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aleksatia · 2 months ago

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🖤 Sylus – Five Years Later

The first in a series of stories exploring MC’s return after five years of silence. Others are coming soon — links will be added as they’re published.

Original ask that sparked this continuation.

CW/TW: emotional whiplash, estranged parent dynamics, mentions of past abandonment, grief & regret, yelling / intense arguments, emotional manipulation (mild-to-moderate), parental guilt, references to alcoholism (brief), weapon mention (non-violent context, antique firearm), implied past trauma While inspired by the original characters and lore of the game, this is a personal interpretation. Some aspects of character behavior, relationships, or world-building may differ from canon — especially given the five-year time gap and the impact of traumatic events. Consider it an alternate emotional timeline, shaped by growth, grief, and what-ifs.

Rafayel | Caleb | Zayne | Xavier (coming soon)

(He never lets go. Not really. So when the world bends just enough for their paths to cross again—he grabs the thread like a man who’s been drowning for five goddamn years.)

The scent shouldn’t have hit him like that.

Bergamot and peach — too specific to be coincidence, too cruel to be real. It lanced through the mall’s artificial air, slicing straight into the part of him that had learned to rot in silence.

He stopped mid-step, black gift bag swinging at his side like dead weight. He hadn’t meant to be here. Just killing time before a meeting, maybe grabbing some pointless toy for Kieran’s son.

But that scent.

He followed it — not fast, not frantic. Just... pulled. Like gravity had shifted without asking his permission.

He rounded a corner. Walked past the blinding colors of a candy kiosk. Ignored the buzzing arcades. Stepped into the glow of the children’s department, bathed in too much light.

And then he saw him.

White hair, soft and unbrushed. Crimson eyes.

Staring down at a plastic capsule, tiny fingers struggling to pry it open, cheeks puffed in sheer, adorable defiance. The boy looked up and grinned at someone just out of view.

And then—there you were.

Crouched beside him, arms around your knees. That necklace still at your throat. Your hair longer. Your posture calmer. But it was you.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

You looked up. Met his eyes.

The world didn’t fall apart. It just... recoiled.

Your lips parted. He couldn’t tell if it was shock or guilt. Maybe both.

He took a step forward. Controlled. Precise. Like walking through fire and pretending it didn’t burn.

“Well,” he said, voice rough, cool, razor-sharp. “Isn’t this adorable.”

You didn’t answer.

He tilted his head, gaze dragging from the boy to you.

“You got taller,” he added, tone almost conversational. “I always said you needed better posture.”

Still, silence.

He smiled — the wrong kind of smile.

“And here I thought you were dead. Would’ve sent flowers. Or a bottle of wine. Maybe danced on your grave. Depends on the day.”

You stood slowly, one hand resting lightly against the child’s back. Protective. Subtle.

“I wasn’t hiding from you,” you said.

“No?” he murmured. “Just... the rest of reality?”

You didn’t answer that.

His eyes dropped again. To the boy. Then back up. He didn’t ask. Not out loud. Didn’t have to.

Your expression answered for you.

He exhaled once, slow, through his nose. Then laughed. Just a little.

“Of course,” he muttered. “Why not. Five years of silence, and now I get the full soap opera.”

He took another step, voice dipping low.

“Tell me something,” he said. “Was it worth it? The running? The silence? Did it help you sleep?”

You stared at him, steady.

“I did what I had to do.”

“Sure,” he said, nodding, the sarcasm now soft, silky. “And now you’re back in broad daylight, in my city, with my blood standing in front of capsule machines. Very covert.”

His fingers twitched slightly at his side. Not from rage — from restraint.

The boy turned.

“Mom?”

Your breath hitched.

“Come here, sweetheart.”

Small feet padded over. A tiny hand found yours without hesitation. Sylus watched it like a punch to the ribs.

The boy blinked up at him.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

Your voice was quiet. Even.

“Someone I used to know.”

Something in Sylus’s jaw clicked. He crouched down, not too close. Not yet.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi,” the boy replied.

“What’d you get?”

A capsule was held up proudly. “Tiny raven with red eyes!”

Of course. Sylus stared at it, almost amused.

“Good taste,” he said. “I used to have one just like that.”

The boy beamed.

Sylus rose to his full height again, gaze flicking to you — sharp now, cooled over, dangerous.

“This conversation’s not over.”

Your grip on the boy tightened, imperceptibly.

“I know.”

He didn’t linger. Just turned. Walked away like it cost him nothing.

But you saw it — the slight tremble in his fingers. And for the first time in five years — you knew: he wouldn't sleep tonight. And neither would you.

***

He doesn’t sleep. Not because of nightmares — those he’s made peace with years ago — but because of you. Because you were real again. Present. Breathing the same air. And now the silence he once ruled feels like a cage made of your absence.

He paces his study like an animal too big for its den, the whiskey glass untouched on the desk, sweating against the dark wood. The documents in front of him blur, ignored. His body is wired, restless, his mind clawing at thoughts it doesn’t know what to do with. He used to find solace in this room. Now it’s just another echo chamber.

You came back. Just like that. No warning. No apologies. As if you hadn’t torn him apart and scattered the pieces across five fucking years. And you didn’t come alone. You brought his son.

His son.

The words twist inside him like a blade. Rage flares hot and sharp — not just at you, but at himself. At the way he still aches for you. At the way his hands trembled the moment your eyes met his. You don’t get to come back like this. Not after he worshipped you. Not after he handed over every part of himself — the power, the silence, the vulnerability — and let you keep it like it was nothing.

You, who once ruled him with a smile and a whisper. You, who made the most dangerous man in the city gentle. You, who he let in so deeply that even now, after everything, his instincts still tilt toward you.

He should hate you. He wants to.

But all he can think about is the boy’s eyes — his eyes — and the fact that he didn’t know. You hid it from him. You stole that from him. And yet, the second he saw your face, all he wanted was to feel the warmth of your body again.

No. This can’t be impulsive. He tells himself that. Over and over. He has to be careful now. Strategic. This isn’t just about you anymore. There’s too much at stake. A child. Blood of his blood. If he moves wrong, if he rushes this, he could lose everything before he’s even had the chance to hold it.

You came back so openly, so carelessly — as if you knew. As if you were daring him to act.

But this isn’t a reunion. It’s a chess game. And he intends to win.

Still, all the logic in the world can’t stop the pull. His body moves before his mind can catch it. He throws on his jacket, crosses the hall in long, deliberate strides. He ignores the way his pulse hammers, the way his breath shortens. He tells himself this is reconnaissance. Observation. That he won’t knock on your door, won’t say your name, won’t touch you.

But he’s already walking to the car, and he knows — he’s lying.

Because it’s already too late. You’re a gravity he never escaped. And he’s hurtling back toward you like a star on its last, burning descent.

***

You hadn’t heard the door. You were sure you’d locked it — triple-checked, in fact. But when you stepped barefoot into the living room, the shadows shifted. And he was there.

Sylus.

Sitting in the armchair by the window, so still he might’ve been carved from shadow. His face half-hidden in darkness, but his eyes — those eyes — watched you with the slow, dangerous heat of banked coals. As if he were waiting for something. As if he’d already decided what it was.

You clutched your son’s sweatshirt to your chest, still warm from sleep, still soft with safety. Your fingers curled into the fabric like it might shield you from the inevitable.

Your throat closed around a breath you forgot to take.

“I should’ve known you’d find a way in,” you said. Not angry. Not even surprised. Just… tired. But not the kind of tired sleep could fix.

The silence stretched. And then—

“Why.” His voice was low. Steady. But there was nothing calm about it.

“Why come back?”

You hesitated. Sat down at the edge of the couch, careful to keep distance between you. Close enough to feel the tension, far enough to pretend it couldn’t touch you. Your grip tightened on the tiny sleeve in your lap.

“I didn’t have a choice,” you said quietly.

A lie. And you both knew it.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched.

The air between you hung thick with everything unspoken — all the years, all the damage, all the silence that had grown teeth.

You tried again, voice thinner now. “Money was running out. And I didn’t want him to grow up in places that... don’t let kids be kids.”

Still no answer.

You looked down, as if the floor could save you.

“But that’s not really why I came back.”

There was a shift in the dark — barely perceptible, but enough. A muscle in his jaw, maybe. Or the faintest tilt of his head.

“I kept dreaming,” you said. “That he’d start asking questions. About who he is. Where he came from. Why he can hear footsteps down the hall before they happen. Why his teachers can’t meet his eyes. Why he knows when I’m lying, even when I don’t.”

You paused. Swallowed.

“I didn’t know what I’d say.”

For a long, breathless moment, there was nothing. And then:

“Thought maybe I was dead?”

You laughed — bitter, small, nothing like real humor.

“No. That would’ve been easier.”

He still didn’t move, but something in the room recoiled anyway. Maybe it was you.

You turned toward him, carefully, like stepping toward a storm you once loved.

“I thought if I stayed gone long enough, you’d forget. Or hate me enough not to care.”

He leaned forward slowly, like something waking up. The light from the hallway carved across his face, catching the sharp edge of his cheekbone, the faint scar at his jaw. He looked older. Not in his body — in his bones. In the way ruin settles behind the eyes and builds a kingdom there.

“Do I look like a man who forgets?” he said.

God, the way he said it. Like the last bell before a burial.

You didn’t answer.

“You ran,” he said. “Took my son. Hid him from me. For five years.”

“I had to,” you said, a little too fast. “You know I had to.”

“Say it.”

You met his eyes, barely.

“I didn’t want to raise him in your world.”

There was a pause. Then:

“He is my world.”

That broke something in you. The sweatshirt slipped from your lap, forgotten.

“I know,” you whispered. “I know.”

You stood before you meant to, took two small steps forward before you could stop yourself. A mistake. A betrayal of your own walls. Still, your hand lifted — hesitated — and reached out. Just barely. Fingertips grazing the side of his.

He didn’t flinch. But he didn’t hold you back either.

Not yet.

His breath caught, brushing your wrist like memory.

“I could’ve loved you softer,” he said. “But you were never meant for soft things.”

Your eyes burned. You couldn’t speak for a moment. And when you did, your voice was almost gone.

“Maybe I’m not. But he is.”

And still, beneath all of it — the guilt, the weariness, the regret that howled behind your ribs — you waited for the part that scared you most. The part where he would turn cold. Where he would say the thing you feared since the moment you left.

The part where he would take your son from your arms and never look back.

You knew he wouldn’t hurt you. Not you. Not the boy.

And still, that fear clawed at you like a curse.

So you did what fear makes people do — you attacked. With silence, with half-truths, with distance you didn’t want. You kept the mask on as long as you could, clung to it like armor, because if it slipped — if he saw how badly you still wanted to crawl into his arms and sleep like you used to, when he would whisper in that deep, velvet voice and stroke your hair until the nightmares went quiet — he might use it against you.

He might leave.

And you… you had no idea how to survive that again.

***

The night he left, you didn’t sleep.

You just lay beside your son, one hand curled protectively around his small, warm frame, the other pressed to your chest like it might keep your ribs from collapsing inward. Every breath felt like it came with splinters. He slept soundly, unaware. Safe in a world that you had built with trembling hands and stubborn silence.

By morning, Sylus hadn’t returned.

But Luke and Kieran had.

They didn’t knock. Didn’t speak. Just entered with the quiet precision of men who used to be part of your life — before you made them ghosts.

Their arms were full. Boxes, bags, toys, medicine, books. Clothes in every size. Food you hadn’t even realized you needed. And a black card, placed on the kitchen table like a detonator.

“From him,” Luke said, voice clipped, eyes avoiding yours.

You opened your mouth. To say thank you, maybe. Or I’m sorry. Or how have you been.

But Kieran was already turning away.

“Don’t,” he muttered. Not cruel. Not cold. Just done.

And it hit you, like it hadn’t hit you until that moment — not just guilt, not just regret.

You didn’t just run from him.

You ran from them too. The only people who had ever stayed. The only ones who’d held space for you when you were nothing but sharp edges and unfinished grief.

Now they wouldn't even look at you.

You stood there, frozen, surrounded by things you didn’t ask for — abundance you hadn’t earned — while your son laughed on the floor, tangled in a new toy, as if the world wasn’t cracked beneath your feet.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream.

But something broke. Quietly. Deeply.

Your pride was already bleeding. Your shame had nowhere left to hide. And still, it wasn’t the card that pushed you over the edge. It wasn’t the gifts or the silence or even the anger simmering in Luke’s shoulders.

It was the absence.

It was the fact that he didn’t come himself.

That he sent others. That he kept his distance — like you were already something to be managed, not faced.

And it shouldn’t have hurt. You’d told yourself a thousand times you didn’t want to see him. That this wasn’t about him. That you didn’t need his money or his empire or the echo of what you used to be.

But the truth — the ugly, humiliating truth — was this: you didn’t want his wealth.

You wanted him.

His voice. His arms. The way he used to pull you close and whisper things that made the dark quiet. The way he used to tuck you in like a secret, like something too rare to risk losing. You wanted him. And you hated yourself for it.

So you moved before you could think. Before the fear, the shame, the rational voice could stop you.

You grabbed your coat. Your keys.

Tara, bless her, had shown up just minutes before, arms full of groceries and soft reassurances, promising to stay the night if you needed to rest. You told her you’d be gone for a few hours. That everything was fine.

You kissed your son’s head — maybe a little too long, maybe a little too tight — and walked out the door without another word.

And then you drove.

Not because you knew what you were going to say.

But because if you didn’t see him now, if you didn’t make him look at you — you might shatter into pieces too small to ever come back together.

***

His estate was still the same.

Too grand. Too silent. Still heavy with ghosts you left behind.

The guards moved aside the moment they saw your face. No hesitation. No questions. Just doors opening like jaws — welcoming you back into the mouth of a beast you once dared to call home.

You didn’t knock.

You didn’t hesitate.

You stormed into the room mid-meeting — a rupture in the polished calm — slicing through tailored suits, cigar smoke, and the tight, brutal quiet of dangerous men interrupted. Every head turned.

Including his.

Sylus sat at the head like a monarch grown colder with time. Glass in hand. Eyes unreadable. And that stillness — the kind that wasn’t calm, just leashed violence.

He saw you. Took you in.

And didn’t blink.

“Out,” he said.

Just one word. Soft. Absolute.

And the bosses of N109 — men who’d burned cities, bled kings, slaughtered empires — obeyed without a sound.

The door clicked shut behind the last of them.

You stood there. Just the two of you now. Five years of silence between your ribs. His name lodged somewhere behind your teeth.

You stepped forward, fists clenched.

“So this is how it’s going to be?” you snapped. “You send your men with toys and blank checks and think that counts? You think that makes you a father?”

He arched a brow. Slowly. And then — God help you — he laughed.

It was low. Mocking. Bone-deep with disbelief.

“You’re angry?” he said, with a cruel sort of wonder. “That’s rich.”

“I’m serious—”

“Oh, I can see that. Look at you,” he gestured to you with his glass, casual, vicious. “Marching in here like I haven’t been erased from his life. Like you didn’t take a scalpel to the past and cut me out clean. And now what — two days after a chance encounter, suddenly I’m not doing enough?”

His smile was the kind that used to make people flinch.

“What exactly were you expecting? Balloons? A welcome-home banner? Me groveling for the right to meet the child you kept hidden like some dirty secret?”

You flushed. Heat crawled up your throat.

“That’s not what I—”

“No?” he cut in, voice quieter now, colder. “Because from where I’m standing, you vanish for five years, show up with a son that wears my face, and get pissed when I don’t instantly fall into step like nothing happened.”

You stared at him, stunned. But he wasn’t done.

“You don’t get to paint me as the absentee,” he said, each word deliberate, venomous. “You built that absence. You enforced it. You chose it.”

You swallowed, but your voice cracked anyway.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

He laughed again, but there was no humor in it. Just razor-sharp ache.

“Oh, come on, kitten. You always had choices. You were the clever one, remember? The strategist. The girl who read people like maps and always knew the way out. So tell me—what part of your master plan involved disappearing with my son and calling it love?”

“I was protecting him.”

“From me?” His voice dropped, dangerously soft. “Because you thought I’d do what, exactly? Teach him how to hold a knife? Make him my little monster?”

You didn’t answer fast enough.

He stepped forward, eyes burning now.

“You don’t get to disappear, reappear, and accuse me of being a bad father in the same breath. You don’t get to bury me in silence and then demand I dance the role you left me.”

And then, softer, darker:

“You think I wanted this? To send strangers to the doorstep of the boy I didn’t even know existed?”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

He stared at you — not with hate, but with something worse. Hurt twisted so deep it no longer bled. It just settled.

“You think I wouldn’t have taught him to live?”

Your lips part. No sound.

“I would’ve taught him how to breathe in a world that eats soft things alive,” he says. “I would’ve taught him how to survive it. How to carry your laugh like a shield. How to fight for it. How to protect it.”

He’s not shouting. But each word cuts deeper than a scream.

“I would’ve laid down my empire for him,” he says. “I would’ve bled for every step he took.”

He pauses — just long enough for the weight of it to hit — and then:

“But you didn’t just take him from me.”

His voice lowers, rough and hollow.

“You took me from him. You took you from us. You didn’t just rewrite the story — you burned the whole fucking book before we even had a chance to open it.”

He steps closer, and you don’t move.

“You didn’t trust me with him. Fine. But you didn’t trust me with you either. And you—” his voice catches, jaw tightening, “you didn’t even give yourself the chance to know what it could’ve been like.”

His eyes are glass now. And every word is a knife he’s too tired to stop from falling.

“You robbed all three of us.”

You try to speak, but the words catch somewhere in your throat. A hard knot of guilt and grief you can’t seem to swallow. You want to say his name. Just his name.

But before you can, his voice changes.

It’s no longer cold. No longer composed.

It’s blistering.

“Do you know what I did the day I realized you were gone?” he says — and now it’s breathless, like the memory itself is suffocating him. “Do you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

So he does it for you.

“I drank,” he bites. “I tore the city apart. I hunted ghosts. I played the organ until the walls bled. Until the sound felt like your scream in my skull.”

You sway. He sees it. Doesn’t care.

“I sat in your chair,” he hisses, “and begged it to creak. Just once. Just once, like you were still in it.”

Your knees buckle.

Still, he doesn’t move to catch you.

“I watched videos of you sleeping,” he says, hoarse now. “Kept that ugly little mug you always hated — because your lipstick was still on the rim.”

You cover your mouth with both hands as your breath shatters open.

“I slept in our bed fully clothed,” he whispers, “because I couldn’t let the sheets forget your shape.”

He finally takes one step forward — and then stops. Something in him splinters.

With a growl pulled straight from his chest, he turns and hurls the whiskey glass into the fireplace.

It explodes in flame and glass, the sound like a gunshot, like a scream. Fire licks up the wall as the liquor catches, dancing high and fast.

You flinch. Cover your face.

But not from fear. From shame.

You drop to your knees, hands shaking uncontrollably, sobs raking through your ribs. You can’t see through the tears anymore, and your voice is barely there when you whisper—

“I didn’t know how to love you without losing myself.”

There’s silence for a beat. The kind that hurts worse than screaming.

Then his voice — softer now. Almost gentle. Still raw.

“Kitten,” he says. “Was I really such a monster that you had to vanish with a newborn? Cage yourself in pain and loneliness for five years?”

You can’t look up.

“Did it help?” he asks. “Did it ever help?”

Your voice comes out choked.

“No... no,” you cry. “It felt like I was dying every second. I called for you every night. I prayed you’d come.”

He exhales sharply through his nose.

“Maybe your pride didn’t let you call loud enough.”

His words hit like lashes — and they’re meant to. You hear the fury under them. The wound he’s trying to cauterize with cruelty.

“And now what?” he snaps. “You think I’ll just let you use me again? Let you touch me again? And then vanish with my son all over again? Is that the plan?”

“Sylus, please...”

Your voice cracks as the sobs take over. The panic. The helplessness. You’re unraveling at the seams.

“Please don’t do this. Please—” You clutch at your chest, as if trying to physically hold your heart together. “You’re cutting me open— You’re cutting me alive— I made a mistake— so many mistakes— I didn’t know how to come back— I was scared— I was so scared— I didn’t know how to fix it, I didn’t— I never— I never—”

You can’t breathe. The words collapse.

But one thing pushes through.

“I never stopped loving you.”

Everything halts.

His expression breaks. Not shatters — breaks, quietly, like a fault line slipping beneath the surface.

And then he’s moving.

Down to the floor. To you.

His knees hit the marble hard. He doesn’t feel it.

His arms are around you in the next second, pulling you in, wrapping you up like a shield against everything — even himself. Even your shared grief.

You sob into his chest, into his collar, into the hollow beneath his jaw that still smells like night and memory and danger and home. Your body convulses with it, trembling like the child you once were in his arms.

And he holds you. Tight.

Because there’s nothing else left to do.

And now, with you in his arms again — trembling, broken, real — something in him gives way.

Not all at once. Slowly. Inevitably.

You feel it before he even realizes it’s happening: the way his muscles start to loosen, the way the sharp lines of rage soften, his breath slowing against your temple as his hands begin to move. Hesitant at first. Then helpless.

He’s touching your hair — slowly, gently — like he forgot what softness felt like. His fingers slip through the strands, curl at the nape of your neck, anchor there. One hand presses against your spine, the other strokes up your back, down again, grounding you with each motion like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your grief against his skin.

Your sobs soak through his shirt, seep down to his chest, dampen his collar and slide down his neck. And he lets it happen. Welcomes the burn. Because after five years of silence, your tears feel like the only thing real.

You cling to him like the world’s collapsing again — but this time you’re dragging him into the rubble with you. Your arms around his shoulders. Your knees curled against his sides. Your legs wrapping around him like instinct. Like survival.

He doesn’t flinch.

He welcomes the ache of it. Every breathless grab. Every tremor in your limbs. Every desperate mark your body makes against his.

Because it means you’re here.

Because it means he still feels something.

And then your voice — a wrecked, shaking thing — finds its way through the ruin:

“I came back… because… because I couldn’t give him what he deserves. I tried. I tried so hard to be everything. But how can I show him joy, or love, or hope — when I live in the ashes of something beautiful I destroyed?”

Your voice cracks.

“How can I teach him love, when the only thing left in me is the bitter taste of everything I ruined?”

His arms tighten around you.

Your voice drops to a whisper.

“I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. Not now. Maybe not ever. I don’t even know how to fix myself. Let alone… heal you.”

You press your face into his chest, as if that could protect you from what you’re about to say.

“But please,” you whisper. “Please help me find the path back. What do I do? What do I say to make you stop hating me?”

There’s a pause.

A long, dangerous pause.

Then he exhales slowly — like the weight of your question cracked something inside his chest.

His lips find your temple.

Tentative. Testing.

He lingers there, breathing in the scent of you, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to want this.

Then he moves. A little bolder now.

Your hairline. The crown of your head. Your forehead. The slope of your cheek. His lips brush over each point like it’s a litany. Like he’s not kissing you, but praying through you.

He kisses your nose. Your brow. Your eyelids.

And then—your lips.

Or almost. Just close enough for his breath to mix with yours.

Each kiss a scar he’s trying to erase with his lips. Each touch a memory he’s begging not to lose again.

He doesn’t say your name.

He devours it.

“I hate that I still love you like this,” he breathes between kisses. “I hate that even now, after everything, all I want is you.”

You gasp. Half-sob.

“I hate that just being here… makes me want to forgive you.”

And then he’s kissing you, not like before. Not like memory. Not like longing.

Like a man drowning. Like someone trying to inhale every second he lost, burn it into his lungs before it’s torn away again.

You kiss him back — shattering into him, against him, with him. Arms tight. Mouth hungry. Breath wrecked.

Because this isn’t peace. This is survival.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only just enough to breathe.

His forehead presses against yours. His voice shakes.

“I’m not ready to forgive,” he says. “But I can’t go another day without trying.”

Your eyes stay closed. Your lips tremble.

“That’s all I want.”

He exhales — broken. Guttural. Human in a way he never lets himself be.

“I missed you so much it ruined me.”

And you say it — softly, clearly, the last shard of your heart finally offered:

“I came back to help you rebuild.”

***

A month later.

The dining room is too big for three people.

The chandelier still glitters like a threat. The long table could seat fifteen warlords. The silverware looks like it costs more than most apartments.

But tonight, with one small boy seated on a velvet cushion, feet not even reaching the chair rung, and a half-eaten pile of mashed potatoes in front of him — it somehow feels… livable.

You watch him with a kind of cautious awe.

He’s trying so hard to be proper. Sitting straight. Using both hands to hold the fork. Stealing glances at the towering ceilings and flickering wall sconces like they might come alive. Every now and then he glances at you — checking if he’s doing this right.

And then there’s the raven.

Mephisto — jet-black, silent, elegant — perched on the edge of a nearby armchair, watching your son like a curious god. Your boy is enchanted. He keeps whispering questions at him, occasionally offering a green bean as tribute.

Mephisto doesn’t flinch. Just cocks his head like he’s listening.

You’re barely touching your food. Too busy memorizing.

The way your son laughs softly at the bird. The way the candlelight flickers against the long mahogany floors. The quiet.

God, the quiet.

You don’t realize you’ve zoned out until footsteps echo down the hall.

Sylus appears in the doorway — sleeves rolled, collar undone, a worn copy of Somewhere in the Sky in one hand.

“He’s out,” he says, voice low, warm. “Fought it like a gladiator. I barely survived.”

You smile.

He crosses the room, setting the book on the sideboard. Loosens his shoulders like someone still unused to relaxing.

“Apparently,” he adds, deadpan, “the only thing he truly cares about in this mansion is the antique rifle mounted over the fireplace.”

Your blood runs cold.

“You didn’t.”

“I did,” he replies, reaching for the wine. “I told him if he managed to fall asleep on his own tonight, he could hold it — under supervision.”

You stare.

“Are you insane?”

He pours. Slowly. Deliberately. A touch of amusement in his eyes.

“He fell asleep in two minutes.”

He passes you a glass. You take it like it might explode. He clinks his own against yours and sits beside you.

There’s a pause. The kind that tastes like something new, but gentle.

And then, without looking at you:

“I like being a father.”

You glance over.

He’s staring into his glass. But the corner of his mouth twitches, like he almost doesn’t believe he said it out loud.

“It’s because it’s still new,” you say softly. “Still shiny.”

He shakes his head.

“No. It’s because he’s mine.”

A beat.

“And because when he runs into a room, he doesn’t hesitate. Like he belongs there.”

Your throat catches. You take a sip of wine just to avoid answering.

He leans back, drapes one arm across the back of the chair, and looks at you like he’s about to say something dangerous.

And he does.

“So.”

You blink.

“How do you feel about making a daughter?”

You choke on the wine.

He doesn’t laugh. Just smiles — that smile. The slow, calculated one that used to mean someone was about to lose a war.

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m entirely serious, kitten” he says. “We could use someone to balance out the chaos. She’d keep him in line.”

“She’d own you in three weeks.”

“I’d let her,” he says, completely unbothered.

You shake your head, laughing into your glass.

“You realize we’re barely functional as it is?”

“And yet, here we are,” he murmurs, “functioning.”

The silence that follows is soft. Safe. Domestic in a way neither of you knows what to do with.

You lean your head on his shoulder.

And for the first time in years — no one is running. No one is bleeding. No one is apologizing.

Just this: Candlelight. A boy upstairs dreaming of ravens and rifles. And the possibility — for once — of something beautiful not ending in fire.

#love and deepspace #lads #sylus love and deepspace #sylus lads #sylus x reader #sylus and mc #sylus x you #storytelling #fanfic #fanfiction #angst #hurt/comfort #emotional #trauma #conflict #grief #second chances

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softlypossessive · 1 month ago

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♡･ﾟ𓏸 Sleeping With Them (Literally) 𓏸･ﾟ♡

♡ Characters: Lucifer, Mammon, Leviathan, Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Belphegor, gn!reader ♡ Warnings: Fluff, comfort, implied bad dreams, physical affection, mutual pining?? maybe??, Levi being awkward™, clingy behavior, some light tsundere energy, protective vibes, some suggestiveness (Asmo’s default setting), Beel being The Best™ ♡ Notes: This was purely self-indulgent and born from a burst of insomnia and a deep need for sleepy demon boy comfort. No prompt, just vibes. Gender-neutral reader. Each brother reacts in his own sweet, awkward way—and yes, they’re all canonically clingy now. I don’t make the rules.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

🕯️Lucifer

You find him still awake in the dead of night, seated at his desk, lit only by the glow of a single lamp

He's reviewing RAD paperwork with the usual stoic focus, barely glancing up when you enter

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low, a touch concerned despite the neutrality in his tone

You nod, murmuring something vague about a bad dream, and instead of brushing you off, he gestures silently to the small sofa by the window

You sit with your blanket in hand, intending just to be nearby, and he lets you—doesn’t press for details, just returns to his work

Somewhere between the quiet scratch of his pen and the rhythmic turn of pages, your eyes slip shut

When you wake, it's morning. You're not on the sofa. You’re in his bed

The covers are warm, tucked carefully around you, and the scent of his cologne clings faintly to the pillow

His coat hangs neatly over the chair beside you, a fresh cup of tea steaming on the nightstand

He’s nowhere in sight, but you have the distinct feeling he didn’t sleep—just quietly carried you to bed when he saw your head nod

No one says anything about it later, but you catch him watching you a little longer at breakfast that morning

The kind of watchfulness that says: next time, just come straight to me

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

💰 Mammon

He’s already in bed, hair rumpled, one leg kicked out of the blanket like always

You knock quietly and peek in, mumbling that you can’t sleep

His eyes go wide, then he fumbles upright, totally alert

“Wha—? You okay? What happened? You hurt?”

You tell him it’s just a nightmare, nothing big

He softens immediately, scoots over, and pats the mattress beside him like it’s obvious

“C’mon. Ain’t no bad dreams gonna mess with you while I’m here.”

You lie down next to him and he tries so hard to play it cool—arms behind his head, eyes on the ceiling

That lasts five seconds

He shifts closer like he’s not doing it on purpose, like you won't notice him curling toward you

When your hand brushes his by accident, he makes a strangled noise and goes stiff… then grabs it like it’s the most natural thing in the world

“Jus’ so ya don’t get cold,” he mutters, clearly blushing even in the dark

You fall asleep fast, wrapped up in warmth and the quiet muttering of “I gotcha, I’m here” under his breath

When you wake up, he’s out cold, drooling slightly, and clinging to you like a barnacle

You try to move. His grip tightens. You are not escaping

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

🎮 Leviathan

You didn’t even mean to fall asleep

One second you were watching a cozy slice-of-life anime with him, head tipped against the beanbag, and the next, darkness

Levi notices right away

He panics internally.

Like full-blown “I’m not equipped to deal with this cuteness” meltdown

But you look… comfortable. Peaceful. So he freezes in place

Slowly, carefully, he lowers the volume, gets up, and drapes his hoodie over your shoulders

He debates letting you stay there all night—but what if you get a crick in your neck? What if you wake up cold?

Eventually, he picks you up. Carries you. Cradles you like a rare body pillow

You don’t wake up

He tucks you into his bed, sets a Ruri-chan plush beside you for moral support, and flops onto the floor with a blanket and his headphones

When you wake up, it’s early morning. His lights are dimmed pink, the room is silent, and he’s snoring softly with a controller still in his hands

You stare at him for a long minute, heart aching a little at how sweet he looks like that

You don’t say anything when he wakes up an hour later, scrambling into an apology

You just smile and tell him you slept fine

He’s red for a full day

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

📚 Satan

He’s in his room reading, legs folded under him on the couch, a novel in one hand and a mug of tea in the other

You knock gently, eyes tired, and when he sees your face, he softens

“Bad dreams?” he asks, and there’s no teasing in it—just genuine concern

Without a word, he shifts to make space, patting the cushion beside him

You curl up with your blanket, shoulder brushing his, and he casually pulls another throw over both of you

He doesn’t say much, but his presence is calm, anchoring

Eventually your head tips against his arm and your breathing slows

He waits a few minutes to be sure you’re truly out, then sets his book aside and just… watches you

Not in a creepy way—just quietly fascinated by how peaceful you look, even after the nightmare

When you wake, you’re no longer on the couch—you’re in his bed, under soft sheets

The book he’d been reading is closed beside you, and there’s a little note tucked into the pages with your name on it

You keep it

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

💅 Asmodeus

He’s brushing out his hair at his vanity when you show up at his door, looking rumpled and half-asleep

“Darling, what’s wrong?” he coos, spinning around in a silk robe

When you admit you couldn’t sleep, his whole demeanor changes—still sweet, but softer, more grounded

“Say no more. Come here.”

He leads you straight to his bed, the sheets cool and silky, the scent of his perfume already comforting

You curl up under the covers while he finishes his routine—face mask, lip balm, a quick spritz of sleep spray

Then he slips in beside you, warm and gentle, his arm draped loosely over your waist

He talks to you in low whispers about nothing important—pretty things, soft clothes, silly gossip—until your eyes close

The moment you drift off, he goes quiet, tucking your hair behind your ear and watching your face with a look so tender it almost doesn’t feel like Asmo

The next morning, you wake up to a kiss on the forehead and a softly sung “good morning, sleepyhead”

He never lets you forget how cute you looked curled up against him—but there’s something genuine in his voice when he adds,

“If you ever need me again, you know where I am.”

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

🍔 Beelzebub

It starts with you falling asleep in the kitchen

You’d gone down for a late-night snack, found Beel already there eating cereal straight out of the box

He didn’t say much, just gave you a smile and pushed the box your way

You talked for a while, then leaned against the counter… then slumped onto the bench… and then lights out

Beel doesn’t wake you. Just watches you for a bit to make sure you’re really asleep

Then he scoops you up, careful like you’re made of glass

You wake up halfway through the walk to his room, tucked against his chest

“You looked tired,” he says simply. “You can sleep here tonight.”

His bed smells like vanilla protein powder and fresh laundry. He hands you one of his shirts as a sleep top. It’s comically large

Beel climbs into bed after you and stays on “his side” at first—very polite, very stiff, very big brother energy

But the second you roll toward him, drowsy and half-mumbling his name? He’s there

One arm around your waist, tucking you in close. His chin rests against the top of your head

“I’ll stay up a little longer to make sure the nightmare doesn’t come back,” he whispers

He’s asleep within five minutes

You wake up entirely under him. Full body weight. He's warm. You can't move. He looks peaceful. You stay there

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

💤 Belphegor

You creep into the attic room after a nightmare, not expecting him to be awake

He is

Barely opens one eye, gives you a sleepy “What’s wrong?”

You whisper that you can’t sleep, and he lifts the covers without another word

No teasing, no drama—just the quiet shift of space being made for you

You crawl in beside him, the star-speckled canopy of the ceiling above you

His arms find your waist automatically. He’s already half-asleep again

“You’ll sleep better here,” he mumbles against your shoulder. “I always do”

Within seconds, he’s out cold

But you’re not. Not yet

You lie there for a bit, warm and stunned, because his breathing is deep and even and his grip is loose but protective

Eventually, you drift off

When you wake up, Belphie’s draped over you like a sleepy octopus, your legs tangled, his head tucked under your chin

“Don’t move,” he mumbles without opening his eyes

You don’t

You fall asleep again

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

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venusbyline · 3 months ago

Text

Jacaerys Velaryon — Nine Moons.

chapter four (previous chapter)

— summary: After Lucerys' death and the arrival of the dragonseeds, Jacaerys no longer wants to be betrothed with Baela. He wants to marry his twin sister, even if it means going against Rhaenyra's decisions and sealing suffering in your life and his.

— pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x twin sister!reader

— type: dark, angst, sequel to Sleep (but can also be read as a standalone series)

— word count: 2.6k

— chapter's warnings: female!reader, dark!Jacaerys, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, Targcest (twin brother/twin sister), forced pregnancy, past rape/non-con, dubcon somnophilia mentioned, abusive and toxic relationship, manipulation, possessive behaviour, obsessive behaviour, gaslighting, blood and injuries, argument, crying, curse words, implied underage sex, referenced Jacaerys Velaryon/Baela Targaryen, forced marriage mentioned, dark content, canon divergence. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— author's notes¹: Nine Moons is a shortfic, sequel to the one shot Sleep, written for Kinktober. Both Nine Moons and Sleep can be read as standalone.

— author's notes²: Each chapter will have its own trigger warnings.

— author's notes³: It took a while longer than usual! I'm having a hard writer's block because of some personal things, and now I'm full of WIPs 🤣🤣 Anyway, please tell me your opinions and theories. Comments, likes and reblogs are always appreciated.

— tagging list: @neobangverse @hufflepuffxsworld @cwallace02sblog (Anyone who also wants to be tagged in the next chapters, tell me! ��️❤️)

— crossposting: AO3

❥ Nine Moons masterlist • Jacaerys masterlist • HOTD masterlist

❥ about me • main masterlist

You had been inside the Small Council room during all that time, your hands shaking due to the tension and tears streaming down your face while you waited for the hours to pass, your gaze focused on the windows as if you expected to see some dragon flying over the surroundings at any moment.

The servants had already come to try to calm you down and bring you something to eat, their efforts failing brutally every time your crying fit got worse or when you pushed the dishes away, not caring about the noise of the wares hitting the floor or the women's frightened expressions.

When you threw down the fourth glass of water in the last four hours, Baela burst through the doors. "You need to loose that temper."

"Shut up..." You whined, turning to the opposite side and facing the windows again, wanting to get rid of any lecture your cousin and sister-in-law could give you.

"You are acting like a crazy little girl." She growled, approaching you without worrying about your form huddled in the chair. Her gaze dropped to the broken kitchen utensils on the floor, looking at the servants in the corners before staring back at you. "And you are scaring the maids."

"I do not care." It was a lie, you did not usually treat any servants that badly and you knew you would regret it later.

Baela sighed with frustration, sitting down in the chair next to you. The fingers of her right hand tapped the marble table as she rested her chin on the other palm. Even though you were not talking, there was heavy air between the two of you, your sobs irritating her and her calm behavior making you more frustrated.

You would have preferred that it had been your own mother who had come to try to lecture you, but she was too busy panicking in her chambers after the Maester checked that everything was physically fine with your little brother Aegon III. The boy had arrived in Dragonstone very terrified, having flown on his little dragon for the first time, his clothes damp with his own piss due to his panic.

"We still do not have any news about any of them, including Jace."

More tears appeared in your eyes after Baela's words. You wanted to scream, to knock down everything you saw in front of you. Jacaerys should not have gone looking for Prince Viserys II. Everyone was almost certain that your youngest brother might already be dead, but Jace was stubborn and gone to the battle anyway, instead of letting that mission only for the Rhaenyra's soldiers.

"He cannot die, Baela." You whispered, hands shaking and stroking your own round belly to ease the painful twinges that were bothering you during the past minutes. "I cannot lose another brother."

Baela remained silent for a while, taking deep breaths to control what she would say next, not wanting to get into trouble with anyone during such a catastrophic situation. Her head ached slightly, thinking about the order Jacaerys made before leaving with Corlys. "Jace asked me to give you that."

You frowned when Baela handed you a necklace with two pure gold pendants, one of them was a waning crescent moon and the other was a sun, this last one decorated with a small red diamond in its center. It was very delicate and matched perfectly with the velvet dark red dress you had been wearing since Jacaerys left.

"I presume these symbols have a special meaning to both of you." Baela's tense tone returned your attention to her, nodding silently and wiping away the falling tears with your free hand. "He asked me to give it to you over if he did not come back."

"Then you should not have shown me it yet." Your voice sounded rude and you continued to hold the gift with a firm grip. "He will come back. Everyone will come back, including Viserys."

Baela sighed, massaging her temples. The atmosphere became even more tense, you keeping admiring the necklace and the other princess keeping sitting next to you, thinking about something to say that would not worsen the terrible relation between the two of you since Jacaerys got you pregnant.

She understood very well about the orders Jace gave to her when he was leaving the castle, her wrists were still bruised from the way he held them and threatened her life. Even though she wanted to just ignore her sister-in-law and hole up in her own chambers to deal with envy and worry that consumed her feelings, Baela knew she should not go against what her betrothed had told her to do.

She needed to help you stay sane and ignore the hatred she felt about you carrying Jacaerys' bastard children. She needed to obey him not just because he told her to. Baela needed to help you because if something happened to Jacaerys' life, you were the next heir to succeed your mother to the Iron Throne.

It was already night when Baela managed to convince you to go to bed. Your eyes were reddish from crying and your belly continued to pain, as if the babies were sharing your fears and moving inside your womb more roughly than usual.

The necklace that was once held by you was now decorating your neck, fingers caressing the pendants and a few sniffles echoing in the private room.

You did not pay much attention to what Baela mumbled when she was helping you change the clothes. All you knew was that her gaze lingered a little longer on your big swollen stomach, frowning with the same doubt that Jace had been thinking just minutes before the argument and sexual moments in your chambers during that morning.

The princess' confused face turned pretty obvious that Rhaenyra was not sharing the secret details of your pregnancy with her too.

"Jace believes… He believes the babies are twins."

The white-haired girl widened her eyes, clearing her throat and looking away, concentrating on placing the white linen chemise on you, the larger size fitting perfectly on your current form. "Twin pregnancy, such a surprise." Baela feigned enthusiasm, tying your clothes carefully, noticing how your fingers kept caressing the sun and moon symbols decorated on your throat. "He really corrupted you, did not he?"

The rhetorical question raced your heart, your head aching as did your stomach. A part of you was grateful that she was behind you, taking charge of dressing you. You would not know what to say if you were face to face.

When you did not respond anything, Baela continued. "I mean... He raped you. Forced you to get pregnant by him. He is still betrothed to me... And yet you are more worried about his life than the safe of your little brother who was probably kidnapped or even killed when the Pentoshi cog carrying him and Aegon III was captured."

"Viserys is not dead." Your argument did not seem convincing even to your own ears. "And Jace is only engaged to you because our mother is making him to, and also—"

"He corrupted you." The repeated words were stark and raw, your eyes filling with tears as you walked away from the hands helping you dress, a mix of anger and sadness filling your brain. "Do not you realize how Jace is manipulating you? Making you think you need him, making you want him." Baela growled, rubbing the palm over her face, the last of her patience now disappearing. "He forced you into this situation, took advantage of you when you were sleepy and vulnerable. And now you are crying because you are afraid he is going to die!"

"Jace is my twin... How do you expect me to turn against him? To not forgive him? To not fear about his life?”

"Yeah, I know he is your twin. But he is also the one who forced you to carry these things." She pointed to your belly, which was already about six moons.

A bitter and vulnerable chuckle escaped your throat, crossing arms and turning to face Baela. The girl's full lips were pressed into a thin line, both of you controlling the anger they felt at going through all that.

If only Jacaerys had not gotten you pregnant, or if only Baela had given up on keeping the betrothal...

"You are jealous..." The spiteful and sudden demeanor was not well received by your cousin, who rolled the eyes and scoffed, waiting for the next hypocrisies said. "You are jealous because Jace loves me, because he will love my children and—"

"Did you see that?" Baela pointed at you without even letting your rant end, heartbeat quickening in anticipation of the bitter words. "He already got into your mind enough. Now you think I am the villain and not him. That is what he wanted. He wanted you to resent me for envying you, to forgive him for raping you."

"STOP SAYING THAT!" You yelled with salty tears streaming down your cheeks, flushed and warm from panic, sitting up in the bed and sobbing like a child. "Stop! Just stop saying that word... Please."

Baela hummed another scoff and was about to open her mouth to retort your request, being brutally interrupted by the sound of some guard knocking on the door to your chambers with frightening force. The two princesses were silent until the man's voice came out. "Your Graces, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon has returned."

The cuticles of your nails were ripped off by your own teeth every second that passed without further news. You refused the Maester's order to remain resting in bed, being banned to enter the room until the Maester and the other servants took care of whatever happened to Jacaerys during the battle.

Your hands were trembling, nervous for the moment when someone would open the doors and allow your visit.

Most of the things said there were not understandable behind the big doors. All you could hear were the movements of the servants, your twin brother's screams of pain and some comforting words that Rhaenyra gave him.

No one had let you see his injuries. In fact, no one had explained almost anything to you about what had happened. All you knew was that Jacaerys had been very attacked by the enemies and your youngest brother Viserys had not returned along with Rhaenyra's allies.

"You should be sleeping, it is late." Daemon's lecture increased the discomfort inside your stomach and you crossed arms to hug your own shoulders, wanting to continue focusing on the confusing sounds behind the doors instead of what your uncle and stepfather had to say. "The Maester has already said that your presence inside is prohibited."

You remained still where you were, however, this time you allowed yourself to growl in disbelief. "How can I go to sleep when I do not know what my brother's condition is like?"

Daemon crossed his arms almost as if he was imitating you, his big and strong body leaning against the doorframe. "Your twin was hooked like a fish in the shoulders. He was arrowed several times in the right part of his body. His dragon is also injured and I doubt the creature will survive for more than a month after all of this."

"Do not... Do not talk that way. Vermax will be fine." Daemon did not retort against your overdone optimism at first, limiting himself to just sighing.

The more Jacaerys' screams echoed during the procedure, the more desperate you became, moving from side to side, leaving the pain in your womb aside so you could focus on the well-being of the child's father. You could hear Jace's screams of pain and pleas for the Maester to let you in there, all requests being ignored by everybody there.

Your fingertips tightened around the necklace he had given you, and Daemon broke the silence once again. "It is inappropriate for a pregnant woman to witness a somewhat bloody scene like that. You know..." Your uncle told you the obvious and you clenched the jaw, not wanting to keep hearing anything about it.

Obviously you knew too well the reasons why you were not there to help your twin brother's suffering. And that did not make that any easier. At that moment, you did not worry about the baby — or babies — you were carrying, your attention was on ensuring that Jacaerys would stay alive until the end of the night.

He had promised he would not let you die in childbirth. So he could not die now either, right? He said during the morning that you were born together and would die together... And that was a promise the Gods could not ignore.

"Your mother would hate to hear this, but I am glad Jacaerys is suffering at least a little." Daemon mumbled nonchalantly and you almost threw up in front of him, now staring at him with your face paler than before. How could he say something so cruel? "Oh, are you really surprised that I think that? Or that I am owning up to my cruelty?"

Your throat burned with bile that threatened to come out, not answering until you were sure you would not vomit the food you had managed to ingest. "B-Both."

The whisper was weak, tremble... Almost humiliating. And Daemon found it funny. "Both..." He repeated with a mocking tone, thin lips pulling into a smirk. "What did you expect, dear niece? Your twin brother has been making my daughter's life a hell since his obsession with you became more unhealthy than it already was."

You shook head, letting go of the jewelry to take three steps back when Daemon dared to take three steps towards you. "You are wrong. These are the effects of the war. Jace was not like this before Lucerys' death."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps this obsession was already the start of a fire from the moment your lives were conceived together, and your younger brother's murder was just what Jacaerys needed to allow himself to show the true insane dragon that always existed inside him. Perhaps inside you too." He continued with those long intimidating steps, no more space for your legs to move back. "Jacaerys' soul was probably already sick since the moment you left him alone and waiting inside your mother's womb for a little while during the childbed and—"

"What?"

Your question uttered in a loud voice echoed off the large walls. Daemon, who was already close enough with his shadows almost covering yours, suddenly stopped. The man narrowed the eyes, staring at you with a look that could either indicate genuine perplexity about your reaction, or could indicate that he was just trying to escape the spark of curiosity and rage that he lit in your heart.

Daemon did not move himself, not even when the doors of the chambers where Jacaerys was being treated opened, revealing Rhaenyra and Baela's with with bloodstained clothes and tense facial expressions, now worsening even more after realizing something was happening between you and the older Targaryen.

Rhaenyra called your name loudly, but you ignored her, keeping looking at Daemon. "What is wrong, Daemon?" Your mother asked and walked towards the two of you to pull her daughter away, being stopped by her husband's hand.

"He said Jace was waiting for me inside your womb during the childbirth." Rhaenyra swallowed hard as she listened to your voice sounding as shaky as it did when you were just a little girl getting lectured for some poorly executed innocent prank. "Why the hells would Daemon say that, if you always told to all of us that Jacaerys is your firstborn and he was born before me?"

