#i need to cradle her like a dove in my hands and tuck her into a soft soft bed with a goodnight story
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rubrumacai · 17 days ago
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Playing metaphor(stuck on the three optional fucks at the endgame like the stubborn b I am) and I managed to sneak in eupha's final bond rank (sorry basilio I couldn't get enough imagination) and . Um
------Not directly spoilers but scroll if u haven't made eupha's bond------
Why don't I see them together more??? I still ain't beat the final boss but
But its
It's literally right there
Nothin against strohl or basilio enjoyers- I love me some Bois too but EUPHA MY SWEETIE DEAR she literally-they literally- and it was reciprocated- oh, my heart melted
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etclouie · 1 month ago
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if it wasn’t entirely obvious, i love the marauders. could i also request this prompt “I’m just tired.” “That’s understandable. Go and sleep, I’ll sort everything out.” with soft dom!remus, or just remus in general
˚୨୧⋆。 prompt/s; “i’m just tired” “that’s understandable. go and sleep, i’ll sort everything out” — from 100 dialogue prompts
˚୨୧⋆。 warnings; established relationship, soft dom!remus, remus basically caring for reader and ushering her into bed, that’s it really 
˚୨୧⋆。 a/n; slowly working through reqs while doing another soa binge 
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— thank you for celebrating 600 with me || submissions are now closed
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it had been one of those days. 
the kind where the weight of the world felt just a little too heavy on your shoulders, and where every small task seemed to take more energy than you had to give. 
the moon was waxing, and even though you knew Remus was likely already feeling the pull of it you still couldn’t shake the exhaustion that clung to you like a second skin. 
you trudged into the living room, a soft glow being casted across the room by the fireplace. Remus sat there, tucked into the armchair with a book in hand. 
when he looked up at you, the weariness and tiredness in your posture didn’t go unnoticed. 
his brow furrowed, lips pressing into a thin line of concern while he set his book aside. 
“what’s wrong love?”
his voice was low and gentle, always so attuned to you— as if he could feel every shift in your mood. 
you sighed deeply, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands while mumbling out to him. 
“i’m just tired”
your voice came out muffled, laced in tiredness but there was something else there. something almost apologetic about it. 
Remus stood, his movements slow and deliberate. he was no stranger to exhaustion himself, but when it came to you he never hesitated. 
his hands lifted to cradle your face, his thumbs soothing across your cheeks. 
“that’s understandable”
he said, his voice low but firm. the reassuring tone that always made you feel like you could collapse into his arms, into his care. 
“go and sleep, love. i’ll sort everything out. you don’t need to worry about anything right now”
you glanced up at him, grateful for his calm demeanour. yet something inside wanted to protest to his kindness. 
“but i—“
he interrupted almost immediately, but it was gentle. firm yet still gently. 
his thumb brushed across your cheek again, which sent a pleasant shiver down your spine. 
“you’ve been through enough today. you’ve done enough. not let me take care of the rest, all you need to do is rest”
the warmth in his voice was undeniable, the softness of his touch even more apparent. 
you were tired, yes, but you also trusted him completely. 
you gave him a small nod, your exhaustion mixing with a sense of relief. 
“okay”
you whispered, allowing him to guide you towards the bedroom. 
“but.. you’ll be here when i wake up?”
he hummed at your question, helping you change into your pyjamas and then into bed. 
he made sure you were comfortable before he leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead, whispering softly. 
“always dove”
he promised, making sure the blankets were pulled around you just the way you liked them. 
taking a step back, he watched you for a minute. his eyes soft, while yours threatened to stay open. 
“sleep my love. i’ll be here when you wake up, everything will still be in its place”
with the warmth in his voice, your eyes finally fluttered closed. finally feeling the heaviness in your limbs start to fade away, while the soothing tone of his voice cradled you to sleep. 
Remus lingered by the door for another moment, watching you with a protective gaze. his heart full of love at the sight of you. 
then as you slept, he moved quietly back into the living room to tend to everything you had left behind. 
nothing was too much for him when it came to you. 
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⋆˚࿔ reblogs are highly appreciated 𝜗𝜚˚⋆
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amongsnot · 5 months ago
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there are baby shoes in your drawer.
you don’t know how long they’ve been in there—a month, a year, perhaps even two—just that they are gently tucked into the right corner, taking space on top of a toddler onesie.
you sit down on the edge of your bed, cradling the shoes between your hands; cupped like a dove. you tentatively pick one up (turning it around with squinted eyes) and read the size on the back. it reads a number that you do not understand.
but you once did, and there are baby shoes in your drawer, and you are not a baby.
you are eighteen. you are eighteen with a job (to a store you’ve never bought a toy from) and a family (that does not love you) and a life (that does not feel like yours).
and the baby shoes did not belong to you eighteen years ago. they are new and shine and your mother would never buy you something this nice.
the baby shoes are chaste in the front from where a little kid took their first steps. the shoes are tied (double knotted with care and worry). the shoes were put in your bedside table with a precarious sort of caution. the shoes belonged to a baby that was loved, and you did not know that feeling eighteen years ago.
there are baby shoes in your drawer, and they are purple.
you frown and put them on top of your bedside table, next to the tank without fish.
you pull out the onesie that belongs to a toddler next, unfolding it and holding it out in front of you. it has a pun on the front that makes you smile. (“my brother mayde dis shirt!” it reads. then, in a small font underneath. “he cant spel.”)
and you know that this onesie does not belong to you either, because you never had a brother. your parents would rather kill you and then each other before having another kid. your mom still glares at you in the bathroom mirror when she looks at her stretch marks. your dad still forgets to unlock the door when you come home from school.
you would never have a brother; but that’s fine. it’s what you’ve grown accustomed to, after all.
so you would never have a brother, and there is a onesie in your hands.
and there are baby shoes on your bedside table.
you examine the onesie further, checking it for stains or grease marks or rips. you check it for signs that it has been lived in, and you are surprised to see that there are none. this is not the ending you want, though; it is not the ending that the kid with the onesie and the purple shoes deserves.
you run a hand through the neck hole and pull at the cloth from the inside, desperately searching for a sign that this kid had been loved. you glance upwards, through the entryway to your bedroom and at the mirror hanging on the wall in the hallway (there is no physical door to your room. your parents had it removed as soon as they could). you check your own clothes, noting the wrinkled creases and year-old stains. you look at the onesie in your hands and search for everything that you don’t recognize: grass stains from playing outside and food stains from yummy meals. rips from growth spurts and baby drool.
there is nothing, and you come to the terrifying realization that this kid will grow up to be just like you.
the world does not need another one of you.
perhaps you should do something about that. stop it before it happens.
subconsciously, you run a hand through the hole for the neck and check the inside, and then you run a hand through the sleeves, pushing something hard and sharp out of the other end.
you pull your hand out and grab the card, and you pull your hand away from it just to leave a red stain, but you do not care because youve had babysitter who have done worse damage.
(“happy fifth birthday poof!” the card reads, accompanied by a small doodle of a balloon.)
there are three lines that have been scribbled out, before the writer finally decided on a meek “i love you.” and your hand shakes. you can feel a tear run down your cheek, landing on the card next to a similar water stain.
you throw the card across the room and bury your face into the piece of clothing. you don’t know why you’re crying now, when you’ve never cried once in your whole life. you don’t know why you recognize the hand writing on the card. you don’t know why you know what the three lines scribbled out say (“i’m going to miss you.” “it’s better this way!” “you’re going to do great things, i wish i could be there to watch.”).
you don’t know why you bought a purple onesie with a card addressed to a person you don’t know.
you don’t know why you don’t know.
all you know is that there is a card on the floor of your bedroom, and a purple onesie in your lap.
and a pair of baby shoes on your bedside table.
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jedipoodoo · 3 months ago
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One of Those Days (Sergeant Hunter x Reader)
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Notes: Food mention, Reader has a bad day, comfort with Hunter, Batcher isn't a bad girl she's just hungry. Inspired by @a-lil-perspective with help from @meadow-of-daisies-and-lavender.
Mando'a:
Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum - equivalent of "I Love You"
Cyare - Beloved
Ner Kar'ta - My Heart
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"Kriff!" You exclaimed. The pot tumbled off the stove, splattering hot soup all over your front before splattering on the floor.
For Batcher, this was no issue. She dove upon the unclaimed mess as if you'd never fed her before in her life. Half of dinner was gone in seconds.
"Cyare, are you okay?" Hunter came running into the kitchen, goggles perched on top of his head from his woodworking.
"Yes, I'm fine, I mean-" You couldn't think, watching as Batcher devoured the dinner you'd worked so hard to make for everyone. Omega, Crosshair, and Wrecker were coming back from a long day of fishing, and they'd need something to fill their bellies with. You thought you could do this one small thing for them, but apparently that wasn't good enough.
To make matters worse, Batcher began to throw up all over the floor.
"No, no, bad girl, take it outside," Hunter grabbed the lurca by her collar, leading her out the door as you stared in growing horror at the mess on the kitchen floor.
"Cyare?" Hunter gingerly stepped around the mess, reaching out a hand to you.
"I was working on that all day..." you mumbled, still in shock.
"It's alright, you can make it another day," Hunter said gently.
At that, you burst into sobs, still frozen in shock. Hunter pulled you into his chest, holding you tight. He didn't say a word, only ran a hand up and down your back, letting you get it all out.
Your sobs became muted whimpers after a few minutes, and you heard Batcher outside, whining to be let back in.
"Let's get you to bed, huh? I'll get all this cleaned up." Hunter cooed.
"Wait, what about dinner?" You asked. 
"I can whip up some flatcakes just fine," He said, still gently rubbing your back.
"A-are you sure?" You asked nervously, "If you're gonna cook for everyone I should at least help with the clean up-" You made to reach for the pot on the floor, but Hunter scooped you up and lay you across his shoulder, marching off to your bedroom.
"Hunter-!" You tried to protest, but it turned into very unconvincing giggles.
Hunter chuckled, and tossed you on the bed. You tried to sit up, but Hunter loomed over you, forcing you to lay back down.
"You spent all day cooking what smelled like an absolutely heavenly meal, on top of managing the health of half the people here on the island. Take a nap, and then come and join us for dinner, alright?"
"I don't need a nap-"
"Yes, you do." he interrupted, pressing his nose against yours.
"But I'm not tired!"
"Yes you are."
You rolled your eyes, "I'm not a kid, Hunter-"
"Alright?" Hunter's breath fanned out across your cheeks as you looked into his eyes. His eyes had always been gorgeous, intense, discerning. You loved that about him. Today, like always, they were your weakness.
You bit your lip and sighed.
"Alright." You agreed. At last, Hunter rewarded you with a grin and kissed your forehead.
You thought he would get right on cleaning up the mess of what was formerly dinner, but Hunter took his time turning down the blankets and  tucking you in all nice and cozy.
"I love you, ner kar'ta," He whispered longingly.
"I love you too," you echoed, sitting up just enough to kiss his lips. Hunter caught your head, cradling your neck in his hand for a brief moment before resting you back on the pillow.
"Stay here until I call you, alright?" He said, whispering softly like it was all a big secret, "Don't worry about it, I have everything under control."
"Okay," You nodded, "I trust you."
Hunter kissed your forehead one more time, and dimmed the lights on his way out the door.
"I love you," You called after him, just as he started to close the door.
Before it closed all the way, you saw him wink.
"Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum"
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tf2-oneshots · 1 year ago
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quick fix, medics doves have a bird bath with those really small rubber ducks that are like 1 inch tall. it’s a variety of different little ducks from germany tho, like souvenirs.
scout and medic watch the doves splash in the water occasionally while medic tells scout about how he got each duck.
That’s adorable 🥺
Warnings: none!
Rating: General
A bucket of warm water is poured into a custom birdbath made of stone. Said water is the filtered kind from the fridge. Tap is too harsh on the feathers, as Medic would say. Several rubber duckies, half the size of Scout’s thumb, are placed into the water. Each one unique with either a cute design or an outfit. Scout then removes his bandages, tucking the rolled fabric into his pockets.
“Here come the birdies! Archimedes, no slapping.” Medic warns his eldest bird as a small flock arrive to the bath. Thankfully, the dove keeps his wings to himself as they dip their feet into the water. Scout chuckles, carefully making a pool of water with his hands and going under Socrates’ wings. Lord knows he needs an extra hand in that spot.
Medic joins in, carefully working the dried blood out of their white feathers. The doves not being cradled take a moment to play with the ducks. Tiny beaks push and toss the rubber playmates while feathers ruffle in the water. Scout laughs, watching a tiger patterned duck be thrown out of the bath entirely.
“Cleopatra! We do not throw our toys.” A chide from her father that she doesn’t like. Cleo ruffles, turning away from the man when he puts it back into the bath.
“Where’d you even get that?” Scout picks up the tiger duck to admire it. Black stripes contrast the orange body and white stomach. For a tiny toy, it was definitely detailed. Now, Scout takes the time to look over all of the ducks. A puppy, a witch, and a doctor float alongside the doves. Scout looks to his boyfriend and asks how he came to have such an arrangement.
“I’m glad you asked! I got Dr. Quack when I graduated medical school. It was my nickname actually, teehee!” Medic giggles at the fond memory of his college days. They were so long ago, yet he clearly recalls the strange looks his colleagues gave when he squealed at the reproductive section of the lecture. Always a go-to subject for him.
“The witch was when I got chased out of my hometown for trying to reanimate my favorite singer. Its tradition to leave one at the doorstep as warning.” The poor thing just kept screaming until he whacked it over the head with a piece of wood. In hindsight, she was known for her vocal range. Medic just thought she would be happy to have come back! Instead, he got terrified screeches that alerted the Bürgermeister, who proceeded to arrange a pitchfork wielding mob.
“The puppy I’ve had since I was boy. I won him in a raffle at a dog show.” Money well spent in his opinion. Little Ludwig proudly marched to claim his prize, winning ticket in hand. The duck came with paw shaped chocolate as well, which he promptly ate as they announced the best in show. Such a fun day with his parents.
“Awesome stories, babe.” Scout places his hands on Medic’s shoulders so they can kiss. Just as their lips are about to meet, a loud splash and coo sounds. Lo and behold, Archimedes was wing slapping his siblings! He deeply coos, feathers puffed with his wing landing on an angry Cleopatra.
“Archimedes! Time out!” Medic takes his naughty birdie out of the bath while Scout comforts Cleo. She curls up in his hands, fighting to recover from her brother’s violence. In reality, she’s completely fine. Her feathers are straight and wings unscathed. Ever the dramatic dove.
When Medic returns, he resumes their interrupted kiss. The rest of the doves are left to air dry along the rafters while Archimedes sits in the time out cage. He puffs himself, cooing with anger every time Medic walks by.
I love mediscout sm -H
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mara-tevith-solo · 2 years ago
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Give Me a Reason
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Here’s chapter 2 to the request fic. This one is a bit more angsty, deals with some stuff. Enjoy!
Pairing: Recom Lyle Wainfleet x Na’vi/Avatar curvy!reader 
warnings: Angst, swearing, physical violence, battle, slight panic attack, talk of torture to a minor, Quaritch getting some fee fees finally, talk of past abuse
Rating: 18+ as always
Words: 3.1k+ a bit shorter this time
You slightly regretted thinking that things would be smoother, that there was no way things could go so damned horribly that you'd be cowering behind a tree to avoid the gun fire from beside you, and well aimed arrows from ahead of you. You thought you'd put it behind you after the last raid, after agreeing to teach the Recoms the Na'vi ways. You refused to fight the Sullys and you didn't care if Quaritch punished you. You'd claim religious exemption if you needed to. You were not going to raise a hand against them. "Y/n!" Lyle called before the explosions started, a slight panic to his voice as he tried to locate you. An explosion rocked you in your hiding place, even though it wasn't close enough to truly hurt you, right as you were about to call back to him. You curled tight around yourself, panic beginning to set in as you clamped your hands over your ears, your breaths coming out in rapid shallow pants "Y/n!" He called again, much closer. You could barely hear him, like you were suddenly underwater, your eyes shut tight as you tried to stave off the panic attack.
A large hand found you, cupping the back of your head, gloved fingers tangling in your hair "No!" You cried, reeling back and smacking at the hand "Not again! Not again!" You screamed, your breaths becoming quicker as your panic mounted.
"Y/n!" Lyle's voice broke through the fear, making your eyes snap open and focus on him. He wanted to break at your fear and pain, watching you shiver and hyperventilate, curled in a tight ball at the base of the tree, your eyes nearly all pupil "You're ok, Baby. I got you," He promised earnestly, sliding his rifle strap back up to his shoulder and tucking the weapon behind his back. He coaxed you to relax slightly, gently pulling you closer to him, letting you keep your hands over your ears "I got you, Sweetheart." He managed to pull you to stand with him, immediately tucking you under his left arm as he grabbed his rifle with his right "Gotta catch up with the others. Can you run?" He asked, keeping his mouth close to your ear though he was at least somewhat aware of your surroundings. You nodded absently as his warmth began settling the panic, helping to ease your breathing as you trotted beside him. He had to release you from under his arm, but he was quick to grab your hand before the panic could return anew, pulling you along with him.
He didn't stop until you had both rejoined what remained of the group, nearly half of their already reduced number left alive. Quaritch picked up something that you couldn't see, ordering everyone to retreat, leading the charge back to the rendezvous point. You clung to Lyle's hand as you ran beside him, your heart still racing from more than just the exertion. Under the craft, while everyone was attaching their harness to the cables, your hands shook so badly that you missed the carabiner more than once before finally getting it and being pulled up with everyone else. A human unhooked you from the cable before harshly motioning for you to join the others, sneering up at you as she did so. You paid her little mind as you turned to the Marines, eyes automatically searching for Lyle, but finding the unconscious form of someone you'd hoped had gotten away "Spider!" You yelped as you dove forward, crashing to your knees beside him. You cradled his head gently before leaning down and pressing an ear to his chest, listening to his heart beat and his lungs, listening for any little irregularity. "My son, my dear son..." You sniffled as you sat back up, not noticing the attention that was on you as you began digging through the pouches on your belt, looking for the herbs you'd found on the short trip.
"Your son..." Quaritch's voice trailed, only partially distracting you as you quickly glanced up from your search before your fingers found what you were looking for.
"I raised Spider from a toddler, took him in despite the tensions it created with the Omaticaya." You explained quickly while crushing the small dark green leaves between the heels of your palms just enough to bruise them. You glanced up to the regret and remorse on Quaritch's face, the emotions practically oozing off of him "He started walking at only ten months, and his first word was 'Da'. I never kept the knowledge of you or Paz away from him." You took pity on him, frowning softly as you carefully laid the leaves on most of Spider's wounds.
"I..." He began, his expression still echoing pain as he glanced at you gratefully "I appreciate it." He nodded.
"You had me worried for a sec, Y/n." Lyle found a way to ease the tension in the transport, cracking the ice with humor.
You smiled softly at him, thankful for the distraction and the opportunity to change the subject "God help you if you ever get me pregnant." You chuckled, shaking your head as the other Recoms began chuckling with him, all of them equally thankful for the distraction from the loss they'd all suffered.
You latched onto the opportunity, fighting to not worry about the after that was going to happen as soon as the transport landed "Can you imagine the chaos if there had been little Wainfleets running around back in the day? Having one was bad enough!" Zdinarsk cackled, slapping Lyle on the back as she shook her head at the thought.
"Don't tempt him!" Ja chimed in, making Lyle swat at him playfully. You smiled at the scene, your hand gently resting on Spider's chest, over his heart, as you sat beside him. You didn't fail to notice Quaritch close by on his other side, outwardly just as worried as you felt.
"You're not going to let them hurt him... are you?" You found yourself whispering over Spider, barely daring to look at the Colonel from the corner of your eyes, your heart beating harder in anticipation of his answer.
He just looked at you with a private frown, his own concern and uncertainty in his eyes. You could tell that he was already fighting with himself to keep things business, could practically hear his internal argument that the boy technically wasn't his son. That he was yours and only yours and shouldn't matter to him at all. But there was something drawing him to the boy, to the idea of parenthood. He didn't speak until the transport landed, standing from his seat and immediately crouching to pick up Spider. "Let's go!" He ordered everyone, carefully leaving the craft himself. That trek into the main building felt so long, so hard, like you were walking to your own execution.
You were cuffed upon entry, General Ardmore resolved to not trust you despite the teams' assurances that you were well controlled and behaved. You had a pretty good guess as to why she disliked you, about four hundred million dollars worth of reasons, not to mention lives lost and insurance payouts, but those were semantics in the grand scheme of their little invasion. "Oh good, another prisoner." Her sour expression greeted you all, a cup of coffee in her hand as per usual. "Is this one at least useful?" She threw the barb without even a glance in your direction, though her expression seemed to sour further as you rolled your eyes at her.
"Mrs. Wainfleet here raised him with the Omaticaya. He'll know what we need." Quaritch promised, flicking his head in your direction with a scowl. His tail was up and still, betraying his tension and ill-ease as he faced off with the General.
She nodded, her lips pinching in that constipated little smile she liked doing "Good. Put him in The Chair." She ordered before turning and beginning to walk away as though she hadn't just ordered the torture of a minor.
You were instantly charging, snarling at her inhumanity, twisting your arms up and over your head painfully so at least they were bound in front of you "He's a god damned child you fucking sociopath!" You yelled at her right as two different sets of hands clamped onto your arms, preventing you from closing the full distance. Though that didn't stop you from digging into the linoleum and pulling with all your might "A fucking child! You're going to torture a FUCKING CHILD!" Your voice was ragged as you screamed.
"Y/n stand down!" Quaritch ordered with a sharp bark, handing off Spider to a gurney team somewhere behind you. You snarled at him over your shoulder, the target of your rage switching to the large male.
"You're going to allow this?!" You cried as someone's arms locked around you, pulling you off your feet "He's your son! HE'S YOUR SON!" You screamed as you flailed and kicked your legs, your feet connecting with random bits of electrical equipment, making it all spark and go offline.
"Lieutenant, get her outta here! You need to cool off, Y/n!" He growled roughly, warning you to start calming down or else bad things would happen as punishment.
Lyle had no choice but to start walking, carrying you well away from everyone, even as you tried to kick in such a way that was throwing your weight around, trying to throw him off balance enough for you to get free. He just grit his teeth and hung on, stopping to plant his feet every time you tried, only putting you down when you tried to bite him. But by that time, he was right where he meant to put you, the cell too bright and cold as he pushed you in ahead of him, keeping you at arm's length as you hissed and tried pushing back against him. "That's enough!" He barked, his tone full of authority and barely contained anger at your behavior.
"Don't order me around!" You barked right back, finally opting to back away from him, moving so that the table was between the both of you.
"Then stop acting like a psycho bitch!" He threw at you, his hands fisted at his sides as you watched him approach you again, not letting you back off. He’d never been one to allow space, he always had to confront a problem directly and right then. The words struck you hard and deep, deeper than anyone could have expected. They called back happily forgotten memories of your parents, how they would call you psychotic and threaten to commit you whenever you fought back against the parentification, against their general treatment of you.
Without warning, without thought, one of your palms connected with his cheek in a resounding slap! the sound echoing in the barren room. "You son of a bastard." You snarled at him through clenched teeth, the words sounding like they were coming from low in your throat. He continued to stare at the spot his head at been moved to, his jaw working with his anger as his chest heaved with mighty breaths. When he finally looked at you, it wasn't hard to see the betrayal and anger, making his narrowed eyes nearly glow, his lips thin little lines from how tight his mouth was. 
He left without a word, his stomping steps echoing through the hall even as the door shut firmly behind him. You stood there, staring at the door for what felt like an eternity as what you'd done finally hit you, regret and remorse flooding your being. You sank to the floor slowly, tears of worry and regret falling down your cheeks as you curled up under the table. You wanted nothing more than to apologize to him, to beg for forgiveness at his feet, but you were in a cell. You'd have to wait for however long he stayed away, while your son was tortured somewhere out there. You were helpless, truly, and you hated it.
You lost track of time as you sat there, aimlessly staring at a random point on the far wall, the events of the day playing over and over in your mind. You remembered how the kids had all stared at you with varying degrees of betrayal as soon as they had seen you appear with the Recoms, even as you had placed yourself between them and Quaritch, begging that he not hurt them. Their change in trust had lasted until they saw the cuff on your right wrist, the cool metal close to your skin, a thin layer of padding barely keeping it from biting into you. The damned thing was blinking at you mockingly, the little red light always in your vision and you couldn't do anything about it, cuffed as you were.
Your chin was beginning to dig painfully into your knees when the door swished open, calling your attention to the boots and partial legs that entered your vision, pulling you from your moping though you didn't move, or even hint that you'd seen the person. You could hear Quaritch sigh as he lowered to a knee, bending the rest of the way to get you to acknowledge him "Like mother, like son." He mused before lowering down the rest of the way, sitting with his legs crossed just across from you, though not under the table.
"Basic psychology." You shrugged absently, still listlessly staring at him like you couldn't even see him. "Get what you wanted?" You couldn't help but ask, the tiniest bit of bitterness in your voice.
He frowned before letting out an amused puff of breath "You should be proud, kid didn't give them anything." He praised and you were absently curious if he noticed his verbal distinction.
"I don't care if he talked, Colonel. I care that you tortured him." You finally met his gaze, letting him see the simmering anger you were keeping just under the surface.
His ears lowered as he looked away, frowning again as he fidgeted with shame "I stopped them, before he could truly be hurt. He's fine, before ya ask. I offered him a deal."
"What sort of deal?"
"He could travel with us, no information required, help you teach us. Or I'd have to give him back to the science pukes."
"I think I already know what he chose." You sighed, your shoulders sagging in relief. You wanted to cry again, so happy that he was out of direct danger. That he didn't have just you looking out for him anymore.
Quaritch nodded, watching your reaction like a hawk before he was suddenly serious again "Y/n, you can't try to attack human personnel again. Ardmore tried ordering me to have you executed 'put her down, she's obviously rabid' were her words. You do it again and I can't protect you." His warning was gentle though no less serious and heavy. You opened your mouth to agree and explain, but he beat you to it "I know why you did it, and I'm not saying you're wrong. You just need to restrain your temper in certain situations from now on. I'm not about to explain to the kid why you're dead."
You ducked your head a little, not able to look him in the eye as you realized he was right, and that that would crush Spider, especially if Quaritch had to be the one to tell him "Yes sir." You mumbled, feeling guilty as hell.
He nodded in acknowledgement before returning to a knee "Come on, we gotta get ready to go back out, finally start training."
You began getting out from under the table as he stood and backed away, giving you space to move "We should start with Ikran. Then we don't have to rely on where the Samsons can and can't go." You suggested as you followed him out of the room.
He nodded as he walked ahead of you, making it look like he was more tense and aware of you than he actually was, putting on a show for the humans "That'll be our first stop." He agreed, glancing at you over his shoulder "Everyone else is already gearing up, we'll meet them there."
No sooner had he spoke that the door in front of you both opened, revealing the rest of the squad as they packed everything they would need for an extended time in the field. Lyle barely glanced at the two of you, his face carefully blank but he could never hide the hurt in his eyes. You left Quaritch without a word and stopped right beside Lyle, staying a couple feet away to be respectful "I'm sorry, I was outta line." His eyes snapped up to you as you spoke, his ears focused on you.
He hadn't been expecting you to apologize, just as out of line as you had been. He knew how bad he'd hurt you as soon as the words left his mouth, he remembered your parents well. They were the reason you both got married at sixteen, to save you. He pulled you close, one hand on your waist as the other tangled in your hair, cupping the back of your head tenderly as he leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours "I'm sorry too." He murmured into the small space between you, his eyes closed as he breathed you in, felt your hands fist his shirt between you both "I deserved it."
"No you didn't." You vowed firmly, leaning up so the bridges of your noses were also pressed together.
Spider cleared his throat from nearby, calling all attention to him as he stared at you both with equal parts disgust, confusion, and amusement "Ummm... Mom... who's this?" He asked, looking at Lyle like he was a social rival, like an unwelcomed guest. He even glanced at Quaritch who only crossed his arms and leaned against a shelving unit, eyes dancing with mirth.
You pulled away from Lyle and sat down on your knees, wanting to be closer to his eye level as you broke the news "Spider, this is Lyle. Lyle Wainfleet." You watched him carefully, watched for any signs of distress as his eyes bounced between the two of you.
"Your ex-husband? The one who shot you?" He asked incredulously, causing Lyle to shift at the implications and connotations he was presenting.
You shook your head patiently "He's my husband, has always been my husband. And yes, he did shoot me, but he and I have already discussed that."
Spider was silent for a moment as he pondered your words, before slowly approaching and jabbing a finger up at the large male who was doing his best to not laugh or appear entertained by the display "You hurt her again and I'll use your balls as a bola." Spider vowed, tone firm and unwavering.
"Heard." Lyle managed to say somewhat seriously.                  
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deifuriae · 28 days ago
Note
Unlike all of the other presents Michael has sent out, there is no package sneakily snuck into her home when she is turns about. Michael appears at her door personally in the evening, knocking gently, steadying himself with a breath.
“Oriana.”
He begins to speak as soon as she opens the door, as though he might lose both his words and his nerve if he hears her voice. Metal rubs against metal in his clenched fist, and the other takes her hand, ensconcing it within his own, squeezing gently.
“I…I have never had much trouble with words, or at least I do not think so. But when I am near you, when you touch me, I…my voice fails me. All of these years, I have never met anyone like you. None so dear, none so bright. I could not fathom what I could gift to you, so…I went to Uriel.”
He turns up her palm, and in it he deposits a locket. The purest holy steel found in Heavens clouds, the chain simple, the locket itself in the shape of a dove. He unlatches it as it rests in her hand, and it is not a picture or a poem that rests inside.
It is the softness of a nestlings down against her cheek. It is the small joy of catching fireflies. It is her arm in his as they walk the golden streets. It is the feeling of her head on his shoulder as they listen to the choir sing. It is the skin of new fruit breaking beneath her teeth. It is the feeling of little bodies piled atop them, exhausted from play. It is the laughter of children.
