute?"

Wriothesley's brows furrowed but he nodded. “We can stay as long as you need.”

“It'll only be a minute,” you assured again, vaguely noting the flatness in your voice; the distance. Your eyes were fixed on the center tent. “I just need to be sure.”

Wriothesley followed your gaze and froze, understanding widening his eyes. He nodded again, more hesitantly than the first time, his cautious eyes trained on you as you stepped forward.

To the purple tent. To the table inside it.

To the folder.

You lifted the beige paper, let it fall open, looked at the documents within as they spilled out and across the hastily thrown rug on the ground. The untouched cot. The wooden table, bare but for the folder that had lain front and center.

Like bait.

The blood drained from your face. You had known, deep down; accepted it before the fighting had even begun, yet some part of you had still held onto the hope that the reality couldn't be so cruel. That this was just bad luck. That it was a misunderstanding.

But there had never been a job. There had never been any sensitive documents to recover. This task had had one goal and one goal alone.

Your death.

All of them. Each page. Every single one.

Blank.

“The trials are today.”

The sun was warm on your skin; the late summer morning bright and cheery and out-of-place. Flowers bloomed just beyond the confines of your sitting room window in every color imaginable, happy and vivid and blissfully oblivious to the turmoil swirling in your heart. You'd been sitting in the floral-printed armchair for hours, an untouched book buried in the folds of your dress on your lap. You couldn't recall the title; the genre, even. It lay all but forgotten as you stared out the window towards an opera house hidden behind miles and miles of burgeoning landscape.

“I’m not going."

“Oh, of course you aren’t,” Clorinde said imperiously. She huffed. “And what about your testimony? Don't you want justice for what that snake tried to pull?”

Your brow twitched in annoyance. “Of course I want justice,” you said, shooting her a glare. “I gave my witness testimony about Paquette in private to the Iudex. He said it was for my safety, but I also… I just couldn't stand to be put on display before the Court like that. To see them.” You scowled, turning your focus fully on Clorinde, abandoning your bitter vigil of the summer day that dared to be a summer day with no regard to your bad mood. “And I have nothing else to say about Thibeault besides the fact that he's a dick, which is already common knowledge. The only evidence we have against him is Wriothesley's word, though I don't think anyone is surprised that he's involved in any of...” You sniffed, waving your hands around in a vaguely all-encompassing gesture. “This. And what is with the attitude? Are you pissed at me?”

She scoffed. “Of course I’m pissed at you,” she clipped, but then sighed, some of the tension draining from her posture. “I’m mostly so glad that you’re safe. Grateful Wriothesley has as much of a knack for not minding his business and getting into trouble as you do. Relieved that you’re even here for me to be pissed at. But I am still pissed.”

In the face of her obvious concern, you immediately felt guilty for your vitriol. The defenses you'd had queued up died on your tongue. Your fingers played absentmindedly with the pages of the forgotten book—it seemed like you had grabbed one of Chloe's tedious history tomes— and your shoulders slumped. “I know,” you said pathetically. “I don't blame you for being angry. I’m sorry.”

Her gaze was unflinching and unmoved. “What were you even thinking?” she demanded. Her lovely face contorted in anger and—to your further dismay—hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me? Do you have any idea what it would do to the people who care about you if you had, Archons forbid, died?”

Your chest ached as though she'd struck you. “I didn’t want to endanger anyone else,” you said, hoping she could understand. “I only did any of it to try and protect my family. I didn't want to drag anyone else into it. Burden anyone else.”

“You don't get to decide what would be a burden for me,” she retorted. “I would never have been in danger.”

“You can’t fight your way out of every problem, Clorinde,” you snapped, and then reigned in your instinct to be defensive; took a slow, even breath. Then another. “This is bigger than just one group of Treasure Hoarders. Paquette has influence. A huge network of allies. I couldn't say what they might do to punish those who interfered. My hands were tied.”

“And what of your promises to me?” she said, purple eyes narrowed. Your stomach lurched.

“I didn’t want to break that promise,” you said honestly. “I was trying not to get him hurt. That was the problem.”

“You didn’t just break that promise," she reminded you. "You broke both.”

Your brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Clorinde sighed, and the room went silent for long enough that you began to count the ticking of the clock in the foyer. Clorinde's eyes never left your face. Six. Seven. Her mouth tilted into a thin frown.

“...You were hurt, too,” she said quietly. Her eyes flicked to the healing wound on your neck. “In more ways than just the obvious.”

The pain pulsing just beneath your skin surged back with a vengeance, seeming to want to drive her point home. The knowledge—the force of it—was almost enough to bring you to your knees. You had lost more than your pride. More than your safety. You had maybe lost more than you were truly willing to part with, something you hadn't even realized you'd wanted to keep.

“I don’t know what to do,” you said at last, voice weak, feeling exposed. Bare. Your eyes stung. “I don't know my way back from this.”

Clorinde leaned in. Her beautiful features were schooled into a calm, steady expression that soothed you just enough to keep your clarity when it teetered so precariously on the edge of despair.

“A good place to start?” she said. "Fix it.”

You fought your hardest to stop the tears from falling; and failed. You felt warmth trailing down your cheek. “How?”

“Try telling him the full truth, maybe,” she said easily, leaning back from you to fiddle with her pistol; once more giving you the space you didn't know you needed—but she did. Clorinde always understood when to push and when to pull away. She let the pistol drop back into her holster, a faraway look on her face that began to edge suspiciously close to a smile. “And make decisions based on strength, not on weakness.”

You sniffed, swiping at your cheek. “I don’t know how to do that.”

“Sure you do. And take it from someone who cares about you,” Clorinde said with a pointed look. “And him. There are some risks worth taking. Talk to him."

You smiled weakly. ��I’ll consider it.”

She nodded and shrugged, back to her usual self, and made her way to the door. She leaned against it for a beat, scanning you with that calculating look that always made you wish you knew what she was thinking. You were certain you never would. “You’re sure you’re not coming to the trials?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” she said, but didn't move from her spot. Her gaze softened minutely. “I really am happy that you’re alright,” she said. “Definitely still pissed though. Next time, let me know. I’d be happy to wipe the floor with some Treasure Hoarders. Or corrupt nobles. Maybe even a Fatuus or two. Dealer's choice ”

You laughed, soft and watery. “Perhaps a Ruin Grader? As a treat?"

Clorinde gave you a mischievous smile before closing the door behind her, leaving you alone in the silence of the sitting room to continue not-reading Chloe’s tome.

You put it down, no longer willing to even entertain the facade that you were going to read it.

You'd had enough of ruses to last a lifetime.

Sigewinne clucked as Wriothesley finally dragged himself into her clinic. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

Wriothesley offered her a wry smile, already smelling the blood in the water at her tone, so unlike her usual playful lilt. He had been wary at her request—her demand, really—that Wriothesley come pay her a visit at the clinic and his suspicions were now unfortunately confirmed. “Are you upset with me?"

Sigewinne lifted her chin, neatly tucking away a roll of clean bandages into a tall cabinet and pulling out a stack of paperwork from a different one. Wriothesley couldn't help but feel like she was working aimlessly for lack of anything else to do with her deft hands.

“No,” she lied, flipping through the documents.

Wriothesley's smile turned a bit more genuine, hit with a wave of fondness for the Melusine. “Why are you upset with me?” he asked gently.

Sigewinne sniffed. “I'm not upset at you,” she said, closing her eyes and setting the papers she had been sorting through on her desk. "It's just that I’ve known you for a very long time, Your Grace. You forget what that means.”

Wriothesley hummed. It was true—he was fairly sure the only person he had known longer was Neuvillette, and even then only because he had been the one to sentence Wriothesley for his crimes. It was hardly like the friendship they had now. Sigewinne, on the other hand, had been patching him up since he was a teenager whenever he got into a scrap—and Wriothesley was always getting into scraps. It had been she who first offered him the salve he still used to ease the pain when the old wounds on his body flared up. It was also she who always offered him an ear or a shoulder when the wounds on his soul ached or burned, too.

In many ways, he owed the man he eventually grew to be to her. Her care. Her patience. He would never be able to repay that debt, no matter how many years he lived but, Archons, would he try.

Wriothesley tilted his head. “And what does that mean?”

Sigewinne crossed her arms, a familiar look coloring her features—one that meant she was going to speak her mind, and Wriothesley was going to listen. “In all the years I’ve known you, I have never seen you as happy as you were when she was around.”

Wriothesley's smile fell; his heart fractured further, cracks spidering out from the weak points that had already been gone over with a pick. “There’s nothing I can do about it, Sigewinne,” he said softly, knowing there was no point in trying to convince her she was off the mark. She knew him better than anyone, had spent many years analyzing his tells and body language. She had Wriothesley down to a science. “Ultimately, it’s not up to me.”

“You could try being honest.”

“I never lied to her.”

“You omitted truths.”

Wriothesley dragged a hand through his hair, further ruining his thin efforts to make himself presentable. “It isn’t that simple.”

Sigewinne's topaz eyes were bright and sharp, unrelenting —Wriothesley sometimes forgot how much older than him she was. How much wisdom had such a being amassed over the centuries?

It made him feel so young again.

Sigewinne stayed silent for a long while.

“Do you care about her?” she asked at last.

"Of course I do," he said simply. He frowned. "I think that much has been made obvious."

“Then it really is just that simple, Wriothesley,” Sigewinne said, a tiny triumphant quirk to her lips.

"She doesn't want this."

“I’ve seen you fight for what you want time and time again. Why not this? Why not her?”

“She doesn’t want me, Sigewinne,” he said, barely more than a whisper. He felt another streak of pain at the words. “She’s made that abundantly clear.”

Sigewinne rolled her eyes, then leveled an unimpressed stare at him. “Stupid isn’t a good look on you, Your Grace."

Wriothesley balked. "Rude.”

Sigewinne offered him a small, playful grin in return, her gemstone eyes gleaming in the harsh clinic light before her smile faded. Her eyes were no less gentle when said said, “Just try talking to her, Wriothesley. Don’t let this be the first time you surrender.”

Wriothesley was… Well. If he hadn't already experienced the entire range of human emotion in a few short days, he couldn’t be sure he'd have been able to put a cap on the waterworks. As it was, he wasn't sure how believable his composure was.

Knowing Sigewinne, she wasn't convinced.

She quirked a brow at him. Definitely not convinced.

Wriothesley dipped his head to the Head Nurse, ready to flee so he could go think—fall apart, his mind unhelpfully corrected—in his office. “Thanks, Sigewinne. I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask.”

He turned to leave but was halted by the sound of a throat clearing meaningfully behind him.

He turned and Sigewinne grinned, holding out a small jar with a colorful liquid that made Wriothesley audibly groan.

“Don’t forget your smoothie,” she said innocently.

The Steambird — September 14 Paquette Convicted and Thibeault Exonerated in Murder-for-Hire Conspiracy

a\n: sigewinne appreciation lifestyle

title from 'iris' by the goo goo dolls

this is kind of an interlude where the kids get a good talking to from the Common Sense Duo which was deceptively hard to write lmao. someone explain to me how i can write 95% of a chapter in one sitting like a madwoman and then struggle with the last 5% every. single. time

sorry for the delay (again), thanks for the comments (as always), and i hope everyone had a happy, healthy december ❄️

[doormatty3]

Blizzards and Beef Stew - Chapter 2 (Patrick Wilson x FOC)

Masterlist Ao3

Blizzards and Beef Stew Masterlink

Summary

[Patrick Wilson x Original Female Character] [Patrick Wilson x Original Character] Éléanor had always adored winter: its snow, its crisp air. But what she treasured most was retreating to her cosy cabin in the Swedish mountains. There, she could bake, sketch, and enjoy the solitude, far from the noise of the world. At least, that’s how it used to be—until a new neighbour arrived. Patrick Wilson was tall, charming, and with a smile that seemed to melt the coldest days. A s they struck up a friendship, Éléanor found herself drawn to him, even though he remained oddly secretive about his last name and evasive about his work. But when a fierce snowstorm trapped them both, it became clear that Patrick might just be the warmth she needed in more ways than one. OR: Patrick uses his body to warm up Éléanor in the snowy mountains.

Wordcount: 4036

A/N: I just really really want a hot dude (Patrick Wilson) chopping wood in front of my window. Is that too much to ask, universe?