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losers-clvb · 2 months ago

Text

possession sam winchester x ruby x angel!reader

content: mentions of (kidnapping, shackles, punishment via cutting, non-consensual voyeurism), stockholm syndrome, manipulation, coercion, demon blood sam, sam and ruby are possessive and mean, sam is manipulatively soft, ruby is manipulatively mean, praise, language, religious themes, smut (oral sex (fem and male receiving), dirty talk, edging, size kink perhaps, marking/bruising, unprotect piv penetration, face sitting, implied cockwarming), canon typical blood play (think sam with the demon blood, i don't know what else to call it), perhaps some fluff if you twist it enough

word count: 4.9k

note: everyone say "thank you smin!" for inspiring this with our feral chats over messaging. i may have missed some warnings, please let me know if i did. i'll say this until my lungs give out: LET ME INTO YOUR MARRIAGE, JARED AND GEN!!

The cool metal of your runed shackles weighed your hands down, forcing them to rest on your knees.

Here you were, again, praying out for help, again.

It was a lost cause. You’d been locked up here -- some hidden away cabin -- for longer than you could even keep track of. Every prayer, every beg, for rescue had gone unanswered. Still, you couldn’t stop your kneeling against the floorboards of the bedroom, hands clutched together.

“Mmm…,” you heard purred out from behind you, “still at it?”

You ignored the voice. He was cruel. Cruel and mean and so fucking hot that he had lured you into this whole trap.

Sam Winchester was supposed to be kind. He was supposed to be the kind of boy you smile and flutter your lashes at to get whatever you want. Something had changed since your first meeting with the man.

You suspected that something was your other captor, who had been significantly missing for days.

The thumping of boots on the creaky wood floor made you shiver, and you quickly mumbled the rest of your prayer. Cold fingertips grazed against the bit of spine that pushed against the skin of your bent neck. You hated the way you loved it.

“They’re not coming.” Sam hummed. “Your family no longer deems you worth the effort.”

You swallowed, lip quivering. You were scared of Sam, yes, but not because he’d hurt you. He’d simply sat back and watched as Ruby sliced into your skin after your first, and last attempt at escape. You’d looked to him for help. All he had to offer you was a look of faux sympathy. You knew the truth from the shimmer of something dark in his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” You whimpered, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. You didn’t need to explain the apology. It’d been the only thing you’d said since he had caught you in the woods last week, your weak body thrown over his shoulder.

“Oh, I know you are.” He tutted condescendingly, giving you a soft smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He brushed a hand over your hair and you leaned into it. “But bad girls need punishment.”

“Where’s Ruby?” You asked. The words threw him off-guard, but he didn’t show it.

“She’s out. Just you and me right now, angel.” Sam’s voice was so soft, so calming, you’d forgotten your momentary fear of him.

“Don’t call me that,” you immediately responded, but had the sense to add, “please.”

“Oh, so quick to abandon your faith?” Sam raised his eyebrows and you looked away. Your eyes were watering and you felt the need to bite your bottom lip to keep from crying.

You knew it was wrong. You shouldn’t give up. Not ever. That was where angels fell into trouble. They gave in to emotion, to the overwhelming sense of dread when their Father ignored their prayers. You had thought you were better than them, but here you were. You should have known you were weak when you had let Sam, the old Sam, kiss you.

“Oh, my angel.” Sam’s voice weaved into your brain, growing roots into the smallest parts of you. You didn’t correct him this time.

“Remember, they abandoned you first,” he cupped a hand on your cheek, using his thumb to brush away the stray tears, “they left you here to rot. Who was by your side through the days and nights?”

“You,” you whimpered, your chains rattling with your shifting movement, “and Ruby.” You watched a soft but wicked smile cross Sam’s face.

Neither of you acknowledged the fact that the days and nights were his and Ruby’s faults. You wouldn’t be suffering like this if it wasn’t for them abducting you. They’d hoped your loss in Heaven would spur an army of angels for the rescue, an army they knew they could defeat. When no one came for you, the two had come to a silent agreement: you were theirs, forever.

“That’s right,” he cooed. He knelt to your level, eyes raking over your worn nightgown. “And who always knows best?”

“You and Ruby.” You echoed, the names tumbling from your lips on instinct. They’d flipped some switch in your brain long ago, but it had taken time for you to truly follow everything they said.

Alone, you were still that hellbent-on-escape little angel they’d trapped, but in their presences? You grew weaker until all that you thought was what they had fed you.

Sam and Ruby both knew, it wouldn’t be long before you were wholly theirs.

“Mhm,” Sam trailed a finger over your collarbone. He just wanted to feel your skin. The warmth reminded him that you were real.

There had been a time, before Ruby, when he loved you in a way that was holy. He wanted to give you the world. Your risk of falling had kept him from doing all of the things he really wanted. He had dared a small kiss, in the moments before he’d faced a nest of vampires alone. He couldn’t die without knowing how you tasted.

Now, with the demon blood -- Ruby’s blood -- running through him, he wasn’t in the mood to compromise. If you would fall, then he and Ruby would catch you. Heaven didn’t deserve an angel like you.

They did.

They loved you in the only way they knew how, obsession, but it was love, no less.

“Can you take them off?” Your voice was meek. Terror ripped through you when Sam pulled his eyes back to yours. You were tempted to take it all back, beg for forgiveness for even asking, but Sam gave you a sad smile.

“The last time I took them off, I had to chase you through the woods like a rabbit.” Sam was right. The moment your shackles had left your wrists the week before, you had headbutted him in the nose and dashed out the door.

Ruby had tried to snatch you back up, but it was Sam with his long legs who had caught you. He’d knocked you to the ground before slinging you over his shoulder. Your widened eyes had caught sight of the blood streaming from his nose, the fire of rage burning in his eyes, and you immediately started your groveling.

Sobs of “I’m sorry” had left your throat and lungs raw. Ruby didn’t listen. She just sliced away at your forearm with your own blade. Her goal was made clear when you caught sight of the cuts.

She’d carved Mine into your skin. Mine meaning you would never get away from her, or Sam, for that matter.

Sam had pulled you into his arms after that, a pool of your blood staining his shirt. He didn’t care. He simply brought you to your room, a square space with only a bed, and wrapped your arm in gauze.

“I’m sorry,” you had quivered out again.

Sam smiled, kissing your forehead.

“I know.” He had responded before tucking you into your soft sheets and blankets.

That night, he’d fucked Ruby so hard he had seen stars.

“It won’t happen again, I swear.” You promised, shifting your knees again. You took Sam’s hands into yours, wrapping your fingers around them.

“I won’t run. Please, I’ll be a good girl.” You begged, bringing your forehead to where your hands connected. Sam loved this, watching you plead with him to get what you wanted. He wasn’t going to give in that easily, not yet, but it was a nice sight to have.

Then you said those words. You hadn’t known the impact it would have. You were just babbling on.

“Please, Sam,” you hesitated for just a moment, “I love you.”

It had been the first time you had said it. Ruby and Sam had dragged a vague confession-like thing out of you before, but this was the first time you dared to say those exact words. You meant them, in a twisted kind of way. That was the best part for him.

Sam dove onto you, lips smashing into yours. He’d kissed you before. Once as his old self, and dozens of times as this new version. It had only ever been something small, a peck lasting a few seconds if he was lucky.

This was different. He loved you, and you loved him. He couldn’t hold back anymore. He wouldn’t hold back anymore.

He moved his lips against yours hungrily. You melted into him, letting your mind drift away to a better place.

His hands worked at your shackles, the lock clicking open with the turn of a key. You sighed when they dropped to the floor. Your wrists were flushed red, the skin raw, but the weight was finally gone.

You stayed true to your word. You didn’t run. You were a good girl.

“Really, Sam?”

Her voice chilled you to the bone. Sam pulled away but you slumped into him, burying your face in his neck.

“Ruby,” Sam said, his hand splayed across your back to hold you close. He didn’t seem all too shocked to see her. You wondered how long she’d been there.

“One mutter of love from her and you’re rolling over like a dog.” Ruby stepped closer into the room, her eyes stuck on you clinging to Sam. “She’s lying.”

“No, she’s not.” Sam hooked a finger into your hair to pull it away from your face. “Isn’t that right, angel?”

You nodded, eyes closed. Ruby frightened you more than Sam. She’d been mean from the start. She’d also shown some softness to you, but nothing like Sam. You didn’t know if it was enough to compensate for her torture.

“Use your words,” he encouraged, tracing a finger on your cheek.

“I love you,” you said to Sam, then, after a second of contemplation, you opened your eyes and looked at Ruby. “And I love you.”

You watched something cross over her face. Something dark and lustful. She twisted her sneer into a smile and you kept your eyes locked on hers while she walked to you.

“She’s not gonna hurt you,” Sam soothed in your ear when you tensed up. “As long as you’re a good girl, she won’t hurt you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from whining when she finally reached you. You were still in Sam’s arms, but he’d moved one of his hands to rest on the back of Ruby’s thigh. Ruby narrowed her eyes.

“I don’t believe you.” She said, a challenging look in her eye. You let out a shaky breath, fear racing through you. She didn’t believe you?

“I-I love you, please, I swear.” You stuttered. You didn’t know what she would do if she thought you were lying. Your forearm throbbed in pain at the memory of your last punishment.

Ruby dragged her eyes to Sam, tilting her head in a silent message. He must have known how to decode her, because a second later he was standing next to her. You were left alone, on your knees, with Sam and Ruby towering over you. They held twin smirks at the sight of your widened eyes.

“Mmm, I don’t know,” Sam hummed, turning his head to Ruby, “I don’t believe her either.”

“She likes to lie.” Ruby agreed, nodding her head. Sam still looked at Ruby, but her eyes never left yours. Your pace quickened. They loved the fear radiating from you.

“No, no, I’m not lying,” you rushed out, “I love you, both of you, so much.” You scrambled closer to them, resting your head on Ruby’s stomach. Your hand grasped at Sam’s shirt. “Please believe me.”

“Prove it.”

Your trembling paused for a moment. You tilted your head up to look at Ruby and she smirked. Her fingertips danced over your cheek, landing on your lips. You just watched her, tears threatening to well back up.

“Show us how much you love us.” She pressed two fingers past your lips. You didn’t need to ask what she meant. You knew.

You’d heard them enough, the moans and grunts echoing through the thin cabin walls. They did it on purpose, you’d realized once. They were loud and messy and verbal in an attempt to lure you in. They’d hoped you would give in to their control faster if you heard what you were missing out on. It had worked, not in the way they had wanted, but you found yourself yearning for their dirty words during sex to be aimed at you.

You pressed your tongue against the pads of her fingers, sucking on them.

“Good girl.” She praised before pulling them out.

Your hands flew to the front of her jeans, hastily unbuttoning them. You tugged the denim down her legs, pulling her underwear with them.

“So fucking ready to please.” Sam mumbled, palming himself through his own jeans. He’d have your lips wrapped around him soon enough, but right now he wanted to watch. Ruby weaved her fingers into your hair, helping to guide your mouth where she wanted it the most.

You dragged your tongue through her folds. Your eyes fell shut at the taste.

“That’s right,” Ruby cooed when you got the rhythm down, “just like that, angel.” You looked up at her through your lashes, a swell of pride blooming in your chest when she moaned.

Sam placed his hand where Ruby’s lay tangled in your hair. He interlocked his fingers with hers. They were one, putting just the right amount of pressure on you to get Ruby biting back noises.

You trailed your hand to the front of Sam’s jeans. For a moment, you just brushed your thumb against his bulge, feeling the hard denim against your fingers. He rolled his hips, chasing the friction.

Sam bent his neck down to Ruby’s level. He kissed her hungrily. This was different from the way he’d kissed you. With you, he’d been starved of your touch for far longer. Ruby, he was comfortable with. The passion was still there, but Sam knew the best angle to slot their lips together.

Sam pulled her bottom lip in between his teeth when her mouth fell open. You had flicked the tip of your tongue against her clit and it had the effect you had hoped for.

“Knew you’d be good,” Sam growled at you, sucking on Ruby’s lip before moving to her neck.

With the help of Sam’s hand over your own, you were able to undress his bottom half. His cock sprang free, red and angry.

“I don’t know-,” you started to say when you saw Sam’s size, but Ruby clutched her hand around your jaw, making you look back at her.

“Don’t you love him?” She asked, a cruel spark running through her eyes.

You nodded.

She smiled and used her thumb to swipe up the mix of her arousal and your spit that was glistening on your chin. Her eyes rolled back when she wrapped her lips around the digit, sucking it clean. With a look from her, you knew you needed to do this. No, you corrected yourself, you wanted to do this.

You turned your attention to Sam, who was staring down at you while he stroked himself. He raised an eyebrow.

“C’mon, angel,” Ruby murmured, rubbing herself with her middle finger, “show Sammy how much you love him.”

You hesitated before wrapping a hand around Sam, just above his own. You noted the way your fingertips weren’t able to touch. A squeeze made Sam suck in a breath.

You kissed his leaking tip, the taste of him leaking through to your taste buds. Slowly, you pushed him past your lips. Your jaw dropped further and further as you took in more of him. You stopped when he brushed against the back of your throat.

“Aww, poor angel can’t fit it all in.” Ruby mocked in a sweet voice. She pushed slightly on your head, forcing you closer to Sam’s abdomen. Your breath hitched as you tried not to gag.

A smile twitched onto Sam’s face at the sight.

“See how she’s taking it,” Ruby purred to Sam and pushed you further, “she was made for this -- made for us.”

Sam steadily let the air out of his lungs, dropping his head forward when your throat constricted into a swallow. He swooped his head lower, nipping at Ruby’s cheekbone. He still had his hand twisted with hers in your hair, but he took his other and began to drag circles on her clit.

Ruby’s mouth fell open in ecstasy. You felt the twitch of Sam against your throat when Ruby groaned. In the haze of her pleasure, she rushed her pushing and your nose crashed into Sam’s pubic bone. This time, you did gag. It was too much all at once.

You dug your nails into Sam and Ruby’s thighs, hoping to get their attention to what you were going through. They continued to be enamoured by each other. Sam was pulling on the skin of her neck with his teeth, just enough to leave bruises. Ruby was grinding into Sam’s hand, moans falling from her lips.

Tears rolled down your cheeks. You pulled your head back, straining against their shared hold. Somehow, you slipped out of their grasp. You tumbled back, catching yourself on your hands.

Your chest heaved and you trembled, trying to catch your breath enough. It had scared you, that small moment when you didn’t know if you would be able to come up for air.

“Oh, angel.” Ruby knelt to her knees, brushing your tears away. You didn’t flinch. Ruby loved you, and as long as you were a good girl, she wouldn’t hurt you. “Was it too much?”

You nodded and let her palm cup against your cheek. Sam gathered one of your hands in his, helping you to your feet. You swayed a bit, but ultimately stood your ground by leaning against Sam.

“We’re sorry, baby,” Sam kissed your forehead. He was surprisingly sweet for someone who was still rock hard. You closed your eyes and buried your head in his chest. You felt your hair get brushed back.

“Let us make it up to you,” Ruby kissed your neck. “Let us show you how much we love you.”

You hummed out a response.

They worked together to guide you to your bed. You didn’t know how it would fit all three of you. Sam and Ruby didn’t seem worried about this fact.

Sam gathered the hem of your nightgown up, lifting it over your head to leave you naked. When you regained your sight, Ruby had shed the rest of her clothing. You eyed her like she was the most holy thing you’d ever set eyes on. The flash of mischief in her eyes told you she was anything but.

“Lie back, angel.” Ruby instructed. She placed one hand on your back and the other on your chest, helping you into the position she wanted you in. She left featherlight kisses on you, spanning across your chest, stomach, thighs. She was working you up while Sam undressed himself.

“Fuck, this all from loving us?” Sam asked when he caught sight of your glistening center.

“I love you.” You whined when Ruby tapped a light message against your clit with her finger. Sam and Ruby exchanged similar looks of joy at your programmed response.

This was is it. They knew it then.

You were theirs, all theirs, only theirs.

They took turns going in on you, tongues sometimes mashing together when the other couldn’t hold themself back. You were a writhing mess, but they held your hips steady.

“So good,” Ruby muttered, panting. She nipped at your clit lightly, just enough to make you squeak. She pushed her tongue into you, fucking you with it while Sam slithered up to your face.

“So perfect,” he whispered to you, kissing you. You moaned when you tasted yourself on his lips. He brushed a thumb across one of your nipples.

“I’m-,” you broke mid-sentence when Sam sucked a mark onto your neck, “I’m gonna come.” Your voice was small.

You grasped onto Sam’s shoulders. He slunk back down your body, leaving bruises with his mouth along the way. You locked eyes with Ruby. She smirked against you and sucked a bit harder.

She saw it in your eyes, the sparkle you got just before you came. You didn’t see the spark of dominance in her before it was too late. She’d pulled away from you, leaving you whining as your high slowly simmered down.

“Not yet.” Ruby slid up to your level, kissing your forehead. You knew better than to argue. Snuggling into her neck, you felt Sam’s hands graze against your skin until they cupped over your breasts.

“Wanna feel you come apart on me, angel.” Sam whispered into your ear. He kissed your neck.

You let out a breathy whine, a quiet and soft noise. Your eyes fluttered shut while they showered you with kisses.

You never felt more loved.

In Heaven, you were a soldier. A pawn in the divine plan. You were used to deliver salvation to humanity, responsibilities of keeping everything as it was supposed to be according to your Father’s plan.

Here, you were appreciated for what you brought to the table. You had no expectations, nothing other than complete obedience. You didn’t have to think. Sam and Ruby loved you, and they would take care of you until the end of days.

You needed to give them more. You needed to show them how much you loved them.

“Ruby?” You asked in a timid voice. Your lips brushed against her skin while you spoke. She smirked, locking eyes with Sam. She was waiting for you to do this. She knew what would come next.

“Yes, my angel?” Ruby answered.

“Can I make you and Sam feel good again?”

Ruby ran a tongue across her teeth, trying not to let you know how much your willing nature was already pleasing her.

“Yes.” She was already guiding you up to sit on your knees on the bed. She motioned to the spot where she wanted Sam and he obliged, rolling over to lay on his back.

“Right here, angel, sit right here.” She instructed, her firm grip on your hips dragging you to rest on Sam’s thighs. You brushed against the base of his cock, making you let out a shaky breath. You were already sensitive after the night’s earlier events, but the knowledge that he would soon be inside of you was enough to intimidate you. The sick part was the arousal that washed over you in tandem with the fear.

Ruby bent down until her mouth was just over Sam. She spit onto him, using it as lubrication to prepare him for you. Not that it was all that needed; you were dripping just thinking about how much you loved them both.

“Come here.” Ruby beckoned. She helped you move over Sam, lining him up with your entrance.

“I’ll be gentle,” Sam lied, assuring you when he noticed your hesitation. He could have been sincere in it, you thought, but you knew his intentions went out the window the moment you sunk down onto him. His eyes flicked to pure black. It was a reminder that his humanity was dwindling. The demon blood was converting his soul to darkness.

You sighed, your head falling back, when you finally reached his base. You sat there, trying to organize your thoughts. Sam didn’t like that. He didn’t want you to think.

He gripped onto your hips, lifting them before letting his own hips follow, slamming himself back inside. You gasped, a moan escaping. Ruby rested one hand on your lower back, the other on Sam’s abdomen, like the puppet master she was. She controlled you both, but her hold on you was stronger than the one on Sam.

“Fits so well,” Sam grunted, pounding into you. You let out a strangled moan. You gripped onto Ruby’s arm, needing to stabilize yourself.

“See what you’ve been missing out on?” Ruby flicked the tip of her tongue against your cheek, pushing her chest closer to you. You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe with the speed Sam was moving at.

That pleased Ruby even more. You were her dumb little angel, listening to everything she said.

She pulled away from you to climb onto Sam’s face. This scene was too much. She needed to come, and she knew Sam was always happy to offer his mouth up for that assistance. She sat comfortably on his face, eyes fluttering shut when he groaned into her.

You watched her with a hazy mind, choking on your breath at the pleasure. When she looked back at you, her eyes were the same inky black as Sam’s had been. It should have sent a shiver down your spine that you were in the presence of such evil.

But Ruby didn’t feel evil. Not when she was pulling you toward her to kiss you so hungrily. This was your Ruby. She loved you, and you loved her.

You whimpered into her mouth when she clawed at your arms, tearing away the bandages. In the haste of trying to prove yourself to Sam and Ruby, your slow-healing cuts had been ripped open. The blood seeped out slowly, not enough to trickle, but enough to drip when it pooled up too much. You hadn’t noticed.

Ruby did. An idea popped into her head, one bred from the desire to be closer to you. She remembered forbidding you from healing yourself after your punishment, and, God, was she grateful for it when her tongue flashed over your arm.

She’d tasted blood before, bathed in it even, but nothing like this. Your blood brought the sweetest sting down her throat. She relished in the fleeting pain. She scraped her teeth against the slices, chasing the high angel blood was bringing to her. You whined as she moaned.

Sam almost protested when Ruby slid back but before he could get a word in, she slammed your forearm down to his mouth. He sucked on instinct and his thrusts stuttered with the tang of your blood.

It didn’t hurt him like it had Ruby. No, it had a different effect on him. It turned the dirty inside him clean, filled him with hope. He felt lighter, almost. Somehow he knew that the mixture of demon and angel blood in his system would make him more powerful than ever.

The thought brought his pace back to life.

His hips were unforgiving on the backs of your thighs, bruising them with every moment of contact.

Ruby reclaimed her prior spot over his face. This time, Sam had her falling apart in minutes. He’d gotten a new spark inside of him with this whole thing. You and Ruby were his girls and he’d be damned if you two went unsatisfied.

A scream caught in your throat when you came. You doubled over, falling to Sam’s chest. It didn’t falter his pumping in and out of you. In fact, it seemed to motivate him more. The clenching of your walls around him had him silently begging for release. He needed it.

Ruby took no time to level her head with Sam’s. She was still recovering from her orgasm, but knowing he was still inside you had her kissing next to his ear.

“Come in her,” she whispered to him, nibbling on his earlobe. Sam groaned in anticipation. He’d been planning on doing it but now Ruby had given him the permission he needed. “Fill her up for me.”

“Fuck,” he seethed when it finally happened. He dug his hips into your ass, grinding up to ensure his release was deep inside. He was able to get in a few sloppy thrusts to guarantee he was completely satisfied before he relaxed into the mattress of your bed.

You were heaving out breaths. You hadn’t opened your eyes since your orgasm, but they both knew you weren’t sleeping. Ruby traced a finger across Sam’s cheek before kissing him.

“Good boy.” She praised, earning her an exhausted smile from him.

“Angel?” Ruby asked softly, skimming her hand over your shoulder. You didn’t move. The only indication you had heard Ruby came from the small “Hmm?” that vibrated from your throat. She smiled wickedly at that. You were completely spent. Still, she wanted one last thing before you fell asleep.

“Tell me again.” She ordered. You needed no explanation, even with your fuzzy mind keeping you from thinking.

“I love you,” you mumbled, shifting your hips. Sam scratched lightly against your back, making your skin tingle.

“And who will love you when no one else will?” Ruby asked. She pulled a blanket over you three, protecting against the cold night air. Not that anyone would get cold tonight, not with your bodies still tangled together.

“You and Sam.” You breathed out one last answer before drifting off. The soothing circles on your spine calmed the part of your brain keeping you from sleep. Ruby smirked proudly, kissing both yours and Sam’s foreheads while you both slept.

“Good girl.” She purred, settling in to watch over you both all night long.

The morning would come, but your fear of them would not. The wounds on your arm would heal into a scar, spelling out their possession of you every time you looked at it. As long as you were a good girl, Ruby wouldn’t hurt you again, a mantra that reminded you to never try to leave them again.

everything taglist : @littlesoulshine @sacr1ficialang3l @blossomingorchids @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @mostlymarvelgirl @missus-ackles

sam winchester taglist : @hobiespick @xoswiftieprincess

additional loveys that i know will want to read this : @saltcxrcle @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @ambiguous-avery

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butterbabyflapjack · 5 months ago

Text

✧˖° Brian Moser x serial killer fem!reader

✧˖° summary:

The Ice Truck Killer’s back in town, and somehow he's stuck babysitting you; Miami's newest would-be killer.

Helping you out wasn't at all his original intention–he'd rather see you dead, you know far too much–but he supposes he could spare an evening to undomesticate that hungry beast inside you. Show you how to really live your life.

In which Brian helps you kill someone who utterly deserves it, and the kill room turns into a horny sex-fueled bloodbath.

✧˖° wordcount (chapter 2): 17k

✧˖° chapters: one, two, three, four, five

✧˖° ao3

✧˖° taglist: @Impala1967 @fan-goddess @ireallydontknowohcrabs

✧˖° warnings: serial killer fem!reader, reader insert, explicit sexual content, rough sex, passionate sex, fucking in a kill room, dark romance, dark comedy, canon typical depictions of blood and gore, enthusiastic consent, mutual pining, impact play, playing with your food, serial killers in love, banter, dirty talk, voice kink, trauma bonding, babysitting a serial killer, implied sexual abuse of a child (you're killing this mf don’t worry), torture (you’re torturing this mf don’t worry), Brian is his own warning, enemies to lovers, biting, daddy issues?, blood play, a bit of angst a dash of bloodlust & a heavy splash of spice, Brian loves to fluster you and he won't shut the hell up going about it, Brian survives season 1 in this house

✧˖° author's note:

im having too much fun with this, but also editing chapters this long inflicts psychic damage so please forgive the inevitable rough spots. i’m sure there are some but i’m so over editing. i tried making it shorter but every time i tried it just got longer its 17k 😭😭

anyway hope you’re ready for your date with a wanted serial killer💕

(there’s a few nods to the books throughout, including Brian’s little red car)

✧˖° chapter 2

You still can’t believe you’re actually doing this.

Accepting Dexter’s brother’s help–the Ice Truck fucking Killer, which you can still hardly believe. Begging for it, even; for him to help you kill someone.

The Ice Truck fucking Killer…

Even now, you have a hard time wrapping your head around it.

You’d dedicated so much time and energy into catching that serial fiend, and now he was practically your mentor. So unlike his brother, yet so strikingly the same. Dexter was hungry to know everything about a person before killing them; performing weeks, even months of diligent research on every facet of their beings.

But Brian…

He hadn’t asked a single question about who he’d help you kill. It could be your own mother, for all he seemed to care. A wolf with a scent for blood. He gets a whiff, he doesn’t hesitate, he comes running.

He’d agreed to help you so much more willingly than Dexter had, and for that, at least, you’re grateful. It remains to be seen if you’ll be grateful for anything else.

It doesn’t matter that this man that you’ll kill’s not a killer. He still has this coming. Has it coming from you, and doubtlessly deserves so much more, so much worse, and–

The whirlwind of thoughts inside your addled head will not settle, will not calm; battering the walls of your mind into harsh, jagged edges of unease and doubts and questions upon questions and–

Struggling to swallow, you once more do your best to ignore that storm inside you. Sucking down a deep breath. Forcing yourself to.

You can do this.

The cards of it are already falling out of place, all around you, and you can’t pick them up again, can’t shove them back into their previous shape.

You don’t want to.

This is happening.

You’re killing this prick tonight.

It’s too late now, not to, and you don’t want to turn back–

You can do this.

You…

You’re at the precinct…

On a Saturday…

Today is already going so wrong.

You just needed to submit a slew of paperwork for a court case early on Monday. Just in and out; it wasn’t supposed to take long. Yet now it’s nearly noon, and your partner–a thick man with a thicker mustache named Pérez–well he’s here, too. The pair of you without lives, always working. And he’s droning on and on about something–probably where the two of you should stop for lunch, as if you’ll be here that long (you already are), but you can’t hear him. Anxious eyes flitting from him and Masuka, who’s joined in on whatever this conversation, in checking the time on your phone.

Your anxious eyes grow wider.

Shit–!

You were supposed to meet Brian at the hardware store twenty minutes ago…!

Ignoring Masuka’s lame attempt at a joke, you focus fully on your computer. Sending off a few last emails, finger nearly breaking through your mouse with every click, before you’re grabbing whatever papers you were working on and even some you weren’t, scraping the mess of them off your desk, shoving them into your bag and you’re sure they’re all crumpled but fuck it, this can’t wait, Brian can’t wait, you should have left already–

“Hey!” Pérez calls as you abruptly stand, his deep voice following after how you speed-walk through the glass-enclosed walls of the precinct. “I was talkin’ to you!”

“Gotta go,” you shoot back bluntly. “Talk to Masuka.”

“Bullshit,” he calls as you continue speeding off. “You don’t got nowhere to be!”

And you don’t know why you say it. You’re panicked, maybe–haven’t thought out a decent alibi like you really already should have. But either way, you blurt back on harried instinct, “I’m going on a date–you know, trying my hand at a social life? You should try it sometime.”

The surprise of that must shut him up–as it should, you don’t date–because he doesn’t yammer after you any longer as you push out of the room’s heavy glass doors. Impatiently stabbing the silver elevator button before you so you can fully escape, all while inwardly smacking yourself because now Pérez is definitely going to grill you about a date that never happened first thing on Monday–about a date with a serial murderer both he and you chased after personally, along with everyone else on your team–about a date where you’re going to fucking kill someone and fuck–fuck–!

You’re bad at this. You’re so bad at this. You’re a homicide detective, you should know better, know what you’re doing, know what to look out for to not get caught, but instead you’re leaving threads that anyone could stop in and pull at–

You need to calm down.

Why are you so nervous– you weren’t this tense before last night.

This is Brian’s fault, somehow, you just can’t place exactly why. Doesn’t stop you from blaming him, though.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

Slipping into your cheap, little car.

Driving out of the precinct’s lot.

In.

Out.

You’re meeting the Ice Truck Killer for a date where you’re picking out murder weapons.

It’s not that big a deal.

Breathe.

In…

Honestly, you don’t even know why you’re doing this. The shopping part, at least; not the murder part. You have all the reason in the world to murder that vile excuse for a human being, but a shopping spree?

Dexter’d left you a few of his knives. Not all of them, mind; just a select few, which was hard enough for him to do, you could tell as he left them. Those knives, what they do, what they have done… They’re an extension of himself. And you were grateful to him for having lent them. But when you’d received a call from an unknown number after leaving his apartment last night, you’d heard Brian’s deep, smoothly serrated voice on the other end.

“I’m surprised you pick up calls from unknown numbers,” he’d immediately teased, and just as suddenly you’d wanted to hang up on his smarmy, cocky ass. Only resisting because you do really need his help.

He’d said to pick a hardware store of your choice. To meet him there tomorrow, at twelve PM sharp.

“Why?” you’d asked, helplessly suspicious of him. Maybe because you knew what he was. Maybe because of something else you couldn’t quite name, just out of reach, its murky outline barely untouched.

“You want my help, don’t you?” he’d returned instead of answering, and you hated what his voice did to you. What it still does to you. Its silken roughness instilling fear and something else so very warm, unraveled and cloying and copper-sweet in the back of your turbulent mind.

Luckily, your stifled lack of response must’ve been enough of an answer for him.

“You only get to kill a man once,” he’d purred in your ear, and you were glad he couldn’t see you worrying your lower lip. “You may as well do it right. Twelve PM. Don’t forget, my lovely protégé.”

But you did forget. Till twenty minutes past. And now you’re here, at Miami Lumber and Hardware, at 12:37 PM on the dot.

He’s going to kill you.

You’re halted a stuttered step whilst rushing through the parking lot as you think it, since it was only a figure of speech–but this is Brian Moser. He might actually kill you. It’s certainly not an improbability.

Once again reminding yourself to breathe, it still takes concerted effort to actually drag the air into your lungs.

You can’t help it.

Brian makes you nervous. This is just an unfortunate fact.

The man, is…

Cold. Calculated. Ineffable.

And yet, the way he’d held his brother last night, when Dexter had greeted him home…

Once you’d learned that Brian was Dexter’s brother, you couldn’t fully blame Dex for letting him escape Miami, not even after everything with Deb. It was fucked, but they were brothers; they were blood. But their closeness in that moment last night made you see, very clearly, that even monsters can have something resembling a heart.

And yet that heart is nowhere present when Brian looks at you. You can see that, too. The darkness of that viscid void which crafts him, reflecting light as a mirage, as a distraction; a light which from his dark cannot exist.

It certainly doesn’t make you any less wary around him. Not to mention how he might have some unpleasant feelings toward you for being part of the task force that ran him out of town, that even now would apprehend him. But it’s not like Dexter wasn’t part of that task force, too, so…

Maybe he’d forgiven you.

You weren’t about to ask.

In any case. He’d agreed to help you. So maybe you should just be grateful for that and stop questioning everything ; just focus on the arduous task at hand instead of spiraling once again into doubt.

As you quickly approach the hardware store, you catch sight of a looming shadow standing just outside its wide, automatic front doors. A shadow you soon realize is Brian. Black buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up his lithely muscled forearms. Hands in the pockets of dark slacks. Onyx, browline sunglasses shielding his likewise onyx gaze, like he’s just too cool to give a damn, though really you suppose it’s just part of his disguise.

He looks good, just standing there. Effortless, modelesque. And the longish mess of curls that tease his jawline, along with the dark scruff of beard definitely suit him.

It somehow makes all of this so much worse that he’s attractive, and for a second you wish you were blind, just sightlessly bumbling into him.

His dark eyes must flit toward your slowing, cautious approach from behind his shades, because a cheeky half-smirk takes hold of one corner of his lips. Especially as his focus feels to drape over you. Dropping languidly to the motion of your hands, unthinkingly clenching at your sides, which you immediately force to stop upon his notice.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he observes as you finally reach him, low and smooth as ambrosia on an unpolished blade, its edges always rough. “Thought you might’ve stood me up. And on our first date, too.” His brows are tugged in a light crease of woe above his handsome shades. “I was this close to having my heart broken.”

It’s ironic that his ‘cover story’ for whatever the hell this is the two of you are doing is that it’s some sort of ‘date’, too.

Does that make it official?

God, you hope not. You can’t break your dating dry spell with someone you’ve tried apprehending.

“Pretty sure that’d require something inside your ribs to actually break,” you return; his smirk rubbing you the wrong way. Like he’s endlessly amused by the tragically Shakespearean comedy that is you. “Unlike whatever cobwebs are probably hanging there.” And, brushing past how he idles there watchfully, you’re already halfway through the automatic doors beside him when calling, “You coming or what?”

You barely hear his little chuff; half amused, half something darker, as the tower of him turns to swim within your wake. So much like a shark stalking after you that you’re tempted to drop the ‘too cool to turn around’ act and instead keep your vigilant eyes on him.

You’re still debating whether to turn or not when instead you’re physically jolted by him suddenly appearing right beside you; his smooth and lengthy steps easily outpacing the rigidity of your own.

“So, little killer…” he slowly muses down at you, with a glint to his side-long smirk. Slipping his shades from off the bridge of his nose, before folding and tucking them in his breast pocket. All while you do your best not to look at him since every time you do you seem to lose your train of thought like some kind of idiot. “Where shall we start?”

Steps slowing to a halt, you peer about the overwhelming vastness of the giant store around you.

You have no idea where to start–wasn’t this whole thing his idea?

“You’re the one who wanted us to come here,” you mutter. Biting the inside of your cheek to somehow steady yourself before meeting the intensity of his gaze. “I don’t know what we’re looking for.”

He seems to assess you a moment, before he’s sliding one hand gently around your waist, which straightens board-stiff at his brazen touch.

His smile grows as he eyes you, though by all appearance he’s just cordially guiding you by the small of your hesitant back toward the slew of bright red shopping carts bunched up near the front of the store. And though you’d like to think you’d smack his unwanted hand off of you, seeing as how you don’t need his help to grab a goddamn cart, you don’t really know what to think anymore. Somewhere, just… secretly glad? That he’s taking your reins of uncertainty? Leading them through whatever daytime fever-dream this ‘date’ is turning out to be.

Whatever makes this nightmare end more swiftly.

“Your teacher to the rescue, then,” he says, oh-so-helpful. Ushering you toward a cart, which you’re too mired by worry and doubt not to grab hold of obediently. Following where he steers you further into the massive store, and he’s won you over that easily, you guess. He’s your shepherd; you’re his sheep. But what are you supposed to do? Deny the help he’s giving? At this point there’s nowhere to go but down whatever darkened hole he leads you.

Still. You won’t follow him down undefended. Stealing a glance, as innocuously as you can, at the Glock openly holstered at your right hip as he leads you deeper into the store, past the rows of registers. Its weight resting on your jeans a boon against that ongoing storm howling within you.

Brian seems to like the whole ‘obedient sheep to his shepherd’ thing, much to your chagrin. He smiles, anyway–a dusky crudeness to its soft shape–as his hand at last leaves your back, and instead he strolls alongside your cart casually.

You imagine the two of you probably look quite cute to someone who doesn’t know what the fuck is happening behind the scenes.

“Dexter told me he lent you some knives,” Brian says, conversationally. And he does make it sound so normal–like you’d borrowed them to fillet a fish, not a person.

This is the most fucked up small talk on a ‘date’ you’ve ever heard or hoped to be a part of.

He tsks his tongue in your silence, leading your way past a few aisles after glancing at their header’s above. And you don’t know what he’s looking for, but he’s your shepherd–you’re forced to trust him in wherever he’d guide you.

“Not exactly inspiring,” he muses. “He does get more creative, from time to time.” A shade of amusement hints his lips. “Very creative, really.” Though at length, he hums as if the state of Dexter’s a shame. “But he doesn’t play nearly enough with his food.”

“Is that why we’re here?” you finally find your voice. “Because you want me playing with my food tonight?”

He spares you a glance from how he otherwise scans all the inventory you pass.

“It matters, how you kill a person,” he says. “At least, as I surmise, it does tonight.”

“What do you mean?”

He looks away, like he doesn’t actually care about this conversation.

“This person,” he says at last, as he leads where you’ll follow. “That you’re taking care of. He deserves this. Right?”

“Yes,” you respond without hesitation.

At that, he smiles his low, warm smile down at you. Allows its shallow warmth to burn through that storm you feel.

“Well… I don’t know the details–don’t need the details–but I’d venture further this is punishment…” The idea seems somehow amusing. “Am I wrong?”

No. He’s definitely right. Though you refuse to think about exactly why you’ll punish that bastard tonight. It always makes you see red, steals away everything else, and you’re already hopelessly distracted in Brian’s presence. So perhaps it’s lucky he doesn’t care, doesn’t ask, so that at least you’re left undistracted by that.

You’ll worry about making that fucker pay for what he’s done when you face him tonight.

How you strive to steady yourself is disjointed as Brian takes a loose hold of the front of the cart; escorting you down an aisle of hammers and other blunt-edged tools.

“So shouldn’t however you kill this person be a punishment,” he offers mildly, “in and of itself?”

You don’t realize you aren’t responding; haven’t spoken in a while. Have stopped your cart from rolling for who knows how long while your knuckles begin to go numb with how tightly they cling to its bright, shiny handle–not until Brian’s shadow is suddenly so close to your side. And, blinking rapidly, you twist up just in time to see him lean down to your ear. Murmuring hushed words, just for you.

“Fuck Dexter’s knives,” he breathes, the heat of it sparking each hair on your nape to attention. “Whoever this bastard is, he surely deserves the worst end you can give him. A quick death is far too nice. Don’t you agree?”

He’s the devil on your shoulder, but you’re in no position to disagree.

A flash of that man you’ll kill, Gary, flashes through your mind before you can stop it. Shoved away with such nauseating hatred that you push forth your cart with enough newfound purpose you’ve left Brian behind. Vindictively eyeing each item as you pass, before settling on a box on one row. Judging its label with a tense jaw before tossing it into your cart.

Brian’s caught up in no time, though he strolls in no decided hurry. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest as he seemingly eyes the box of the belt sander you threw in.

“Well, that’s certainly creative…” he approves with a side-long grin.

“I’m not sure I’ll use it,” you admit, keeping your momentum forward. Focusing as best you can before his mere presence distracts you again. “I’m keeping my options open.”

And though you try desperately not to look at him, hindrance that he unwittingly is, you hear his smooth smile as he says, “A woman after my own heart. Maybe you’re not such a horrible student after all.”

Your cart wheels stop just long enough to glower up at him; annoyed by how his height always towers over you. “Since when was I horrible? I’m doing everything you ask.”

“After showing up here late,” he says, maintaining the affable bedside manner of the prosthetist he used to parade as. “And asking far too many questions.”

Reaching for the small of your back again, his fingers steal away your objections as they curl so slightly into the curve of your waist, speeding your heart with their gentle pressure.

He leads you toward a row of rubber-ended sledge hammers. Leaving your side to take one off the rack. Testing its massive weight between his surgeon’s hands. Speculative, before breezily tossing it into the cart, which rattles beneath the bulk of it.

“So…” he drawls, too politely; changing the topic to something else. “Were you on the task force to bring me in…?”

The answer lodges somewhere in your throat. Caught there more and more the longer he passively watches you. And okay. Maybe he didn’t forgive and forget the whole ‘you trying to apprehend him’ thing after all.

“So was your brother,” you point out in lieu of answering, which in truth is answer enough, just the version with you too chicken-shit to answer directly.

You focus on moving forward; gripping your cart like a shield that doesn’t help at all against how you feel his little smile crawling over you. Focusing on your feet–on his feet, striding alongside yours. Staring at those burnished leather Elkans he wears, nearly black, clipping mute vinyl floors, and though you have no idea how a man on the run from the feds has the means to pay for shoes that nice you make a point of not asking.

“True enough,” he says. “Doesn’t make either one of you less of a hypocrite.”

Disgruntled, your gaze turns sharply up to him. “Would you rather I just cuff your ass right now and take you into the station?”

He seems to find the idea of that funny; suppressing a hum that’s not quite a laugh.

“If you think you can drag me in.”

Idly, he unhooks from its post in the rows and rows of tools a pair of small, yet sharp needle-nose pliers. Eyes alight with something as he regards you; thumb roaming the instrument’s blunt, metallic edge.

“What do you think, detective?” he asks. “Could I have these jammed in your trachea before you pulled your gun on me?”

The weight of your Glock feels to burn against your hip, itching for you to grab it, though you stiffly don’t move.

“Maybe,” you admit. Not daring to pull your gun right now to even the odds of a hypothetical–or at least you hope it’s hypothetical. “But it wouldn’t kill me right away.” Your voice is hard. “I’d still shoot you in the back as you ran away in those fancy shoes.”

He does laugh at that. Strong and warm, as he steals a glance at his leather Elkans.

“Don’t you like them?” he wonders with a sly little smirk.

And of course you do, they’re handsomely crafted, but he doesn’t need to know that. So instead of answering, you just push off down the aisle with the cart.

“Can we just focus on the task at hand?” you ask as you hear his footsteps closing through the distance after you. Turning out of one aisle and into the next, with no destination in mind other than creating more distance between you. “I don’t exactly want to be caught in public with you.”

“Yes, that might ruin your reputation down at the station, wouldn't it?”

“Just a bit.” You toss a few items into the cart whilst assuring yourself that you’re making this rich bastard pay for everything. Tossing in a few more pricey-looking tools you probably won’t even use at the thought. “Especially when I told my partner that I was on a date right now.”

No sooner have the words left your mouth that you vehemently regret their utterance, cause why did you just admit that? And just like you worried, like you expected from Brian at this point, he smells the chum of possibly humiliating you on the water and slips forward for a bite.

“You’re already telling your friends about us?” he asks, a cunning fox, and maybe you will go for your gun. “How cute… It’s a little soon for me to be telling people about our relationship, personally, but… I’m glad you’re so enthused.”

Your ears burn for reasons unrelated to severe embarrassment, you’re sure. “He asked where I was rushing off to and I panicked, okay?”

You hear his little sigh. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

The cart rattles as you toss in a few more tools at random. “I’m new at this.”

“Yes,” comes Brian’s musing. “You’ve made that painfully clear.”

Desperate to ignore the awkward heat crawling up your face, you slow past a row of different saws. The wheels of your cart dragged to a sudden halt before a vast array of chainsaws, which admittedly seem a little heavy for you to wield, seem a little much and are surely overkill, but...

Still. You’re oddly drawn to them. One hand already reaching to test the sharpness of a bright, hornet-yellow one’s row of exposed teeth.

Time feels to slow as you study it. With you so distracted that you don’t even notice how Brian’s stopped his ever-incessant, clever commentary behind you; merely enjoying the merciful silence.

“What do you think?” you ask at last, unturning, as you mull the idea of you with a chainsaw inside your head. And it’s not a terrible image… “Too messy? Or…”

Silence, from your ever-yapping, homicidal mentor. And at last you glance back at where he stands, just behind you. His dark eyes, shadowed by dark lashes, trained to the blade-teeth you touch, yet as though he’s staring right through them.

As your expression grows inquisitive, he blinks, dragged from the seeming depths that leave him lost inside his own head.

“Hm?” he absently hums, like he hasn’t heard you.

Your interest curiously traces what little his expression ever betrays to you. “What?” you ask of his uncharacteristic silence, though he just impassively eyes you.

“What?” he returns; innocuous, mirroring you.

Your brows furrow up at that leaden mask he wears.

“Don’t what me,” you counter. “I saw you thinking about something. And if you don’t tell me what that is, you’ll swiftly learn how annoyingly persistent I can be when my bloodhound brain grabs scent of something.”

He regards you down the length of his strong nose. Seeming taller than he actually is, which is already imposing. Eventually carding back his hair; dark curls tangled in his fingers with his incensed glance away. “You really are a headache, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely I am. Now tell me.”

With mild exasperation, his dusky eyes return to you. Their grievance soon to fade in place of muted speculation. “I was just lost in memories. Private ones, I might add. Ones I’m guessing Dexter never told you.”

You’ve never seen him so… tentative. Not even in this miniscule amount. And your confusion, just like your interest, slowly rises. “What are you talking about?”

He eyes you a moment more. Unreadable. “I’m talking about our mother, Detective Nosey,” he says. Gaze assessing yours, as if searching for something there, weighing if he should tell you. And you’re not sure what he looks for, if he finds it, though eventually he continues.

“She was butchered with a chainsaw,” he says at last, far too casually. Reaching past you to drag one lengthy finger along that chainsaw’s serrated edge in the absence of your touch. His eyes gaining that faraway look again. “Right in front of us, when Dex was three and I was four. Dismembered limb by limb, as that engine echoed off the walls, along with her begging us not to look, to close our little eyes, and we were left in the mess of it. The blood of three addicts and our mother–two inches thick by the time that engine finally stopped.”

His finger slowly drags down the jagged length of the blade, while you listen on in growing horror.

“They didn’t find us huddled in that blood-damp, hellish dark for two days, and by then the only reason I cared was in protecting my brother.” He exhales a little laugh with zero humor to it. “Apparently that’s all anyone cared about. ‘Cause he was adopted by the first cop on scene, and I–decidedly–was not.”

His dark gaze turns to you, and you cannot comprehend what lie beyond its blackish surface.

“So, to answer your question,” he says, so nonchalant in your speechless shock from responding, “It’s not a bad choice. Though certainly messy.”

You can’t seem to think. The story he’s spun sinking a weight in you, dragging your stomach right through the floor. Left with not knowing what to say, blown away as you are by the cruelty held within such an offhand confession.

“Brian, I'm…”

Your tone is raw. Quiet. And he smiles at you unhappily; hand falling loosely to his side, away from the blade that dismembered his mother.

“Don’t,” he cuts you off bluntly. “What’s done is done. Pitied apologies never help.”

“I know they don't,” you counter, voice stricken, and you swallow with the effort to make it more firm. “But that's… That's fucked, Brian. And… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that happened to you.”

For a moment, he merely eyes you. Every line of his handsome face meticulously sculpted in place, held perfectly still.

“Are you expecting me to thank you for that?” he wonders at last.

You hate how vulnerable you feel, when he’s the one confessing something so traumatic that it surely formed him. His and Dex’s extracurricular pastimes sure make a lot more sense now.

“No,” you say, feeling stupid, feeling childish, that you’re so unwound by such a ruthless tale while he clearly is not. And maybe you should just let it go, should just stop talking, but you can’t. “I just had to say it.” You meet his watchful gaze, your jawline hardening. “And if I could kill the fucks who did that to your mother, I would. I’d hunt each one of them down. And I know I’m not the one who should make them pay whatever price for what was done, but I’d still make them pay it.”

Some part of you’s already planning how you might, how you could–if they’re even still alive, or if indeed there was more than one person involved–it doesn’t matter, you’d kill them all, assuming Brian hasn’t already. Almost tempted to ask if he has, all while Brian just observes you in a silence which draws on. Something beyond the indecipherable veil of him fixed on you, keen at your edges, as if gauging your scent; toying the curious touch of his attention across your unseen depths.