Their children.
Memories. He had gone to Uriel for his memories. Had his brother distill them, the seer pouring all of that warmth, the laughter, the love remembered, into the little piece of jewelry. All of those little moments, the life that so often seemed so distant. The memories of the man that she made him want to be.
He closes her hand around the locket, and it snaps shut once more.
“I…I think I always thought of you as a man must think of his wife, Ori. But I never told you how much I love you. I love you so much.”
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Numbness had become the norm in her little, sequestered bubble, floating unseen and untouched just outside the reach of the greater universe which she had once been a part of. In the name of survival, her grief and her loneliness could not be permitted to sit front and center in her mind. She'd become good at it; squashing it all down, putting on a smile for the few who knew of her, exuding warmth when all she felt was tepid listlessness, keeping her arms open when she'd prefer to curl in on herself and dissappear from view.
It's so much harder with him. Every word, every touch, it piles in her chest like firewood, adding fuel to all those feelings she'd worked so hard to keep at bay. The good. The bad. The...confusing.
"Michael..."
A slow blink, and eyes decend to peruse the amorphous gilded object he'd placed in the palm of her hand. It feels cold at first, like metal, moulded and engraved in a way she soon comes to recognize as avian in shape. Beautiful, in and of itself, but it's not the tactile sensations which cause her eyes to brim with heavy reservoirs of soon to be spilled tears.
In her hand, he had placed a time machine, and as he pops open its blessed chassis, she is transported back to a place and a period where peace and joy did not elude her at every turn. Her lip trembles something fierce, as she cradles the locket close to her chest, soaking up every bit of that domestic serenity she had long since reconciled that she would never feel again.
Tears fall in steady streams down her pale face. Without thinking, Oriana reaches out, grasping the seraph by his robes and tucking herself in close, shoulders hunching, shaking with the weight of a millenia's worth of so much love and so much hurt.
"Please..."
She whispers into the threads.
"Please...don't let anything tear us apart again..."
Voice cracks and breaks like frangible ice over a stream.
"...I have been...terribly lost without you...horribly...I need you with me, Michael...I need you...so much..."
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gabriellereed · 11 months ago
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What a challenge they had ahead of them— pulling away long enough to be able to make it upstairs. Gabi found it difficult, especially when her hands felt so at home wherever they landed on his body. Resting against his chest, curving around the prominent muscle of his shoulder blade. She sighs, contently, whenever their lips touch.
But the privacy of his room is calling, and at last they're able to extract themselves out of the pool, forgoing clothes in exchange for two fuzzy towels. Gabi tucks it underneath her arms and follows behind Matty, bare feet padding quietly against the concert. Everyone was so drunk, so far gone in their own conversation and revelries and make-outs that the pair hardly garner any looks as they make their way to to the kitchen. Which was ideal. It's in the very, very far corner of her mind, but Gabi doesn't exactly want to explain the situation to Selene right now. She isn't sure if she'd be able to, anyway. She's so ... absorbed in the moment. It seems painful, to tear her eyes away from Matty, she keeps glancing back to the elegant dip of his spine, nearly colliding with a couch corner so absorbed she was in the task. Oops!
But now it was important to refuel.
She selects a bag of Haribo gummies, nods approvingly as she watches Matty load up on energy drinks and waters. There was always a can or two of those at her desk, tucked sneakily in her bottom drawer— surgeon general's warning be damned. Sometimes coffee just didn't cut it. After a moment's hesitation, Gabi settles on taking a box of cheeze-its as well.
'We're loaded,'
Fuck. That was devastatingly cute. Matty, balancing a proverbial treasure trove of snacks between his arm and shoulder, Lays bag clutched between his teeth. Voice muffled.
Gabi can't help but smile when she feels something fond spark inside her. Reaches out to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear.
"You have a very well-stocked kitchen."
And, as choice as the snack selection is, Gabi is even more entranced about the possibility of seeing his room. It's a very ... private, place. It often said a lot about you. It was exciting, the idea of being allowed to see this layer of Matty so soon. She tiptoes up the stairs quietly, something fluttering around her stomach until they reach the doorway— finally alone.
Her head turns this way and that, curious, eager, trying not to appear too obvious as she drinks in the details. It was expansive. Bright, eye-catching in a reflection of it's owner, greenery and delicately-painted tiles balancing the entire space. It was lovely. So very Matty, even if she's only had a short glimpse of him.
Gabi smiles. Notes just how perfectly large his bed is.
She deposits the snacks at the bedside table, almost impatient to set them down, feels something within her sigh contentedly when there's the sensation of Matty's hands cradling her face.
Oh.
It was so soft.
It wasn't the fumbling first touches of a stranger, it wasn't even the frantic need of some sudden hook-up in the dark. It felt like ... a key, returning to a lock, a cup nestling back into a saucer, a dove settling back to it's nest— familiarity. A sense of right. No more worrying about onlookers.
'I finally have you to myself.'
Her hand snakes up to cradle his face in turn.
"You already did." Gabi smiles at him, soft and feline, finger dragging slowly along the slope of his cheek. "Now you just have me alone."
And he did. Have her. To himself. Maybe it was crazy, but Gabi keeps grasping for an excuse to use the word my— my something, in relation to him. It was like that same desire to be the only reason he smiles tonight.
She rocks up, on tiptoes, to kiss him, lets her chest lean against his as if seeking warmth, really just wanting to feel his heart thud against hers. Wanting to know if this gravity had hit him too. How did you explain to someone that the blood in your head kept roaring like a rocket engine whenever they looked at you this softly?
Gabi doesn't understand it. And also understands it perfectly at the same time.
Just like her hand understands the way it needs to roam across his back, hook around his neck so she can hold him tight against her. Just like her mouth understands it needs to pepper his face with kisses, from the start of his chin to the sharp angle of his jawbone.
Her other hand reaches to unclasp the tab at the back of her bra. Returns back to Matty's body, as if pulled their by inevitable gravity. She traces her nails at the bottom of his spine, circling slowly upward, pressing her palms against his shoulder-blade and back to message gently into his muscles. There was still the lingering dampness from their time in the pool, the crisp contrast of a room without dozens and dozens and bodies inside.
Just the two of them here.
"Gotta make sure you don't freeze."
Gabi hums, continues to kiss him, tilts her head so that their noses brush just so.
Not only did Gabi want to be alone with him, she needed it - maybe in the same way he did. Matty was a social butterfly. He loved being surrounded by people absorbing other peoples' energies and being the center of attention, but. But not when the other option was to dedicate all of his attention to Gabi.
Matt had a hard time pulling away. He kissed her back, multiple times, before finally forcing himself to let go.
"C'mon."
He pushed himself out of the pool, offered Gabi help getting out, too.
Matty made his way to the lounge chairs. He found two clean, folded towels, wrapping one of them around Gabi's shoulders, using the other to quickly dry himself off. He wrapped the towel around his waist and headed inside.
There were less people than before. Some of them had started to clear out, but there were still a few people going. The jungle juice was nearly gone, which was a clear indication of how the night was going.
Mateo only stopped in the kitchen to grab a handful of snacks. Some water. Red bull. Chips, candy, gummies. And he figured they could order food, too, if they wanted. Basically, Matty was making it so they didn't have to leave his room if they didn't want to!
He looked at Gabi, grinning as he held a bag of Lays chips in between his teeth.
"We're loaded," he mumbled proudly.
Finally, Matty led Gabi up the stairs to his sanctuary. The best place in the house. His bedroom. It was massive and beautiful and colorful. He had a California King bed, a connecting bathroom, and a massive closet.
Matty placed the snacks and drinks on a night stand. Matty still needed to get out of his wet boxers and dry off a little, but. They were finally alone, for the first time that evening.
"I finally have you to myself."
He cupped her face, kissed her gently like it was the most routine thing in the world.
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cpn-hydra · 4 years ago
Text
All for You - Part Two
Synopsis: You’d hidden under the radar for so long, but not even suppressants could hide your omega scent from two super soldier alphas.
Pairings: Dark!Alpha!Steve x Omega!f!Reader x Dark!Alpha!Bucky
Word count: 5,867
Warnings: only read if you are 18+, please do not read if this makes you uncomfortable, non-con situations, kidnapping, this a dark fic so Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
Chapter Specific Warnings: non-consensual drug use, non-consensual medical situations
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Steve caught you a moment before you hit the ground, cradling your head in his palm. Bucky rushed over in panic, having seen your eyes roll into the back of your head before your knees gave out. He tapped your cheek a couple of times in attempt to get you to stir but your body was limp beneath him and your eyes sealed shut.
“Christ Steve, what did you do?”
Steve shot Bucky an accusatory look. “What did I do, punk?”
“Yeah, punk,” Bucky bit back, blaming him for their omega passing out.
“Hey guys,” Bruce interrupted, “Lemme check her over.”
Bucky was reluctant to let the beta get close but did so anyway, backing off slightly as Bruce checked you over. You were out cold. Your skin was cold and clammy and had lost its usual healthy glow. “She must be ill,” he surmised, “or perhaps it could be shock from her new situation.”
“She hasn't dropped?” Bucky frowned.
Bruce shook his head, tucking his glasses back into his pocket but his intelligent eyes still focused on your face. “I don't think so. From what I know of omegas, when they drop they go into a heightened state of alertness. Passing out doesn't really help them. Though if she hasn't dropped from this then I'm concerned about what she's been through in the past.”
“So what do you recommend now?” Steve asked nervously.
Bruce leant back on his heels. “Well, physical ailments aren't really my speciality, especially with omegas. You should take her to a doctor but for now I suggest you wake her up and get some food in her.”
“Yeah? What do you think, Steve?” Bucky asked, scooping you up in his arms and taking you to the sofa. He placed you down and cleared your hair from your face. He looked up and saw that everyone was watching with varying degrees of worry, Tony seeming to be the least bothered of all. Peter, on the other hand, had nearly fainted with you the moment you had collapsed.
“Let's wake her. She needs to eat,” Steve said, taking the lead as he generally did. “Wanda, could you?”
Wanda nodded, kneeling before you and conjuring red mist between her fingers. It wrapped around your face, seeping into your skin and bringing you back to consciousness.
**
You awoke slowly, eyes fluttering open to be pierced by blindingly bright light from above. You felt sicker than you had before. “You couldn't even let me stay asleep,” you groaned, bringing your hands up to cover your face. Your wrists were seized and you were pulled up to sitting like a ragdoll, your head lolling to one side sleepily.
“Alright there, 'mega?” Bucky's voice sounded from beside you.
“No,” you groaned, vision swimming.
He chuckled. “She's fine,” he said to someone you could not see before scooping your still groggy body up in his arms. “We gotta get some food in you before you pass out again.” He sat you down at the table, thankfully with your back to the huge window, though it didn't abet your fears of falling from the building.
“That's not the only thing I need,” you muttered spitefully, trying to right yourself in the chair. You set your elbows on the table and ground the heels of your palms into your eyes.
There was movement around you, and you only looked up when a firm hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling your hand back down to the table. You met Steve's cold eyes, out of place compared to the warmth of his expression.
You sighed, setting your other wrist on the table and looking at your company. They'd been talking to each other quietly, casting curious glances at you when they thought you weren't looking. You tried to find someone to direct your anger at that wasn't Steve or Bucky, but half of them were far too intimidating.
Peter Parker however had been staring at you since he sat down across the table from you. He positively reeked of omega pheromones. “What are you staring at, traitor?” you bit. Traitor he was indeed, at least to you. No omega should stand by and watch as another omega was mistreated, government conditioning withstanding. Furthermore you knew that Peter Parker was a special case. One of the only omegas who got a free pass, who got to live without constant interference from omega councils to make sure they were 'happy and well.' Everyone had seemed to agree that Peter Parker didn't need an alpha, that he didn't need protecting. After all, he was one of Earth's heroes. So you felt perfectly valid in your accusations of him, knowing that he had done nothing with his position to help omegas like you.
“Doll, that ain't very nice,” Bucky admonished as a he put a full plate of steaming food on the table in front of you. For a moment you ignored the rising sickness in your throat in favour of continuing to glare at Peter, who was fidgeting uncomfortably under your stare.
Tony Stark, who you had read was somewhat of a father figure to Peter, chuckled. “Don't think she likes you, kiddo.”
“Yeah I can see that Tony,” Peter grumbled, breaking away from your gaze and leaning into his arms on the table. His cheeks were red.
Bucky continued to hand out food to everyone around the table. You weren't quite sure why he needed to kidnap a housewife when he practically was one himself.
“Stop staring, precious, you're making him uncomfortable,” Steve said from beside you, hand reaching out to massage your shoulders. Instinctively you cringed away from his touch. There was a tense moment as you met his eyes, conveying all your hatred, anger and fear in one vengeful glare. He met your eyes with equal ferocity, a stern and patronising gaze challenging you to stand down. You didn't dare blink, no matter how badly your eyes burned.
Eventually it became too much and you turned your glare back on Peter who could not handle your intimidation tactics very well.
Tony, exasperated, clicked his fingers in front of Peter's face. “Hey omega, eyes over here. Capsicle, can't you control her?”
Steve clenched his jaw, fingers digging into your back now, masked as comforting. “Watch your tone, Tony. She's my omega to tame, not yours.”
You bristled at the possessive wording.
Bucky sat down on the seat to your right, “Our omega,” he corrected his mate.
“That's right, ours.” Steve punctuated his wording by caressing his fingers over the curve of your neck, right where an alpha's mark would go.
Your eye twitched.
Bucky sensed your growing anger, catching sight of the loss of focus in your eyes and the way your breath was starting to come out in short breaths through your nose, and distracted you by reminding you of the food in front of you.
Eating was a feat for you. You had to battle your nausea and the trembling of your extremities just to get the food into your mouth. After a few mouthfuls the nausea and wooziness began to dissipate but as time wore on you could feel the withdrawals worsening.
You took the time whilst you were eating to observe the rest of the people around the table. Wanda seemed keen to get to know you. She kept asking questions about where you'd come from, what it was like to be an omega, what your favourite food was, many of which Steve and Bucky shut down almost as soon as you opened your mouth to answer.
“Is this your first time living with an alpha?” she had asked.
You'd scoffed. “If by living you mean as a captive-”
“Omega, no.”
You'd sighed, slumping back in your chair. “Well either way, no.”
There'd been a stunned silence after that.
“Not very good saviours if you didn't do your research,” you looked at Steve and smirked, bringing your drink to your lips.
Thor was also very interested in you. “On Asgard we treat our omegas like queens,” he told you. “Expect nothing less from Bucky and Steve. You let me know if they don't treat you like you deserve.”
“Doesn't kidnapping count as less than I deserve?” you retorted, fed up and coming close to a breakdown. Still, you refused to give up. You had faith that Steve or Bucky wouldn't pounce on you whilst in company.
Bucky didn't pounce on you, but he may as well have. His hand moved to your back, this time holding you by the neck and putting pressure on the sides of your throat. You seized up immediately, craning your neck to try and get him off of you. Your body went into fight or flight mode. “We've been through this, doll. We rescued you,” then he leaned in close so that no one but Steve would hear, “Say we kidnapped you one more time and I'll take you into the bedroom and give you your first punishment, then you can finish your dinner.”
You bit your tongue after that, cheeks burning red. You met Peter's eyes again and this time he looked at least somewhat sorry for you.
You didn't speak to Natasha until after the meal when she offered to help you take the plates into the kitchen. You furrowed your eyebrows, ready to sneer at them all for making it your responsibility to clear up a meal you didn't even want, but you weren't going to refuse the Russian ex-assassin. In part because she greatly intimidated you, in part because in your days of living on the street you had come to admire her.
Natasha didn't appear to treat you any different than she did the rest of them. Some of the Avengers were known for being quite vocal about their opinions of omegas, their admonishments of omega rights groups, and Natasha was not one of them. While you didn't speak much to her, there already seemed to be some feeling of female solidarity with her, but you knew that she would not stand up for you. If she had been that sort of person, she would not have been in association with Steve, Bucky or Tony.
When the dishwasher had been loaded, much to your dismay, Steve arrived to escort you back to Bucky. “Come on sweetheart, we're going to play Clue. Should help you settle in.” His palms were placed on your arms as he walked behind you, shuffling you forwards towards Bucky and, behind him, the vast expanse of the sky. It made you feel queasy again.
Bucky was sitting where you had been before the meal, your cocoon of blankets beside him waiting for you to come back. You met the warmth of Bucky's smile with a hard glare. When Steve sat you down into your pile of blankets Bucky's arm wrapped around your shoulders before you could move away and Steve sat on your left side. Your thighs were touching both of theirs. Your breath caught in your chest and tears, angry or sad, stung your eyes.
You were on a team with Steve and Bucky. Minutes of playing passed by without much input from you, it was as if your not being there wouldn't have made a difference. You could barely even hear the laughter and the indignant shouts of one argument or another over the volume of your own thoughts.
What was your friend Cassidy thinking now? Did she know you'd been taken, had she told anyone? If so, what response did she get? Did the police tell her not to worry, your friend is in good hands now? How on earth were you to get out of this? Your heat would be coming up soon and while they could mark you before a heat, a bond wouldn't be made permanent until it was remade in a heat.
With your previous alpha, Alex, you'd started taking suppressants towards the end of your 'relationship.' Bonds couldn't be made when an omega was on suppressants so Alex hadn't let you even consider it. He wasn't able to mark you before you started suppressants though, every time his lips went anywhere near your neck you would lash out at him. Sometimes you would become violent, sometimes you would burst out in tears. Whatever it took to keep him from marking you, either way he would stop what he was doing immediately to comfort you or calm you down.
Alex knew that you were vehemently against being marked, that what for some people was a sign of love to you was like an anchor weighing you down. After a while he'd grown tired of your resistance. Alex wanted the perfect nuclear family. A sweet omega wife and two well-behaved, red-cheeked little children. He was never able to accept that you would not be the omega he wanted. He'd marked you one night right as you drifted off to sleep and before he could wake the next morning, you'd been on a rampant search for suppressants. Once you were on them, you wouldn't have a heat for him to make the mark permanent in.
It had been difficult but eventually you'd managed to slip away from him. When Alex had discovered you were on suppressants he had practically torn apart the house to find them and had cut off your access to your shared bank. Not that it mattered, you had a stash of cash and suppressants hidden where he couldn't find it. After a few weeks he became more distant, spending more time with his friends drinking than with you. Every night he'd come to you, begging you to stop taking the suppressants, but it was no use. You'd never truly wanted him in the first place.
You fled from the house one night, stole his car and moved states. His mark faded quickly and you hadn't heard from him since. Now that Bucky and Steve were getting involved and you technically had an alpha already, your past with Alex was bound to brought to the present. He'd be informed of your whereabouts and perhaps he'd put up a fight to get you back – and in truth you would rather be with him than with Steve and Bucky – but the jury wouldn't be on his side. How can an alpha care for his omega when he'd let her go missing? Much better to let the superheroes take her in.
For the umpteenth time that night, you were hit with a massive pang of grief, mourning your loss of autonomy. You were truly on your way to rock bottom, forced down by the mountains of people above you telling you that suppression of omegas was the natural order of things and that you should be grateful to be cared for.
You weren't paying attention to the game so when Bucky turned to you and asked you what the next move should be you blinked at him with heavy eyes. It had been a long day. “I want to go to sleep,” you told him quietly.
Bucky's lips curved upwards at your quiet request, happy that you weren't fighting him. “Just hang on a few more minutes doll, then we'll get you into bed.”
Sinking into your blanket you nodded, not having the energy for another fight. You wanted to so badly but the drugs they'd used to knock you out were still lingering in your system and made worse by the interaction with your suppressants, your withdrawals were making you feel progressively more worn down, every time you looked out the window you had to resist the urge to throw up, you were absolutely terrified and you were so, so angry. You didn't have it in you to stay awake any longer. You would fight them in the morning, for now you just wanted to go to sleep and pretend that you were still in your bed at home.
It was for these reasons that you didn't make it to bed, instead you passed out on Bucky's shoulder.
“You've got your work cut out for you, boys,” Natasha said quietly once she'd noticed your state of unconsciousness. “Just give her time, and a little bit of space every now and then.”
Steve frowned at the red-haired Avenger. “I thought you were against this,” he said to her, eyes questioning.
“I am,” Natasha admitted, “but I can see how devoted the two of you are already. I'm not going to try and stop you. You're a good friend to me, Steve.”
Bucky and Steve looked at each other with smiles of relief. When they'd told Nat about the omega they'd 'rescued,' she'd chewed their ears off down the phone. They were glad to not have her against them anymore. “Thank you Nat,” Steve told her sincerely. Nat half-smiled in return.
Bucky stood, gathering you, wrapped up in your blankets, in his arms. “I'll get her in bed, probably stay with her for a bit. Good game, guys,” he then looked to Steve, “I'll book an appointment with the doctor for tomorrow morning. That good?” Steve nodded and kissed you on the forehead to say goodnight.
***
The waiting room was cold and clinical. Even sandwiched between two super-soldier alphas who exuded body heat at all times, you were almost shivering. Perhaps it wasn't the cold but the fear of what you might face in the doctors' office, of the memories that would be brought back. Your foot was tapping against the linoleum floor and you were hyper aware of every sound around you. At least you were back on solid ground, there was a blessing in that at least.
This morning had been difficult. You'd woken to find that you were face to face with Bucky and Steve's crotch was pressing up against you from behind. You'd gone back to fighting them immediately and they had to wrangle you to get you to the doctors, realising they'd made a big mistake in telling you where they were going. You'd only paused your fighting when Steve snaked a large, capable hand behind the back of your neck and gripped your hair at the roots not tightly but firmly and told you in no uncertain terms the sort of punishment you'd get if you didn't get in the car.
When the doctor eventually poked his head into the hallway and called your name, you were so caught up in your thoughts that Steve had to wrap his palm around your bicep to get you moving. Walking down that oppressive hallway, you felt as if you were driven by a motor, not moving of your own will. Only when you were sat in front of the doctor did you come back to yourself.
He introduced himself to the three of you as Doctor Jenkins and immediately you were put off by the way he spoke to you. His glasses were perched on the tip of his nose so it felt like he was looking down on you with a condescending expression. He ran through some basic questions with you such as any allergies or past medical conditions, all of which you said no to, until he came to the question that made your blood run cold.
“And are you on any form of birth control?”
In your peripheral vision you saw Bucky and Steve's heads turn to watch you. You sat there in contemplation, twisting the rings on your fingers and trying to decide if you should lie. You opened your mouth to say 'no' but then you were interrupted by Steve, who slung his arm over the back of your chair and said, “Tell the truth, sweetheart,” in that low alpha rumble that you had no choice but to obey.
“I got fitted with the coil about a year ago,” you admitted sullenly. Steve's hand tightened around the chair you were sitting on, dragging it across the floor towards him with an uncomfortable screech.
“And can you tell me the name of the doctor who administered the procedure?” Doctor Jenkins asked, noting it down on his computer.
Your eyes were beginning to water. You could see where this was going. “I, uh – it was in a different state.”
Doctor Jenkins looked at you with a stern expression. “Could you tell me the name of the Doctor's office?”
“It was – uh – um...” you could feel the weight of Bucky's stare boring down on you. Fuck. “Fine...I...I didn't get it done by a doctor.”
You could practically feel the disappointment rolling off of the three men in the room. You couldn't stand it, the way they looked at you as if you were a child who refused to brush their teeth or eat vegetables.
“And who did the procedure?”
You sighed, knowing where this would lead but seeing no way out of it. “My friend did it.”
“A female friend?”
Your gaze snapped to Bucky and your lip curled. “Yes, a female friend,” you spat at him with malice.
The doctor was looking at you condescendingly. You'd had many doctors in the past and only a handful of them who'd known you were an omega had treated you like an adult. This doctor was already by far one of the worst and least professional you'd come across.
Not even looking at you as he recorded what you said onto your file, he said, “So obviously for your own safety we will have to have that removed, and I presume you will be wanting a new one in place?”
You opened your mouth to respond but Bucky beat you to it, grasping your hand and squeezing. “Actually no, Doc. We don't want it messing with her hormones or fertility or anything like that.”
Doctor Jenkins nodded. “Of course, Mr Barnes.”
“You can't do that!” you cried, lurching forward in your seat. “I don't even want it removed. You don't get to make that decision.” You were met with silence from the three men as you looked between them for a response with wide, wild eyes. You looked back at the doctor. “I'm not having it removed,” you said, ripping your hand out of Bucky's, crossing your arms and slumping in your seat.
Steve cleared his throat. “Calm down, omega. We just want to make sure you're healthy. It's our job as your guardians.”
“You aren't even legally my alphas,” you retorted.
“Not formally, no, but right now it's been made that we're your temporary alphas until we can present to the judge with your paperwork,” he explained.
Your jaw hung open. “It's been a day!”
“It got approved yesterday, doll,” Bucky chimed in, “During dinner.”
You'd thought that you would have had way more time than that. Temporary alphas were rarely heard of, only in those instances when it was deemed that there was immediate cause for an omega's decisions to be handed over to someone else and only when the alpha in question was of unquestionable moral standing – or at least what the government deemed to be unquestionable. But who better and more moral than Captain America himself? You truly had never had a hope. Your only chance would have been to flee to country, anywhere where omegas weren't treated as children but as adults. How fitting that this country had Captain America, who you now knew to be delusional, as its mascot.
You closed your mouth. Your cheeks were burning and you were absolutely overwhelmed with the horrible feeling of utter helplessness.
**
Steve went behind the curtain with you as Bucky talked with the doctor. You reluctantly unbuttoned your jeans and slid them down your legs, staying in your top. “Your panties too, precious,” Steve reminded you gently when you were about to take the hospital gown from him. You scowled, snatching it out of his hands and clothing yourself, only parting with your underwear when you were fully covered.
Steve gathered your clothes up from the floor, a salacious smile on his face when he hooked your panties over his pinky.
You sat on the bed trying to fight the rising sadness inside you. Steve took your hands in his and stood before you. “I know you don't like decisions being made for you, precious, but I just want you to be happy and healthy. That can't happen within toxins and foreign objects in your body.”
You rolled your eyes. “Get your hands off of me.”
Doctor Jenkins pulled the curtain back and walked over to you. “All ready?” he asked, smiling at you. Bucky was watching you over Doctor Jenkins' shoulder.
You considered a sarcastic retort, something snarky that would make him at least feel guilty, but then you remembered that antagonising the man about to delve into your body with metal tools probably wasn't the smartest idea. So you just nodded meekly and rotated your body so that you were laying on the bed.
“Can you two at least stand by my head if you aren't going to go behind the curtain?” you snapped at the two alphas, seeing that Bucky had no intentions to move once you spread your legs for the doctor.
To your fortune, Bucky and Steve did as you asked.
“Will it hurt her, doc?” Bucky asked.
The doctor shrugged, arranging his tools on the tray at the end of the bed. “It varies from woman to woman. For some it can be mild discomfort, for others they can barely feel it. Though since her procedure was not done by a medical professional and I don't know if the IUD was placed correctly, I can't say there won't be pain.”
This wasn't worrying to you. It had hurt like a bitch going in, you assumed it would be bad coming out as well.
Bucky and Steve looked at each for a concerning moment. You caught their eyes and frowned. What were they planning?
“Do you think you could give her a sedative, just in case?” Bucky asked. His hand pushed down on your shoulder as you tried to prop yourself up on your elbows. “She's very delicate.”
“I am not having a sedative!” you cried out indignantly.
“Of course, Mr Barnes,” Doctor Jenkins said, ignoring you as he stood and crossed the room to one of the cupboards.
“No!” you shouted, “Jesus Christ! I am an adult, I can make my own decisions!”
You tried to push yourself up but Bucky's hand pushed you back down again, this time pinning you to the bed, and when Steve did the same to your other shoulder, rendering your upper body immobile.
The doctor reappeared beside you with a small syringe in his hand. “Now, this will make you feel a little bit drowsy but should help with any discomfort,” you were told. Furiously you kicked your legs out but the doctor was nevertheless able to, with Steve and Bucky's help, inject the sedative into your arm.
The two alphas held you down until your movements slowed a couple of minutes later and your head slumped back onto the pillow. The doctor moved back to the end of the bed and found no resistance when he parted your legs wide and propped your feet on the stirrups either side of his waist.
Angry tears streamed from your eyes. You were helpless against what was being done to you. You could see Steve and Bucky above you, could hear their words of praise and feel the warmth of their hands as they caressed you lovingly.
“It's okay, doll, your alphas are here.”
Thanks to the painkillers there was only a twinge of pain throughout the humiliating experience, though it was one of the most uncomfortable processes you had ever been through. It felt as if the doctor was reaching into your body and twisting your organs from the inside, as if he was trying to punish you for not getting it done by a medical professional the first time.
When it was done and your tears only just beginning to dry, Steve went with the doctor back to the desk as Bucky helped you back into your clothes. Your movements were sluggish and your thoughts slow and you cried at the loss of autonomy. When Bucky pressed a kiss to your forehead, your skin burned painfully.
Back in the car, your head was resting against Bucky's shoulder as you recovered. It would be at least another twenty minutes before you fully came back to your senses. You barely even registered it when the car pulled up in front of a familiar building.
Steve didn't trust you to walk up all of those stairs by yourself so he held you all the way up to your apartment. Bucky and Steve didn't try to hide their distaste as they wandered around the room that housed your life. It wasn't much but over the past few years it had become your safe haven. Having them stomp around it was almost as upsetting as the knowledge that this would be your last time here.
“Tell us what we need to pack, doll,” Bucky said as he walked around your small apartment, opening and closing cabinets to try and find bags. You shrugged, finding your favourite blanket and wrapping it around your body. Most of what was important to you was on your laptop, everything else could be bought again so you weren't really bothered.
“Ideally nothing,” you said unhelpfully. Bucky's face fell.
“Come on, omega, you want stuff that smells like home. We can take all of your blankets and clothes. Whatever you want.” Steve said.