The next day began as peacefully as the other mornings before, with soft light spilling into her cabin, illuminating the snow-covered landscape outside her window. She had become familiar with the tranquillity of these mornings—silent, serene, with nothing but the sound of the wind brushing through the trees. However, as she walked barefoot to the kitchen, she glanced out of the window and froze mid-step.

There, outside, was Patrick again.

She didn’t even need to step closer to see him—he was right there in the clearing between their cabins, chopping wood with deliberate precision. But today, unlike yesterday, he had taken off his beanie, and his thick, wavy hair caught the morning light. His brown locks were a bit messy from the effort, curling slightly at the tips and damp with sweat, even in the chilly air.

His jacket was unzipped and tossed aside on the porch, leaving him in just a thermal shirt that clung to his broad chest and strong arms. 

As he lifted the axe above his head, his shirt stretched tightly across his chest and shoulders, revealing the lean, athletic build underneath. Each powerful swing of the axe seemed effortless, his muscles flexing as the wood split cleanly in two. His face, focused yet calm, made it clear that this wasn’t something he struggled with. It was like watching him in his element.

She moved closer to the window, leaning her elbows on the sill as she watched him, mesmerised.

Her eyes drifted over him, taking in every detail—the curve of his jaw, dusted lightly with stubble, the way his breath came out in puffs of mist, the way his hair shone golden in the early light. He paused for a moment, running a hand through his hair, and Éléanor couldn’t help but notice how naturally handsome he was. 

Her fingers itched for her sketchbook once again.

Éléanor grabbed it from the table and settled onto the window seat without much thought. 

At first, she began lightly—just a few soft lines, mapping out his form, starting with the broad, powerful shape of his shoulders. Her pencil danced across the page, tracing the bend of his spine as he leaned into each swing of the axe, the slight tension in his arms, and the way his hands gripped the wooden handle.

As she worked, Éléanor’s eyes flicked from the window to the sketchbook, back and forth in a rhythm as fluid as Patrick’s movements. She sketched the way his hair fell into his face as he wiped his brow and the way the sunlight caught the sheen of sweat on his forehead. Every stroke of her pencil brought him to life on the page—the sharp angles of his jaw, the scruff of his stubble, and the slight narrowing of his eyes as he focused on the task at hand.

She moved quickly, capturing his stance in broad strokes—the confident, grounded way he stood, feet planted firmly in the snow, his body steady and sure. But as the minutes passed, her sketches became more detailed and intimate, filling page after page.

In her most comprehensive drawing, which filled an entire page, she concentrated on the finer details with her watercolours. She refined the subtle way his chest rose and fell with each breath and how his fingers curled around the axe handle, strong and capable. She added the texture of his shirt,  highlighting the folds in the fabric as it stretched over his frame and the way his muscles moved beneath it.

And then there was his face. Éléanor slowed down here, taking her time as she focused on the sharp lines of his features while refining her sketch. His eyes, deep blue and intense, were slightly shadowed beneath his brow, but they glimmered in the sunlight as he paused to stack the wood. She traced the strong line of his nose and the fullness of his lips, slightly parted as he breathed heavily from the work.

The more she drew, the more she noticed—the way the cold air turned his cheeks a little pink, the mess of his hair as he ran a hand through it absent-mindedly, and the way the muscles in his arms tensed and relaxed with each movement. There was a rawness to him, a quiet strength that fascinated her.

Her drawing began to take on a life of its own, each line breathing energy into the paper. The light shadowing on his face, the depth in his eyes, and the firmness of his stance—she was capturing everything.

As she added the final details to his face, her phone buzzed on the table, startling her.

She glanced at it and saw a message from Virginie.

―――――――――――――

Virginie : Why didn’t you come to Spain with me? There are so many hotties here, ma chérie!

―――――――――――――

Él��anor chuckled, setting her sketchbook aside momentarily as she glanced out the window again. Patrick was taking a break now, leaning on the axe’s handle, catching his breath. His face was flushed from the cold and exertion, but his easy smile as he wiped his forehead sent a shiver through her.

She smirked, then typed back:

―――――――――――――

Éléanor : Well, I may have a hottie here myself.

―――――――――――――

Almost instantly, her phone buzzed again, and this time, it was an incoming call.

“Ugh, of course,” Éléanor muttered, already knowing what was coming. She answered the call and put it on speaker.

“WHAT?!” Virginie’s voice practically screeched through the speaker, filled with excitement. “You’re in the middle of nowhere, and there’s a hottie? Tell me everything immediately! Don’t hold back on me, Éléanor!”

Éléanor stifled a laugh, watching as Patrick wiped his hands on his jeans and moved to stack the freshly chopped wood. “Okay, calm down,” she said, keeping her voice casual. “He’s just staying in the cabin next door.”

Virginie scoffed. “Next door? Next door in the middle of nowhere? Don’t play coy with me. What’s his name? Is he cute? No, scratch that. How hot is he? Like, is he actually hot, or are you just starved for human contact up there?”

Éléanor glanced out of the window again, and her heart gave an involuntary flutter as Patrick bent to pick up another log, his shirt stretching taut across his back. “His name’s Patrick. And… yeah, he’s… um, he’s definitely hot,” she admitted. “But it’s not like that. He’s just… around.”

“Oh my God, of course he is. Details, woman!” Virginie demanded, her voice rising in dramatic excitement.

Éléanor shifted, feeling a little embarrassed. “Okay, fine. He’s tall, maybe around six feet, with sandy-blond brownish hair. It’s kind of wavy and, well… he took off his hat, and it looks even better in the sun. His eyes are this striking blue—like, really blue. And he’s got this rugged, outdoorsy look going on. I mean, he’s currently out there chopping wood, so… yeah. It’s a scene.”

“Stop right now,” Virginie gasped. “He’s chopping wood? This is like something out of one of those cheesy romance novels!”

Éléanor laughed. “Yeah, it kind of is. And he’s really strong. I mean, the way he swings that axe… it’s impressive.”

Virginie sighed deeply on the other end of the line. “So basically, you’re living out every woman’s fantasy right now. You know that, right?”

“Oh, come on,” Éléanor said, shaking her head. “It’s not like that. He’s just a neighbour, and we’ve only exchanged some small talk.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” Virginie replied, clearly not convinced. “And what exactly did you two talk about, hmm? Don’t leave anything out.”

“Well,” Éléanor began, glancing out of the window as Patrick stacked another log of wood. “He helped to shovel my driveway yesterday. We had tea on the porch afterwards. We just talked about, you know, the weather, the mountains, and why we’re both here. He’s really down-to-earth, actually. Quiet, but in a nice way.”

Virginie made a noise of disbelief. “And you didn’t immediately jump him? Éléanor, I’m starting to think you’ve been in those mountains too long.”

Éléanor flushed, laughing. “I’m not going to jump him!”

“You’re in a literal cabin romance scenario… and here you are, 34, with your nose stuck in your sourdough jar and sketchbook.”

There was a long pause on Éléanor’s end, her cheeks flushing as she looked down at her sketchbook and the detailed watercolour drawing of Patrick.

“You’re drawing him, aren’t you?” Virginie gasped theatrically. “You sneaky little stalker.”

Éléanor laughed, holding the phone away from her mouth. “I am not a stalker. He’s just right there, and I’ve got my sketchbook.”

“Uh-huh,” Virginie said with a grin in her voice. “And yet, you’ve not sent me a picture? The hypocrisy, Éléanor.”

Éléanor smirked, glancing out of the window one more time as Patrick raised his axe for another swing. “Absolutely not,” she said. “I’m not some creepy paparazzi.”

“Oh, come on,” Virginie whined. “Just a little one? For research purposes, of course. For me, as a friend.”

“Nope,” Éléanor said firmly, her voice light with amusement. “I’m not invading his privacy like that.”

“Privacy, schmivacy,” Virginie shot back. “This man sounds like a walking dream. I bet he wouldn’t even mind. But, okay, I’ll stop bugging you about the photo. For now. But listen, you need to let me live vicariously through you. How’s he dressed? What’s the wood-chopping outfit?”

Éléanor sighed, stealing another glance outside. “He’s wearing this snug thermal shirt—it’s dark grey and fits him really well. His jacket’s off, so you can see his arms and chest quite clearly. And he’s wearing these rugged jeans. Honestly, the whole look is very… outdoorsman chic.”

“Oh my God,” Virginie groaned dramatically. “You’re killing me. I’m stuck in Spain with a bunch of drunk idiots, and you’re over there with a real-life lumberjack hottie.”

Éléanor shook her head, laughing. “You’ll be fine in Spain. I’m sure there are plenty of guys there who’ll catch your eye.”

Virginie huffed. “Maybe, but none of them are chopping wood for me in the snow. This is unfair.”

“Well, like I said, he’s just a neighbour. Nothing’s going on,” Éléanor said, though even as she said it, she couldn’t shake the little thrill she got from watching him.

“Uh-huh,” Virginie replied, unconvinced. “You’ve got a hottie right next door. Don’t waste this opportunity, Éléanor. Seriously. When’s the next time you’re going to have a situation like this?”

Éléanor rolled her eyes playfully. “Okay, okay. But I’m not just going to throw myself at him, Virginie.”

“I’m just saying,” Virginie teased. “You deserve some fun. And maybe… something more?”

“Virginie!” Éléanor said with a laugh, “I didn’t come here for a man… I came here because of the solitude and quiet.”

Virginie sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine. But you better tell me everything. What’s his deal? Does he live up there, or is he just hiding out like you?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Éléanor said, biting her lip as she thought about it. “He said he’s here to get away from things. But it’s only been a couple of days, and we’ve just had some small talk. He’s easy to be around, though. Like… I don’t know, normal.”

“Hm,” Virginie hummed thoughtfully. “Normal, hot, and right next door? Éléanor, this is your chance to finally touch someone who isn’t yeast-based.”

Éléanor protested with a laugh, her cheeks flushing. “Hey! Leave Jacques out of this.”

Virginie sighed dramatically. “Fine. But if you two have some steamy cabin romance, I expect full details.”

“Yes yes…Now goodbye, Virginie,” Éléanor said, laughing as she hung up the call.

She placed her phone down and stretched, feeling both amused and a little flustered. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by a movement outside. Patrick had finished chopping and was now glancing over at her cabin. Éléanor’s breath caught when he met her gaze through the window.

Had he seen her watching him? Or sketching? The thought sent a small thrill through her, but she quickly masked it with a smile, offering him a friendly wave and opening her window.

To her surprise, he waved back, smiling, his axe resting on his shoulder. Then he called out, his voice carrying easily through the crisp morning air. “Do you have enough firewood, or do you need more?”

Éléanor’s heart skipped a beat, momentarily mesmerised by his deep voice. He looked even more striking now—his hair slightly messy from exertion, his blue eyes bright against the cold air.

“I’m good!” she called back, hoping her voice didn’t sound as flustered as she felt. “Plenty stocked up!”

Patrick nodded, his grin easy and warm. “Alright, just checking. If you need more, don’t hesitate.”

She smiled, her heart fluttering a little at his casual offer. “Thanks! I’ll keep that in mind.”

As Patrick turned and headed back to his cabin, Éléanor couldn’t help but bite her lip, watching him walk away. He was such a presence—strong, capable, and far too attractive for her peace of mind.

She looked down at her sketchbook again, fingers brushing the painting she had made. There he was, captured on the page—every detail of his movements, his focused expression, the subtle lines of his strong jaw, all immortalised in her art.

Virginie was right about one thing—Éléanor was definitely enjoying the view.

_____

As the evening settled in, Éléanor felt an urge to lose herself in the familiar, comforting ritual of baking. After watching Patrick chopping wood from her window all day, she needed the soothing routine of kneading dough and stirring pots. She glanced at her trusty sourdough starter, Jacques, which bubbled happily on the counter. 

Tying her apron around her waist, she gathered her ingredients. The flour, water, and salt came together beneath her hands, the dough taking shape with a rhythmic push and pull. As Éléanor kneaded, her thoughts wandered back to Patrick. 

He had looked even more rugged that morning, chopping wood like some kind of lumberjack straight out of a daydream.