Eventually, he subtly smiles, and you cannot comprehend that smallest stir half-buried within his gaze.

“C’mon,” he says, taking your waist again; hand warm and smooth across your lower back and he steers you further down the aisle. “We’ll save the chainsaw for next time. I’ve something more easily controlled in mind for a first-timer like yourself. And if you don’t like that, you’ll at least appreciate what we’re grabbing at our next stop.”

And surely you’d halt if he wasn’t more-or-less forcibly guiding you forward.

Next stop…?

This nightmare date isn’t over yet?

Your arguments that there won’t be a ‘next time’ where you’ll be swinging around a chainsaw are effectively snuffed by the way his knuckles idly trace up the length of your spine as you walk together. The contact light, yet utterly fatal in regards to your ability to think in anything more than jumbled sounds that resemble language. And as he gauges a few items as you pass, he lightly ‘ ah ’s’ whilst nabbing a box one-handed; tossing it carelessly into the cart atop your already mountainous treasure trove of murderous hardware.

You glance from that box to him, already questioning, “A reciprocating saw?”

“A Moser favorite,” he says, roguish. “Electric. No outlet required. Perfect for when working remotely.” And yeah, it’s pretty obvious he’s done just that before.

He guides you toward the checkout counter up front before releasing you from the seeming hypnotism of his touch. Smiling at the college-aged girl ringing up your vast array of items, and let me tell you, your stomach shrinks upon seeing all that gear laid out in front of you, like a line-up of your potential crimes laid bare. Your insides cinching tighter with every item slowly rolling down that sluggish conveyer belt as he lays them all blasély upon it, like it moves that slow just to mock you, to shame you.

Pliers, hammers, a hacksaw. The sledge hammer you saw him throw in. Some sort of hose, a nail gun, a hatchet, a multitude of various saws and drills. Tarps, of course, and some kind of large metal clamp (what is that for?), a dremel, bolt cutters, the belt sander (you regret picking that out now), a motherfucking chain? A chain? What, are you beating this guy to death with a chain now?

It’s like a loony toon assortment of bullshit, only missing an anvil, that you’re sure will get flagged if the body is ever found hacked into a million pieces by every piece of hardware known to man. ‘Cause, oh, how convenient–someone purchased a million kill tools the night before the mysterious thousand-tool killer took someone out, and that person’s definitely been recorded on the store’s many security cameras.

You should’ve worn a disguise. You’re such an idiot.

By maybe the tenth item, the cashier seems to think this purchase is becoming somewhat odd. Go figure. And she eyes each item that she scans whilst stealing more and more weirded out glances at Brian and you. Which probably isn't a good thing.

You try to squeeze yourself out of existence behind Brian’s towering form. Let him take the fall for this.

Meanwhile, Brian flashes her his most charming grin.

“We’re taking up woodworking,” he says, without a care in the world. “Gotta make sure we have all the right tools of the trade.” His dark gaze lowly glimmers. “What do you think? Did we get them all?”

It’s the lamest excuse, and yet the girl’s cheeks visibly warm and she giggles at whatever look he must be giving her.

The following conversation is perhaps the most shameless and painful thing you’ve ever had to stand there and witness; a form of torture in itself, when it’s supposedly you who was to do the torturing.

“Y-yeah,” says the girl, scanning a bit more absently. It takes her five swipes to get a claw hammer with a giant and completely obvious barcode to register, what with how her eyes are glued on the ‘date’ you’re hiding behind. “What kind of woodworking do you do?”

“Mostly construction, but I dabble in the arts. Walnut and pine sculptures, that sort of thing.”

“Oh really?”

“Really.”

“That sounds hard…”

“You just have to know what you’re doing~”

“You must be good with your hands, then.”

“Oh, I’m good with lots of things.”

“O-oh, like… like what? For, um, example?”

“I could offer a demonstration… You’d have to come out from behind that counter, first, though...”

She titters again and you think a vein on your brow might be close to bursting, though admittedly you’re not exactly sure why–her laugh must be annoying. Luckily that’s when he swipes his card for the outrageous bill–the front of which you note bears a name that’s not his, so as far as covering your tracks goes there’s at least that.

You lug what feels a million heavy bags into the cart whilst patiently smiling (grimacing) at your flirtatious construction partner.

“C’mon, David ,” you read the name on his card, already pushing the filled-up cart to go. But not before seeing him toss the flustered cashier a little wink before following after you.

Ugh.

Gross.

You’re storming out of the store, out into the parking lot as the cart wheels rattle before your way. Barreling forth in no particular direction and for no particular reason other than what you just witnessed inexplicably making you sick, when Brian’s hand suddenly latches around your wrist, arresting you solidly in place, jerking you gruffly to a halt right before the speeding blur of a giant, blue truck flies past the front of your cart by maybe an inch; the speed of it whipping wind against your startled face.

Frazzled, you merely stand there while your racing heart tries to escape your chest. Blinking far too quickly, before twisting your gaze back to Brian. Undoubtedly relieved by how he just saved you from slamming into a car–seriously, he just saved you? Yet even then, you force annoyance to your tone; perhaps to hide your embarrassment at just how irredeemably unfocused you really are right now.

“What?” you ask him sharply.

His eyes trace your face. Seem to note how your molars are grinding. And as you glower, he slowly starts to smirk.

Gods, you hate him.

“You’re walking in the wrong direction,” he says.

Which maybe you were, though you find you’re not fond of him correcting you right now. “Where am I supposed to be walking?”

He nods toward a little red car parked off in the distance through the lot. Pristinely polished. Expensive looking. “That one’s mine.”

“Of course it is,” you nearly roll your eyes at him. Twisting your wrist from his grasp in heaving the heavy cart forward again–after glancing both ways in ensuring you aren’t about to be flattened by a truck, this time.

“You know,” you grouse as he walks right beside you, “you didn’t have to make sure that cashier’s still daydreaming about you tonight, considering the actual boat-load of homicidal gear we’re carrying.” And seriously, he didn’t have to lay it on so thick. “There’s no way she won’t remember you after that performance.”

He keeps up with you so easily despite how desperate you are to outpace him, until eventually you just give up and push the cart at a normal pace.

“As distracting as you awkwardly standing there was, I thought I’d better step in,” he says. “I was worried you might blurt out some sort of confession for a crime you haven’t yet committed under the scrutiny of her tiny-minded gaze.”

You feel yourself scowling. “I’m not an idiot.”

His soft lips purse like he somehow doubts that. Though all he says is, “Would you rather I have just let her keep forming ideas about everything she was ringing up amidst your incriminating, nerve-bitten silence?”

You bite your lip. Finally reaching his expensive car. “I guess not,” you admit.

He smiles down at you as you do your best to ignore him. “Good. Then stop being jealous.”

Your brows cinch hard at that, with you tearing your gaze directly toward him. Scoffing immediately, “Jealous of what? ”

With the way he scarcely seems to register your overt revulsion at the prospect, you wouldn't be surprised if nothing in life ever bothered him.

“Of me flirting with our cashier,” he says. Fetching from his pants pocket the keys to his flashy car, which chirps before you as its doors are unlocked, its small trunk automatically popped open.

You take the opportunity to distract yourself by cramming bags into the trunk as though doing so were a timed olympic sport.

“You’re so full of yourself,” you say over the sound of shifting plastic bags, the thud of metal on car-trunk floor. “I barely even know you. If anything I was trying not to cringe out of existence hearing how shameless you are.”

You’re unprepared entirely for how he takes your waist from behind in both his hands; spins you around without warning. Nudging the backs of your wavering knees against the bumper of the car while he smoothly steps in, cornering you there, with little room left between your body and his.

He smirks at whatever your floored expression, trapped beneath the looming of his. Leaning down to your ear, pouring wicked words inside it.

“So what if I’m shameless?” he asks, amusement curled through his inflection.

When his lips just barely graze your ear, purely accidental, it's like a basilisk's spiked you with venom. Turning all of you to stone, your lungs helplessly forgetting to function.

“Don't be jealous,” he murmurs. “As delightful as that is, I’ll spare you the torment. You need to be focused, my woefully inept student. And besides…” he sounds to smile, “she’s not my type.”

He leaves you there just as suddenly as he’d pinned you. So effortlessly snatching away your ability to speak, as he turns instead to filling up the trunk you’re still teetering weak-kneed against. Left with the realization that his dark, graveled voice is as much a weapon as any in his arsenal of toys.

You’re still reeling as he pauses loading to instead open the passenger-side door for you; the sound of it drawing your flustered attention. Looking at you expectantly as you just stand there, trying to dislodge your heart from where it’s leapt into your throat.

“I’ll load the rest,” he says, careless as ever. “Get in.”

But you still won’t move. By choice, this time, not due to his unwanted effect on you. Warily glancing from opened door, to him; the leashless animal offering it for you.

“I have my own car.”

“I told you, we’re not done shopping,” he lightly puts forth. “And it’s easier if we drive together.”

But you can’t shake how that seems like a really bad idea. Being alone with him. But what are you supposed to do? If he finds you too difficult to deal with, he might rescind his help from off the table, and you are partners in crime for the foreseeable future…

Perhaps most convincing of all, in the end–what has you finally ungluing your apprehensive feet from off the asphalt–is the comforting weight of your gun, still strapped at one hip.

He can pry that from your cold dead fingers should he ever mean to take it from you.

Masking your hesitance, you drag yourself from where he’d pinned you against his fancy red car toward the seat he now offers. Cautiously watching that little smirk of his that spells trouble in half a million ways as he graciously closes the door after you, with you running one hand across the cool steel of your firearm the second the car door blocks it from his vision.

Gods, what are you doing? Getting in a car with the Ice Truck Killer?

You shake yourself–no– no –you can’t keep questioning everything. He’s Dexter’s brother–you’re fine. You’re doing what needs to be done–what you have to.

You tell yourself this, yet still nearly jump out of your skin as the driver’s side door is eventually opened, with Brian sliding right in.

“Hope you don’t mind a little breaking and entering,” he says whilst revving the car, shifting it into gear.

Perhaps you’re too distracted to outright ask what that fucking means. “I think as far as potential crimes go, I’m a bit past a misdemeanor.”

“Wonderful,” he returns, with all the charm of a murderous Disney prince. And it’s clear Brian Moser’s a bad influence on anyone and everything trapped within the incessant pull of his orbit.

No wonder Dexter drove him away. He’s too much of a risk.

And now he’s back, helping you –Christ, maybe this whole thing really is a terrible idea. And again, a war’s waged within you; one that results like it always does, in you reminding yourself for the hundredth time not to bite the dangerous hand that offers to help you.

The song Brian flips on the radio is about as cheerfully opposite a song can be from someone who bleeds their victims like cattle. And as he pulls out of the hardware store’s lot, you glance back toward the trunk of the car; envisioning the cartoonish haul of bloodshed tucked away inside it.

“Are you sure we need to grab anything else?” you ask, with a glance at him. Which you immediately regret, because his rugged profile is…

Goddammit, why does he have to be hot?

You tuck your traitorous gaze toward the window, staring at the world rushing by outside it. Spared for a moment from whatever this offensively attractive man does to you by merely existing.

“I could likely make due with what we have,” he says to the road; thankfully otherwise ignorant of you. “But I’m not going to. Our current haul’s for you, my impromptu protégé. This next trip’s for me, though you’re welcome to play with what we’ll grab there. I need tools to dispose of the body, à la Dexter’s requested style.” He tosses you a look, one brow quirked as if to dare you. “Unless you’d like to fetch me my old ones out of wherever you stashed them away in evidence for me…?”

Which– no– you would not. There’s too much risk involved in digging through the many boxes of the Ice Truck Killer’s things, even when you don’t know what else he has planned instead, where he’ll otherwise take you.

“Would the barbies we confiscated be part of the required hardware you’d need me to steal?” you taunt instead of answering.

He simply exhales a small hum of amusement at that. Eyes on the road as a faint smile toys his lips. And in the end you suppose that playing with dolls isn’t really the strangest thing about him.

“Can’t we just see what Dexter has at his apartment?” you ask, assuming that’s not where he’s already headed. “I’m sure he has the right tools laying around somewhere.”

And it seems, in the maze of his mind, something’s chewed before being left unsaid.

“This’ll be a whole lot simpler if you just learn to stop questioning me right now, instead of making me steamroll your objections over and over again like you have been,” he says. Glancing away from the road; challenging you with a look. “I know what I’m doing. Unlike all others present.”

And though you fold your arms against him, you don’t otherwise protest. He’s not wrong, after all.

It isn’t until the pair of you near a mountainous scatter of buildings, erected high with white stone and sea-hued windows, that you realize the next destination of your homicidal ‘date’ is Miami’s Jackson Memorial Hospital–how romantic. Which you don’t really have an opinion on, until shortly remembering, like a kick to the gut, that he intends to steal god only knows from its highly secured, extensively monitored halls.

Your limbs are all stiffened with nerves as you turn to him while he breezes in through the hospital’s lot, one hand on the wheel whilst carelessly searching for a vacant place to park.

“We’re breaking into a hospital?!”

“We’re walking into a hospital,” he returns, smooth as sin. Though his merriment’s short-lived as he looks at you; dark eyebrows squinching up at whatever your expression. “Stop looking so paranoid.”

“I am paranoid,” you shoot right back at him; like it’s impossible that he doesn’t feel the same. “There’s a lot of security here, way more than some random hardware store. And although your little–” somewhat erratically, you gesture at his entire person, sitting there with one brow raised in watching you, “– disguise –is okay, it’s not that okay when there’s an ongoing manhunt for you by the fucking FBI–! ”

After weaving his car effortlessly into a spot, he watches you for a moment. Though when he should be slowly nodding in agreement, instead his lax expression falls unenthusiastically dull.

“You’re overthinking this.”

“You’re under thinking it!”

“Just follow my lead,” he more or less commands his ‘protégé’. Already stepping out of the car. Standing just outside it, for dragging moments; door remaining ajar, with only his long legs and dexterous hands in view. Before eventually he dips his height in glancing in at you as you stare across the middle console staunchly, refusing to get out.

“The longer you sit there pouting, the longer this will take,” he patiently says.

“I’m not pouting,” you argue, though you’re already riled enough into stepping gruffly out of the car. Unbuckling your belt as you do; stripping your holster off its length, before hiding your gun on your person; tucked away at the small of your back. All before making your way to the front of the car alongside where Brian waits for you. “I’m trying to make sure we don’t get caught.”

“Let me worry about that part,” he says; smiling as you unwillingly fall in step with him as he leads you toward that high-reaching tower in the distance, its glass shimmering like azure gems in the afternoon light. “Just focus on playing your part. We’re headed to an appointment. You, my timid, bumbling girlfriend, and I your dauntless, dashing prince.”

“I think you’re closer to a homicidal imp on my shoulder.”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

The closer the two of you draw to the hospital’s broad and bustling entrance, the more cameras you begin to spot at the corners of your vision. Hidden lenses high on light beams, tucked near the corners of what seems like every wall. This place doesn’t take its security as a joke, and more and more it feels your panic forms a fist within your stomach, its fingers slowly tightening.

“Look…” you hear yourself saying, as offhanded as you can muster in that moment. Trying not to sound like you’re panicking, which you are, more and more with each step ventured forward. “I appreciate you helping me in whatever morally questionable way this is, but…”

Uncomfortably distracted, your words cut short as you spot through the crowd an overweight security guard, meandering just outside the hospital’s doors. A guard who glances at you and Brian, pausing just a moment, before idling slowly on.

You don’t know when you stopped walking, but by the time you tear your eyes away from the potential threat of him, Brian’s no longer beside you. It’s like you’ve only blinked, and he’s gone.

For some reason that’s even worse than having him near you.

“Brian…?”

Shit– should you even say his name out loud…? It’s a common enough name, and you two didn’t discuss using aliases, but–

What if someone puts two and two together upon spotting you and him? Hearing you say his name? Internally prying the longer hair and dark scruff off him, leaving only Brian fucking Moser behind?

Airway feeling tight, you scan the loose crowd of people before you until catching sight of Brian’s dark, wavy curls looming over everyone else's heads, and for once you’re glad he’s so freakishly tall. But as you spring forth to catch him, your steps start to drag once more, as the closer you draw toward those impending hospital doors the more it feels the world shifts out beneath you, and…

You can’t really think… You can’t breathe, you…

Are you having a panic attack…?

Are you seriously having a panic attack right now…?!

“...Bri… David…?!”

You say it like you may otherwise drown, like he’s your lifeline, but there’s no way he hears you from his place so far ahead, even in such a thin crowd. And you need to just breathe, you’re overreacting–need to rein in your tenuous gaze from how it darts from lens to lens of every security camera, as if they’re all watching you, piecing together the company you keep.

“This isn’t… This isn’t a good…”

You’ve started backing up, now. Still staring at those hospital doors that loom before you, all while your heart slams into your ribs.

“–Brian–?!”

All at once, a large hand wraps around yours, leaving you no time to react as you’re brusquely swept aside before you can call after him a second time. And you choke out a little noise of surprise upon seeing Brian there, expressionless, dragging you toward a less crowded side of the hospital’s entrance.

He hauls you toward a small, manicured cluster of flowers and small palms, before steadying you within what seems a disapproving gaze, which certainly doesn’t make you feel any less like a panicking idiot.

“You’re entirely hopeless at this.”

You bite your lip to keep from biting something out more spiteful at him; still struggling to breathe. “You think I don’t know that?!”

At your heightened tone, he steals a glance at the foot traffic beside you before ushering you a little further away, further into the quiet. His hand grasping yours sliding slowly up the length of your arm, finding purchase near the crook of your neck.

It’s an oddly comforting motion, and you find yourself helpless but to peer up into the stillness of his eyes.

“Calm down,” he says, slowly, like he doesn’t fully comprehend why you’re so anxious. Like he’s never felt the dragging claws of nerves in his life. And though you’d normally expect him to mock you for falling apart like a moron, as you undeniably are right now, he at least seems genuine in talking you down. That, or you really are just that desperate to believe it.

“Take a breath.” His thumb draws a single line just below your clavicle, whilst you struggle to do as he says.

And, oh, lovely; here comes that mocking part you were so worried about, accompanied by him hiking a none-too-subtle brow at you:

“Not to make a tense situation worse, but if you’re this much of a mess just strolling into a hospital, exactly how are you expecting to follow through with your plans tonight?” But that’s not all. “And how do you work in homicide, for that matter? Aren't detectives used to working under pressure? Or did you blackmail your way into getting what you want there, too…?”

You’re not sure if you're wincing, bracing for the impact of his words.

…Is that it…?

…

That’s it.

For now, at least.

And you find yourself scowling. Hurt, which is of course ridiculous; you don't care what this bastard thinks. Though as you try to upsetly twist away, he only tightens his grip in response, keeping you captive before him.

Your scowl deepens before you’ve given up. He’s a lot stronger than you, and the last thing you need right now is to cause any more of a scene by punching him in the throat.

“I… Look, this… This is just… A lot,” you weakly defend. Warbling. You hate yourself. Feeling even more small than you already do with the way he’s always towering over you, and so you look away, pretending he isn’t currently holding you hostage. “Everything. Tonight. You, especially, I…” Struggling, you shake yourself. Frowning at the ground. At the sturdiness of his lithely muscled chest. “All of it. All Dexter’s and my week’s of planning. It’s all coming to a head so much quicker than I realized it would, and there’s already so many loose ends, nothing is as foolproof as I wanted it to be, and…”

Breathe.

Again, you struggle to shake yourself. To keep your voice lowered and calm.

“I can’t… I can’t fuck this up,” you allege at last. Willing yourself to sound firm in this. “I feel like I fuck up so much, but I can’t mess up right now–not with this. There’s too much on the line, and not just for me. I can’t… My sister, I can’t…”

You don’t even know what you’re saying, not any longer. Fail even to realize you’ve stopped talking at all, until Brian’s thumb smooths along the skin exposed just above your neckline.

Your eyes, as if with minds of their own, are suddenly trapped in the hanging darkness of his. And you cannot for the life of you read his watchful expression.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” he asks you quietly.

After moments more of wavering beneath him, you slowly grit your jaw.

“I told you we had a deal, didn’t I?”

His hushed gaze passes across yours. “You did…”

“And what was your end of it?” you ask him–quiet enough to escape other’s attention, yet honed with accusation. “That if I changed my mind, you’d sit there and laugh at whatever that rotten bastard twice my size wants to do to me?”

He doesn’t respond. Merely watches, without denying, and doesn’t stop you as you finally succeed in shoving his hand away from you.

“I’m fine,” you allege; willing it with all your mustered strength to be true. “Sorry to disappoint you.” And with that, you’re already walking out from under the looming shadow of him. “Let’s just get this over with.”

The hospital’s lobby is a bright, massive dome poured through with natural light, filled by the bustle of so many people. Patients, doctors, nurses, social workers… Security guards…

You catch sight of the portly guard you spotted outside, now lazily surveying the trailing crowd of people who surround you in the lobby. Your footsteps halting upon once again spotting him, hands wringing helplessly at your sides, until you nearly chirp out some sort of half-choked shriek to have Brian abruptly swoop in, scooping your hand in his. Entwining his long fingers with yours like a lover in leading you forth before you can nervously dawdle there a second longer, deeper into the sunlit bowels of this place.

“Relax,” he says; guiding you toward a little gift shop. To a small, vacant table just outside the sandwich café that’s attached at its side. And as he pulls from it one of its metal chairs, ushering for you to sit, you obey only out of confusion whilst your mouth peters open to object.

“What are we doing?”

“Stay here,” he says, as gradually you bristle against how he watches you.

“You dragged me in here just to ditch me?”

He looks away. Barely paying you any mind as instead his interest travels across your surroundings. Seeming to take note of everyone and everything that passes through his vision.

“Would you believe me if I said I’m trying to protect you?” he asks at last, with barely a glance.

You stare up at him as he continues to ignore you. Not knowing what to say to that. Not sure if you believe him.

In the end, it doesn’t matter whether he’s genuine or not.

“I don’t need protecting,” you mutter at length.

He’s studious as his gaze returns to yours beneath him. Weighing something unsaid behind the veil that leaves him such a mystery, before eventually offering you his graceful hand.

One corner of his lips hints up at how surprised you apparently look to have so easily convinced him.

“As the lady insists,” he says, quite simply. His hand remaining offered. “Off to our appointment, then, my love.”

Even then, when he’s agreeing with you, you find you hesitate before actually accepting his help. Something just feels off about him, always – in some way hidden, with almost everything he does or says. But you have a part to play in whatever his plan in this hospital. The part of his girlfriend, so you take his hand like a girlfriend would and allow him to whisk you to your feet, his pianist’s fingers intertwining again with yours as he leads you through the lobby. Toward a broad, offshooting sunlit hall.

Down one hall, and then another, with your grip squeezing more and more tightly with every step he leads you toward some unknown end; one that might see you both arrested.

“Are you trying to make my fingers go numb?” he finally asks you, and you belatedly realize just how dry your mouth is, how tight you’re squeezing. Struggling to swallow just so you can speak.

“Where are we going?”

He slows a step in glancing at a directory on the wall, before ushering you down another hallway, and at this point if you were asked to escape this maze on your own you’d be too lost to succeed.

“You’ll see.”

“Or you could just tell me.”

“That’d spoil the surprise. Besides, what did I tell you about constantly questioning me?”

Something changes in his gait, just a hitch, but it’s enough for you to follow his pensive eyes toward a man at the end of the hall; a man who is swiftly approaching. Wearing teal scrubs and surgical booties, and it’s clear he’s in some sort of hurry.

“Speaking of not questioning me…” Brian muses, eyes on the man and his brisk approach. “I promise I’ll make this up to you–”

“Make what up to me?” you already question beneath how he hasn’t stopped talking–

“–but in the meantime just try and trust me with this next part, won’t you darling?–”

And you definitely don’t trust him, that’s maybe the last thing that comes to mind when you think of him, but you don’t have a chance to say that before Brian abruptly pivots the both of you toward the bend of an offshooting hall; effectively slamming the two of you into the man rushing toward you.

The man grunts out in startlement as you choke back a cry of surprise–the brunt of impact tearing your hand from Brian’s, sending you careening to the floor. But before the tile floor can harshly catch you, Brian’s snaked his lengthy arm around your waist; scooping you up against his side again, like a small, baby bird beneath his wing. Coddling you there as though you’re hurt, as though you’re fragile; turning your harried face up to his with a gentle hand steering your cheek while he asks, with such a visage of worry, “Babe, are you alright?”

You blink up at him stupidly. So surprised to see such a convincing show of emotion you still somehow find hard to believe.

Brian searches your expression as though for wounds he might mend, before tossing a vindictive gaze at the frazzled man before you. “What the fuck was that?!”

He’s pissed. You’ve never seen him so irate. And the man in scrubs blinks just as stupidly as you do. His confusion transformed to concern, then shortly shifting till he’s tight and defensive.

He doesn’t say a thing. Biting back, you soon guess, on arguing with a supposed patient.

“You need to watch where you’re going,” Brian again berates him, and the man at last succeeds in swallowing what seems his objections.

“‘m… Sorry,” he puts forth gruffly. Like he’s too impatient to mean it; raring to hurry off again.

Brian’s harsh expression eases just a touch whilst his hand around your waist gives your side a little squeeze, and you can’t deny you don’t exactly mind being this close to him…

“You know what,” he extends at length, exhaling a tautened breath. “...This place is pure chaos. I think we might’ve turned right into you–I’m sorry, man. It’s been a hell of a day.”

The man’s expression loosens somewhat in relief as Brian turns in gently assessing you. “You’re not hurt, are you babe?”

Gods, you hate whatever ingratiating, carebear-tone he’s using. But you roughly swallow down distaste before forcing out flatly, “I’m fine.” Very much hating whatever this supposed plan of his is.

There’s a glisten in his gaze, just for you; lost before he looks to the scrubbed-up man before you again. “You good man?”

The man nods, “Yeah,” clearly in a hurry to see this awkward situation end. And Brian, ever courteous, sweetly sends him on his way.

“Well…” he says, with a smile a touch too clever, his tone a touch too cloy. “Off you go, then~”

The man’s jaw stiffens, though he doesn’t argue what sarcasm bleeds through Brian’s otherwise kind dismissal. Just biting it all back before bustling off again, weaving his way past the both of you, hurrying once again down the hall.

You glance back over your shoulder, watching and waiting for him to turn out of sight, before raising a glare up at your supposed prince charming. “What the hell, Brian? That hurt. ”

The curve on his lips is devilish. As, with the theatrical flair of a seedy magician, he presents to you a keycard with the scrubbed man’s picture on it.

“Borrowed this from our friend,” he says mischievously.

You kind of want to laugh at how proud he seems about that, but you stuff that down along with how you might be somewhat impressed with how quickly he was able to nab that while also catching you before you hit the ground.

“After throwing me into him,” you grouse instead of applauding him. “Like a human smoke grenade.”

He smiles at your pouting, not even denying it. Cooing in that fake boyfriend voice, “Baby, I said I’d make it up to you.” Regarding you with all the playful craft of the devil himself as you wriggle and twist out from how his arm’s snaked warmly around your middle, creating some much needed distance between yourself and him.

“You’re the worst boyfriend I’ve ever had,” you sourly comment, to which he charmingly grins. Taking your hand again before you can stop him, steering you closer once more; your naval beneath his own, such is the height of him.

“Oh… Baby…” he croons, like he feels so bad for you. Smiling so dark and sticky and sweet down at whatever your flustered face is doing beneath his. “You haven’t seen anything yet. Our date’s barely begun, and I’m only going to get so much worse.”

Releasing you from the near-fatal enchantment of his grip, he wanders further down the hall without you. Tossing back a little look across one broad shoulder as you just stupidly stand there, too frazzled to move. Hiking a brow expectantly.

“Better hurry up,” he spurs you. “Wouldn’t want our scrubbed-up friend to find you here after realizing his keycard’s walked off all by itself, now would you?”

It’s enough to prompt your reluctance into moving. As, no, you certainly don’t want a stolen keycard being found in either of your possessions.

The further Brian leads you through the hospital’s inner catacombs, the less natural light there is, until there’s no light at all beyond the buzz of fluorescence overhead, washing out everything until your world is stale and lifeless. And as more and more employees brush by, all wearing surgical scrubs, the more querying glances you receive as you’re passing by. Yet still, no one stops you. No one questions beyond a glance. Something about Brian’s confidence stopping them. So it would seem you’re still allowed here.

That is, until you reach a set of heavy, double doors hewn of metal, slotted with miniscule square windows. A dead end, at which Brian flashes his stolen keycard without a moment’s hesitance; completely second nature to breaking in. Holding it flat against the little black box of the doorway’s electronic lock, which beeps and flashes green before those heavy doors drag silently, automatically open.

Stepping through them after Brian, who steals carelessly in, your nerves are met with a wave of cold air as you wrap your arms around yourself to keep from shivering. Trying not to look as apprehensive as you feel, to be inconspicuous. All while Brian skates down these sterile halls like a lizard on ice. Like to pretend is a familiar second skin, perhaps even more familiar than donning the suit of himself.

He nods you toward a drinking fountain near a pair of wooden doors; one on either side of it. Pausing in ushering you near.

“Now, listen, my lovely pupil,” he says; a flute-playing charmer to his spiteful, sharp-fanged snake. “I doubt our friend has access to the women’s dressing room.” His voice falls to a low, gentle murmur as some type of surgeon walks by, though it doesn’t stop him from continuing. “And loathe as I am to leave you fidgeting in the hallway by yourself, potential mishap that you are, I need to fetch us our costumes.”

Your gaze darts nervously about. “Is all this really necessary?”

There’s no way this is necessary.

His eyes are on the passing surgeon’s back as he gently takes your upper arm, guiding you into that little crook within the wall which houses the doors and fountain, before he steals a glance about yourselves ensuring you’re alone.

“All these questions,” he lours, his deliberation back on you. “Sit. Stay. I’ll be right back–try not to miss me too much.”

You’re left to insipidly grumble, “Wouldn’t dream of it,” as he leaves to scan his keycard at the door for the men’s dressing room. Though he twists a clever grin across one shoulder before he departs.

“Oh, I think you might.”

You don’t have time to bite back with something witty before he’s gone, and he’s gone for much longer than you expected or are at all comfortable with, preferring to’ve never been dragged in and ditched here at all. Left with pretending to get a drink every time someone busily passes so they can’t see how out of place you probably look. Unable to come up with any clever reason for why you should be here, in what you guess is the OR. If anyone asked what you’re doing, if you work here, you’d have no way to prove whatever lie you’d spin that you do.

You’re about halfway convinced to just ditch this handsome fuck to whatever devilry he’s up to while you instead hide in the car, when the door he passed through is suddenly opened, and with a sharp glance at the sound of it beside you, you almost don’t recognize him.

He’s wearing cerulean surgical scrubs, which billow yet somehow accentuate his tall, leanly muscled frame. Sky-hued booties are tugged over his overly expensive shoes. A laptop-sized black bag beneath one arm, which you assume was thefted from some poor someone in the dressing room, the bulk of it stowed with something. And you can’t help but stare as he ties on the blue surgical cap around his messy web of curls, the jawline-lengths of which stick out at mussied angles. Because it's kinda dorky, but also kinda…

Cute.

Okay?

He’s fucking adorable right now.

And you stuff away your thoughts on this disastrous fact as you can’t help but gobble down an unhealthy eyeful of him, before staring at the wall as though its blank canvas is the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen.

He seems to take a moment to remember you’re even there. Though eventually he’s raised a brow at whatever your face is doing.

Luckily, he doesn't further question whatever your discomfited expression.

“C’mon,” he says, leading your way down the hall. “Need to find you a place to get dressed.”

A small frown tightens your lips before you’re hurrying after him. “Why can’t I get dressed in the bathroom?”

“They’re attached to the dressing rooms,” he explains as you bustle to reach him. “I’m afraid we’ll have to get a bit more creative than that.”

Great.

Wandering through those chilled, barren halls, you try not to steal too many glances through the tiny windows of each operating room you pass, not wanting to look any more like a tourist. Morbid curiosity having you catch a few glimpse of surgical teams surrounding unconscious patients; short tapestries of teal and white and red.

Brian tries his keycard at a door opposite the rows of operating rooms, which flashes red, before he’s fluidly moved on to the next, which lightly beeps as he’s allowed entrance.

He sidles in just a step; gazing up, glancing down. And as you shift forth alongside him, you see a poorly lit stairway that seems a constructional afterthought. Quiet, empty, cavernous.

With a satisfied hum, Brian gives a small nod in motioning you follow him in. Leading your way down the stairs to a small, center platform. Both your footsteps echoing for many flights up and down this towering room, and the door feels to slam behind you with how hushed it is in here. And though you’re not exactly enthused at the idea of getting undressed in here, you suppose it's better than nothing, and does seem relatively unused.

Brian’s already shuffling through his leather bag as you meet him on the center platform, and he’s shortly offering you a pile of pilfered clothes the same color as his.

“Scrub up, doctor,” he says, with a playful lilt. “We’re expected in surgery.”

Though as you take the costume he presents, waiting for him to look away so you can do just that, you find he doesn’t move. Doesn’t turn from how you slowly, cynically eye him by even an inch. Appearing more expectant with every second, perhaps just as expectant as you, though clearly you’re expecting different things.

“Are you going to turn around?” you finally ask him.

His smirk’s so slight you barely notice it teased upon the softness of his lips.

“What,” he says, like he’s harmless. “I’m surveying the scene. Making sure no one stumbles across you with your pants down. You’d probably tangle them ‘round your ankles and fall right on your face if that happened.” His handsome face dons a mockery of concern. “I’m protecting you.”

Heat rises up your cheeks. “Go survey the scene somewhere else!”

You’re both at once distracted by the sound of a door opening high above you, both your gazes jerking up as it sounds to creak open, then heavily shut. Echoing about these vacant halls without anyone actually sounding to step in. And after moments of you both still and silent, tautly listening in ensuring you’re still alone, Brian finally looks back down at you.

“Relax, will you?” he states. Grabbing the loopholes of your jeans; tugging you just a step closer as your eyes grow all wavery and big.

Words are honey on his tongue as he asks, “If I turn around will you stop being such a baby about this?”

You bite your lip, hard, before grousing up at him, “Let go of me before I pull my gun.”

It might’ve been a joke, if you didn’t sound so serious. And though you’re not sure how a gunshot going off at Jackson Memorial is the best way to continue laying low, you could scrounge together some story of how you followed someone you suspected might be the Ice Truck Killer into this very stairwell, if you had to. Of how you had to kill that certain someone in defending yourself.

His expression doesn’t change as he seems to weigh your words, the possibility within them. The merest glint, like sun on black ice, reflected from the recesses of his ebony gaze.

“So touchy,” he slowly remarks, before eventually releasing you. Finally turning away; broad shoulders and slender waist facing the wall opposite you. “Hurry up.” And you take full advantage of the absence of his dangerous gaze to change your clothes as quickly as you can–shedding your pants down hasty legs, wriggling into the lower half of your scrubs and tying them round your waist.

It isn’t ‘till you have your top pulled up over your head, bra fully in view, that Brian speaks again.

“You need to learn to loosen up, detective,” he says to the empty space before him. “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

“Don’t quote James Howell at me,” you say, tossing your discarded shirt on the dirty floor before slipping the teal one over your head.

He sighs. “Can I do anything without you being a bitch about it?”

When he glances back at you, it’s lucky for him you’re fully dressed, seeing as otherwise you would have slapped him. And you despise how your cheeks start to burn as his dark eyes trace over you, slowly down your form, stirring unwanted heat in their wake. As slowly, slowly, they fall to the bulk of your gun, tucked awkwardly beneath the waistband of your pants.

Eventually, his eyes return to yours. Somewhat playful as he asks, “Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

“The gun one,” you return without pause. “I’m not happy. Not to see you. Any more questions?”

He merely raises his brows like one might to an ill-behaved child. “You can’t bring that; it’s completely obvious you’re carrying. Someone will notice.” He offers his hand, nodding toward the clothes on the floor. “Give me your clothes,” he says softly. “And the gun.” He says it like an afterthought, but his eyes are intently on yours. “I’ll hold onto them for the time being.”

Yeah fucking right.

There’s no way you’re letting this wolf in sheep’s clothing disarm you.

“Not happening.”

His handsome smile transforms to something else. Something with less warmth reflected on it, though still genteel enough. “You're going to get us thrown into hospital prison,” he mildly jests, before adding more carefully, “Don’t make me take it from you…”

You're not even sure it’s a threat. It could just as easily be him joking. It’s impossible to tell with him, or with any beast who doesn’t bare its teeth before lunging.

You thumb up the hem of your shirt in snaking your fingers round your Glock’s grip.

“How about I hold onto the gun,” you plainly suggest, “and you lead us the fuck on so we can get what we need and get out of here, hm?”

His gaze is a shadow. Something lurking in ice-carved trees, a prowling aura you cannot see through darkness. But eventually, that snow settles with the seeming warmth of his smile. The corners of his eyes gently creased.

“Can’t wait to see you on stage tonight,” he says. Giving you a courteous amount of distance as he’s smooth to brush right past how you warily watch him. Heading back up those steps toward the door you came in, taking them easily two at a time. “At this rate, you’re bound to give quite the performance.”

He lazily scans the keycard at the electronic lock pad near the door, which gains you access once more to the OR.

“After you, little killer,” he says; hands slipped nonchalantly in the pockets of his surgical pants as he leans back on the opened door in holding it open, carefully regarding you as you remain for a moment down the steps.

His eyes never leave yours as you dip down to grab your clothes off the floor in stiff, wary hands. As you make your way slowly up after him, impatiently tucking away your hair within the sheer, blue hairnet he’d previously bequeathed you.

One lithesome hand is offered at your approach, to which you hand over your clothes, and you assume he stuffs them away inside his bag before following after you as you hurry out into the hall, anxious to have him too close at heel.

His prowling, lengthy steps easily catch up to you, and it’s clear you could never outrun him.

“This way,” he says, before leading you further down the hall. Mildly checking what lie past the windows of a few doors, while a surgeon and anesthesiologist pass making small talk. He pays them no mind, while you avert your gaze nervously, until at last he’s humming out a little, “Ah… Here we are.” Flashing his stolen card at a door which obediently chirps and pops open at his request, and he holds its way open for you.

“Ladies first,” he says, with the watchfulness of a wolf.

You wish you could grab your gun as you pass him, but you’ve made it this far without being caught, so you just swallow your never-ending nerves and hurry past him. Hearing his low, throated chuckle right behind you as he follows you in.

Even that drags its claws down your nape, leaving trickling trails of gooseflesh down your skin that tingle and tease until you haphazardly paw them off you.

You wander into some sort of sterile supply room; one with several operating rooms attached to it, divided off by heavy doors. Rows and rows of metal, rolling carts with shelving are laid out before you, along with white cabinets lining each wall.

Brian wanders in past how you stand there uncertainly like he owns the place. Like he’s been here before, though he hasn’t. Or, at least you don’t think he has. It’s impossible to tell with him; he's a night-drenched enigma.

He tugs open one metal drawer, which rolls fluidly forth, before he’s swiftly closing and opening another.

“Tell me if you see any hardware,” he says as his eyes take quick inventory of everything he sees. “Saws, drills–that sort of thing.” Pausing just a blip to regard how you’re just standing there instead of obeying your murderous shepherd, instead wavering in place, not knowing what to do. “Go on,” he spurs, the patient teacher. “Get looking.”

You glance around the cold, fluorescent quiet, before questioning in a whisper, “What if someone comes in here?”

“What if someone comes in here?” he returns, rather dull. Already focused once more on the hunt. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but you look like a surgical tech. That was kind of the whole point. Just tell them you’re looking for saline flushes or a bag of dextrose or something.”

Saline flushes or dextrose?

…How many times has he done this before?

Cautiously, you get to searching, seeing no quicker way of seeing this perilous mission through. Unable to stop how you furtively glance around the too-bright silence at every little noise that isn’t Brian searching through drawers several shelves before you.

“Are you so familiar with this because you’ve worked in a hospital before?” you ask to distract from your nerves. “Or because you’ve made a habit of breaking into surgical units?”

You hear him slide closed a drawer and stride toward another. Completely heedless to the fully scrubbed male nurse who suddenly pushes into the room from one of the attached operating rooms.

The nurse glances at you both, before fetching a vial with a red lid from a cabinet right beside Brian. Walking back out again while you watch after him in anxious paranoia, and Brian seems not to notice him at all.

“Do I have to choose?” he muses, nonchalant, before exhaling a low and exclamative, “Ah- hah~ ”

You suppose he’s hit the jackpot, thank god–and, closing the cabinet you were sifting edgily through, you make your way over to see what he’s so happy about. Spotting him spare a short glance about before stuffing some sort of… is that a saw? –inside his opened bag.

He smiles at your questioning look.

“Oscillating orthopedic bone saw,” he explains, as though answering what you’ve failed to ask. As if that will suddenly make sense to you, when you still have no idea what an oscillating orthopedic bone saw is other than it’ll obviously make quick work of dicing marrow.

Why he couldn’t just use a regular saw for that, you fail to grasp. Then again, there’s apparently far more types of saws in this world than you’d ever realized before your adventures today.

You see him grab a few scalpels. Some forceps of various size, along with some different metallic contraptions. One of which especially appears like some kind of torture device, and you expressely don’t question what it’s all for.

But he’s not done yet; by all accounts not having stealthed all this way just for nothing. He bags another sort of saw, like a thick wand with a small, circular blade at its fore, and something else you barely see beyond the tail of its electrical plug, before buckling closed his bag at last.

“I think we’re all done here,” he says. Motioning with his dark-scruffed, angular jaw back toward the door you came in. As if this endeavor was all so damn casual and not potentially life altering. “C’mon.”

Your heart’s a skipping drum; your path from the hospital a restless dream. Neither one of you really talking as you follow him making his way so apathetically out of the hospital’s surgical unit.

It isn’t until you’re out of the OR that he makes what you assume is the allusion of small talk whilst the both of you retrace your steps through this sprawling maze, which you do your best to keep up with as though not anxious at all about the slew of stolen medical gear you’ve got currently stashed away. And about halfway back to the gift shop (you think, such is your lack of direction), he nods you off to a patient bathroom to change, while he saunters off to do likewise.

You throw your scrubs in the trash, not knowing what else to do with them. Adopting once more your role of twitterpated girlfriend as he holds your hand and guides you, while you ignore how much comfort you draw from his touch. And by the time you’ve both finally breached the hospital’s doors, are tucked safely within the confines of his candy-red car once more, you’re so relieved you’re nearly giddy.

“Fuck I never want to do that again,” you exhale, while he gives you that little look you suspect is once more questioning why you’re such a headache about everything, which you promptly ignore. “Alright, drop me back off at my car.”

“Not yet,” he returns. Smirking at your incredulous glance. “We've still got some time to kill, amongst other things…” Gods, he thinks he’s so clever, doesn’t he? “And this isn’t a proper date if I don’t take you out to dinner before our show.”

Your stomach clenches at the mere mention of food, whilst he starts up the car beside you. “I’m not hungry, and this isn’t a date.”

“Oh, c’mon,” he says, lighthearted. “You can’t work on an empty stomach.”

“That’s precisely how I’d like to work tonight, thanks.”

“Why?” he asks, far too coy. “Afraid you might lose your dinner?”

Yes.

“No.”

A smile slowly spreads across his face as he shifts the car out of park; eyes on the road. “I know just the place. Reclusive. Romantic. ”

You feel yourself sinking lower in your seat as you stare desperately out the window.

Just what you need….

More time alone with this annoyingly good-looking freak.

“Fine,” you say flatly, but he lowers his lashes like that’s the most romantic thing.

“Are you always this in love with me?”

“I told you I’m not hungry.”

“Then you can watch me eat,” he returns, promptly ignoring your complaints. “I’m starving .”

The sun’s just beginning to set, molten hues burned against palm tree skyline, as Brian pulls into an alley lot beside some warmly lit restaurant and bar you’ve never heard of. The car wheels rumbling across old, cracking asphalt, before he weaves into a spot. Shifting his expensive car into park before getting out, and you sit there–tensely, silently debating in that war within yourself–deciding if you should just refuse to follow him on inside, only to jump as your door is abruptly opened for you.

How does he keep sneaking up on you like that?!

Lofting from on high, Brian offers you his hand, and he’s really going in hard on the date angle, isn’t he?

“Madam?”

Yeah. He really is. And he looks so cheeky about it, too.

But you just unbuckle your seatbelt and take his offered hand; adopting his beguiled tone as he helps you to your feet. “Thank you, darling.”

There’s the smallest blip before his smile spreads wider, showing teeth.

It’s so disarming when he smiles like that. Like he actually means it.

“C’mon,” he says, good-natured. Ushering you on his arm through the dim-lit alley, out to where the front of the small establishment is radiating warmth and low, Cuban music. Its walkway strung rafters-to-lamp posts with strands of fairy lights that dazzle against the oncoming night. Muted laughs and clinking glasses gliding out into the night from inside.

It’s homey, this place. Like a hole in the wall where everyone’s a regular, and you just know the food is worthy of licking your plate. But it’s hard to enjoy the comfortable, intimate ambiance when it’s the Ice Truck Killer leading you toward the elderly hostess who pleasantly greets you both; who leads you toward a secluded corner of the room, to a booth procured for you at Brian’s request.

He doesn’t glance at the menu as he slides in opposite you, one arm spread along the ruby-pillow backrest of the seat you share, curved as it is around the darkwood table. “Ready to order when you are.”

You pick up the menu as if it might contaminate you, the idea of food so presently revolting. “I take it you eat here a lot?”

“You’d be hard pressed to find better Cuban food,” he says. “The pollo sofrito’s good if you’re in the mood for chicken.”

You never thought a wanted serial killer would be so casually recommending you meals like it were the daily special. And you don’t want to order a thing. But when the waiter arrives and Brian orders two pork cubano’s (guess he really is starving), you just read the first thing off the menu you see, not really registering what it even is.

It takes a long moment to notice the way Brian’s cleverly smiling at you across the table.

“What?” you ask, but he only shrugs. Arm still comfortably outstretched along the curving seat’s backrest.

“Nothing.”

Yeah fucking right he’s thinking nothing. You’re starting to suspect this man is always scheming. But instead of calling him out on it, you find you’d rather pick his labyrinthine brain about something else. Something you’re surprised you’re so curious about, the more it presses upon your mind, though you don’t know fully why. It shouldn’t matter, but somehow…

You’re just curious.

“Can I ask you something?” you wonder across the table, and he quirks a raven brow in your direction.

“Seems to me you already are.”

It’s enough of an invitation.

Still, you uncomfortably rub your arm. Tuck away a strand of hair to steady yourself, before pressing onward. All while he watches you with what seems a gentle, mounting interest.

“I barely knew who you were,” you say, “before… Well…”

Before you were branded as the ‘Ice Truck Killer’.

You glance around, as if someone might be listening, might be privy to even your thoughts. Brian, meanwhile, doesn’t shift an inch from how his focus lies on you. And when at last your eyes return to his, it feels his own have never left you.

“I was at the hospital when Tony Tucci was fitted with the prosthetic you made him,” you say, in a slightly more hushed tone. Just in case someone might hear you, though you must admit Brian chose this table advantageously for a pair of would-be executioners like yourselves. “The grand reveal party, or whatever that was.”

His interest is visibly piqued; the curve of his rounded lips twitched in thought. “You were…? Huh… I don’t often forget a face.”

“I was only there for a few minutes,” you say, “and we never spoke.” Watching him closely as you add, “I saw you flirting up Deb, though.”

You pause, not sure if you’re waiting for him to respond to this, but he doesn't say a thing. And for a while, neither do you. The two of you merely observing one another from across the silent table. Attempting to peer inside one another, it would seem; to glean what secrets one’s words would keep out of reach.

“You guys seemed so cute together,” you murmur at length.

His expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t comment, doesn’t deny, doesn’t agree with you.

So you continue; left with no other recourse than to do so.

“Was any of that real?”

Far-off dinnerware clatters lightly outside your mutual intensity. The soft chatter of restaurant patrons mingled with the low hum of Cuban music, drifting slowly past your ears. And it’s all you can hear for a while, as the man before you remains in watchful silence.

Eventually, he scarcely inclines his head.

“Not even remotely,” he says, with such bare conviction you find it hard to doubt his words are true. “She was a means to an end. Nothing more.”