For the next twenty minutes you gave them vague direction as they wandered around, rummaging through your life. You sat yourself on the edge of your bed, waiting miserably for your strength to come back to you. As it did you became hyper-aware of your underwear chafing against your sore entrance, reminding you of how much rummaging around down there that the doctor ended up doing to find the strings of your IUD.
And then you felt the blood. Groaning in discomfort you pushed yourself up to your feet, ignoring the cramp in your abdomen and simply grateful that you could walk without falling over now. “Where you going, doll?” Bucky asked from across the room, a couple of your books in hand as he watched you with cautious eyes.
“To the bathroom, I'm bleeding thanks to you guys,” you replied, not even looking at him as you crossed the room still cocooned in your blanket.
“Okay doll, take all the time you need,” Bucky replied with a softer tone. Again you ignored him. When you shut the bathroom door behind you, he called out, “No locking that door!”
You were about to disobey him, aware of the knowledge that he would simply break the lock if you did, but your hand drifted away from the lock when you remembered what else was in this room.
You sat yourself down at the toilet, hissing at the burning sensation. Once you'd put a sanitary towel into your underwear and turned the tap on to wash your hands, you used the sound to cover up your tracks as you delved into your medicine cabinet.
Your heart leapt as you saw your suppressants sitting there, almost gleaming in the fluorescent lighting. They'd lied when they said they'd gotten rid of them. They'd clearly never even been in your apartment. Without even thinking you tore open the bottle and knocked two down your throat, using the water from the still running tap to wash it down. Frantically looking around for some way to hide them, you ended up stuffing the bottle with toilet paper in hopes that it would stop the remaining pills from rattling around and then shoving the bottle into your underwear as discretely as you could.
“All good?” Steve practically jumped you when you left the bathroom. You flinched slightly but kept your cool, nodding at him as politely as you could manage given your intense hatred of the man. When you stepped forwards and you swayed unsteadily, Steve quickly grabbed hold of your arm, stabilising you and guiding you to the sofa.
The bottle in your underwear chafed uncomfortably against you, rubbing against where you were already sore. The cramping you felt before intensified as you sat down but you held in a groan of discomfort. You wanted them to know how much pain you were in because of them, perhaps it would make them feel even a facsimile of guilt, but you refrained because you knew one of them would end up coddling you.
You settled into the cushions, wrapping your blanket tightly around your body and watching the pouring rain outside of the window, a perfect reflection of your mood.
“How much are you packing?” you asked Bucky as he stopped at the bookcase in front of you, somehow managing to pick out the only books you actually read. “I do actually like this place, I don't want to give it up.”
In truth your apartment was worth giving up. The building was particularly seedy, there were cracks in the ceiling and rats in the stairwell. The landlord was sketchy at best and your neighbours probably growing something in their bathrooms. But it was home.It was the first real place you'd ever had to call home, because it was yours. The omega centre had always felt more like a prison than a home, and at your previous alpha's house you were always walking around on egg-shells. Here was different. You didn't want to give up your snug book corner, or the bed you'd spent way too much on that smelled just how you wanted it to. This was home and Bucky and Steve were about to take it away from you.
“Well, it's not like we can move everything today. Plus we gotta find room for all your stuff at ours, but you won't be sleeping here anymore, doll,” Bucky told you softly as if he was worried that the news would break you.
But it was good news at least. Bucky's words meant that they weren't going to force you to sell your apartment yet, so you reckoned you had at least a week. Not that it mattered. If you escaped then this would probably be the first place that they looked.
You sighed heavily, earning Bucky and Steve's attention. “I hope you know that I hate you,” you told them sullenly, “and it's not some silly omega thing I'll get over. I hate you, the both of you, in every way that it is possible to hate.”
Steve stood before, hands on his hips as he looked down at you. Instead of getting angry, he smirked. “You're quite the omega, aren't you doll?”
You smiled wanly. “I'm really not, you just haven't encountered enough omegas. They're all as hateful as I am.”
***
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widowsofchaos · 4 years ago
Note
Could you do the prompt #60?
❝ mine
summary: Wanda isn’t too fond with how close a certain Captain is to you. pairing: Wanda Maximoff x black!reader warnings: fluff, jealous Wanda, a smidge of jealousy, and smut. Filthy use of the Slovakian language. Palm kissing aka my weakness. ao3 // requested from this prompt list a/n: Wanda is my wife, your honor. Hope I did my lover justice. Carol Danvers cameo. requested prompt 60: “Pay attention to me.” 2k words. Sorry for this late request, writer’s block is a menace. No beta, all mistakes are my own. do not repost my works
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It was late into the night, and Wanda’s spirits were more alive --- and enraged.
Anxiety and adrenaline bleeds through her witchy fingers, sparks zap dully at the tips, clutching her cup of liquor tightly.
Downs a hefty sip, a hiss, her lips snarling as the firewater trickles and burns down her throat --- Samogon, or how you cheekily teased, “Mother Russia’s own moonshine. Ruthless just like her children --- I mean look at Natalia, she puts vodka in her cereal.” A tiny smirk curls at her lips, your faint laugh lulls her in the memory.
A familiar giggle catches her ears once more --- melodic, soothes her ears, but Wanda scowls, knowing exactly what’s making you laugh. Her knuckles strain white, gawking over her shoulder, peeking eyes glow dangerously crimson red.
The party is amidst bustling with drunk melding bodies, great food, endless playlist of music --- ever so luxurious --- as every party Stark throws; regardless it being a private party among friends.
Across from the bar, near the lounge couches, you seated with your silhouette legs crossed, your head tilted back, tipsy giggles slipping from your lips; seated next to you was a certain Captain.
Oh no --- not Captain America, he was busy cuddling with his lovers, how he slurs lovingly ‘my Bucky, my Sammy.’ Steve and Bucky two fingers deep in Asgardian Ale, with Sam edging deep in whiskey. All three sharing kisses in the far corner, ready to sneak back to their room for late night loving.
Shamelessly undressing you with her eyes was Captain Danvers herself, her arm slung over your shoulders, deep in casual conversation with you. Simple maxi dress, adorning your hips, softly encasing your figure, low cut that amples your breasts --- and Carol was eating it up.
To the outsider’s eye, it would be seen as friendly banter, tipsy chuckles -- but Wanda knew better. Her eyes flicker to her wedding ring --- sparkling red --- the same one that twinkles on your marital finger.
She clicks her tongue --- Wanda indeed knows better. The friendship between Carol and yourself is fairly a new one, naturally gravitating towards Carol, how curious and intrigued you get to meet another inhuman besides Wanda and yourself.
No surprise how natural conversation flows between the Captain and yourself --- everyone you meet gravitates to you like a magnet, treating one as if they were an old friend.
You look delicious --- as always. Beauty that makes anyone double-glance, delicate yet intimidating. That glow, you carry a shine, an essence, a force of nature, but it’s so much more. Beneath the surface, radiates comfort, you can break any stoic façade with that wattage smile. Wanda and yourself match, a perfect yin-yang, one and the same, and Wanda loves it.
Both of you can feel it, see it, taste it.
Clever fingers, clever lips, clever tongue. Clever small hands carving Wanda’s hardened façade, in the quiet, warm and intense moments in time, where Wanda can be vulnerable, finally shed waterfalls over her losses, let her rant and rage without judging eyes --- where she can lay her heart in your hands, and she knew, you handle with care.
Because you know her, understand her. Able to simmer her down, know where her emotions stem from the deepest crevices of her spirit.
The endless drinks were nice, but Wanda rather be with you, somewhere else. She rather prefers to be in your shared quarters, with the babies, eating sugar snaps, and watching tv. A cozy night-in, and finally would tuck Billy and Tommy in their cribs; sneak away to bed, caress and cradle each other till succumbing in deep slumber.
But --- you convinced Wanda, thinking tonight’s party was a good reprieve, to relax with friends, and drink till merry, without the stresses of motherhood. Now, she battles another stress, another grievance.
Green-eyed monster rearing its head --- jealousy.
‘She’s full of shit.’ A sultry Slovakian spite lingers in your mind --- only in your mind, a sharp side-eye, you glance to see Wanda, nursing her drink --- halting your pinched fingers from twirling your flute.
Slightly puckering your lips, restraining a grin splitting from ear to ear, you coyly titled your head at Carol, who was complimenting the tattoo that adorns your shoulder-blade. How slyly Carol’s fingertips trace the tatted lines, feigning curiosity.
‘Her hands all over you, fucking kurva.’
‘Pay attention to me.’
A dull clank of a glass against the counter could be heard. A breathy chuckles escapes from your nose, as you can feel Wanda’s eyes burning holes in the back of your skull, and no doubt, dying to literally burn holes in Carol’s blonde dome. “I think I’m gonna hit the hay, my head feels light.” A polite excuse without offending Carol from your erupt leave.
“Awh, already? It’s not even late, grandma.” Carol teases, as she presses the rim of her beer against her lips --- her fifth one tonight --- tangy flavor of Budweiser weighing on her tongue, fueling her mischief. “Who are you calling grandma, I wasn’t the one born in the sixties.” A few strings of chuckles, you graciously depart from Carol, as she wiggles her slender fingers goodbye.
Waltzing to the bar, your hips swaying, placing the flute on the counter; sitting next to a stewing witch. Elegantly perching your elbows on the marbled bar, your nails flicker delicately as your wrists bent against your chest, coyly swinging gently on the bar stool. Slyly peeking from the corner of your eye, you catch Wanda staring at you.
Tenderly covering her glass with your palm, tugging it out of Wanda’s palm, and gliding it away. “Let’s go to bed.” You slither, eyes glassy --- the champagne bubbling light in your head, skin tingling and aching for Wanda’s touch; your eyes rover over her figure, curves snug in a velvet maxi dress.
Auburn hair coils in slick waves, draped over her smooth shoulders. Leaning in, you can smell the liquor wafting from her slick lips, Wanda tsks, cheekily leaning towards you; her fingers sought out to your thigh, gripping the flesh.
Lips now hairs away, “Oh --- now I exist?” Wanda sneers, sultry, her accent weaving out in a hiss. “Don’t be like that.” You tsk, smoothly gliding off the stool, your fingers sliding against Wanda’s open palm, interlocking softly. Wanda murmurs, be like what? As she pouts, gazing at your heart-shaped lips.
“Now, is my wife going to bed with me or is she going to hex the Captain?” The pad of your thumb caressing Wanda’s finger, trying to tame the witch. “I prefer hexing her, and then ravishing you on the glass table for her to see --- želá si, aby ochutnala vašu kundu, vašu šťavnatú ako sladkú broskyňu.”
Filthily whispering in her native tongue, her fingers curving, and bending graciously as carmine magic emits. The warmth of her breath beats against your cupid-bow, ever so close to your lips; tantalizing, more intoxicating than any ale in all the realms.
Wanda pulls away, earning a whine from you, she hushes your lips by the tip of her oval nail, “Behave till we get back to our room.” With no other word, Wanda snags your wrist in her grip, dragging you out of the party into the dark hallway.
Scattering feet wander through the compound halls, only clicks of heels echo and pierce through the silence. Dancing shadows linger on the walls, breathy moans, wet lips. Wanda’s palm glides and grips the curve of your neck, pinning you against the wall --- just a mere inches away from your apartment door. “I can’t wait any longer.” Wanda growls low in her throat, her antsy hands.
Slithering fingers slip under the hem of your bunched up dress, feathery fingers chilled at the tips from the glassed liquor caress the skin of your inner thigh. Earning a silky hiss through your teeth, as Wanda’s lips parts open upon yours as if breathing in your essence; as her fingers dove beneath the fabric of your thong. Soaking her left handed fingers between your velvety lips, your fingers cling onto Wanda’s hips, sneakily massaging her soft ass through the smooth fabric, bundling up her cheeks. Groping, and squishing.
“Do you feel it?” Wanda asks, dripping with lust, a dull spark zaps at your clit, jolting you with a whimper, teasingly Wanda left your throbbing clit to toy with your clenching hole, but she doesn’t slip inside you. Yearning for her to touch you more, plunge and curl to the point of delirious pleasure. Delightful swell swirls in your heart, a flicker in Wanda’s eyes --- something you couldn’t quite pin.
All she can see is Carol’s hands touching you, touching what is hers, Carol’s slithering eyes roaming your breasts, and curves. It wasn’t your fault, no --- you were just being a good friend, engaging in conversation --- but she felt abandoned. As if Carol swooped you away, like a thief in the night. Stealing a treasure that didn’t belong to her nor deserve it.
You’re her wife --- you are hers, just as she is yours.
“I need to feel all of you.” A mess of words, gasping breaths, as Wanda happily snuck her two fingers inside your spongy walls, fluttering, and quivering thighs. Thrusting with no hesitation, your hips crash against the palm of her hand, tangling tight as a tether, curling fingers beckoning in a salacious curve. Pulling you close, her fingers digging in your hip-bone, breasts to breasts, melting against the wall, kissing you, your mouth, your cheeks, the slope of your nose --- delicately pecking your shut lids.
The palm that cradled your hip, traveled the terrain of your waist, and glided upon the arch of your spine, traveled between the shoulder blades, her touch eliciting sensitivity on her bare flesh, and cupping the nape of your neck. Fondling your neck, as her lips never wavered from your face, remaining as she continued her shower of kisses, as she fucked your cunt with vigor --- unrelenting, your wetness echoing with unabashed squelching.
A wet spot formed the dead center of Wanda’s panties --- just the sounds of you can make her cum on the spot. Sticky against her peach-fuzz, your legs sliding against hers, as her fingers continue with no interruption. Wanda’s wet panties stick to the skin of your thigh, humping with desperation, the sensation of syrupy cotton and heated bare skin nearly drove Wanda to the brink of endless bliss.
“She can’t have you ---” Wanda groans, her pupils almost rolling to the back of her skull, as the lips of her cunt split and ride even harder against your knee. Nearly gliding down the wall pavement, clinging onto each other in a loving embrace, “---she can never have you.” Wanda whispers in the shell of your ear, her teeth graces sharply the line of your jaw, her tongue licks a wet glide, sucking and nibbling on your pulse-point, marking her territory.
As one palm cups Wanda’s ass, guiding her as she unravels on your thigh, a hand leaves to her shoulder blade, your fingers flicker with her straps, pulling it over Wanda’s shoulders, and with a frenzied impulse, tug the fabric down --- Wanda’s milky breast spills out, still swollen with breast milk.
Pink areolas hardened by the cool air, your moist tongue peaks from your lips, and the tip flickers against the dripping nipple. Leaning your head down on Wanda’s chest, suckling greedily --- nearly her whole tit was engulfed in your mouth, sloppily slurping.
A shriek nearly bubbles at Wanda’s throat, cradling your head in her arm tenderly, kissing your temple, her nose inhaling your scent --- always emanate a tender scent of crushed roses; as your chin drips with milk. “Mine, you’re mine.” Wanda wispily moans, as you drank from her tit, saliva coating the corners of your mouth. Moaning at the taste on your tongue, satisfying your carnal palate --- the vibration sending a shimmer up the crevices of Wanda’s spine.
Sweat beads at your brow, as sweat drenches Wanda’s baby hairs clinging onto her temple, mouthing ‘love me, love me’, her fingers pulling the threads of silk from the jewel between your legs, now drenched. Two gardens watering, the petals of tulips bloom. Your thigh now slippery, grinding her clit hard, slow thrusts --- riding out, edging herself; refusing to cum without you.
As if you were a fragile china doll, shakily Wanda’s spidery fingers brush against heated skin, sweeping the arch of your neck, dancing down on smooth brown shoulders, downward to the line of your fore-arm.
Leisurely slowing down her fingers that rested inside your moist caravan, sinuous fingers kiss the skin and daintily hold your wrist, pulling away from her bum. Lifting, and lightly twisting upward to bare your exposed wrist; you halt, hesitantly your eyes peer up at Wanda. Cheeks dewey, and dusted pink.
Lips part from Wanda’s sodden breast, a string of saliva connects from your bottom lip; as if time ceased still, bringing your wrist to her lips, her eyes never leaving yours. A breath hitches in your throat, open mouthed kisses trail up, lovingly your fingers cup her soft cheek, her lips plush at the cusp of your palm. Wanda’s eyes are two moons, hauntingly beautiful, makes your spirit want to create a temple in blind faith in the name of love, yearning to worship; the waves of love coils off of each other.
Hot breath is a hymn, cascades against your hand, slow and soft kisses --- a tingle at your fingers. A simple gesture yet holds no bounds of adoration, deeply into each other eyes. Wanda’s fingers lock with yours, her wet lips part against the pad of your thumb, her teeth nip, her tongue lick ever so faintly; sucking the finger between her lips.
Erotically Wanda’s hips began its tirade once more, her soaked fingers flourish inside you with no mercy --- she knows, oh she knows. You’re close, oh so close, close, close to the edge --- you know Wanda’s close too, by the way her breath pitches ever so higher; just dying to fall over in Wanda’s arms, fevered. Bury inside each other, this unspoken waltz, not needing to verbalize --- it’s there, not always having to be feverish hot fucking, but it can be passionate, desperate, and warm.
To dive deep inside each other, crawl under the skin, and rest there as a love nest.
Foreheads touch, nose to nose, eyes fall into the depths of each other, a mess of entangled limbs --- a splash of kaleidoscope bursts before your eyes, mouths smashing to dull the shrills; cumming hard on Wanda’s fingers dragging it out, as her fingers dragged out, agonizingly so.
A sheen of wetness crashes and coats your thigh as a balm --- witnessing the motion embody each of your faces with each ripple of your orgasms. Memorizing every expression, any twitch, lips shaped in Os, never tearing your eyes away from each other, because you both wanted to --- such beauty.
The smell of Wanda is intoxicating, makes you dizzy, love-drunk, and adored. Resting your bodies on each other, raspy giggles flow, face leaning on face, caressing cheek to cheek, as Wanda nestles her hands on your face. A daze of happiness, the stresses of a green-foaming monster now a faded memory, cuddling each other in a tight hug, just airy laughs muffled in your chests. Just leaning against the wall, full length of your bodies pressed, braced as if being one.
A faint cry of the twins breaks the haze, ever so sync the boys wail for their mothers --- just like clockwork, it must be 2 am; time to feed the hungry bellies of your babies, just like their mama feasted on their mother. Slipping back into reality, fixing each other’s disheveled clothes back to somewhat back to being decent. Frizzy hairs springs in all directions, sheens of sweat now coat your skins, but a sense of relief drapes upon you two.
As Wanda leans her hand on the wall, resting your head on her stretched arm, head tilted as you soothe Wanda’s cheek, watching her, the greenery of her irises shine bright at your glassy brown orbs, as if a fire that can’t be smothered.
Making the butterflies erupt in her chest, making Wanda feel seen in so many ways that she never had before. En pointe, standing tall to kiss Wanda’s lips, light and sweet, resting your head in the crock of her shoulder. Lashes flutter as Wanda holds you to her bodice, with your heart swelling, you whisper to her.
“I will never leave you. Wherever you go, I’ll follow.”
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emilia3546 · 4 years ago
Text
The Rest of Our Lives Part 2 - Nessian NSFW
Written for Nessian month oranised by @illyrianet using the prompt: After the mating ceremony NSFW
*****
Nesta had almost tuned out from the repeated words of congratulations, the hugs from everyone around her, and she kept reminding herself that these were her friends, her family, she could wait a little longer to get Cassian home. Still, the House stood tall over the city, her little reminder of what was to come, even as Cassian pulled her close to him, resting his chin on her head as he swayed slightly to the music floating through the air. Nesta giggled, and placed her free hand on his shoulder, letting Gwyn's voice guide them through a dance, their first one as a married couple. Even if her friend was still too nervous to be there in person, she had found Cassian a few days ago to record a song onto Nesta's symphonia. She closed her eyes, leaning against him, hardly noticing that the garden had fallen quiet, hardly noticed everyone's eyes on them as she allowed Cassian to lead her through the music. Once the song had finished, switching to another she raised herself onto her tiptoes, but still Cassian had to dip his head to kiss her, earning cheers from all around.
Nesta snorted at Emerie's raised eyebrow,
"Get out of here, you two, no one wants to see that," she teased, and Nesta flipped her off, earning another laugh, but didn't complain when Cassian tugged her through the garden, struggling to keep up behind him,
"Cass! Slow down," she stumbled on the cobbles in her heels, and Cassian simply swept her back into his arms, "Is that your answer to everything?"
"It is tonight."
Nesta looped her arms around Cassian's neck, not once taking her eyes off him as he leapt into the sky, circling round an updraft before lazily gliding over Velaris. She sighed, and rested her cheek against his chest, his closeness, his scent grounding her as he spiraled up, up, up above the clouds before leveling out. Nesta laughed as the wind whipped past her, Feyre's magic holding her hair and make-up in place, so far her promise had held, and she let go with one hand to reach out to touch a cloud, yanking her hand back at the coldness, and laughed again at Cassian's snort of amusement,
"Are we going home or not?" She teased, "Anyone would think you'd want to get back as quickly as you could,"
"We are, but I thought it might be good to go and see Gwyn first, or it'll be in a week's time," Nesta squirmed at the promise in those words,
"A week?"
"Oh yes, I'm not letting any other males near you until my name is the only thing you remember," Nesta flushed, struggling for a comeback, but screamed when Cassian tucked his wings in, diving for the House's balcony. She clung on to him,
"Don't you dare drop me!" She squealed, hiding her face in his neck as the balcony neared, and stayed there when his wingbeats quieted and he stepped forwards, his feet now on solid ground,
"You can look now, Nes," he murmured, and she just smacked his shoulder,
"That's for scaring me," she said, wriggling to get out of his arms, but he just held her tighter, "Are you going to put me down?" He pursed his lips, as if thinking, but grinned,
"No, never."
"I'd think even you would get tired eventually," Nesta chuckled, but didn't complain again, relaxing into his hold, even as he carried her down to the library, finally letting her stand on her own once they reached it. "Hello, Clotho," Nesta grinned,
Hello, Nesta, are you here for Gwyn? She's a few levels down, and desperate to see you both,
"Thank you Clotho," Nesta smiled when Cassian subtly tugged her back against him, as if he couldn't bear any space between them, making Clotho reach again for her pen,
And I wish to offer you both my congratulations, before you become too distracted. Nesta laughed at that,
"Thank you, Clotho, it almost feels like a dream,"
"You sure about that? Want me to prove it's not?" Nesta flushed again at the words, despite knowing that Clotho hadn't heard,
"Not now," she hissed, but couldn't hold back her smile at the thought, it wasn't a dream, not any more. She smiled again at Clotho as she started down into the library, squealing in delight when she saw Gwyn, immediately running towards her and throwing herself into her arms,
"Nesta! You took your damn time coming to see me!"
"Sorry, we got carried away at the party,"
"Carried away?" Gwyn chuckled, "I do hope that's not code for anything,"
"Cauldron no," Cassian huffed at Nesta's words,
"Slightly offended there, Nes,"
"Oh really, did you want to get up to something at the party, with all the other males there to see?" He frowned, and Nesta chuckled, "Thought not," she laughed when Gwyn grabbed at her hand, eyeing her ring,
"Oh it's beautiful," she gasped, "I knew he was getting something specially made, but it really is beautiful, nice job, Cass," she laughed as she offered him a quick hug, but narrowed her eyes once she'd released him, "Have you spoken to Emerie?"
"Yes,"
"What did she say?"
"She threatened to cut my balls off if messed up,"
"Good. I think it goes without saying that I share the sentiment," she chuckled, and Cassian grinned,
"Good gods, what have we created?" But then his gaze leveled at Gwyn, "With all seriousness, I would rather die than let anything hurt her," Nesta rolled her eyes,
"Here come the dramatics," but Gwyn nodded,
"Good. I won't keep you any longer, I know you're both desperate to get alone," she grinned at Nesta, "Go and have some fun," Nesta made to respond, to claim that they weren't that bad, but Gwyn just raised an eyebrow and she relented,
"See you in a week,"
*****
Nesta didn't make it to their bedroom before she hauled Cassian's mouth to hers, stumbling back against a wall, opening at the first brush of his tongue against hers, all the restraint she'd been clinging to all night vanishing when he pushed her harder against the wall. She moaned when he brushed a hand against her cheek, then into her hair, tugging her head back to give him better access. She panted when he pulled back, his hand in her hair holding her still when she tried to follow his movement,
"Cass," she whined, grabbing a hold of his jacket, and trying to tug him back towards her, but he stayed where he was, just staring down at her,
"I love you," he whispered, then kissed her again, gentler this time, less full of need, and he cradled her head as she kissed him back, wrapping her arms around his neck, moving against him as he held her there. She drew her legs up and around his waist, letting out little gasps and moans when he moved from kissing her mouth to her jaw, then her neck, and she cried out his name at the slight bite on her collarbone. She chanted his name again and again, losing herself to feel of him against her, pressing her into the wall, his hand still holding the back of her head, cushioning it when she tossed her head backwards at the pleasure of his mouth on her.
"Cass," she whimpered, "Bedroom, please," she clung on to him, her face buried in his neck, offering little kisses, then more, all while he carried her through to their room, hands rubbing up and down her waist, earning whines and whimpers until he slowly lowered her to the bed. She ran her fingers through his hair, tugging it out of the tie he'd pinned it back with, and tugged, hard. Cassian groaned, his gaze fixed on Nesta, her chest heaving, her lips already swollen, the flush spreading from her face down her chest. He kept staring straight at her while she unbuttoned his shirt, sitting up to reach behind him to free his wings, running a finger along the edge of one in her own sinful promise. Later she might only remember his name, but she'd be damned if he remembered anything other than hers. She stood up, shoving him down to the bed with one hand, snorting at his dramatic fall, but squealed when he tugged her onto his lap. She sighed at the heartbreaking gentleness with which he swept his hands up the bodice of her gown,
"You're so beautiful," he murmured, "So, gorgeous," he kissed her cheek, "So brave," another kiss, this time on her jaw, "So strong," a kiss on her neck, and Nesta's hands automatically dove into his hair, holding on as he slowly, too slowly untied the back of the dress, and lifted her up to allow it to fall away, kicking off his pants at the same time before sitting back down with Nesta straddling his lap. Gods, he was everything, and tears sprung to her eyes as she beheld him in that moment, adoration shining in his eyes, she could feel, literally feel his love for her as if it were her own, that new mating bond practically glowing between them,
"I love you," she said, then she said it again, and again, tears slipping down her face as Cassian squeezed her waist, right here, right now, this was real, he was real. It wasn't, had never been 'just sex', but right now, it really meant something more than it ever had, it meant that she  had chosen him, and he had chosen her, even after everything, he had chosen her. She almost couldn't breathe through the blinding joy in her heart, mirrored in Cassian's eyes, "You're my mirror," she whispered, and let herself go when he cupped the back of her neck, tugging her down for another kiss. Her lips parted when he pulled back, and she nestled into him, sitting in silence, his arms around her, happy and content at long last.
Nesta traced the whorls of ink along his chest, his shoulders, but stopped when she came upon something new,
"What's this one? I haven't noticed it before?" She traced the ink over his heart,
"It's new, and it's for you, us, our mating, didn't Feyre ask you what you would want if you were to ever have a tattoo?" Nesta nodded, "What did you say?"
"Wings, like yours," Cassian tugged her against him, running his hands up and down her back,
"You really are an Illyrian now, your own wings and everything," Nesta laughed,
"Really? I thought you had to make a bargain,"
"We did, when we swore our vows, we don't have to keep them, not all mated pairs have them, but I'm keeping mine, it says your name in ancient Illyrian, right over my heart where you belong."
"I've always wanted wings," Nesta chuckled, "I'd be a fool to get rid of it, especially when it's for you," she settled against his shoulder again, "I thought newly mated pairs couldn't get their hands off each other?"
"That's true, but only once they start, when I get inside you, I'm not going to want to stop until we're both exhausted, and neither will you, but I will stop, you know the deal, you say the word and I stop,"
"Well," Nesta grinned, "I can't stop you if you don't start, now can I?" Cassian grinned, flipping her onto the bed underneath him, and pinned her hands above her head. She arched her back, her head falling back, and he swore, finally taking in her lingerie. "Mor took me shopping," she grinned, and Cassian swore again, staring down at her breasts, held aloft by a bra the same color as her dress, pushing her breasts up, but he ignored them, kissing his way down her stomach, and finally released her hands,
"Keep them above your head," he muttered, and Nesta left them there, for now, she'd take back power later, but for now, she just wanted him to show her exactly what a mating bond meant. She squealed when he gripped her panties, pulling them up so that they rubbed against her, and immediately reached down to try to tug him closer, "Do I have to tie you up? Hands above your head," she melted under the command in that tone, the same one he'd used when playing courtier. She lifted her hands again, "Good girl,"
"Please," she whispered, "Please," and Cassian finally pulled her panties away, then her bra, and climbed onto the bed to hover over her. He nudged her legs apart, waiting for a moment, "Cass," she whined, "Yes, c'mon please," no reaction, "Lord Cassian Archeron, fuck me now."
"Oh fuck," he muttered, dropping his head to bite softly at her neck, drawing more moans of delight from her, "You have no idea what you do to me,"
"Show me. Cassian, show me," Nesta tossed her head back against the pillow, he body arching off the bed as Cassian slipped two fingers into her. She forgot the command to keep her hands over her head, grabbing out at his shoulders, and forced her eyes open, watching his face as he slowly curled his fingers, pleasure arcing through her, coiling in her belly. Her mouth fell open in a silent scream at the next movement and she ground against him, dragging his face back to hers.