She thought about how his face had sharp features softened by a boyish smile when he glanced over at her cabin, unaware she was sketching him again. His blue eyes gleamed like the sky against the backdrop of snow, and there was something effortlessly handsome about the way he moved, confident but not in a showy way.

Éléanor found herself smiling, her hands working the dough with renewed energy. 

Once she had finished, she set the dough aside to let it rise as she set about preparing her French beef stew, boeuf bourguignon. 

The rich smell of onions sautéing in butter filled the cabin, mingling with the crisp scent of the winter air sneaking through the cracked window.

She chopped the carrots, celery, and mushrooms into perfect little pieces, tossing them into the pot with the browned beef. The sizzle of the meat meeting the hot pan was satisfying, each sear deepening the flavour.

Pouring in a generous glug of red wine, Éléanor inhaled the rich, earthy aroma as it mixed with the herbs and vegetables. She moved with practised grace, tasting and adjusting the seasoning as she went, lost in the rhythm of cooking. 

The stew simmered on low, filling the cabin with warmth, while she shaped her risen dough into a beautiful round loaf, scored the top, and placed it in the oven.

As the bread baked, she leaned over the counter to peek into the oven, watching the crust form and turn golden, the smell of sourdough wafting through the room. The loaf crackled as it rose, promising a perfect, airy crumb beneath its crispy crust.

After the bread had finished baking, she carefully donned a pair of thick, quilted oven mitts to protect her hands from the intense heat. Opening the oven door, she let out a rush of warm, fragrant air that surrounded her. As she reached in to grab the heavy cast-iron baking pan, she felt the comforting weight of the loaf as she lifted it out.

The bread had emerged beautifully from the oven; its crust was a perfect golden brown, glistening slightly from the steam. The detailed leaf-shaped indents she had painstakingly created before baking stood out prominently against the snowy white flour dusting the surface.

On a whim and after looking at her bread for a few minutes, Éléanor wrapped the still-warm loaf in a clean kitchen towel. Before she could second-guess herself, she made her way to the door, wanting to bring it to Patrick. He had been so kind, shovelling her driveway without a second thought, and this was her way of thanking him.

Éléanor bundled up in her thick coat, slipping on her scarf and boots before heading outside. The night air was crisp and biting, the sky above her inky black, yet the windows of Patrick’s cabin glowed warmly in the distance, with a faint trail of smoke curling from his chimney. With the loaf in her arms, she trudged through the snow, her breath misting in the cold.

Her heart raced a little as she approached the door and knocked. She could hear the faint sound of movement inside before Patrick opened it. 

His face lit up in surprise, and Éléanor couldn’t help but notice how handsome he looked, even in casual clothes. 

His hair, still slightly tousled from earlier, framed his face perfectly, and the firelight accentuated the flecks of grey in his stubble. His scent—earthy with hints of pine and a subtle cologne—enveloped her as she entered, adding to the cabin’s warm and inviting atmosphere.

“Hey,” Éléanor said with a shy smile, her breath misting in the cold air. “I, um, thought I’d bring you a thank-you for shovelling my driveway. Freshly baked sourdough.”

Patrick’s grin widened, genuine and boyish, as the skin around his eyes crinkled. “Wow, I wasn’t expecting this. That’s really nice of you. Come in.”

He stepped aside, and Éléanor entered the cabin, immediately greeted by the warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth. The interior of Patrick’s cabin was much like her own—simple and rustic, with wooden beams and stone accents—but it was also infused with a certain charm. 

The fire cast a soft, golden glow, and a few personal touches—books stacked on the coffee table, a guitar leaning against the wall—gave the space an inviting feel.

“Your place is lovely,” Éléanor said, taking it all in as she removed her coat and scarf.

“Thanks,” Patrick replied, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been trying to make it feel like home. It’s not as cosy as yours, I’m sure.”

Éléanor smiled, placing the bread on his kitchen counter. “Well, it looks good in here. You have a fire going, and that’s half the battle.”

“You didn’t have to do this,” Patrick said, eyeing the loaf appreciatively. “But I’m not complaining.”

“Well, you did shovel my driveway. I figured it’s the least I could do,” Éléanor replied, slipping off her coat and scarf.

“I’m sure it’s amazing,” he said, grabbing a bread knife and cutting into the loaf. The sound of the crispy crust breaking apart was music to her ears, and the smell of the warm, freshly baked bread filled the room. 

He handed her a piece, and she noticed the warmth of the bread mixing with the faint scent of Patrick’s cologne. She watched as he took one for himself, spreading a little butter on it.

They stood there for a moment, savouring the bread in comfortable silence. Éléanor couldn’t help but glance at Patrick, admiring the way his lips curled slightly as he chewed.

“This is incredible,” Patrick finally said, breaking the silence. “You weren’t kidding when you said baking is your thing.”

Éléanor smiled, a flush of pride warming her cheeks. “Thank you. I’ve been baking for as long as I can remember. It’s kind of my specialty.”

“I don’t know what I was expecting, but…wow”, he chuckled, taking another bite. “This is the best bread I’ve had in… probably ever.”

They moved to sit near the fire, Patrick offering her a spot on the couch. The atmosphere was cosy and easy, and Éléanor found herself relaxing more than she had in days. Patrick poured them each a glass of wine, and soon they were sharing more than just bread.

Éléanor couldn’t help but observe how the firelight played on his features, softening his rugged appearance and highlighting the flecks of grey in his beard. His stubble had thickened since he got here but seemed to focus mostly on his upper lip, where a soft moustache was starting to form. 

She realised he was likely a bit older than she initially thought—his bright blue eyes and that charming, boyish smile had fooled her, yet she found herself not caring about that at all.

“So, what brings you out here, really?” Éléanor asked after a moment, swirling her wine in the glass. “I mean, the mountains are nice, but they’re not exactly a quick trip.”

Patrick leaned back in his chair, the firelight casting a soft glow over his face. “I needed a break. From work, from the city, from… everything. It’s nice to get away from the chaos.”

Éléanor nodded, understanding all too well. “I get that. I come out here for the same reason. I live in a small town, but even that can feel overwhelming sometimes. This place is my escape.”

“Your café, right? I think you mentioned that the other day,” Patrick said, his eyes curious.

“Yeah, I run a little café in France with my best friend, Virginie,” Éléanor said, smiling fondly at the memory of her café. “It’s small, but it’s home. We serve homemade bread, pastries, and a few simple meals. It’s a quiet life, but I love it.”

Patrick smiled, looking impressed. “That sounds perfect. A lot simpler than what I’m used to.”

“And what is it that you do, exactly?” Éléanor asked, her curiosity piqued by his vagueness. “You mentioned being in the entertainment industry, but you didn’t really say much more.”

Patrick shrugged, a small, enigmatic smile playing on his lips. “Yeah… I’m just in the entertainment industry, nothing more, but it’s… a lot sometimes. That’s why I came here. To get away from all the pressure.”

Éléanor raised an eyebrow, intrigued but not pressing. “That makes sense. I imagine it’s hard to find peace in that kind of world.”

“It can be,” he admitted, his gaze flickering to the fire for a moment. “But being here, it reminds me of what really matters. The simple things.”

She nodded, feeling a quiet connection with him. They both sought refuge in these mountains for different reasons, but the end goal was the same—peace, simplicity, a break from the chaos of life.

They talked late into the night, sharing stories about their lives, their favourite foods, and the peace they both found in simple, quiet moments. 

Patrick had an easy charm about him, making her laugh with dry humour and gentle teasing. The conversation felt natural, and Éléanor found herself forgetting the outside world as they sat by the fire, sharing bread and wine.

Before she knew it, the evening had slipped away, and the fire had burned low. Éléanor stood, feeling the comforting weight of contentment in her chest. “I should probably get back to my cabin,” she said softly. “Thank you for the wine.”

“No, thank you for the bread,” Patrick replied, his smile warm. “And hey, if you ever need more firewood, just let me know.”

Éléanor smiled, touched by his offer. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

As she made her way back to her cabin, the cold air nipping at her cheeks, Éléanor felt lighter than she had in days. There was something about Patrick—his kindness, his quiet strength—that put her at ease.

Once inside her cabin, she decided to check on her firewood supply before turning in for the night. She opened the door to the shed, and her heart sank. The pile of wood she had so confidently assured Patrick about earlier was nearly gone.

“Damn it,” she muttered, realising too late that she had underestimated how much wood she would need.

She stood there for a moment, the cold air biting at her skin, before closing the door with a sigh. She’d have to swallow her pride and ask Patrick for help sooner than she thought.

[aliasrocket]

WELCOME BACK BECKALICIOUS I MISSED YOU SO <333

May I please request a lil smth smth ?

Rocket comes home in the early morning from a mission while Reader's asleep.

You take it from there, lovey <333

IM GLAD TO BE BACK!! it's an honor to have my first request be from you <333

masterlist. requests.

His icy stiff fur brushed against your cheek as he lowered himself onto you. 

His lips met your own, and once more he was put through the cold trenches his recently completed commission had required him to trudge through. Your lips were cracked shells prickling him, but his own warm ones wrapped around them gratefully.

He lifted himself off you, and a hot compress squeezed his shoulder and halted his movement.

Your eyes searched him. Wide awake, hair in loops and tangles in your face that you now brushed aside, your hand now sliding down to his blizzard-covered collarbone and reaching his built chest and abdomen.

“You’re … here.” he would have assumed the wind had spoken if he hadn’t observed your lips moving at that silent moment.

If your voice was candy he could savor in his mouth, he’d let it melt down to the last sugary atom, covering his teeth and tongue in nothing but the taste.

He smiled. “I ended earlier than expected—”

Your hands clasped his collar and he was caught in your lips once more, more contact than ever when both his and your mouth were wide open, and your tongue browsed generously through his teeth.

He reciprocated, tongues meeting and passing through each other like a solar system relying on each other’s orbit. If he didn’t need his arms to prop himself above you, he would have given you some of his ice, feeling the skin of your arms and realizing you could bake cookies on them from the heat alone. That’s what you get for not listening to him; you always insisted on making your surroundings colder so you could be comfortably wrapped in your cloudy duvet, but you always end up burning hot in the mornings.

Stubborn, stubborn you.

Just as stubborn as you are beautiful.

[psychospore]

A Second Chance

This has been sitting in my WIP pile for a while but I've finally finished writing this!

I do hope you enjoy the sequel to In Another Life inspired by @just-someone11 comment

Ok listen i knew it would be angst. I pushed back reading this knowing it would be angst but still :((((((. wonderfully written and if you find the inspiration maybe you could write Loki meeting y/n in the new life? Idk maybe as tom and yn.....oh oh oh or after Loki dies, so more reuniting in the afterlife

If you like more, check out my Masterlist

Summary: An alternate life brings you and Loki together, along with it is the realization that whatever timeline you may be - you are both connected to each other

Warnings: Angst, mentions of death, fluff, multiverse stuff,

You've always hated winter - maybe it's the numbing cold that you had to endure every time you have to go out or the fact that everything around you is devoid of color because of the accumulating snow.

This time around, you despised it because you had to walk home into the blizzard under heavy layers of clothing after covering an extra shift for your co-worker who caught the flu in this weather.

You buried your hands inside the fluffy pockets of your coat and hid your face under your scarf to shield you.

Loki and Thor ran through the snow-covered streets of New York chasing after the remaining HYDRA super soldier that stole a rune dagger made from the stinger of a creature from Jotunheim. The same creature in the stories guards the powerful orb. Both are directly connected to each other and have the ability to link the minds of the person's variants, accessing the past, present, and future of one's self in different multiverses. HYDRA was supposed to use the dagger to learn how to unlock this knowledge on Earth, as everything connected to it has been long lost in Asgard. The soldier was almost successful in getting away after fending off Thor and Loki by spreading nerve gas and creating chaos along the way.

────────────────────────

As you were lost in your thoughts, you noticed people around you starting to scramble and run away. You tried assessing the situation and noticed that a super soldier was headed in your direction. You made sure that the people were safe before stepping in and blocking the super soldier. He triggered an unpleasant piece of memory you tried to bury deep in your subconscious.

He ran straight at you, but you were able to use his momentum to throw him straight to the ground and drop an axe kick to his gut before punching him square in the face for good measure, knocking him senseless with a few broken bones.