Still, some part of you doesn’t believe that. Doesn’t want to believe that. You saw how much Deb loved him. What his betrayal put her through. Hell, she was engaged to the murderous bastard–was never the same after meeting him.

He didn’t care at all for her? Not even in the slightest, most incomprehensible way?

“Why?” you ask, instead of denying what he’s told you.

He barely moves. Scarcely appears to even breathe in how he watches you. “Why what?”

Worrying the inside of your lower lip, you try again. Aren’t sure why this is even hard for you to word. “Why… How… How could you not care about her…? With how much she cared about you? She was completely in love with you.”

As you wait for him to respond, his expression slowly tilts into a frown.

“She didn’t care about me,” he lowly says. “She cared about Rudy. A man who doesn’t exist. She cared for a ghost, whilst despising the animal hidden inside myself. The only thing she loved was my leash; the bars of my cage, and I don’t like hiding inside it.” His umber eyes trace across your expression. Calm. Unreadable. “I don’t want Dexter to hide, either. Nor you. Why lie to ourselves about what we are? It goes against the laws of nature.”

Some shade of discomfort, something sinister and tight, creeps up along your nape upon him placing you in the same league as he and Dexter.

“I’m not like you,” you faintly protest, and he smiles; a cruel, bare curve.

“Sure you’re not.”

You don’t know why that ties so many strings inside you, wrenching them all into knots. And as the food arrives, with you and Brian accepting your plates in polar opposite displays of enthusiasm, you’re still hopelessly unsettled. Toying with the pasta you apparently ordered, far from anything resembling hungry, while Brian picks up one pork cubano and eats in giant, animalistic bites like a man half starved, and if there was ever any reason to doubt he was a relative of Dexter, seeing him eat was all the proof you needed–better than a DNA test.

“You know,” he muses between wolfish bites, undisturbed by your previous conversation. “You keep saying you have to kill this guy.”

“I do,” you mull at the table, stirring your directionless fork across your plate, before glancing up at him. Seeing his dark brows lightly pinch for a moment.

“Why?”

For a moment, you can’t even register the question; confused, and surprised as you are that he’s asking. He’s always professed he didn’t care.

But now that he is asking, you’re hesitant to explain. Not wanting to relive what makes you see that vicious, unforgiving red; that makes you hollow and hateful and nothing else.

You don’t want to talk about it. But words are already falling from your lips.

“My nephew is the cutest kid,” you say, sounding very far away to yourself. Still stirring noodles you no longer seem to see. “She’s six. Ava. Quirky in this dorky, fun-loving way.” Your little smile at the thought of her fades. “Honest. Trusting.”

Too trusting; you push the thought away. Try to focus past that red which already bleeds along the edges of your vision, poisons your every heartbeat until you can hardly think.

“Her mom, my sister,she… She’s a single mom. Always working. And I can’t babysit as much as I’d like.”

Your fork stops stirring; words ashen in your mouth. And you can’t seem to go on. Lost in a void of yourself.

In your silence, Brian’s nothing if not perceptive.

“What’d the babysitter do?” he quietly asks.

Your eyes flit up to him. Hand numb around your fork.

You don’t want to think about it. Not until tonight.

“Does it matter?”

“Seems to matter to you,” he calmly returns; dark eyes never leaving you.

There’s a stone in your chest where your heart once lived. A foreign, ugly thing that doesn’t belong there.

“I found out he was… redefining the meaning of ‘story time’,” you hear yourself say, unwilling to go into detail. Such vile disgust raising its hands round your throat, smothering you, that feels like they could at any moment consume you. “Turned it into a game she didn’t like. One where he took all her clothes off...”

You’ve already said too much you don’t want to think about; you won’t continue. And Brian, ever watchful, doesn’t press for more. Though, after moments of dragging silence…

“You’re a cop,” he says. Hushed, yet quite bluntly. “And you and Dexter have been planning tonight for... what? Two weeks?” His expression is carefully unmoved. “Why didn’t you just arrest him?”

It’s like he already knows the answer. Just wants to hear you say it out loud. And though you’re loath to give him what he wants…

“Because I broke into his house, instead,” you find yourself admitting.

Brian’s eyes are hawk-like. Perceptive to your every shift in expression. “Were you armed?”

You don't immediately answer. Or really answer him at all.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say. “He wasn’t home. But I found a bunch of hard drives under one of his floorboards while I waited for him.” You’re surprised your lip doesn’t bleed with how harshly you bite the inside of it. “One had my nephew’s name on it.”

You don’t know when you dropped your fork, only that you’re no longer holding it, and as you glare at the table it feels your jaw might snap.

“Turning him in is too good for him,” you murmur, so lowly you almost can’t hear how every word��s afflicted by hate. “I want that bastard dead. I want to feel the life stripped from his pathetic body, piece by excruciating piece. Want to hear as he chokes and sobs and gags and begs for mercy he never gave, and make him feel all those terrible things he made all of those little girls feel, and then I want to personally ship what’s left of him to hell.”

You stare at the table for a long time. So long you forget where you are, who you’re here with. And when again you look at Brian, it feels his study never left. Remaining ever-watchful as he takes another giant bite of sandwich.

It’s almost funny how he can eat at a time like this. There’s no way, in this moment, you could register what hunger even is.

“The belt sander’s starting to make a lot more sense now,” he remarks between hungry bites.

He’s so calm…

You should stay calm, too. Like he is. You’ll have to be in order to get through what you’re going to do tonight. But even knowing this, it still takes substantial effort to somehow shake yourself from this ugly beast that’s crawled inside you. To shed its cruelly comforting skin and continue being human, instead of whatever vicious creature it would see you transformed to.

He seems to notice you struggling, or perhaps he’s just bored of your strangled silence. Either way, he swallows his next famished bite before you feel him reach beneath the table. His fingers just barely brushed across one of your knees, soft across the fabric of your jeans.

It makes you jump, not expecting his sudden touch; your eyes darting sharply up to his.

He smiles slightly to receive such rapt attention.

“Don’t worry,” he says. And you find the stillness of him, the firmness, oddly soothing. Infecting your nerves and rewiring them into something more at ease. “He may not know it yet, but his road to hell is coming.” Slowly, he smiles as he watches you. “So long as you don’t chicken out on me, that is.”

For a moment, you can only stare. But gradually, his taunting scratches through that stifling weight which feels to press on your every surface, until you don’t know whether to cry or laugh, to scream or scoff or slap him, it’s all so overwhelming. But in the end, you’re somehow smiling, just like him. Its barest curve a mirror of his own.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” you venture softly. “Seeing me fail. Watching what happens.”

You’re surprised when he doesn’t immediately agree. And you can’t deny in him a sort of avid curiosity. A sort of hunger. A primal thirst, as he eyes you quietly from across the table.

“Not as much as I’d enjoy watching you work,” he says at last.

There’s only you and him. This room, it’s noise, it’s chaos–all of it sinks away, far and deep into a void, until there’s nothing left. And all you see is Brian, watching you like that from across the table. And all he seems to see–right now, and since first sitting–is you.

#brian moser x reader #brian moser x you #brian moser #dexter #reader insert #wild animals #slasher x reader #fanfiction #rudy cooper #ice truck killer

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jaderabbitt · 1 month ago

Text

Echoes of You

Bucky x Deceased(?)Wife!Reader

Bucky’s been hearing a voice for a long time. It began as the Soldat, and lingers even now. You’re his Angel—the voice in his head that he sometimes hallucinates into the form of a woman. Remnants of Hydra seizing his brain for so long—consequences of repeated head trauma, he assumes. He’s never told anyone about you, and he intended to keep it that way.

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: Descriptions of Violence, Mild Descriptions of Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied Thoughts of Suicide, Mentions of Death, jaderabbitt's esoteric writing style, not beta-read so if you find spelling mistakes, i WILL game-end myself Tags: Angst, Angst with Fluff, Did I Mention Angst, Canon Divergence, Reader Insert, Unreliable Narrator, References to Mythology, Angst with Happy Ending (?), Author will not spoil story in Tags, Author cannot remember the 8 pages she wrote in 9 hours, gomen.

Note: Reader is given an EXTREMELY loose description involving longer hair at some point, but it is VERY relevant to the story. You will need to read to see why!

—

“Enemy. Eight o’clock, Soldat.”

Immediately, his head swung, and his pistol was shoved in the crevice of a metal bicep, firing before the agent had even realized that he was spotted. The body dropped, a gaping hole left in between the eyes.

He released the breath he hadn’t realized he held to begin with. It was as if he had been the one shot, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. The world felt all-consuming.

He knew that voice. It hadn’t come through the device in his ear.

He didn’t know exactly how he knew the woman’s voice, nor why he heard her. Every time she spoke, it was as if she were talking directly into his ear, no matter the noise level around him.

Her voice had been the only constant in his fleeting moments of clarity.

His Ангел. His Angel.

He began to call the voice that when she would warn him during missions. It was as if she acted as a sixth sense, being able to see things even his heightened perceptions couldn’t. She wasn’t always there—her presence faded in and out without notice. But, she was always there when he needed her.

When they put him in that gods forsaken chair to rewire his brain, it was her voice that kept him stable. When they put him inside the Iron Maiden of a cryochamber, it was her voice that kept him warm. When he sat in the dark corner of the empty concrete cell, it was her voice that kept him company.

He figured that all of Hydra’s torture created a tear in his psyche, manifesting in the voice of a woman he’d heard in passing. It would make sense, given that the human mind craves the comfort of others. Hydra didn’t exactly allow him relations besides his handlers, so his mind had to create someone to fulfill the space beyond pain and emptiness.

He kept his Angel a secret. Something that wholly belonged to him, the only part of himself that he could have control over. He would never allow them to take you.

“You are showing abnormal readings in brain functioning, Soldat. Status report.”

The grating voice of his handler was made even worse by the static in the communications channel. It succeeded in bringing him out of his trance, carefully observing the carnage around him.

“Mission complete. Targets eliminated. No witnesses.”

He stepped over the disemboweled body of an agent, retrieving his knife; he wiped the remaining viscera and gore from the blade on the deceased agent’s suit. It didn’t take long for him to receive word of his extraction point and means.

Back into the gaping maw of the Lernaean Serpent he headed, unable to resist its call.

He trekked through miles of uneven terrain, as Hydra was nothing but thorough when it came to ensuring their involvement within the world’s dealings stayed hidden. His extraction points were always far enough away from the target’s area of engagement to ensure that he could lose any tails he might encounter. It was an arduous process, one that he would despise if he could bring himself to feel such wealth of emotion. They had taken that from him too.

“They can never take your heart, my Soldier.”

No. They couldn’t. Not while he had you.

– – –

The first time his mind had conjured up a vision of you, he nearly punched a hole into the concrete of his holding cell. He had felt a presence within the dark room suddenly, and when he turned his head, there was the visage of a woman. Her features were too hazy to make out in the dark of the room, or perhaps his mind couldn’t remember a woman’s face to place onto the hallucination. Either way, the lifelike projection of a faceless woman should have been disturbing–even to someone who had seen under the epidermis of a human face before. Oddly, he couldn’t bring himself to think of you as such.

No, the feeling he got when he looked at you was one he could no longer name. It had been forgotten under the force of an electric current.

“Not forgotten. Stolen.”

Your saccharine voice still sounded as loud as ever within his head, despite the distance between his physical body and your imaginary one. Oh, how he yearned to close that distance, to hold you within his arms–his coveted Angel, who he selfishly stole from the gods’ grasp to ease his troubled mind here, on Earth. He found his arm, the one made from Gaia’s own metals, outstretching towards you without thinking. His palm splayed out, he watched with bated breath as you mimicked his own movement. He knew that he would never have been able to feel you to begin with, but he allowed himself a simple indulgence in believing that it was due to the lack of nerve endings, and not because you were never here to begin with.

“I’m always with you, my Soldier.”

For once, he allowed himself to believe that.

– – –

He was incapable of dreaming while under the freeze of stasis. He simply went under, and woke up whenever they decided to thaw him. Sometimes, cryo-freeze was the only respite he got–and he was thankful for not being needed. And yet, he still fought his handlers to prevent the chill of the iron coffin. Being unable to dream and made forcibly unconscious meant that he was unable to hear the gentle lilt of your voice, unable to watch as your form took shape. His heart would ache, as if it were missing the synchronicity of yours marching along with it.

It was a fool’s hope to wish for every freeze to be his last–whether that meant he never went under again, or his heart finally left this mortal coil and froze over for good, he couldn’t decide. So, when he woke with a start to the remains of biting frost against his skin, he felt rage bubbling hot in his veins.

“Have a nice nap, Sleeping Beauty?” You giggled. Your form danced along the peripherals of his still hazy vision, taking spot where there was a gap between white coats. They were checking his vitals, making sure he would be combat ready for the mission they no doubt awoke him for.

He’d roll his eyes if he had full function of his muscles.

You huffed a laugh at that, reaching out a hand to caress his cheek. Of course, he couldn’t feel it–but he let himself believe it was because his skin was still defrosting.

“I missed you.”

He missed you, too. He always did. Even when you were present in his mind, or a vision being projected by his psyche, he missed you. He couldn’t explain it. How could he miss a part of himself? He didn’t dwell on the logistics too long. If he thought about you too hard, his head began to hurt, like it was protecting itself.

The pinpricks of melting ice gave way to freeze-burns, ones that were already beginning to heal from his forced genetic mutation. His left arm had been gently defrosted, as to not disrupt any of the machinery within. They held the Fist of Hydra to a higher regard than the rest of his body, apparently. You snorted at that thought. It was such a beautifully normal sound amongst the noise of beeping monitors and the scrambling of doctors, scientists, and engineers. He involuntarily let a half-smirk rise on his face, to the horror of the poor doctor checking his vitals. The medical professional couldn’t imagine what would make The Asset happy other than the thought of the impending carnage he would soon wreak upon unknowing targets. It was better he thought that, anyway. He’d get put in the chair for showing a sliver of unconditioned programming otherwise.

He blinked the remaining frost from his eyelashes, looking back over at your dizzying presence. Your hair floated about you as if you were underwater, but your skin was still the same pitch black and featureless void that it had been the first time he let his mind give you physical form. It was confusing; he had seen plenty of women since you first began appearing before him, and yet his mind never allowed any of their features to replace your lack thereof. It just didn’t seem right, he supposed.

He must’ve really been under for a long time if it was taking his psyche this long to will you away and fall back in line with his programming. Even as he was being transported to the roads of Long Island, New York, you had continued to hover over him.

You had stood at the car wreckage with a curious turn of your head as he let the motorcycle fall upon its kickstand. It was only when the man in the driver’s seat stumbled out of the remains that you reacted to the sight in front of you.

“No…” You gasped, but the Soldier crept on towards his target.

“Sergeant Barnes..?” Croaked the dying man, and you watched along with bated breath, waiting for some kind of reaction. The only one you’d get would be the Soldier’s fist colliding with flesh and bone. The cries of a woman mourning her husband were cut off by a thick hand around her throat, effectively compressing her airway closed. The Soldier didn’t even look at the woman he was finishing off. No, his eyes were trained on you.

His face remained stoic as white streaks glistened down the black of your cheeks. This was his way of compartmentalizing, he supposed. You wept for the man who could not.

When he turned after shooting out the camera, you had disappeared.

– – –

The next time he heard your voice, it was in Romania. He had been here for quite some time, trying to piece together who he was, exactly. The quiet, traditionalist country was perfect for someone who preferred to stay hidden. He spoke the language fluently, resembled the people, and kept to himself. The locals didn’t ask questions, simply trusted he wouldn’t cause trouble. He couldn’t help but be wary–it was drilled into his head, near literally. He had started to grow paranoid at the peaceful life he was being allowed, as if it too would be stolen from him at any moment.

The lively morning market of Bucharest had settled his nerves somewhat; it was a familiar place with familiar faces. He settled for the fresh fruit stall, instantly gravitating towards the plums. His gloved metal hand palmed the assortment of velvety fruit, feeling the weight of them as a test. If they didn’t push against his thumb’s pressure and he was able to feel the weight upon the metal, he knew they were too early. He asked the stall manager, for good measure, about their ripeness, finally selecting a few for his apartment.

It felt normal. He felt normal.

“You know, I heard these were good for memory.”

He almost gave himself whiplash when he saw you standing across the street. His feet almost moved before his brain processed the oncoming traffic.

It wasn’t just that this was the first time he heard your voice in his head in years. No, it was that he was seeing you.

Your hair, set in the way you always favored. Your eyes, shining in the light of the morning sun. Your nose, set above your cupid’s bow as if it were carved from marble. And oh, your lips, how he yearned to pull you close and press them against his own. The distance was so unbearable, he almost intentionally walked into the oncoming cars. If it meant he would reach you before this hallucination ended, it would be worth it in his mind.

Your gaze faltered, and as you looked upon him with such sadness, he could have sworn he heard his heart shattering against the sidewalk.

“It isn’t safe anymore, James. I’m sorry.”

He wanted to scream in reply, ask what you meant–why you were sorry.

You were gone at the next pass of a bus.

He would come to figure out what you meant pretty quickly. You always did warn him of impending danger, like his own personal oracle. Or maybe it was his instincts reminding himself–he wasn’t paranoid without reason to be. He had already been shaken by seeing his dead wife from 75 years prior, but to see his supposed-to-be-dead-too best friend standing in his apartment had really raised his heart rate. He knew what followed, what always followed. He was never going to be free–not until he was dead.

At least in death, he would see you again. He may get cast down to the deepest circles of Hell–specially reserved–but he could still hope to be reunited with you once more.

– – –

Living at the Compound had felt like another prison–just fancier and with nicer amenities. A condition to his pardon; along with many other things, like atonement by way of taking down Hydra cells across the globe. Having finally been deprogramed, his activation words no longer functioning as his shackles to the serpentine organization, the government saw fit to use his training for their own gain. The fight never stops. Cut off one head, two more shall take its place. Receive a pardon, get ball and chained to a different corruption.

At least he didn’t have to do it all alone.

Of course, several other Avengers were given their own conditions after the amendments to the Accords. He had become unlikely friends with Wanda, both having trauma bonded with each other. Bucky saw her as a little sister, despite her being a grown ass woman. In fairness, he was over a century old; almost everyone seemed too young to him.

The highlight of his extended imprisonment-vacation was remembering you, however. He was slowly but surely recovering his memories, and he probed Steve now and again to confirm what he was remembering. Bucky never let him outright say what he remembered, wanting to recall it all on his own. You were his wife, not Steve’s best-friend’s wife. Being acquainted with Wanda also helped in this department. She would help him through still-locked memories; sometimes, they needed someone else to unblock the dam in order for the flood to start.

He would have called himself mentally on-the-way-to well, if it weren’t for one detail–he still hallucinated you. He refused to tell his therapist, or any of the other Avengers for that matter. It would simply get him labelled as clinically insane, and a clinically insane Winter Soldier was possibly the greatest threat to America, besides the next alien or robot invasion. He hadn’t even told Steve, fearing that even he might think less of him for it.

He supposed it was okay to keep this one thing to himself. He was allowed to be selfish for once in his life.

Bucky wasn’t even sure you would accept the man he’d become, if you were alive. He didn’t think he could take that pain. Maybe this was how his mind coped with that. Created a version of you who still loved him–no matter if he wasn’t the same man he was when you married him. He didn’t think he could ever be him again, despite how much everyone else wanted him to be.

So, he watched you, with a freshly poured mug of coffee in his hands and a small grin on his face, as you shifted between the clothing styles of the decades he missed. You hummed a tune from the movie he had watched last night, the soft notes sounding as if you were directly next to his ear. While the kitchen area was currently empty, if anyone walked in, he could just say he was reminiscing.

“How did anyone get anything done in these?” You laughed, the tight bell-bottom jeans clinging to your skin, with a tight halter top to match. “I know we didn’t wear pants much in the 40’s, but I think I might suffocate!”

Bucky let out a chuckle, scanning the room for anybody else flesh and blood. When he found none, he answered lowly.

“Can’t exactly suffocate when you don’t breathe, doll.”

“It’s about principle, Buck! You know what I mean,” you pouted, opting to shift into the silk slip dress that he remembers very much, cerca 75 years prior.

He hissed, turning his eyes away from you. You, of course, being ever so the manifestation of the woman he remembers, instantly placed yourself back in his gaze. You had that sly smirk on your face that always meant you were up to no good, but he’d be damned if he got himself aroused with a vivid hallucination of his dead wife. Saved by the bell he was, as the ring of the elevator chimed to notify that someone was stopping on this floor. He let out a small huff, knowing he’d have to will himself to act like you weren’t there.

Wanda and Vision stepped out into the kitchen area, spotting Bucky standing behind the island. Vision had been working on travelling like a normal human recently, opting to only phase through things in cases of emergency.

“Hello Bucky-”

“Good morning, Sergeant Barnes.”

They both greeted, but Wanda had cut herself off in confusion. Bucky tilted his head, but returned the greetings.

“Bucky, who’s that?”

Bucky’s heart sank all the way down to Atlantis, and the coffee he had been drinking threatened to burn back up his esophagus. He followed the direction that Wanda’s finger pointed– She could see you.

She was seeing you.

“Wanda, I do believe that would be the Sergeant’s wife. She was labelled as deceased after–”

“Yes, Vision, I know who she looks like, so who is that?”

“I’m afraid I do not know.”

Bucky was damn near hyperventilating at this point. They could see you. Someone, or something, invaded his mind and pretended to be his wife. Or, could they see ghosts? Was his dead wife haunting him? They could see youohmygodtheycouldseeyou–

“James,” you hissed, “quiet your thoughts! I can’t focus when you’re panicking!”

…What?

Your hands immediately cradled your head, looking as if you had gotten slapped across the face with the worst migraine of your life. Wanda’s hands had sparked to life, thrumming with scarlet energy. A scream tore through your throat, ringing in Bucky’s psyche. He had clapped his hands over his ears, shutting his eyes, and feeling for the first time ever like the sound was an intrusion–like your voice didn’t belong only within his mind. He grit his teeth together to prevent his own yells from joining the chorus.

Your image flickered like someone was slashing through shadows with a ray of light–flashing between the you he knew and the form null of your distinct features.

There was a distinct crack! that reverberated in his ears.

He was almost scared to open his eyes, believing the sound to be the snap of bone that he was all too familiar with.

When he did gather the courage, he no longer recognized his whereabouts. They had been transported to a dark and dreary place, multiple large wires hanging overhead. The room was mostly unlit, a singular source of violet light extended their sight enough to at least see where they were standing. Wanda looked all over immediately, before her own panic set in. “Vis?!”

“He’s fine. So are you both. You aren’t physically here. He’s currently watching over your bodies.”

Bucky’s head immediately turned, because hearing your voice come out from not inside his head was not pleasant for him right now. And quite frankly, he was freaking the fuck out. There you stood, once again returned to the featureless form he remembered as the Soldier. Only, this time, your hair was much longer, and sat still. While you didn’t have eyes, your head tilted up to look at something behind him. Wanda’s mouth hung open as she, too, followed your gaze.

Behind him, as he found out, was where the only source of light stood tall in the room. It looked like a large tube, violet light streaming in from LEDs sitting at the bottom, pointing up. The structure was filled with some kind of liquid–too viscous to be water, but too thin to be unmoving.

Within that liquid lay something that would become engraved into their minds.

It was you.

There was your physical body, suspended in animation. It wasn’t the you that Bucky married; rather, it was the you that first appeared within his mind’s eye. Your hair floated wildly around your featureless face, and your noir skin reflected the purple of the ultraviolet lights. It was as if your body had gotten cemented into a singular position, your head tilted back and your back arched as if you had been struck and permanently falling.

Bucky couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away, wanting desperately to use the weapon they had attached to his body to shatter the glass in front of him. He finally looked back over to the you stood next to him, and you could see the pain written so plainly on his face. It broke your heart to watch the synapses of his neurons fire on all cylinders, to see the realization seize his body.

“Oh, don’t look at me so, my love. I’m not in any pain,” you reassured, though you were sure that had only answered a singular question he was itching to ask.

Wanda suddenly felt very uncomfortable being a bystander to all of this, but knew she was integral to this projection.

“How long?” Were the words that finally croaked out of his mouth.

You grimaced, knowing that this was the question that would devastate him the most.

“For as long as you had been the Winter Soldier.”

- - -

Teehee. That's all, folks! (for now.) (I've already begun part 2) Like, reblog, and comment! I'd really love to hear what you guys think, as this is the first time I'm uploading a longer type of fic. ;w;

For those waiting on Incidents, that will get worked on in tandem to this! Echoes will most likely only end up being a two parter, with maybe some drabbles of in-universe situations if people are interested. My asks are also open~

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky x reader #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky fanfic #james bucky barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes #winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier #the winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x ofc #reader insert #x reader #fanfic #fanfic writing

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cryptfile · 8 months ago

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Ꮺ˖˚₊ leeches, [ logan howlett x vampire!reader au ]

summary — logan howlett lacks of patience (and he can also be a nice little blood-bag while losing his temper). 8k+

warnings — 18+ mdni, fem!reader implied, blood kink (keep in mind you’re a vampire! not twilight but more of a true blood kind?) downright filth im sorry, dead dove do not eat, smoker!reader, endless tension, manhandling, praise kink, kind of porn without plot (LIES CAUSE IT HAS ONE THO??) my boy's into paaaaaain can't help it it's canon, age-gap at first (reader is her 20's but again, vampire), public sex (it just happened), daily reminder to wrap it before you tap it, p in v, choking, filthy mouth, pet names.

side notes — thought this could take place after days of the future past? au cause why nottttt ,,currently on ovulation season so bare with me,,, been a little mia cause i’m surviving aka going through the worst semester of my life at uni? internships are breaking my ass currently so well, here i am just existing, also, english’s not my first language and everyday i’m grateful for it, so any mistakes i’m not sorry in advance lol i’m also too lazy to correct once published,, feel free to send more logan requests since i've basically been a slut for him for a while now (i'm rotting in hell).

He could swear the mansion got ten degrees hotter when you came in.

It’s inevitable. It’s this thing you carry, the way you move — Graceful, elegant, almost compelling as the air fills the room. It’s not public knowledge that you’re not a mutant itself, yet you’re presented like one, like you have healing factors and age painfully slow, but human after all, a subtle lie, one that can harm no one.

It’s safe to say you catch his attention in the most annoying way: How couldn’t you? All you do is this weird seduction he’s appealed to, whether you’re conscious or not it’s just captivating, an invisible force that even when you ignore it is there, there waiting for the perfect moment to flood every time you happen to be in the same room.

Captivating. That’s the word.

The room becomes smaller after, the air grows thicker, and it’s almost like a ticking bomb, the way you wouldn’t even look at his face while he’s noticeable pinning after Jean Grey, the mystery that surrounds you and he cannot seem to resolve no matter how much time he puts into it.

It’s like he's the plague. You don’t really try to exchange more than just a few words, only when it's needed and you cannot avoid him any longer, and he didn’t say anything at first, keeping his distance too cause he don’t see how you’d become friends, cause after all, what he could have in common with a girl that doesn't surpass the twenty years?

But soon he's upset about it, even when he doesn't really say anything out loud, it's a spike he cannot reach under his skin. You seem to become friends with anyone but him, mutant kids in your history lessons, the rest of the team, even the damn mailman when he delivered a package — You'd say hello like it's a long time lover or so, greeting people like they mean the world to you.

He has students now that are asking for a transfer from his class to yours cause it seems you're fun to be around, more like he is, and he fucking hates it.

It's fair to say it's been getting into his mind lately. That thing you do with your hair, twisting it in your index finger on a lock as you speak, the subtle red glow in your eyes he always catches by mistake, not enough fast to stop looking at you, pretending he didn't even see in your direction at first.

Tension. Logan just happens to hate tension.

In fact. He's almost sure your problem is personal, that you might hate him enough to act like he didn't exist at all, enough to avoid him like he was not there.

That's why it's just so weird.

When he finds himself walking down the hallway to the kitchen and he smells this cherry-scented aroma that settles under his nostrils, he changes the direction he's walking to, to instead, follow the path to the person that was silently smoking outside. Hiding. Maybe, a student he'll have to scold like the old man he was turning into.

No smoking in the mansion!

However, as the night is just settling, he doesn't recognize a little mutant, but instead happens to recognize you in the middle of the gardens of the mansion, close to the maze; escaping the comfort of the inside to enjoy a self-rolled cherry tobacco he has smelled before in the air. He's a victim mostly, cause his legs move on it's own as his mouth go dry, approaching you in silence.

"What do you want?" you ask when he's halfway there. And your tone is just cold as ever, not an ounce of feeling as he contemplates your side profile, the way the tobacco sticks out of your parted lips, seated on a bench hidden between bushes and trees — "Is Scott bitching about the smell going into the mansion already?"

No. He's not. But he doesn't have enough reasons to explain exactly why he's outside if you asked, why, all of sudden, he followed the scent of cherry knowing it was you the only one who carried a colts package in the pocket of every single jacket you wore, constantly asking Storm if she could hold on to the bag of filters for you while you rolled in the worst moments.

It's distracting, to say the least.

"Yeah," he quickly says, lying cause in reality he hasn't seen the guy in the whole day, yet it sounds like something he would say. "Do you happen to have another one of those to share?"

You don't talk much, hand reaching his as you offered him from your tobacco without a single word, the same that was placed between your lips and now was on his in what seemed to be something more intimate than what he'd like to admit, the cherry taste filling his lungs as they weirdly enough, shared a cig.

"Aren't you too young to be smoking?"

You laugh, and the sound sends a shiver down his spine cause he has never heard a sound quite like it, nothing that resembles that throaty, raspy sound that came out of your lips in amusement thanks to his words. He, out of all people, has never seen you like that — "And how old you think I am?"

He seems to think about it for a second, carefully picking his next words. Logan knows that women and their age are a tricky thing, you cannot say a number that's too compromising, nor act stupid and say something that's clearly not correct — "Not a day over twenty-two."

The answer pleases you, and he just knows he's wrong, but you don't seem bothered by it, instead, you nod pretending he's right, like he just got the answer right away.

He can see why everyone's switching classes now. Cheeky bastards.

"Twenty-two is not young at all, but i'm twenty-seven though," you say, and he scoffs at the statement, seeking for any change in your heartbeat, any sign of a lie. The strange thing happens when he cannot pick any heart at all, any sign of pulse.

"You are pretty young still," he says, against his age, you’re just starting out living—. "You don't look like you are twenty-seven at all."

"Cause I age slower than the rest," it's a practiced lie. One you know from repeating the same explanation over and over again, the priced answer of why you haven't changed a single bit in the past few years and made you a mutant — "I never looked my age."

Such a fucking liar. He doesn't need any heartbeats to confirm it cause deep down you are a terrible actress, he can see it so clear, how you're calculating every answer, thinking about the correct thing to say, the normal thing to say.

"Is that your thing?" he asks, playing pretend almost as bad as you do. Tilting his head to the side as he questions you — "Age slowly?"

"I have healing powers," you explain as he tossed you the joint once again. "My saliva kinds of help healing wounds. It's pretty boring."

"Boring" Logan repeats. The word itself sounds so damn fun in your lips it's contradicting. "That doesn’t sound really boring."

There's a moment of silence after that. Where you smoke in silence taking in the taste of the cherry, and he is having a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that your lips also touched the side of the cigar he was smoking before, the plain lies you've been repeating over and over the last ten minutes.

It's almost infuriating. Makes his blood boil without question, he surely endures your treatment of silence, but being lied to? That's a whole different level.

“How old are you, kid?”

Your brows furrow in response, a clueless face. You are pulling out this show once again Logan don’t buy for a damn second. Something about the scrunch in your nose, the way you dismissed your own powers as if they weren’t enough. He knows it’s all a lie. He knows it even when he doesn’t really know you at all, when it’s the first time you’re truly speaking to him after your arrival to the mansion almost a year ago.

“How old you really are?”

You laugh at the question once again, and he just knows it, knows it when he sees you barely illuminated by the dim light of the moon, the act you always keep up, a web of tangled lies you have to be into— “Told you i'm twenty-seven already, didn't you hear?”

“Is it now?” he asks, amused by the sass, exhaling the smoke of the low-quality tobacco he doesn't understand why you're so invested in when passed it to him—. “Cause you don’t seem very convinced, it really sounds like bullshit to me.”

You're almost offended. By the look you give it's like the worst mistake he could ever make, yet you remain silent, not giving the satisfaction of an honest answer yet. Testing his patience like he did have one to begin with.

"Is that why I can’t hear your heartbeats, darlin'? Cause you age so slowly?”

The nickname scratches a part of your brain, and you hate him for it. The word rolls out of his tongue with an accent, smoking your cherry tobacco cause you happen to be nice.

“You can’t?” you’re good at faking it suddenly, at least, that's what he thinks when your brows furrow in alleged curiosity, stiffening your back, uncomfortable. “How weird.”

“Damn right it is” that's when you realize he knows you are lying. Even when you don’t talk much, even when you act all stiff and bothered when he’s close, he knows that you are fully invested in lying. In whatever twisted little lie you've planned, like it was your real life and not something you made up. “Are you going to tell me truth, then or do I have to find out? Does the professor know that you're lying?”

The smoke lingers in the air.

“How old are you?” he asks once again, demanding an honest answer this time — "Thirty? Thirty-five?"

You find his questions annoying, mostly cause he won't stop until he gets an answer, one that pleases him enough to leave you alone, the other part cause you happen to like the playful banter you two keep going, dangerously much. You don't hate attention it's clear, what you do hate it's the way he seemed to see pass the lie, to demand more even when he has no right to.

He enjoys being the one who's right though, Logan cannot help it. He's pleased to catch that look on your face who says everything but nothing at once, to have you where he wanted, almost at the edge of admitting a truth.

Is it payback because you've been stealing all of the little mutants from his class? He's jealous cause kids like being around you? It does not make much sense, but he is fully invested. Questioning all.

Even when you're outside, it seems like the air grows thicker. And Logan finds himself seeking for your breathing, cause he don't know nothing, nothing about you more than the fact you don't seem to have a heartbeat, or pulse and now, breathing.

“If you really are that eager to know, i'm a hundred and twenty-seven” the words float in the air for a while, and he's sure you're just messing with him, cause there's no way a pretty little face like yours had endured a century. “I've been alive for quite a while.”

He doesn't fully believe it first. Of course he doesn't. Logan's sure you're messing with him also, distracting him about your real age.

“And I supposed this do come from you slow aging powers” He tries to give you a point there, but it's difficult to be serious when you're just playing with him—. "How so?"

To be honest, you do have a little temper yourself, you've learned to stand up for yourself most of the time, so when you happen to notice he's teasing you, that he doesn't really believe you, you adopt this attitude of defense he notices as you shift over the wood you're seated in.

"No, it doesn't" you steal the joint from his hands to have a smoke yourself. "You really aren't as smart as I thought you were, huh?"

Do you happen to have a dead wish? His muscles tense beneath his shirt, and in contrast of his problem, you can hear it all. All the sounds his body makes when he's all bothered just by the beat of his heart, that annoying sound his bones make each time he moves.

"What are you?"

"That's it," the praising goes directly into his chest, the tone you use to tell him he's going in the right direction it feels just so right he forgets why he got mad in the first place—. "That's what you should be asking right there."

It's almost a shame having to admit he would also switch classes. That he would also go through all the paperwork himself without a second thought and that right there, is pathetic, but you're smiling at him as if you're encouraging the man to try harder, to find the answer himself, and fuck — He's old, too old, he's tired, he's in a bad mood as fucking usual, and he happens to dig a drink in the quiet of his own room, but he's pulled by something as equal as devastating as the gravity force, shoot towards you in pure need to have some answers even if he has to make you spit them.

"I find it strange, cause when you don't have a heartbeat, you aren't usually alive" Deep down he's fascinated, hazel eyes glues on your face trying to understand. He feels like he has it in the tip of his tongue waiting to leave his mouth as a catastrophic answer, but he doesn't find the right words.

"That's cause i'm not," you state it like it's something obvious. And just as he knows you're lying, this time, he knows you're telling the truth, blowing the smoke in his direction just to bother him — "Why do you think i'm teaching history after all huh?"

He hasn't seen it all, it seems.

Yeah.

He's losing it after that night.

It’s known that Logan has sleeping problems, but that night specifically he thinks about something else rather than what usually torments him, a truth he also has to keep a secret now that he's learned more about it.

See, Logan doesn't expect you to be really dead. Much less to hear what you are and have been hiding this whole time from the rest of the people in the mansion — He also learns that you feed on blood, that vampires are a common thing in the world and that he shouldn't, at least, be that surprised when he's a mutant in a world full of humans himself.

You are a folklore myth on small villages, stories in Rumania and horror character in films, so you don't blame him when as you spoke, he finally understands why you're so damn attractive, so damn seductive as you explained more about your way of living, some memories you've been keeping to yourself since being a vampire was so damn solitary, memories he listens to cause he knows what it's like, to be misunderstood, to be eternal, to be alone as well.

It makes the two of you grow closer by the next weeks. You now talked during broad daylight about random shit at first, about the war sometimes, about your condition as he refers to when people is around, eaves-dropping on what you two are talking so invested in. Friends.

Simple as that.

And it's safe to admit also that in the course of the next days, Logan Howlett is a fucking mess, and he knows it, but he won't do anything about it.

He won't flirt cause he knows you're a hell of a woman, in every good sense of the word, that he's way too damaged for a vampire even, for all kinds of people out there, and as much as he'd like to say anything, he values your attention, how you switched the attitude of acting like he didn't exist to be a friend, one that you came to share secrets with a cherry aroma glued in their skin.

It gets him insane, to the point he's no longer spending much time with Jean and people start to pick up on it as if he didn't have enough headaches already. He doesn't care. Shit you are not bothered by what people say, and to be honest, he cannot seem to care either.

At first, he's reluctant of keep on talking to you as normal as it is. He's not really invested in religious themes, but he sure admits you're a sin by all meanings, a religious experience of some kind if anyone asked him — He agrees with what he has heard also in the hallways. Innocent conversations of teens and their platonic crush on their teachers. You are pretty hot.

He's so interested in knowing more about you, about the nights you spend in Rumania, when you leave to Canada, the different lives you've lived across the years. He finds himself looking forward to share his stories too, weird enough, cause he's over two centuries himself and he just craves to talk about it with someone who also gets him in a deeper level, that weariness that fills your body when you age so long.

You got the best of immortality, and instead of feeling envious, Logan finds himself attracted to you so much like he's never been in his whole existence. Not at the point it happened with you at least.

By the end of the first month he knows your little treats. You use a lot of sunscreen, and avoid activities outside as much as you possibly can with those classic, tiny black sunglasses that hided you from the rays of the sun, always in the shadow so unapproachable; how you'd usually dismiss food offerings from anyone who's kind enough to even offer you something, and when you haven't fed well during the course of the week, you'd become the most maddening woman he'd ever met.

Maddening.

"What wrong with you, Leech?" Leech. You've been in such a bad mood lately that when he's seating next to you in another random smoking session outside, your fingers twitch, clearly pissed at the nickname after saying multiple times you don't like it.

"I'm not in the mood for plays now."

He can tell from before. When you talked to him that very morning and stared at the collar of his flannel for what it seemed a good, nice minute, he realizes the same moment that you were staring at that pulse point in his neck, where the flesh blood was pumping in his blood flow: You're hungry, as any living creature would be and at your own manner, in constant control as you fight the sense of hunger.

So instead, the mutant ask, like he always does when he’s curious about something that involves you:

"When did you last feed?"

"A couple of weeks ago."

That would explain it. You don't talk much about your meal plan, he knows the professor is in charge of all of that. You've told him about blood bags and hospitals, but he's not really aware of how constant you need to eat, how the blood supplies most of your energy, makes you stronger, gives you vitality, so Logan at first, don't really know what its like to not drink any blood in the course of two weeks.

"What happened with the blood bags from the Hospital?"

The mention of blood out loud seems to triggers you. A groan escaping your lips as you can swear you feel the taste in your mouth — "Don't know. Haven't seen a single one this week, Charles said something about next week, problems in the bank I guess."

You're clearly worked up. It's a new look he hasn't registered before, your hair is tangled in a less-composed look, and there's a slight shake in your hands as if you're going through withdrawal, deprived for what you needed the most.

"And animals?" he questions, trying to find a solution. “Can’t you eat a cat or something?”

"Like shit i'm going to feed from a fucking animal," you're almost immediately grossed out, scrunching your nose at the idea. "I can barely handle being so close to a damn human but animals? I'd rather fucking die this time for real, no waking up."

"That bad huh?" the mutant asks, taking a sip from the beer he sneaked outside, chucking lightly afterwards. "So you're a leech with elegant taste, huh? Of course you are."

"Clean blood is rare," you explain, rolling your eyes. It's inevitable. He knows you hate the nickname so much that he insists to keep on calling you that way just to get a reaction—. "Humans nowadays taste like dirt. They consume drugs among other substances, pills, food supplements, even damn vitamins, don’t get me started about blood diseases cause it gets me in a bad temper. Every single thing affects on your taste, even what you eat. It's all registered there. Clean, good blood is rare to find. Call me elegant, call me picky. It's a damn fact."

"And what about mutant blood?" he questions. And it seems like a mere phrase at first, one with no subtle tones, he’s usually curious about your nature so you don’t pay much attention as he spoke—. “You’re picky about mutants too?”

“No, i’ve never had a mutant before.” The truth is, you hate feeding from people, the act being something so intimate, so damn personal, you refrain yourself. Killing humans, picking a next victim to fed on, is considered now a treat you don't appreciate from your kind, making you steal from hospitals and any kind of blood bank before Charles offered you help. You haven't fed from a mutant, cause you avoided everyone equally, but you don't want to be rude about it. “You all smell different, but i’d be lying. Maybe yes, i’d be picky about it too, feeding is something intimate.”

It's an undeniable admission, and now that he's trying to be in your position, he would also be picky about someone's blood. Logan remains stoic cause he’s suddenly filled by the thought of something else, a glimpse of his own weird creativity he forces himself to push aside, to really suppress now that it's not the time or the moment.

“How do I smell?” It's too late to stop the words from coming out of his mouth when he asks her. And at first, is out of pure curiosity. He has never encountered a vampire in his life until you, let alone had someone talking about the subtle tastes of the blood being undead, so he doesn't want to let the opportunity slip — Of course he wants to know if an over two hundred mutant like himself would be as remotely good as a fresh, clean bag from the hospital.

"You stink like wet dog," he surely deserves it after all the times he’s been calling you a leech — "Like those cigars you tend to smoke, alcohol, and musk. It's similar as wood. That smell you got when you're in a forest and it's not raining but straight pouring."

"Is this a way of telling me i'd taste bad, peach?"

You make a mental note to let him know after you like peach way more than leech.

"If i'd found a human smelling like that, you won't be hearing from me anytime soon" you're just messing with him. A playful banter you enjoy more than ever, the distraction you needed to think in something else rather than the blood bags you craved so deeply — "Hell, i've would just walked the other way."

"So i'm taking you won't be feeding from me anytime soon."

It all takes a dark turn there. You're very aware of the tension the last month now that you talk to him in daily basis, but it’s just mere tension, nothing that ever goes beyond the limit. Logan has never said something to flirt with you despite the million chances he got, and he always remained like a friend, one that you enjoy spending time with now. Cannot be blamed when you're taken aback.

“Cat got your tongue, kiddo?” Man. You're about to whine about the name before you remember he is indeed, older than you are. Vampire or mutant.

"You want me to feed from you?"

He seems so willing when you ask. Even when you teased about his smell calling him a wet dog. He just seems so eager to let you just do it, try a mutant for the first time.

"Yeah," he dismisses it like it's not something so deep — "I doubt Charles is going to let you take a bite since you could clearly kill him, and I'm not sure the others would be pleased with the idea of you sinking your teeth in them, so yes. Me, leech."

Logan Howlett doesn't really smell bad. And you don't know why cause he has all the ingredients to fucking stink, yet, you'd call him interesting. That's what you thought when you find his pulse point again, the vein in his neck you looked earlier in the morning, thinking just as the same you were thinking now.

Of course you would feed from him. Is it a good thing to do? No, in any other circumstances you'd decline. He's your friend.

Now? You’re having a hard time.

"So I'm guessing that you're pleased with the idea, then," Real talk?, you just want to hear him say it. He doesn't talk much usually, but now that he's very vocal about what's on his mind, you have to take advantage of it—. "I'm not sure either. But I do think Storm may be interested too."

He seems content with the response, taking a long sip from his beer before adding — "Please, go and ask her so you're less annoying."

You're almost completely sure he doesn't find you annoying. You also don't care about Storm. And maybe he knows you're not going anywhere, that you're not moving.

"You really want me to bite you?"

"I dunno now, princess" he looks at you pleased now cause he got you where he wanted to, cause he managed to awake all the interest now that you're looking at him "Are you going to pull a Dracula on me?"

"No, i'm not going to suck you dry if that's what you're asking."

Logan chuckles. He's a damn masochist. It's been like that as long as he can remember. It may have to be with his healing powers cause he likes it more than usual, but the idea gets to his head soon enough, all falling so damn fast: Your breathing would be against his neck and he'd take the bite like a damn champ.

"Yeah I can handle you," he says, aroused. "You're not gonna hurt me if you take some blood. I'll be fine and you won't be a pain in the ass."

He acts so gruff about it but you hear the sound of his heartbeat already high enough to wake the entire mansion, his labored breathing since he suggested the idea himself. He digs it, strange enough. Thrives on the idea.

He's a grown man already, and he can take a little leech like yourself.

It's clear you're hungry, cause it doesn't take much for you to accept, nodding like you're defeated, like you just lost the war entirely, cause there's no many options here to take and even if it were, you are now interested in have him more than any other blood bag. In fact. To hell with the hospital.

"Okay."

It's a simple answer, and it sure works with him as you get close to him, the bench you always used to sit now seeming so small as you look around confirming you guys really are alone—. "You won't tell anyone?"

It's something stupid to ask, cause after all that time he has never said anything, keeping your secrets as if they were his own, saving you from weird questions people get sometimes as they didn't know much about you. He's clearly not going to say nothing at all.

"Are you going to stop whining for a second and just eat darlin'? Cause I might change my mind here."

He's feeling overload soon after.

You don’t need a formal invitation to lean closer to his neck.

There's no way to describe it also cause he has never seen something like that, never felt a similar sensation more than when he's fucking, the cold touch of your fingers in his chest, taunting the vein in his neck without a previous warning before leaning in even closer than before—. "Stay still" you demand, face close against his bare skin, only one goal in mind. "Don't move for a minute. Just-"

You cannot finish the sentence, and Logan can experience the sporadic pain of the bite first hand when your teeth finally sink in his neck, piercing the flesh so easily as you let the blood fill your mouth. He grunts at the sharp pain, his face contracting momentarily before it's replaced by a nice wave of pleasure, one that hits him right in the guts as he grabs you by the nape of your neck, pushing you against him, almost demanding you to be closer, to keep on taking what you want, what you've been craving for two weeks.

When did he turned into this perverted sick? Getting off by something so primal as the fact you're feasting on him.

The feeling of your lips and the clear suck you gave when feeding are sending him into a spiral, and to be honest, he didn't expect to be so devastated by you, by the way your fingers stay against his chest to prevent him from moving, pinning the mutant between the wood bench and yourself so he won’t move, won’t do anything unless you want him to,pressing on the wound to draw more blood out.

"You heal so damn fast," you complain, looking at the traces of your bite with an unpleased face as they disappeared on his skin as fast as you created them.

"Then bite me again. I don't care."

You chuckle before leaning once again, and you can feel how the air grows hotter than how it was usually, the shift on his breathing as you bite him again, pressing on the wounds once again just to suck.

And you’re hungry, it’s the whole deal. His taste differs from what you believe at first, a huge change from what humans taste like, from what you’re used to deal with in hospitals. There’s a subtle taste of alcohol yes, but it mixes good with the sweet taste of honey, the weird taste you cannot put into words. It must be a mutant thing for sure cause it’s thicker than usual, a mix of flavors that explode in your tongue.

The headache you suffered from the whole week seems to dissapear as you drink in, feeding the monster you responded to in your stomach, demanding you to make him bleed more, to satisfy yourself until you can’t have any more.

Logan, on the other hand, is really fighting against his very own war.