"Fuck," he muttered again, drawing his fingers out of her, but before Nesta could complain, he'd pushed them into her mouth, groaning at the sight of her swirling her tongue around them, licking the taste of herself away. She lifted her hips as best she could and wrapped her legs around his waist, moaning around Cassian's fingers when he pushed into her, that new mating bond going taut between them. She held his gaze when he pulled out and pushed back in slowly, cradling her head,
"Cass," she moaned, then screamed it when he slammed back in harder, and again. Nesta screamed with each move he made, no matter how small, it was as if everything was intensified, better than usual, and it was almost overwhelming, she'd never felt pleasure quite like this. She grasped harder at Cassian's shoulders, a hand slipping down, and he bucked into her at the first touch on his wings, and groaned her name again and again when she traced the edge. Nesta grinned at the ecstasy in Cassian's eyes, collapsing onto the bed beneath him, moaning his name again, but quickly surged upwards, flipping them over, and crying out as she sank onto him, even deeper than before if that were possible. She rolled her hips, placing both hands on his chest, letting Cassian guide her, his hands on her hips, helping her move, but she leaned down, kissing that new tattoo over his heart, then higher. Cassian moaned her name when she kissed his neck, laughing through her kisses when he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight to him as he thrust his hips upwards, then sudden sensation sending her flying into ecstasy, screaming his name as all the tension in her belly released in one wave, continuing as she felt him release into her.
"Nesta," he moaned, "Nesta, Nesta," Nesta could hardly form a thought, didn't need one, in that moment there was just him, just him. She rolled her hips again, moaning louder at the feel of him already hardening again inside her, now she could understand why he'd need a week to be able to face other males, she might need longer to stomach other females being around them. But she pulled off him, and squealed when he flipped her back onto the mattress, moving faster than she'd ever seen him, "Oh no, you fucking don't, I'm not done with you."
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muffindaddystyles · 4 years ago
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𝑌𝑂𝑈𝑁𝐺 & 𝐵𝐸𝐴𝑈𝑇𝐼𝐹𝑈L 
A oneshot of how you two met in the beautiful city of Italy, how Harry finds you an Angel descended from heaven above that took his hand and became his light. Dad!harry full of fluff..oh yeah dad!harry nation lets rise. .Part two of tooth rotting dad harry of it is here too. young and beautiful (II)
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It's Saturday night. Harry and you intentionally have no plans but to loaf around in your guys cosy homely space. The candles flames with rośe tranquilness, the intro to movie watched many times together rolling in. Both of you are snuggled onto large body sucking sea-green velvet couch infront of telly.
His daddy long legs nestled atop your hip hooking around your ankle protecting you from falling if possible (moreso the fact he's extremely protective of you in your pregnancy.) His one elbow snaked around your collarbones which are now hiding underneath soft swelling, his sweater pawed arm sheltering around your huge eight months baby bump slender tender fingers tucked underneath your side.
You relaxes into him, back pressed to his tanned chest and with his chin resting atop your hair whenever he rasped out something it bobbed your whole head.
"Yeh' kay, baby? comfy?" He asks you for the hundredth time now caressing and stroking your chin, then earlobes, collarbones to your belly and the list goes on. It's one of his habits that he doesn't realizes himself more as ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑢𝑎𝑔𝑒. Harry's love language's physical contact, lots and lots of them. He finds calm in touching you here and there, raking his palms without them knowing their destination. He's cuddly and clingiest when drunk. Although, he has stopped drinking since you both are expecting but the clingy part of him jumped out during this period his only excuses are "wanna stay close to me' three babies." Or "i feel empty when you're even a bit away from me." 
"'M lover, stop worrying." You bring his jaw down with the tip of your pointer finger to kiss his lips gently with a tilt of your chin. He mumbles an anxious "cant." in your mouth running his thumb under the curve of your womb with amiable affection.
You hiss into his mouth when one of your bubba kicks you with ever most force and he pushes away with amused eyes, when he felt the kick against his palm. It's not like it's his first but everything related to his unborn babies muse him to utter excitement and tears of joy.
He shifts a tad resting his a little scruffy cheek against your silken naked bump, you're wearing one of his crotched zinc orange crop top and it bunched up your belly in very much likeness of Harry, he thinks you look so endearingly sexy he could make you use him as many times you want. His ear tucked under the crescent of your chest, "feels like jus' a barrier of skin between us." He bubbles his accent and you smile down at him infectiously. Meanouvering your fingers into his chestnut curls and massaging his scalp that made his eyelids futter into bliss.
There was another visible kick and Harry smoothed down the skin eyes shinning up at you, "a footy champ this one." You sucked your bottom lip trying not break into fits of laughter because from the weight your pelvis muscles has become weak and you end up leaving wet tiny splotches most of the time. First time you had it was two months ago you were fucking embarrassing and couldn't stop crying right after an hour of genuine laugh ofcourse caused by Harry when you guys shopped for babies and he wore that one onesie on his head being all goofy and child of two while expecting two himself.
"How're meh' baby girls. meh' bunnies." He smauched loud wet kisses all over your belly making slobbery snuggly voices to annoy you. You tug at his roots whining loudly because you know the undeniable loving scene of Harry talking to his two daughters will bring you to tears all because of stubborn hormones. Yes, two!
While you weren't even expecting a pregnancy, God said wait for my bumper surprise.
Everyone told your bump looks healthier than normal pregnancies but you ignored it until the day of gender check-up. Harry was ecastatic, fist pumping the air, bouncing with your hands intervined tears bloodshot in his eyelines. So were you...but you had a huge breakdown on the wooden floor of your home's threshold. You were blabbering thousand questions to him, body shaking and fighting to breath.
"I...I can't do this, Harry...too much 's too much." You cried to him that day. But he cradled your face into his calloused palms his temple kissed yours, "ye' can, my sweet girl. we can. wish I could bear one of our baby bunny, it's sad that I cant help ye'. But, it's my promise to be there for you forever and always." He leaned down to kiss you with so much love, more love he was keeping to himself ever since and more more love he can't put into words.
He comes back from your belly to leave a feathery kiss on your lips that makes you yearn for him more and settles back to his previous position, his face shoved into the crook of your neck and he presses kisses to the corner of your lips while your eyes remains glued to telly.
As Sally and Harry bickered in the car you chuckled softly fingers tracing his nose and the mole sheltered under it, "remember how we met?" His breath fanned tickling your cheek heartily when he shook his head with a giddy giggle.
"How could I not? Yeh' were a honey pot and a weepy mess after tha'." He scrunches his nose at you adorably reminiscing the night and series of nights after that.
"It was your fault mister." You twitch your lips turning to his side with his help and his hand sprawled at your back instinctively. "Ye' souvenired t' give a lonely guy like me some company, first." He smiles when you huffed. His beam getting joyously wider when your belly pressed tightly against his's and he kisses your forehead multiple times.
"Who thought that guy escapin' from Gucci's biggest event could be a dad of two girls." You quip playing with his neckline and his chest rumbled with a titter that sent you to cloud nine.
"Not me at all. But, if I could meet him back in time I'll tell him how lucky he's gonna be, how happy he'll be, that he doesn't needs to be a grumpy daddy when he could be a real happy one." His eyes are glassy and you cupped his cheeks placing your lips atop his into a feverish kiss of gentleness.
~𝐹𝑎𝑙𝑠ℎ𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑡𝑜 2015~
Gucci's spring festive on full blossom in the most popular old city of Italy, Milan. It's luxurious in all it's glory. A-list celebrities and world claimed most beautiful models. The hall clattered and shushed with talks, rumours, gossips and greets. Then it's fashion and tailored-fitted clothes, formal gowns. Fake smiles. Cold hearts.
On the long dinning table piled with food that sometimes's too difficult to pronounce Harry sat along with Kendall Jenner. His ex-girlfriend and a friend for now. She talks excitedly with the person infront of her snarling rude remarks here and there. Her hand came squeezing his thigh under the table that startled him from his imaginary world. A world where he's at peace, the luxuries doesn't exist and he's nothing but a normal person.
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"Huh, love?" He kinks his brows together fiddling with the napkin in his lap and she gave him a furious pout for not giving her full attention, "I was pointing out how fast-fashion brands are shit." She rolls her eyes. Harry can't believe her bratty arse. He shrugged his thigh with a tad more harshness to get rid of her touch.
"Dunno. No' everyone could afford luxury brands." At this the model infront of them cackled more in her mock and sniffed to be polite in the fake hush of the room. Harry's eyes turned glassy and the jade in the murky to the visible irritation at their behaviour. His expressions dark and unreadable under the very less light.
Quiffing his long hickorey curls back he nibbed at his pointer finger's knuckle only to bend it under his chin afterwards, "'m serious." Kendall sighs loudly at this clearly annoyed by the way he's acting and the model infront of him gave him a 'whatever makes you sleep at night.' look and a shrug of her shoulders in arrogance while eating her steak.
Enough. Harry thinks with a grumble struck in his chest. He rakes the chair back that drew some attention but it drifted to some person sharing their experience and all that shit talk again on the loop.
Harry's guard followed him behind pushing the paparazzi away. Flashes in his eyes. Made up assumptions to his ears and shoved up opinions to his chest. He's sick. From all of this. He wants to shout to no-one in particular but himself, he wants an escape. He wants it with his every bleeding cell.
Then he takes a curt turn with a whiplash of his torso to dark alley beside the building from which he just exited and when he reached the end it was blocked by a brick wall so he jumped with ease to other side, his expensive boots scruffing against the gravel. He gave no care to the guard behind him.
He was in a local less populated street. Wider with the bumpy stones and there were people indeed but nobody paid him heed.
He sat on the concrete bench. Flinging his one leg over another hand gripping near his crotch and with a relieved huge exhale of breath he took his phone out going through it. After, so long he feels like he's a free dove who could breath free escaping from it's cage.
He's broken. Empty and in the rough path of his life. He doesn't know how to cope with it. It makes him fuckin' insane.
There's an ice-cream cart few steps away from where he's sitting alone onto bench. His head snaps at the beautiful giggle bouncing through the tangerine sky. He squints his eyes to get a better look of the group of friends crowding near the cart and licking onto their ice-creams.
Your white cotton dress furled with a wave of zephyr and the loose errand of your hair slipping from your low bun cascading around your face while you gave a belly ache laugh to one of your tall friend bopping his nose at his silliness.
Harry stares at the interaction of young people. They're just like him but looks more happy and youthful then why couldn't he?
His eyes are set on a certain figure and that's you still hidden from him as your friend Mona blocked the sight of your perfect view to Harry nudging your ribs.
"Is that Harry Styles." Jo mutters when his eyes fell over him and then he bashfully hisses, "don't look back! Don't look back. You guys are being too specific." Considering yourself stupid you spinned to have an ethereal sight of Harry sitting all by himself on the cold bench, his carved features glowing with the illumination of his phone screen still unlocked while he got distracted by you people.
"Doesn't feels like he's enjoying himself." Mona quipped taking a large swipe of her cold delight. None of them too interested in his wear abouts.
Call it clićhe but you don't have any thought in your mind before you're asking for an ice-cream cone from the ice-cream man heading towards him with your hands occupied with two.
Harry's breath hitching in his palpalating heart at the complete sight of you, for sore eyes for sure. His nerves jittery and knee bouncing in restlessness as you approaches him with a sweet grin. He takes in your complete look. White flowy dress and nude sandals, loop earrings and the bright red lipstick resembling the blood gush of his heart. 'Less is more' making you appear so beautiful.
Harry's so lost in his own brain wrecking that he forgot where you went but you rounds him from behind flinging your left leg on the other side of bench to sit on it with your legs on either side of it, he again startles getting off-guard hastily turning to face you when you tapped his shoulder.
Licking your own vanilla sweetness you forwarded the cone to him a sweet sheepish smile on your glowing hearty features. His body guard instantly changed his position to stop you but Harry gave him a stink eye accepting your offer shyly. Your cheeks heating even in the mild temperature when his supple fingers brushed yours.
"Thank you." His voice timid wiping the corners of his heart shaped lips but you just shrugged your shoulders leaning back with your hand pressed against the bench, "no problem. you're welcome." Harry gazes at your collarbones prodding from the flimsy fabric of your v-line then he shifted his gaze down to his Gucci loafers telling himself not to be a pervert. It's just you're too delicate that he can't stop admiring.
"I like your suit." You compliments him with glinting eyes and his cheeks flushed with shyness mumbling a "thank you." Under his erratic breath.
His eyes flutters and tummy flips when you bring your hand closer to him taking the sleeve of his jacket tugging at it, "it's too graphic you know...in a good way." He finds it endearing that you were this engulfed in just the design of his suit and when you tilt your chin peering up at him, he feels like his brain stopped functioning. He nods eyes still locked to yours and when he sense some coldness dripping down his thumb he quickly ducks down to lick it off causing his sculpted cheek to stroke against your silken ones in utter gentleness.
You gulp timidly sitting back straighter.
"So...? For what stuff you're here for Harry?" He loves the way his name sounds mellow coming from you. He clears his throat unwinding his long legs to stretch them wide and it nudged yours sending jolts to both of you, "uh, 'm 'ere fo' Gucci event." You beam at this shifting closer to him.
"I like the way it sounds comin' from you." He cackles at this running his fingers to tame his matte curls.
His tense demeanor slipping bringing his shy, timid and goofball ones exposed to you. He's himself surprised that all the built up frustration in his nerves drained away from your presence.
Being an art major and a fashion geek you asks him with ferverishness patting his knee, "what was it like? I've heard it's mesmerising." He chuckles at this. He wanna scoff because a sweet girl like you wouldn't last a second there.
"'S okay. I guess." He elevates his shoulder in bored expression and when the ice-cream swipes at the tip of his nose you giggled bunching forward to his side. He smiles down at you squinting his eyes narrow in an accuse.
"And what yer' here fo'? Wait yeh from here?" You bite the waffled cone chewing it. Words muffling with a full mouth, "having a trip with my University's friends. I live in London though. I really really wanted to see Milan. So, here I'm." You make an innocent childish face raising your arms in air to show him and his heart's soothing to peace with every homely action you'd pull to make him relaxe.
Then there was silence that Harry was unaware how to break. He could hear you talking for an eternity. On the other hand you aren't that akward to make conversations with people. No doubt you're shy, and wants your own space to blossom but this one habit of yours is inseparable.
"You know when back home. An ice-cream man would come daily at midnight in summers. Me and my cousins would climb up his bicycle cart like darn monkeys. Pop our heads inside the freezer and annoy the fuck outta him. God I miss home." There's this un-pointable feeling. That's unfigurative to Harry but it's there; of admiration and of endearment. His heart's at cloud nine caressing itself to the pink cotton candy.
His heart reaches out for you from his ribcages as the homesickness glistered in your irises. You weren't obliged to talk to him, to give him company but you still did beacuse beautiful accidents and coincidence happen in the admist of rushed streets.
Harry parted his lips to talk to you more but he has nothing, his life's not unknown by anyone and the normal scenarios of people entertains him so much.
His head snaps when you grin widely at him throwing the last and best of cone inside your mouth. Your small pretty mouth chewing like a rabbit and Harry wants to have a touch, just some to shush the fire in his stomach.
His head snapping when you yelled to children that were skipping on rope waving to them, "hey kiddos! Wanna have some ice-cream!?" They all left their play of galloping running towards you. Harry looks at you wide eyes eating his last bits away.
"Our hotel gave us a coupon for free ice-creams." You laugh standing up and he wants to catch you by wrist to stop you going away from him but when you squeeze his shoulder leaning to whisper in his ear chills ran down by his spine, "will be right back." He swallows thickly nodding eyes trailing to you as you collects all the little fellas to cart.
He watches you. Is she an Angel? A mirage to help him out of his anxiousness? Or a smoke in his mind that'll disappear soon? He thinks picking on his nails. He's not ready to step out of the calm bubble you created so delicately around him. Only if life could be this easier.
He rolls his eyes playfully sucking his lips inside his mouth when he sees you paying extra for more. He looks back to his body-guard. Maybe you didn't noticed him or cares less but Harry's kinda annoyed that he has to be here in such a happy vulnerable moment of his life.
"Thank you nice lady!" Harry chuckles gleefully when all of the kids thanked her licking onto their sweets. "It's okay kids, be careful before I take them back."
Shaking your head you strides back to Harry coming to stand infront of him. You can fit perfectly between his legs if he opened them wider for you, that desireful thought swooshed through his mind but he shakes it away.
"Thank ye' nice lady." He squeaks in high teasing pitch standing up and your eyes widened when he literally towered you fully. Your height differences funny even you're in heels.
"Not you now." You declared with blushed cheeks. His irirses glinted when you fumbled with the sides of your dress.
"So...this's it?" You ask him peering up at him with such gooeness he could whimper. Shivers running down your body as the weather turned rather more chill.
"This's it.." Harry whispers. He feels what? a lump of wetness in his throat? He's at the brink though.
"Thank you for bearing my monkey ass." You guffawed out but he has serenity in his eyes. He thins his lips. "I should be the one to say thanks."
He was taken aback when you hugged him running soothing circles at his back. He inhales your tangerine vanilla scent embracing you fully now. If he could freeze the time he would in a snap. He feels like he's all the way back home after travelling shallow through the whole world.
"It's gonna be alright, whatever it's Harry. It'll be alright. You're gonna be alright. It gets bumpy but you still have so much for you." Harry wants to cry in some strangers arms. He feels so defeated and tired. But, the determination and affirmation in your voice made him think opposite. He'll do it. He can do it.
He didn't let you go first. You untageled yourself from him gently swaying on your feet, taking a step back and he couldn't blink his eyes away from you as you bit your crimson lip.
You take steps away from him eyes still locked to his jade ones and he calls you out through the breeze looking for passing by cars if possible because you're standing in the middle of street.
"Hey, stranger!!!" You tilt your chin in a questioning and shake your head at his lopsided cheshire smile, "forgot t' tell ye'r name!" He yells out in rushed anticipation and anxiousness as if he'd loose you if any minute ticks by.
Goosebumps appears at your bare legs from the chill, "Y/N. Y/L/N." Then you spin around raising your hand high atop your head waving it for Harry.
"Ba-bye. Harry." You says loudly but it doom vacuumed to emptiness once you step inside your hotel's lobby leaving Harry at his own sake again.
Standing still at his spot. Hands shoved into his trouser's pocket and long spiral curls framing his sculpted features he watches you with a furrow of his brows from the glass of hotel. His frown getting deeper when you threw your head back laughing when you bumped into your friend who was coming to find you, you caught his wrist eyes widening at something funny he said and Harry sighs thinking maybe you're just this kind and generous and that he's not a special case in your book.
With an exhausted sigh he makes his way towards his bodyguard who gives him a side mishevious eye, "happy now, Styles?" Harry jabs a shove to his bulky shoulder playfully lips twitching and eyes narrowing, "oh shut up!" His mood more lightened and gleeful than his previous one thanks to you.
***
Next day when Kendall and her friend dragged Harry to fancy the local streets of Milan. Harry had a less scowling face than before. They stopped infront of some shop to buy bagels that someone bumped right square into Harry's back making him stumble a little.
It's you. Rushing out of a pharmacy. Harry's gaze trails from your toe to head and his lips parts in surprise. The whole past night in his lonely hotel bedroom you were his dream of heart and the stubborn thought of his mind while the thump of after party going downstairs kept him occupied and fainted the erratic pace of his heart. Then his brows kink in worry and concern at the grueling sight of you.
You're in a pink sweater and pyjamas. Eyes glassy. Cheeks flushed and blazing. Nose running and hair poking out in every direction. He takes a gentle step towards your astonished figure brewing fingers reaching out to hold you but when you keeps a distance from him his heart falls in his arse, and when you cough in your elbow he realizes that you're maybe cold or having a fever.
"You okay, love?" He asks you. Voice that of honey and panic dripping from his features. You gives him a big smile bobbing your head quickly and he have an urgency not to roll his eyes at you. Because you don't seem okay from any angle!
"'M just having a tiny cold it's not that worrisome." Harry's eyes pops out from his socket at your voice. It's groggy and hoarse not that sweet warm honey that was fusing in his ears last night. "Y/N. You can barely speak, are you sure you're okay?" You try to give him a small smile at his care but it got suppressed by another throat tearing cough. Poor little thing. Harry fawns looking down at you.
At this he abruptly saturates the distance between you two, "note me' number, darlin'. Promise me you'd call me if you feel too sick." You give a glance to his two friends coming by to stand beside him.
"Hi." You greet them in hoarseness and they wince when you forward your hand for a shake making you feel ashamed and embarrassed of your politeness when they didn't accepted it. Harry jaw ticks in furiousness as he glares them it's all adding up to push his nerves now.
He takes your shivering hand with an arch of his brow to his friends in challenging sterness noting down his phone number at your palm. You give him a soft "okie." and a "thank you." waving him and his friends a good-bye. He notices that you're not someone to hold grudges against someone. He knows that Kendall's behaviour throws people off but you didn't seem to mind it too much.
"Who was she Harry?" Kendall asks him chewing onto her bagel. Harry shrugs not keen to spill any precise details, "someone I met last night."
She tries to scrape more from him. "How?" Harry closes his eyes tugging at his roots not ready to snap at her.
Harry thinks many times to say the right words so that she'd shut up but still ends up saying something that infuriated her ego and mock, "she offered me ice-cream—" Her friend scoffs perking his head.
"Mate you're nuts for accepting something from a stranger." Logically yes. But you meant no harm to him. Your eyes were truthful and shined with sincerity.
Harry stays silent walking inside their hotel. The hostess asks them if they'd like to have a brunch.
On the other hand you climbed up the stairs to your room with a lazy gait. Your lungs burning. Once inside your room. You takes your medicine with a shivering body and minus energy to even raise your finger. You want to cry but you give a pep talk to yourself that you're a brave girl squishing yourself in your bed, hiding under three blankets.
There's bright sun outside but still you're feeling like someone placed you atop Antarctica's glacier snatching every clothing item from you. Your friends are all out and you wish you could have them. You hate being sick and alone.
When you woke up again. You felt horrible. Feeling like a truck crushed you underneath itself. When you tried to sit up, you fell back a reckless painful sob erupting from your lungs as with wavering fingers you massaged your sweaty forehead. The sheets under you drenched into sweat and hotness. Panic rising in your chest as your vision blurred with blackness so you dialed Harry's number immediately in the fear someone should be with you in case you faint.
"He—" He was cut off with your loud crying. The fork in his hand clanking against the sleek plate gaining everyone's attention. "'S okay. 'M comin'. I'll be there in no time love." He speaks hastily telling his bodyguard not to follow him with a gesture of his hand while striding to his car in big steps.
"Y/N. Darlin'? Yeh' there?" He asks you with his chest tightening with anxiety when the other end of line was dead as grave, "'m, i'm." Your breath spurts into coughs and Harry sighs sympathetically at your condition. It took him fifteen minutes to reach your hotel.
"Which room?" None of you noticed that the phone was still on line. You were half conscious cheeks soaked and smashed into silk pillow case. "Room number, sweets?" He asks you patiently running through different floors to take care of you as soon as possible.
"2-234.." You stutter. Harry halts in the middle of corridor snapping his head everywhere your room was three rooms away from him.
"Can yeh' stand up for me and unlock the door for meh? Can yeh do that sweet girl?" Harry's standing at your door and your sob muffles into your arm when you shake your head in denial. Luckily the door was unlocked.
"Stupid girl." Harry mutters under his breath pressing the red button when he finally tumbles inside your room. He wants to scold you for not caring for your safety when you're sick, fragile and barely able to stand up.
His heart grips into a knot when you turn to your side. The girl he was with last night long gone. Your lips blue and wobbling. Cheeks red and wet. Sweat sheening. Your body shaking. You could be barely seen from under the layers of blankets.
"Oh sweet girl. 'm so sorry." The mattress dips under his weight and he hovers over you taking you in his arms instantly. Squeezing you tight and warm, it feels good so you cuddles your face into the crook of his neck. He gasps when his hand glides down your back and finds it pooling with so much sweat, and you burning like sun outside.
"You're burnin' love." He says with wide eyes cautiously smoothing his hand at your back to make you feel better.
"It hurts, Harry." Harry pulls you from your shoulders rolling his thumb in the dips to massage them, "where?" Your chest rumbles with another whimper as you bolt your eyes shut.
"Everywhere."
He inquires further and you give a drowsy moan when he expertly massages your shoulders and arms, "did you take your medicine?" You nod at this head falling against his chest and if he wouldn't be so worried about your condition his tummy would've flipped so hard.
"And did yeh' ate somethin' befo' that?" When you shake your head in rejection he again pulls you back looking down at you in offend and shock.
"Y/N..." He warns you with a tough expression. Then he cups your cheeks making you look at him even though your eyes are closed he scolds you strictly, "Y/N you should be kind to yourself too."
"Now. 'M gonna take ye' to hospital." He announces and you squirm away from his grip shaking your head like a child. You hate hospitals.
"Y/N..don't be difficult darlin'." Only if he knew he has to deal with this his whole life. As you try to speak your words swallows back when he snakes his arms under your armpits making you stand up.
"No buts. Look at ye'. Yer condition will worsen if yeh' keep refusin' to go." With your whole weight over his side he makes you sit in the passenger seat, stroking your cheek with his knuckles giving you a reassuring smile and rounding to his driver side.
He keeps on checking you through the whole drive. You're still high on fever when he places his palm at the curve of your neck then at your forehead tsking when you moaned in pain, "'s gonna be alright." He rubs your knee trying to give you a smile through his own anxiousness.
They checks you in the ER. The doctor notes your symptoms on his notepad and Harry gazes you in full concentration sitting right beside you, he has your fingers laced with his's and he's continuously rubbing your back to provide you with any warmth.
"I've a very low immune system since I had a tonsillectomy when I was nine. Had an ice-cream last night and quite often I know I get sick in this season." You toy with his silver rings carelessly. Harry admires you. Dunno why. He just do. Because he thinks he might be falling for the way you talk, you behave and try to remain polite in every circumstances.
"Miss Y/N since you've your tonsils removed your coping mechanism from bacteias's less and you've caught a pneumonia." Your head immediately turns to look at Harry and when he sees that fear in your eyes he unwinds his hand from yours leaning to take your chin, "hey...hey lovie'. It's okay you'll heal in a week."
The doctor hands the prescription to Harry. The next thing he announces makes you sob like a five years old, "no. no. no." You shake your head shrinking back and Harry gives the doctor a sheepish akward smile stroking your hair.
Doctor sighs at your behaviour leaving at last, "the nurse will be here soon to give you injections."
Harry quickly stands up shutting the large curtain that's around the stretcher bed you both are sitting at as soon as he comes back you wrap your hands around his forearm. He hisses when you dig your nails to his flesh your tears dropping at his wrists.
"I don't like needles. I loathe them. They scare me." You sniffle and Harry ducks to your level metting your glossy gaze. He caress your head kissing your hair, "you're so brave. I know it. It would just be a pinch. Ye' can squeeze the fuck outta my hand if yeh want to." He has his fingers tucked under your earlobes as he again and again wipes your tears.
The nurse comes to you shutting the curtains behind her. She's old lady in age and observes the couple infront of her. Well, for her you both are looking like one.
You immediately move back to Harry's side as he's sitting now with his front infront of you, "scared of needles." Harry tells her timidly in a low voice puffing his cheeks a bit in gentility.
Harry saps his opal teeth into his lower lip when you wrapped your elbow around the nape of his neck bringing him down closer to you and your face shoved to his chest near his armpit. His other arm wrapping around your waist to flush you closer to him. He tries to drift your attention to himself whispering sweet nothings into your ear and the nurse awes applying alcohol where she has to inject the needle.
"'S okay. We're gonna get home after this, have some soup, will take a nap, watch some telly...." He smoothes his hand over your spine grasping it softly. You stiff in his genial hold twitching and hissing loudly when the needle was poked and pushed into your delicate skin. His white shirt's completely soaked into your tears now but he doesn't give two fucks.
"Just two more." The nurse mutters and you perk your head away from Harry's chest looking at her horrified, "two more!?" You squeak out hiccuping and Harry has to suppress his giggle at your expense from how adorable you look.
He again shoves your head back in his armpit muffling your huffing and tantrums. "Don't move darlin' don't wanna get yeh' hurt." His hold tight and firm.
"Hurts." You pout and Harry traces it stopping himself to just lean down and kiss it. Nurse left you guys to yourself and Harry breaths loudly grinning at you, patting his thighs standing up helping you too.
"Thank you, Harry." You crane your neck to see him properly rubbing your nose once Harry makes sure you're sitting in his car comfortably.
"No problem, love." He kisses your cheek making your lips quirk up for the first time.
***
You're sitting crossed legs on the twin sized bed of your hotel room. Harry takes a quick glance of you pouring soup into some bowl. Your temperature a little bit coming back to normal, sweat still there as you rests your head back at the board of bed. You're room's nothing sort of luxurious it's dinky and compact.
"Here love." Harry hands you the soup making sure to be careful that you don't get burnt and you takes it from him with a series of appreciation.
"Feelin' better now?" He asks you rubbing your ankles as you places your feet in his lap. Blowing onto your soup and he does the same shoving spoonful in his mouth.
"Way better. Felt like dying honestly." Harry couldn't imagine how bad your condition was he saw it himself and he gives you a weak smile, his man-bun getting loose now.
"Where are your friends? they should have known that you weren't feeling well."
"They asked me but—" Harry's low voice cut you off. In just a day he got to know what your nature's like.
"But you didn't wanted to spoil their fun." You roll your eyes playfully wiggling your toes in his lap to tickle his tummy but he catches them making you squeal through sore throat.
He giggles when you slurp purposedly attaching your lips to the rim of your bowl. Once you're full he places your medicine in your palm and when you makes an icky face he gives you a stern gaze, "uh-huh. Take 'em."
When you swallow the bitter medicines down with a huge gulp of water he pats your head, "good girl." He puts the glass at nightstand. Caressing your jaw, "wanna take a nap?" You nod.
"W-would you lay down with me, ...'s just my body aches and—" You tried to explain without letting heat to creep at your cheeks. He bobs his head furiously more than okay to fulfil your wish.
Without any word he shifts gently to your side getting rid of the hair band that was trapping his long curls into a bun, squeezing into twin sized bed with you, "sorry." he quips when you hiss at his cold bare feet touching your warm ones.