Before starting your new life as an EMT in New York, you were secretly trained to become an assassin for years by your HYDRA captors after they discovered you were frozen in a lake in Antarctica. You exhibited great fighting skills, exceeding super soldiers even without using the serum, despite lacking any hint of memory prior to being captured. They tried experimenting on you way too many times to discover what you are or where you're from—the best they could come up with was that you were not from Earth.

You were staring down at the unconscious soldier beneath you when your scarf flew away. You scrambled to catch it, but someone got to it first. You looked at the person, and your heart pounded like a battering ram against your chest. You took the scarf and meekly said thanks, but your eyes were locked against each other.

For years, you were their best hit person, until one night you were tasked with dispatching the scientist who's been taking care of you since you arrived at the facility, as she was discovered to be a spy for SHIELD. In her dying breath, she urged you to discover who you truly were and not what HYDRA just wanted you to be. It made you run away to start a new life and be who you are now. Maybe in this new life, you could save lives instead of taking them away.

"Isn't that…" Thor whispered to Loki.

"Y/N?" Loki said as he looked at you intently, etching your very being in his mind.

"Oh no, I'm not y/n. You must have gotten the wrong person."

Nobody had ever called you y/n before but it felt like it always has when Loki says it. It felt like your name was y/n all this time, despite this being your first time hearing it. Was it even the first time?

You got lost in your thoughts when a familiar, searing heat ran through your back. Thor was quick to disarm the now-conscious soldier when he found out he used the rune dagger to stab you. Loki caught you in his arms before you started convulsing.

Memories of all of yourselves flashed before your eyes—what was, what is, and what will be all flashing before you, even your lost memory. You saw the timeline where both you and Loki died after you tried obtaining the orb by Odin's orders. You saw how you fought and defeated the creature in a different universe, with you dying before Loki could get to you and him dying in grief because of your death, encased in permafrost in Jotunheim.

There was also a brighter alternate reality where Loki was a famous actor going by the name of Tom, and there was you—a young scientist working at his grandfather's company. You caught his eye when he came there for a visit, and everything started when he invited you for a cup of coffee. You ended up marrying him and having a daughter together. It was perfect how you welcome him with a kiss every time he comes home from work and your daughter rushes to be carried in her father's arms.

You saw your own past in this universe before you arrived on Earth, Loki was about to confess his love for you when you arrived from one of your battles, and you were about to too, but Odin did not like that, so before you both could, he sent you away to obtain the orb in exchange for his blessing.

In this timeline, Loki thought you knew about his intention and you decided to run away, so he did not pursue you any further, but the reality was that, instead of facing the creature, Laufey found you first and fought against you. Your prowess and resilience made him admire you as a warrior. Instead of killing you, he ended up wiping all of your memory using the orb and banishing you to Midgard, where you were encased in permafrost, which HYDRA discovered.

It felt like forever processing everything all at once, but Loki held you tightly in his arms to protect you from hurting yourself as tears flooded your eyes. You passed out in his arms shortly after. One thing is for sure, in every timeline - you are connected to Loki by the red string of fate.

"What do you intend to do, brother, with the dagger and with her?" Thor asked, handing him the dagger and glancing at you.

Loki took the dagger and used his seidr to vanish it away. "We need to get to the bottom of this. But for now, I need to protect y/n, more than ever. I can't bear to lose her again, brother. We are bringing her to the tower for now; then we must head to Asgard." He spoke as he looked at you. He tucked in the stray hair covering your face behind your ears to take a closer look—you are indeed his y/n, the love of his life.

There are a million things running through his mind right now, but seeing you, he knew he had found a part of him that he tried to lock away when you were gone, a part that loved you and connected both of you against time, space, and all of the multiverse. He swore secretly to himself that he wouldn't lose you again—not in this timeline at least.

[jillsandwhichs]

Heart on my sleeve

A Valenfield Story , Chap 2 , Talkative

Masterlist

Pairing: Jill Valentine & Chris Redfield

Summary: It's Jill's second day at the RPD and whilst having lunch, her and Chris talk and she gets to know him a little bit better

WC: 4.2k

Type: SFW

A/n: Hi! Hope you all enjoy. Please check out my masterlist, there's a lot of stuff there. You can get to know me, you can see the rules of my blog and then you can see all of my fanfictions. You'll be able to find the previous chapters to this fic and upcoming ones. You'll also be able to find my Wattpad & AO3. Comments, reblogs & likes are appreciated. Thank you

Slamming her car door shut, Jill let out a large sigh. She scanned the massive 'R.P.D' logo rested on top of the establishment.

This is her life now.

The fact she is now working for an elite police force is like a dream come true. She went through hell like training to get her. She never once stopped having her own personal ambitions and goals, and now look at her! While she didn't personally apply, rather she was seeker out by Captain Wesker, it still feels all the same. Actually, it makes her feel even better - Knowing she was recruited for her skill set.

So far, working for the S.T.A.R.S unit has been pleasant. Whereas it has only been a day, it's been a handful but in a good way. Not only has the work been flowing nicely, her co workers are also kind. Despite the fact she's only interacted with three of them, they seem cool enough. Especially Chris. She really knows nothing about him besides his music taste and a drabble of his family life but other than that, he seems like a great guy and considering he's her desk partner, she'd love to know more about him.

The other person she spoke with - Other than Chris and Captain Wesker, was Barry. He's the oldest one on the team and he is just so sweet! He told Jill all about his wife and two little girls, they seem like absolutely cutie patoties and Jill already adores them. She can tell that Barry is sort of the mentor of the squad, everybody goes to him for advice. Jill also heard from him that Chris isn't necessarily liked on the squad and to just be careful, his fuse is short. But Jill doesn't see what he's talking about, but maybe he just hasn't had enough time with her to show his true colors yet.

Outside, the day was becoming abloom. It was frosty out, then again, it was six in the morning, of course it is cold. The snowfall was light but evident, some cars in which must have been parked for awhile already have snowflakes covering them. Jill isn't used to this complete cold weather and icy snowfall all day long, she's from Georgia. Of course it snows there, but no where compared to how much snow R.C endures year round. It's a significant change but not one she can entirely complain about.

The only downside to the winter here is how the roads get, she was warned ahead of time that work may be cancelled sometimes due to harsh weather. Not only that, apparently blizzards are horrible, they can cover up someone's entire door step. That's freaky.

In hand, Jill had some files she was given yesterday, ones that she'll have to turn in to Captain Wesker. She spent a decent chunk of her evening working on them, hopefully they're to his liking. It's also unknown when she'll get her uniform, for now Wesker just told her to dress casually. So today, she is wearing a navy blue sweater with jeans, in case of an emergency, it is indeed an outfit she can do hard labor in. Although, the coldness emitting from outside would add to the struggle of it.

She entered the building for only the second time ever, taking the view in. The Police Department was genuinely beautiful. One thing that specifically caught her eye - And many others, is the statue rested in the back. It's referred to as 'The Goddess Statue'. It is a fitting name, it's a gorgeous piece of artwork. Jill is aware of the R.P.D and it's magnificent history. This historic building was once an art museum rather than a Police Department. They even kept one of the art rooms for old times sake.

If Jill had to complain about one thing son far, it would most definitely have to be the walk from the entrance, all the way to the office. It's a hassle, but her legs do get a workout. Not that she needs it or anything, but she doesn't mind gaining more and more strength through everyday activites.

Eventually, she entered the dimmed hallway that leads up to her assigned office. Whenever she walks in it, she gets chills. It's just so weary, the atmosphere drops and it gets silent - Up until you get to the S.T.A.R.S office door, then you either hear Barry's loud laughter or Wesker scolding someone yet again.

Jill ambled into the office, being greeted by Barry and Brad, whom she hasn't really gotten to speak with yet.

"Jill! Glad you could make it another day." "Me too, Barry." Jill chuckled, holding the papers closer to her now. "Hey Jill, welcome to the team, I'm Brad." "Hello Brad, pleasure to meet you." She shook his hand back. When needed, she could definitely remain professional and modest. "I hear you were one of very few women to complete the Delta Force training. Man, I gotta say, that's impressive. Nice work." Brad praised her. "Well, thank you, it was tough but I like a challenge." Jill smiled. She appreciated the appraisal.

Jill took a brief scan of the office, her gentle eyes landing upon her desk, noticing Chris wasn't even there. Does he have a different schedule? Did he skip work? Is he sick?

"Oh, where's that Chris guy at?" Jill asked the two men whom are standing before her. "Uhh." Brad began, glancing back at the shared wooden desk. "No clue, Chris is the rebellious type though, who knows what the kid got himself into this time." Barry scoffed, his burly arms crossed over his fibrow chest. "You know, you told me Chris can be a bit of an ass and I still have yet to see it." "Oh sweetheart, you've been here a day. I hope you don't see it but there's a likely chance." Barry bellowed, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Jill just quietly chuckled alongside with him.

"I'm guessing he won't show up today." Brad shrugged, his eyes shooting from the front wooden door and make to Chris's lengthy desk. "Enjoy the free desk space." Brad added on with a snicker, treading off to his desk in the corner of said office. Jill's face contorted into one of concern. Was it common for Chris to stray away from work? Just yesterday he seemed to have healthy work ethic. She always assumes the best of people.

"Does Chris usually opt out of work?" "It really depends, I don't know why he would today, then again, he hasn't said much to me recently." Barry hushly spoke. She nodded slowly in reply. It wasn't a big deal or anything. She just thought it'd be nice to get to know him somewhat better, besides, they'll be desk buddies for who knows how long. This isn't like Middle School where a seating chart is needed in order to be changed monthly.

"Well, thanks, I'm gonna go talk to Captain, he needs these." Jill said, showing her personal papers off. "Up and at em, sunshine." Barry laughed himself up again, finally making his way back over to Brad.

Wesker's personal office, which is a smaller sized one inside of the main office is directly by the front door. Jill gave the door a couple knocks before she then heard the man welcome her right on in. She opened up the door, his office smelt so good compared to the main one. She spotted a candle lit behind him, resting on his brown file cabinet.

She took in the sight of his office. It was packed full of trophies and awards, he must be a very skilled man. It also seemed oddly cleansed, as if it's dusted everyday and vacuumed consistently. She could tell Wesker was the nit picky type, but definitely not to this extreme.

Clearing her throat, Jill began to speak up. "Hey, just wanted to give you these." She chuckled, setting her work in front of him. Wesker's fierce eyes trailed from her beautiful face, to the led covered papers; She put an intense amount of work into them. Like she thought of earlier, she's aware of his perfectionism, she wanted to appeal to that standard of his.

He took ahold of the papers, articulating the words in his head as he read them off of the page. Jill stood there, sort of awkwardly, not knowing if she should stay or leave, he hasn't said a word yet.

After a minute or two, Wesker took all of the papers, spinning around in his black mesh chair and slipping them into one of the filing cabinets. A wave of happiness clashed over Jill - She won't have to rewrite them! "So?" "So? What?" Wesker responded, his tone plain. "Oh, sorry, I thought you'd say something about them." "What is there to say? You did as I asked of you, thank you." Wesker replied, he seemed very nonchalant. At least he wasn't a difficult boss. "Well then, cool." Jill gave him a quick smile and nod before exiting his space.

Mission accomplished!

Everyone but Chris was in the office. Jill's just assuming he decided to skip work, according to the others, that isn't surprising.

Heading over to her desk, Jill sat down, letting out an expire as she powered up the computer. Today, she just has to watch out for emails. She was told numerous times that it's not rare if they go out on missions, but it isn't common. She'd love too soon.

Once the PC turned on all the way, she logged in using her provided username and password, allowing everything to load in before she did anything. These old finicky computers can go out on you with one wrong move; These ones are from just a couple years ago though, even so, it still applies. Jill took a glance at Chris's desk. He had a lot on it. There were CDs, notebooks, notepads, glasses, tacks and some other knickknacks.

Not only that, above his desk he has a big brown leather jacket hanging. The insignia on it appears to be an angel of some sort holding a weapon. The words above it read 'Made in Heaven'. Jill isn't stupid, she knows the pop culture reference. He did mention having a matching jacket with his younger sister. Jill finds it to be cute. It's definitely his style. To her, he seems to still dress like he's in highschool. Baggy jeans, long sleeves, letterman jackets. It's stylish though.