You’re already close enough, but he just wants you damn closer, as much as he possibly can. It’s clear that well, it hurts slightly, but he has endured much worse, means nothing when it’s the pleasure that comes with it who strikes on his body, the light sucking, the idea you’re full of his blood, that you are not on trouble as you were before thanks to him. All because of him.

He's not used to acts on his impulses, but he does it anyway.

"C'mere" he says in a strangled voice, Logan's having no trouble moving you around, grabbing you by the hips to make you straddle him, keeping you glued to his neck as he doesn't want to disturb you—. "You really are a pretty leech, huh?”

You hum against his skin, pleased at the contact, and when he realizes you’re not complaining about his actions, he let his fingers grip your tights, keeping you against him.

You can hear him making this sound, quite like a moan but not exactly when you’re licking the holes you left in his skin, he does heal fast and don’t need any of your help when you’re done, but you coat his skin with your saliva anyway just to speed up the process, cause you want to do it, looking down to him after to check if he’s pale or nearly dead. You never really know.

And Logan himself is just fine cause his fingers gather the blood under your lip when he takes the sight of you sitting in his lap as the pearly white rays of moonlight makes your skin shine, and he pushes them inside your mouth so you don't waste any drop of what it can be considered food.

"So what's the final verdict?" he asks as his hands are now grabbing your tights, there's something so intimate about the moment, so personal, hot as he presses his fingers against the flesh of your muscles, he understand what you said before—. "Do I taste like utter shit?"

"Well, i’d need another taste to have my final decision" he laughs, and he don't really laugh often so the unexpected sound sends a shiver down your spine now that you’ve heard the sound quite a while now—. "Not much, just a little."

“Have you fill then, peach” He encourages you. “I want you full so you don’t whine the rest of the week.”

You don’t have any heartbeat, but if you did, it would be ragging in your ears at his words. At the warmth he’s spreading like a disease on her body that, despite being dead and cold, you can feel more than ever.

“I like peach,” you admit, this time pressing a soft kiss before directly hurt him—. “Leech is annoying.”

He’s going to say something, tease you about it maybe but he’s interrupted by the nice feeling of what he considers are your fangs tearing his skin apart, familiarity hitting him all sudden as he moans, a rough sound that comes from the deep of his throat, hands coming down to squeeze your ass, making you gasp against his neck when you experience the aching need physically forming in his pants.

“Still,” you say, concentrated on not allowing the wounds to close. But at the lack of complaints on what he's doing, Logan’s hands kept wandering around, making you move against his now clearly stiffed cock—. “Fuck’s sake I said still.”

“Stop being a damn brat. You can eat while I move you,” he grunts annoyed, shoving you against him, the friction of his jeans against the thin fabric of your shorts is enough to keep you quiet: Feeding from a stranger and feeding from a person you’re attracted to are two different things, especially in the position you find yourself in. “You don’t have to do anything. Quit whining about it.”

In response, your fingers press against the wound, not caring if it hurts or if it bothers him, but just enough to get him to bleed more and prevent the cut from closing, lapping at the blood that gathered over his collarbone, staining his white tank before you could even avoid it.

Your fingers grab the fabric just to pull it slightly down so it won't bother you, and the deep sound his chest make when he mocks about your desperation is stuck on your brain for the next couple of minutes, indulging in his taste, shutting up the rest of the world.

A moan comes out of your lips, muffling it against his skin. You're too zoomed out to hear it, but he's on a hell of a ride too, moaning as he demands more. It's been a while since the last time you did something like that, combine the pleasure of something as primal as eating with a mundane activity like sex, so you kind of forgot how good it felt, blaming yourself from depriving from something so needed.

"Do you always get this turned on when someone bites you?"

"No" Logan answers as you finish. He's rock hard beneath you, and he lets you know it when he's controlling the movement of your hips, working you against him at a slow pace—. "See, the woman i'm trying to seduce don't usually bite me, nor make me their main dinner plate."

You whine at the friction.

He looks down to the cause of all his damn problems just to notice his pants being damped with nothing but a physical form of need, soothing the uncomfortable fabric of his blue jeans — "So wet for me already, you’re making a damn mess, do you always get this turned on when feeding?"

Cheeky bastard.

He's using your own words against you, and you cannot be less bothered as you laugh softly, licking your lips only cause you know there's dried blood in them, drowned in his smell, the honey taste that lingered in your mouth.

“No, I don’t.”

At the sight, Logan's hand grabs your jaw in a rough movement, making you look at him before making you kiss him, deepening the contact as fast as you give him the chance. His tongue is soon invading your bucal cavity as he takes control of it, slow, intense and needy, as if he was holding on so much time before giving in to his own desires.

It is something like that.

You don't need to breathe in daily basis, but there's a burning sensation in your chest of wanting, of infinite lust you've been also experiencing by yourself.

The old mutant can taste his own blood in your mouth, a metallic taste as he keeps on kissing you until your lips are pink and puffed. He has thought so much about it that now that he has the opportunity, he devours as if he's a starved man having his first meal in what seems are ages.

"You didn't tell me if I tasted bad."

You think about it for a second.

"I'm afraid you're a rare breed cause it doesn't make any sense" You don't need any help now moving, cause you're rolling your hips on top of him at your own pace, allowing him to use his hands for something else—. “You have all the ingredients to taste like shit, but it's nothing but the contrary, even better than the fucking blood bags.”

“Sounds like your going to make me your meal plan, darlin. I’m here offering you a hand and you just take everything,” — “Such a greedy little vampire.”

He doesn't seem to care though, same as before he's nothing but willing to let you take everything as much as he tries to bark about it. He's more worried about his hands now that they're sliding down your oversized shirt, tracing patterns over your stomach, his touch so hot against your usually cold temperature.

"Logan," you whine,— "Someone can see us out here."

"Now you care about that?" his hazel eyes are a shade darker when he speaks. "After you're nice and full of my blood?"

His hands are big enough to take your whole cunt, allowing his digits to roam over the fabric of your underwear, almost thanking you for using those loosened pajama shorts he has seen before that very night as he just takes the fabric and pull it to the side.

"Nobody is going to see us. It's late and everyone's sleeping, leech" he teases you, and you cannot bring yourself to care about the nickname at the feeling of his hand taunting you from over the fabric—. "If you can bite me here outside, you might as well take my cock here too."

You cannot battle against that. You're deep in whatever spell he puts you into, giving in to the attraction and the tension that now needs to be taken care of. Logan's fingers touch you in nothing but experience, cause he knows how to please after so much time alive, how much pressure he needs to apply to leave you plain dumb, pliable for him.

"D'you think I need to stretch you out before fucking you?" he asks against your neck after leaving a reasonable-sized hickey in the zone, he likes the idea of people finding out about what you've been doing with him the next morning. "Or you're a big girl and can take me all by yourself?"

He'd like to take your time with you. Thoroughly enjoy you as much as he wants to, let everyone know you're his now, that you're shuddering thanks to him only, but he's too needy for that, too deprived of you to take his time.

"I want you to use that pretty mouth of yours and talk to me," he demands, coming up to look at your face while torturing you, his index and middle finger rubbing your clit from over the underwear—. "I'm not properly touching you yet and you're losing it already, peach. C'mon, you can talk to me still."

"I can take you," you say in a strangled voice. "Please Logan, please."

It's the plea of your tone that gets him, the soft begging of an ache he can only soothe, your face while you ask for more, not aware of anything else but him.

"Please what?"

"Please just fuck me already," you ask in frustration—. "I just need you to fill me up for a damn while."

You are starting to love the sound of his laugh. The deep sound he makes when he’s really enjoying something, his voice in damn general.

"Be a good little vampire" He says in a gentle tone. Logan’s trying to be kind even when his touch is so rough. "Unbuckle my pants and take my cock out. My hands are busy now, and you can do it yourself."

He is busy indeed. Toying with your underwear being the only thing that’s keeping him from the direct contact, pushing the fabric against your hole as it works as a barrier, preventing his digits to fuck you as he’d like to. He’s busy keeping you in place, preventing you from downright melt as your hands came up to unbuckle his belt first, the sound of the metal as it moves filling the air for a couple of seconds before you put all your attention in the button of his jeans, the zipper coming down with the force you’re using.

“Yeah baby,” he praises—. “You’re doing so good, keep going.”

When you pull the fabric of his briefs down, he’s already leaking for you, pink head, slightly curved to the side, moaning, erratically how much he needs your hands on him, how you're wet and ready for his cock. You close your fist around him, stroking slowly as your hips lift up enough to position yourself on top of him.

He’s big. Damn fucking right he is, you’d expected it from before cause sometimes you swear you can see his full length in his jeans, but taking him in your hand is a struggle but itself.

“Are you going to take me yourself or do you need my help? I know you can.”

Despite his words, he does help. Grabbing the black fabric of your underwear to finally make it to the side, the tip of his dick pushing against your clit before he's the one to place it in your leaky hole, forcing himself slowly, giving you time to take him in, inch by inch.

“Good girl," he says, head rolling backwards for a brief moment as he experiences the warm sensation of your walls surrounding him, clenching against his cock as he keeps one hand on your hip, helping you as you lower yourself over him. "Let me look at you.”

His fingers grab your jaw, squeezing you as he makes you look back at him, pushing you once again as you holded a loud moan. He's stretching you at his need.

"One more time," he begs. "One more time and you got it, peach. You're almost there."

Jesus fuck. You can feel yourself getting dizzy. You've drank a lot of blood and you're now overwhelmed by this intense pleasure that formed in your lower stomach, gathering there and waiting for the perfect moment to explode—. "Fuck I-"

Logan's pampering you with kisses as a mere distraction, his lips travelling through your neck to your collarbone before you're finally seated on top of him, a muffled moan you need to shut filling the calm of the night.

"Fuck you're tight," he exhales, and he's lost in the sensation, the way your velvety walls welcome him inside. He stays still for a moment, giving you time to adjust, to make you the one who starts moving on top of him.

You can see his veins popping up. All over his chest and coming down to his shoulders and his arms, and god gracious — He smells so fucking good you’re tempted to ask if you can have a bite again.

The moment feels longer than usual, the seconds pass slowly as you stay there. Logan’s hands are just touching your skin from under your oversized t-shirt, taking in the low moans you gave him, the almost perceptible whispers as you get used to him, to his size.

He likes the intimacy of it, the bliss. Man you look so pretty in his lap when the light of the moon is stripping you all to his eyes, even if you’re fully dressed an he’s seated in a damn bench, he cannot enjoy it more, pulling you in for a needy kiss, one that is rougher than the first one and leads you to move inevitably.

His cock pushes past that nice spot inside, and the friction is enough to make you move again, rocking your hips at a slow pace for a few seconds. The sound of your moans is silenced by his demanding kisses, and now that he knows you can handle him, his grip on your hips turn more firm now, squeezing the skin there so he can control your speed, the rythm of your movements now faster than before.

“Shh, don’t whine” what he lacks of vocal usually, he pours it all in just fucking, talking you through it when he feels you’re being too loud—. “Do you want to wake the others? We can’t have them seeing you like this, all fed up and cock-drunk.”

“Let me bite you again,” you ask soon enough. And it takes a lot to do it, cause you’re doing it out of pure greed, cause you can’t have enough.

“Take whatever you want, leech, just don’t make me faint” he jokes, his panted breathing betraying him as he moans, incredibly interested in the idea—. “Want to be conscious when you cum all over my dick.”

Logan’s sure your eyes glisten in a red color as you lean over his neck. And this time is less affectionate, much less gentle as you finally bite him again, teeth piercing the flesh so easily his hips jolts against you in response of the sharp pain your fangs create, the warm sensation of his blood in contrast of your cold touch, tongue-licking all you get from him.

And fuck it feels good.

He shrudders beneath you, shaking his head just slightly at reflex of pain before continue working his way with you, placing his hand between your tights as he lets his fingers rub on your sensitive clit, just enough to make you bite on his neck harder, the lewd sounds of your cunt taking him between holded moans as you suck on his neck.

“That’s it taking me so good,” He praises — “You like that, princess? Like how you’re full of me?”

You hum against his skin. The blood coates your chin as it goes down through his chest, staining his white tank for a couple of seconds before the holes your teeth made finally closes on their own.

It’s pure ecstasy. He can feel it when you clenching around his cock, cheeks red from his blood going now through your system, his vitality, his energy.

You can feel him fucking everywhere. So when you kiss him it’s all teeth, bite and his blood.

The pleasure’s taking control of you now, and Logan’s dizzy from the blood loss, his body covered now in sweat as his words slur together, not threading any coherent thought.

“That’s it,” he says, making you bounce of his cock. “Gonna’ have you in my room then, all spread out f’me.”

His hand wrap around your neck tightly, keeping the direct contact as he chokes you. Shit. You don’t need to say a word. Logan already got you.

“James-” he’s too deep to question why you’re using that name with him. How you facade is crushing down now as you let go.

When your body trembles on top of him he’s already cumming too, the squeeze on his cock sufficent to fuck him up personally, his bruising grip on your hips shoving you as deep as he possibly can as his release hits him like a brick falling from the damn sky.

He lets you work for it, ride each second of your high, milk him dry as a white circle of his own cum mixed with your juices coated the base of his cock, his underwear now slick with your orgasm.

He’s struggling to breathe, to properly say something as you’re finally coming down from your peak, looking at him through half lidded eyes.

“Did you called me James?” he questions, and you’re a damn bad liar, cause he knows imediately you’re hidding something cause of the look on your face—. “Do we know each other? From before.”

You don’t know how to respond at first, at least, cause you cannot lie in a position like that now.

“Well uh. It’s quite a long story here.”

Before you can continue he gets up, making you wrap your legs around his hips before stsrting to walk to the mansion.

“Logan-” you say in a strangled moan yourself, still sensitive as he’s balls-deep inside you.

“It will be less than two minutes, leech” he responds gruffily,— “Need to get you into my room so I can enjoy you the rest of the night, and you can tell me all of it.”

He don’t care if he’s bloody or a damn mess as he squeezes your ass climbing up the stairs, much less if anyone see the two of you in that state.

“I want to hear all the details, Cause I have a weird feeling that this has happened before.”

You cannot find a reasonable excuse to say no as the man’s already reaching the second floor.

Logan’s fucked after that night. When he learned about all that you were before, weirdly connected to you through the decades.

It must be the bite isn’t? Shit. He’s more in sync than ever now that you’ve been feeding from him a lot the last few weeks.

Ah. You fucking leech.

my masterlist

#wolverine x reader #logan howlett x reader #logan howlet smut #logan x reader #logan xmen #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett #jimmy howlett #xmen smut #cryptfile // x-men #minors dni #minors do not interact #james howlett x reader #james howlett x you #logan howlett x vampire!reader #deadpool 3 #xmen days of future past #deadpool and wolverine

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daemonbrain · 1 month ago

Text

My Honor | 281 A.C.

wc: 22.6k

pairing: jaime lannister x targaryen!reader

summary: "Go away inside" Jaime would repeat like a mantra when it all became too much. He’d retreat into the depths of his mind where he could find you; you who haunted his every thought like a ghost of gentler days.

cw: fem!reader, reader has silver hair and purple eyes, pre-GOT, slow burn, first love, no smut, hurt/comfort, targaryen madness, Aerys II as his own warning, implied/referenced domestic and child abuse, violence, misogyny, angst, incest, canon compliant ages (jaime and reader are stated to be 15), the typical ASOIAF stuff.

a/n: Ty to @ichorai for beta reading this. My love letter to Jaime was fueled by you and your awesome fanfic <3

281 A.C: The Year of False Spring

You could not help the sigh which escaped you for the umpteenth time as you lightly swiped away the stray silver strands which fell onto your face. With bleary eyes, you wish to roll over and whine rather than be woken up. The journey to Harrenhal was one you didn’t enjoy to any degree, travel by wheelhouse the most unpleasant method by far.

The trip from the capital was enough to bore even the most jolly of court jesters near death. Though the moment the carriage came to a halt, you found the will to force your eyes open and register the signs of an actual destination rather than just the other wagons and horses of the procession you’d been subjected to for days now.

If the gods were gracious, you’d be free soon enough. After a minute and then a few more, your hopes were answered with the sound of a knock on the door.

Without a moments hesitation, you leapt from the carriage on to the sweet earthen ground, disregarding the hand outstretched to assist you.

The glint of golden armor in your peripheral practically glows as the reflection of the sun refracts off of it, the sight of a glove-adorned hand shooting out to steady you if need be. With a wide smile, you regard Ser Lewyn Martell -a leal member of your father’s Kingsgaurd- looking back at you with a kind expression.

“Eager to be done with your accommodations, princess?” He grinned.

Bringing your head up to make a show of smelling the fresh air you close your eyes with a dreamy sigh.

“Eager doesn’t begin to describe it. I loathe being stuck by myself, and I'm famished and desperate to see Rhaegar. I was promised he would be here when we arrived, please tell me you bring good news.”

Where the sun pleasantly caressed your skin, it seemed to have the opposite effect on Lewyn as he shifted uncomfortably in his heavy attire.

“You worry for naught,” He squinted his eyes, the knight quickly surveyed the surrounding area. “Rhaegar is inside. I can take you to him if you’d like, though-” Lewyn points at the growing crowd of people striding towards the inbound royal party, “I’d wager it’ll be hard to navigate. You may be called on before we even reach the doors.”

You surmised it would only get worse the longer you stayed put. You could only imagine how you might look with the journey taking its toll on your pretty dress and previously complicated hairstyle which was now a mess of loose hair.

“I’m in no state to entertain lordlings. Let them run themselves ragged trying to appease my father. We shall find a different way, right?” The last sentence more of an issued challenge. “Your princess commands it.” You smile and the knight chuckles while trying to find a path forward, through the throng of people and carriages.

With an obedient nod Lewyn escorts you, artfully weaving through each obstacle sure-footed, while you trailed closely behind. By some miracle you go undetected now outside of a dining room where your elder brother Rhaegar supped.

The entrance was pushed open and you were met with the crown-prince in all his glory. He stood regally with a chalice of wine in hand, yet the moment you came into his sights he freed his palms to embrace you with a steady grip.

“Brother!” You exclaimed, curling your fingers into the lavish material of his clothing. Uncaring of the way his own silver locks spilled into your eyeview from the closeness, you beamed up at Rhaegar.

With a smile similar to your own, he was pleased to see your enthusiasm. Dragging his long slender fingers along your hairline, causing a small shiver to run down your spine as you sink further into the gentle caress. You feel the tickle of his breath as his nose presses against your scalp, savoring your familiar scent.

“Dear sister,” He chuckled. After another moment, he pulled back to get a better look at you, still cupping your back. “It hasn’t been so long since our last meeting? You hold me as if you’ve suffered my absence.”

“I? Tell me, how does my perfume smell? Since you’ve taken to smelling me like a hunting dog. But no, of course it is I clutching on to you.”

You roll your eyes, smoothing the already helplessly wrinkled material of your dress.

Smiling down at you, he skimmed the material of your skirts with a soft touch before stepping back to give you space.

“You smell of the outdoors and sweat, I didn’t know you could find that in a bottle. I was under the impression girls preferred to smell sweet and nice.” He chuckled.

A scoff escapes you as Rhaegar practically tells you that you reek from here to the high heavens above. You bring the ends of your hair to your nose, only proving your brother’s point further. You scrunch your face in disgust, “good gods!” The sudden feeling how dirty you were making itself more apparent than before, the reality of days upon days of travelling becoming clear.

What you would do for a soak in a bath.

“Don’t be dramatic, I only jest. It smells like you after a day in the sun. Raw, real.” Rhaegar said in earnest to fix his words as you began to feel the nonexistent prickles of crawling and dirt hiding between fingernails, tresses, and fabrics.

“That’s not the flattery you think it is.”

Wanting to get away from the displeasure this was clearly causing you, Rhaegar attempted to switch the topic.

“Or is it you who doesn’t know how to accept the attention?”

The notion of attention did little to please you. In fact, the idea of others' scrutiny -no matter the intent- irked you. Marrying you off wasn’t a concern yet and you were more than content to stay tucked away as long as you could. Courting, being pursued specifically, the thought made you feel like less of a dragon and more a gazelle being hunted down by a lion.

With a sigh, he doesn’t let you answer before posing another question. “How has everything been? How are you?”

Rhaegar was unfortunate to be on the receiving end of his own inquiry, the tidal wave of your grievances overriding anything you wished to say before.

“You’ve left me with no one to keep my company! Mother, as resolutely as she tries to conceal it, is more dull of energy as of late. I don’t wish to burden her with my presence.”

Jabbing a finger to his chest you muster your best stern expression, as hard as it may be when faced with the overwhelming relief of seeing your brother.

“And you have whisked away your good-wife Elia and my beloved niece Rhaenys away to Dragonstone. Leaving your poor sister behind! You’ve no right to speak on the utter disparity you’ve caused me.”

A little dramatic, but it was the least he deserved.

Brushing aside a loose strand of hair, your brother sighs in defeat at your accusations.

“I didn’t realize this was such an affront, you miss my wife and daughter more than me-“

“you don’t deserve my longing”

“-I recall days you would sit in the sun, hiding from your septa, while watching Ser Gerold and I spar. What happened to my sweet sister, hm?” Rhaegar quirked his brow.

“As I said, you turned heel and ran to Dragonstone.”

There was a relatively amicable tone to your voice, but also thinly veiled truth to your words.

Rhaegar retreated to Dragonstone with his lady-wife and daughter. You knew this was for the best, your fathers presence more unbearable by the day. That did not quell the jealousy which swelled in your chest at the fact your brother was able to just… leave.

Gesturing the table with a bounty of food from roast boar to the sweetest of honey cakes, he responds “Well, my sincerest apologies, sister. I have been assailed with my duties and did not realize my time away would be abandonment in your eyes.”

“Yes, you did.” You stared back as you took your seat, the mocking edge to your voice gone.

You want to let out a dry laugh, though the flagrant meal set in front of you proved to be more appealing. You settled for yet another roll of your eyes while reaching for a honey cake.

Both of you conversed in between your bites, Rhaegar’s being never demanding your usual refined conduct. All who were beholden to your brother could divulge he was not born with the innate dreadfulness your father King Aerys wielded like a weapon. You need not keep your noble bearings in discomfort, just as you did in your home, while you prattled on about all which has happened.

Rhaegar couldn’t stifle the question which itches at his throat. Catching your attention with the small clang, you meet his gaze with a raised brow.

“Nyke pāsagon kepa emagon… mirre se peace while nyke istan qrīdrughagon?” I trust father has kept the peace while I was away?

A part of you wanted to scoff at the question. He switches to the mother tongue because he knows that is not the case. Aerys Targaryen, the kind, doing anything towards keeping peace? Never.

“lo ondoso se dārys, ao imply se council, se udligon would iēdrosa sagon daor. Tywin teptan bē zȳhon gaomilaksir. Varys se rest hen zirȳ whisper naejot kepa. There is your answer,” you said lowly. if by the king, you imply the council, the answer would still be no. Tywin resigned as hand. Varys and the rest of them whisper in father’s ear.

Taking another bite, Rhaegar simply continues to look at you. “Dōrī ivestragī kepa, nykeā anyone, rȳbagon ao vestragon things raqagon bona. Gaomagon daor ȳzaldrīzes raqagon bona skori nyke’m daor konīr,” he reminded. Never let father, or anyone, hear you say things like that. Do not talk like that when I am not there.

“I’m well aware,” you retorted.

At two-and-twenty, your brother was seven years your elder. He had taught you many things, read to you the histories of your family, spoke to you in the mother tongue, and always played your favorite games with you. It was a sum of nine years before your mother’s womb would fruitfully grow large with child again, birthing a second living son.

A brother who you loathed to leave behind. Always finding yourself bringing the boy wherever you went with commitment rivaling that of the nursemaids in his service. You loved Viserys dearly, however there was no one you could trust more than Rhaegar. Your brother shared the understanding of what a child of five years could never comprehend, what everyone whispered throughout the seven kingdoms of King Aerys’s waning mind since the incident of 277 A.C.

“Defiance of Duskendale” the maesters have dubbed it, you recalled.

“It angers me. All of them I mean,” you piped up.

Tilting his head, he waits in expectation for you to carry on. Setting down your fork, empty plate cleaned of the honeycake you so eagerly served yourself, you take to running your fingers through the ends of your tresses while chewing your lip.

“It is plain as day to see father becomes more and more unstable. Now, the only man who kept everything running is sitting on his rock on the other end of Westeros. This tourney is the grandest the kingdoms have seen in… decades, yet he is not here. Don’t you find that strange?”

Changing to High Valyrian, you continue. “Pōnta udrāzma isse zȳhon īlva dārys rūsīr perzys. Zȳhon zūgagon mērī bē se ziry issa.” You gritted through your lightly clenched teeth, pale lilac eyes meeting Rhaegars. They all rule in his stead while our king plays with wildfire. His paranoia only grows and it scares me.

The prince gives a weary breath and his eyebrows pinch into an expression which says do not push this any further.

“The council is made up of ambitious men who have served loyally. Some before you were even born. And as for Tywin, don’t worry yourself. Matters of the kingdoms aren’t worthy of your attention, I'm keeping an eye on things for all of us. Have faith.”

“I’m not a child anymore, I don't need to be shielded. This isn’t a matter of having faith or not, it’s about our king.”

You sighed. Flexing your fingers then curling them into a fist. “Syt nyke se Tywin, yn nyke vēdros kepa’s ñuhoso hen udrāzma tolī.” For gods sake I despise Tywin, but I hate father’s way of rule more.

You spoke your grievances to Rhaegar not in hopes of change, but as a younger sibling looks to their elder in confidence. He always had a certain melancholy which softened his eyes whenever he thought too deeply on matters far from his control. It was always then you would find him plucking at the silver strings of his harp with heavenly grace.

At Rhaegar's grim and tight lipped expression, you sigh, deciding to drop the matter entirely.

“... Let us move past this, it sours my mood without need. Tell me brother, are you prepared for the joust?”

The next day had come and gone, far less plain than the last. You spent your afternoon clinging to Rhaegar's side, only separating when stolen away by Lord Whent’s mellow daughter and her companions. You had been patiently listening to one girl or another chatter on about the events of the day, excitement for the tourney, giggles of the handsome participants who milled about.

You had little familiarity in how to comport yourself around those your own age. Your presence felt more oppressive than graceful to the delightment which buzzed among the girls, like a shadow tacking on awkwardly placed commentary in attempts to compensate. However much you desired to be aligned with the rest, it had not been enough to make up for the clumsy interaction, ending in you retreating back to the safety you found in your solitude.

Though, it hadn’t been for long as you were called away later in the evening to tend to your social duties in feast. Only this time, you sat at ease in the presence of your dear-sister Elia Martell while Rhaegar was off gods know where.

Every Lord and Lady of the seven kingdoms was present, the echoes of laughter ringing loudly in your ears. It was a wonder Lord Whent was able to foot the hefty bill such an event would cost.

It was joyous and bright and beautiful.

Your father always had a talent for dashing away lovely things.

Like being submerged in a tub of water which had long gone cold, a hush fell over the hall unnervingly. A chill went down your spine as the king entered, muttering unintelligibly while dragging forth. His nails -claws- picked at the putrid sores lining his skin from the obsessive scratching.

All those he passed bowing low to the king while that gods awful smile graced his face, his warped glee only came before something cruel.

It was only a moment after a boy no older than five-and-ten was beckoned forward that unease crept into your heart. He was tall, broad for his age with a flowing golden mane and eyes a shining verdant hue. He wore gleaming armour which only served to enhance the elegance of knighthood he possessed.

Jaime Lannister.

He marched with dignity, anticipation pushing him step by step to the menacing king. When he knelt before King Aerys, you caught sight of the pride which fired behind his eyes, tilting his head down.

Your breath seized as Ser Gerold Hightower waited at a distance, white fabric clutched between his fingers.

Your father was descending into madness, however, he was most skilled at kindling other’s ire. He had no sense of loyalty, no sense of gratitude to Tywin Lannister for the years he spent in service of the crown. But this? Would he really dare to rob the proud Lannister of his legacy?

King Aerys chose this place for a reason. Settled this festering enmity in the eyes of all those who mattered in the realm, to make a great show of the young knights investiture.

Jaime was the same age as you if your memory serves you correctly. With a profuse sense of certainty, you concluded that Aerys meant to replace the vacancy left by the sleeping lion Ser Harlan Grandison with a roaring one.

Your innards twisted at the thought of someone so young made to swear an oath to protect and honor your father of all people. It was a lamentable thing with so much life left ahead of him.

Jaime was in high spirits now, no doubt. But he would learn quickly what this really was.

As Jaime was raised by Ser Gerold, white cloak strapped on to his armor-clad form the crowd lighted with noisy jubilation. The sound of loud clapping and cheers for the new Kingsgaurd.

There was nothing to cheer, it was a shame really. But in the presence of everyone at your table, you clapped at the farce nonetheless.

The rest of the afternoon had turned out pleasant. After ravaging the banquet before you, you danced with several people much to your amusement. Two comely lesser lords, your brother Rhaegar, and finally kind Baelor Hightower.

Of course, such good spirits could never be maintained with your fathers nefarious plans are allowed to run amuck. His intentions unraveled before night's end. Your handmaids were in the process of freeing your tightly bound hair from its intricate stylings when you received word you were summoned to appear before the king.

You did not like being in the presence of your father without Rhaegar or your mother, the mere thought made your heart patter a bit faster in disquietment. Even so, you did as you were bid and made your way.

The weather was still pleasant during the dark hours to help ease your senses. You entered the courtyard to be met with the sight of your snarling father, Ser Gerold Hightower, and the newly appointed Ser Jaime Lannister.

The three turned to look at you as you approached. The formers calmly watching on compared to the pinched brow Jaime dawned. It only took a few hours for him to sour.

Dipping into a low curtsy in front of your father you speak a short “Your grace” and turn to his companions. Tipping your head to Ser Gerold who offers a small smile and then to Ser Jaime who merely returns the gesture.

The young lion's shoulders were set back, he stood with a strong posture. With an impressive stature he dwarfed your fathers hunched form, almost making Aerys look little.

But you knew better than that. Jaime was a boy and your father was a king, no amount of poise would change that.

Your father gnashed his teeth like a dog before waving you forward. With unsure steps you dawdled towards the king. The chatter of the bugs in the grass and the wisps of wind hitting your ear went silent, all of them going mute to take in the sight before them.

Your mind buzzed trying to find what purpose you could serve which warranted your fathers summons. For he scarcely regarded your existence, calling for an audience with you could only be an ill-omen. He had anger and control for Queen Rhaella, delusions of betrayal for Rhaegar, and shallow contentment for his spare heir Viserys. But for you, his only daughter, there was not rage or joy, nor was there sorrow. It was indifference which swirled in his plum colored irises when they met yours.

Though, when you found yourself dry out of luck, occasionally something else would cloud those misty, bloodshot eyes like now. Thrill for finding a use for his “unremarkable” spawn.

Aerys wrapped his bony fingers around your arm when you were close enough. The mere sight of the scabs on his sickeningly pale skin against yours made a vile repulsion wrack your body, as if in defiance of your own blood's touch.

“Come girl!” Aerys barked, yanking you forward, cross at your slow-going pace.

Stumbling to his side, the show of force causes you to choke on your breath. You scramble to even your footing on the soft grass, now directly in front of Jaime. You could feel Aerys’s nails prickle at your arm, like needles about to pierce your skin.

The Lannister’s eyes widened briefly before his expression went tight.

“He’ll win no glory here. He’s mine now, not Tywins, he’ll serve as I see fit! I am the king and he will obey.” Aerys declared with a derisive edge.

“Tywin wanted union between you and my daughter,” His hand began to dig in. You winced, and though your gaze met Ser Gerolds, the both of you pointedly turned a blind eye. You knew better than to interfere, lest you wish for worse than discomfort.

“Said the same for that sister of yours with Rhaegar! You know what I told him? I told him I'd never marry one of mine to a servant’s whelp.” Aerys’s lip curled into a sneer.

“I’ll have you swear your vows just as he wanted. Yes. Not to wed, but as her sworn shield.” He cackled feveredly.

You knew your father had scorned Tywin by rejecting two marriage proposals. It wasn’t as if you had been upset to not marry Jaime, you had been a child at the time. But your fathers pride on the matter always flummoxed you. It had been a key strain on the relationship between the former friends and a pointless one at that. You were a princess, an important piece for arranging favorable political matches between the crown and other great houses. And which other family could match the fortune and army of the Lannisters?

The thought of a life on Casterly Rock skittered through your mind fleetingly. You’d have a wardrobe of the finest crimson silks, babes with tendrils the same color of beaten gold as Jaime, and above all else; you would have been far away from King's Landing.

Instead, here you were. A conduit to this folly as a means to further spite the former Hand. Jaime’s jaw clenched as he looked to be doggedly resisting the urge to counter the degradation.

Without thinking your mouth moves before you can stop it. “Your grace I hardly think that’s necessary. Ser Jaime would be better suited to other duties, surely?” you blurted.

One scathing glare from Aerys causes you to clam up and go still. “Shut up, girl. You are not here to give your opinion on the matter, you will take any knight I give you,” he snapped, causing you to jerk away. To your luck, his vicious gaze had settled back on to Jaime instead of tightening his grip on your wrist.

The young knight hadn’t gotten the chance to say a word about the new task he was presented, nor would he when Aerys continued his rampage.

“The boy will do just as his father does. He will gratefully serve the crown. It’s in his blood to serve, just like that damn Tywin.”

Jaime sucked his teeth, eyes narrowing in offense. The king knew nothing of paying attention to others. While Aerys continued to be the sole person to find this situation amusing, Ser Gerold almost imperceptibly nudged Ser Jaime, a gesture meant to remind him of his place.

The Lannister’s sight slid to you. You drew in a breath as he witnessed a scene he had no right to. Puffing out your chest, you turn your cheek.

After a beat Jaime’s words came, “If that’s what you command, your grace,” he said with contempt.

“It is. One scratch on her and you’ll see what happens. Let’s see if you’re as good as your father says.”

The king looked to you with hazy purple eyes and yellow tinted teeth which grinned at you. Nodding along cautiously, eager to wrench yourself free as quickly as you could, you gave a tightlipped smile in response. “Thank you father. I’m sure this will be-” You’re interrupted as Aerys throws away your arm, scratching the length of it as a result of the overgrown nails.

“Away with you both! I won’t hear a word of you participating in the tourney boy, you will stay your post.”

You staggered forward at the unexpected force, but nonetheless, felt lighter being out of arms reach from your father.

“You have my gratitude, your grace.”

You curtsied and without bothering to wait for a response you hurry away with remarkable speed, uncaring to the way your shoes sink into the soft dirt. You wanted to rip the damned things off of your feet and sprint to Rhaegar, weep of your father’s callous nature and unforgiving touch. In spite of the urge, you’d have no sense to do that. Rhaegar could not do anything.

Instead, once you’d put a sizable distance between yourself and the courtyard, you pressed your back to the stone wall with a huff. In the quiet hallway, your sadness washed away with the anger that simmered beneath.

The steady drip of water leaked from gods know where. It splashed into a puddle two paces in front of you, yet another sign of what had been done to this place so long ago.

Targaryen monarchs had a tendency to do as they saw fit here, the half-seared towers which stood on these grounds bearing the marks of Balerion and Aegon I three-hundred years later. It was said that the stone had flowed like lava, red and hot, roasting Haren the Black, his sons, and his ironborn. Haranhall had once been mighty, now reduced to something that half-resembled a keep, and half-resembled a dilapidated relic. A reminder on how all of Westeros was brought to its knees.

But your father was no Aegon nor were his reasons as rational.

You didn’t know how a king was meant to act, but surely it wasn’t like this? The greatest Targaryen monarchs had been wise, prudent, and merciful when need be. The dragon kings of old like Daeron the Good or Jaehaerys the Conciliator, now they were true kings.

Crows squawked outside, the cracks in the walls carrying the sound through the stone. Harrenhal was riddled with ghosts if the stories were to be believed. It was not well kept here, and the groans and creaks the castle made would almost fool you into believing the myths.

If Haranhall had ghosts, it would be spirits who despised the blood of the dragon, surely? It was the Valyrian invaders who brought about their demise. But would it only be the dead within these halls who wanted to purge your family from this place?

Will Rhaegar go down as one of the greats when he ascends, you mused suddenly.

The people would sing songs of the noble son of Aerys. It will be a joyous day, you think. When the crown is placed upon his brow.

No more than a brief instant had gone before the metallic clink of steel veered closer. You snapped to attention and turned to the noise.

“Ser Jaime.” You called upon being intruded on.

His lips curled into a small, sharp smile; akin to the blade which rested at his hip. Yet his emerald iris’s did not hold the glimmer of pride you saw during the feast when he was raised as a white cloak. They didn’t reflect anything in particular really.

“Princess,” he greeted back.

As he stood in front of you, you became very aware of the fact you stood before a Lannister in an undone state. No jewelry or rouge on your lips or accessories decorating your freed silver locks, you must look plain to a golden lion.

After all, the Lannisters are a family of finery and expensive tastes. You had seen the way Cersei had been styled when she was at court with Tywin.

“You ran off quickly. I’d be a rather poor protector if I lost you already,” he said dryly. His comment went without reply leading to an awkward silence.

Gods be good this felt like the times when you’d find yourself in the company of his sister. Clipped words and feeling those beady eyes on you whenever she thought your attention was elsewhere. You don’t think the girl liked you very much and to her discredit she wasn’t skillful at hiding it.

You wondered if Jaime was close to her. You can’t imagine someone being fond of that harpy, but if it was anyone, it would be the one she shared a womb with. It may even be that Ser Jaime was similar in character.

You really hoped that wasn’t the case.

“Well you’ve found me. It wasn’t too much of a struggle I hope? It should be well within your abilities as a kingsguard. If you don’t fare well here I can’t imagine how you’d manage in the Red Keep,” you unintentionally snarked. When his jaw ticked you realized your words may have come too blunt.

“Rest assured I'm competent enough. I must say it’s fascinating you're able to gauge the ability of a knight. Perhaps you can give me some advice tomorrow, you seem so knowledgeable on these things.” Jaime’s voice was even when he responded, but a simpleton could decipher the petty sarcasm.

Your visage morphed to hold a twinge of shock. You didn’t mean it like that. It was then you discerned that Jaime not only looked like Cersei, but his personality reflected the same arrant nonsense as her. Were you to be made its victim whenever someone with those awful golden locks came forth?

Luckily for him, your pity, as a result of the show the king had put on, outweighed any annoyance you felt so you wouldn’t judge him too harshly for this. Spinning the ring on your finger, the ruby embedded in the metal, you stare him down. The once smooth and cool band now warm from your constant fidgeting, tugging your skin with the motion of each turn.

The flames danced on the walls while lighting the way, warding off the shadows shrouding the halls of Harrenhal. You felt sluggish as the dread of being called upon ebbed away, leaving only exhaustion and impatience to sink into your soft mattress in its wake.

Huffing, you let your arms drop to your sides and give Jaime an expectant look.

“I don’t know how knights do things in the Westerlands, but here, when the hour is late and a princess is tired, she’s escorted back to her room.”

A beat of silence.

“Well then, we should be off to your chambers princess,” he replied as his eyes narrowed.

“We should.”

“Right.”

Clearing your throat, you whip around to go in the direction of your chambers. You listened to your own footsteps out of sync with Jaimes. The click of your pinchy shoes and then his own heavier footfalls, high brown boots hitting the floor agitatedly.

He lagged behind in silence. Gods was the silence oppressive. It ruled with an iron-fist and you dared not defy it. You had not a single idea on how to break the dull overtone, nor a resolute decision on if it was wise to break it at all.

Compulsively, and instinctually, you fiddle with the jewelry on your finger again. Side to side, up and down, gliding it to your fingertip. A beautiful piece gifted to you, which you greatly enjoyed admiring.

It made you feel almost prideful, almost strong. No difference between staring at your dainty ruby ring and the rubies Rhaegar had encrusted into his armor.

…

Armor. Knights wore armor.

The most skilled knights were raised as white cloaks. Kingsguard.

Jaime was a Kingsgaurd. Jaime was also behind you, quiet as ever.

Oh how you hated this type of quiet. And hated how your mind led you back to it.

Unable to tame your curiosity, you peer over your shoulder slowly. You had tried to be inconspicuous, but the Lannister’s attention had already been on you. His eyelids were heavy as the muscles of his jaw constricted with tension.

Oh.

You would have turned right back around if not for the distinct chime of metal echoing out, the subsequent lack of weight on your forefinger.

“No!” you called, as if that would will that damned thing back to you.

The ring hit the floor and rolled away with such speed it was as if you had scorned it. At the midway point between two warm bodies, it began to spin and spin until it rotated a final time and unnervingly plopped onto the stone.

Unsure on whether it was the mortification of being so frazzled at being caught by Jaime, or your newfound aptitude for making a mess of things, you don’t think before pouncing.

And neither did Jaime.

It was not your gem which you made contact with, but the back of your knight's hand. His bare knuckles bit into the meat of your palm, flesh-to-flesh. Though you hurtled towards him, you had just enough control to narrowly avoid bumping headlong into his armored torso. Pushing off of his fist, you instead, and ungracefully might you add, fall flat on your rear, your billowy skirts breaking your landing.

“Shi- blast it. Are- are you okay?” he asked in what you perceived to be worry.

Winded, a soft whimper left you as you hurriedly nodded. Mustering your courage, you glance upwards at Jaime.

The torchlight casted a long shadow of him over you. Even knelt like this he loomed overhead, his shoulders broad, the pauldron and breastplate enhancing his size. The knight had made no move backward, too shocked to realize most like, and as a result you were able to feel the puffs of his breath ever so faintly hitting your cheeks. It was cooling compared to the heat that began to prickle beneath.

“I’m… fine,” you assured him. Your eyes traced the whole of the Lannister before settling back on to his hand which was clenched into a fist. Your eyebrows shoot skyward and you straighten yourself back up.

“My ring. Is it ruined?” you queried calmly.

Reminded of the jewelry in his grip, he brings it close to his face and examines it closely. He shakes his head as he reaches out to your outstretched palm, grazing the soft skin and dropping the metal band on top.

“Not a scratch, rubies are tough. You could drop them off a set of stairs and they’ll be fine, I know from personal experience,” Jaime added before rising.

Turning the ring once and then twice over, you slide it back to its rightful place. Your distraction was cleared when in the periphery of your vision Jaime offers you a hand. It was steady and sure, unlike your mind which was buzzing at the gesture. You’ve never been one to react quickly, not the way Jaime seemed to. But his hand was right there, in front of you, expectantly bidding yours forward.

And who were you to refuse?

Placing your hand in his, he pulled you up in a single swift motion, his strength unwavering as evidenced by the relative ease in which he was able to hoist your weight up.

Jaime’s grip remained on yours for a moment until he was sure you had steadied yourself, the gesture leaving a warm feeling in your chest.

Pulling away you cautiously look at him.

“You didn’t have to do that… thank you, Jaime.”

He shrugged in response. “It was closer to me, no need for thanks. I almost knocked you over, and I don't think his grace would be happy if I broke your nose on the first night,” he said plainly.

Your expression fell slightly before you hummed in agreement. After a moment more, you turn and continue the journey to your chambers.

This wasn’t an arrangement you would have chosen for yourself, but it would have to do. If your father wished to wound Tywin’s pride more than he already has, then that is what would happen.

But it was still a shame that a knight of five-and-ten needed to be wronged in the process, no matter if he bleeds Lannister red and gold.

Thinking on your feet, you discern a topic that may pique the young lion's interest.

“To be knighted by Arthur Dayne is an honor many have never experienced… if I may, how did it come to be that a squire impressed a knight so revered?” You asked slowly and suddenly.

Jaime’s eyes met yours as he shook himself from his stupor. He thought on your question for a moment before settling on an answer.

“I suppose saving Lord Crakehall from meeting the hammer of an outlaw would do it. A show of valor.” He stated with an easy bearing, the tension dissipating from his shoulders, albeit slightly.

You made a hm sound at his words. The crown’s victory over the Kingswood Brotherhood was hard-fought. Thieves the whole lot of them, harassing all who tried to make the journey through the Kingswood. A true hindrance to court in the Red Keep when all those of high birth could not travel such an imperative route.

“I recall how much of a nuisance they were. Rhaegar would speak about all the trouble the brotherhood gave. Satisfy my wonders Ser Jaime, was the smiling knight as unsettling as they say?”

“The princess wishes to hear battle stories? Such scary tales may be a bit much for you before sleep.” He grinned pompously.

His arrogance was tangible as he dared insult you after you made the effort to converse. You didn’t take him for a presumptuous type, nor someone who feared girls having night terrors over the mere mention of a skirmish. Your face began to twist in vexation and that seemed to amuse the Lannister, eliciting a laugh from him. Before you could begin to speak your scoldings, he fell into step beside you.

“I jest, princess. Apologies, I suppose that’s not something you enjoy.” His smile remained, displaying the perfect row of teeth. It’s your turn to grin incredulously and scoff.

“I suppose not ser. I am a steely girl, could you not tell? I never smile nor laugh, and I only chuckle when I see children trip and fall.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a statement in itself.

“And I most certainly don’t laugh at things that aren’t funny.” Your nose upturned as you said this.

His face mocked a look of scandal as the two of you approached the entrance to your chambers. “People think I'm very humorous. But I suppose I’ll have to hold my tongue around the realms terror from now on.”

“For fear of my cruelty, surely.”

Quirking his lip upwards, he looks at you from the corner of his eye. “Surely.”

You stood outside of the door, a prudent gap between yourself and Jaime as the conversation died down. He wet his lips in a quiet motion and crossed his arms.

“The smiling knight was mad, with a name that fit him. I only crossed swords with him for a brief time, but it was eerie. Ser Arthur handled him fair and just.”

You answered with a nod and another silence ensued. Pushing open the door, you entered and twisted your body back to the Kingsgaurd whose gaze had remained firmly on yours. He did not appear to be wholly there, part of his mind held captive by whatever troubles plagued him.

“Will you… be standing guard tonight?” you questioned quietly.

Jaime’s brow rose as if the answer was obvious. “I was commanded to ‘stay my post’, was I not?”

You felt your cheeks warm at his blunt words, a reminder of why the knight was here in the first place.

“Yes... yes you were. Must have um- slipped my mind.” You mumbled in embarrassment. Without another glance, you bid the knight a hasty good night and grabbed the door handle, closing it with a slam.

After a moment, the noise of shifting armor sounded throughout the empty hall indicating Ser Jaime settling in for his duty.

You do not know why you went to sleep with a feeling of guilt in your heart when thinking of the Lannister outside your door.

The tourney of Harrenhal would be regarded as one of the most eventful for years to come. Throughout the ten days of celebration, your ward was at your side from the time you woke up and dutifully guarding your door until you succumbed to sleep. Despite his unfamiliar and constant presence the Lannister would often be caught in the tangle of his own thoughts, never giving you more than a wisecrack before beginning to brood again. As both the melee and joust progressed his mood only soured further.

Boredom has once again got the best of you as you move to open the windows again. You only pushed them open a little bit. Just to take a peek. The thoughts of your golden knight getting the better of you when you searched for his hard to miss stature. Low and behold, the knight was not far. Even so, he did not notice you as he was absorbed in a conversation with his fellow brother of the kingsguard Ser Lewyn.

What a fine protector he is. Very attentive.

It was not only his spirit turned foul as the tourney wore on. You scowled at the thought once more, your body swaying with carriage as the sounds of the gravel crunching under the wheels sounded throughout the empty space.

You had cheered your brother on as he beat Lord Royce, ever the loud supporter. You had sat yourself next to Elia, the two of you speaking of one thing or another. When Rhaegar defeated Brandon Stark, your heart swelled with pride. He was talented with lance and it always brought you joy to watch him bring glory to your house. The days had passed and the dragon prince unhorsed Ser Arthur Dayne in the next match, earning a boisterous roar of approval from the crowd.

On the final day of the tourney, Prince Rhaegar faced Ser Barristan Selmy in the final tilt of the joust. You had gripped the princess's hand as his horse charged forward. Rhaegar had emerged victorious to the joy of many but when presented with the queen of beauty’s laurel, your noble brother trotted his horse past his wife, the delicate beauty, Elia Martell. Instead, laying the crown of blue roses onto the Lady Lyanna Stark's lap.

He had the gall to look into your eyes, to give pause as his gaze flickered between you and his lady-wife, the usual melancholy written over his face replaced by something resolute. He had looked at you as if already asking forgiveness for the wrong he was seconds away from committing, looked at the winter roses in his grasp, and trotted to her.