"It's okay." You smile up at him moving closer to him. Sheets rustling underneath as you rests your head over his sprawled forearm. Your bodies reacting automatically like one of soulmates when your knee nudged his legs and he parted them so that you could place your sore one in between them. You molded into him like a piece of puzzle, that was just meant to fill the part of him that was scraped out because of his fate leaving him shallow and empty.
"Sorry for ruining your day." You mumble into his neck fingers brushing the baby curls at the nape of his neck. He shakes his head running his thumb in circles under your hair that were sticking to your neck, "No, thank you fo' makin' my day better. 'M havin' fun babying you." You titters at this and he sighs. There's calm. Heart beats in sync. Yours was racing moments ago. You're tangled into eachother's embrace and he pulls thin blanket ontop of both of you.
You purr wishing he could be always with you at how he's a walking talking heater, "you're warm." Harry senses come to a pause at the kitten voice you just let out snuggling into him deeper and exhaling the breath he was holding in. He melts into you kissing your forehead and petting your cheeks.
"Sleep sweet girl." His breathing lulls you to deep slumber.
***
It's late in night. Harry squints his eyes to street lights coming from the balcony window. He groans and when pushes his face away from you, a huge lovesick smile dances at his lips. He slept so good after so long. Your warmth and sweet flesh pressed into him made him drift to sleep so quick.
He brushes your loose hair back, adorning every feature of you. Fever making you look more glowy and swelly. Then when he leans to kiss your forehead he hears the quite whimper escaping from your lips.
He places his hand at your neck to check and you're again burning. Sighing he wakes you up by smoothing his hands down your arm, stroking your hair gently and tapping your cheek with his two fingers.
You're murmuring weepily in your sleep. "Wake up y/n. It's time for your second dose." He keeps his voice slow not to startle you and your eyelids fluttered taking it's time to absorb his presence.
You shift back against the headrest. He brings the glass closer to your lips after giving you medicine. One hand on your head other making you sip water.
"W-wanna go home. Home Harry." You say in your breaths hiccuping and Harry feels so helpless. He tries to calm you down in every way possible.
He knows you're not talking about going back to London. Your talking about your actual homeplace. Then it hits him, that you're both missing that feeling. Even though you're bubbly, happy and cheerful girl you still miss home as Harry does too. You're perfect for eachother.
He takes you in his arms bringing you back to bed. You hug him close to your heart tearing in his embrace, soft whimpers in his ears that's a knife to his stomach. He pecks the side of your head multiple times.
"Home." You sniff eyes dropping. Harry messages your scalp. Your body moving up and down as he breaths. Your continuous blabbering of 'home' dulls to your sleeping breath and Harry's own eyes craved for more drowsiness with you.
He bolts his eyes shut when his phone vibrates under him. "What!?" He spats whisper yelling, you still over him. He doesn't want to disturb you by any means. Not when you're sick and went back to sleep with so much difficulty.
"'M not coming." He declares dryly as his manager tries his best to coax him back to whatever place they want him asap.
He throws his phone onto sheets cuddling back into you, letting your scent to consume him fully. His heart prancing at the thought of serenity he'll feel while sleeping else it's just jolts of anxiety.
***
Next morning your arms were holding onto nothing, there's no shoulder on which you were crying earlier. The room's dull and sheets cold. Sun refused to outshine for today it didn't got any emarld to beam at.
"Harry...?" You whisper innocently rubbing sleepiness from your eyes and when the silence laughed back at your face you sigh sadly.
You knew from the very start that his presence was just a mere touch of heaven and it's not his fault that you never got to complete dive into him.
It's just you and your homesick soul staring blankly at the flower wallpaper. His soft, giddy vanilla smell hugging you from every side. Consuming your body and you didn't realized you'll miss him until now.
Maybe, you and your love was contagious to him.
.
𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 a 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞!!! Don't forget to give your feedbacks.
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bopbopstyles · 4 years ago
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ROSE COLORED GLASSES: PART ONE
SERIES RATING: R (cursing, smoking, alcohol use, violence, PTSD, and sex)
WORD COUNT: 19.5k (long boi)
CATEGORIES: boxer!Harry, gang/mob!Harry, 1920s!Harry, Peaky Blinders!Harry (?)
As the daughter of the most powerful man in Birmingham, there were expectations of Cicely King: an advantageous marriage to save her father’s business, for one. But Cicely had never been one to follow orders. So when she woke up after an accident in the home of Harry Styles, the illusive boxer, she took it as an opportunity to escape her life. What she didn’t intend on was falling in love with him.
MASTERLIST | INSPO TAG | PART TWO
a/n: IT’S HERE!!!! Cicely and Harry dropped into my head and have lived in there rent free ever since. strap yourselves in for a ride, my friends! this story is hugely inspired by Peaky Blinders, and i willingly admit that characters and elements of the story resemble parts of PB, including Cicely’s appearance (Grace). thank you @hsogolden for making this beautiful banner,  and thank you to @bfharry @harrysclementines​ @stellarboystyles and @havethetimeofyourstyles for beta reading this, ilysm!
historical notes: i’ve got a couple of things to alert the public of for this story. 1. this story is set in Balsall Heath, Birmingham, UK in 1920 or so, and i did as much research as possible on the area, but it is by no means all accurate. imagery and descriptions of the neighborhood are largely my own. 2. Church Hulme was the name of Holmes Chapel until 1974, so it is used in this story. 3. The Magnificent Ambersons is an actual book that was a bestseller in 1918. you can read it here. 
without further adieu, here is part one of ROSE COLORED GLASSES - come talk to me about it in my asks! pls reblog and share with your friends 💕✨
The cool spring air swept around Cicely like a cloud, the hem of her skirt ruffling in the wind. She was miles from home, the landscape around her having turned to just rolling hills of green, just the way she liked it. Here, she could finally breathe. At home, all she could smell was fear and secrets, while here, out in the open, she was anyone and everyone. It was just her and Joseph, her beloved horse, on the empty road.
Father had told her it was going to rain when Cicely pushed her way out of the house, stomping away from him in anger at the news he had given to her, but she hadn’t given it a second thought. She loved rain, loved being caught in it and getting drenched, not minding the weight of the water on her skin. If anything, it made her finally feel something, even if it was cold. In hindsight, she probably should’ve thought twice about going out so far in the rain, Joseph being a bit skittish as he got older, but now here she was, having ridden over halfway between her estate and the city, and she could feel the droplets falling onto her blond coiffed hair that her maid, Polly, had done this morning.
She sighed and looked up at the sky—it was grey and angry, the wind swirling around her. It was going to be a downpour, she suspected. Joseph stopped when she pulled on the reins, and she considered whether she should turn for home or find somewhere to ride out the storm. It seemed to be coming soon, after all. She glanced around and there was just open space of hills and trees, but none large enough to provide any sort of suitable protection. Plus, she was closer to the city than home, anyways, so maybe it was better to just keep on going the direction she was heading. She could stay with friends in town if need be.
So she dug in her heels and Joseph continued, her urging him to go faster as the rain began to come down harder around her. It was like a curtain, the combination of the rain and the dark skies making it hard to see very far in front of her. The water licked down her face, and her chiffon blouse was sticking to her skin, the one her maid had made her promise not to get dirty, as it had just been mended for the second time. But she could make no promises—it was her favorite one, after all. And now, it would most definitely be ruined as dirt road beneath her turned to mud and it splattered Joseph and her clothes. She held fast though, wishing now more than ever that her father let her wear the new fashionable pants to let her ride more easily because side saddle was simply not cutting it at the speeds she was urging Joseph to achieve.
All of a sudden, a crack rang through the clouds, bolts of lightening littering the path far ahead. But the sound was enough for her to tense and Joseph to whinny, his front legs leaving the ground, her hold on the reins slipping as she was thrown from the saddle.
The last thing she remembered was the sight of Joseph taking off into the rain, saddle empty and reins flying around his body.
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Harry could barely see in the storm, the downpour causing sheets of rain to fall on the windshield, his vision completely obscured. So he inched along as slowly as he could without endangering his ability to drive—or the car, since it was a gift from Josiah—and kept the headlights on full blast. He was exhausted after a weekend of fights in the town over, ones that left his body aching in ways he preferred to ignore. But he had a pocket full of earnings and he knew Josiah would be happy with that, so he paid it no mind.
He was running through the fights, thinking about the missteps and wrong moves he had made, spots for improvements, when he saw a girl lying down on her back in the mud a few feet in front of the car. He slammed on the brakes immediately. What the fuck was a girl doing out in a storm like this? When she didn’t move as he sat in the car, surveying the scene, he couldn’t help but wonder if she was dead. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had been killed on a road, left there to be found by the next car.
Slowly, he pulled himself out of the car, lifting his hand to shield the rain from his face. “Miss?” He called into the storm, eyes drifting over her body. She looked well to-do—her blouse seemed to be some type of lace material that the girls he knew were always fawning over, skirts bright and recently washed. What was she doing out here, alone and in the mud? And how had she gotten there?
He took a few paces closer to her, and she didn’t make a move when he brushed the hair away from her face. Hesitantly, he leaned down, an ear to her mouth to see if she was breathing—which she was, to his relief. She must be unconscious, although he could only begin to imagine how she had gotten that way. But Harry wasn’t the type to leave a young woman in need, alone on a dirt road in the middle of a storm. So he bent down, slid his aching arms under her body, and lifted her from the mud, cradling her against his chest as he walked back to the car.
She fit perfectly on his back seat when he tucked her knees in closer to her chest, blond hair draped over the seat. He grabbed his coat from the passenger side and draped it over her body, her skin cold to the touch from the rain. The thought crossed his mind of where he should take her—the police, perhaps? Or maybe a hospital? But Harry hated both of those establishments after years with Josiah. Plus, if she needed any protection, in town it was best if it came from Josiah anyway. The police were useless, a bunch of pompous assholes too big for their britches, Harry thought. And a hospital, Harry believed, was where people went to die not where they went to be healed. So he decided to take her to his flat, despite the fact that the prospect went against most principles he was raised on.
Although, everything Harry did went against his childhood principles.
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When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was green peeling wallpaper. It wasn’t a wallpaper she recognized, and as she came to, looking around the room, she realized this was definitely not a place she had been before. Her heart seized as she inspected her surroundings. She was in a wire-frame double bed, a red duvet cover pulled around her shoulders, a soft light coming in the heavy curtains against a small window in the middle of the room. Clothes littered the floor—men’s clothes, from what she could tell—and a rug sat in the middle of the room amidst the chaos. An ashtray and the butts of cigarettes laid on the bedside table next to her, as well as a glass of water. Maybe it was a stupid choice, but her throat was raw and so she took the glass, gulping down the water without a second thought.
Faintly, she could hear the sound of a whistle. Tea, she realized. Someone was making tea.
Which meant she was not alone.
Her hands dove under the covers, inspecting the clothes on her body. Everything was still intact, her green skirt and the lace blouse she had put on,  every button done up exactly as she had left it. She didn’t have her shoes on, but on closer inspection, they laid on the ground next to the bed, but her stockings were still clipped to her garter at least. A sigh left her mouth at the prospect of some semblance of safety in this foreign place.
She tried to remember what had happened last—she had been riding through a storm after a fight with her father. Then, there was a bolt of lightning, she thought to herself, piecing together the memories in her fuzzy brain, and then remembered Joseph bucking her from the saddle. She couldn’t keep herself on, so she let go, knowing that was better than being dragged along. The last thing she remembered was Joseph riding away, her lying in what she believed to be mud.
Which would explain the brown marks all over her clothes.
Polly was going to kill her for the stains.
The whistle she had heard earlier suddenly stopped, and she heard the thud of something. Then, a soft hum of a song she recognized from the gramophone her father had in the sitting room. After a few beats, she heard the sound of footsteps on the wood floors, the creak of the footsteps growing closer and closer. Someone was coming. She was going to finally discover who had picked her up off of the road and where she was—hopefully it was some nice old lady and she was in their son’s room.
But instead, a boy about her age stopped in the doorway, a cup of tea in his hand, wide eyes at the sight of her sitting up in bed. His brown hair was tousled in soft curls across his forehead, and just trousers, a shirt, and suspenders adorned his body, his feet bare. His shirt sleeves were pushed up and she could see tattoos on his arms, something she had never seen in person before, just in photographs and magazines.
He was, she thought to herself as he stood there in shock, quite handsome.
“You’re awake,” he finally said, voice croaking in his throat. “I—uh, sorry, would you like a cuppa?”
Cicely considered the question for only a beat before nodding. He seemed nice enough, judging solely from his embarrassed reaction to the croaky sound of his voice. The boy disappeared and she waited patiently in the bed, flexing her toes to bring some feeling back into her limbs. She wondered how much time had passed—it seemed to be daylight out, so maybe not much time at all.
The boy returned, a second tea cup balanced in his other hand, his face more serious and put together than before. “Here you are,” he said, making his way over to her, his presence instantly changing the feeling of the room. Before, it was small, but not too small. Now, with his large frame and dark eyes, it seemed as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the space.
“Thank you,” she replied, accepting the cup with cold hands. It was chilly in the room, probably from the draft coming in from the windows and her skirt which was still a bit damp in spots. The tea, though, was delicious on her tongue, plain, just how she liked it.
The boy grabbed a chair from the corner of the room and pulled it over to the edge of the bed before sitting down, eyes darting between the tea cup and her face. “I’m Harry, by the way.”
“Cicely.” She took another sip of the tea before resting it on her lap. “Is this your flat?”
“Yes,” Harry said, eyes glancing around the room. “My room too—sorry about that. It’s just me here, so I didn’t have anywhere else to put ya.”
So no wife or family then, Cicely thought, filing the information away for later. It was interesting, a boy of his age living alone. He must have moved away from home and made decent enough wages to get a place of his own, she decided, eyes fluttering around the room to see if she could pick up on any other clues about him. But she couldn’t find anything. “How did I get here?” She asked after leaving them in silence for a few moments, the curiosity getting the better of her.
Harry placed his teacup on the nightstand as he spoke, eyes avoiding hers. “Found ya in the road in the rain. Cold as ice and unconscious, all covered in mud. Didn’t want to leave ya out there, so I brought you here—thought I could take you home once you came to and all that. Call your husband.” He added the last sentence as an afterthought, and Cicely couldn’t help but smile internally at the thought of him thinking she was married.
Which she wasn’t. At least, not yet. And not for a while, if she had any choice in the matter. “No husband,” she informed him, thumbs brushing over the duvet. “How long have I been out for?”
He pulled his lip into his mouth and Cicely didn’t know if she had ever seen something so enticing. “Almost a day.”
A day? God, her father would have her head. He probably thought she was dead after she didn’t come home. Although it wouldn’t be the first time she had let him think that, her flair for escaping after an argument a reoccurring personality trait that her father despised. Which of course, was exactly why she did it. “I hope I wasn’t a bother,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear.
Harry shook his head, and Cicely studied his face, the sharp angle of his jaw, the high rise of his cheekbones. He had a bit of scruff around his lips, which looked soft and pink and she tried not to think about what they would feel like. Cicely didn’t usually pay men all that much mind—sure she noticed them, but did she study every feature on their faces like she did Harry? No. She was intrigued by him, the rings on his fingers and the tattoos on his arms, the way he licked across his bottom lip. And perhaps that was why Cicely made no mention of needing to go, or that she should call her family.
“Are ya hungry?” Harry asked, pulling her out of her thoughts.
At the concept of food, suddenly her stomach grumbled and she blushed, embarrassed at the sound, but Harry didn’t even react to it. “Yes, actually.”
He stood immediately, wiping his palms on his trousers as he did so. “I don’t have much here,” he said, taking their empty tea cups with him as she walked towards the door. “But I’ll put something together.” She watched him, unsure if he wanted her to follow. She was a bit curious as to what the rest of the flat looked like, she had to admit. “Ya comin’?”
Cicely scrambled to follow him, her stocking-clad feet nestling into the rug by his bed. Her skirt was crinkled from sleep and she straightened it as much as possible before sighing and exiting the room and into the hall. When he turned down a set of stairs, she realized that what she thought to be a flat was actually a little townhouse. When she reached the base of the stairs, she found that the rest of the home wasn’t much—dimly lit, only one other window in what seemed to be a small sitting room and a kitchen. A table was pushed to the side, two chairs tucked into it, a plate with crumbs on it sat on one side. The green wallpaper from the bedroom covered all of the walls of the home, and when she looked around, she saw a noticeable absence of most personal effects. He had only one photo up on the side table next to the couch, of what Cicely assumed was his family. Next to it laid another ashtray, a pack of cigarettes, an empty whiskey glass.
At the sound of a plate on the counter she turned to see Harry placing a slice of bread on a plate and tenderly spreading jam across it. Cicely tried to imagine her father even entering a kitchen and she had trouble with the idea, while here was Harry making her a slice of toast. The thought was actually quite endearing, despite the fact that Harry had not once smiled at her.
“Thank you,” she said when he set the plate down on the table, grabbing the dirty one and taking it to the washbasin in the corner. Harry didn’t reply, so she took a bite. The jam wasn’t quite as good as what she was used to and the bread was a tad bit stale, but it was food all the same, and she didn’t mind all that much. As she ate, she watched Harry wash the plate, dry it with a dishrag, and place it back in a cabinet that held a few dishes.
He turned around when he was done, eyes trained on her with an intensity she was beginning to grow accustomed to from him. “I have work in a bit. Can I drop you someplace before that?”
Should he? Yes. Did she want him to? Not in the slightest. She pushed away the plate, and tried to figure out how to say this. “Would it be a bother if I stayed?”
Harry blinked at her a few times, his face finally changing from the usual intense stare that he gave her to one that was more curious in nature. “Is home not safe for ya?”
Cicely tried to decide whether or not she should lie to him. He seemed kind, generous, probably understanding, despite his inability to speak to her for very long periods of time without stretches of silence. Maybe he would understand that her desire not to go home wasn’t because home wasn’t safe, but because the life that was waiting for her was one she despised. So, she decided not to lie, but not to tell all of the truth. “No, it is. I’m just not eager to go back right now.”
“Oh.” Harry twisted a large gold H ring around one of his fingers, contemplating her words, before looking back up at her. “If ya want to stay, ya can. Know what it’s like to wanna hide for a bit.” Before she could request more information, he came towards her, snatching the plate and taking it back to the sink. He seemed to be awfully set on a clean kitchen, despite the messy state of his room. “You’ll have to come with me tonight, then.” He still had his back to her, so she couldn’t study his face as he said the words that piqued her interest.
Most girls would have probably requested to stay home, but Cicely wasn’t most girls. “Ok,” she replied, pushing back the chair. “Could I—uh—wash up somewhere?” The prospect of a bath sounded utterly delectable, although on second thought, she didn’t expect him to have a bath quite like the one she had at home.
Harry whirled around, eyes looking everywhere but her. “Yes. Um, there’s a basin in the washroom. Don’t have the water for a full bath right now, but…”
Cicely realized what he was so flustered about—he was embarrassed. Perhaps he had realized that her social station was a bit higher than his, that in her home they didn’t have to go fetch water somewhere, that she could have a bath relatively whenever she liked. And when she did it, someone else filled it for her. “That’s fine. I’ll manage.” She stood and made her way towards the washroom, following his directions, and shut herself inside. It was dark in there too—far less than she was used to. A silver bathtub was on one wall, and a smaller basin on a pedestal, a toilet in the corner. It was simple, bare bones, but she didn’t mind too much. Her father had put in running water when she was an infant, so she had never washed without it, but she decided it wasn’t too much of a change.
Quickly, she undressed, making sure the door was locked, and hung her clothing over the lip of the bath so it didn’t touch the floor. She took a rag and dipped it into the water, exhaling softly at the feeling of the cool water on her skin. There was some mud on her skin from when she had fallen, although she thought that perhaps Harry had washed some of it off—there wasn’t quite as much as she thought. A small mirror allowed her to wash the crust of mud from her forehead, and by the end of her washing she felt rejuvenated, even if it wasn’t a proper bath. Slowly, she slipped back on her clothes and considered for a moment the idea that she might need to purchase some more. Her clothes were stained from the mud, and she imagined she wouldn’t quite be able to get it out.
Although it would’ve been convenient, she didn’t imagine Harry had extra ladies clothes lying around for just this purpose.
She ruffled her hair slightly, the curls unfortunately having dropped for the most part, and sighed before letting herself out of the washroom. “Harry?” Cicely asked, turning the corner into the kitchen, where he stood, holding a glass of what she thought was a whiskey, a cigarette between his lips. “You wouldn’t happen to have a set of ladies’ clothes lying about, would you?”
Harry furrowed his brow before taking the cigarette from between his lips. “No—why?”
Cicely gestured at her stained clothes. “Mine are a bit dirty, and I wouldn’t want to wear them to your place of work like this.”
The chuckle that left Harry’s lips surprised Cicely in more ways than one. One, that he was laughing at all, for she didn’t find it to be a laughing matter. She didn’t want to make a bad impression to whoever his employer was, especially if she was going to have to be there. Second, his laugh was sweet, syrupy, one that rocked his shoulders, and made her heart flutter in a way she wasn’t used to. “You wouldn’t want to wear your Sunday best to my place of work, love,” he told her, tapping his cigarette in an ashtray on the table. “You’re fine the way ya are, but we can track down some clothes for ya tomorrow.”
Where would he work where her appearance would be adequate? But rather than question him, she just nodded. “Well, I’m ready,” she told him.
“Gimme a mo’,” he told her, tucking his cigarette back between his lips before heading out of the room. Cicely decided to check out the sitting room a bit more, investigate the people in the sole photograph in the whole home. She picked up the photograph and studied it, a man, woman, and young woman, probably a few years older than Harry, stood outside of a family home, a younger Harry nestled between them. It was curious to see him younger, his face less defined, an obvious softness to his facial features. But what stuck out to her the most was the uniform he wore.
He had been in the war. Of course. Her father had avoided it because of a years old injury to his leg, although she had secretly always throught he had gotten his doctor to make it seem more severe than it actually was. Many of the men her parents had set her up with, including the horrid one they were currently trying to force her to marry, were in the war, but when she asked them about it, they only talked about their medals, heroism, the beauty of France’s countryside. But she also knew most of them had been officers, their social ranks earning them a certain level of protection, and she couldn’t help but wonder what it had been like for Harry who had none of those privileges.
Footsteps came from behind her and she turned, dropping the photograph back to the table when she saw Harry in the hall watching her. He had changed while she was looking at the photo, a charcoal jacket over his shirt, a pin with a J on it buttoned to the lapel that she thought was a bit curious. He had a bag over his shoulder, and she wondered what was inside. “You were in the war,” she said, not acknowledging his appearance.
“Just like everyone else,” he replied, his response a stark departure from how the men she knew would’ve replied. “Come on, we’re goin’ to be late.” She followed him out, wishing she had a hat or a small purse with her at the very least, but she had nothing but her dirty clothes and scuffed boots.
When they stepped onto the street, the sight of a wide and long street, row houses lining each side met her gaze. They were in working class Birmingham, she thought to herself as Harry locked the door behind him. Most men would’ve made to put their arm through hers, but not Harry—he just began walking, letting her catch up to him, struggling to keep pace with his longer legs. His bag swung at his side as they walked, and Cicely took in their surroundings, the silence stretching between them. It was dusk and women were calling their children inside, the games of football on the street breaking up. Two young children squabbled until their mothers separated them, tugging their little hands inside. Doors shut behind them and Cicely snuck a glance at Harry. His eyes were trained on the ground in front of him, most likely adjusted to their surroundings.
He didn’t want to talk, she understood from his body language, and she decided in a choice completely against her normal mannerisms, not to push him.
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Cicely didn’t know what she expected from Harry’s place of work, but it was definitely not a boxing ring in an empty warehouse. She could hear the shouts and laughter of men from outside, and she had looked at Harry with confusion written all over her face when they approached the warehouse, but she followed him inside anyways. The smell of stale beer and sweat overwhelmed her immediately, and she had to squint in the darkness of the entryway. The ring had some lights rigged up around it, some chairs around it, but it was by no means someplace fancy.
So this was what Harry had meant by her not wanting to wear her Sunday best.
“You work…here?” She asked, turning to Harry, who stood beside her, watching her take in the surroundings. He nodded, offering no additional information. “And you box?” Another nod. “Is this legal?”
That’s when he gave another one of his chuckles, and then under his breath he said, “Doesn’t need to be, love. Josiah McClemmons runs it.”
Cicely may not live in Birmingham proper, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know who Josiah McClemmons was. Everyone did. He basically ruled Birmingham, especially the working class neighborhoods, having built up his stronghold there. Her father complained about him at least once a week, about the violence and bloodshed in the city where his garment factories were. Although, Cicely had always thought to herself, her father probably shouldn’t complain too much because a dead husband meant a wife who had to work to feed her children, which meant a larger workforce for her father.
From the way Harry was greeted, Cicely assumed he was the reigning champion, the usual fighter here. Which meant that he was probably McClemmons’s payroll, if she had to extrapolate. “Do you work for McClemmons?” She asked when the few men who had come up to them walked away.
Harry adjusted the bag over his shoulder, and then nodded. “Could say that.” His eyes darted around the establishment, taking in the sight, before resting back on her. “C’mon, I’ve got to get changed and don’t want ya waitin’ out here.” He ushered her over to a man standing against a wall who wore a J pin on his lapel like Harry, which she now realized stood for Josiah’s name, a brand of who they worked for. “Tommy,” he said, the man’s gaze turning and settling on them. “This is Cicely. Keep an eye on her while I change?”
Tommy stood up straight immediately and when he took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to it, Cicely couldn’t help but smile. “Pleasure to meet such a beautiful lady,” Tommy said to her, a wink gracing across his face.
When she turned to speak to Harry, he was already gone, a few paces away towards a door. “Is he good?” She asked Tommy, turning back to her new acquaintance.
Tommy’s eyes widened. “The best,” he informed her before taking a sip from a mug of what she assumed was beer. “You’re in for a treat if you’ve never seen ‘im fight ‘fore.”
Cicely agreed, the prospect of a sweaty Harry in the ring a bit more enticing than she perhaps wanted to admit. She was able to get some information on Harry out of Tommy, the combination of a pretty girl and a mug of beer not a combination meant for secrecy. He fought with Josiah McClemmons’s youngest brother in the war, the experience making them nearly brothers, and came back to Birmingham with them. No one knew where Harry was from, but people had a number of guesses, everything from London to Liverpool. Apparently before the war he had been learning to fight, and the war sharpened his skills, so when they came back it seemed natural that Josiah would use the rings as a way to make money, using Harry as his prized fighter.
She couldn’t help but think it made Harry sound a bit like the Spanish bulls she had learned about in a magazine, a caged animal. But Tommy assured her Harry loved it when she asked, so she tried to put her mind at ease.
“Who is he fighting?” She asked Tommy after refusing his offer for a beer of her own.
“Peters—a local bloke,” Tommy replied. “Harry’s expected to win.”
Cicely gathered as much from the grumblings of his name that she could hear when the betting started, money flying in the air. It was fascinating to her, and she thought that she also fascinated the men—she was the only woman in the room and she tried not to squirm against the wall she leaned against.
But then, she heard a cry go up, and Harry’s opponent came out of a door, trailed by two men. “He’s massive,” she told Tommy as she watched the man walk to the ring.
Tommy grunted in response. “Harry’s fast, though.”
She hoped he was fast enough. Peters crested the ring, pushing himself between the ropes. One of his men handed him some gloves and Cicely watched as he pulled them on, his massive chest glistening under the gas lighting.
All of a sudden, a louder cry sounded, whoops and hollers of Harry’s name, and her gaze flickered to the door she had last seen him go into. There he was, walking towards the ring, a determined look set on his face. Tattoos littered his body and Cicely realized the few she had seen were a mere teasing of the real deal. And seeing Harry without a shirt on, his broad shoulders and narrow waist, tanned skin in the light, she couldn’t help but think he was even more attractive than she had thought.
A man helped Harry into the ring, and when he stood up, she caught sight of tape covering where his nipples should be. What in the world? She turned to Tommy and pointed at Harry. “What is the tape for?”
Tommy guffawed immediately, beer sloshing in his mug. “He’s got ‘em pierced.”
“What?”
She expected Tommy to tell her he was joking, but instead he nodded. “Got ���em done durin’ the war, apparently. Some dare from his mates. Now he’s gotta have ‘em taped up or they’ll get ripped out.”
Cicely truly didn’t have the words for a response to that. She turned back to the ring, eyes set on the two pieces of tape over each of his nipples, entranced by the idea of them being pierced. She had heard rumors from her friends of ladies getting them done, but men? Why on earth would they want them done? She had never understood it on women, but the prospect of them on men completely confounded her imagination. Although, her best friend had told her it made them more sensitive, so perhaps that worked on men as well.
The thought was tantalizing at the very least.
“Sure ya don’t want a beer, love?” Tommy asked.
She had grown to quite like his company. He was a bit crude, but for some reason she liked that he didn’t treat her like she was made of glass like most of the men she knew. Her gaze darted between Harry, standing in the ring, and Tommy’s mug. “You know what? Sure.”
Tommy beamed. He was overjoyed at the idea, and Cicely was as well. She had never actually had beer before, just sips of champagne and wine here and there when she snuck it from her parents or during parties. But nothing as normal as beer—she didn’t even think her father drank it, to be honest. Perhaps that was why the idea was so exciting to her. Tommy left her on her own for a few minutes and she tried not to let the stares that still lingered on her bother her. Instead, she watched Harry, listened to the announcer, some chap in a jacket and askew flat cap, read out their names and weights. The part about Harry being the reigning champion stuck with her.
Cicely had never seen a boxing match before. Sure, she had heard of them, but actually been to one in person? Never. And much less one that was definitely illegal and held in a warehouse, a bunch of drunk men betting and still in their work uniforms. It made her heart race and she liked the feeling—usually she just got it when she rode Joseph, who she hoped had gone home to her estate.
“Here ya are.” Tommy had reappeared, a full mug of beer in his other hand for her. “Got ya somethin’ my sister likes.”