Jill would say her style is much more casual. Sweaters, skinny jeans, leggings, long sleeves and rarely anything else. She only owns a few outfits of formal wear and that's only because she assumes there'll be events she must attend where the formality is to dress accordingly. She can't even remember the last time she wore a full face of makeup with an elegant outfit. Maybe when she was ten and playing dress up.

The computer booted all the way up, allowing Jill to get to work, at last!

-

About twenty minutes later, the office door swung open. The room went silent and all eyes went to said door. The sound of squishy watery shoes was heard, and a rubbery leather sound. It was Chris and Jill didn't look all too surprised. Only a little. She suspected he'd be home all day and not even make it into work but here we are. He isn't completely drenched but his clothes appear to be soaked in some spots. She has no clue what could've happened to him; It isn't even raining.

Once Wesker spotted him, Jill knew it was over for Chris. He seems so intimidating, like he'd just give you a look and you'd know he's enraged with you. Luckily, Jill hasn't seen that look and hopefully she never will. He closed his office door, set his hands on his hips and looked the muscular man up and down. It seemed straight up out of Fight Club or something. "Chris, why are you once again late?" "I had to do something, then my car broke down and I fell into a puddle." He grunted out, running his fingers through his hair.

"Oh yeah? And what was more important than work?" "My younger sister." "What did Claire need?" Wesker knew Chris's sister by name. Interesting. "Family business. Listen, can I just get to work? I'll write an extra whatever and do what you want to make up for it." Captain Wesker contemplated what Chris said. His face had it written all over that he was upset, but not angry, which was odd. You'd think if you've done this numerous times, your boss would end up becoming furious. But Wesker just seems irritated by it, no more.

"Very well then." Wesker hummed out. "Get to work, you'll have another report to do." The man chuckled, turning around and going back into his office. Chris yielded his head back, letting out a groan has both of his hands rubbed his damp face. He dreaded his walk over to Jill, not even because of her, but because it was such a walk of shame.

As he sat down, Jill looked at him, giving him a slight smile. She wasn't affected by his entrance at all, she just found it rather silly is all. Chris gave her a nod back before whispering, "Sorry." Jill was utterly confused. Why was he apologizing to her? He didn't do anything, or did he? "Uhm, why?" "I dunno, just saying sorry if I distracted you at all or anything, damn." Chris scoffed and switched on his PC. Okay, is this what they meant by he's an ass at times?

"Sorry..." Jill whispered, turning back to the PC, the light on it reflecting onto her face. She'll just work until it's lunch break. She can't wait to get some food in her system.

-

Many hours later, it is now noon and finally, she's able to eat. She brought her lunch in today, it's just resting on the corner of her desk. She already plans to eat now near the east gate. Ever since she got a tour of the RPD, she can tell that'll be one spot she visits a lot. There's nothing necessarily special to it but she likes how quiet it is and now you get a nice view of the city if you're high enough on the steps.

She brought in leftovers from her dinner last night - Chinese food. She doesn't have many groceries considering it's only been a few days since she moved here but gosh, the Chinese was delicious and she most definitely will be ordering it again. She also plans to order from somewhere called 'Jims Crab' tonight, it's just a block or two from her place and she's heard great things about it through the web.

Once Jill saw Brad walk out of the office, she knew she was going to be able to as well. She grabbed her pal and made her way outside.

From the S.T.A.R.S office, the east gate wasn't too far but it wasn't very close either. It was either the east gate or she eats in her car, she'd rather sit outside and eat. It isn't hot nor too cold, as of right now at least. It was freezing this morning. Hell, Jill's fingers were so cold, they felt numb to the touch. Felt like they'd break if she bent them a particular way. But the sun is out now, gleaming upon the Police Station and she is guessing it's heated up the outside world somewhat.

Walking through the waiting room and past the artroom, she opened the door that leads to the east gate. She wasn't wrong either, it felt just right outside. It wasn't snowing either, but snowfall is expected to begin later in the day.

The sound of the stairs clickety clacking beneath her was noisy, they were steel and had little to no snow covering them. Jill already decided she'd sit on the last few steps, that way she wouldn't be in anyone's way if they had to come through. The step wasn't wet from the snow either, which was a plus for her. She dreaded having a wet bottom for the rest of the day. With the open space beside her, she set her pal there, that way she'd be able to just keep her food in her lap.

For yesterday's dinner, she ordered quite a bit. She had purchased Orange Chicken, Lo Mein, Beef on a stick and Coconut Chicken. To be fair, she plans to save it for the next few days, but it was a lot. For work though, she just brought in some Orange Chicken and Lo Mein - Her personal favorites. She also made sure to not forget chopsticks, she doesn't wanna eat with her fingers, it's so unprofessional and gross to do in a work space. She remembers one time at her old job, one of her coworkers saw her eating dumplings with just her hands and he never stopped teasing her about it. Now she's always sure not to.

She unclicked the tabs attached to the container, shoving it into her pouch. She began to dig in literally immediately; It was safe to say she needed to fuel her body with tasty food. On top of her orange chicken, onion chives were set on top of the array of it. With the Lo Mein, broccoli surrounded it. She did have some of it last night but the taste is too good to pass up again.

Taking her chopsticks, reusable ones, she began to pick up a piece of chicken, taking a bite out of it. It was so good. Jill's eyes practically rolled behind her head. She knew the Lo Mein will be so delicious too.

Continuing to eat, she hadn't even noticed the door above her open up. But once she did, she glanced upwards, seeing Chris standing there with his own personal pouch. He must like to eat out here as well. The way he was looking down at Jill - It made her feel speechless. His eyes were so pretty and entrancing. The sunshine mixed with the bright snow caused a ray on his eyes, making them glow gorgeously.

"Hey, do you need me to move?" Jill asked if Chris, getting ready to step up and leave. "Nah, that's fine, I can go somewhere else." Chris stated, beginning to turn around but Jill couldn't stop herself, she wanted him to stay. This was a perfect opportunity. "No, that's okay, just eat here." Jill replied softly, scooching over to make room for Chris. Chris obviously hesitated. It appears he doesn't feel too comfortable with her yet. Jill doesn't blame him for that, they only met just yesterday.

Chris obliged, tightening the strap of his pouch on his shoulder. He popped a squat beside Jill and zipped open his bag. In it, he had a sandwich and chips - Classic.

Jill couldn't help but smile to herself, he smelt good. He smelt very manly and musk. She's just a fool sometimes.

"How are you today?" She broke the silence, taking a sip of her iced tea. Chris took a double take at her; He most likely didn't expect her to start up a conversation. "I'm alright, you?" "I'm okay as well." Jill responded, continuing to eat. Chris gave her a nod, taking a large bite out of his sandwich, he was probably starving. After the morning he has seemed to have, she wouldn't be surprised if he hasn't ate yet.

She decided to break the ice. Break the awkwardness. Just make conversation overall.

"How long have you worked here?" "Almost a year now." Chris chomped down some chips. Jill scanned his face. He was attractive. Though, she'll never admit such. "I see. You like it here?" "I do, for the most part." Chris added on. "Other than that, it's a pain in the ass." Chris snorted. Jill let out a giggle, slurping up some noodles. "Oh yeah?" Jill bit down on some chicken. "Yeah, this job has its ups and downs, it's pros and cons... Eventually you just get over it and learn to manage and handle it." "I see, well, I think I enjoy it so far besides the amount of paperwork." Jill snickered, licking her fork.

"Thought you weren't going to show up to work today." "Oh?" "I just heard you miss work here and there." "Let me guess, Barry?" "Yep." Jill said, sipping her beverage. Chris scoffed, tossing his sandwich back into it's ziplock baggy. "I wish Barry would just keep to himself sometimes." "It's not that big of a deal though." "To you, sure, but he has not right to butt in on my life." "I get how you feel but I did ask him, I was curious." Jill hummed to Chris, her food was already almost gone. "I guess that's different." Chris sighed deeply, his eyes going from her to his food every so often.

The silence between them would last for a minute before they'd speak again. Oddly enough, Jill didn't mind the quietness. It felt rather serene. When other people are silent around her, it feels weird. The atmosphere feels icky. But with Chris, she just feels safe. It feels peaceful.

"Is your lunch good?" Jill questioned him, glancing down at his food. "Average, yours?" "Great. The Chinese food is good." "Oh yeah it is, sometimes I get it for lunch." "What do you usually order?" "God, it depends. Sometimes Mongolian Beef with Sesame Chicken and other days I'll get Noodles with Egg Rolls." "All of that sounds sooo good." Jill drew her words out, her mouth watering up again as she thought of all of the other foods he listed off.

"I plan to go to 'Jim's Crab' tonight, do you know if it's any good?" "Been there a couple times. Not the worst, not the best. I think it's just worse for me because seafood always makes me feel a bit sick." "Understandable." She responded, giving him a nod, her face having a smirk on it. "But hey, give it a shot Jill, maybe you'll like it." He gave her a quick smile. She had yet to see it. Barry said he rarely smiles. Did he lie?

Chris seems like an alright guy. Jill is still confused by what Barry and Brad meant. Maybe she still has yet to see it, she has only been here a day but the two of them made it seem like he was borderline verbally abusive. Does Chris just not like Brad or Barry? Or just Brad? Because from what she's learnt, Barry is a sort of father figure to Chris, there's no way he has any sort of resentment towards the man.

"Is the 'Moon's Donut's' spot any good?" "Fuck yes." Chris chuckled out, swallowing the last bit of his sandwich. "Jill, the food from there is heavenly, you should most definitely get some on your way to work tomorrow." Chris expressed, clear passion for the place. Jill couldn't help but snicker at his words. He seemed so jolly. "Maybe in my run this weekend I'll stop by and give it a go." "You go on runs too? No one else around here does." "Of course I do, I did back at my old place as well." Jill replied to Chris's surprised and surprising words.

She couldn't wait for her run. She'll toss in some earbuds, connect it to a cassette and begin her run. It's always so calming. It's sort of a way to relax the mind. All of her problems seem to dissipate when she's on the go. Her cardio gets pumpin hella quick. It's even better when it's cold out, she swears more and the second she gets home, she takes a nice hot shower. The contrast from the previous cold air makes it all the more better.

"I have a question, Jill." "Shoot it." Jill then shot him a look. "Wanna run together? I mean, this weekend, when you do? It's just nice to not always have to go alone. From time to time, me and Brad will but he's sometimes a buzz kill." Chris chuckled out to her. "Aw, well sure, I'd like that. I got to ask, how is he a buzz kill?" "Geez, he'll complain. Oh it's too hot, too cold, his feet hurt, body is sore... Just very annoying at times." "Yeah, sounds like it." Jill replied with a snort, beginning to put her food away. She didn't finish it all the way but their break is hitting the brink of being complete. Chris has already done the same.

"You're done?" "Yeah, it's almost 12:15 so I just wanna get back to the office, don't wanna be late my second day here." It was a good way of thinking, Chris thinks so. "Guess you're right." Chris also stood up, placing the strap onto his shoulder once again. "Walk together?" Jill said with a kind voice. Chris didn't say anything at first. Starstruck was what he was feeling. No one tends to even want to walk with him and now, someone is asking him? And it's Jill? Paint Chris surprised. "Sure." Chris nodded slowly, "Ladies first?" He stepped to the side, giving her room.

Jill giggled, stepping in front of him.

The two of them had a lovely talk on the way to their office.

[windwheeler-aster]

you want to talk about it now?

summary: cyno and you were just preparing to leave for a friend’s holiday hangout until you tried to bring up whether you two should go as friends or... something else, regarding the nature of your relationship

masterlist | advent calendar

pairing: cyno x reader

reader info: uses gender neutral pronouns (they/them), reader and cyno are in a situation-ship, and reader is not traveler

word count: 902 words (3 mins~)

genre: romance, hurt/comfort, friends to lovers

format: headcanons and blurbs

warnings: confrontation, arguing, swearing, and situation-ship/friends with benefits (sfw) relationship between cyno and reader

a/n: THIS!!!! WAS!!!! SO!!!! FUN!!! TO!!! WRITE!!!! literally, like, it all fell out of me in one sitting. wth. hope y’all enjoy reading this as much as i did writing it💖

cyno and you used to be just good friends

you laughed and joked, and generally enjoyed spending time with him (as he did with you)

though, as time passed by, the line between friendship and something more blurred

you two hugged when you greeted each other, sometimes kissing the other’s cheek if it had been very long

and you two were generally more... touchy than “just friends” were

but... neither of you wanted to label it as anything other than just two lonely, touch-starved friends looking out for each other

but friends didn’t look at each other for so long, turning bashful when they were caught red-handed

and cyno certainly shouldn’t get so worked up about going as friends or as something more if you two really are just friends

Cyno scrolled endlessly on his phone, tucking his other hand into his coat’s pocket. He waited by your door, dressed warmly for the blizzard that awaited you two outside, with a great amount of patience. When he looked up at you, all dressed up for the winter party, Cyno smiled. 