The memory of Elia’s hand going slack against yours threatened to bring a frown to your lips yet again. The royal departure from Harenhall followed the next morning and you tactfully avoided Rhaegar, you did not know what you would say to him.

Your brother whom you loved so dearly, causing so much strife. And for what? You didn’t wish to understand his reasoning. Not now, at least.

The motion of the wheelhouse coming to a halt elicits a sigh from you. Yet another break to feed and water the horses. Scooching over, you unlatch the metal holding your window closed and push the wooden panels ajar. The feeling of fresh air gently blowing at your face calmed you. Knights and servants begin to dismount and go about their tasks. You poke your head out a bit further and are quickly spotted by your knight only a few paces behind this time.

“Lovely day out princess,” Jaime called, guiding his mount towards you. You had not made so much as a peep since entering the carriage, opting to sleep away your festering displeasure instead. Your face heated at the thought of your ill-mannered behavior, though there was no use in retreating now.

Steadying yourself on the windowsill you bid him a good morning, mustering a small smile. “It is a fine day. A shame it must be spent travelling.”

Jaime’s horse whinnied and fussed at the stop causing him to tighten his grip on the reins.

“Struggling are you?” you chortled. “Be still horsey!” Pushing yourself practically half-way out the window, you outstretch your palm with a wide smile. In quick reaction, the knight’s eyes widened as one of his arms untangled itself from the leather to steady you.

“Careful!”

Waving away his hand, you land yours to the steeds muzzle. You cooed and rubbed at its fur, “Oh enough of that. You needn’t worry, I think it likes me better anyways.”

Jaime slowly lowered his suspended hand to focus on steadying the beast so it didn’t threaten your balance. “There’s a simpler way to do this, you know.” He huffed.

“This way seems to work just fine.” You giggled as the horse blew a heavy breath, giving it a final pat.

“Just step out. You’d feel better if you didn’t lock yourself away in your little box. The air is fresh, the company is good. Great, some may say.”

Your gaze fell upon him as you pulled your body back into your seat, “You attempt to coax a princess out from the safety of her carriage?” Your brow lifting teasingly.

He shrugged and tapped at the hilt of his sword. “Oh you wound me. I prefer ‘suggest’ and if it's thieves or murderers you fear out here, I feel hurt you think I'm incapable of handling them.”

You could not tell Jaime you did not have any trepidations to unsavory characters, the area was swarming with guards, and not to mention the finest swordsman in Westeros prowl about to stifle any worries. You couldn’t tell him it was your gloomy and pensive state caused by an act you yourself didn’t commit.

“I don’t doubt your ability,” you respond, purple eyes flickering between his sharp face and crown of golden tresses which seemed glisten in the sun's light.

“In that case I assure you my company is far superior than the walls you’ve been staring at. For starters, I can actually respond.”

You let slip a soft, amused laugh. Jaime’s face swirled with a realization you couldn’t discern before lifting his voice again. “See. Now do us both a kindness and join me.”

“... A kindness? And what do you suffer from today Ser Jaime? Too much fresh air or too many tales of glorious battle from Prince Lewyn.” You remarked sarcastically.

“Keeping an eye on me now? You know that’s my job, right?” He diverted from the question.

“You make it sound as if I was tracing your every step! It was a glance, that's all. I just happened to see you.” You would vehemently deny searching out for him, even if it was fueled by curiosity.

Making a noncommittal mhm sound, he pauses.

“I’m…” He takes a breath before covertly casting a glance to a group of knights, a familiar flash of the Kingsgaurd golden armor in the center of them. “You’ll feel better. Just a quick walk about.”

Perhaps your feelings were not so concealed.

“Well I will need help getting down.” You relented.

You pulled the wooden panels closed again and outside you hear the soft thud of boots hitting the ground. Grabbing your skirts, you open the door to Jaime giving you that smug look of victory you’ve begun to think never leaves his face.

“I’ll make sure those bandits don’t get you.”

You take the hand he offered, “I would hope so.”

You landed with a thud. Jaime rescinds the limb and quickly juts his head towards the back of the procession. Jerking the reins of his horse forward, the knight simply gestures you to walk in front of him saying a quick “Come on.”

As the two of you progress further back, he hands off his steed to a squire to be tended to. The two of you continued on and it felt good to be outside. You’ve always been partial to a bit of sun to lighten the mood. The two of you aimlessly talked for some time before the familiar figure of Ser Gerold came into view. Your attention ripped away from Jaime as you smiled at the older knight.

“Ser Gerold! A pleasure to see you.” Your brighter disposition bled into your words from the little time you had spent outside already. The lord-commander gave a bow, then nodded in acknowledgment to your ward.

“The pleasure is mine princess. I trust the journey has not been too hard on you?” He questioned.

“Dull. I eat away my boredom with whatever remains of the honeycakes i’ve bought from Haranhall. I sleep hoping that when I wake up we’ll be at the city gates, but whenever I do, it’s yet another break.” You complained.

Jaime snorts at this, to which you turn to him with a raised brow. What could be so comical about your utter suffering!

“And who was it who wanted to stay in the ‘safety of her carriage’ again?” He fired. You orient yourself towards the knight with a sneer, crossing your arms.

“That was a jest!”

“I thought you did not jest?” He teased back, a subtle reference to the words you spoke many nights ago of having a ‘steely disposition.’

Had this been over a century prior and you had been blessed to claim a dragon of your own, like many of your ancestors before, you’d forgo travel by wheelhouse entirely. You’d sit atop your mount and leave Ser Jaime in the dust. He may try to shout his taunts from the ground, then.

“You’re right, twas mere banter then. Even the cruel must humor their knights.” You declared.

Ser Gerold had watched on in amusement at the back and forth, at the mention of cruelty he chimed in. “You have a sweet spirit, my lady. Don’t let this lad tell you otherwise.”

Bashfully, you look at the older knight. “If you reveal my secrets, how am I meant to instill fear into my sworn shield?”

“Fear is a bit of a stretch-” Jaime’s protest was interrupted by a horn being blown, sounding the departure of the royal party.

Ser Gerold responded with ease to the call, bowing once more. Before withdrawing, looking to the both of you.

“A pure heart isn’t easily hidden, princess.” He nodded his head towards the front. “Take her back. We’ll be on our feet a few more hours before we reach Kings Landing.”

Jaime dipped his head in agreement and the two of you watched as the white bull disappeared into the distance. Your mood darkened in an instant and suddenly you regretted playing the game of cat and mouse with Jaime, precious time that could have been spent outside instead.

“Must we go back? It was just starting to get fun.” You huffed.

Your knight surveys the area, the rush of everyone eager to keep pace with the schedule, a timely arrival back home.

“Well we can’t leave until you're tucked away. Come on, it won’t be so bad, not much longer left.” He conferred.

“Won’t be so bad. If you can lie and say that, I can say I'm the king of the world,” you grumbled.

“Then I would say your chariot awaits you, your majesty.” Jaime began to walk and you followed only after he shot you a questioning look.

Your eyes wandered from the people, the wide expanse of swaying grass on either side, various luggage being pulled around. That was until, of course, your gaze seemed to pull itself to one thing in specific whenever you let it.

You’d find a lovely plank of wood to catch your attention for a breaths length before roving over your knight's angular profile. His face looked as if it was carved from the finest slab of marble, honey colored curls to contrast.

House Lannister has stirred quite the reputation in the time of Tywin’s rule over the Westerlands. Of course, their exorbitant wealth remained as it always has, but the influence, that was something the Lord Paramount brought back himself if the stories of House Reyne’s demise were any proof.

Then there were his golden twins. Both who carried themselves with arrogance, majestic like the lion of their sigil. You think you would credit the late Lady Joanna more so than Tywin for that, even if you couldn’t remember how she looked having only met her once, a time ago. You knew she was supposed to be quite the vision herself. She who had two comely children before passing away birthing the third. A dwarf you recalled.

You must have stared a moment too long as Jaime’s keen instincts alert him to your admiration. A faint smirk materializes on his face before his attention falls onto you.

“Something the matter? Or are you disappointed that the carriage sings your summons?”

Realizing you’ve been caught, you turn away with a scoff. “I’m simply radiating with merriment at the prospect, could you not tell?”

He chuckled and somehow even that sounded charming.

He must take after his mother, for none of Tywin Lannisters harsh severity lingers upon his face. You do not think he would be so dashing if he did.

No.

You chided your own musings. He was brooding and cocky and always responding with some clever quip to every damned thing you or anyone else has said the past ten days. Besides, no one can have an alluring laugh and if they could, it would most definitely not be a Lannister.

Opening the door for you, his watchful stare stayed locked until you were comfortably sat. After you tossed a cushion over your lap Jaime began to duck away, though before he could do so you called out.

“A timely rescue ser Jaime… you have my thanks.”

“I couldn’t leave a maiden in distress.” He grinned, sparing you one last glance before firmly closing the door.

Arrogant. As you stretched out your legs, creating your comfortable space, a wave of contentment washed over you at the thought. Your guilt forgotten for a short time, you leaned your head back in slight ease.

The wheelhouse began to move and minute by minute it pulled forward at a fixed pace. You sighed, the noise loud in the silence of your solitude.

It was far too quiet now. You preferred to be in Jaime’s presence rather than on your own, you realized. Even if you suspected he somewhat -perhaps wholly- resented his circumstances. He may be inconspicuous, but you were raised more to be more attentive than most, at least in seeing others discontent.

When the sound of hoofbeats approached closer, you waited a few moments. You pushed the windows open again. Making eye contact with the golden knight, he raises his brow in curiosity.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Resting your arms on the windowsill, you gave him a small grin. “Oh nothing. I just didn’t want to leave you without company again. My charitable act for the day if you will.”

And so it went, you yammered on for the hours remaining to your knight. His horse trotted alongside you until the city gates came into view.

Jaime Lannister was many things. He’s been told he was striking, a lively spirit, and had a knack for swordsmanship. Quick to anger and perhaps a bit headstrong according to others’ admissions. Most notably, he was son to Tywin Lannister and the heir to Casterly Rock.

At least he was.

He had been a fool to think his new position was based on merit. To think that he was so skilled to make it on to the Kingsguard at five-and-ten solely based on his, albeit impressive, prowess. He had been proud when Aerys called him forward and when Gerold Hightower raised him as a brother of the Kingsguard. To be in leagues with people like Arthur Dayne, Barristan Selmy, Jonothor Darry, Oswell Whent.

Until he saw that look in the king's eyes, glaring down at him like he was a possession. “He’s mine, not Tywin’s” Aerys had squaked. A tool to insult his father was all he was to the king he had realized.

Gods he wanted to rip the cloak from his shoulders, but the damage had already been done. Oaths were sworn.

Jaime rode along the kingsroad, horse going at a steady pace as he basked in the silence. He found himself contemplating often. Replaying that moment over and over and over again as if that would change a damn thing.

It wasn’t like him, but he couldn’t help it. Not when everything served as a reminder. His gold armor, the white cloak, and most importantly you.

You, the living and breathing embodiment of his new duty. You who was always outfitted in the black and red of your house, with all the jewelry one could need- almost entirely rubies from what he’d seen so far.

It reminded him of Rhaegar’s armor, the black breastplate adorned in the gemstone.

If that parallel was intentional, he’s sure you’re not fond of it now. Jaime had been too aggrieved to properly enjoy the tourney. As if the world (and the king) wished to twist the knife further, Jaime had been forced to accompany you to every tilt.

Too irritated to keep his gaze locked on either the tourney he was forced to sit out of, or the princess whose fault that was, he chose to rotate between the two. If he was feeling adventurous, he would look at the dirt collecting on his leather boots.

Though, it was hard to look away when Rhaegar pulled that stunt. Unexpected to say the least, Jaime knew little of the prince and less of Lyanna Stark.

What he did know was the heir to the iron throne seemed to have upset his sister, you had been in a particularly foul mood since the incident. He saw the way Rhaegar had looked at you before turning away. Where Rhaegar’s eyes left yours, Jaime’s didn’t.

Your face twisted into something akin to distress, lip quivering in gods know what, it was hard to not look.

The one who he was meant to protect with your silver hair and purple eyes, taking such heart in your brother's scandalous choices. How it must’ve stung for you to react in such a way, clutching on to the Dornish Princess’s hand as if that would soothe anyone being publicly humiliated so shamelessly. He wouldn’t know of your true feelings of course, just as your eyes had begun to narrow the wind had blown your hair in the way, obscuring his view.

Aerys Targaryen shared these physical characteristics with you, the reclusive hermit who hadn’t made any appearances until the tourney. The mad king who looked like a wraith in the flesh, with his near translucent complexion. The mere existence of the man diminishes the very traits Targaryens have prized over the plain Andalosi appearance for almost three centuries.

From where Jaime stood, Aerys looked like a drowned man washed up on the shore. Rotting and ghastly.

Targaryens had often been described with “otherworldly” qualities. After seeing his king, he wondered if those who wrote the accounts meant it in a backhanded way.

Jaime tried to shake his annoyance by taking a deep breath and letting his gaze wander to your carriage. He knew it was misplaced, childish even, but he didn’t know whether he resented you for merely being his responsibility or everything which surrounded you.

“Ser Jaime!” a voice yelled from behind. Jaime shifted in his saddle to watch as Lewyn Martell steered his horse into step with his.

Jaime squinted as the sun went into his eyes. “Ser Lewyn.” He nodded, curious as to why the knight was approaching him. Perhaps he’d be tasked with something other than tailing behind your wheelhouse. “What brings you up here, too dull in the back?”

“We’ve got a job to do, boy. Who gives a damn about bored.” Lewyn gruffly chuckled. He watches the man -a prince of Dorne- leisurely trot alongside him. Even he looked more regal than Aerys, spine as straight as the sword on his hip, thick black hair with a few grays tangled in falling down to the nape of his neck. He looked less aged than the white bull, but still much older than Jaime.

“I assume that means you’re not here for idle chatter then? A shame really, this is all beginning to be a bit repetitive. Grass and trees and more grass.” He began to ramble, letting his tongue go loose with nothing better to say.

Shaking his head, the knight sets his sights forward. “I wouldn’t call it idle, no. I do want to talk to you though.”

“Go on then.” Jaime nodded while focusing his attention on the Martell. Running his tongue over the front of his teeth, Lewyn looks around before meeting Jaime’s curious eyes. Tightening his grip on the reins, he juts his head to Jaime.

“You’ve been quiet, eh? Not much time for quiet when we get back to Kings Landing. The place is full of people who always want something from you, always something needed. Gerold told me you squired at Crakehall, wasn’t it?” He asked, the Dornish lilt clear in his words.

Jaime hummed in agreement, body swaying in his saddle.

“The city is no Crakehall. The Kingsgaurd is nothing like squiring. Tell me Lannister, what is it you see when you look at all of this?” Lewyn drawled.

Jaime quirked his brow and exhaled heavily, looking in front. “People, horse shit, luggage?” He began to list. What a redundant question to ask.

“Wrong.” Lewyn said resolutely. Gods, were knights going philosophical now?

This vaguely triggered memories of when his father used to ask these ridiculous things, as if he wanted to prove just how foolish Jaime could be at times if he didn’t answer with exactly what he wanted. To attack him, always saying that he didn’t have sense.

“What? Did you want me to say the green grass, the birds in the sky?” he couldn’t help but quip back.

His father would have told him he was being stupid. Lannisters aren’t stupid Tywin would shame him.

Side eyeing the younger, Lewyn fires back. “No need to get smart with me Ser Jaime, I only mean to understand why the cub neglects his duty. Still daisy fresh, yet tiring so early on. Don’t tell me our princess has worn you out already?”

Anger rises in Jaime at the belittlement from the older knight. It’s as if all people seemed to do as of late was kick shit at him. Neglecting his duty. You were still alive, were you not? Not a scratch on you, just as he was threatened to do.

“I’m a Kingsgaurd just as you are. I’m no cub.” Jaime glowered.

“And I am still talking.” Lewyn smirked, unbothered by Jaime’s critical look.

Dornishmen.

“I’ll tell you what all of this is,” Lewyn continued, making a circular motion, gesturing at all which surrounded them. “It’s all our duty. More specifically, that is your duty.” He pointed straight at the princess’s carriage.

Jaime’s grin was curt and dry, concisely communicating both mock amusement, and irritation. Because of course the constant reminder of you could not only be in his own head. No, he had to have outside voices blathering on about it as well.

“I haven’t forgotten, it’s near impossible to.You’ve yet to tell me what exactly it is i’m neglecting. The king made it clear-”

“You’re not listening,” the Martell interrupted. Slowing his steed to a stop, Lewyn blocked Jaime’s path forcing him to follow suit.

The Lannister’s eyebrows pinched together while his mouth was almost slack in both confusion and exasperation. Was he being… scolded?

“Respect the king, obey the king above all else, but that is not why you serve the princess, Lannister,” Lewyn said lowly. “You serve the princess because it is on your honor that she is protected, that she may seek your counsel when wanted.”

The two knights go silent for a moment as Lewyn looks at Jaime with a clear harshness to his features.

“When you took those vows you gave up your right to lands, titles, and legacy. You have a higher responsibility now.” His words smooth and unwavering.

What a mighty purpose it was to follow you around like some dog while you ate, shit, and slept. To ‘stay his post’ outside your door day in and out. Poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue, Jaime waits for Lewyn to continue his monologue.

“She’s our princess and the king has named you her sworn shield for whatever reason. She laughs and weeps and angers like any other girl. Don’t be fooled into thinking she needs no comfort, all men need comfort. Even if such sentiments go against your own needs.”

Jaime faltered at that. He was meant to keep you safe, not mother you. And what of his own needs, he himself didn’t know what his needs were anymore.

“I’ve kept her safe. I’ve done what she’s asked. What else is there that I could possibly do?” The Lannister questioned brusquely, holding back his impatience for either the answer to Lewyn’s cryptic words or the conversation to be done with entirely.

“She has a kind heart. A knight, a man, is meant to protect such things. That happens in plenty of ways. You’re a man of the Kingsgaurd now, what you feel and want for is an afterthought. Don’t forget that.” Lewyn’s eyes slid back to your carriage when he noticed motion coming from that direction. “Go. She grows bored.”

“What- wait! What do you…” Lewyn began to fall back, ignoring Jaime’s calls as he receded back in formation.

He would think about the anger simmering within him, but apparently that should be an “afterthought”.

He huffed and looked up ahead.

His “duty” was now poking her head out of the carriage restlessly, wheeling past the plains of dancing grasses. It was a rather mundane scene if he set aside the fact the focal point was a princess of the seven kingdoms.

He did not know much about you besides the fact that you were daughter of Aerys and sister to Rhaegar. All the fine beauty expected of a Targaryen, though nothing compared to his sister Cersei.

Jaime led his stallion forward on the beaten dirt path with no sense of urgency.

He had hardly found it in himself to try and strike up more than brief conversations with you the past fortnight. What could he even say to you? He doesn’t think you’d be all too eager to speak of fighting and weaponry nor hunting dogs and horseback.

Would he have to indulge you by listening to your rambles of the latest court gossip, or perhaps compliment one of your dresses for their opulence?

Was this what was expected of him? To entertain you?

In the distance, your eyes flutter closed to savor the wind which prickled at your skin while thinking you’ve gone undetected.

He had met you once, long ago. Jaime had only been a boy of six years, his father still hand. A tourney had been hosted in honor of Aerys’s tenth year sitting the iron throne. A small thing you had been.

Jaime couldn’t recall whether you had even once left your brother Rhaegar’s side. You were attached at the hip to the boy, leaving little opportunity for anyone to approach you. His mother Joanna had still been alive, a former lady-in-waiting to your own. She had ardently pushed her children to make nice with the pair of you.

He remembered trying to peer past your brother to look at you, wanting to see a princess with his own two eyes, but being too scared of the then thirteen year old Rhaegar to approach on his own. When he finally did get a glimpse of you, it had been hard to look away from someone with such a foreign color palette.

His memory failed to bring anything else to mind, besides the fact you scarcely said anything else besides the occasional comment to tack on to whatever Rhaegar led with.

The bashfulness of youth seemed to be long gone judging from what little time he had spent with you. There was always a passing word between the two of you, typically initiated by you. It was no use trying to draw some conclusion of who you were from times past. Not that he could if he tried.

He didn’t know you then, he didn’t know you now, and he still didn’t know how to take Lewyns oh so helpful advice.

Jaime had only Cersei as a reference to what noble lady’s took interest in. The problem was that Cersei would never want a knight to keep her company let alone speak to her. She had a fierce independence and he enjoyed her as such.

After all, it was with that independence she found her way back to him. Dressed as a serving girl at the inn on eel road.

A wonderful night, but an oversight on both their parts. The thought of her soft skin, her pink lips, it all caused a hazy cloud to shadow his mind. He shivered at the memory of how she had felt in his arms after so much time spent apart, only to be ripped from him once again.

He was in this predicament because he wanted to be closer to Cersei, only to be left alone in court with his father’s resignation as hand, as a result, bringing his twin back west.

His stubborn mind couldn’t imagine talking to another woman who wasn’t her. He didn’t know how to. To flatter and charm ladies of the court was one thing, but to spend so much time with one was another.

You didn’t seem like Cersei… and he couldn’t pretend like he truly cared for speaking with any girl who wasn’t his sister.

Was this the personal sentiment he was meant to brush aside? The desire to be peevish to everyone who tried to speak with him, including you?

Jaime couldn’t help but let out a chuckle watching you “secretly” peer around, as if you didn’t have the most identifiable appearance of anyone else here.

…

You… were good. And you were nothing like your father. Always trying in your own way. Quiet words growing louder when it was only the two of you, even if he wasn’t so willing to listen.

With a sigh, he shook his head and led his horse forward. Perhaps it was his turn to try, even if it was disingenuous.

Apparently this was his duty

“Lovely day out princess.” He voiced from a distance. He watched as you paused, and then smiled back at him.

Apparently this was a matter of his honor.

Much time had passed since the tourney at Harrenhal. The false spring had only lasted two turns before the winter had come back with vengeance. Though the outside was cold and bitter, your knight's company was welcomed as anything but. The temperature dropped, yet Jaime thawed.

No longer were there awkward stretches of silence, rather pleasant interactions to fill the spare time. You began to look forward to leaving your chambers, spending less time in your bed, and more time out and about. It was so sweet to have someone of your own, to have something comparable to a friend.

You sorely lacked companionship these days as if your circle could get any smaller. Where you gained a knight, it felt as if you had lost a brother in some regard. Since the tourney, Rhaegar seemed to be too preoccupied in his own world. In a moon's length, the only correspondence from Dragonstone you had received was when you were with your mother, containing that Elia found herself with child once more.

You worried for the princess, she had a difficult labor with Rhaenys. Though she loved her girl so fiercely, you worried how easily a second babe would come along. You had sent a raven, though not once did you think to include anything related to Rhaegar except your congratulations for the both of them. You would not use Elia to probe for information on your absent brother.

But where a bond with one brother suffered, the other continued to thrive. With familiar ease, you and your knight walked the route to the library to whisk Viserys away from his nursemaids and lessons to spend time with your beloved sibling.

“Gods where were you when I was younger. If I had someone like you, I would've gotten away with so much.” Jaime tittered.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” You asked incredulously. Jaime loved to chime in with one thing or another. You don’t know when this switch occurred but gods you're thankful for it. You’ve come to enjoy it very much in fact.

“When I was younger my father used to sit me down for hours! He would yell and scold me at a desk until my legs were numb and my eyes hurt. I’d always flip the letters, read too slowly according to him.”

“Aw no! I can see it now, you begging to go outside. Poor you.” You giggled. “But I do not interrupt his lessons that often! Besides, even if I did, would that be so bad.” You smiled.

“Would it be so terrible if he simply stayed a silly little boy?”

Jaime shakes his head slightly. “Not terrible. A little selfish maybe.”

“Well I’m no saint.”

Good thing you never claimed to be selfless. Viserys was your source of unfettered joy. Untouched by courtly intrigue and schemes, by your fathers hand. Just little Viserys with his big eyes and endless curiosities which made it all the easier to love him.

You pushed open the double-doors to the library and watched as Viserys’s head shot up immediately, as if he had been waiting for your entrance.

The sound of his book slamming closed causes you to startle and the prince ignores the objections of his teacher in favor of rushing towards you with unprecedented speed.

“Sister!” he shouted before crashing into your midsection, his arms wrapping around your waist as he craned his neck up to look at your face. You laughed, shining your brightest smile down to your younger brother and brought a hand down to his forehead to brush aside the unruly silver strands which threaten to block his view.

“Eager are you little brother? Perhaps I should leave you here to finish your book, hm?” You teased, to which you felt a thump on your side accompanied with a whine of protest.

“Please no! It’s boring, sister! I wish it no more.” Viserys continued. He was never one to be denied when it came to you and it manifested quite brattily at times. Once when he was younger, he had refused to let you retire for a nap after spending the entire afternoon with him. He had clung to your leg and shouted at any maids who tried to sway him away from you.

Viserys’s instructor took rapid steps towards the two of you with a scowl, used to this playing out by now but nonetheless annoyed you continued to pull away the prince from his lessons.

“Princess! If I may-” His tone was frustrated and loud before suddenly the sound of Jaime’s armor shifting became prominent. He interrupted the older man with a mocking voice.

“You may not. You should consider lowering your voice when you speak to the princess. I’d like to think one has their rights to spend time with their own kin, no? Unless you're staking your claim over the young prince, asserting control over the boy, hm? Is that it? Do you think your authority is greater than hers?” He had a mischievous smile as he continued to prattle on about disrespect and authority to the point the man flushed in anger. Nonetheless it shut him up effectively.

“No, of course not! But I-” Jaime raised his brow and stood up straighter, ready to open his mouth again to spew more nonsense gladly. Upon seeing this the man's shoulders go slack as he pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath.

“Apologies princess… just be sure to give us more time to effectively go over more material next time.” The teacher gritted in annoyance at Jaime’s spiel, not wanting to listen to the continuation.

You have to hold back the laugh which threatened to escape you. Hugging Viserys a little tighter, you graced the man with a sincere and smug smirk feeling emboldened by Jaime’s presence. “Why thank you. I’m glad that’s sorted. Now, excuse us, but we have much to do! Shall we be on our way, Viserys?” you asked, sparing the instructor one last glance before looking at the prince.

“Let's go already!” Viserys shouted before separating from you and charging forward through the open doors.

Whipping your head around, you yell after him. Without looking back, the boy keeps on running as if you were going to change your mind and leave him there instead.

Picking up your skirts, you rushed as fast as you could behind your younger brother with Jaime keeping pace on your right. “Viserys! Viserys- Gods, Jaime get him!” you yelped as your knight had made little effort to catch the runaway.

Jaime snickered and sped up snatching your brother's wrist with ease. Viserys lets out a shrill giggle as the knight holds him still while waiting for you to catch up.

“Come on, let go!” the prince said in a fit of laughter trying to pry the knight’s fingers off of him.

Tightening his grip, Jaime shoots you a triumphant smile as if catching your brother of six years was a grand accomplishment.

Did he wish for praise you wanted to tease.

“I think your sister would be terribly angry with me if I did,” the knight responded, to which Viserys groaned in return.

Standing in front of the two, you took a moment to catch your breath while your brother wiggled around in Jaime’s grasp to no avail.

“You just say that because you think she’s pretty. You probably loooove-” Viserys began.

“That’s enough from you!” you squeaked while hastily putting your hand over his mouth, the rumbles of his voice muffled beneath your palm.

Damn Viserys, where he learned the half the things he says, you wished you knew.

It was dumb, the way your face heated up at the ignorant words. Your brother was young and rarely understood what he was saying himself half the time. Even so, you weren’t going to risk meeting Jaime’s eyes. That would be begging for ridicule.

Unluckily, Viserys began to shake his heat and went so far as to lick your hand. Recoiling, you grimaced at the feeling.

“Stop it!” he hissed.

“Fine, fine! Jaime,” You motioned for the knight to let go. Your younger brother promptly stuck his tongue out at him upon release.

“I want to go to the training yards, sister. I want to watch all the guards fight, can we please? I won’t run again, promise,” Viserys pleaded. Always quick to make a fuss over the next thing, rarely dwelling on the chaos he initiates. As are children you suppose.

“I was thinking we could spend some time in the gardens today…” You gulped.

You could already see his face crease in an unpleasant manner, clearly unsatisfied with your idea.

“But I want to watch the guards train! I don’t want to sit in the boring gardens! I want to see soldiers!” The prince grizzled.

“But Viserys, they're all so busy. We cannot get in their way!” You tried to reason.

Stomping his little foot to the ground, he stood firm. “I. Want. To. See. Soldiers,” he exclaimed.

Instinctually you looked to Jaime for help.

When did you start doing that?

With a bewildered look, the knight shrugged. He didn’t seem the placating type. He gaped for a moment before bending his knee, lowering himself to your brother’s eye level.

Catching the boy’s attention, he gives an easy grin.

“What if we go to the gardens today. I can show you a few of my tricks?” Grabbing the hilt of his sword, he slides a portion from its scabbard to emphasize his point. “It’ll be good fun. I’m sure I’m much more skilled than those other men anyways, half their age too.”

You rolled your eyes briefly at his words. Ever prideful he was. Thankfully, they seemed to work as Viserys’s eye lit up at the prospect. Nodding eagerly he grabs on to Jaime’s hand.

“Oh yes! Yes! Hurry, c’mon!” Viserys excitedly begged, trying to drag your knight towards the gardens.

Jaime’s body swayed as Viserys yanked, and he still managed to boyishly grin at you.

“Look how fast I've solved this” the grin told you.

“Just you wait and see,” your reluctant smile replied.

Deciding to join in the fun, having gotten your wish of visiting the gardens, you walk to Jaime’s other free hand and grab it with uncharacteristic familiarity.

“You heard your prince Ser Jaime, make haste!”

Jaime’s hand subconsciously squeezes yours at the touch. Standing up, he allows the both of you to tug him along to the gardens.

The biting wind whistled through the courtyard as the three of you stepped outside. The sun’s light touched everything in its reach, counteracting the frigid cold which had been merciless the past few days, the beauty of the outdoor courtyard enhanced. The birds chirped in the large tree, hiding from the cool chill in the air.

Letting your hand fall slack against Jaime’s, you let go. Trudging over to the tree, sitting against the strong trunk. You pat the space beside you, silently calling your little brother. Viserys plops on to the ground with excitement clear on his face.

“Well, go on and show us.” Viserys demanded to which you stroked the back of his head placatingly.

“You must say please zaldrītsos.” You reprimanded, only to be ignored as your brother stayed encapsulated, practically drooling over the gilded sword on Jaime’s hip. Little dragon.

“You know, in real battle you’ve got to have a little patience. Have to wait for the right moment to strike” Jaime pulled the blade from its sheath and gave it an experimental swing. You could hear the way the blade cut through the air and it sent a tingle down your spine to watch him.

“You have to let your instincts take over, fight like the sword is a part of your arm.”

Even in the serene atmosphere, the way which he held the sword commanded power and attention. You’d never seen Jaime fight, nor had you watched anything more violent than a melee, but even you could tell he could put strength behind his craft.

You clapped in awe at the Lannister’s slow yet precise movements, to which Viserys let out a cheer.

“What an audience.” He snickered. Putting the tip of his blade to the crumbling dirt, he leaned on it like a cane. “I’m good at playing performer, no? I think such a show deserves a reward.” Jaime smirked.

“Other than my applause and favor? What a greedy, dare I say, sycophant you are!” you taunted.

“I would have said arse-kisser, but-”

“Jaime!”

“-that could work too.” Jaime finished.

His head slowly cocked to the side as you gave him a stern look. Harshly jutting your head towards Viserys, the knight didn’t have enough time to process what you implied before your brother cut in.

“Arse! You said arse, you said arse-kisser! You’re not supposed to say that!” Viserys wheezed between laughs, holding his little belly hysterically.

Throwing an exasperated sigh into the mix, you glare at Jaime before tugging on your brother's ear.

“Don’t say such obscenities Viserys! You know you’re not allowed to repeat such things. Jaime was just being silly. Right, Jaime?” you threatened.

Snorting and then covering it up with a cough, Jaime acquiesced to your admonishment.

“Your sister is right, listen to her.” He paused. “More importantly, back to the victory laurels I deserve, the mass glory.”

Scoffing, you hold the urge to laugh again. That mouth of his loved to talk. You would have doubted his ability to be serious had you not met him under the circumstances you did, truly.

Looking down to the hand which rested on the ground, you noticed a winter weed prickly and ugly as ever growing next to it. Grabbing it from the stem you ripped it from the dirt and held it up for all to see.

“Ah, look at that! How lucky, victory laurels as pretty as you right here.” Not true.

Jaime’s mouth went agape as he blankly stared at you for a moment.

“Teaching the prince to lie now? I think most men would agree it’s worse to be a liar than vulgar. Shall I chastise the princess now instead, my prince?” Jaime fired back at the utter insult of being compared to the green-grey plant.

Viserys squealed in agreement which seemed to goad your knight on. Stepping closer to the two of you, Jaime switches his sword to the side furthest from the little prince, bending at the waist slightly, only an arms length away. It wasn’t so close as the night you had met him, practically leapt into his arms, but close enough that you could see the tip of his nose which was red from the cold.

“You know-”

Before he could begin, you brushed the dirt away from the weed and leaned forward, arm outstretched. Jaime flinched, jerking back only a bit to catch a glimpse of what you were doing.

Miraculously, where you expected him to fall back, he stood perfectly still as you gently tucked the winter plant amongst his curls.

“Cruel.” He said softly, eyes roving over your face surprisingly unbothered.

“I did warn you, Ser Jaime. Take your laurels and go off.” You retorted, no bite in your tone. Retreating back, it was only when Viserys began to cackle did Jaime resume.

He was so graceful with a longsword. Agile. It was soothing to watch.

Viserys looked on in amazement as the knight performed a difficult looking maneuver. “Have you ever killed someone?!” Viserys marveled aloud and Jaime stopped himself for a moment. You lightly nudge his shoulder and tell him off.

“You can’t just ask people that Viserys! Where did you even learn of such things?” You questioned with sternness.

“You’re no fun, I was just asking!”

Relaxing his sword arm, Jaime shifts his weight from one foot to another. Waving you off, he answers the question. “I killed a man once before. Cut his head from his shoulders when I helped rid the kingswood from the brotherhood.”

Viserys nodded along attentively while you stared at the hand which gripped on to the pommel of the weapon. You would have chided Jaime had you not told your little brother worse stories.

Oh how the nursemaids had glowered at you with venom when they told you of how the young prince kept them occupied all night, refusing to go to sleep after having a nightmare about the Field of Fire his sister had told him all about.

“Wow…” Your brother said, admiring the knight towering over the two of you. Digging his fingers into the grass, Viserys moves to speak again.

“May I… May I hold it? Your sword?” He asks in a trance-like state, mouth in a line of determination with wide eyes that screamed a childlike quality and most definitely not befitting a little boy who pleads to hold a sword his height.

Before you could hound him with refusal and reasons as to why that will not happen, Jaime shoots you a reassuring look and casually shakes his head, mouthing don’t worry.

“Only on the condition that you let me help you.” Jaime countered. Gods that is not what you would call a compromise, but before you had the chance to speak up Viserys was already bolting to your knight’s side.

“That is not as reassuring as you think it is Ser Jaime!” You scolded while sitting up a bit straighter, tensing at the sight of your brother's grabby hands already trying to reach for the hilt of the blade.

“Relax, he’ll be fine. I’ll try not to let him take off a finger.” He winked to Viserys who’s eyes had widened at the words. “Come on, then. Both hands.”

Moving one hand to the upper part, he waits expectantly for Viserys to place his on the lower. Cautious, the boy makes a fist around the handle looking to Jaime for further instruction. Jaime put his free hand over the prince’s and grabbed placed Viserys’s other hand under his at the top, keeping a firm hold of the blade while allowing you brother to wield the sword as well. It took a moment for Viserys to say a word as he was preoccupied grinning ear to ear, no doubt feeling every bit the little warrior. Turning to you, his eyes rapidly move from the sword to you in excitement.

“Look! Sister, look at me! How do I look?” He shouted with glee. Seeing the way Jaime had the situation under control, no chance of Viserys accidentally running himself through with the metal, your heart's pace slows to normal and you let out a breathy chuckle which borders a sigh.

Your gaze softens a fraction watching Jaime hunched over your brother who toothily smiles at you. A prince showered with everything he could possibly want, yet holding the sword of your sworn shield brings on a smile like no other.

“... Perfect. Like a true warrior,” Lifting your eyes to Jaime a spark of mischief shows on your face, “Careful ser. You might hurt yourself standing so close to Viserys the Bold.”

Jaime smirked, “I’ll take my chances.” He said before guiding the prince’s hand up to take a measured swing. “See? Slow and controlled. You try.”

Still keeping a hold of the sword, Jaime visibly slacks his grip to allow Viserys a bit more control and the boy takes a deep breath before he let the weapon fly. You immediately began to clap as you had for Jaime with a giggle. “Bravo Viserys! Well done. You're ready for your knight spurs.”

Pivoting towards you with an exasperated arch of his brow, it astounded you that someone so little could be so full of fire. “Stop it, you’re making such a spectacle.” He hissed. You’d think the boy enjoyed fighting from the way he seemed to take issue with everything you said.

Crossing your arms, you watch as Jaime begins to pull the sword away and Viserys exhales sharply in disbelief that his grubby little hands were already being revoked access. “What happened to my sweet little brother, hm? The one who used to trail behind me saying how nice and pretty I was?”

“Stop!”

You got up and inched closer as he reared back. “You were such a cute little thing. And you were so sweet, not all annoying like now.” Jaime stepped to the side and the moment he did you rushed for Viserys with both arms outstretched. He didn’t have time to process what was happening until it was too late. He struggled and tried to free himself from your hold to no avail. He may be older now, but he was still too small to resist the kisses you pressed to his cheeks as he frantically turned his head back and forth to avoid it. “Quit it!” he objected.

“Never-” you squished the soft skin gently, “you’re my baby brother, don’t think a bit of swordplay will change that. You should just stay like this forever, yes?” You picked him up and watched as his face went red with anger. Pressing your cheek to his and forcing him to still as you turned to your knight. “What do you think Ser Jaime? Isn’t my babe just precious the way he is?” You smiled with a pure radiance while presenting the young prince to Jaime.

His words seemed to linger in his throat for a heartbeat worth of stillness while he looked upon the two of you. The pair of you melding together at how tight you had pushed yourself to Viserys in order to keep him unmoving, pale lashes kissing your under eyes as you batted them towards the knight.

Jaime gave a soft throaty noise before responding coolly, “...He looks like he’s about to burst into tears. Don’t you know crying children seldom make good company?”

“Now you’re being no fun.” You gave a derisive snort and allowed your brother to drop from your arms.

The rest of the afternoon went by in a blur between Viserys’s constant energy and your sheer determination to keep up with him. The three of you played games in the garden until your legs went wobbly from the exertion. Ending the outing in a heap on the ground, cradling Viserys while Jaime prattled on about various warriors he liked best.

It began to grow colder and you had tugged the cloak around your shoulders tighter, making sure to pull Viserys close to you, cradling him gently. He had only calmed down when you forced him to sit through the same tune you’ve sung to him many times before, Six Maids in a Pool. Gently shifting around, you move the arm which begins to grow numb. When you turn towards Jaime you find him staring back.

“A fan of Jonquil?” He uttered softly.

You perked up and hummed in agreement.

Everyone knew the song, a favorite of nursemaids and mothers all throughout Westeros. It was a funny juxtaposition in your head, your lionhearted knight who was always in armor and sword in hand and once too been a boy, like Viserys. Perhaps even forced to bed with the same song.

The tale between Jonquil and Florian the Fool was one from the age of heroes. The fair Lady Jonquil bathing in a pool of water with her sisters, a knight by the name Florian looking upon her and falling in love at first sight. Of course Jaime would know such a renowned story.

“I know the tale by heart, the song too. My nurse read it to me as a child and after that I would just… beg her to read it to me every night, again and again.”

The rustle of the leaves could be heard, the gardens gaining back their peaceful quality now that Viserys’s shouts and complaints couldn’t be heard. Jaime had long since sheathed his sword and now stood at a fair distance, white cloak fluttering against the breeze.

“It was always such a sweet tale. I asked more than a dozen times to be taken to Jonquils pool.” You laughed reminiscing at the memory, “I don’t think I understood that a great love wouldn’t await me there. My Florian wouldn’t be in Maidenpool.”

You paused briefly before continuing, “You want to know something interesting?”

“I fear you and I have different opinions of what constitutes interest. For example, I’ve watched you read a book the size of your head and call it interesting. I’ll tell you now, I would’ve had less fun reading it myself than I did watching you read it for four entire hours.” Jaime chuckled, the timbre rich and deep from how long the two of you had been quiet for.

“Oh, shut it. I was just going to tell you that Queen Alyssane had a sworn shield named Jonquil Darke. They called her the Scarlet Shadow. Which is ironic seeing as they likened Jaehaerys and Alyssane to the Jonquil and Florian from the song.”

Laying your cheek on the top of Viserys’s head, you stroke his cheek.

“See? That was interesting,” you asserted.

“More interesting than if I would’ve had to learn that myself, I suppose. Tell me, is Alysanne one of your heroes too?” Jaime probed. It wasn’t for love of knowledge he asked, but what you think is him finally yielding to the fact you will continue to aimlessly overload him with facts of history.

One point to Targaryen, zero points to Lannister.

“How could I not! She was a strong woman, everything a ruler should be. A dragonrider! She was the Conciliator's equal in every respect, it’s almost unheard of to have not only a good king, but a good queen too.”

“Very interesting indeed.” He mocked you with the same smile which always tried its hardest to make you swoon.

Entangling a hand in Viserys’s hair, you listen to the puffs of his breaths. “It is! I’m just saying they were gifts to the realm as far as monarchs go. And they loved each other, dearly too. It must be nice… to hold such endearment for another.”

A flash of understanding crossed Jaime’s otherwise neutral visage. He would probably think it was idiotic if he knew how you daydreamed of your Florian every now and then, in armor made of motley. In armor made of gold.

Instead, Jaime doesn’t say a thing before looking up carefully.

“It is sometimes. Not so much at others. The bards sing their songs of love, poets sing its praises, but it’s not nearly sung enough about how hard it can be.” His sharp countenance warped into something softer, more vulnerable.

“I can imagine. But still, it’s a pleasure to find someone to care for like that,” you suggested cautiously, slowly.

Did Jaime have someone he loved…?

“Aye, what a dream, a pleasure, to have your chest ache all prickly and tiring. You don’t get to decide for who, or to feel like that, but you can’t stop it either.” His brow furrowed as he cleared his throat. It seemed he realized his mistake, seemed to notice your rounded eyes showing that you realized too.

“... Jaime?”

“I… I’m going to keep guard at the entrance, princess.” Jaime began to amble towards the archway of the courtyard.

You were left dumbfounded as the knight trudged away, eyes tracing his form as it grew further away. His hand came to rustle at his hair agitatedly, the winter weed falling from where it had been previously nestled.

Strange.

Many evenings had been spent together like that, albeit happier, especially as the weather had finally begun to warm. Viserys had taken to playing his new favorite game ‘maid in the tower’ with you and Jaime. Your knight would take on the role of barbarian keeping you captive while Viserys the Valiant (a name he fashioned himself) would come to your rescue. You couldn’t count how many times you cringed and winced when Viserys would wack Jaime at full strength, with a wooden training sword your knight had thought was a brilliant idea to give him. His teeny cords of muscle working hard under the strain of the surprisingly intensive game. The two of you might’ve been creating the next Dragon Knight with all the running and hitting and whatever else it is warriors do.

Thankfully, Jaime took each strike in stride, barely budging before finding some way to send your little brother running. A subdued smile took residence on your face as you looked in your mirror. Brushing through the ends of your hair, you remember the way the knight would prowl around you while goading Viserys on.

…

“I guess you don’t actually want to save the princess… I wonder what I'll do with her?” Jaime shouted.

You had gasped in feigned shock, voice taking on a disbelieving tone. “Never monster! Viserys the Valiant will rescue me!”

Once your brother had retrieved his oaken weapon -which Jaime had thrown into a bush- his face was one of determination. He charged Jaime with an unprecedented speed and swung hard. The Lannister met him halfway with a grunt, taken off guard by the surprise attack. Wood clashed against wood, Viserys relentless in his attempts to win the game while your knight met each blow with a single handed grip on his play-sword.

“I’ll keep her forever, locked away in my tower.”

“No! She-” another hit, “-is MY sister!”

It had been hours of this running around and the air turned more suffocating the higher the sun climbed, the heat had caused for sweat to pool uncomfortably under your heavy layers. You were dead sure if you suggested going inside before your brother could win, he would pitch a fit.

To make things worse, Jaime was amused by the way Viserys lunged at him. He seethes not being able to land a hit on the knight more than ten years his elder and Jaime seemed content to bask in the humidity and sweat, but you certainly weren’t.

“Boys! While I appreciate the vigor which you both have on my behalf, why don’t we all just make peace? Lunch sounds a lot better than beating each other with sticks, and it’s dreadful out here. Any longer and I'll melt into a puddle.”

The both of them didn’t spare you a glance as they continued.

“No! I don’t want to go inside, I want to win!” Viserys yelled furiously, still on the attack. Dodging a particularly forceful jab, Jaime caused your brother to stumble forward as he sidesteps him. An a-ha came from the knight as he evaded yet again.

“I would sooner risk my honor protecting you then let you go free, princess,” Jaime said, wholly absorbed into his villainous role.

“What honor?! You’re meant to be a barbarian!” you exclaimed incredulously.

“Fine, my horse or my sword. I’d sooner give those away than lose.”

“That’s not the point I was trying to make Ser Jaime.” You huffed.

This was enough you concluded. You’d be your own savior. Looking around you spot a convenient branch lying on the ground, waiting for the perfect warrior to wield it.

Bending over, you pick it up. It had blunt edges and the bark was peeling as a result of weathering. Clutched in your fist, you approached the two with agile speed. Before either of them could realize what was happening, you plunged your makeshift weapon just just under Jaime’s armpit.

An oomph sound slipped past the knight's lips at the sudden force. He craned his neck backwards only to come upon your countenance of victory and smugness. The corners of his mouth twitched with the beginnings of a baffled smile.

“I didn’t know it would be so easy to best you. I think you’d make a far better damsel next time, it’s getting awfully dull for me with all this waiting around. You’ve got the hair for it, prettier than mine own.” You smiled cheekily. Further nestling the sword in the crook of his arm. The rustle of metal sounded as the stick prodded into him, and Jaime’s ears perked up in confusion. His eyes slid from yours, to where he was being “impaled”, and then you again.

A loud, amused laugh came from Jaime as that charming grin of his was brightly on display. Your heart stuttered when the melodic sound chimed in your ears.

“You crafty little maid,” he guffawed. Taking the tip of the stick he ignored your brother's quibbles, raising concern over your improper manner of play.

“Jaime-” you began.

He forcefully retracted your weapon and spun on his heel to face you, only separated by the length of the wood. You kept your finger tightly laced around, trying to imitate how Rhaegar taught you to hold a longsword a time ago. One hand at the top of the “hilt” and the other at the bottom, not letting your wrists to lock in place.

Jaime lightly shook the end making you sway with the motion. He observed your form while he came down from the shock of your surprise attack.

“Very underhanded, I like it. They should just thrust the sword in your hand and outfit you in mail, I'm sure you’d do a fine job as your own knight,” he mused while tugging the stick closer to his chest, bringing you along with it. You staggered forward, only an arms length away now, and the closeness caused your insides to melt with warmth.

“This is not how you play the game!” Viserys shouted attempting to bring the attention back on to him and his anger

His blaring voice could not pierce the moment as the two of you pointedly refused to acknowledge his cries. Your mind went fuzzy and you assured yourself it was the sun's blistering rays which clouded your senses.

“Though…” The pads of his fingers reached out out out until they grazed your knuckles. “You might need to practice your hold on a blade first.” He gently untucked the thumb which hid beneath the meat of your palm and slid the entire hand farther down the stick. Your limbs went slack as you allowed him to readjust your grip.

The sun made your cheeks heat so viciously. Terrible sun, horrible heat, nothing else.