Cicely took the mug. It was heavy, heavier than she was expecting. Would she even be able to drink it all? She stared at the murky brown liquid, the foam on top, and then up at Tommy who she could tell was stifling a laugh. Fuck it, she thought. And took a long sip. It wasn’t as bad as she expected. Sour, sure, but it was also refreshing. A bit heavy, and considering she had only eaten some toast today, that wasn’t a negative thing. “It’s not bad,” she told Tommy, who gave her a grin in response.
She was about to say something else when she heard a bell sound—she had been so focused she had missed the start of the match. Whirling around, the first thing she saw was Peters’ arm fly through the air. The breath knocked from her chest at the possibility of Harry getting hit, but to her pleasant surprise he ducked it completely, feet helping him to move away from his attacker. The crowd cheered and Cicely took another sip, the action of having the drink in her hand helping calm her nerves as she watched Harry dance around Peters, ducking at every punch. She could see the frustration in Peters’ eyes, and the focus in Harry’s eyes making her scream out his name along with the men in the room.
She could feel Tommy’s eyes on her as she did it. She didn’t even need to look at him to know that surprise was written all over his face. If Cicely was going to be at a boxing match for the first time in her life, drinking her first beer, she was going to enjoy it. And watching Harry take a swing—and make contact—at Peters was exactly the excuse she needed to scream his name again.
The match passed quickly, and by the end of it Cicely had reached the end of her beer and her and Tommy were laughing at the fear in Peters’ eyes as Harry’s punches landed. He was winning by a long shot, and she had to admit, she was proud. During the whole match she had barely been able to take her eyes off of him, gaze trained on the sweat dripping down his cut body, his broad shoulders and tattooed skin glistening. His hair was stuck to his forehead and neck with sweat, and for some reason she had the innate desire to twirl it off of his forehead and see what he did.
She also desperately wanted to see his nipples without the tape.
Desperately.
He was beautiful in the ring, his steps almost like choreography she had learned as a child to all of the dances she had to know for parties. Except Harry looked like a natural up there, his body moving before Peters made the move, as if he could read his opponent’s mind, his reflexes faster than anything she had ever seen before. She had a million questions for him the minute he stepped out of the ring, but the first thing she wanted to was clean the blood off of his body—blood which was a mixture of Harry’s and Peters’.
The end of the match happened so quickly that Cicely barely caught it. One minute, Harry was boxed into a corner, his arms up to protect his face, and the next, he was throwing a powerful punch to Peters’ face, the sound of bone crunching at Peters hit the ground so loud she could hear it over the men yelling in the ring. The announcer counted and she watched Harry’s chest rise and fall, his breathing ragged. Everyone else was staring at Peters, but her eyes were glued on Harry. And then, his lifted to her, their sight lines catching from across the room, and she could’ve sworn she saw him smile at her.
As much as she wanted to rush to the side of the ring as many people did, she waited where she was. She knew Harry would come find her eventually, since she was sleeping in his home, as weird as that sounded in her brain. So she turned to Tommy while she waited, her bones feeling light in her body. “He’s good,” she said, her words slightly slurring. Huh. That was weird.
“Told ya!” Tommy replied, taking her mug from her. “Forgot to ask you, love, how do you know our fighter?”
Her eyes trailed across the room to Harry, who she noticed was making his way towards them, a towel draped around his neck. “He saved me,” she said, watching his body flex as he moved. And her words were true, but in that moment she didn’t know quite how true they were. Only later, would she look back on the moment she met Harry and consider how he had changed her life by picking her lifeless body up on that dirt road in the middle of a storm.
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Harry had fought the desire to look at Cecily throughout the match, and now that he was done he couldn’t stop. She looked so relaxed, leaned against the wall with Tommy laughing, her blond hair messy and her eyes bright. It was if his feet were carrying him towards her without a second thought, weaving through the crowd of sweaty drunk men in pursuit of the girl made of light. The closer he got, though, the more he noticed how she stumbled on her feet, how rosy her cheeks were, how loud she laughed.
Fuck.
Tommy had gone and gotten her drunk. Tommy might have been Harry’s friend, but that didn’t make him the smartest bloke in a room.
As he reached them, she took an uneasy step and Harry was there immediately. His hands fit around Cicely’s waist like it was the place he belonged, the lingering smell of perfume in his nostrils before he could clear the fog of his mind. “Ya okay, love?” The words slipped from his mouth, the pet name he had never called a single woman before just finding his way into his speech, as if his brain knew that she was special. He sure thought so.
Cicely turned her head, her gaze catching his and a smile broke across her face. “Harry! You were incredible!”
“Thank you,” he replied, gingerly removing his hands despite the fact that all he wanted was to hold onto her hips for the rest of time. “Tommy, did you give her beer?”
“He did,” Cicely answered instead, a hiccup escaping her mouth. She rushed to cover her lips, a blush creeping across her cheeks at the sound. “It was quite tasty.”
“I’ll bet,” Harry said, giving Tommy a hard look that Tommy only shrugged at. “I’ve got to change and get you home,” he told her, processing the situation here. Although he trusted Tommy with his life, in this moment he didn’t trust him not to give Cicely more beer.
Before he could say anything though, Cicely was speaking, her fingers brushing across his arm. The feeling sent sparks up his spine, delicate compared the touches he was used to, the ones he had just experienced. Her fingers weren’t callused, but soft, as if she hadn’t seen a day of work in her life. Which she probably hadn’t. “Can I come with you?” She asked, eyes on his, a slight pout on her lips that drew his gaze in no matter how hard he tried to avoid it.
“While I change?”
She nodded. “I’ve got some questions about the match that I want to ask you.”
Harry glanced at Tommy who he could tell was barely holding back a laugh, a grin on his face that told Harry he would never hear the end of this exchange. “Fine,” Harry told her, the word coming out gruff. “Tommy, I’ll see you later.”
Cicely slipped her fingers around Harry’s wrist as he stepped away, and he tried to resist the immediate urge that came over him to rip them off, the touch something he hadn’t experienced in ages. The feeling of a woman’s hands on him was one of the things he had not indulged in when he came back from France, preferring drink and alcohol to drown the memories in. The prospect of one of them experiencing him at night, while he slept, was enough to make him frightened enough to avoid the concept.
So when Cicely touched Harry, even in the simplest of ways, it stirred something in him that he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time. Something that he hadn’t experienced since before his life changed, since before he saw men die in front of him, his friends lose limbs and call out for their mothers in their final moments. He had always thought that his ability to feel had died on the battlefields of France, but with Cicely’s fingers on his skin, perhaps he was wrong.
She didn’t remove them, either, as they moved through the throngs of men. When they reached the hallway that led to the room where he got dressed, though, he had no reason to let her continue touching his skin. So he wrenched his hand from her grip, as much as he wanted to let her touch every inch of his skin if she could continue to make him feel something again.
“I need to wash off,” he said when he shut the door behind them. “Wait over there.” He pointed to a couch in the corner of the room. Usually it was an office of some kind, but for Harry it was his dressing room. A basin of water sat on a table, cold and full, and he was itching to wash his sweat-coated skin. Surprisingly, Cicely followed his directions, and so he turned to the basin, using a rag to rinse off his skin, the feeling of the cold water like heaven on his pores.
“When did you learn to box?”
His head perked up at her voice. He could barely see her in the dimly lit room, but the outline of her was enough, her legs thrown over the arm of the couch in a complete unladylike way. “I was sixteen.” He surprised himself with his honesty, but in the room with just Cicely, for some reason he let a piece of his past slip through.
“Do you like it?”
The question had Harry pause. Did he like it? He cupped some water and ran it through his hair, the sound of the water dripping into the basin filling the silence between them. “It’s a job,” he told her simply. It was the best answer he had. He didn’t really have the luxury of considering whether or not he liked his job. It paid the bills and earned him a reputation that meant no one tried to talk to him, which was all he wanted. After France, all he wanted was to be left alone, save for a select few.
He was focused on his thoughts and the murky water in front of him that he didn’t see Cicely move from her position on the couch. Suddenly, she was there, her fingers dancing across his back that faced her. “Hand me the basin,” she said, voice firm in his ears.
Harry considered fighting her, but his body exposed him. His body craved her touch on his skin, and so he slid the basin to the side so she could reach it. The rag was wrung, and then she was brushing it over his back, reaching the places he couldn’t reach. He could smell her perfume, the faintest taste of beer on her tongue as she breathed lightly in his ear, the traces of jam on her breath from the food he had given her hours before. It made his fists clench against the table and he hoped she didn’t notice.
They stayed that way, Cicely brushing the rag across his skin, wiping away his sins from the night. Her fingers brushed a cut once or twice and he hissed, stopping her in her tracks. She halted her motions each time and wrung out the cloth with fresh water, cleaning the wound with a delicate touch he had never felt. She murmured how they needed alcohol when they got home, how she needed to properly clean the wound. It was something his mother would’ve told him, he thought to himself, a thought he quickly pushed aside as he clenched his jaw.
“Turn around,” she said, voice so quiet he barely heard it above their breathing.
And Harry did as she said. She had made him pliant under her touch, his desperation not to let her stop clouding his ability to speak. His bum pressed against the table and his eyes caught hers in the dim lighting, the gaze that passed between them making Harry stop breathing for a second. But when she brushed the cloth over a bruise, the wince that fell from his lips drew him from his fog.
The rag criss-crossed his body, covering the area he had already cleaned, but he didn’t stop her. It was only when her fingers brushed over the tape across his nipples that his hand shot up, grabbing her wrist and halting her movement. But her eyes zeroed in on him, a determined look in her eyes that made him pause. “Let me see them.” Her words were gentle, but firm.
That made him release her hand, and he sucked in a breath and she pulled the tape from his nipples, the air on his sensitive skin making his stomach clench. He stood there under her gaze as she looked at him, the bars through each nipple that he had gotten on a dare. At first, he had been embarrassed of them, regretted them because they hurt like hell and scratched against his uniform. He considered getting them removed, or just ripping them out, but each time he paused. Paused just enough to let the thought pass, and his best friend’s voice entered his mind. “Who gives a fuck, anyways?” And that was the voice that made him keep them.
Now, it was too late to turn back. He was a boxer and the moment he stepped into the ring with taped nipples, it became something he was known for. The stories circled, tall tales that made Harry chuckle to himself, but he never told the truth. He liked the mystery around them. They became a sort of badge of honor, something that set him apart.
But he had never experienced a woman’s gaze on them, and he couldn’t help but fear her reaction. Would she be disgusted? Ridicule him?
Cicely, though, just looked at them, and then up at his face. “What do they feel like?” She asked tentatively.
It was a question he had never been asked before, actually. And one he didn’t quite know how to answer, because after two years with them they had become normal to him. “They heighten everything,” he replied honestly. It was about the only answer he could give.
This seemed to pique her interest. “Can I touch them?”
Fuck yes, his body screamed, desperate for her fingers on the most sensitive part of his body. His gaze zeroed in on hers, searching her eyes for a hint of a possibility she would ridicule him. But instead he found just genuine curiosity. And perhaps a hint of desire. So, he told her, “Yes.”
When her fingers grazed the bars, her warm touch on the cold metal that ran under his skin, he tried not to flinch, but it was difficult. Her touch was like a lightning bolt through his body, setting every one of his nerves on fire. Holding in the desire to moan was one of the hardest things he had done, and as she touched the other, fingers curiously exploring his skin, it became more difficult. And then she whispered, “I like them.”
Harry’s eyes snapped from where her fingers touched his skin to her eyes, and he found her already looking at him. He watched her lick across her top lip, the flush to her cheeks and wide eyes that stared at him making his body boil. It was too much. He pulled away, desperate for space, for something to allow himself to calm down.
Cicely must have sensed the change in his demeanor, because she immediately stepped back, the rag dropping into the basin of dirty water. Sweat, grime, and blood all mixed together and Harry thought as he looked at his reflection in the water that a mixture had never described him more.
“Let’s go, I need to eat,” Harry said, bending to grab the shirt from his bag on the floor.
Cicely didn’t reply with anything but a nod, and when he had laced his boots she followed him out of the room. The warehouse had emptied out, just some of Josiah’s boys around to help direct the cleanup. Harry knew he’d stop by the office tomorrow to get his cut of the winnings, so he didn’t bother to stick around. Instead, he pushed open the front doors and led Cicely out into the nighttime Birmingham breeze of coal and horse shit.
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Cicely awoke to the sound of someone moaning and talking. Her eyes blinked to adjust to the darkness in Harry’s bedroom, her mind taking a second to gather her bearings and remember where she was. Then she heard the sound, something that resembled an injured animal, the edge of fear and pain that made her skin crawl. Last night Harry had given her one of his shirts to sleep in after she said she wanted to wash her clothes and leave them out for the night, and the cotton material bunched under her thighs and she swung them over the edge of the bed. She paused to see if she heard the sound again.
This time, a scream ripped through the house, and Cicely knew something was wrong. She pulled open Harry’s door and moved through the hall, eyes searching to see if she saw anyone, but it was empty. And then she heard it again, and this time without the barrier of a wall, she could tell who it was.
It was Harry.
Her feet didn’t bother to avoid the creaks on the stairs as she moved down the stairs to where he was asleep on the couch. The only light was the faintest bit from the moon, high in the sky, and it was just enough to make out the pained expression on Harry’s face and the thrashing of his body on the couch. He was talking to himself, something about the dark and the word No repeated over and over again, his voice cresting in panic.
It was a nightmare, she realized as she crouched next to him on the floor.
“No, please, it’s too dark, please—“
“Harry,” she said firmly, hands reaching out to grip his wrists to hold his arms to the couch cushions underneath him. “Harry, wake up.”
His eyes didn’t open though, and his body only trashed more under her. She didn’t know what to do, how to wake him up. The only thing she could think of was how when she was scared it helped when she felt safe. She didn’t know what made Harry feel safe, but for her, it was when her mother held her. So carefully, she lifted Harry’s shoulders, trying to avoid his arms trashing as she did so. Once she was seated on the couch she tugged him into her, letting her arms wrap around his chest and pin down his arms.
She murmured his name over and over again, softly in his ear to try and rouse him from the dream. “It’s Cicely,” she told him, “You’re safe, Harry, you can wake up. Wake up, Harry, you’re safe.” With their bodies this close she could feel his heartbeat, the way it raced in his chest. What was he experiencing? Where was he? She wanted to rouse him, pull him out of it and bring him back to her, but she was powerless.
After a few tries, she saw his eyes flutter open, his arms immediately trying to himself free from her grip.
“It’s me,” she said softly. “Hey, hey, it’s me.”
“Cicely?” His voice was rough from the screaming and it broke her. It was raw in a way she hadn’t heard from him, honest and open. Nothing protecting him from her.
She could feel his heartbeat slowing already, and the thought put her at ease. “Yes.”
He didn’t say anything for a few beats, and Cicely just ran her hand up and down his back, hoping to calm him as much as she could. His breath was ragged, big inhales of air and deep exhales, but it was becoming more normal as time passed. “I—I’m sorry,” he eventually said, voice small in the room.
But he had nothing to apologize for, Cicely thought to herself. The last thing he should do is apologize—it’s not his fault. “It’s okay,” she told him earnestly. “Do you want to talk about it?”
That made him pull away from her arms, her skin immediately missing his. Her arms fell to her side and Harry sat up, swiveled, and laid his face in his hands. “No,” is all he told her, not even lifting his head.
She didn’t know what he needed from her in that moment, but she knew she would do anything. Somehow she had only known this boy for a day, and yet the sight of his pain made her heart break. “Do—do you want me to stay?” It was the only thing she could think of to help, and if it would work then she would do it.
But he shook his head. He didn’t want her there. And the last thing she would do is push him after what had just transpired, so she stood, the hem of his cotton shirt reaching an unladylike mid-thigh. When he finally looked at her, she saw that he noticed, his eyes falling to the place where the material ended and her skin began. She tugged at it, hoping he didn’t judge her—she didn’t exactly stop and think about getting dressed, she just moved. “I…”
“Looks good on ya,” he said, words reverberating in Cicely’s mind.
She stood there, as still as stone, trying to figure out what to say to him. No man had ever seen her like this, and she had always been taught that they shouldn’t. And yet, the idea of Harry seeing her exposed legs, her hair messy from sleep, her in his shirt, it didn’t bother her in the slightest. So she didn’t disguise the blush that she could feel in her cheeks, and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Try and get some sleep,” she told him, and then she turned away, heading up the stairs and back to his room.
When she looked back from the third stair, Harry’s eyes were transfixed on her figure, gaze locked on her. For a moment, she held it, letting him watch her, but then she turned her head and went the rest of the way up the stairs, leaving Harry behind in the darkness.
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Harry didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.
The prospect of having the dreams again (although he got them most nights) and Cicely waking up again was too frightening a thought for him to allow himself to go to sleep. Instead, he ended up having a glass or two of whiskey in the wee hours of the morning, smoking too many cigarettes on the doorstep, and thinking. His thoughts revolved around Cicely, weaving in and out of the snatches of moments they had spent together—of which there were few—and the bits he knew about her. Which was very little. He didn’t even know her last name, where she was from, or why on Earth she was out in the middle of a rainstorm, lying on her back in the mud. He hadn’t asked, not wanting to make her uncomfortable or push her to talk, because he had this feeling that she was more than some spoiled rich girl.
The fact that she was rich was an assumption on his part, but one he felt was probably right. First, there were her clothes, which were nicer than any he had seen a girl around here wear, boots that looked like they were new, unscuffed.  Then there was the way she looked at his neighborhood—as if she had never seen something like it before. When she had walked out of his room and into the rest of the house, he had had the fleeting thought that perhaps he should be embarrassed, and at moments he was. But as they spent more time together, he began to get the feeling that even though Cicely may not be used to the way he lived, she didn’t seem to care all that much.
It intrigued him, the way she looked at his world. The way she had watched him during the match, the feeling of her eyes on his skin something he couldn’t shake, the way she had adapted to Tommy like a chameleon, blending in with ease. The way she had slid into the booth at the pub last night where they had eaten a late meal, complete disregard for the fight breaking out in the corner, her focus only on him and their meal. He kept expecting her to fit into the mold he had created for her, but she continued to slip away. And he didn’t quite know what to make of it.
Or the fact that she seemed to want to stay. When she had asked him if she could stay, and she said she didn’t want to go home quite yet, he immediately jumped to the worst of conclusions. That her father hurt her, that something had happened, and she was running from a past as dark as his. But then he reminded himself that she had money, wealth, status. Problems like the ones he knew didn’t exist in their world. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to cast her in a mold of wealth and opulence he had read about and encountered on a handful of occasions, people who used people like him and tossed them aside when they had had their fill. But the world wasn’t fair.
He flicked his cigarette butt into the street, the sounds of horses and distant rumble of cars, clap of house doors as men left for work telling him that the day was beginning. It was time for him to see Josiah and pay a visit to Nellie, who he hoped wouldn’t slam a door in his face. Inside, Cicely was still asleep—he couldn’t hear any footsteps from upstairs—so he decided to dart out while she was still sleeping. With any luck, he’d be back before she awoke.
The walk to Josiah’s offices was a well-remembered one, the row houses, shipyards and factories he passed old friends. He waved to the children he passed on their way to work or school, and nodded to the men he knew from matches or Josiah. He lived deep in Josiah’s territory, a requirement for what he did, and as a result every man was on Josiah’s payroll in some way. They all knew when to turn their heads, when to lock their doors, and when to pull out their guns. It used to unnerve Harry, but with time it became as normal as the nightmare that plagued his sleep.
He knocked on the back door as he was trained, a nod to Cyril when the door opened. People congratulated him on the match last night, and he didn’t respond. They all knew he was quiet most of the time, knew not to expect lengthy replies. Before France, he used to not shut up. Now, he preferred to think rather than talk.
Josiah’s door was ajar, his ankles propped up on the desk, the telephone stand in one hand, the handset in the other. His eyes darted up as Harry opened the door wider, shutting it quickly behind him. Josiah never changed much—a mustache on his upper lip, hard brown eyes that only lightened if he had enough drink in him, lips that curved into a smile when someone made a very bad mistake. He wore exclusively charcoal suits, saying black was too common, and he wanted to stand out, and a dark blue tie every day, a silver pocket watch chain tucked into his vest. Josiah had built his operations from the ground up, a man of barely 25 years of age when he came back from France, determined to make a name for himself and protect the community that had been, in his eyes, murdered by the British government for a war they had no business being conscripted for. His hatred for the government ran deep, deep enough to line the pockets of the police across southeast Birmingham, especially in Balsall Heath.
“Alright, but don’t fuck it up, ya hear?” Josiah said, nodding for Harry to sit in the leather chair across from his desk. It was the chair where Harry had sat during many conversations, both good and bad. “Yeah, okay.” Josiah hung up, resting the telephone back on the desk and running a hand through his longer dark brown hair. He picked his cigarette up from where it was burning in the ashtray, and swung his feet off the desk. “Heard ya won,” Josiah said, finally speaking to Harry.
Harry took the offer of a cigarette and nodded. “Peters wasn’t as bad as everyone said.”
“Mhm. I’ll tell Billy that when I see him.”
“He was Billy’s?” That was a surprise. Billy had been on the rise in the neighborhoods bordering Balsall Heath, his power growing to become something threatening to Josiah’s operation. So for Harry to be fighting one of Billy’s boys was unusual to say the least. Josiah didn’t usually like to risk the fights turning into something more—at least, not when they weren’t meant to be.
Josiah nodded, pushing aside a stack of papers and resting his elbows on the oak desk. “Newer kid. I was promised no trouble, thought I’d take the gamble.”
“Warn me next time, eh?” Harry wouldn’t have had Cicely within a mile of the warehouse if he had known his opponent was one of Billy’s. The prospect of guns coming out while she was in the room made his skin crawl.
But Josiah just chuckled and stubbed out his cigarette. “Goin’ soft on me, boy.” Harry hated it when Josiah called him that, but he always had. So he wasn’t going to start correcting him now, even though he was anything but a boy. “Heard ya had a girl there.”
Cicely. He knew Josiah would hear, but he had hoped he’d have a bit more time. “Yeah.”
Josiah wrenched open a door, reaching around for what Harry hoped was his pay. He wanted to get out of this damned office. Harry tolerated Josiah for Jack’s sake, but in truth Josiah had always been a bit too much of a wild card and a short fuse for Harry’s liking. But he gave Harry work, so he didn’t let his feelings get in the way. Plus, most men were short fuses after the war. “Where’d she come from?”
Harry chose not to answer, and thankfully Josiah didn’t push. He knew Harry didn’t like to talk, and most times he didn’t push too hard. “D’ya have the money from Manchester?”
Josiah didn’t reply, just pulled out a stack of bills, crisp and ordered, and placed them on the desk. “Manchester and last night,” he said and Harry took it, folding the bills over and shoving them into his pocket. It was more than most should carry, but Harry was anything but most people. “Don’t spend it all in one place, yeah?”
Unable to help it, he rolled his eyes, the tension in the room lifting. Josiah smirked and Harry pushed back the chair, the thought of getting back to Cicely making him eager to leave. “When’s Jack back?”
Josiah pulled a ledger from a drawer before responding. “Sunday.”
Harry nodded. Jack had been in London since last week, working on some deal that Harry didn’t have the status for the details on. “Tell him I’ll come by?”
“Sure.” Josiah didn’t look up as Harry took his leave, shutting the door behind him and giving Josiah’s secretary a nod. Next was Nellie’s, which he hoped would go smoothly, at least.
Unfortunately, he was not so lucky. Nellie stared at him when she opened the door, hair swept up on her head, clothes disheveled as usual. She cocked her hip against the door and rolled her eyes at him before asking, “What d’ya want, Harry?”
It had been over a year since he had rejected her, and yet she still treated him like he had broken it off with her after months. When in actuality, she had been the one to pursue him, and he hadn’t had it in him to tell her he wasn’t interested until she tried to kiss him. To say the least, things had been icy ever since. “Can I borrow some clothes?”
Her eyebrows furrowed. “Clothes for who?”
“A girl.” To her credit, she didn’t react to that news with anything but a sigh.
“What happened to hers?” She asked, opening the door wider. He stepped inside, the sound of children from upstairs wrapping around him, the sound making his body itch. It was too loud.
“Mud,” he replied simply, looking around for something to keep his hands busy, but he turned up empty. “So?”
Nellie pointed to the couch in the sitting room, a bit sunk in and worn with love. “I’ve got some that no one picked up. What size is she?”
Harry sat down the couch, folding his fingers together. “About yours.”
Nellie gave him another pointed look, but said nothing. She just disappeared to where she kept the clothes she mended for ladies, and he had to sit there and listen to her younger siblings squeal and yell up the stairs. When she reappeared, she had a few things in a stack for him, which she set on the table next to him. “There.”
He looked at the stack, the fabric without anything around it. He would have to walk home with them under his arm. “No wrap?”
“No,” she replied, and he decided that she purposefully didn’t give him any. “3 shillings.”
Harry pulled the coins out and pressed them into her hand, taking the clothes and tucking them under his arm. “Thank you,” he said, and headed for the door, knowing when he wasn’t wanted.
“Bye, Harry,” Nellie said, and proceeded to slam the door in his face. Which he didn’t deserve, but wasn’t the type to protest. He checked his pocket watch—a little over an hour had passed since he left home. He wondered if Cicely would be waiting for him.
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Walking into his home to find Cicely in his kitchen in nothing but his shirt made Harry stop in his tracks. While he knew he had seen her like this last night, last night it had been dark. In the dark he couldn’t see the lines golden curl of her hair, the milky white of her skin that seemed to go on for miles. It should be illegal, he thought to himself, to look as beautiful as her.
“You should put some clothes on,” he finally said, words gruff in the distance between them.
Cicely looked down at her legs and then at Harry. “I was waiting for you to come back, hopefully with clothes. Which I see you did.” She nodded at the stack of clothes under his arm and Harry knew he should move to give them to her, but he was frozen in place.
Seeing her in his kitchen, a plate with a piece of bread on it, an open jar of jam on the counter next to it, tea in his cup, it made him wonder for a split second what it would be like if she stayed. Like, really stayed. He knew that what was happening wasn’t permanent, that eventually she would have to go back to wherever home was for her. But having her in his home was making him realize that perhaps he didn’t like being alone as much as he had thought.
“Harry?”
His thoughts cleared and he jolted into action. He set the clothes on the table by the door and walked into the sitting room leaving her make her own decisions. Space, he thought to himself, he needed space from her. It was a push and pull inside of him—a pull that drew him to her and a push when he got too close. He stood by the fireplace, eyes trained on the black metal of it, as he listened to Cicely move through his home. Across the room to get the clothes, feet creaking on the stairs as she went up. When he heard her door shut he let out a breath, his body softening, tension leaving him.
The prospect of breakfast was enticing—he hadn’t eaten this morning. Porridge was what he had every morning, and this wasn’t the time for that to change. He shrugged off the jacket he had on, dropping it onto the couch, and headed for the kitchen.
When Cicely reappeared, the porridge was done and he was pouring it into two bowls, one for each of them. “Did you make me breakfast?” She asked, and his eyes drifted up to her. Nellie’s clothes fit her perfectly—a bit more snug on the curves of her body, but he wasn’t complaining.
“S’just porridge,” he replied and took the two bowls to the small table. He returned to the kitchen to grab his cup of tea, and he immediately felt her presence next to him as she picked up her own cup, left on the counter. Somehow he would have to get over the tension that raked through his body whenever she got near, but he didn’t know how he would manage that.
Cicely turned away from him and he followed her to the table, eyes trying to land anywhere but her body. She pulled out a chair and smiled at him softly. “Thank you. I’m not used to men cooking for me.”
Harry realized that him making breakfast for both of them meant they would have to eat together, that they would be forced to talk. The idea made him falter as he went to sit, but he forced himself to do it anyways, knowing that she would probably make him. “Mum taught me,” he mumbled, chair scraping against the floorboard as he say.
“Is that her in the photo?”
He knew exactly which photo she was talking about—the only one he had up. “Yes.”
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and dipped her spoon into the porridge, taking a bite. She was probably used to better quality, an actual chef maybe (he had heard rich people had those), but she didn’t give any indication that it was bad. Instead, she just took another bite before opening her mouth again to speak. “Where are you from?”
Harry didn’t tell people where he was from. It was a decision he made when he came to Birmingham, to leave his past behind him. The photo was up in his sitting room because he would’ve felt like shit for not putting it up, not because he particularly wanted it there.
“Harry?” She prompted, gaze fluttering over his face.
His grip tightened on the spoon in his palm, eyes on the food in front of him. “I don’t talk about my past.” Why did he want to tell her? He could feel it on the tip of his tongue and he tightened his jaw, trying to keep it from tumbling out on its own accord.
Cicely considered his statement as she sipped on her tea. “What do you talk about?”
The question made him look at her, her brown eyes already waiting for his. “What d’ya mean?”
“If you don’t talk about your past, then what do you talk to people about?”
He didn’t talk to people, he thought to himself. That was how he dealt with it. He only spoke to people who he felt safe with—Jack mainly, sometimes Tommy, Josiah if forced. They all knew his past, knew not to share it around. “Dunno.”
The sigh that slipped from her lips made Harry grimace. He had disappointed her and he didn’t like the feeling. “How about this? I tell you about myself, and you do the same in return. We each get a question.”
The idea was enticing, mainly because Harry desperately wanted to know more about her. She was like a period to him and he wanted to know everything that came before it in the sentence. Was it worth telling her about his past? Perhaps. “Fine. What’s your last name?”
Her eyes twinkled, a playful grin sliding onto her face. “King,” she said, that one piece of information rocking Harry’s world immediately. The Kings were as notorious as Josiah was, just in a different way. They owned dozens of garment factories in Birmingham, controlled a handful of shipyards, one or two coal factories. Harry estimated probably half of Birmingham’s working class was employed by the King family and he assumed properly, by Cicely’s father.“Where are you from?”
“Church Hulme,” he told her. “Who is your father?”