“Well, don’t you look nice,” he not-so subtly eyed you up and down. “Trying to impress someone at the party, hm?”

You rolled your eyes. “Can’t I look good for the sake of looking good?”

“Oh, sure you can. I just never knew you were capable of—”

“—watch it, Cyno.”

“You didn’t let me finish!” He held his hands up, surrendering. “I was just gonna say that I never knew you were capable of being more attractive than you already are. That’s all.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling so hard. “Aw, thanks. And, if it’s any consolation, you don’t look half bad yourself, Cyno. Kinda handsome, if you squint.”

“Would it kill you to be nice to me?”

You pulled on your own coat, scarf, and mitts. “You know you like it.” 

“Uh huh. Sure,” he dismissed in a cocky tone.

It was now or never, you decided as you looked at him.

“Are you ready to go or…?” he asked, his voice trailing off as his eyes met yours.

“Well… Yeah. Actually, there is,” you replied. 

“Oh?”

“I was wondering if we were going to go to the party as friends or,” you inhaled quickly, and murmured the next part softly, “or as something more.”

Cyno’s face went slack with confusion. “‘As something more’? Care to clarify?”

“Y’know,” you examined your nails. “As… as a couple.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Cyno groaned. “You want to talk about it now?”

“Well, yeah. Because I don’t even know what ‘it’ is,” you retorted. “You’ve kind of just been playing around with my feelings for the last few months. You know that, right?”

He furrowed his brow. “I haven’t been—”

“Oh really? Then what are we, Cyno?” you exclaimed. “Because we aren’t friends— because friends don’t cuddle and look at each other like we do. ‘Friends’ don’t drop everything if the other is having a bad day, just because you’re worried about them. And friends certainly don’t fuck around with each other’s— no, my feelings— just because they’re lonely and—”

Cyno’s hand came onto your shoulder, instantly shutting you up. You looked over to him and were shocked to see a concerned expression on his face.

“You’re doing it again,” he murmured, gently.

“What?”

“You forgot to breathe,” he clarified. “I thought you were going to pass out if I let you go on for another second.”

You shook him off. “Stop that. Stop acting like you care about me.”

“I do though.”

“Then stop playing with my feelings,” you snapped. “Just tell me, Cyno. Are we friends or not?”

Cyno’s lips parted, but no sound came out. You felt your eyes burn and the back of your throat hurt, but you clenched your fists and remained strong. 

“Fine then,” you grumbled, shoving past him to the door, “I’m still going to the party, though.”

But before you could twist the doorknob, Cyno grabbed your wrist and flipped you around. In an instant, he had you pressed against the door with his face close to yours. With his tempting lips close to yours. So, tantalizingly close it hurt even more than the silence.

“You didn’t let me answer,” he growled.

You glared at him. “Your actions were more than enough to—”

But before you could finish your sentence, Cyno’s lips swallowed yours. You let out a surprised gasp, though it was muffled due to his lips molding so nicely against yours. Cyno’s eyes fluttered close as he tilted his head, then his hands found their place on your body. An embarrassing sound left you when Cyno pinched your waist, teasingly.

You two broke apart, panting for air as you stared at each other. A sense of understanding passed through you both, one that was mixed with love and the bliss that came with it.

“Want to skip the party and just head downtown for dinner?” you asked him.

Cyno nodded, interwinding his right hand with your left. “Should I text Collei that we can’t make it or should you?”

You hummed for a moment before you came up with an answer. “I’ll text her, but you’ve got to make up the excuse.”

“We got snowed in?”

“Good enough for me,” you said as you pulled out your phone. “Let’s just hope it’s good enough for Collei and the others.”

taglist:

@x-zho @cxlrosii @i23kazu @tiredsleep @ireallylikehamsters​

(send an ask to be added or removed)

thank you for reading 💖 all forms of interaction to my posts are appreciated 💖

[therealdisneyfan2319]

One Special Night | Wanda Maximoff

Summary: A blizzard leaves you and a stranger stranded on Thanksgiving

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Male Reader

Warnings: Language, angsty fluff? fluffy angst?, death

Word Count: 6.9K

Masterlist

A/N: This was requested by @joewatt111 on Wattpad.  It’s based on the movie One Special Night starring Julie Andrews and James Garner (it’s one of my favorite Christmas movies!)  

So sorry for the delay in getting requests out.  I’ve been struggling through some writer’s block ever since I finished writing “Can’t Help Falling In Love.”  But I’m working through it and I’m hoping to get caught up before the holidays.  

Thanksgiving, 5:03 PM

“Any plans for Thanksgiving, Doc?”

“Oh you know, the usual,” you replied.  “Get togethers with family you don’t really like, avoiding conversations that’ll spark arguments, and eating too many casseroles of who knows what.”  You didn’t really like Thanksgiving.  It held too many memories you’d rather forget: the years of being shuffled from house to house to spend time with your divorced parents, the subsequent arguments that you’d hear between your drunk father and sobbing mother as you buried your head under the covers in a feeble attempt to drown out the screams, endless holiday dinners ruined by shifts in the emergency room treating deep fryer burn victims, people slicing their hands while attempting to carve a turkey, and sprains, bumps, and bruises from people slipping on ice or grease, and, of course, the one Thanksgiving where your fiance dumped you before the heavy cream could even be whipped.  Needless to say it wasn’t your favorite day of the year.  So instead of subjecting yourself to the horrors of dinner conversation, you volunteered to work the holiday, collect the overtime, and treat yourself to your favorite Chinese takeout and watch whatever football game was on.  Most people didn’t understand your disinterest in the holiday, so you fibbed and said you had plans.  It’s not like anyone would figure it out anyways.

“But that’s the fun isn’t it?  It only comes around once a year,” the tech posed.

You shook your head as you pulled on your coat.  “Yeah, fun.  There are lots of things you can classify as fun.  I’m not sure this is one of them.”  Slamming your locker shut, you grabbed your bag and headed for the door of the locker room.

“I don’t think it’s that bad,” the younger man responded.  “But anyways, get home safe, Doc.  The news was saying that we’re supposed to get one heluva of a storm today.”

“All the more reason to not go out,” you winked.  You pushed the door open and trudged down the hall, backpack slung over one shoulder as you ambled down the corridor and towards the main entrance of the hospital.

“Dr. L/N?” you heard a voice call from behind you as you passed the emergency room’s front desk.  You turned around to see who the voice belonged to and found Janelle, your intern, running towards you.

“Yeah?” you answered, cocking an eyebrow.

“You forgot to sign off on the papers for Mrs. Levin.”  She handed you a clipboard with a pen clipped to it.  You took it from her, scribbled on the appropriate line, and handed it back to her without much thought to what you were doing.  “Thank you, doctor.  And Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah, same,” you responded.  All you could think about after your ten hour shift was your steamed dumplings and lo mein, not some last-minute paperwork.  But as you passed by the desk again something out of the corner of your eye caught your attention.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, right?  What do you mean there’s no tow trucks available?” You saw a fiery redhead who was red in more than just her hair.  She was leaning up against the front desk, yelling into her cellphone, a backpack sitting by her side.  You watched as she rolled her eyes at whatever response she was receiving.  “Well fine, I’ll just call a cab if you-what do you MEAN they aren’t running the cabs?  How the hell am I supposed to get home?”

You eavesdropped on her conversation as you walked by, trying to make sure it wasn’t apparent that you were listening in.“Please, isn’t there something you can do?  I’ve been at the hospital with my father all day and I need to get home.”  You could hear the desperation in her voice as she pleaded with the voice on the other end.  You felt bad for the stranger, but it wasn’t your responsibility to make sure she got home.  You had no obligation whatsoever to be her taxi driver.  But as you neared the door you felt a nagging in the pit of your stomach telling you to do something.

No, don’t get involved, you told yourself.  You don’t want to do this.  But you felt yourself turning around before you got to the front door, your legs carrying yourself over to the frustrated woman who had been placed on hold by the towing company.

“Excuse me,” you interrupted.  She ignored you as she continued to tap her foot impatiently as she waited to be taken off hold.  “Excuse me,” you tried again.  Still nothing.  She looked even more impatient as you attempted to interrupt her again.  “Hey!” you yelled a tad more aggressively than you’d anticipated.  She shot daggers through you as she glared into your soul.

“What?” she snapped, pulling the phone down to her chest.

“Do you want a ride?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you want a ride home?  Look, the weather is shitty, it’ll be difficult trying to find a cab, and good luck trying to find an uber on Thanksgiving.  I’ve got a truck with all wheel drive, I can get you back to wherever you need to be.”  You had no idea why you were offering this complete stranger a ride back to wherever she came from.  Maybe it was the spirit of the season warming your heart.  “It’s okay, I’m a doctor here,” you added quickly, flashing your ID.

She looked at you with a combination of relief and apprehension.  You were a complete stranger offering her a ride in the middle of a snowstorm out of the emergency room.  “You’re offering me a ride?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Wow, okay then,” she said, hanging up her phone and grabbing her backpack.  She followed you down the hallway.  You could see the blizzard raging outside illuminated by the parking lot floodlights.  It was going to be a challenge to drive in these conditions.

“It’s that one,” you said, pointing to the red truck parked down near the end of the lot.  You zipped your coat up a little higher as you struggled across the uncleared sidewalk, grabbing your keys and unlocking the door so the two of you could hop right in.You pulled off your snow covered hat as soon as you sat in the driver’s seat after cleaning off the front of your car.  The redhead was on her phone furiously texting someone.  “Where do you live?” you asked.

“159 Collard Road,” she replied without looking up from her phone.  You groaned to yourself; it was the completely opposite side of town, basically out in the sticks.  It took you twenty minutes to drive out that way in good weather so you knew you were in for a long drive.

“Alright.  Let me know when we’re getting close.”  You started the car and looked over your shoulder as you carefully backed out of your spot.  The radio kicked on, your favorite local Y/F/M station coming on as you turned left out of the parking lot.

“Y/F/M?” she scoffed, shooting you a look.“Is there a problem?” you asked.  You should’ve left her at the hospital.“No, it’s your car, you control the radio.”“And what do you prefer?”  You couldn’t hide the sarcasm oozing from your voice.

“Y/L/F/M.”  You nodded, gripping onto the wheel tightly.  There was no way in hell you were going to change the station for her, so you decided to turn it off.  The two of you sat in silence as you continued to drive.  The roads were absolutely awful.  You were used to driving in nasty weather, but this was particularly bad.  It was night, too, and you were having to drive without using your brights because of the reflection of the snow.  

Halfway there, you thought to yourself.  Just a little while longer and I can go back home.  Why am I even doing this in the first pl-

Your internal musings were interrupted by a patch of black ice.  The truck fishtailed into the oncoming lane as you pumped the brakes.  Hard as you tried to correct the slippage, you ended up overcorrecting and swerving the other way right into a snowbank on the side of the road.

5:48 PM

“What the hell was that?” the redhead shouted.  You threw the truck in reverse and tried to back out of the bank but it was no use: you were stuck.

“Black ice.  We’re stuck.  Damn it!” You slammed on the steering wheel, angry at yourself for getting distracted.  It was not a good situation: you were stranded in a snowbank in the middle of nowhere on Thanksgiving night in a blizzard with a complete stranger who was getting angrier at you by the second.

“Great,” she sighed, pulling out her phone.  “No service.”  She slammed the phone on her bag, visibly frustrated at the situation as well.

You pulled out your phone, hoping you might be able to call your insurance company to come tow you out.  Much to your dismay you didn’t have a signal.  “Damnit,” you whispered.