Squeezing you once, he let go and stepped back to appraise the correction he made and with a hum of approval he looked back to you.

“I suppose I'll have to keep shielding you until then. It’s not so bad protecting you… I like to think it suits me.” His voice lowered at the last part, surprised to have said such a thing.

At this moment, the thing in your hand was far more interesting. All its ridges and jagged lines, the tears in the hard bark, the… brown-ness. The bark, did you mention the bark already? You were positively enamored by the piece of nature rather than the big golden fool in front of you.

Yes, that is so. The whole of it, the truth of the matter.

“Will you guys stop it! I was meant to save you from Ser Jaime and he was meant to be hit by me, not you sister! This isn’t fair and you mean people won’t listen. I don’t want to play anymore!” Viserys interrupted once again.

The sound of cacophonous raucous your brother produced was like being doused in cold water. You briefly peered over at Jaime once more before turning to Viserys. With all the love of a sibling vexxed, you swiftly poked your stick to your brother's little chest right where his heart rapidly beat.

“Oh, hush, Viserys, dead boys can’t speak. Now, I've beaten the both of you and we’re all going inside, I won’t hear anymore of it.”

You snatched the back of your little brother's shirt and dragged him along while he kicked and thrashed. You purposefully averted your gaze from Jaime, as if he was some grotesque sight to not be seen.

…

You had long rid your hair of the knots riddled throughout. Now it was aimless brushing as you repeated the motion on your head. You had bid goodnight to Jaime some time ago, even listened as he exchanged a few words with the guard posted outside of your door, and slinked off to his own chambers in the White Sword Tower. The slender structure with its whitewashed stone walls overlooking the Blackwater Bay.

It was strange to wonder what your knight did with the little time he spent away from you, he was a man grown, his duty was to follow your every move not the other way around.

You pushed the chair away from your embellished and ornate vanity, your bare feet soft against the hard floor.

Did he drink the time away by indulging in barrels of Dornish Red wine? Or perhaps he preferred Arbor Gold? Your sworn shield by day and a drunkard by night to cope with his duty.

…No. Jaime didn’t seem like the type. He wasn’t one to idle, wasting away who knows where sunken into a cup. He was too restless, hot-headed to mellow himself out like that.

All men had their vices. Which meant even the Lannister had something wicked he enjoyed. Too impatient to gamble, not interested enough in silks and frills to beggar himself (not that he could if he tried), and it was simple and plain to tell his hands were solely meant for your safeguarding; he was not a man to inflict cruelty on others for mere amusement.

One step and then the next, your nightgown swished around your ankles as you paced the length of your room.

Perhaps a paramour of sorts?

…

No. That wouldn’t be right. He himself had admitted to carrying a candle for another woman.

He had let his tongue go loose, said it by accident, his breath freezing and misting in the frigid air of the harsh winter which had overcome the false spring all those moons ago. Your fingers, nose, cheeks, and ears had gone numb, but your mind was still as sharp as the crack of a whip. It was a wonder his words still plagued you after all this time, but sometimes, when your room was still and the events of the day faded into the periphery, you thought of those words.

“Aye, what a dream, a pleasure, to have your chest ache all prickly and tiring. You don’t get to decide for who, or to feel like that, but you can’t stop it either.”

Who was it, you wondered, that made his heart thump brokenly? Was she beautiful and noble? Eyes as black as coal or bright and blue as the sapphire waters of Tarth? Something else entirely?

You flopped belly first onto your bed, crawling up the soft silken sheets to the head of the mattress, pulling one of your many pillows into the crook of your shoulder and resting your head on the plush cushion.

Clutching on to the fabric filled with goose down, you’re no closer to figuring out a damn thing about your knight. Jaime who was mysteriously in love with another, who had mysterious hobbies, and mysterious whereabouts. All of which utterly are unknown to you, and for some gods forsaken reason you can’t help but be irritated by that fact.

For someone who talked as much as him, there were a lot of particulars you weren’t privy to. You once believed you could coax the name of the girl he cared for out of him one quiet afternoon, to which he didn’t respond kindly to. It was the only time, save for the tourney at Harrenhal, he spoke to you so brusquely, shutting you down with an uncomfortable looking glare and coughing up some excuse of needing to watch the door of the solar instead of staying seated with you as he had been. Just as he had that day in the gardens.

Turning in your bed, you lean over your side table poised in front of your candle. The wax had dripped down the sides into the holder, its flames flickering so meekly while illuminating your surroundings.

What a lucky wench she was, and you convinced yourself it was seldom the fact she was loved in such a way at all, nothing to do with it being Jaime who longed for her.

If you had the nerve, you would have told him there was a name for what he was feeling. Se prūmi jaelagon, The hearts want, yearning. That was what he felt.

Oh how you understood that. You knew all too well what it’s like to want something so far out of your reach. He mourns the woman he will never have and you pine for the life you may never live.

Such outlandish ideas you have while watching the flame of your candle flicker. It burns blue at the base and yellow at the tip, wispy and wobbly as each breath you take threatens to snuff its light entirely. Your nursemaid once told you that it was the blue flame which scorched the hottest and your childish mind had wondered if any dragons had set keeps and forests aflame in an azure blaze. The blue of the seas crashing against coastal towns engulfed in the inferno.

There was something intoxicating about the way the fire moved, like it was its own entity. It calls to you with a small and captivating voice, like a lover's whisper urging you closer. You ran the tip of your finger so close to the little flame, it was almost painful.

It felt pleasant on your skin, the heat. It tickled your senses in a way which felt right. The witless whisper how Targaryens are mad for fire and perhaps they were half right. The flame felt like life itself and on occasion even you wished to be consumed by it, until you were nothing but ash blowing in the wind, soaring in the sky as dragons once did.

If fire was life and to live is to love, was it really mad to grasp at life and love in its earthly form?

You were Fire and Blood, it ran through your veins sustaining you just as your lifesblood did. If being a fool was to accept what your heart sought after then you were a bigger dunce than the court jester. You, Jaime, and everyone else with a feeling soul.

With one blow, your room went dark and you waited for the slow lull of sleep to pull you into its embrace.

“All men are fools, and all men are knights, where women are concerned.” - Florian the Fool

Jaime was never one to pass the time in a library. He didn’t understand the satisfaction of lingering between rows of dusty shelves, hunched and fussing over a book like a maester. Not when he could be out in the fresh air burning his abundant energy either training or, to his unexpected pleasure, trailing behind you while you spoke in great lengths over the flora and fauna which you most enjoyed in the gardens.

Unfortunately, you were not in agreement with his perspective on your quest for knowledge between the yellowed, aged pages.

Which is how the young knight finds himself sluggishly shuffling after you, lugging around two cumbersome tomes; history writings from the Citadel. Fire and Blood was what read on the spine of the first, the second plainly titled 132-250 A.C.

“I could have sworn I watched you finish this one cover to cover already. A bit heavy on the reading, no?” Jaime teased lightly. He knew you had an affinity for anything related to your family's dynasty, well versed in anything with the briefest mention of Old Valyria.

“More than once,” you replied absentmindedly, eyes skimming the various titles in the aisle.

“Really?”

Quirking his head, he watches as you ignore him in favor of concentrating on finding the elusive Rebellions, 1-170 A.C.

This was boring, yes, but it’s not entirely dull perusing so long as you kept entertaining him with your occasional remarks on the works you drifted by, passing your judgements based upon the countless hours you’ve spent reading them.

Jaime found no pleasure in libraries, but he found no displeasure in carrying around your reading material while you repeated yet another fact about House Gardener, the Blackfyre rebellions, or Nymeria, anything that caught your fancy. He’d listen, far more than he had ever listened to any of his tutors in youth, he would wait for you to need him, and he’d stare at the back of your head more contented than he would have imagined while doing nothing at all.

Shifting around he double checks a few spots you went over too quickly while periodically glancing back at you.

A hush came over the pair of you like a wet blanket and Jaime no longer alternated his focus between you and the books. Instead, he opted to keep his attention solely on you. Given the choice between hunting down a chronicle and observing you, he’d choose you without fail.

Strangely, as of late, it seems to be his preferred option.

His footsteps thudded behind while you peacefully browsed, a composed expression uniform with the stillness of the room. There were days like this on occasion. Days where you said little more than ‘good morrow’ after emerging from your chambers before leading him to this place.

You’d weave through the busy halls like a mouse scurrying along, attempting to go to your burrow unremarked. He’d be hot at your heels, unsure whether you’d notice and slow down if he lagged behind. Servants and nobles alike would tip their heads as you passed, your mere presence enough to demand notice, and if that wasn’t enough, the silver of your hair was anything but negligible.

Jaime never lost you in the hallways, of course. At the beginning of his assignment, he’d simply look for whoever stuck out like a sore thumb. He had believed your color palette to be the most identifiable thing about you.

Slowly, he’d learned that to be untrue.

He didn’t know when it happened, but he was granted the ability to find you in any room, anywhere. Through the sounds you made, like the irritated click of your teeth when something didn’t go your way. By your silhouette, like the slope of where your neck met your shoulders. By your scent, like the Lyseni perfume you loved.

Jaime watched and watched until it became too apparent he wasn’t helping. You craned your head in his direction with a look on your face, waving toward the shelves, your eyes holding a speck of judgement.

“Why, you have my gratitude, Ser. I had no idea you were as impatient as me to find this book,” you said, the sarcasm clear in your words.

Meeting your eye he stands a bit taller, the sudden urge to not appear as if he was slouching under the weight of the books he held.

“You’ve already read it, the words will still be the same. That’s the whole point of keeping all this around,” Jaime quipped in response.

And then there was that click of your teeth. You turned to him fully, popping your hip outwards and resting a hand on your skirts.

“Nice of you to join me back here, I was worried you forgot about me.” Jaime subtly grinned and you rolled your eyes.

“How could I? I can hear you thinking, stomping behind me like you're marching off to war,” you complained. “Which is ironic seeing as-” You cut your own voice off abruptly and clamped your mouth shut, into a straight line.

Shaking your head, you turn your gaze to a behemoth of a tome to his right.

“Nevermind,” you sighed.

Now this piqued Jaime’s curiosity. You sounded, in truth, bothered.

One step forward and then the next, he closed the gap between the two of you with ease. His eyes momentarily flickered to where his occupied and extended hands could reach out and touch you if he tried, little distance between the two of you. His heart rate quickened almost immediately, imperceptibly, and he cleared his throat.

He could hear the audible gulp you made and just as your lips began to shape into the beginnings of his name, he interrupted.

“You can say it. I know what you want to say, I don’t mind, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before,” Jaime said, recomposing himself.

“I’m… I'm not going to do that.” You persisted.

Jaime could resume his post at the door, leave you with your strange mood, yet he finds no inclination in himself to do so. Alternatively, he could stay right where he was.

He liked the latter best.

“I think what you meant to say was that I don’t think before I speak. Am I right?” His head cocked to the side.

His mind takes him back to Casterly Rock for the briefest of moments. A little Cersei, no older than a girl of five, puffing her cheeks in anger for a daft remark he could no longer remember making as she said that very insult.

It wasn’t entirely inaccurate.

Your brows knit together as speckles of indigo swirl within your iris’s. Eyes meant to be studied under close inspection and captured in their glory by a master painter.

“Those are your words, not mine. I didn’t say such a thing,” you mumbled, body tensing under his scrutiny. You try to take a step back, only to be met with the hard wood of the furniture.

Reluctantly, Jaime realizes he’s physically backed you into a corner and falls back.

“But you were thinking it.” He smiled, a small distance between the two of you now.

You glare at him lightly and he knows it’s insincere. He’s seen how ridgid your face goes when Viserys does something naughty, or when you’re forced to sit through a dreadfully long dinner, and this wasn’t comparable.

“My sister would agree with you. My father too. I’ve been told I have a penchant for running my mouth, though I've never understood the problem with that. I like to keep people enlightened with my sentiments. Being clever comes with a bit of… well, gall, wouldn’t you say?” he joked, only somewhat.

“Oh, I feel very enlightened right now.”

“Good, at least you do. A shame my father never does. No, Tywin Lannister is no nonsense. If I recall correctly, he called it being ‘juvenile and stupid-”

At this you promptly perked up and interrupted his droning, your visage going from irate to one of both mild offense and slight bewilderment.

At him or on his behalf?

“You’re not though,” you asserted, as if the notion was ludicrous.

“I never said I was.”

…

You had taken to twisting the ring on your finger while the two of you locked eyes, a strong posture as you watched him critically, wistfully.

“Ao ȳdra daor rȳbagon.” You sighed in pause. High Valyrian.

Your mother tongue always left a rather bittersweet feeling within him whenever he had the pleasure of hearing it. It resonated in his mind as one could only describe as a divine call, the foreign dialect falling from your lips so naturally. It was the language of conquerors and empire, and the way in which it echoed through the cavities of his mind, subjugating his every sense to be beholden to it was the evidence.

The bitterness came from the mystery which it held. When he would be made to wait outside the doors of Queen Rhaella’s chambers while you spoke to her in code, when you’d make comments in passing to Viserys, when you’d whisper under your breath in the Essosi-speak.

To say it bothered Jaime wouldn’t be right, rather, it mystified him in a way. He was your protector, he who spent every day, nearly every waking hour with you. But the intimate language, fluently known by so few in Westeros, was akin to a secret which you shared with only those closest to you.

A secret which he wasn’t in on. Why this troubled the young lion so, he did not know.

“I can’t understand you. My understanding of High Valyrian is limited to… ‘rytses’?” Jaime breathed, irritation inching into his tone.

Your fingers pinched the bridge of your nose while you chuckled a bit at his last words. It was airy, hard to catch unless you really listened.

Jaime listened… a knight's duty and whatnot.

Lifting a brow, your laugh elicits a small smile of his own and his face all but asks ‘What?’

“Rytsas. Not ‘sess’, it’s an ‘ahhh’ sound. Rytsas,” you said, a lighter expression gracing your face, “and hello to you too ñu-ha azan-tys,” you added, enunciating the last bit clear for his untrained ears.

He had long disregarded the way his arms began to feel like jelly, continuing to stand firm under your watch. Jaime dared not push you by mentioning how long you’ve been trying to find that gods forsaken book, not when your lips quirked upwards ever so slightly. A little more and he reckoned he could coax that wide smile from you, which, he believed suited you much more than the long-faced, crotchety thing you had going on.

“There’s a dangerous line between thinking and doing. Spend too much time strategizing, behaving, and you do not act. I know you’ve no interest in court intrigue and politics, but you’ve managed to make a truehearted ally in a princess… and I think that’s proof enough of your ability.” You stated with such conviction he knew you meant it in earnest.

Your little smile had disappeared, replaced again with a more somber appearance. Jaime didn’t intend on evoking flattery from you. He had no want for sympathy which he didn’t need. He knew he was a born fighter, knew he wasn’t apt in strategy and planning like his father was.

But, he had to admit it felt… nice to know you, specifically, didn’t think that.

Though, Jaime could not shake the internal nagging he would have favored watching your laugh lines grow deeper, a guileless giggle, instead of your return to this unusual stoicism.

You deflated with an exhale and slipped past him. A beat later, you crane your neck to him once more.

“What I mean to say is you are, at times, candid, but never unkind. Not without reason, at least.”

With the rustle of your dress and the spin of your frame you make your way from the thick of the bookcases. You’ve seemingly relented on the pursuit for your book, sparing not even a last glance behind you.

“Come Jaime, we shall make due with what we have.” You drawled.

“Giving up already?”

“māzigon kēlītsos.” You voiced leisurely, a hand coming up to beckon the knight forward. Again you spoke your recondite words, but it was little and less obvious by the shift in your tone you took amusement in whatever it was you said. A jest, perhaps?

You were quite humorous with your little jokes, whether you thought it or not, and Jaime wasn’t partial to the idea of missing one because of a mere communication impediment.

“I already told you I can’t understand what you’re saying.” Jaime stated as he sped up to fall into pace with you.

Your lips raised unevenly, ever so slightly, as you kept your stare fixed ahead.

“I know. That’s the point.” A teasing lilt soft in your voice. You teetered on the edge of engaging in your usual banter, and subjecting him to the torture of your silence all over again. You need only be gently guided to the former, and Jaime was more than willing to light the torch and lead the way.

Both of you stood over a large desk, no doubt meant for a group's use rather than independent study. The books hit the center with a bang, to which you cast a glare at Jaime for, to which he gave a hollow apology accompanied by the same grin that had made girls swoon in the past for the young lion.

…Or maybe it was just a smile which craved a response in kind.

You cracked the pages open and before Jaime knew it, the words tumbled from his mouth.

“Read. Read me your best-loved tale in the book, I mean.” Jaime proposed, grasping for any way to keep listening to your voice, to keep you blathering on to him.

“You’re out of your mind if you think I can decide on only one. No, that would take too much time.” You explained, but Jaime had no want for your excuses.

“You’re the one who boasts about how fascinating all of it is. And we both know I won’t page through that on my own,” placing a hand to the hard leather cover, Jaime cracks it open and lets the book fall to a random page, placing it to the table gentler than he had before. “... so fascinate me,” he offered, issuing a challenge he knew you couldn’t refuse.

Your nostrils flared subtly, your lips pursing, making you look… bullish. A much prettier bull granted.

“Fine. But I’ll hear no complaints from you!”

“None.”

Grazing your hands on the words in front of you, you shake your head and begin thumbing through each page, steadfastly trying to find that which you looked for.

“Well… we can start with the First Quarrel.. Or the Great Council of 101.. Mayhaps the conquest of Dorne…” You trailed off, purple eyes narrowing as you slowed your flipping, latching on to something of interest.

Peering over, Jaime can read the legibly written ‘King Aegon “The Unworthy” IV’.

“Ah. The king who earned a fitting moniker because of his own foolish impetuousness. Or perhaps that was his intention, I can imagine having a brother like the Dragonknight would bruise one’s pride...” You finally stopped on a page which in a flourished hand read ‘Queen Naerys Targaryen’.

At the mention of Aemon Targaryen, Jaime thought back to how he had almost thrown himself at the White Book when Ser Barristan escorted him through the white sword tower’s halls his first night. He had scoured each and every page with near reverence, taking extra care when he reached the deeds of your aforementioned ancestor.

“No one alive or dead could be like Aemon, save for Ser Arthur perhaps.” Jaime chimed, admiration for the knight evident.

“Of course not. The man was hung naked in a crows cage, over a pit of vipers, and still never cracked!” you trumpeted.

It was hard to believe when he looked upon your mild countenance that the same blood which once flowed through men like Aemon now resided in you. You had a touch of ferocity in your own way he had come to learn, but it nonetheless baffled Jaime that he was the one who protected a dragon.

“I should have guessed you enjoyed warrior stories as well. We could have been discussing this ages ago. I thought you preferred myths and all?” Jaime queried.

“His is a story everyone knows, Jaime. It’s just that, as of late, I like it a little more.” You shrugged. Your eyes flitted to his shoulder before hastily going back to the paper.

Jaime’s brows furrowed in confusion at the subtle action before tracing your sights. Upon inspection, he was only met with his own white cloak.

“Their sister, Queen Naerys, was supposed to be beautiful and pious. You know, they say he cried when she married. That’s not true though. According to this-” You brought your finger to a line halfway down, “-it was Naerys who wept during the bedding, and Aemon quarrelled with Aegon during the feast.”

“The stout fellow probably nearly crushed her during.” Jaime snorted.

Your eyes widened and your jaw went slack. Scandalized, you chastise the Lannister.

“Jaime!” And the sweet chorus of your laughter followed, eyes alight. The sound was worth more than a thousand praises, he thought. “He wasn’t so… gluttonous yet if we’re being historically accurate. They were married before he was even king, he was very handsome at the time apparently. Still, Naerys was said to favor Aemon long before. A shame they’re remembered as a doomed love simply because of tradition and duty. It always thwarts things, does it not?”

Your family’s longstanding tradition of wedding brother to sister wasn’t lost on Jaime. Of course the first thing he thought of was his own connection to Cersei, but he quickly dashed it away, not wanting to sully this moment with the living ghost of his sin sister.

“I suppose you’re right, it does get in the way. We all have things we want, things we can’t have-” His heart stuttered annoyingly, something unknown stirring beneath the surface, “-including someone as honorable as him. Even so, he still died for the brother who married the woman he loved and tried to smear his name even in death. I guess it’s just… what’s meant to happen.” Jaime offered, little consolation it was, but the truth nonetheless.

It was what all good knights before him preached, what people like Sword of the Morning and the White Bull upheld righteously. It had to be the truth.

“If that’s so, tell me, what is duty and honor compared to what’s right? Good has many faces… and I don’t think all of them are as honorable as men have made them out to be.” You said, the book long forgotten as the two of you face each other, like two waves in a storm-tossed sea.

Jaime contemplates your answer, a thoughtful expression adorning his face as his fingers fiddled with the hilt of his sword.

“I agree.” He hummed. “But you can’t leave honor behind as a whole. What’s a man meant to do without it? He’d be jeered for the rest of his life, no one would trust someone who goes against his duties. What would be so good about that?” He acknowledged. He didn’t think you were wrong in what you were trying to say, but it certainly wasn’t something many would entertain. Westeros was built off of oaths and honor, to challenge that was to challenge a system much older than either you or him.

“I find it’s more oft than not, in my family, it’s them who tie the noose around your neck before hanging you from the family tree. What good is duty when you’re dangling from your branch?”

That made Jaime clear his throat uncomfortably.

“You’re not an ornament,” he tried to joke.

“I will be, one day, you just watch.”

He didn’t want to hear anymore of this. He suggested you read these stories to move away from whatever melancholy stubbornly clung to you, not exacerbate it. No more talk of duty or hanging or responsibilities, all you should have to worry about was what book you’d read next and how to defend against his subsequent taunts.

“You shouldn’t talk like that. Of course you’d be overwhelmed if-”

“I’m not,” you assured him. Seeming to realize the tension present in his shoulders, the pinched expression on his normally relaxed visage, you smile flatly.

“I don’t scare easily. And that’s because I've figured out the secret to endure,” you revealed, pridefully so.

Jaime cautiously asked what he knew you wanted him to. A simple ‘that is?” He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted the answer, but the curiosity still lingered.

“When it all becomes too much, you need only look without seeing. You go away inside, into the depths of your mind and think of whatever it is that makes you happy. I think of my favorite sweets, the daisies in the gardens, my mother. You retreat into what you love, and there, no one can touch you. Not even that which you fear most.”

Jaime felt his stomach turn at your words, nauseated he could only frown, bereft of any humor he had attempted to kindle.

“Nevermind me, Jaime, I’m just rambling. Let us carry on,” you ended, filling in the void of silence he left between the two of you, shocked at your aforementioned method.

Your words had struck the knight harder than any man carrying sword and shield could, for that was the very first time his mind splintered from the cold truth that maybe, just maybe, the newfound fears he had come to harbor on your behalf had been festering in you for far longer. Fears which he could not protect you from.

#jaime x reader #jaime lannister x reader #jaime lannister #game of thrones #roberts rebellion #game of thrones fanfiction #jaime fanfic #targaryen reader #got fanfiction #got #asoiaf #haunting his narrative #teehee

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sexy-monster-fucker · 1 month ago

Text

To See If I Can Catch a Dream

Dr. Gregory House x Doctor!Reader

Story Synopsis: Reader is a Doctor alongside House. They have known each other for years, mostly been dancing around being intimate with one another. Even though it is painfully obvious to their close friend, Wilson. After finally allowing their guards to fall, the Reader receives a letter inviting her for her dream position at her dream hospital. She has to make the hard choice of staying or going. angst/smut/nsfw/new relationships/minor fluff/typical hospital talk/situationship/

Summary/Part 5: Reader has made her mind up. Heading out to Boston for the conference that would welcome her as the new Head of Neurology.

CW: vomit/vomiting, blood, form of self harm, mentions of OD, implied disordered eating, substance abuse, backstory baby!, ANGST ANGST ANGST, mentions of motherhood/wanting kids,

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 <-

a/n: sorry if the timeline conflicts with anything canon in House, I kept finding different information about how long before the first season of the show that House had his leg injury. also I was so seriously tempted to make an entire playlist based off this fanfic, I’m so obsessed with their love story.

title track 🎶🩶

~~~

You hunched over the toilet in your bathroom. Unable to sleep. Rest a distant relative of yours. The paper crinkled under your grasp. Rereading it again and again.

Boston Children’s Hospital.

You threw up again. Spilling your guts into the porcelain bowl. Overwhelmed with anxieties from the fight you had with House. Mentally punishing yourself for everything. Manifesting as your upchucked stomach. Beating yourself up for allowing House to speak to you that way. For letting him have such a strong hold on your well-being. Punching the tile beneath you as you screamed. Loud enough you were sure the neighbors heard you. Knuckles bleeding from your repetitive assault. Tugging at your hair as you sobbed hard. Heartbreak never having such a strong toll over you before. Resting your cheek against the disgusting toilet seat, staining it with your tears. Not caring about the germ count.

Sliding into the floor. Clutching the paper flat against your chest. Staring up at the bright lights of your ceiling. Squinting at the harsh glare. Groaning now that your stomach was completely empty and your whole body ached. Praying to a God who went against everything you knew. Praying that House was not relapsing. Over-dosing on Vicodin and booze. Reaching for your phone you had discarded on the floor, typing out a simple message.

“I love you.” You stared at it. The words loosing all meaning the longer you looked that them. Dropping the flip phone against your face. Closing your eyes to block out the soft glow of the screen. Opting out of sending the message. It would do more harm than good.

You knew that.

~~~

You got yourself put together early. Taking a shower to wash away the night of regrets. Steaming room helping free the mucus from the obscene about of crying you had done. Using your favorite shampoo and soap. The ones you usually saved for a date or special occasion. Needing a confidence boost wherever you could get one.

A cloud of dread loomed over you as you checked yourself in the mirror. Bags under your eyes more defined from the lack of sleep. Putting on makeup for the first time in a while. Giving yourself a moment to close your eyes and breathe before stepping out the door to head to work.

The invariable hospital greeted you as always. Unforgiving and not allowing time to suffer. It was your job to help others not suffer, a fine distraction from any personal matters.

Forcing smiles at each colleague you passed. Hiding any sign of distress. Taking the stares, avoiding any risk of running into House. Making sure you would do everything to stay away from him today. Knowing you could not face him now. Any semblance of control you had would come crashing down the minute you would meet his sad eyes.

Marching into Cuddy’s office as quickly as you could. Surprising her. You were always an adequate doctor. Rule follower and no trouble, unlike your estranged lover.

“Y/L/N?”

“I need to talk to you,” you sighed, hand reaching inside your lab coat. Pulling out the letter that had been extended to you earlier this week. Handing it to her with a certain sadness behind your eyes. Swallowing down your broken voice.

“What is this?”

“My invitation from Boston Children’s Hospital. They sent a representative to speak to me earlier this week. Inviting me to join their team and become the head of their Neurology department,” you breathed out.

“That’s incredible,” Cuddy said with a smile, “That’s— wow, that’s your dream job.” You and Cuddy were never overtly close. But she was someone you confided in. Another woman who could understand you differently than your male friends. Sharing secrets with her that seemed too childish to share with others. And so, out of respect for her and the hospital, you thought it was better to present this to her instead of just disappearing as you usually would. Finally taking responsibility for that.

“Yeah, it is,” you smiled, frown tugging you down.

“It’s going to be hard to fill the position. No one has ever been a stronger candidate,” Cuddy smiled. Sensing the solemn nature of your resignation. Unable to look her in the eyes as you stared down at your feet.

“I’ve got an idea,” Cuddy started, voice steady as she smiled at you.

Finally earning herself a glance from your sad eyes.

“How about you go to the conference they’re hosting. And if you decide that Boston is what you want, you go there. But, if it doesn’t end up being what you want, I will keep the position open for you here,” Cuddy stood with hands flattened against her desk to prove her point.

“Lisa, I can’t ask you to do that,” you sighed, not wanting special treatment or pity.

“I want to. We would be taking a serious blow in our neurology department without you here. But I’ll be happy for you either way,” she circled, coming to stand directly in front of you. Hand resting against your arm trying to console you. Unspoken realization that things must not have went over well when you told your former partner. Cuddy knew House well, seeing a serious change in him since the two of you started seeing each other. She pretended to not notice the brand new ring on your finger. Beautifully twinkling from the sunlight that beamed through her blinds. Able to put all the pieces together of the circumstances in which you brought this to her.

House had came to here earlier this month. Asking some vague questions about the legality of marrying a fellow doctor in the hospital. Pretending he had no ulterior motive, throwing blame on Wilson. He just ‘wanted to make sure no one needed to resign if that was to happen’. She had rolled her eyes knowing exactly what he was meaning. Congratulating him. House had grumbled and scoffed as he waved her off. Exiting her office with the veins on his head pulsing.

Cuddy suddenly hugged you. Firm. Hand on the back of your head as she sighed. You needed this more than she could have imagined. Stomach flipping with your overwhelming emotions. Tears deciding to wade in your eyes again. Sniffling as she pulled away, awkwardly laughing as you looked at her. Exhaustion clear on your breath. “Thank you, Lisa,” you met her eyes.

“It’ll all work out, Y/N,” she reassured. A good friend. Knowing how to console you when necessary. You were thankful for her.

Continuing your day as if nothing was wrong. You were a Doctor for gods sake. Analyzing scan after scan. Brains and spines of all varieties. From newborns to elderly. Pediatrics was your speciality, but that did not stop you from helping people of all ages. Giving some harsher diagnosis than you wanted today, having to control your breathing as to not show weakness to the family. You had to be strong. You were the one who was going to help them. Life of their sickly child now in your hands.

Unsure where the entire had gone off to. Darkness crept across your walls. Simply, amber glow of your lamp was all you had. Having locked yourself away from any other physicians all day. Needing to clear your head and focus on work.

Frustrated when a gentle knock sounded from your door. Teeth gritted as you called out, “Come in.”

Wilson’s frame shadowed in front of the hallway lights. Causing you to stiffen your posture and fold your hands over your lap. Lip quivering as you attempted to catch your breath. Not expecting to see your alienated lover’s best friend. Sometimes you forgot he was your friend too.

Burnt coffee eyes lasered into you. Entering and closing the door behind him. Trying to conjure up a starting sentence. Subject sensitive. More so than you normally discussed. He exhaled loudly.

“Did you come to gloat?”

“I’m so sorry.”

Waterworks immediately flowed. Breath forcing itself out in broken rhythm. Mouth immediately stretching into a frown, followed by a loud sob. Hand cupping your mouth as you squinted your eyes closed. Fingers digging into your cheek. Shoulders heaving with every strangled sob.

Wilson moved on instinct. Kneeling beside you at your desk. One hand on your thigh and the other pushing your hair out of your face. Empathetic eyes scanned you, wishing he could have avoided all of this. Wishing he could have prevented this heartbreak for you. You were his friend. It hurt him to see you hurt.

He pushed himself up to hold you. Head resting against yours. Allowing you to expel every cry, whimper, or sob into his chest. Your body was shaking. Hands bawling his shirt in front of you. Wrinkling the soft blue cotton. Staining it with smudged mascara and lipstick.

“It hurts, James,” you cried pathetically. Clutching him to you.

“I know. I know, honey. I’m… so sorry,” Wilson repeated. He was bad at this. At consoling you. Intimacy something he was only good at faking with women he was going to sleep with. Good at pleasing others. But how could he please you right now? There was no real cure for a broken heart.

This would have to be good enough.

And it was. All you needed was someone to hold you. Understand you. Sympathize with you. Wilson’s warmth encapsulated you. Emptying every drop of pain into him.

“I love him,” you whispered, breathing flattening out. Letting up on your grip on your close friend. Resting your head in the crook of his neck against his shoulder. Nose framing his throat. Warm tears dropping along his collar.

Wilson tenderly kissed your head. There was only so much he could do for you, but he would be damned if he did not try. Despite you ignoring his warning. Despite all the times you had grown angry at him. Despite that you had been spending more time away from him. You were one of his best friends. He would do this for you if this is what would help.

You remained in his arms for quite some time. Letting it all out. The only way you knew how. Thanking Wilson for everything.

Parting ways with the unforgiving walls of the hospital. Being welcomed home by a quiet room. Previously alive with duets and coordinated dance routines, now dull and rhythmless. The mixture of your lives haunted every surface. Candy he had left on the counter, discarded clothes that assumed he would come back for them, his toothbrush contained next to yours. Worst of all, the indent in your bed from his body. Now cold and hollow. Pillow still smelling like his shampoo.

Nausea now a convivial partner. Not having the strength to force yourself out of bed. Porcelain bowl’s siren call a temptress. Small amount of food digested in your stomach preparing for their reunion.

It was not worth it.

~~~

Another two weeks passed. Conference in Boston narrowing in on your calendar. Bags already packed and laid beside your bed. Coming to terms with the real possibility of a new beginning.

Somehow, still avoiding House. Knowing he was doing the same. Opting for other neurologists to run tests for him. Anything to not lay eyes on you.

You chewed the inside of your cheek. Metallic taste overwhelming your buds as you dissected the folder before you. Stumped. Normally, you would ask House and his Team.

Your ego refused to face him.

But that did not mean you could not use the diagnostic team.

You parted your blinds into the busy hallway with two fingers. Only your eyes visible from the outside. Scanning the bodies that filled the hall. Waiting to pounce on the first one of House’s little minions that you spotted.

Bingo.

Creaking your door open. “Psst—“ you called out to the young doctor. His eyes peering to the side, acting like he did not see you. Trying to assess the situation, assuming the query was not directed at him. “Doctor Foreman,” you said with a whisper tone, albeit above a whisper. He looked around confused. Pointing to himself with a raise of a brow. You nodded, gesturing him to come to you.

Foreman shook his head in disagreement, motioning towards the folder already in his hand. You stomped your foot and pointed directly in front of you. Brows arching to silently show how serious you were. Sighing loudly as he solemnly walked over to you.

“You know, this got guy’s killed in war-times. Talking to the enemy,” Foreman smirked, leaning against your doorway.

You clasped your hands together in front of your chest, pointing your conjoined fingers at him, “I need you to do me a favor.”

His arms bulged as he crossed them over his chest. Sass dripping clean off him as his head fell to the side. Sucking his teeth as he looked around to make sure there were no cane wielding doctors nearby.

Reaching into your coat pocket and pulling out the case file, “I need you to take this patient folder. Take it to your team and see if you guys can figure out what’s going on. I’ve ran every test under the sun and can’t understand what I’m seeing. BUT— and this is the important part— you canNOT under ANY circumstances tell House this is for me.”

Foreman clicked his tongue. Rolling his eyes. Widening yours and wringing your hands in front of him, “Please.”

He blew his breath out, allowing his head to fall forward. Fully aware of the drama going on between the two of you. How could he not be? House brought it up at every turn. Angrier than he ever had been before. Extending his hand out to accept your offering. You beamed with glee.

“Just so you know,” he pointed with the filing folder, “This is petty.”

“Thank you, Foreman!” You waved him off. Earning a flick of his wrist in response. Finally feeling a sense of relief that you would possibly get an answer. Retreating into your cave. It would take them some time to run through every possibility. So now you could begin the new stack that had collected throughout the day.

It was easy to lose track of time when you were buried in paperwork. Only having time to eat lunch in Cuddy’s office with her. Suggested that you and some of the other doctors go out for drinks tonight. It was only a week until you would be leaving for Boston, so she wanted to treat you. Happy to oblige, anything for you to not be alone.

Staying late, something that happened more often than not. Telling Cuddy to come get you when she was ready to head out. Back to the door as you knelt in front of a filing cabinet. Fingers lacing through every filing folder looking for an older case file. One you hoped would help explain your current one.

Quick knocks against the wood of your door caught your attention. Assuming it was Lisa, not paying attention as you called out, “I’ll be right out.” Zoning out the sound of, what you assumed to be shoes, clicking against your floor.

Abrupt slamming of a hand on your desk made you jump up. Rising above your place on the floor and meeting angry, blue eyes. Air hitching itself in your throat. Heart immediately ramming into your ribcage.

“Next time you want to send me some absurd patient, call me yourself. Don’t rope my team into your dirty work,” House bared his teeth at you.

The first time you had seen him since your fight. Time freezing for you. Taking in every small detail of him. Scruff closer resembling a beard more than ever before. Neglecting trimming the prickly hairs. Something you had began doing together. Bags under his eyes heavier, bloodshot sclera matching your own. Cheeks sunken in and thinner. Not noticeable to the average eye, but when you had him memorized as well as you did it was obvious. Shirt half unbuttoned and wrinkled.

You stared slack-jawed. Fighting the delusion that this was fake. An illusion made up to comfort you. Eyes growing glossy. He was within touching distance. You wanted to spring up and wrap him in your arms. Kiss him and tell him how much you missed him.

“Close your mouth. You’re going to catch a fly,” House scoffed. Eyes rolling aggressively.

Your brows furrowed. Being reminded why this would have never worked to begin with. Jolting away from his piercing eyes. Jaw flexing as you swallowed the lump in your throat. Eyes drying out.

Taking the folder he had tossed haphazardly on your desk, “Did you figure anything out?”

“Of course I did,” his face scrunched up, offended. Angry that you would even ask such a stupid question. Mocking his intelligence in such a way.

You widened your eyes and nodded, “Okay…?”

“It’s MS,” he groaned like you were stupid for not knowing.

“No,” you shook your head in disagreement, “I tested for that. The lesions are from a prior head injury. He said all this pain started when he got hit the other day playing soccer.”

House nodded, “Uh-huh. That doesn’t explain the small white spot right at the base of his skull. His white blood cell count is through the roof. Persistent tingling sensation down the left side of his body. Black spot obscuring his vision, but no signs of corneal damage. It’s practically screaming ‘multiple sclerosis!’ at you.” House’s tone was riddled with condescension. Matter-of-factly correcting your misdiagnosis.

“Right,” you exhaled, trailing off. Frustrated that you had not put the pieces together yourself. Knowing this boy would have to go through some serious trial work for the next few months before he could even start treatment. All signs pointed to multiple sclerosis, but the MRI had you questioning everything.

“If you wanted to talk to me, you didn’t have to pretend to not know what was wrong with your patient,” House said cockily.

Igniting a fire in you. The implication making your blood run molten. Eyes narrowing in on him from above the folder. Mouth upturned like he had won a fight. Making you more angry.

Slamming the folder down on your desk, “You honestly think I’m so desperate that I would allow myself to look stupid just so you would come up here and yell at me?” Voice laced with a thick, deadly venom. Hissing through your teeth with each word.

House nonchalantly shrugged, “Whatever tickles your fancy.”

You growled, speaking through your teeth, “I can’t stand you.”

“Right… Is that why you’re still wearing that? Little reminder of how much you hate me?” House motioned towards your left hand.

The ring.

It had become second nature to just slip it on every morning. Eyes widening down at your digits. Pretending it did not hurt your feelings. Tears pricking against the corners of your eyes. Stunned into silence with his audacity.

“I… uh—“ you tried, really you did. But the way your throat burned and tightened you knew that if you continued you would be a crying mess in front of him.

Your eyes welled up at his. Pleading for him to back down. Begging for even an ounce of forgiveness, sympathy, something. Hands lacing together in front of you. Fidgeting with the ring that you hid under your right hand. Cheeks flooding with your embarrassment. Inability to come up with something to say making you seem weak. Your head hung in defeat.

House took the seat in front of your desk. Cane resting against the arm of it, feet propping themselves up. Far too casual for your liking. As if he had not ripped your heart clean from your chest and taken a bite.

“Boston next week,” unconcerned tone, faking excitement. Pretending that was not the entire reason things were this tense between you. Boston had been the wedge forced between you. Eyes harshly staring at you, “Must be exciting.”

You shrugged your shoulders. Hand rubbing up and down your arm. Trying to will yourself to look at him. Knowing you could not. Surprised he had kept up with what was going on with you. Completely opposite of what you had been doing. Maybe Wilson talked to him. Maybe he asked. It did not matter.

“Oh, don’t be coy,” House poked. His insistent need to pretend like everything was fine between you had anger swirling around your stomach. Falling back into habits that predated your relationship. Forgetting, more like ignoring, how much things had changed between you. Almost like you were just a coworker he found attractive, not that you had seen the most vulnerable parts of one another.

“House. Why are you here?” your eyes finally met his. Brows pinched together and teeth locked. Nostrils flaring with each steady breath you took.

“I brought your patient folder back. And a diagnosis,” House said.

“Greg.”

That made him sit up. Hands clasped in front of him, lips pursed together. Expression falling flat. Mischief behind his eyes fading quickly. Blowing his breath out loudly.

“You didn’t even call,” your words broke.

“Neither did you,” House sneered.

“You wouldn’t have answered if I did,” you defended.

A beat of silence.

“I know,” House huffed, “But I wanted you to.”

His words were desperate. Hiding the sadness that had overtaken him the past weeks. It was easy for him to suppress his emotions. Anger easier to live with than heartbreak. The night he forced you out had broken him. Wrecking his apartment beyond comprehension. Taking way more Vicodin than necessary just so he did not have to feel anything. Shattering all the picture frames along his tabletops. Cutting his hand deeply with one of the shards. Wincing, reminding himself he was alive.

That only made things worse.

Downing bottle after bottle of liquor. Not caring about the taste, but about how it made him numb. Your laughter and smile haunted his mind. Your hooks were so deeply rooted in him that there was no ripping them out. Wobbling into his bedroom where your discarded clothes littered the floor. Drunken rage causing him to shove the garments down his toilet, attempting to flush them. Only overflowing into the floor. Enraging him further. Beating his cane against the porcelain throne. Not realizing tears were burning down his face.

Shouting into the void of his bedroom. Pain coursing through his leg as he finally flopped onto his mattress. Your pillow beside his own. Sweet smell of you still embedded in his sheets. Fingers digging into the bedding as he ripped the fabric. Banging his head repetitively into the foam pillow.

“FUCKING BOSTON!”

He flipped onto his back. Hands grasping his face as he groaned. Instinctively extending his hand out to your side of the bed. Begging that you would be right there next to him and it would all have been a terrible dream. Cold and empty. Nails digging into the sheets once more. Breath coming out broken and strained as it all really hit him.

As always. House had ran off what he cared for most. Incapable of loving and caring. He was a disease. Infecting and ruining everyone who got close. And he had no desire to get better.

Not anymore.

Pitiful eyes looked into each other. Still grieving what could have been between you. Neither of you ready to let go.

Forced to break away when your door flew open. Cuddy’s smiling face quickly falling into shock. Not believing that the two of you were in the same room.

“Oh God. I’m so sorry! I’ll just go—“

“No, it’s okay. I’m coming,” you dismissed her. Clicking of heels exiting your office quicker than they had entered. Sighing remembering the commitment you had made to go out tonight. As sad as it was, you would rather be stuck in here with House than out with everyone.

Eyes falling back on House. Eyes telling you he had something he wanted to say to you. Swallowing before he quickly stood up. Looking at you with the biggest and saddest eyes you had ever seen. You walked around the desk, closing the distance between you. Closer than you had been all night. Within reach of perfectly falling back in together.

Every fiber of your being begged to tell him how much you missed him. How your life felt incomplete without him. That you had not slept the same without him there with you. Tell him that you loved him more than anything.

“Bye, Greg,” you mumbled, hand reaching out to pat his shoulder but stopping.

This time you were the one holding the gun. Aimed between his eyes, repositioning to his chest. Blowing him back. What remained exploding through the other side.

Walking past him and out your office. Leaving without saying what you really wanted. His silence ripped through your skin like barbed wire. Having to put on a fake smile when you met Cuddy in the hallway.

“Well?” Cuddy asked.

“He was… bringing me a patient’s diagnosis,” you lied.

“It’s good that you guys are speaking again,” she tried to cheer you up.

“Right,” you thought about it. About him.

In another week, he would be the farthest thing from your mind. All of this would be.

~~~

You stared at yourself in the mirror. Questioning everything. Suitcase tucked at your side preparing to catch your flight after work. Begin your new chapter. Conference your starting point before any final decision was made.

Today was the day.

Nerves had you flexing your hands at your sides. Stomach in knots of excitement. But also dread. Same black void that had consumed you prior, making itself known as it pinched and twisted your guts.

Tomorrow was a new day.

That kept you going. Able to calm down before heading to work for what could very possibly be the last time. The walls you had known better than those of your own home welcome you back. Surgical smell filling your senses. Taking the elevator all alone. Numbers clicking by as memories of the years of your life did. The first time you had ever taken this elevator feeling so long ago.

Towards the final year of your residency. Out performing the other promising neurologists, being transferred to the hospital where you would more than likely be hired. This very hospital.

Chaos ensued from the moment the doors opened. Patients coding in the halls, overflowed beds, and doctors yelling at each other. Your supervisor, a doctor who had long since retired from the position, told you to keep your head on straight. Try your hardest to ignore all the commotion and keep closing behind him. Helping run MRIs and watching brain surgeries. Feeling over your head in the fast paced environment.

You had finally gotten a moment’s peace as you paced around the hallway in front of a patients room. Having just delivered some devastating news to a family. The father was brain dead. There was nothing more you could do for him. It was their choice to leave him on life support or pull the plug, but the way you presented it to them was crucial.

You squatted against the wall, hand cupping over your mouth and pinching your nose. Clicking against the floor echoed through the hallway. The blunt end of a cane nudged at you, assuming it was an elderly patient. Surprised when you looked up to see a doctor.

“Not supposed to grovel where patients can see you,” his brash voice urged you.

“Sorry,” you said, standing and regaining composure. Leaning against the cold wall and examining the man before you. His large, early morning sky-like eyes doing the same to you. Curiosity getting the better of you both.

“So, what’s your—“

“Yes, I am a doctor. And yes I need a cane. Let’s get those stupid questions out of the way,” he said with a loud scoff.

“I was going to ask what your specialty was,” you awkwardly smiled.

His mouth morphed into an ‘O’. Teeth clinking together as he realized how harsh he had been. “Diagnostician. Specializing in Nephrology and Infectious Diseases.” Bragging clear on his tone. He was older than you, not by much. Enough to already have experience in the hospital that you could not begin to imagine. “I’m House,” he introduced himself with his hand splayed across his own chest. Not offering you his hand for pleasantries.

You nodded with tight lips. Unsure of what his motive was here.

House exhaled, “You’re new.”

“I’m Dr. Y/L/N. Finishing out my residency here. I’m a Neurologist. Interested in the pediatric part neurology mostly, but I love any brain,” you smiled. Youth still beaming on your cheeks.

“Fresh meat. Wilson is gonna love you,” he, who you now knew as House, smirked at you. Eyes checking out your whole figure. This was the first eye roll you gave him ever.

“That your wife or something?”

House chuckled, “More like boy-toy with benefits.”

House could see the shock on your face. Eyes windowing into how fast your brain processed the information. Of course you had assumed he was hitting on you, surprised that he was batting for the other team.

“I’m kidding. He’s an Oncologist here,” House deadpanned. Your hand slid down your face. Already annoyed by him. Face contorting as you tried to read him. He was like a page freshly typed that had water spilt on it. Unable to be properly interpreted. He was challenging you. Seeing how you handled his humor and behavior.

“For Christ’s sake. You young people and not being able to take a joke,” he generalized with a wave of his hand.

You squinted at him. Really taking the time to try and understand him. “You’re kinda an asshole, aren’t you?”

House’s brows sprung up his forehead. Laughing from how shocked he was at your assumption. Pointing to himself as he spoke, “That’s rather forward of you, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. So is your eyes all over my breasts, but you don’t see me getting offended,” you shrugged, gesturing towards your chest with two hands. House’s brow knitted together as he tried to fight off the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. My God, he had met his match.

House clicked his tongue as he leaned forward with both hands on his cane. Eyes narrowing in on you. How your hand sat on your hip with confidence only people like him possessed. “Arrogance isn’t pretty on you,” House dared insult.

“Ooo, what else?” You mocked, agging him along.

House’s tongue glazed over his teeth, air puffing out of his nose with what could have been a laugh.

“Do you think your boyfriend will find it pretty?” You tilted your head with your question, trying your hardest to rile him up. Fluttering your lashes sensually at him.

House backed off. Smiling widely with his teeth, "Come down to the cafeteria with me."

You glared at him. One of many times where he would make you smile. His charm worked on you, and you liked it. You liked him. You always had. Even with the insults. The belittlement. His misogynistic way of complimenting you. It all made him House.

And you loved that.