He searched her expression to see if she recognized it, but she didn’t seem to. And why would she—it was nothing but a small farming town, some local businesses and a forge. “William King. How old are you?”
So she was the daughter of the head of the King family, an heiress to a fortune larger than anything he could imagine, no doubt. He knew the Kings had only daughters, but he didn’t know how many, or if Cicely was the oldest. The importance of staying up to date on the lives of the King family was never something he felt inclined to do, but now it was vital information. “22. How did you end up on that road?”
“I went riding,” she said after taking another bite of porridge. “The lightning scared my horse and he bucked me off. I must have passed out when I hit the ground.” Cicely considered him for a moment before speaking. “Where did you fight?”
Harry’s blood ran cold at her question. It dredged up memories he didn’t want to talk about. “We’re done,” he told her, pushing away his finished porridge and standing abruptly.
“Harry, wait.“ Her hand wrapped around his wrist, catching his arm as he stepped away, and the feeling of her skin on his made him have to close his eyes to get his breathing under control. Did she know what she did to him? “I’m sorry.”
“‘m not talking about that,” he said, not budging from his position.
Cicely’s thumb brushed across his forearm, the thinner skin meaning he could feel the press of her fingers on his body. “That’s okay,” she said, voice soft. “Will you come back?”
Although he probably shouldn’t, he opened his eyes and turned back around. “Why don’t you want to go home?”
Her hand dropped from his wrist immediately at his question. “My father is forcing me to marry Clifford Stevens. Do you know who that is?” Harry shook his head. He didn’t exactly keep up with high society Birmingham circles in his free time. “He’s thirty and disgusting. He never even acknowledges that I might have a brain, much less that I’m a human being. If I marry him I’ll end up shut in his estate to raise his children for the rest of my life and I would rather die than sentence myself to a life like that.”
Clifford Stevens immediately became Harry’s least favorite person in the world, with the second being William King. To sentence a girl as kind, spirited, and open-minded as Cicely to a life as a glorified hostage was deplorable. “Why is your father forcing you to marry him?”
“We’re nearly broke,” Cicely said with a sigh. That was news to Harry. “Father has been losing money for years. He gambles most of what he makes away and because he’s a fucking idiot he never wins, and he hired a series of treasurers who are apparently inept at balancing the budgets. The factories are bleeding money and rather than take any responsibility for it, his solution is to marry me off with the knowledge that Clifford will bankroll my father’s lifestyle.” Perhaps it was the look on Harry’s face that gave him away, but Cicely gave him a weak smile. “Didn’t know the truth of the Kings, did you?”
“No.”
She fiddled with the cuff of her blouse as Harry considered her words. Was there any way to get out of her future? Probably not, unless she left behind everything that came with her name. Although from what she told him, it didn’t sound like there was much left. “Will you tell me about your family secrets in exchange for mine?”
His family secrets? God, where did he start. His gaze drifted across Cicely, her fingers brushing through the ends of her hair. What would she say to his answer? He supposed it didn’t hurt to tell her, since it wasn’t like she would tell anyone in his life about it. They were from different worlds, after all. “I found out when I came back from the war that ‘m not my father’s son.”
Cicely blinked at him, face softening as the words settled in. “What?”
“It’s just what it sounds like,” he said, leaning back in the chair and taking a breath. “Grew up my whole life thinking I had one father, when in reality it’s not him at all. My mum had an affair with some bloke and the man who raised me,” he spit out, hating the word father when he thought of him, “decided to keep me.” The feeling of her hand on his warmed his skin, but didn’t have the calm effect that he expected she intended. “Haven’t been back since.”
“Harry,” she murmured, calling his eyes from where her hand covered his to her face. “I’m sorry.”
It was the first time someone had told him that, now that he thought about it. He had told Jack, who said, Fuck mate, that sucks. Want another pint? And that was that, but he didn’t mind it. Somehow though, Cicely’s compassion made his chest ache, his throat close up. He could feel tears rising inside of him and he panicked—he hadn’t cried since France and he wasn’t bloody going to start now, not in front of her. “I—I need a second,” he said quickly, scooting back in the chair and walking into the hallway, leaving her behind at the table.
He rested his forearms on the wall and let his head fall on his neck. Deep breaths in and out, his eyes shut, struggling to keep his brain together as his ears buzzed. They didn’t deserve his anger, he reminded himself for the millionth time, they didn’t deserve shit after the secrets they had kept from him. That his sister wasn’t his sister. The man who had taught him how to play football, how to tie a tie, wrestled with him as a kid, wasn’t his father. His fists clenched against the wallpaper, knuckles hurting from last night, but the pain almost felt good to Harry—it was a feeling he knew.
All of a sudden he felt a hand on his shoulder and he whipped his head to the side to find Cicely standing there. “What?” He asked, not moving an inch, but just looking at her, trying to understand for the life of him why she was there.
Instead of responding, she ducked her head under his arm and wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling his body into hers.
She was hugging him, he realized.
He was frozen, unable to move. He could smell the faint scent of flowers on her skin, somehow still clinging to her despite being in Balsall Heath for almost two days. The darkness of this place seemed to not even touch her, the light from her repelling all of it away. Her fingers gripped the back of his shirt loosely, but just enough to where he could feel her through the fabric, her body feeling impossibly close to him.
No one had touched him like this in years. And he didn’t know what to do, how to respond, how to act.
The only thing he could think to do was to lift one of his hands from where it was clenched in a fist against the wallpaper, and brush it down her hair. It was soft against his skin, the strands of it darting between his fingers and petting the rough calluses he had from years of hard work and fighting. They stung against his cuts from the past week’s worth of fights, but he didn’t care. The prospect of touching her was enough to push all of the pain away.
Slowly, she lifted her head, eyes finding his. She was sandwiched between him and the wall and it was way too fucking close, so Harry immediately took a step back, giving her space. “Will you show me your Birmingham?” She asked him softly, voice echoing in the narrow hallway.
“What d’ya mean?”
“The Birmingham that’s your home,” she offered as an explanation. “I want to see it how you do.”
His Birmingham, the one that he had made a home, full of people who knew him as he was now. Respected him, feared him even—because what was the line, really, between fear and respect? The prospect of her wanting to understand his world the way he saw it was one he had never expected, but appreciated more than he could say. “Okay.”
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Harry took her on a grand tour of Balsall Heath, them weaving through the streets with children playing, horses and cars  making their way down the thoroughfares. He showed her the factories her father owned, which he assumed she had never seen before, and he studied her as she saw the conditions of the workers her father employed. Cicely seemed to be everything her father wasn’t and he hoped that that continued to her views on labor.
Parts of Balsall Heath were more well-to-do, people who could afford to send their children to the art school opposite the public baths. But Harry showed her the parts he knew, the parts where people scrapped together money to make ends meet, where they relied on wages from people like Cicely’s father. He was thankful he had gotten her clothes from Nellie because at least at this rate she blended in more, although her nice boots still stuck out like a sore thumb. Although, he expected her being with him drew a decent amount of attention. When men stopped him to talk about a match and their children were with them, Cicely would squat and talk to them, not minding that her skirts got muddy from the unpaved roads. Harry had a difficult time understanding her when she did things like that. She was so unlike so many people of her station, and yet here she was crouching to talk with grubby children on unpaved streets with a pile of horse shit just a few feet away with a smile on her face.
For a second, he let himself consider what it would be like if she stayed. But he didn’t let that thought linger for too long.
They visited his favorite pub for a pint and she laughed at the barkeep’s jokes and charmed every man they met. Perhaps Harry should have been hesitant to introduce Cicely to so many people in his world, but at the same time he didn’t care what people thought of him. If Cicely wanted to see his world, then by God was he going to show it to her.
It was getting dark by the time they made their way back to his flat, bellies full from a roast they’d had at the pub. Harry watched her walk beside him, her eyes darting around the homes as they passed. “I like it here,” she told him, not meeting his eye. “Everyone is so nice.”
He couldn’t help but scoff at the thought. “Not everyone is. See all these houses?” She nodded. “In every one of them is a man who works for Josiah in some way. There’s a gun in every one of these houses for when Josiah calls.”
“Does he call?” Cicely asked, eyes finally turning to him as they walked.
He nodded, hoping that was the explanation she sought. From the way her expression changed, he assumed it was. Harry didn’t know what to do with her naivety, because it mystified him that someone could know so little of the world around them. Although, he thought as they rounded the corner to his street, he couldn’t exactly blame her.
“Does he ever…call for you?”
“Yes,” he responded because it was the honest answer. Even though he got to avoid a lot of the action because he specifically had told Josiah when he signed on to box for him that he didn’t want to get his hands dirty, it came with the territory. Sometimes they needed all the people they could, and with someone as skilled at fighting as Harry and the experience from the war that he had, it would be idiotic for them not to call on him.
They reached his house in silence and he unlocked the door before pushing it open. She stepped in, and leaned down to wipe off her boots. He liked how she had already made herself feel at home in his space, knew that he always wipes off his shoes in the entryway on the mat, because otherwise the filth from the streets ends up inside. “Do you have a match tonight?” She asked, moving to the side.
“No.” It was his night off, but he had one tomorrow.
Her fingertips grazed the table and he watched them trail, the thought of her fingers on his skin drifting into his mind. “What do you do in the evenings you have off?”
Harry considered her question. He didn’t know, really. The evenings all passed, though, somehow. Time was irrelevant to him since the nights dragged on, plagued by nightmares most of the time. He spent a lot of time staring at the wall in the dark. Sometimes he took walks. Sometimes he drank enough to where the dreams didn’t come, but that was when it was really bad. “Nothing, really.”
Cicely rotated to see him, the sliver of moonlight those shone through his curtains hitting her blond hair perfectly. “Do you do anything but box?”
“No.”
“Do you read?”
Harry hadn’t read a book since before France. “Not anymore.”
Cicely turned to his bookcase, which had collected dust from disuse. “Then why do you have so many books?”
“They make me think of my sister,” he replied, the truth shocking both of them. Gemma loved books, always had—she would be curled up on a chair all day with a book in her hands if their mother didn’t make her stop. When he was young, she would read to Harry sometimes, his childhood memories a mixture of fantasy and historical tales from his sister’s lips. Perhaps the books were his way of keeping her close.
Her fingers grazed the spines of his collection, dust falling around her. “Do you talk to her?”
“No.” He’d picked up the telephone a handful of times, ready to say the number to the operator. But then he’d think again, and set down the stand.
“I like this one.” Cicely pulled a bound volume off the shelf, her eyes dancing across the cover. “The Magnificent Ambersons.”
The name meant nothing to him. He bought bestsellers because he knew his sister did the same. Sometimes he considered reading one just to see what she would’ve thought about it. One time he almost mailed her one on her birthday. But each time, he did nothing.
“Can I read to you?”
Her voice was hesitant, nervous of what he would say. No one had read to him since the war, when his friends would read aloud their letters if someone didn’t get one. It made them feel like someone was looking out for them, even if they didn’t get a letter themselves. If it had been someone else, he probably would have said no. But it was Cicely and her voice was like his favorite church hymnal, entrancing and meditative. He would have listened to her talk for hours. So he said yes.
She directed him to lay down on the couch and he did, while she sat in the chair to the side. Harry lit a cigarette as she opened the cover, the sound of her tuning the pages the only noise except for the flick of his lighter. And then, she began. “Major Amberson had ‘made a fortune’ in 1873, when other people were losing fortunes, and the magnificence of the Ambersons began then.”
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Cicely’s eyes fluttered open and at first she didn’t know why. But then she heard a shout and a long, deep moan from downstairs. It was Harry again. Her hands pushed at the duvet and she flicked on the light by the bed. As she left his room the sound of him moaning in his sleep, words she couldn’t understand reached her ears, but louder without the muffling of the door. She didn’t bother to keep her footsteps quiet as she made her way to the stairs and down to the first floor, her eyes adjusting to the dark.
A scream, blood curdling and filled with anguish, ripped through the house, and Cicely flew the remaining few feet to the couch. The sound of Harry’s scream, sharp and frightened, shook her to her core. She just wanted him out of there, free from the clutches of whatever demon robbed him of his sleep.
“Harry!” She said, loudly, jostling his shoulder to try and rouse him. Unlike last night when she had knelt by the couch, Harry wasn’t flailing around. He was stick-straight, as if held in a straight jacket, but she could feel his pulse racing when she pressed her fingers to his sweaty skin. It was almost more frightening—seeing him unmoving but mumbling nonsense in his sleep. The only part of him that moved was his head, ever so slightly shaking back and forth, a stream of Nos leaving his lips.
“No,” he mumbled, “please, it’s too dark, please.” His words from last night were back again, and she wanted to know where he was. What endless circle of hell he had found himself in and how to dig him out of it.
She decided to do what she had done before, and tried to lift his shoulders from the couch. But this time, Harry’s body was so tense that she couldn’t lift him, as if he had made himself a thousand pounds. As he let out another loud groan, she grimaced—she had to wake him, she just didn’t know how. “Harry,” she said again, “wake up, please. Please, Harry.”
But her words didn’t seem to do anything, because the next thing she knew his scream was filling her ears, the sound ripping at her heart. Her body seemed to move without her knowledge as she threw herself on top of him, her knees falling to either side of his hips, her palms cupping his face. “Harry,” she said softly, brushing her thumbs across his cheekbones. “Wake up for me, please. It’s Cicely. It’s safe, I’m here.”
Somehow, that seemed to rouse him, because his eyes fluttered open, his hazel eyes meeting hers in the dark. She was inches from his face, and she wondered if his sight was filled with her face just as hers was. “Cicely?”
“It’s me,” she said, brushing his sweaty hair off of his forehead. “You’re safe now.” She could feel the sigh that left his body intimately, her skin touching his in parts. That was when she realized how close they were, how completely improper her position was. She was on top of him for Pete’s sake. Her knees were on either side of him, their most intimate parts just inches from one another. If her elbows weren’t propped up on his shoulders, her chest would be touching his.
She scrambled to move, but Harry’s hands moved to her hips, halting her in place. Her eyes flickered to his, trying to read him, decipher what he was doing. Usually she had a hard time reading Harry, understanding what he wanted and needed. But now she had no problem. She watched him lick his lips, his pupils still blown out from the dream trained directly on her. When his grip didn’t shift from her body, but his thumbs brushed across the shirt she wore—it was his—and she knew.
He wanted to kiss her.
Cicely had never been kissed. Boys had tried, but they’d been disgusting, as had every other man she had ever known, and she had no interest in them. Until Harry, she hadn’t ever understood romance novels, the attraction people described in them. Every man who had ever showed interest in her had been boring, unattractive, and more than anything, just made her want to run in the opposite direction. But Harry made her want to race towards him at full speed, the darkness in his gaze and warmth in his heart made her want to know his stories, the way he looked at her made a part of her heart race that she had never felt before. He made her feel alive, as if she had been sleeping for nineteen years, just waiting for him to arrive.
One of his hands moved from his hip, inching through the air until his knuckles softly brushed across her jaw. Her heart was beating in her chest so fast she wondered if she was going to pass out again. It couldn’t be possible to go this long without breathing, right? Because Cicely didn’t know the last time she had taken a breath, all of them swallowed up in the look on Harry’s face.
She wanted him to kiss her.
Desperately. With every bone in her body. Cicely wanted to know what he tasted like, what it felt like when he kissed her. She wanted to know everything about him, to uncover every piece of him like gifts on her birthday, ripping back the pieces of wrapping paper walls that kept him from her.
“Harry,” she whispered, her voice one she had never heard before. It was soft, yearning, the encapsulation of everything she wanted in that moment.
He seemed to understand, because his fist uncurled, his palm moving to cup the side of her face. Slowly, his hand moved around her head, his fingers threading through her hair, the feeling of his callused hands on her skin alighting every inch in her body. Then, he pulled her head into him, his fingers on the back of her neck, delicately pressing at her skin. His eyes fluttered shut and perhaps hers were supposed to, but she wanted to see every moment of this—she wanted to know what he looked like when he kissed her.
When he did, his wet lips meeting hers, it was like returning home after a long trip, a homecoming she had been waiting for her whole life. Her eyelids shut, lost in the feeling of him, of the faint taste of cigarettes and whiskey on his lips, the smell of him that she had grown to look forward to when she walked into the room he was in. Fingers drifted from her neck to her hairline, and he lifted his chin, changing the angle, and Cicely fell into the kiss. Her arms gave out, elbows falling from his shoulders to the cushions of the couch, her body suddenly flush with his.
Harry’s hand moved from her hip to curl around her lower back, tugging her impossibly close to him as their lips parted and met again. It felt like there wasn’t a centimeter of space between them and Cicely didn’t want any. Their noses were pushed against each other, foreheads touching, lips moving in a dance they somehow both knew by heart. She pushed her fingers into his hair, nails scratching at his scalp lightly. A sound left his throat, and Cicely went to move her fingers, thinking she had hurt him.
“Do it again,” he mumbled.
Cicely’s eyes flickered open, studying him with her lips just a centimeter from his. He looked at her as if the rest of the world didn’t exist—it was a look she had never seen but one she wanted to see for the rest of time. So she brushed her nails across his scalp and slotted their lips back together, squeezing his hips with her knees. Under his shirt she could feel his heart racing, and she wondered if he was as affected by what was between them as she was. Because for her, it felt like her world had become Harry, even though she had known him for only two days. Somehow, he was her every thought and she didn’t want another thought to grace her mind ever again.
Harry shifted his head, nudging at her jaw and pushing it up so that her neck was stretched out. In rapid succession, he pressed soft kisses to her jaw and Cicely’s head lolled back to make room for him because it felt so good to have his lips on her skin. Then, his tongue flitted out and licked over her pulse point, making her squirm against him. His hands gripped her tightly in response, before ducking his head down, pulling the collar of her shirt to the side, and nipped at the juncture of her shoulder and neck.
A breathy moan left Cicely’s mouth, mixed in with the undertones of Harry’s name. It seemed to spur him on, because he opened his lips and sucked on her skin softly. It was a sensation Cicely didn’t even know what to do with, how to process, but she knew it felt good, so she held his head to her skin, urging him to continue. Which he did—laving his tongue against her tender skin in between nips and harsh sucks, and when she looked down and saw the mark he had formed, it didn’t bother her in the slightest. She just pulled his head up to meet hers, desperate to have his lips back on hers again.
His hands fell to her waist, clutching at his shirt that hung there. When he pulled at it, the hem crawled up, leaving her thighs mostly exposed to the cool air inside the room. But to Cicely, her flesh was burning from Harry’s touch and the cold air was welcome, and she didn’t mind that more skin than was appropriate was on show. She had a desire within her for Harry to see all of her, every inch of her skin if he would keep making her feel like this.
Harry seemed to not notice her exposed skin until his palms drifted downwards and gripped her skin, his eyes fluttering open and his lips pulling away from hers. “Cic—“
“It’s okay,” she whispered, brushing at the hair on his forehead. “I trust you.” And she did. She trusted him more than she did anyone else in her life, who had just let her down in a series of lies and cheats. He was the first person to take her for as she was, not demand her to be some prim and proper version, to show her the truth of their life, even if it was in pieces. It didn’t matter to her that she didn’t know it all, she knew enough. Enough to know Harry could never hurt her, at least, not in the ways that mattered.
His head bent, and he rested his forehead against hers, sucking in air and quick puffs. “We—we should stop.”
“I don’t want to,” she said, barely trusting her own voice in the moment. She didn’t even know what it was that she wanted, but it was everything, anything he would give her. She would take scraps at his table, if it meant one more moment in his arms.
Harry pushed her hair behind her ear, and then let his fingers fall to the mark he had left on her skin. She thought she could see a blush rising to his skin and it made her smile. “I want you to be sure,” he told her earnestly. “And I—I haven’t done this in a long time. I need…I want it to be perfect. Does that make sense?”
“Yes.” It did, and the fact that he wanted her to be sure made her trust him even more. Because even though she wanted it, she had barely thought about it. Cicely was impulsive, and her impulses had a tendency to get her into situations she regretted, and she didn’t want to regret a moment with Harry. “Will you come back to bed with me at least?”
His breath shuddered, eyes closing. She could see the wheels of his mind turning, and she thought she had an inkling as to why.
“Harry,” she murmured, pressing a tender kiss to his brow bone. “Your nightmares don’t scare me. I want to know every part of you, even the dark bits.” That made his eyes open, his pupils found her in the moonlit room. “Will you come to bed and tell me about them? It doesn’t have to be everything, I just want to know how to help you.”
Slowly, he nodded. She scooted back, letting him sit up on the couch. Tentatively she pulled her knees up from the couch and dropped back to the floor, coming to a standing and taking Harry’s hand in hers to help him up. He was a disheveled mess, his hair standing in all directions, and she realized it was from her. She liked it, seeing the results of something she had done on him.
With his hand in hers, they walked up the stairs to his bedroom, to the unmade bed she had been sleeping in before. Knowing he would be hesitant, she got into bed first, scooting against the wall and turning, so she could watch him get in behind her. The moment his head hit the pillow, the duvet cover around his waist, Cicely leaned into him, wanting to be close. She rested her head on his shoulder and his arm cautiously wrapped around her, holding her to him. One of her hands rested on his chest, just inches from the nipples with barbells through them, the ones that she wanted to see again but didn’t know how to ask about. The bed suddenly smelled like a mixture of them, a new scent that she already adored. She hoped she didn’t have to go to bed again for a long time.
She brushed up and down his chest over his shirt, drawing light lines across his skin. After a few minutes of just lying there, Harry cleared his throat and began to tell her the horrors he saw when he closed his eyes. “I’d barely been there a few weeks,” he said softly. “It was still all new to me, the landscape of France, the sound of bullets in the distance, the smell of smoke and dead bodies in the air. We were in this open field, the only protection was an occasional tree, but we spent all of it in trenches.”
His voice was like gravel, rough in the silence of the room, and Cicely kept rubbing at his chest, hoping it would keep him calm enough to keep going. She didn’t want him to stop, no matter how bad it got. “There was this massive offensive in motion from the French, and we were a piece of it. We were supposed to take Arras, to gain a strategic advantage against the Germans, break the deadlock we were in. All of us were itching for action, something just to keep our minds from spiraling in those fucking trenches. I’d never really been in battle before, so I didn’t know what it was like. But god, the minute we started moving, when we came up out of the trenches and the firing started, it was like the world was ending.
“Everyone around me was dropping, partly from the German fire, but more so from the shells from the air. It was so loud—they don’t tell you that, how loud war is. Your ears never stop ringing, and you’re almost able to like, drown it out for a second? But then something goes off near you and your whole body is jolted and it draws you back to the Earth. And I was just trying to like, reload my gun, right? And keep my body from shaking. Jack was there, and he was telling me to keep it together—that’s how we met actually. He found me on the field, my hands shaking so bad I couldn’t reload.
“It went on like that for days. Weeks, even. We made it three or so miles on the first day, but we also lost so many fucking men. We had to figure out who was gone, and it was easier to figure out who was still there. We made it into the town and there were all these houses with no roofs, tanks covering every inch of the road. It was like walking through the end of the world. And you can’t sleep, but you also can’t do anything but sleep because it’s this bone exhaustion you’ve never felt before in your whole life.”
Cicely could feel the fast beat of his heart and his voice was speeding up, the anxiety settling into his bones. “I’m here,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his shoulder where her head laid. “I’m still here.”
His head shifted, tilting to his chin rested on the top of her head. “I thought I was going to die. Sometimes I feel like I did, on that battlefield. Everything I knew before that moment was gone. It was just echoes of the dark trenches at night, the feeling of rats crawling across your boots and the niggling feeling that you can’t go to sleep because something might happen. And the death...I think I stopped believing in God on that battlefield, because how could any God ever want that many men to die? And for what, a few measly miles that didn’t even fucking matter in the end?”
“How many did you lose?”
He paused before answering, but when he did his voice cracked as he said the number. “158,000. There were conflicting numbers, but that’s the one I heard the most.”
Cicely couldn’t even wrap her head around that number. What did 158,000 people look like? Who were all of those 158,000 people? Who were their families, their children, their loved ones? How many lives were changed forever by those days? “I’m glad you survived,” was all she could think to say. She didn’t want to say she was sorry because that didn’t really mean anything, did it? Not in comparison to everything that had happened.
“For a long time I wasn’t,” he said.
“What changed?”
His fingers brushed through her hair, tender, soft caresses that made her eyes flutter shut. “A girl who showed me there was still someone left inside of me.”
Cicely looked up at him, at the exhaustion in his eyes, the light bruise on his cheekbone from the fight the other night, the curls of his hair. “You know what I see when I look at you?” He shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving hers. “Someone who has experienced more pain, hurt, and loss than any one person should be allowed to. But who still manages to be kind, to be generous, to care. Someone with a life worth living, someone who is worth loving.” She reached up and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth before pulling back slightly. “Someone who is worthy of everything in the world.”
She felt the tears on his cheeks when he kissed her, their lips molding together just like before. His hands gripped her face, as if he couldn’t have her close enough, and she didn’t blame him. She wished with every kiss she could drink away the pain inside of him, pull it from him piece by piece until none remained. But she couldn’t. She could only hold him and tell him who he was to her, that he was everything to her, someone she didn’t know was waiting for her out there in the world. But who now she couldn’t imagine a life without.
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The days melded together in beautiful technicolor. Seven days had passed since Cicely had woken up in Harry’s bed, and each one made her more thankful it was him who had picked her up on the road. She stood in the crowds during his matches, cheering his name with Tommy and becoming less floaty every time she had a pint. At the end of each night, Cicely cleaned the blood and sweat from his skin with a tenderness he had never experienced, pressed kisses to his forehead and told him how good he did. Each night in the pitch dark, she chased away his nightmares with reminders that she was there, she was real, this was real and the battle wasn’t. He clutched the shirts of his she continued to sleep in and held her close, letting the beat of her heart and the exhales from her chest lull him back to sleep.
He hadn’t slept this well since before the war.
Cicely had discovered a new routine. While Harry was meeting with Josiah and Jack, training, or just generally out of the house, she went next door and helped teach the Rollings children to read. She had stumbled on Pippa and Clarence the morning after she had kissed Harry, almost stumbling over them in the daze she carried. They were playing outside and she had a book under her arm, a plan of finding the nearby park and reading for a few hours. But when she stopped and apologized, Pippa asked what she had, and at the sight of the words and Cicely’s description of what a book was, she was intrigued. After asking their mother, Cicely began to spend her mornings with the children curled up on their couch or at their small table, or even on their front steps, teaching them their alphabet and how to sound out words, how to form sentences and read them on the page. They were ravenous for learning and their mother was happy to see her children entertained by someone who wasn’t her for a change, so Cicely quickly became a fixture in the house.
When she had told Harry, he gave her a small smile, the first one she had seen, and a quick peck to her forehead. It was exactly what she needed from him, a vote of support and nothing more. In the afternoons she washed the blood stains from Harry’s clothes and towels, or carried water into the house and ran herself a bath, a task well worth it. One time Harry almost walked in on her and the flush on his cheeks made her almost let him in. But that wasn’t how she wanted him to see her naked body for the first time, so she squealed for him to shut the door and he did, none the wiser.
After he had told her about France, about the demons that followed him into the night, the secrets between them fell away. It was if a damper had been lifted, and at night when they laid in bed, he shared more about his past and she told him of her family, the life she was supposed to live. She tried to avoid the topic of the future, because it made them both anxious. It felt a bit like they were living in a bubble, as if the outside world and its pressures were nonexistent. One morning Harry brought up how they hadn’t heard anything from her family, and Cicely nodded in reply. She had thought about it many times, and she didn’t quite have an answer for it. Although maybe Harry was just so far from the expected answer that she would never be found.
Just as she was starting to settle into the prospect of her life becoming this permanently, her past came knocking. She was with Pippa and Clarence on Harry’s front steps, their own ones being swept by their mother. A book was spread open on her lap, one she had found at a bookstore for children, and she was helping them decipher the sentence. She could feel eyes on her, which at face value wasn’t something to worry about—people were always looking at her, at the new person in the neighborhood, although once they found out she was Harry’s, they stopped. But this time, the feeling of someone watching her didn’t let up.
So when they reached the end of the page, she looked up in search of whomever was so interested in her. And what she found were the eyes of a policeman, the black uniform and intent stare raising the hair on the back of her neck. She knew immediately what it meant, that this wasn’t some normal policeman, because the ones in this area normally didn’t pay her any mind. Josiah had made clear she was not to be trifled with the minute Harry had told him that Cicely was with him, for all intents and purposes.
This policeman, though, wasn’t from around here. He stuck out, the shine of his shoes a bit too bright, the cocky attitude obvious from a mile away. He didn’t know the people or the area.
Which could only mean one thing.
Her father had found her.
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TAGLIST: @autumn-sunflowers @afire-hes @harrydobedirectioning​ @harryinsweatersandbandanas @vapingisntmything @frindgeyy @froggystyles @magical-mischief-makers @heslilac @ursogoldenshan​
PART TWO
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comfyswitcherblanketfort · 4 years ago
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Covert Operative
@stinastar turned my own mind against me and hit me with this in my inbox: 
“Heeyyyyyyy babe.You did this to yourself. I’m here to kindly ask for your own idea 🤣“The totally untrained/civi/softie jumps in front of a bullet for the one who's already been shot like five times? The ex spy or some shit who's been tortured and lived. And their twinky little SO was like NOPE” I’m assuming you’ll do geraskier but you know I also adore lambden. THANKS CAN’T WAIT. This is much better than filling my own prompts 🤣😘💖”
and i was feeling that Lambden life so, boo, this one’s for you 😘😘 ily
Warnings: this is all pretty canon typical levels of violence just modern au style, guns, gunshots, someone gets shot, allusions to killing, BIG TIME deception, feelings of betrayal, one of them is a secret spy, it ends soft but it is not a fluff piece, think an episode of NCIS or Covert Affairs. 
_________________
He’d found out by teasing Aiden about missing an exit. 