“I literally just said there’s no service,” she huffed.  

“Alright then, do you have a better idea?  Because that’s all I’ve got.”

“I’m going to go look for help.  There’s a gas station about two miles away from here.”  She pushed the door open into the bank, the wind howling against the door as snow blew inside.  

“Are you kidding?  You’ll freeze to death out there.  It’s pitch black, we are in the middle of nowhere, and you want to go outside?!”  She must be crazy, that’s the only explanation you could think of.  

“And what’s the alternative then, stay here all night?” she snapped back. “Yes!  We stay here, run the heater periodically, and wait until either the snow stops or it’s daylight and then we should be able to either get out of here or get someone to come tow us out!” You were exasperated.  Sure, spending all night cooped up in your truck with this crazy woman wasn’t the way you wanted to spend Thanksgiving, but it was better than becoming a human popsicle on this stretch of country backroad.

“Right, mmhmm, good idea there, doc.  You stay here and do that, I’ll go and look for a way home.”  She jumped down from the truck, sinking into the deep drift.  You watched as she pulled one leg from the drift, trudging her way back to the road.  You groaned, frustrated at the fact this woman was about to wander about in the middle of the night and that you were probably going to have to follow her against your better judgment.

“Hey wait!  Wait a minute!” You unbuckled your seatbelt, sighing as you opened the door.  Wind whipped against your face as snow fell through the air.  It was an absolutely miserable night made worse by your miserable disposition.  The stranger looked back at you.  Her small figure looked even smaller as she hugged her coat against her chest.  The snow was falling hard enough that it was difficult to make her out against her phone’s flashlight.  

“Are you coming?” she shouted.“Only because I’m not going to let you wander around the woods in the middle of the night.”  The wind was rushing against your ears, freezing your words as they left your mouth.

“I don’t need you to protect me if that’s what you’re thinking.”  The look on her face, from what you could see, was one of disgust.

“Oh, I don’t care about protecting you.  I’m only here to-” Before you could get your next thought out you found yourself flat on your face in the snow.  The cold seeped through your clothes and chilled you to the bone.  As you pushed yourself up and sputtered the powder out of your mouth, you heard a slight giggle coming from ahead of you.  You looked up to see the redhead turning away from you.  “Is there something you want to share with the rest of the class?” the sarcasm dripped from your mouth.

“Not at the moment, but I’ll let you know.” Her hidden glance revealed a smirk forming over her lips as she pressed on, not letting you see how amused she was by your current predicament.

Groaning, you attempted to jog through the knee deep drift to keep up with her.  She had made her way over to the side of the road and was walking in what she hoped was the direction of the gas station.  You fought the blizzard every step of the way, trudging through molasses as your eyes strained to follow the dim light.  Your frustration built in your chest, causing one singular thought to race through your mind:

If we make it through this alive, I’m going to kill her.

6:11 PM

“Look, a mailbox!” The flashlight illuminated a snow-covered mailbox a few feet ahead of you.

“Let’s go ask for help.”  The storm had intensified dramatically in the short time the two of you had been walking.  The biting wind nipped at your red hands and ears.  In that time you made a mental note to never leave home without a hat and gloves again.  You scoured the area in front of you for a sign of a driveway, but any indication of one had been blocked by thigh-high drifts.

You watched the redhead struggle to carve a path through the snow only to befall the same fate you had earlier when you left your truck.  As she face-planted into the mound in front of her, you let out a small chuckle.  It was a sight to see: she flapped and struggled her way up like a goose in a most ungraceful fashion.  A part of you thought you should make sure she was okay.  “Are you okay?” you asked as you managed to push yourself over the drift.

“I’m perfectly capable, thank you.”  She flipped her scarf around her neck as she pushed herself to her feet in the ankle deep snow that covered the long driveway.  “I’m sure you are,” you mumbled under your breath.  You followed her straight into the snow-covered woods, spotting what looked to be a small cabin nestled beneath a group of tall pine trees.

“It doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” she said.  

“I’ll go take a look,” you shrugged as you eyed the enclosed porch.

“Wait!”  You turned to see the woman clutching at her chest.  “My necklace!  I have to go back and find it!”

“You can come back after the spring thaw and look for it then.  There’s no way you’ll find it now.”  You couldn’t believe the ignorance of this woman…first getting out of your warm truck and now this.  You turned back, reaching for the rickety screen door.

“It was a gift from my dad.  I have to have it!”  She walked like a goblin, crouching in an unflattering position as she combed the ground for a glimmer of the silver chain.

“Well I’m sure he can buy you another one.  Come on, I’m going inside.”

She stood quickly, tilting her head as she stared at you angrily.  “He’s dying,” she stated matter-of-factly.  You fidgeted in place as she stared at you, eyes boring into your soul as she huffed by.  Her frustration played out as she rattled the knob on the front door, slamming it down in dismay as it refused to open.  “It’s locked.”

Your eyes wandered around the small room, scanning the dark corners for something to break you in.  A pile of bricks caught your attention.  You picked one up, feeling its cold weight in your hand as you turned toward the door.  “Stand back,” you told her, pushing her back with your free arm.

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me.  You’re going to-”

Crash!  The window cracked as glass tinkled to the floor.  You reached in, feeling your way down the door to unlock it and push it open.  “After you,” you bowed mockingly, extending your hand.  She rolled her eyes, pulling off her hat as she stepped inside the dark foyer.

You felt up the wall for a light switch, flicking it on but the room remained dark.  “Power’s out.  Storm must’ve knocked it out.”  A sharp crack and a small flicker of light lit up the table in front of you.  The stranger found a pair of candles on the sole kitchen table.  Her face was illuminated by their dim glow as you watched her emerald eyes take in her new surroundings.

“There’s a fireplace right there.  I think I saw a pile of logs outside the cabin.  Why don’t you go get some and I’ll look for more candles?”  She rubbed her hands together over the small flame.

You managed to find some snow covered cords stacked against the side of the cabin and subsequently slipped on the ice covering the gravel drive.  Rubbing the bruise on your hip, you regathered the logs and cursed the woman inside as you stumbled through the door.  You were hit with an immediate warmth upon entering, the smell of smoke and crackling of fire creating an indelible sense of home.  The redhead was crouched by the fireplace, a metal poker in her hand.  You cocked your head at her quizzically.  “How’d you get that started?”  Grinning smugly she reached to the side to reveal a cabinet loaded with logs.  “A heads up would’ve been nice.”

“What, and deny you the chance to prove your manhood?”

“Touché,” you nodded as you set the wood down.  As you removed your sopping outerwear, you took a moment to take in your new surroundings.  The cabin was small, only one main room.  On one side was a small kitchen complete with an oven, sink, and refrigerator.  A round table sat in the middle of the room, a chair placed on opposite sides.  There was a sofa directly in front of the fireplace.  Two end tables sat on either side, and a coffee table sat directly in front.  There were two doors on either side of the fireplace: one led to the bedroom and the other to the bathroom.  A chill ran down your spine as you blew into your hands.  “Alrighty then, how about I try to find something to eat?  You should go see if they have any clothes for you to borrow, you’re absolutely soaked.  Maybe jump in the shower, too”

“Right, a cold shower and a stranger’s clothes.  That’s the way I want to spend my Thanksgiving,” she rolled her eyes at your remark.

“It’s gas, the water should be hot.”  

“Really?” Her eyes widened at the revelation.

“Mmhmm,” you nodded.  “And if we’re going to be sleeping together tonight, I should probably introduce myself.  I’m Y/N.”

“Wanda,” she replied as she opened the bathroom door.

“Did you ever watch the movie Psycho?” you posed. 

“Yeah.  Why?”

“No reason,” you grinned.  The door slammed shut.

7:20 PM

“Hi,” a quiet voice said.  It was Wanda.  She was wrapped in a fluffy red plaid housecoat, her damp hair hanging limply behind her.  “What’d you find?”

“You’re in luck.  They happened to have half a box of spaghetti and a jar of sauce in the cupboard.”  You weren’t a cook by any stretch of the imagination, but pasta was manageable.  “And there’s a bottle of wine on the table.”

“And you managed to set the table.  I’m impressed,” she joked as she observed your feeble attempt at making the sparse setting look nice.

“I am a man of many talents.”  You carried the pot over to your table, spooning some pasta onto both of your plates as Wanda sat down.  

“Well, it is edible.  Barely,” Wanda informed you as she took a bite.  “Please tell me you have someone else who cooks for you because otherwise this is just sad.”

“I eat out a lot,” you laughed.  “That’s the whole reason I became a doctor…it’s easier than trying to learn how to cook.”

“So you work in the emergency room then?” She took a sip of the red wine she had poured for the two of you.  You nodded, your mouth full of the overcooked spaghetti.

“Yeah.  It’s crazy, but you’re always on your toes.  That’s why I like it.  You’ll never have the same day twice.  There’s always something new, you’re constantly calling on everything you learned in med school, and I like the adrenaline rush.”  She looked at you curiously.  You couldn’t tell what exactly she was thinking or what she wanted to say.  

“I don’t ever want to spend time in an emergency room again.  I don’t know how you can do it day after day.”  Her voice softened as her head dropped down to stare at the pasta she spun on her fork.  

“You were in there with your dad, right?”

She sniffled, rubbing her nose with the sleeve of her housecoat.  “Yeah.  He’s got cancer.  Stage four.  I’ve been taking care of him for the last few weeks.  But today he had a stroke.  So they admitted him and told me that he doesn’t have much time left.  The doctor said she’d be surprised if he made it through tonight.  So I was trying to get home to get him the picture of our family that sits by his bed, but my car wouldn’t start.  I tried to get a tow truck but all of them were busy with the storm.”

You felt your heart sink.  “I’m sorry,” you murmured.  

“I just don’t know what I’m going to do when he goes,” she sighed.  “He’s all I have left.  My mom died ten years ago and my brother was killed in a car accident last spring.  I quit my job and gave up my apartment to move out here to take care of him.  When he’s gone…” Her eyes filled with tears as she trailed off, staring across the room to the window on the other side.  “Sorry,  I don’t even know why I’m telling you any of this.”  She shook her head, immediately redirecting her attention to her dinner.

“No, it’s okay.  It sucks, cancer sucks, and I’m sorry that this is what you’re dealing with right now.  I see it every day and it doesn’t get easier, believe me.”  Images of your worst trauma cases flashed through your mind.  You physically recoiled at the gruesome scenes.  “Look, I promise that once we get out of this mess I will get you back to that hospital as fast as I can so you can be with him, okay?  And I’ll make sure to come up and check in on him, too.”  You reached out to grab her hand.  Her skin was soft and warm.  You felt your heart skip a beat as you grasped it, which surprised you.  A soft smile spread over her face as she felt your hand in hers.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

10:43 PM

“And that is check, I believe,” Wanda boasted as her rook took your knight.

“Again?!  Are you kidding me?  What the hell, Wanda?”  You threw your hands in the air.  This was the fourth game she was beating you at.  You weren’t a chess champion by any means but Wanda was on a completely different level.

“It’s just check, Y/N.  You can still win,” she giggled.  

“Yeah, right.  Why don’t I just hand the game to you now and we’ll call it a night?” 

“Oh you’re no fun,” she pouted, putting away the pieces.  After dinner, she had found the cabinet where the owners hid their collection of board games.  The two of you had finally settled on chess.  It was one of her favorite games.  Her father had taught it to her and her brother, who you learned was named Pietro, when they were kids.  She had played on the chess team in high school, which you thought made her a bigger nerd than you and your middle school quiz bowl team.

“I know, I’m a party pooper.”  You stood up and yawned, stretching your stiff limbs.  “I don’t know about you but I’m ready for bed.  You go take the bedroom, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“No, I’ll take the couch, it’s okay.”

“Wanda, I’m a doctor.  I’ve slept on countless gurneys and on-call beds before.  I’m used to it.  Take the bed.”  She didn’t move, curling herself into a tighter ball where she sat instead.

“Fine.  Give me a minute.  I’m just resting my eyes,” she mumbled.  She shut her eyes as she crossed her arms and snuggled into the back of the couch.  You chuckled, pulling the blanket off your lap and placing it over her.  As she drifted off to sleep her light snores echoed through the small room.  You positioned yourself on the other side of the couch, watching as her breathing slowed and her face relaxed.  Hopefully sleep would be kind to her, relieving her of the horrible reality she would face in the waking world.

Friday, 7:03 AM

You woke to the peculiar sensation of being squeezed.  Looking down, you noticed that Wanda had made her way to your side of the couch and had wrapped her arms around your chest, resting her head in the crook of your shoulder.  The sight startled you at first, but you quickly found it endearing.  You were holding her with one arm wrapped around her.  Your other hand was running your fingers through her soft red hair, teasing each strand as you traversed its length.  Her eyes fluttered open at the tickling sensation, which quickly turned into a look of horror.

“Oh god I’m sorry.”  She recoiled as soon as she released the compromising position she was in.

“It’s okay, I don’t mind,” you reassured.  The truth was you really hadn’t minded it.  You liked the feeling of comfort her body provided as it wrapped around yours.  

She sat back on her knees, looking out the window.  “Looks like the storm stopped,” she noted as the sun streaked through the window.

“I’ll try calling a tow truck again, see if they can get us out of here.”

An hour later the two of you were in the cab of a tow truck headed back into town.  You’d left a note and some money for the owners to explain why you broke into their apartment and ate their food.  Once you got your truck back, you dropped Wanda off at the hospital before driving back to your apartment to grab a quick shower before heading back for your own shift.  While holidays were normally busy in the ER, you were hoping that today might be relatively quiet.  It wasn’t so much about not having to rush from bay to bay dealing with patients as much as it was being able to slip away to check on Wanda and her father.  Your palms began to sweat as you gripped the steering wheel, pulse quickening at the thought of seeing Wanda later in the day.  You shook your head to clear the images of the redhead from your mind.  After all, you were only concerned about how her father was doing, right?    

6:22 PM

You collapsed onto a gurney in the trauma bay, groaning as you rubbed your throbbing temples.  All you wanted was a beer and the chance to rip your shoes off.  You hadn’t stopped moving since you stepped foot in the hospital almost ten hours ago, even forgoing your lunch to help the ortho attending reset an elderly lady’s dislocated hip.  It was also the first time all day you’d allowed your mind to wander back onto the woman who was in the forefront of your mind.  Glancing at your phone, you panicked slightly as you jumped off the gurney and raced to the elevator.  Your heart was pounding with anticipation as you pushed the down arrow.  You bounced your knee up and down in the agonizing moments it took for the elevator to pull up to your floor.  When the doors opened you rushed in and pressed the button for the ICU.

“Come on, come on,” you muttered, slamming the button as fast as you could.  The doors didn’t close quick enough for your liking, and you spent the entire ride pacing around.  You were on a tear down the hall as soon as the doors opened, vaguely remembering a conversation you and Wanda had earlier in the day about the room her father was in.  You mumbled numbers to yourself as you jogged down the hall until you found the right one a few yards ahead of you.  Slowing down to a walk, you tugged on the lapels of your white coat and attempted to smooth out your scrubs before you turned into the room.

It was empty.

Your heart sank as you realized what it meant: he was gone and Wanda was all alone.  The cold emptiness of the room enveloped you, creeping into your very soul as an overwhelming sense of sorrow invaded your heart.  You felt a lump in your throat as you thought of her alone, trying to pick up the pieces of her life.  You threw your hands in your pocket, shuffling out of the room as you wondered how helpless she must feel.  All you wanted to do was find her and hold her until she realized that you weren’t going to let her world end.  But you had no idea where she even was.  Besides, why would she want to see you at the worst moment of her life?

Sunday, 11:19 AM

Taking a bite out of your bagel, you thumbed through the pages of the local Sunday Times.  You scoured the headlines for the one you were looking for: obituaries.  It had already been two days since Wanda’s father had passed, more than enough time to write a simple summary of his life.  More than once you’d wondered whether or not you should drive to her father’s house to check in on her, but your nerves got the better of you.  As you sipped your coffee, your eyes settled on the word you’d been looking for: Wanda.  You quickly skimmed the obit, looking for the information you wanted.

There will be no services as per the deceased’s wishes.

You sighed, throwing the paper down.  The funeral would’ve been the perfect excuse for you to check in on her.  Your stomach churned with  feeling that you should’ve been there for her that day.  You paced around the room furiously, mind racing a thousand miles a minute with different ideas, excuses to see her and make sure she was okay.  But the more you thought about it, the more you realized that the only real option you had was to go and see her.

2:49 PM

Carrying a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a bag of Chinese takeout in the other, you shifted your weight from one foot to the other as you stood outside the front door.  The way your stomach twisted up in knots surprised you.  You could stay completely calm in the most stressful of work situations, but the thought of facing her again made you want to run away screaming.  The deep breaths you took did little to quell the churning feeling growing inside you as you raised a shaky hand to knock on the frosted window.

The moments between you rapping on the door and Wanda answering felt like eternity.  Time came to a screeching halt as your mind raced through different what if scenarios.  The bag started to slip from your grasp as your palms moistened with anticipation.  It was far too late to turn around by now.

The door opened slightly at first, a single eye peering out from the crack.  You gave a halfhearted smile as you saw the outline of Wanda’s face in the dark room.  Her eye widened as she realized it was you, opening the door fully as she stared at you in amazement.

“Y/N?” she asked incredulously.  In a moment her world turned upside down again.  A small part of her hoped that you would show up at the hospital before her father died and she was hurt when you hadn’t.  

“Hey,” you said weakly.  When she opened the door fully you saw how much of a mess she was.  Her eyes were sunken and hollow, highlighted by deep bags.  Her hair was falling out of a messy bun on top of her head.  She wore pajama pants and an oversized hoodie, both of them wrinkled by hours spent curled on the couch.  “I, umm…can I come in?”  She nodded as she stepped back to give you space to come in.

Wanda shut the door behind you as you stepped in, slipping off your sneakers and placing them off to the side.  The house was chaotic.  Boxes and garbage bags were piled all around, the remnants of a life complete tossed carelessly inside.  Unopened cards were scattered around the table between drying bouquets of flowers.  Dirty pots and plates were stacked high in the sink while a half-empty pizza box sat on the counter.  

“What are you doing here?” Her meek voice broke your train of thought.  The redhead stood before you, looking like a shell of the woman she was three days ago.

“Well, for starters I brought Chinese food to make up for that pitiful Thanksgiving dinner I made the other night,” you stated while holding up the bag.  “Orange chicken, steamed dumplings, and veggie fried rice.”  Wanda stared at the bag.  You couldn’t read the vacant expression on her face that made her very soul look hollow.  “And I wanted to express my condolences about your father.” 

A spark brightened her eyes as you handed her the flowers.  She grabbed them from your outstretched hands, holding them tenderly and examining them carefully as if she’d never seen something so beautiful before.  She inhaled deeply, basking in their sweet scent as she pulled them to her chest.  “Thank you,” she murmured.  She didn’t make eye contact with you as she spoke.  

“Do you want to eat?” She nodded.  “I’ll go grab some bowls.”

“No it’s okay.  I’ve got it.  Why don’t you go sit in the living room?”  

You wandered your way through the darkened house, the living room illuminated by the glow of the TV.  You cleared some papers from the couch, stacking them off on the coffee table as Wanda rejoined you with two bowls and two sodas.  The two of you sat in silence as you watched her scoop some rice into her bowl with her chopsticks.  Her eyes were glued to the television as you ate.  You sensed she wanted to avoid conversation as the energy of the room shifted.  She became cold and withdrawn, oblivious to the world outside of the flickering screen.  But you didn’t want to interrupt her.  If she wanted to drown her grief in old sitcom reruns then so be it.

You watched The Dick Van Dyke Show for a couple hours, her occasionally chuckles interrupting the program.  As much as you wanted to talk you didn’t mind just existing in the same room as her.  It was comfortable and familiar.  But after five or so episodes, Wanda was the one to break the silence.

“I hoped you’d come up to see him before he died.”

You sat in stunned silence, unsure of how to respond to her confession.  Friday night was still eating away at you, the fact you hadn’t been able to make it up to the ICU in time.

“I tried to.  I saw patients for over ten hours straight that day and I didn’t have the chance to sneak away all day”  It felt like a pathetic excuse, but it was the truth.  

“I understand.”  She turned her head away from you slightly.  It did nothing to hide her sniffles as she started to cry again.

“But the first chance I had I ran up there as fast as I could.  He was already gone by then.”

Wanda turned back to you, her face streaked with fresh tears.  “I waited all day for you, you know?  I kept hoping and praying that maybe, just maybe, you’d show up.  It was stupid of me to think this random guy I just met would show up for my dying dad.  Because you didn’t show up so now on top of being sad that my dad just died I’m upset that a complete stranger wasn’t there, too.”  She wiped her face with her sleeve as she choked out her words through strangled sobs.

“Oh Wanda,” you sighed.  “Come here.”  You opened your arms and reached out for her.  She crawled into your chest as you pulled her close, her chest heaving as she sobbed into your shirt.  You wrapped your arms tightly around her.  Her cries were muffled against your body.  You traced your fingers up and down her back as you held her, rocking ever so slightly back and forth in an attempt to soothe her.  All you wanted to do was take her pain away.  It was odd how much you found yourself caring for this stranger.  In that moment she was the most important thing in your life. That terrified you.  “I’ve got you,” you soothed, drawing your hand up her back and pulling her head closer to her chest, as if your enveloping touch would heal her wounds.

“I miss him so much,” she gasped between sobs.  

“I know.”  

“They’re all gone.  My entire family is gone and I don’t know what to do,” she sniffled.  She was living her own worst nightmare, completely alone for the rest of her life.  No parents to bring a boyfriend home to, no brother to help take care of aging parents, no core group to celebrate the small things with.  She had friends, of course, but that didn’t erase the trauma of losing one’s entire family at such a young age.

You wracked your brain trying to find the right thing to say.  Wanda was deep in the throes of grief and you wanted to help steady her.  But what could you say?  You’d never lost a parent before.  “Wanda I- '' You swallowed the lump in your throat, leaning your head down to rest next to hers.  The world stood still as your heart pounded in your ears.  “You’re not alone,” you whispered in her ear.

She pulled away from you, her bloodshot eyes widening as she studied your face.  They darted back and forth searching for anything that might reveal the hidden secret of your words.  

“The truth is I don’t want to leave,” you sighed.  “I can’t stop thinking about Friday and I’m so, so sorry I wasn’t there for you.  I wanted to come see you sooner, but I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

“Why would you think I wouldn’t want to see you?”  She grabbed your face and pulled you in until your lips were millimeters apart.

“I don’t know.  I guess I kept trying to tell myself that you didn’t want to see me so I could convince myself that I didn’t want to see you,” you admitted.  It was hard to swallow your pride in front of her, but you couldn’t deny how she’d absolutely captivated you in the short time you’d known each other.  “I’m sorry, Wanda.  I should’ve been there sooner.”

No sooner had the words left your mouth did Wanda close the gap between the two of you.  The tender brush of her lips against yours was absolute bliss.  They were soft as you kissed her back, losing yourself in the remnants of her cherry chapstick.  You felt your heart pounding as her hands started to tangle in your hair, causing you to smile against her lips.  You felt her smile back when you hugged her closer to you.

She was the one to break away from the kiss first.  You watched as her face lit up for the first time all day.  All of her worries had seemingly melted away.  “And here I was thinking that what happened between us was just one special night,” she smiled.  It made your heart skip a beat.

“As much as I enjoyed it, Wanda, I could do without the whole getting stranded in a blizzard thing again,” you joked.  Wanda giggled as she rubbed the back of your neck, her touch sending shivers up your spine.

“Why don’t you stay tonight so we can try again?” she teased.“Are you sure?”  You brushed your thumb over her chin as you looked at her with concern.

“Please.  Stay with me.”

You sighed as you looked into her eyes.  They were pleading with you to stay.  Your brain was telling you that staying might not be the best idea, but your heart wouldn’t let you leave.  You had to stay with her: there was no other option.  So you wrapped her close again, pulling her close enough that she could feel the way she made your heart pound against the confines of your chest.  “Okay, I’ll stay,” you murmured against her head, giving her a quick peck as the two of you sat on the couch.  “We’ll get you through this, I promise.”