Aiden didn’t miss anything; he skipped it. Then drove them in circles, checking his mirrors the whole way, as he tried to convince Lambert he was just looking for something.
Lambert unbuckled and threatened to roll out of the car on a side street before Aiden finally admitted it. 
Covert operative, he’d said. Lambert had been thinking about proposing. To a spy.
They now sat across from each other on the upper level patio of a quaint little bistro, rather far away from the farmers market they were headed to, and Lambert was absolutely livid. Aiden ordered for them while Lambert pretended to be on his phone. Aiden had taken the battery out of that though, so it was more an excuse to not talk to him. 
“Bert-”
“Don’t fucking call me that,” Lambert snapped, barely keeping his voice low enough, “Only family calls me that.” 
The hurt on Aiden’s face wasn’t even slightly hidden and, oh did Lambert want to believe it was genuine, “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you. I did. But knowing placed you at greater risk.”
Lambert locked eyes with him, lips pressed together in a thin narrow line and eyebrows arching up as if to say “bang up job”, but he kept silent. 
“You don’t have to believe me right now. I just need you to listen to me. Please,” Aiden looked almost terrified for a moment before he schooled his features. He just looked like your average person out on a date with their live-in significant other. The pistol in his laptop case sitting on the table was the only thing an outsider would find odd.
Looking at Lambert was completely different.
He was breathing heavy, bouncing his knee fast enough the cooks in the kitchen below them could probably feel it, and the murderous look in his eyes alone would have killed someone unaccustomed to it. 
“I don’t even know you.” he growled.
“I’m still me. I swear to God, this was the only lie I ever told you,” Aiden offered a soft smile as he leaned forward a bit, “And that I liked your experiment with growing tea. So two lies.”
Lambert scoffed, crossing his arms and looking across the street. 
“Be as angry as you want. Hell, take a swing at me once we make it to a safehouse. But please - Lambert. Please tell me you can follow my instruction to the letter. You can hate me, and I’ll understand that, but I need to make sure you’re safe.” 
“Fine.”
A different waitress set their food in front of them in the tense silence that followed and just before she left Lambert noticed the edge of her tattoo peeking out underneath her shirt sleeve.
He glanced up at Aiden and made a split second decision, turning to the server, “Cool tattoo! Where did you get it? I’ve been looking for a good artist.” 
She blinked at him with round brown eyes before smiling and tucking her short curly hair behind her ear, “In Panama, actually. I had an interesting summer holiday last year.”
Something in Aiden shifted when she rolled her sleeve up and showed them the sailor’s Celtic knot taking up all of her inner forearm. Lambert looked politely, leaning into the ‘don’t raise suspicion’ issue Aiden had pressed.
“You make much better holiday tattoo decisions than I do. You know,” he cocked his head to the side and squinted a bit, “You look really familiar. Do you work anywhere else? I swear I’ve seen you before.”
She shrugged, “I’ve had to bounce around lately.”
“Renfri!” Lambert exclaimed, “You worked at the plant nursery! Sold me the giant monstera plant!” 
Aiden couldn’t have been any more tense as Renfri just nodded and made some excuse about getting back to work. 
“What? You told me to be as normal as possible.” 
Aiden stood as soon as she’d disappeared down the stairs, grabbing his computer bag before gripping Lambert’s wrist and hauling him up, “We have to go.” 
Lambert stumbled as he followed after him, a lead weight settling in his stomach, “She doesn’t work at either of those places, does she?”
“No. That was a completed knot. We need to move fast,” Aiden ducked into an employees only staircase that spit them out in a parking lot one street from their car. He broke into a dead sprint down an alley after a glance behind him. 
As soon as they’d cleared the brick, a bullet lodged itself where Lambert’s chest had just been a moment before. 
His whole body felt numb with shock. Aiden pulled him forward and shouted something at him but he didn’t register it until the third time. 
“Lambert! Climb through the fucking window!” Aiden was nearly screaming at him but shook his head and kept pulling him away from the open window that looked like it had been recently broken. Did… did Aiden do that?
He actually took a turn onto a busy street and sprinted up a block before diving right out in front of traffic, Lambert still in tow. They ran for another couple blocks before they dove into another alley that Lambert recognized as leading to their parked car. He had no idea if they were still being followed but he didn’t much care. He barely registered Aiden glancing back to check on him, didn’t even think he might be checking to see if Renfri was behind them. 
She wasn’t. She was leaning against their car, casually checking the chamber of her gun. 
“There you are boys!” she smiled brightly, “Took you long enough.”
Aiden slid to a stop on the gravel, keeping his fingers laced through Lambert’s, “Shrike.” 
“Cat,” She let go of the slide and the snapping sound echoed through the courtyard parking lot, “You killed my sister.”
“I didn’t.”
Lambert was starting to feel light headed as his mind caught up.
“No,” She conceded, “But you might as well have. What you stole got her executed.” 
“You two shouldn’t have gotten mixed up with Skinner.”
Before the last word had left Aiden’s lips Renfri raised her gun and fired.
She’d been aiming straight for his heart but Lambert shoved him aside with every last bit of strength he had. He felt a searing pain flash through his shoulder, outright blinding, even before he registered the crack of the shot. There were two more cracks back to back then nothing for a moment. There was one set of footsteps on gravel then one more sounded before the ringing in his ears muffled everything else.
Aiden was over him soon after, scrambling to stop the bleeding and yelling… something… but Lambert couldn’t hear him and his eyelids were feeling heavier and heavier by the second. 
-
Lambert tried to wiggle his nose and get rid of the itch as he woke up, but it only got worse. He tried to scratch it and ended up smacking himself in the face. His limbs felt heavy and there was a tube under his nose. 
Oh.
He was in a hospital. 
Where was Aiden?
He forced his eyes open as Aiden gently picked his hand up off his face. His eyes were red and a little puffy and he looked downright awful. There was blood all over his shirt, a little in his hair, and the bags under his eyes were a deep shade of purple. 
“What.. what are you…?”
Aiden bit his bottom lip for a moment before taking a shaky breath, “I’ll go if you want me to. I just needed to see you wake up,” he barely choked out his words as his eyes welled up with tears. 
Lambert frowned, “No. Stay.”
Aiden tried to laugh but it came out as more of a sob as he grabbed Lambert’s other hand and cradled it in his, “I’m so sorry…” he whispered. 
Lambert gave his hands a squeeze, “Please don’t go.”
“I won’t,” Aiden shook his head, “I’ll do anything you want me to.”
“Get me out of here?” Lambert grinned.
Aiden snorted, wiping at his nose with his bloodstained sleeve, “Anything but that.” 
They smiled and fell into a heavy silence. Aiden stared at their hands where he not so slyly kept a finger over Lambert’s pulse. 
“Hey,” Lambert’s voice had a husk to it that he only got when he was about to cry, “I still love you.”
Aiden just stared at him with wide eyes. 
“I’m scared, but I love you,” he repeated. 
Aiden leaned over and kissed his forehead, tears falling over his hair, “I love you too.”
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valntinemorgenstern · 4 years ago
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An Ocean of Darkness; an elriel one-shot
Summary: *Set post-ACOSF / post B&M extra* *ACOSF SPOILERS*
Azriel meditates on Nyx's birth and tries to settle with himself what his new future will look like. He encounters Elain in the grounds outside the House of Wind. Angsting and sexual tension proceed.
There was something almost wrong about this feeling. Swaddled in the finest cloth, nestled in his arms, the little body was surprisingly weighty; compact. Hot. Its head was barely as wide as his fist. Its scent, sweet as honeysuckle at twilight, billowed around him as it breathed, the motion barely perceptible through the swaddling. Only if he peered close: there. A flutter against the fabric, delicate as a bee’s wings.
Azriel knew it should not have been like this. But the sight of Nyx sleeping, so effortlessly perfect, unleashed something ravenous inside him. Dark as a moonless night; seeping. It spread with the consistency of newly-spilled of blood. Tangible, like seeing an old acquaintance outlined in the doorway.
His shadows began to rise around him.
Where did this feeling come from? Why was he slipping, just at the sight of an infant? It was as if his foot had slid over ice-smooth rock, where he had expected to feel a foothold. And now he fell. And fell, and fell, it seemed, in every direction.
Everything about this was hard to accept. This improbable creature, only two years ago, could never have existed. The fact that in some long-distant eon of time, he himself would have resembled this miniature thing. This thing so fragile, despite the tips of its wings poking out above the blankets. This thing that knew nothing but the everlasting worship of everyone in their Inner Circle. Mor had held onto him for hours; Azriel had only wrestled her into relinquishing her prize by reminding her that her presence was needed elsewhere.
In that long-distant eon of time, had he, too, shut his eyes so? Slept with such trust, in a stranger’s arms? His cheeks, were they as apple-round, as faintly blushed? His nose as tiny? Surely even he, as a babe, would have been set into the cradle of someone’s arms like this, however briefly. Would they have seen his skin as Nyx’s was? Dusky and glowing. Whole, silk-thin. Unruined.
Azriel brought a fingertip up to his forehead, tracing a reverent line across his skin. The intensity of that softness astonished him. It was like a sun-warmed rose petal, rubbed between your fingers. He had forgotten that this was what children were like: their bodies so foreign, so killingly soft. No wonder this had been beaten out of him.
A scrap of a memory danced before him. A whirling hem of a dress; a hand, thrown backwards. Elegant, and pale. Faint lines of dirt circling the fingernails.
His gaze lifted, as if to follow it.
Instead, his eyes collided with Rhys’, who, it appeared, had been staring at him.
There was no time to tuck away his thoughts. They were breaking the surface even as Azriel straightened, and he knew how gasping-loud they would be. All this time, and I thought it would just be us, together. And now, I am the one alone. The next followed, swimming on its tail, but of course, it would always be this way. This is the way it was always supposed to be. It was always going to be. In the end, there would only ever be him. Azriel would always be there, really, chained on the floor of that dungeon. Head cast back in the stale darkness, seeing only the faint light of his breath on the chilly air.
His brother’s expression was twisted into a wellspring of deep sorrow. For him.
Rhys stepped forwards. “I’m sorry.”
It was like some snag in time: already, the resemblance between father and son was so strong. This was just a vision of what the boy in his arms would be in so many years.
Get out of my head. It surprised him, the anger. Like someone had rushed him by mistake and he stumbled, casting around for who had done it.
“I’ll take him.” Rhys said, coming closer, arms extended.
Azriel glanced down at Nyx, suddenly unable to remember why he had petitioned Mor to hold him in the first place. What did he want with this child, so loved? What did he want with the memories and the feelings he invoked so slickly, so powerfully?
As his arms were relieved of the burden, he considered that he must be the only person in all of Prythian who was not interested in handling the babe. Once the news of Nyx’s existence became widespread — and it was already leaking, fast, his sources informed him — the child would be hunted for the rest of his existence.
Then he was in the air, feeling the wind whip about his wings, whirling up and up. It just this side of dusk, the sky quietly darkening, the horizon splayed plum-purples and blues. Rhys and Cassian, both, now had their mates and their homes, but this was Azriel’s only real home. The empty sky. The smell of the air, turning into night. The soothing cold. Breathing so deep as to let the chill infuse his skin, down to his bones, over and over, as if he could bottle this precious sensation, so that it would be always with him.
Azriel let himself circle, flying aimlessly, until the night stretched itself over the heavens in its full glory. He had seen so many courts, visited so many places — probably even more than Rhysand. But no other could compare to the fabulous majesty of the night court sky, this high, this late. Velvet-black, all-encompassing but for the light of the stars that glittered like drops of crystal inlaid into a seabed of darkness. And just like an ocean, it seemed to move, to breathe a life of its own. A darkness that you could reach into, and it would reach back.
When eventually he returned to the House of Wind, he lingered outside, unwilling to step across the threshold. For there was only his solitary bed, and sleep, mocking him. Taunting him.
From the smell of vacancy about the place, he could tell that Cassian and Nesta were not inside. For once.
Some thrill that felt oddly like freedom curled around him. Or was it rebellion? But how long had he been playing this game with her now? Waiting. Loitering in the grounds. Just on the off-chance. It was never an off-chance.
The rush that coursed through him when he spotted her — curled up on the ground, near a rose bush, her hair like a shadow-splashed coin — was so heady it dizzied him.
She glided to her feet. “Why are you here, Azriel?”
Something inside him seized, at the sound of his name, spoken on her lovely, melodious voice.
She walked forwards. “Why? Why are you here?” This time, the edge in her tone had given way to something else. A pleading.
If he reached out his hand, he thought, he could have had her body, so much more petite than her sisters’, flush against him. And then everything in the world would have melted away apart from the shape and the feel of her. The too-exquisite cloud of her scent that floated around him.
He remembered Rhys’ words. You are to stay away from her.
How terribly he had managed so far. Every day he was only sliding further downhill. And enjoying it so deliciously.
He was about to say, I thought we had an understanding. But of course, there was no understanding. No words about this had passed between them. It was something that was forming, half-knowing, between them both. And neither had the will to stop themselves. What if I lingered here? What if I went down this corridor? What if I allowed myself to look too long? What if I were to drive myself half-mad, searching for an excuse to touch you? “I…could not bare the thought of going to my bed.”
It was like someone else had said the words. He almost checked himself, as if to see that he were actually still master of his own body.
A small nod. And then, suddenly, with no warning, she stepped up, her hand covering the side of his face. “It has been this way for you too long, has it not?” Her thumb was stroking, backwards and forwards, across his cheekbone.
Immediately, he felt his shadows sing, his body begin to thrum with something keener than mere pleasure. Yes. Yes. He had caressed her neck just so, at Solstice. When they had nearly kissed.
The memory swirled in her eyes, too.
Stay away from her.
This feeling, this touch of hers. He could live in it. Eat from it, drink from it. Survive in it. This wildness. He would submit himself to anything for it.
“I have something for you.” A moment later, there was coldness were her hand had been, and she had drawn out something from the pocket of her skirts, holding it aloft.
“What is it?” The liquid inside was some purple-brown, shimmering fluid.
“It will help you sleep.”
“Ah.” He understood. “And I mustn’t take too much, I assume?”
She frowned. “It will not steal consciousness away. It will ease the unquiet inside you, that is all.”
How do you know? He stared into those doe-brown eyes, so large, considering all the different things he could say, and do. In his mind, he laid out the options, and weighed them up. The only one drawing him was the version of events where he dove down into the crook of her neck, and breathed in, open-mouthed, frantic, pulling in her scent; letting his teeth and tongue cover every single scrap of skin he could find. Instead, he said, “We need to stop this.”
“Stop what?”
“This. You know.”
A determined shake of her head. “I have made my choice.” He shook his head, trying to dispel the hazy image of Lucien; playing unsuccessfully with the idea of introducing more space between them.
“It is more than that.”
“Rhysand?” A noise of contempt left her.
He stared. Had she heard the entire conversation he’d had with him, in his office? It was possible. But then, there were other things. “How did you know?”
“Does it not occur to you…What if Rhysand were in your position? Can you imagine him obeying some order to stay away from my sister? No. Never.” She pushed closer, defiant. Heat radiated from her. The effort of not touching her was like sinking underwater, allowing himself to drown. Stopping himself from the urge to throw up his arms and gasp for breath. “I care nothing for his orders.”
This girl, who seemed so pure and innocent; who had been holed away for so long. And yet she seemed to have a more accurate grasp of the High Lord’s character than some who had known him years. “How do you know — all this?”
She made a light shrug. “My power rises in me, still. I see, hear, feel — odd things. But I keep seeing you. Your arm under your head, sheets back. You don’t even shut the curtains, now. You do not even try to close your eyes.”
She had been seeing…him? In his bed?
Before he had time to worry what else she had seen of him, she had grabbed one of his hands, thrusting the vial into his palm. By instinct, his fingers shut around the glass, clasping, too, the edge of her fingers. And then she was ducking her head, pressing a warm, firm kiss to the grotesque half-flayed skin that coated his knuckles. “Please.” Her beautiful eyes implored him. “For my sake.”
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shy-violet-soul · 4 years ago
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Puppy Love
Summary: When Uncle Dean takes his first solo niece-sitting gig, what could possibly go wrong? Characters: Dean Winchester, Castile, Sam Winchester x reader, & OC Erica from a story written by @kittenofdoomage titled “Rainbows in the Sun” Word Count: 2,600 Warnings: none! Tooth rotting fluff
A/N: I had the privilege and delight of reading @kittenofdoomage Supernatural series, “Rainbows in the Storm”, on Patreon. If you’re not a patron of hers, you are missing out! I quickly fell in love with this amazing story - her characterization and nail-biting cliffhangers kept me hooked the whole way through. But one little sentence in the Epilogue had me laughing, and my imagination ran away with me. This is for you, @kittenofdoomage !
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Dean Winchester didn’t brag about his assets often. But he had zero problem with his pride at the oft given praises his mouth had earned from the ladies. His lips had brought delight to many a babe. The current babe in his arms was no different.
The fact that she was four months old, and his niece, didn’t detract from his pride one iota.
Crossing his eyes, Dean happily blew raspberries continuously as he leaned down before smacking noisy kisses under her chin. Erica’s baby giggles burst forth as she waved her hands, and Dean had to do it again.
“Thhhhbbbffft,” he wagged his face side to side as he leaned down, letting his nose rub against her tiny chest tickingly before diving back under one round cheek and smacking more kisses. Dimples winked up at Uncle Dee, Erica’s still-baby-blue eyes gazing up at him with delight, and he fell a little more in love yet again.
“You’re adorable,” came his matter of fact observation. Erica grinned her agreement. “Good genes, darlin’. You got your mama’s nose, and I’m pretty sure your killer Winchester smile from your uncle, not your daddy.” With the ease of long practice, Dean swiped the burp cloth from his shoulder and dabbed at the drool on her tiny chin. “Do me a favor and smile a lot. Like me, not like Mr. Grumpy Pants Daddy.”
Delicate eyebrows knitted together as Erica cooed seriously. Dean nodded proudly. “That’s my girl. Now, your mama said not to worry about your bath. I think it’s because she doesn’t think I can handle it. You and I both know that’s crap, right?” Erica chewed intently on her fists in answer. “Right. So gimme one more giggle and then it’s ‘Rubber Ducky, You’re the One’. Here we go!”
One more time, Dean raspberried down, down to Erica’s sweet smiling face. Just as he started growling under her chin, her squeal changed into something weird. Several things crammed into Dean’s brain in about a millisecond.
One - Erica sounded like she yipped. Like, puppy yipped. But that couldn’t be. He was wrong.
Two - her soft, slightly drool-slimy chin was suddenly different soft. Like fluffy furry soft. Which also couldn't be. He had to be wrong.
Three - the chubby little fists she loved to chew on suddenly swiped claws against his face. Like, claws. Puppy claws. Which also so very much please couldn’t be.
Please, oh please, Dean wanted to be wrong.
Post millisecond, Dean yanked himself upright and felt his stomach drop straight to Rowena’s throne room.
A chubby, fluffy wolf pup - adorable, yes, but a freakin’ wolf pup - lay wriggling in his lap, snout wreathed in puppy smiles as it waved its paws up at him.
Dumbfounded, Dean sat frozen for a moment. He slowly stood up, holding the pup at arms length before gently setting it on the couch. Then, he frantically searched under the throw pillows at each end, under your blanket tossed over the back, even under the couch itself for his suddenly missing niece. No human baby surfaced.
His frantic gaze fell on the wolf pup. It lounged right where he’d laid it, studying him curiously. Erica’s cute lady-bug onesie and leggings stretched and gapped in equal measures around fluffy legs and paws, and the red barrette he’d painstakingly affixed into his human niece’s hair earlier sat holding a hank of creamy-brown fur straight up between its ears.
“Oh, crap”
At his whisper, the wolf pup smiled happily and launched itself at him. His reflexes kicked in and his arms scooped the little bundle against his chest, falling backwards to the floor. The pup wiggled its way up his chest and slopped a lick against his chin before gazing into his eyes lovingly.
Gazed with Erica’s still-baby-blue eyes.
“Son of a bitch!” Tucking pup-Erica under one arm, Dean dove for his cell phone. “Cas!” Pup-Erica playful clawed and nipped at his phone as he frantically tried to call Sam. No answer, straight to voicemail. Same thing for your phone. This was bad.
“CAS!”
“Hello, Dean.”
The hunter didn’t even hesitate, just thrust the pup at the angel.
“Fix this!” he bellowed, pup-Erica wiggling happily in his grasp at the sight of her other uncle. Castiel tilted his head as he stared at the pup.
“Hello, Erica. Are you enjoying your first shift?” She yipped as Castiel took her in his arms, slopping kiss after kiss on his face. “I’m happy to see you, too.”
Dean had braced his hands on his legs as he leaned down, head between his knees as he wheezed in air. Cas stared at him quizzically.
“Dean, are you alright?”
He raised a hand, wordlessly asking for a moment. “I think I’m having a heart attack. Or a stroke. Maybe an explosive ulcer,” he croaked out.
Nonplussed, Cas pressed two fingers against Dean’s forehead. “I detect none of these events occurring, Dean. Although your blood pressure is highly elevated, and you appear to be generating a migraine. I can’t heal that until your heart rate slows down. You should try to relax.”
Dean’s hands fisted onto Cas’s trench coat collars, pulling himself up to standing to glare maniacally into his friend’s placid gaze.
“My niece is a dog, Cas! I’m not going to relax! I’m going to be murdered when they get back! Sam’s gonna...” His grip loosened as his thoughts zoomed to your reaction. “She’s going to chew me to kibble.” Horror trembled in his whisper as he dragged his hands over his face.
Sad, tiny whining begged for attention as a tentative paw patted at his arm. Still dazed beyond comprehension, Dean blinked down at the blue eyes staring woefully up at him. By sheer habit, Dean tucked the little one into his arms, warmth filling his chest when she snuggled into his shoulder - just like human-Erica did. The high-pitched whine echoed from her chest into a full-fledged howl that Dean would later recall as ridiculously cute. But now, his niece was sad and needed her uncle.
“It’s alright, ladybug, it’s alright. Look, Uncle Dee’s ok. Uncle Cas and me are gonna take care of you, don’t you worry.” Instinctively, Dean moved to pat her back before switching gears to gently scritching her ears. “Cas, can you talk to her?”
“While I can speak to lycans in their wolf form, as a juvenile, she still has not learned words. She’s upset right now, but calming. However, she has forgotten in the urgency of the moment that she’s hungry.”
Dean’s eyes closed as this new challenge presented itself. When Erica whined again, cuddling closer, he snapped to attention.
“Alright. We’ve got a highly experienced hunter and an angel. We got this. We can take care of one baby wolfed-out lycan.”
Two destroyed bottle nipples and a spilled canister of powdered formula later, Dean wasn’t sure they had this at all. Cas currently sat at the kitchen table with Erica, dipping his fingers into a bowl of formula and letting her lick and suck to her heart’s content. However, the going was slow, so Dean was improvising plan B. He’d dug up one of his softest old tshirts and some of your hair ties. In moments, he had fashioned a teat that he hoped to kingdom come would work.
“Alight, Cas, give her here.” Frustrated and hungry, Erica growled as she tried to climb into the formula bowl, her nose and face liberally coated with the white liquid. Working in tandem, Cas started soaking the cloth teat in the formula while Dean wrapped his flannel shirt around the wriggling pup, using the sleeves to swaddle her still. Then, he cradled her in his elbow and mentally crossed his fingers. Erica nosed the soaked fabric curiously before giving a tentative lick, then a bit of a chomp. Two seconds later, she was sucking with gusto, tiny grunts of approval rumbling from her. When Dean pulled it away to resoak it, the pup was not impressed; demanding, squeaky barks let her uncles know to hurry it up! Both men chuckled as the feeding went on until Erica stopped sucking and just chewed.
“Good job, ladybug,” Dean praised as he unwound the flannel from about her. “Look at that fat little belly!” With a gentle touch, he tickled the soft pink skin, laughing again when she squirmed, panting happily. Dean handed her off to Cas while he snagged the bowl, carefully stepping over the drifts of powdered formula. “Gotta say, Cas, didn’t know you were so experienced with wolf baby care.”
“I once cared for a baby elephant who had been separated from his mother in the sub-Saharan plains. It’s pretty much the same thing.”
Water running as he washed the bowl, Dean sent a scoff over his shoulder at the angel.
“No, Cas. It really isn’t.” A pause as Dean fully turned to look at his friend. “Where is she?”
“Who?”
Dean’s eyes rolled so hard, they saw it from space. “The Duchess of Cambridge. Erica, you dumb ass!”
The angel looked down and glanced around him, his arms glaringly empty. “She’s not here.”
Dean’s left eyelid started twitching. Wasn’t that a symptom of a stroke? “I can see that. Why are you not holding her?”
“She wanted down.”
A faint cracking sound in his skull only faintly registered with Dean; probably a molar, but that was an issue for later. “She wanted down? That’s all you got? She wanted down?!” That migraine from earlier suddenly flared to life, and Dean nearly broke a bone in his scramble into the library.
“ERICA!!! Come to Uncle Dee, honey!” A cheerful yip and rhythmic claw clicking caught his ear, and Dean turned his head so quickly he gave himself a crick. Luck was on their side - Erica’s human baby clothes had hobbled wolf pup Erica, and her limping, lopping progress in their direction was pure cuteness. Dean hit his knees and swept her into his arms. “Ladybug, you can’t do that to your uncle! He’s an old man!” He pressed kiss after kiss to her wet nose, gratefully accepting her boisterous and slightly drooly puppy kisses. Even the one that went in his eyeball.
Sending Cas a glare of pure exasperation, he began wrestling the baby clothes off the wiggly bundle of fluff.
“Alright. We’ve survived two crises, I think the worst is behind us.”
All seriousness and brevity, Cas nodded as he straightened, scooping a small, leather-bound copy of A Hystori of Caledonian Monsters from the floor. The aged tome bore a surprising amount of chewing and puppy drool from the short amount of time of his niece’s unsupervised freedom.
“Agreed.”
- - - 2 hours later - - -
Sam grinned down at you dopily as you both trudged down the long hall from the garage. The long-overdue date hadn’t been what he’d originally planned. But when the waxing moon and wildflower-scented breeze had hit them both, candlelight and overpriced pasta didn’t seem near as appealing as sizzling sexy times in the back seat, burgers and fries and milkshakes from the drive through, and shifting to frolic in the tall, windswept grass of an open field.
The quiet of the bunker wasn’t terribly unsurprising; Uncle Dee was a veritable decibel defender when it came to his niece’s nap time. No baby girl of mine is growing up used to only four hours and calling that rest! he had scorned. The fact that the newborn was only sleeping four hours at a time anyway, and wasn’t his actual daughter, was resolutely ignored.
What was surprising was the carnage that greeted them. Library chairs laid on their sides in some type of corral. Erica’s baby toys rested in varying stages of repose or destruction. Burp clothes, towels, and receiving blankets were scattered, some whole, some slightly torn. An open bottle of baby shampoo slowly glugged its contents onto the table. Someone had attempted to hide some damaged lore books behind a lamp. And pillows - so many pillows - were everywhere, their feathery guts flung to every corner of the room.
Instantly on alert, Sam waved you to stay back as he drew his gun and began easing forward. Senses honed by years of battle didn’t pick up on any immediate threat, but the proof before him clearly spoke otherwise. When your hands fisted into his shirt, fingers trembling in sudden fear, he reached back to touch your back reassuringly.
“Dean?” he shouted questioningly. His voice echoed against the cavernous ceiling, but still no foe came at them. With a tentative touch, he nudged a tired pillow over, finding another damaged lore book beneath it. Sam gingerly grabbed it, lifting it up to squint at the mangled leather and paper.
“Are those…” you started haltingly, peering over his shoulder.
“They look like...tiny teeth marks.” You stared at Sam wordlessly before you both sprinted for the bedrooms. The nursery door banged against the wall loudly, and the occupants of the room flinched but didn’t stir beyond that.
One side of the crib was hanging haphazardly from its left-side screws, a blanket strangled in the slats. A stuffed tiger toy that you secretly hated lay with its head missing and cotton stuffing innards hanging out. No less than 11 diapers scattered across the floor with the tapes missing. Sleeper legs and flannel blankets dangled from open dresser drawers. Clouds of baby powder, liberally dusted into higgledee piggledee piles, still hazed the light glowing from the lamp near the upholstered rocking recliner in the corner. In the middle of the madness lay the hapless heroes.
They had somehow managed to winch Dean’s fancy memory foam mattress into the room, one corner of it caught and peeling up against the toy chest. Cas lay on one side, his trench coat hanging off one arm and his tie out from under his collar and wrinkled beyond belief. Dean looked no better; his grey tshirt showed dark swathes of damp that smelled like baby shampoo. His hair stood up in weird handfuls, as if he’d been gripping it in his fists in desperation. Shoeless, he only wore one sock. A handful of raggedy baby wipes poked out of his back pocket.
And between them both, tenderly snuggled into a nest of nearly every blanket in the bunker lay a precious creamy-brown wolf pup, sleeping contentedly without a care in the world.
Sam knew his jaw had hit the floor, and figured you were in the same boat.
“Is that...her?”
You took a couple of careful steps forward into the wreckage. Closing your eyes, you let your stronger lycan senses take over. The soft, sugary scent of honeysuckle comforted your mama heart as you smiled in disbelief.
“Yep, that’s her.”
“You mean she had her first shift and we missed it?!”
Chuckling softly, you picked your way through the baby item minefield. Only a Winchester would be more upset about missing a baby’s first shift than the absolute destruction of their home.
“It looks like.”
“What do we do? Does she know how to shift back?”
You pursed your lips thoughtfully, stilling them Erica twitched and squeaked in her sleep. “I don’t know. I’ll call my mom, maybe she can help us.”
Warm, long fingers curled around your hips to tug you back against him. You could sense his delight at the picture before them. Whatever had happened, his brother and friend had adapted and overcome. His daughter was so loved.
“I guess we should wake them up.”
You grinned as you dug out your phone. “Not until I get a picture.”
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