Doors to the elevator opened. Forcing you out of the fond memory. Into a reality that you were much not caring for. Wishing you could grab your old self and shake her out of the infatuated haze. Warn her of how severe of a heartache she would experience at the hands of the diagnostician.

Ghosting down the mostly vacant hallway. Strange compared to your memory. Opening the door to your office. Safe space for you amongst the uncertainties. Appreciating it now more than ever. Giving you so many good stories and bad. Cases that ranged from tragedy to triumphant news. You had packed most of it up the days leading up to your departure. Preparing to leave this all behind.

Surprised to see a small box with an envelope underneath it on your desk. Beautiful red ribbon wrapped into a bow on top. You smiled. Assuming it had to be from Wilson or Cuddy. Now your only two friends. Ripping open the envelope and pulling out the piece of notebook paper. Small, with messy handwriting on it.

"Congratulations. I hope Boston is good to you. I love you."

Was all it said. Cracking open the box to find the prettiest necklace you had ever laid your eyes on. Holding up a dew-drop shaped gem. Shimmering from the office lights. Finding yourself gawking at the expensive chain that encapsulated it. Dainty and perfect to wear casually. Resembling one you liked from an older movie.

No name was attached anywhere to the gift. Striking you as strange, but you had a lot to get done before your flight. So you chose to ignore it. Going on about things like any normal day. Assuring your patients that they would be properly cared for in your absence. Catching up with Cuddy in time to grab a quick bite to eat together.

"Pretty necklace. Who got you that?"

Your brows upturned, "I... don't know. I thought it had to be you or Wilson. Guess it's the latter."

"Hmm," she sounded unsure.

You would have to thank Wilson before you left.

The day flew by. Wilson sat in your office. Insisting on driving you to the airport. Despite how hard you objected, it was 'his job as your friend' to see you off. He held your suitcase, waiting for you to finally be ready to leave.

"Come on, you Bostonian! We've got to get you to the airport," Wilson said in a sing-song voice.

You stared out the window. Sunset always beautiful from here. You fiddled with your thumbs. Weighing it all in your mind. Envisioning a new life for yourself in Boston. Unfamiliar and incomplete faces. Only able to put some shitty-over the top Boston accent with them, like the ones they would do on Saturday Night Live. No matter how perfectly you imagined them, they would never live up to the friends you made here. Even in your fantasy, where you tried to picture a future with a husband and children.

It was House.

Every time. Wearing a nice black suit and a bright colored tie as you locked arms with him, stunning white dress flowing down your figure. Flower peddles fluttering around your heads as your closest friends all cheered you on. His hands would grasp your face as he kissed you. That lovesick expression of his warming your heart. He would kiss you goodnight and tuck himself in beside you. Imagining trying to pretend you were both still asleep when little pitter-patters of footsteps would enclose on your bedroom door. His finger would push against his lips to shush you. Knowing the minute your sweet child would call out to you, both of you would fold. Inviting them into the warmth with you. And he loved you. Really loved you.

Wilson's hand on your shoulder brought you back. Looking over and meeting his dark eyes. Forcing a smile with an exhale. "You're gonna be late," Wilson chided. You shook your head, closing the blinds and circling your desk.

"I meant to thank you," you said as you put your coat on.

"For?"

"The necklace," your fingers outlined the metal.

"I didn't get you a necklace," Wilson responded, confused.

Skin pinching together between your eyebrows. Holding the pedant a little tighter than before. Not understanding who could have dropped this off in your office. Brain refusing to connect the obvious dots.

"Hmp," you mumbled. A thoughtful gesture accompanied by an even kinder note. Fighting your body's urge to sprint down to your suspect's office. It would only make your decision harder. Make everything complicated. You could not do that. Not when you were this close to your escape.

You and Wilson turned the lights off in your office and headed for the elevator. Opting out of your usual shared stair walk, seeing as you were having to carry luggage. Doors opening to the lobby. Cold from the constant opening of doors. A soft shiver went down your spine.

"Alright," Wilson said as you headed for the door, "Forgetting anything?"

That question made you freeze. Looking down at your finger. The same band and gem glistening. You were forgetting something. Completely leaving it behind. Tears finding their place along your waterline again. Closing your eyes and clinching your fist.

Why could he not come tell you goodbye? Why did he not even try to get you to stay? He never was a beggar, but maybe this once he could have been. Just to get you back.

That fucking bastard.

"No," you said softly.

Walking out into the now dark exterior. Cloudy sky blocking any natural lighting. Only the bright neon of your home. Soon to be a memory replaced by a new one.

"I'm going to go get the car," Wilson pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. Leaving you alone with your bags. Allowing your demeanor to change once your friend was out of site. Shoulders slumping, head falling in exhaustion. Having to fake excitement and joy for your new beginnings all day. None of this went how you wanted. Change was always so hard on you. But was it not on everyone?

"Y/N," a voice called out to you from the entry doors of the hospital. Turning to meet him. Your name from his tongue almost sounding fake. Wrong. Speedily, he walked over to you. Cane echoing against the silent courtyard.

Heart overflowing in your chest when you could finally make a clear image of his face. Agitated lines etched into his face. Misty eyes imploring you to delve headfirst into them. Teeth locked together while heavy breaths filled his lungs.

"I'm selfish. And cynical. And rude. An-And all around, I'm not a good guy," House presented to you. Words only angering you further. Arms crossing over your chest as you popped a hip out. Head falling to the side as you examined him.

"House—"

"Just," he abruptly cut you off, "Listen to me. Every bad thing you think of me is true. And I have done nothing to make you think anything different in the last month. My leg hurts if I think about you too long. Throbs beyond any pill's cure. Because it needs you. I need you. Even if you don't need me."

You stared blankly at him. Unyielding guard around you after one too many disappointments. Cold and distant as you looked at him. Unsure how any of this was supposed to sway you.

"But you've still got that ring on. And that has to mean something," House gestured, like it took everything in him to finally get to the point. Fist clinching at your side, thumb rubbing over the band. A crack in your shield. One he could weasel his way into. Under your skin and back into your heart.

Your eyes welled up. Blank expression falling into a sob. Palms cupping your face as your shoulders quivered. "Why couldn't you have came by earlier? Brought me the necklace yourself. Said what you wrote to my face," voice defeated and broken.

His hand reached out to you, "Y/N—"

"Don't touch me! You don't get to do this to me," finally allowing the damn of hatred to burst. "Do nothing but avoid and belittle me to the entire hospital for a month. Just at the idea of me leaving. Look where that got us! You are nothing more than a self-sabotaging man-child. I am not going to continue to cater to your fantasy anymore, House. I can't do this with you for the rest of my life," you shouted as your arms straightened at your sides.

House's posture straightened. Apologetic orbs falling hooded as they looked at you. Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he silently swallowed. Fighting back the choke that tickled the back of his pallet. Nostrils flailing as he repressed any sadness that dared gather around his eyes.

You quickly removed the ring from your finger. Pinching it between two fingers as you held it out to him. Hands and breathing shaky. Hot tears burned down your cheeks. Lip quivering as you shook it in his face, "Take it. It's not mine anymore."

House refused to move. A singular stream of tears dripping from his eyes. Lips sealed as he shook his head. Vein on his forehead bulging as his eyes grew bloodshot. His lip barely pouting out like a child who had just been scolded.

"It's yours," House's voice was not above a whisper. Crestfallen publicly for one of the first times. Refuting any claims you had about the ring not being yours. He had it specialty made for you. Your initials were engraved on the band. His directly next to it. The gem he had chosen to match the month you fell in love. Every aspect was you. Meant for you in every way possible.

You aggressively grabbed his wrist, prying his fingers open and placing it in his hand. Closing the digits over it. Nails digging into his skin momentarily. “All this is is a reminder. Of this place. Of what I’m leaving behind. Of… you. I can’t take this with me,” you heaved.

The first time you had touched him in over a month.

Exuding nothing but hatred towards him.

He had really messed things up with you. And how could he blame you for being angry?

"You can't even tell me you love me when I'm about to literally fly away from you," you growled, drowned by tears.

"I do."

"Then say it, Greg!"

Daunting silence.

Your eyes burned as you squinted at him. Saddened by his lack of devotion. You could be down on your hands and knees. It would not change this.

Sound of the car door closing behind you made you look over your shoulder. Wilson’s eyes stared at you across the short distance. Assessing what was happening between the two of you. Deciding to not insert himself, packing your bags into the trunk of his car.

“I’m leaving,” you said shortly. He was the love of your life. A regret you would have for the rest of your life. There was no world where you did not need him. Your missing piece, but you could not live like this. And this was the only way he knew how to live.

Dying for a last ditch effort from him.

Anything.

You walked away for the final time. Sniffling back your tears. Meeting Wilson who had the passenger door open for you. Taking your seat in your friend’s car. Looking out the window to see House standing there pathetically. His hand raised in a final goodbye wave. What felt like miles away.

Wilson glared as he circled around to his side of the car. Taking his place behind the wheel. Looking at your now puffy cheeks. Admiring that even at what he imagined was your lowest, you still tried to compose yourself. Looking over and smiling at him.

“Alright, taxi driver. I’ve got a flight to catch,” you chuckled.

A mostly silent ride accompanied you. Pulling to a stop in front of the large glass doors. Families reuniting and departing. People holding signs. People having clearly heated phone calls. A place laced with every emotion you could experience. It was beautiful.

“Okay! I’ll help you get your bags out, but car’s gotta keep running. They get pissed if you park here for too long,” Wilson joked.

“Thank you, James,” you exhaled. Smiling at your comrade. Unpacking and sitting it all on the concrete curb. Standing with his hands on his hips in front of you.

You pulled him into a deep hug. He was the best friend you had. Wilson’s hand patted your back, squeezing you tightly.

“I’ll come visit,” Wilson said softly. He had been acting tough through all of this for you. Faking being unbothered by the fact you were abandoning him. Through thick and thin, he had you. This was going to be hard on him.

You pulled away with tears staining your face again. Becoming like second nature to you as of late. Smiling widely at him. “I love you, James. I can’t stop thanking you for everything,” you admitted.

“Love you too,” he said with melancholy.

Waving goodbye as you rushed into the airport. Wheels of your suitcase bumping against the ground with each step. You should have fixed the wheel before traveling, but you had more important things on your mind. Long process getting through everything and finding your terminal. Taking your seat against a window. Glow of the runway illuminating through the tiny glass. Putting headphones on to drown out all the rattling and bangs of takeoff.

To Boston.

~~~

The weekend conference had flown by. Attending lectures with doctors you never knew you would share a room with. Never thinking this level of success was within reach for you.

And maybe it was not.

Everyone who had been invited here was brilliant. Innovative and well-spoken. Beloved by all your fellow doctors. Inspiring the next generation. Things you were not sure you possessed. Finding yourself comparing to all those around you. Imposter syndrome wrapping you in its veil. Even when board members would recognize you and thank you for attending. Inviting you to each special lecture. Wanting you to feel accepted and honored, yet it only pushed you further away.

Separating yourself from who was supposed to become your new colleagues. Not clicking with any of them in a way that made you comfortable. Each field having their own clicks and groups. Not being welcomed in by any of them. Especially when they saw you speaking exclusively with board members.

It was all trivial.

You were here for work.

Yet something still buzzed in the back of your mind. Maybe this was not what you wanted.

Imaging yourself here no longer brought joy and comfort. Praying you would fall in love with Boston Children’s Hospital and its staff. Yet you had never felt more like an outsider in your own field.

But you had to want this. You had been so willing to leave everything else behind. Burning bridges beyond repair. Uprooting your life just for this opportunity.

Maybe it was not worth it.

You walked over a nearby bridge with another group of doctors. Finally being asked about yourself. What made you come to Boston? Oh, wow. That’s a serious change to make within a few weeks. What field were you in? Of course, they had an incredible neurologist heading the department before he up and left. No one was going to replace him in their hearts! Had they heard of any of your research before? Yeah, that sounds really important.

How could some strangers make you feel so small? When you had been built up so highly by the board? This was humiliating.

Parting ways with them in front of the hospital. Waving goodbye as they all laughed to some joke you did not overhear. Sighing and allowing yourself to shrink for a moment. Stepping in a circle as you stared up at the bright lights.

They promised you new beginnings. An out for a situation it had gotten you into. You had enjoyed exploring the halls. Seeing the smiling nurses and patients. All the advanced tech that lined their rooms. Incredibly impressed by how far ahead technologically they were. Funding was high here.

Still. You could only compare it to your home. No instant connection like you had with PPTH.

Maybe you could stay the same forever. Jumping headfirst at every chance of freedom. Fleeing whenever you felt that familiar itch in your bones. The only reason you had so swiftly made up your mind to begin with. There was a comfort in running. Escaping anytime you felt trapped. It was the final night of your trip. You needed to make your mind up and fast.

But. What if it was time to settle down? Warmth overtaking you when you thought of a mundane life. Early morning kisses. Breakfast in bed on the weekends. A baby cradled in your arms. Husband kissing you both on the head. It would not fulfill you anymore than your work had. Yet you found solace in the idea. It was a nice thought after all.

You turned your back to the building. Looking up at the night sky. Clearer than it was in Jersey. Stars still blurred from pollution. Yet they twinkled. Despite all the disgusting smog and reflection of lights.

Your back pocket vibrated. Fetching the small device out. The name illuminating the screen stunning you. Hesitating for only a split second before flipping it open and pressing it to your ear.

Unable to force any words out. Hearing him breathing on the other end causing your heart to flutter.

“Hi, Greg,” you exhaled, relief clear on your tone. Almost like you had been holding your breath without realizing. Surprised he even wanted to call you after how you had treated him last.

“How’s Boston?”

Straight to the point. Never one for pleasantries. Always brash and direct.

“It’s… good,” you lowly said. The words sounding fake as you said them. Propping your elbow in your hand to make holding the phone up more comfortable. Swaying side to side in an attempt to keep yourself warm against the cold breeze.

“Good…” he trailed off, repeating the word with the same conviction you did. Clearly having more to say, but holding his tongue.

“Feel like home?”

You laughed, “No. It never could.”

House chuckled in response. Your shared humor mellowing out into a comfortable silence. Feeling like it used to before this whole mess started.

“It’s nice… to hear your voice again,” you admitted, allowing any shame to roll off your body. Your love for him outweighing your anger. Missing him more than you ever would have led on. Especially this side of him.

“Yours too…” you could hear his smile with each word. “Think you’re gonna stay?”

You hummed. Uncertainty in your vocals. Lip scrunching up with your eye as you thought. Not wanting to lead him on about anything. Knowing few things could sway your mind.

“I don’t know,” you breathed. Eyes falling closed. Images in your mind blurring. Incapable of picturing yourself in Boston.

“Yeah…”

“I kinda miss Jersey. I miss… you guys,” you admitted. Hurting your ego, but it needed to be said.

“I miss you,” House said casually. Shooting an arrow through your heart. Pooping as it caused your blood to flow toward your cheeks. Smiling like it was the first time you had ever been complimented. Knowing he did not just mean from this weekend. He missed you. Every day with you. Distance you had over the last month causing him distress.

You sighed, “It’s not home.”

Those words solidifying the decision you had been teetering on. Voice not above a whisper when you heard more footsteps outside. Not wanting to sound ungrateful to any passersby. Clicking clueing you in that it could be a board member in her fancy shoes.

“Then come home,” deep, gentle words melted down your figure. Causing you to jump when they came from directly behind you. Turning to see him. Figure towering over his cane. Sophisticated hat atop his head. Wearing an overcoat and jeans. Familiar smile across his face.

Your phone dropped out of your hand as you rushed over to him. Tears flowing freely when you jumped into his arms. Knocking him off balance, but making sure you kept both of you standing. Your face tucking into his chest as half breaths escaped you. His large hand cupped the back of your head.

“It’s really you,” you exhaled. Leaning back to cup both sides of his face. Thumbs tracing along each worry line and scruffy hair. Grasping him tight as if some outside force would rip him away in an instant. Eyes wide and finally getting the life back in them.

“Pretty girl,” he cooed, his own thumb wiping away your tears. Hooded eyes lovingly looked into yours. Head tilting slightly as he took in each feature. Waterline stained from how much you had cried. Somehow more beautiful than the last time he saw you.

“Greg, h-how? Why are you here?”

“You know Wilson and I will come up with any excuse for a roadtrip,” House smiled. Cocky grin overtaking his expression as his brows raised. Pulling a laugh from you. Tucking your face into his chest to hide how your face scrunched up. His heart flourished hearing you. Comforting sound that had became a distant memory. You softly shoved his shoulder with your hand.

Doeing your eyes up at him. Lashes wet with joy. Both of you breathing in tandem. Your hands flattened against his shoulders. His now cupped your face. Darting between each other’s eyes.

“I love you,” House said.

You mouthed words that did not escape. Brows upturning. Glossy eyes filled with sincerity. He meant it. Deep down, he always had.

“I love you too,” you admitted. Capturing you in a deep kiss. As if you had been lost at sea and he finally got his eyes on you. Desperate and filled with desire.

“You came all this way to tell me that?” you chuckled, your hand joining his on your cheek.

“What can I say? I’m a romantic,” House shrugged, lips pierced together. Earning a giggle from you. Body instinctively following his as he pulled away. Eyes saddening for a moment as you watched him drop his cane.

House began to take one knee before you. Kneejerk reaction to stop him. Hands waving frantically. Cringing when his face contorted in discomfort. Wincing under his breath as he shimmied through his coat pocket. Presenting your ring back to you. Pinched between shaking fingers. Yearning, ocean eyes gazing into yours.

“You deserve a proper proposal,” House muttered. “Y/N. I love you. More than I will ever be able to show you. I-I love you so much… it hurts. But I would do it all in pain, as long as it’s with you. I want you to be my wife,” House said with vicious valor. Meaning every single word. Pouring his heart out to you in the most vulnerable way possible. Regretting not doing this all sooner.

Your hands tented over your mouth. Nodding profusely. Reaching out to help him to his feet, trying to minimize the pain. Wincing again as he finally got footing, handing him his cane once more. Allowing him to put his weight on it.

He reached for your left hand, sliding the ring on your finger. Where it belonged. Designed and custom made for you. His love.

Lips connecting once more. He greeted you with a toothy grin when you pulled back. Reciprocating as you laced your fingers together.

A weight lifted off your shoulders. Encapsulating you with warmth and love. Acceptance that it was okay to be happy where you were. Not having to chase the next high. This was better than what any board member could offer you.

“Wilson should be parked up front,” House pointed. Guiding you to the place your best friend was located. Watching his figure do a double take from the inside of his car. Fumbling as he got out of the vehicle and met you and House halfway. Smiling widely at you both. Happy to see your face once more.

Wilson pulled you into a hug, hand never leaving House’s. Still too afraid of never feeling it in your own again. “When you said you would come visit I thought you meant in a few weeks, not two days,” you laughed. Poking fun at him.

Wilson’s hand rubbed the back of his neck. Chuckling with amusement, “I couldn’t resist a trip to bring you home.”

Overwhelmed with the love presented to you from them. Your found-family. The ones you loved and cared for most. Using their best efforts to bring you back to them. Cup overflowing with gratitude and appreciation.

“You are coming with us, right?” Wilson double-checked.

You nodded, “How could I not?”

House pulled you tighter against his side. Planting a kiss against your head. Engulfed by the smell of your shampoo. It was all the little things he missed.

“I just need to swing by the hotel and get my stuff. And we can go,” you giddily said, motioning a takeoff with your hands.

“Eager, aren’t you? I thought we’d catch another lecture or two. Heard Dr. Who-Knows-What is here, I’d love to hear her presentation,” House chided. Sense of humor never lost on him. Smiling with his teeth widely when you rolled your eyes at him.

There she was. His girl.

“I’ll give you the ‘for dummies’ version on the ride home,” you poked him in the side. Making him wriggle and exclaim an ‘OW!’ that would have gotten the attention of any strangers. You quickly forced your palm over his mouth to shut him up. A warm, wet tongue lapped at your palm. Causing you to shake your hand vigorously, “GROSS!”

“Ooh. You’re acting like my cock hasn’t been in your mouth,” House smirked. Your face flooded with heat immediately. Jaw slacking as he laughed.

Wilson scoffed. Unamused by both your childish antics. Not surprised with the casual way House spoke about your sex life. He had missed this.

“Okay, lovebirds. Let’s go,” Wilson motioned towards the parking lot with his whole body. Hurrying you both along.

Whipping your head to look at House, “Shotgun.”

You stuck your tongue out as you ran towards the car.

“Oh, come on now! That’s not fair—“ House whined, “Challenging a cripple to a foot race? You should be ashamed!”

“I’m not!” you quipped as you quickly opened the door.

House smiled. Wilson giving him a knowing glance over his shoulder. Laughing at House’s defeat. Joining you in the vehicle, House leaned between the two front seats.

“I was hoping you’d get in the back with me. I’ve got a welcome home present for you,” he wiggled his eyebrows and motioned towards his groin. Your hands hid your face from the embarrassment. Groaning loudly. A soft ‘Jesus’ coming from Wilson.

“You’re such a pervert!”

“And you love me,” House poked your cheek. You leaned to look back at him. Eyes full of love for you as he smiled. You blew a kiss at him.

The ride home was long. Filled with sing-a-longs and pointless discussions. House arguing about some tv show he was watching. Neither you are Wilson really disagreeing, but you knew he liked a good argument. Wilson would make fun of you when a new pop song would play and you knew the words. House’s fingers would rub your shoulders from the backseat, any excuse to touch you. Long digits playing with the necklace he had gifted you. Familiar tug of sleep wrapping around you, but you were too afraid. What if you woke up and this was all just a dream?

You shouted when you crossed back over the New Jersey line. Alarming your fellow riders. House reciprocating the shout simply to annoy Wilson. Everything suddenly becoming more familiar. You knew the way back and it felt like home.

“You guys just want to stay at my place tonight?” Wilson asked as you got closer to your destination. Your arm was bent backwards so that you and House could interlock fingers. Holding hands was one of his favorite things to do. Analyzing and learning your digits. They were just so you. Alive and beautiful.

“Awww. Missed me so bad you wanna hawve a sweepovwer?” you teased Wilson with a pucker of lips.

“You’re an ass,” Wilson groaned.

“Don’t talk to my lady that way!” House defended jokingly.

“I would love to stay with you tonight,” you yawned. Eyelids growing heavy. Nuzzling your face into the leather seat. Not admitting how much of a comfort it would be to have the two most important people in your life under the same roof as you for your first night home. Even if it was nearly 1 a.m. right now.

House kissed your hand. Resting his cheek against your conjoined appendages. Pulling onto the street beside Wilson’s home. Warm yellow glow from the inside inviting you in. House opened the door for you, offering your tired body a hand. Leading you to Wilson’s front door. And of course, he fumbled with the keys. Taking his time to unlock it. Your sleep being withheld from you a little longer.

Wilson pushed the door open to allow you inside first. Flabbergasted by the sight that greeted you. Balloons scattered across the floor, streamers hanging on every surface, and a ‘Welcome Home’ banner hung up perfectly in your line of sight. Eyes meeting Cuddy standing in the kitchen, hands clasped together as she bounced with excitement.

“Surprise!” she shouted and rushed over to you. Wrapping you in a tight hug.

“Hi, Lisa,” you exasperated.

“Thank God these two idiots didn’t come back empty handed. Probably would’ve given them both extra clinic duty,” she ragged, “I’m so happy you’re back.”

“You guys didn’t have to do all this for me,” you blushed. Looking over to House and Wilson. Both smiling and happy to see you doing the same.

“There’s some pizza in the oven and champagne in the refrigerator if you are up for celebrating,” Cuddy suggested.

You shook your head. Completely awestruck. Convinced you were completely replaceable in everyone’s heart, but you were sorely mistaken. You would never find such incredible colleagues— friends, as you had here. At home.

“Of course,” you admitted. Grinning from ear to ear.

The four of you celebrating for hours. Catching up from your short absence. Telling them all about Boston Children’s Hospital. All the incredible tech they had, and how large the hospital truly was. Food tasting incredible, not even thinking that you had forgotten dinner. Champagne buzzing against your cheeks. Wilson and Lisa were quick to pass out. Exhaustion hitting them like a bus. Asleep in the living room, so you decided to take Wilson’s guest room.

The room was dark. Light shining in from the partially opened blinds. Yellow hue of a street lamp illuminating your face as you stared at House. Laying on top of the comforter together. Hands flat in front of your faces. Taking the time to be alone together. Dancing your hand up his cheek, softly through his hair, and cupping his neck. Thumb tracing his jawline. Tickled by the pokey facial hair.

Sleep had its hooks in you. Blinks becoming slower. Covering your mouth when a yawn broke free. House chuckled, “You can sleep.”

“Noooo,” you whined, “I’m not even tired.”

His hand petted through your hair. Smiling at your denial. As much as he wanted you to stay awake and keep talking to him, he knew you had to be exhausted. Heavy lidded eyes barely peaking up at him as your lips parted with small breaths escaping.

House pressed a kiss into your forehead, “I will be here when you wake up.”

You reached out for his hand. Squeezing it between your own. Checking to make sure it was all real. That he was there and not a dream.

“I love you, Greg.”

“I love you too.”

~~~

[END/Final]

// Thank you so much for reading! This chapter ended up being quite a bit longer than I had originally planned, but I got everything in I wanted. I have truly fallen in love with this story and it is one of my favorite fics I’ve ever written. To all of you who have kept up with it and supported me, I love you! If I could give you all a big hug and kiss I would. As always, requests are open. Comments and Reblogs are appreciated! //

{tags}

@houseslollipop ~ @megangovier ~ @iwmflbb ~ @yourgirlcarol ~ @needz1nk ~ @crimin4llyins4ne ~ @bitchy-bi-trash ~ @chaimshelii ~ @cailleachcola ~ @shutthefrickup ~ @dustie-faerie ~ @vincentnaj ~ @vlyrexsworld ~ @thefemininemystiquee ~ @amandarobertsboyce ~

#house md #gregory house #greg house #dr gregory house #dr house #dr house x reader #greg house x reader #hugh laurie #hugh laurie x reader #house md x reader #sexymonsterfics #fanfic #part 5 #update

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prentissluvr · 9 months ago

Text

love you again — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, hurt/comfort, fluff, implied exes to lovers, canon typical injury and blood, hospitals, pet names (honey, sweetheart), 2K words. requested !

summary : you and sam have a past that’s rekindled during the panicked moments where he finds you bleeding out on a hunt.

MOVED BLOGS TO @sammyluvr !! no longer active on this blog! all fics can be found there!

sam was thinking about you yesterday, again. he’s been wondering how you are, wondering if you’d hate a text from him, wondering if you’d pick up a call. he’s been wondering a whole lot, and it’s mostly about you. some about himself. he wonders how to apologize for growing distant, he wonders if he’d be better for you if you gave him the chance. he wonders if you blame him and hopes that you don’t because he doesn’t blame you. it was his fault for letting things start to fade out first, but for a while it stung that you never tried to bring him back to you.

back then, it was what he needed. someone that would hold his hand tighter were he to loosen his own grip. and he supposes you needed someone who was already sure of things, who wouldn’t pull away in the first place. so, he doesn’t blame you.

sam also wonders about silly little things. like how you might’ve reacted to your favorite west coast family diner shutting down. he was disappointed when he found out, but he was downright sad for you. he wonders about what kind of hunts you're going on and he wonders if you still carry that little old silver blade that desperately needs replacing.

and since he was thinking about you yesterday, that means he thought about you this morning, in the hazy moments between waking and getting up and going. since then it’s been all research and interviews and cracking the case the second day in town. before you cross his mind again, he and dean are in the impala on the way to take out a nest of vampires.

but of all the many times that sam has thought of you since you parted, not once did he envision finding you like this.

sprawled out on the dirty ground in a pool of blood.

certainly, he’s thought about you dying and how completely horrifying that would be. how sad and heartbreaking. all of the things he’d never get to say to you. but he always thought he’d hear through a mutual hunter friend, never that he’d be the one to find you bleeding out.

the moment he realizes the body on the floor is yours, all of the blood drains from his face. he gasps out your name and tuckes his machete away as he drops to your side. your eyes are still open, and your breath comes out with a horrid, shuddering sound.

“hey, hey, hey, it’s okay,” he assures you, immediately locating the wound on your neck and pressing a steady hand against it to slow the blood. your eyes are already fluttering, and you look like you’ll pass out any moment now. “stay with me, honey,” he says, voice both stern and soft. the sweet pet name slips out on instinct. you’re his honey, even now. maybe especially now.

“suh-sam?” you rasp out, fighting for breath. you can’t even figure out if he’s real. maybe you’re delirious as you bleed out pathetically. you killed all the vamps except the one that got to you. that one fled when car headlights filtered through the drawn blinds of the room, before it could fully sink its fangs into your neck. if it had gotten to your artery, you’d probably be dead already, and that’s the only thing that gives you hope. plus, you realize that the headlights of the car must have been sam, and most likely dean too. that means it must really be him, after all this time.

“it’s me,” sam assures you. “i got you. just keep your eyes open, okay?”

you let out a shuddering breath in response. “th-there’s j-just one more,” you grunt out, “h-he r-ran.”

“shh, shh, it’s okay. dean’s got it,” sam hushes you swiftly, confused for a moment before realizing that you’re talking about the vamps. “don’t worry about talking, alright, honey?” he won’t be able to stop calling you that, not when he could lose you, in a far worse way this time. “just keep those eyes open for me, and you’ll be alright.”

while you almost want to protest, to say something to him, anything, you stop trying to talk. it’s taking far too much effort. you really wish you could comfort him, tell him that you’ll be alright. but in this state, you have to opt for bringing your shaking hand up and wrapping it loosely around his wrist. you give it a small squeeze to show him that you’re there, you’re trying so hard to stay awake just for him.

his heart aches as he feels your weak hold around his wrist and understands its meaning. sometimes he forgets how well he knows you, and right now, it sends a pang of desperation through him.

“i really need you to stay with me,” he says, mantaining that soft and steady tone to keep you grounded. you want to stay with him too, you really do. you want to keep looking at his face, even though it’s blurry and frowning. though, while you do prefer his smile, you’ve always thought that he looks beautiful no matter what. it’s probably cruel of you to find his distressed expression attractive right now, but it’s also true that you’re a little delirious and maybe bleeding out, so you don’t suppose you can be blamed.

it really bothers you that you can’t talk. more than anything, you want to reassure him. you also want to tell him that he’s been sorely missed, that his hair looks very nice like this, and that you really don’t want to die because that means you won’t have the chance to kiss him ever again. maybe you should just say that you’d like the chance to kiss him again. or that you don’t want to die. you’re not really sure.

“dean!” sam yells suddenly, voice gruff and loud and tinged with panic. if you weren’t slipping away, you’d have flinched. things begin to blur then; sam picks you up and practically cradles you in his arms. he’s so soft and he’d be shaky if he could afford to be. but he absolutely can’t, so he’s unwavering instead.

“jesus,” mutters another worried voice, distant, but assumed to be dean’s. you try to focus on the feeling of your head on sam’s shoulder. he’s so solid and broad and that might be the only thing keeping you from just floating away.

everything fades in and out. sam’s big, encompassing hand pressed against your neck. so big that it overflows and his thumb pushes into the flesh of your cheek. your head’s still on his shoulder, but you're in the car now, slumped against familiar leather seats. the sound of the rumbling engine fills your ears and then you’re glad to hear sam again.

“we’re almost to the hospital, sweetheart,” he tells you gently. you grunt out in acknowledgment, soft and quiet. you can’t remember ever hearing his voice like this before. all panicked and sweet and tender. when dean gets hurt, his voice gets all gruff. with you, it’s this never ending gentleness, edged with sharp fear.

in your position, sam or dean probably would’ve made it to the hospital without passing out. but you’re not good with blood loss, even when it could’ve been far worse. you’re scared of dying, as always, but when your eyes flutter closed and your consciousness tilts into darkness, you feel so secure in sam’s arms that you figure you’ll be okay. it’s a strange feeling, and you likely won’t recall it when you wake up.

sam himself is far less calm than you when your head lolls forward.

“hey, hey, hey. honey, please don’t,” he urges, helpless at this point. his plea falls on deaf ears, of course. dean steps on the gas, driving far faster than is safe. it’s late though, and the roads are mostly clear.

sam keeps you close. sam has trouble parting from you at the hospital, but the doctor needs to treat you. everything’s a bit better when he’s told that you’ll be just fine after proper bandaging, rest, and a blood transfusion and iv. everything’s a lot better when he’s back by your side and holding your hand in his.

looking at your face now, cleaned of blood splatter and relaxed in sleep, he’s able to really take in the ways you’ve changed physically. you do look different, but not by too much. he’s mostly just enthralled with how beautiful you are.

there’s also the feeling of the jacket you were wearing, folded nicely across his lap. he’s not really sure why he put it there, instead of leaving it on the bottom of the bed where it was first laid out. but he picked it up, for some reason or another, and felt a lump in the pocket. he knows he probably shouldn’t have looked at your things, but he felt like he had to. sliding his hand into the worn fabric sends a rush through him. once, you held hands in your pocket when it was cold outside. he always runs warm, so you had decided to tuck his hand into your pocket like your own personal hand warmer.

in the pocket, he finds that old silver blade that he thinks about sometimes. it’s even more worn now, and he shakes his head at you softly, affectionately. he bought a new silver knife recently, and if you let him, he’s going to give it to you. then he sits in the chair by your side, placing the jacket in his lap before he takes your hand in his.

the first thing that you feel is a big hand wrapped around yours. and as you draw in a long breath, you know that it’s sam’s. that means that when you get your eyes to open—it’s a little hard right now—you’ll get to see him. another deep breath, and your eyes flutter open.

sam’s grip on your hand tightens a little.

“hey,” he murmurs, eyes scanning your form, looking for discomfort or a way to give you his love. your own gaze settles on his face; his worried brows and small frown and pretty eyes.

“hi,” you whisper, voice hoarse and tired. you squeeze his hand back lightly.

“how you feeling?” he asks softly.

“i’m okay,” you offer, giving him a small smile. you’ve been far worse in the past, you’re just groggy and a little sore. honestly, it’s rare to be this well cared for after getting injured on a hunt, and with sam by your side, it’s sort of nice, even.

sam, of course, considers asking how you really are. but with the way you’re looking at him, all soft and… well, how you used to when things were uncomplicated, he accepts your answer.

“good. you need anything? water?” he still needs to take care of you somehow.

you can’t help but smile at him again. “water would be nice,” you admit, knowing that it’ll make him feel better to be able to do something for you. that, and your throat really does burn with how dry it is. the gruffness of your voice reflects that. it’s oddly intimate when sam opens the water bottle at your bedside and brings it to your lips, ever careful when he tilts it and lets a bit of water flow into your softly opened lips. it’s intimate enough to make your face all warm with rushing blood.

you still love him. you really do. or maybe you love him again; you can feel that he’s different, and you know that you are, and somehow it feels like his hand fits in yours better tonight… or maybe it just feels more right now.

the time apart was needed, the way it happened still stings a little, and the way that you found each other again was less than ideal. well, sam certainly hates how it happened much more than you do. he had to do all the worrying, all the saving. you got to feel him holding you and hear him calling you honey and see him caring about you so much. so now, you’re just glad for the chance to kiss him again, because it’s that easy to tell that you have it.

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burning-omen · 3 months ago

Text

With Everything I Say and Do (part 1)

Jason Todd x Male!reader

(A/n: Unrelated to the fic but I love Jason's fuck ass hair from utrh. Also, this isn't meant to be one specific version of Jason, I pulled from several different canons and also made shit up while writing this. Also, also, peep the title, Brokeback Mountain reference, I know I'm so cool)

Ao3 ver.

Summary: Jason isn't stalking you, stalking would imply something more sinister than what he was doing- he was just...watching you in a completely non obsessive, platonic manner.

W.C: 6,486

Warnings: THIS IS A FLUFF FIC I SWEAR, PTSD, childhood trauma, mommy AND daddy issues (both reader and jason), child abuse, mentions of Jason and Bruce fighting, depressive episodes, anger issues, murders, child death, bombings, canon typical Gotham violence, stalking (affectionate), breaking and entering, Y/n's friends being cringe but I love them so shut up about it, Barbara and Jason being friends, homelessness and being kicked out (reader, pre-fic) mentions of Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, and Bruce Wayne (not really a warning just wanted to mention it), also, I didn't send this to my proof reader beforehand so if you see a fuck up feel free to mention it.

God, you forgot how ridiculous you were in middle school. Reading through your old journal- which had been shoved in a box once it was full, then shoved in another box when you moved out of your parents house-it really just showed that your avoidant tendencies had been festering for far longer than you’d care to admit. Seriously, were you actually that concerned about- you re-read the chicken scratch that was your writing back then, squinting slightly- the fucking moon landing of all things? No, you weren’t, but it had been April 28th and the day before had been a lot. So now you have a passage about the moon landing.

It had been closer to the bottom of the box, covered by old memorabilia from your early teen years. With a trash bag to one side of you and a pile of things you were keeping on the other.

It’s about time you went through it- the box has been sitting under your bed long enough, and really, when were you ever going to need an old hoodie from Gotham City Middle School? Never, so it went in the trash pile. You, of course, got distracted by your diary and have been reading through the pages for the past half hour- you really don’t remember being this edgy- good fucking lord. You flipped through the last couple of pages until you landed on what was supposed to be the blank, white card stock at the back of the book- only to see the word “LOSER” written in big, red letters. You blinked, now who the hell did that? Defacing your perfectly good diary. Under the graffiti, in smaller letters, was “-Jason”

You closed the book. Of course. Who else?

Really. He’s the only other person you’d let have the book long enough for this kind of vandalism to make sense. He’s the only person who your adolescence self wouldn’t have thrown a fit at for touching your property- or making fun of you, even in a joking fashion. You smiled down at the book for a second before tossing it in the keep pile.

You pulled the next item out of your little memory box. It was your senior portrait- sorta. It was just a picture of you in your cap and gown- you’d skipped school the day the actual senior portraits were taken- not intentionally, you just skipped school a lot then, and happened to hop the gate that day- and every other day that week. You were smiling in the picture, but your eyes were far too dark and far too tired, you weren’t standing straight, slouching and leaning slightly- but it was good enough for your mom, so it hung in the living room of your parents house for the next 3 years. She’d tried to put makeup under your eyes, fussing with your hair and your gown until she decided to take the photo as you were. Some days you wonder where that patience had gone- that forgiveness and kindness that she showed to you that day. You sighed, you could reminisce and lament about your parents later, for now you needed to go through the rest of this shit.

You flipped the frame over, bending the little metal pieces back, and taking the picture out. Folding it down the middle and sitting it on your night stand- you’d find a place for it later- the frame went with the rest of the trash.

The box was almost empty- small knick knacks at the bottom, some more clothes, an umbrella- you picked it up, checking for holes in the canopy. It was old, but it was better than any other cheap umbrella you’ve ever had. Resisting the pestering urge to run your fingers over the bronze “J.T” inset in the handle, you set it in the keep pile. The rest of the box was pretty much trash- buttons and pins, crumbled class notes, more school spirit wear, and Gotham High School's Library’s one and only copy of Pride and Prejudice. Oops- you hadn’t meant to take that. Letting out a quiet sigh into your empty room, you thought, ‘oh well’ you doubted they wanted it back after the years it's been rotting- and you really didn’t want it either, it was dirty and had something inappropriate written on nearly every page. An unsalvageable childhood artifact- now bagged up with everything else you deemed trash.

The sun had set hours ago, and it was a weekend- Gotham’s crime scene was always overly active on weekends, and you’d rather not get mugged on your way to the trash shoot-

‘Not like I’ve got anything to give..’

–Still, you sat the bag by your front door. Walking through your dark apartment, the only light coming from the desk lamp in your bedroom, the loud, creaking floor covering the sound of your footsteps. You weren’t afraid of the dark- but you did live in Gotham- so you were more reasonably cautious of the dark than anything. You should be- you’ve had the literal Batman in your apartment before. Why that freak was in your bedroom, you may never know, but he left as soon as you woke up so you decided- after changing the lock on your door and buying a gun and deadbolts for every window and door in your house, that you weren’t going to worry about it.

Even if you’re 90% sure he bugged your place- you’d just have to deal with it. He is Batman- invasive and mysterious is kinda what he does according to the Gotham Gazette.

Back in your room, you shoved everything from the “keep” pile back in the box to be dealt with…eventually. You’ll get to it by the end of the week- probably- no, nope, no more procrastination, you’ll put it away in the morning- after breakfast and a shower.

Kicking your slippers off, stepping onto the freezing, wood floor for just a second before crawling into bed- your heater was broken and the city was just as cold as it always was, so you wrapped yourself in every cover and blanket you had in a nearly successful attempt at comfort. A bit of cold air would seep in every couple of minutes, but you could handle it, at least for the next few days until the building manager is able to get it fixed (turns out it's not just your heater, no it’s everybody's heater. So your entire apartment building is freezing, but you’re freezing together- how touching). You rolled onto your side, sticking an arm out of the burrow of blankets you’d created and turning off the lamp on your night stand, pulling your arm back in as fast as you could to keep any more heat from escaping before settling in for the night.

—

‘Damn, It’s cold out,’ Jason thought for the millionth time tonight, crouching down on the dingy, rusted roof of yet another warehouse- fifth one tonight- watching from the skylight as nothing happened. His helmets night vision didn’t show the slightest hint of movement, not even a fucking rat scampering across the ground. Just like there had been nothing in the last 4 warehouses. At least this one is somewhat familiar- his gaze wandered over to warehouse A-9 for about the hundredth time since they arrived. He knew the night crew was in, only a handful of people occupied a handful of buildings, mostly in the A buildings, where all the important shit was kept- Red Hood and Nightwing, however, were stationed on top of the B-16 building, as instructed.

Rising from a crouch, catching the attention of Nightwing, his knees popped.

“Feeling restless?” He asked.

At first Jason just grunted- obviously- he’s been sitting in one spot for 40 minutes and the hunch that Batman had them working off of seemed to be a dud, but he can’t just leave. He could, Bruce doesn’t control him- but after a few too many dramatic family feuds and attempted (and successful) murders Jason is just really, really fucking tired of constantly arguing and fighting.

He’s “back to being the favorite” Dick had joked a couple times- after he decided that maybe there was some merit to a no-kill-rule, and maybe Tim wasn’t so horrible, the kid’s kinda funny actually, smart as shit too. And Bruce..things were..fine. For the most part. It wasn’t entirely Bruce’s fault- he still held a grudge- the clown lived entirely too long after, but Jason already knew that Bruce had no interest in playing executioner- judge and jury was fine- but he wasn’t going to kill. Jason could understand that, especially after going off the murderous deep end himself- once you start it feels like you can’t stop, like there’s no point in stopping. So sure, he gets why Bruce didn’t- doesn’t make it hurt less though.

“Any word from B?” He mumbled, his voice made robotic and stiff by the modulator in his mask.

Nightwing silently fell back, sitting with his legs crossed, his attention now fully on Jason, “Nothing yet.” he sighed, stretching his arm, a amused grin on his face, “Not trying to jinx it, but I think we finally got a calm night in Gotham, who would of thought-?”

Right on queue, a deafening, blinding explosion went off- about two hundred feet away. Jason barely managed to not be fully knocked off his feet, couching down near his brother, one hand gripping his arm as the aftershock sent strong winds their way- mostly a comfort for Jason, but there was no time to think about that- because what the fuck just exploded and why?!

He glared at his brother through the helmet- and no, Dick couldn’t see it, but he still deserved it.

“See what you did? Now we have to deal with this shit.” Jason said, no real malice in his voice, mostly annoyance that his already long night was about to get even longer.

“Me?” Nightwing gasped.

“Yes, you- stop testing the universe, you know it doesn’t like us.”

The conversation ended there. Jason hopped off the roof, landing in an uncomfortable crouch- ‘My knees were going to be demolished in the morning...’ he thought before heading in the direction of the explosion- hearing Dick following behind him with his near silent landing.

Waking up to a hundred texts and calls was…new. Your friends, people you hadn’t talked to in ages, and most noticeably, your estranged parents. You blinked at the screen as more text rolled in. You decided you weren’t dealing with that. It’s entirely too early. Breaking free of your cover cocoon and rolling out of bed, phone discarded..somewhere in there.

You showered before anything, letting the shower run long enough for the entire bathroom to fill with a heavy fog before stepping in. Taking as much time as you physically could, until your skin was steaming and tinted red from the heat. Not even bothering with a towel as you walked straight back to your room, dressing warmly before flopping back down on your bed. You had a shift today. You used to take night shifts- sleeping through the day like a true night owl. But, in a desperate attempt to regain control over your life after what felt like a never ending downward spiral, you switched to the morning shift.

It was a win-win scenario, really. It paid just as much as the night shift, and you’d have the entire afternoon to yourself, and you would sleep at night, like normal, well adjusted people did.

You had planned on having a serene morning- getting to that box, having a nice well balanced breakfast, then heading to work, but your phone would not stop buzzing. Even under a mound of covers it was distracting as all hell.

“Ok..” You muttered as you dug it out, “What do you want?”

‘Y/n bby if you can see this I love you <3’

‘He’s in a better place now (hell)’

‘PLEASE stop joking like that its stressing me out’

Seems like your friends groupchat, aptly named “Gotham’s prison for whores”, was having quite the morning, hundreds of messages ranging from genuine expressions fear to half hearted jokes.

‘‘Tf are y’all going through???’’ you texted back

A collective group response came instantly.

‘‘He’s alive????’’

‘‘OH THANK FUCK YOUE NOT DEAD’’

“LETSGOOO”

‘‘*you’re’’ you responded without thinking, before fully processing what you’d just read, “why would I be dead??’’

‘‘Dude.’’

You waited for them to continue.

“GHL blew up last night, thought you worked the night shift????’’

Oh.

Ok, so you don’t have a shift today.

“WTF no I switched to the morning shift a couple weeks ago what happened”

“Idk man shit blew up, Nightwing and the red one were out there.”

‘The red one?’ you paused to think of who The Red One was, not even near processing that your job had blown up- wasn’t Robin, he knew that one- and his cape covered most red in his costume anyways. Red Robin, despite his name, his costume was more black than red, and your friend was more likely to call him CondomMan or something, because of his head piece thing.

“Bitch, do you mean Red Hood??”

“IM NOT FROM GOTHAM LEAVE ME ALONE”

Followed by-

“THERES TO MANY OF THEM I CAN NOT REMBER THEM ALL”

You laughed for a second, before remembering that your mother had also texted you and suddenly any joy you felt was sucked away- fuck, why wasn’t she blocked.

“Are you ok?” She asked

“I’m fine.”

Simple, blunt, and definitely not an invitation back into your life. You closed out of her contact and moved onto the mountain of text you still had. How did this many people have your number- how did this many people know where you work- worked, past tense.

After an hour of assuring dozens of practical strangers and distant relatives that you were perfectly fine and no you didn’t need anybody to check on you- you decided to get to the bottom of your sudden popularity. Seriously, none of these people reached out when you got kicked out, or worse, some outright denied you when you asked for help. They weren’t obligated to, but they can’t come around acting like their hearts were absolutely broken and bleeding at your supposed death.

With minimal digging, you figured it out. All you had to do was open any social media your mother had- it’s been, what? 4 hours since she first texted you, and she’s got two dozen posts about you up, with your number and your job posted for the world to see on each one, half of them posted over 5 hours ago, the others posted at random with the latest being only 12 minutes ago.

‘Fuck, this was so her, why the hell would she think this was ok?’

Another way to garner attention and sympathy and now she’s dragging you into it, like sure, you could have been dead, but her text didn’t exactly scream “I’m worried about you”.

You opened your messages with her again,

“Take the posts down, mom. Thanks.”

___

Why was the sun in his face?

Jason made sure the curtains were drawn so he wouldn’t have this problem. Cracking his eyes open he spots his brother- the traitorous bitch- standing by the window, opening the curtains just enough just to peek through. His personal cell phone pressed to his ear, talking quietly to somebody.

“I’ll uh- I’ll go check on him later today Mrs. L/n..”

‘L/n..?’ Jason pushed himself up. ‘Ah, fuck. Please let it just be a god damn coincidence.’

Dick glanced back at Jason, a tired smile flashed across his face. Jason let him stay at his safe house for the night so he wouldn’t have to travel all the way to the manor, or worse, all the way back to Bludhaven. Laying back, Jason continued to listen in to the half of the conversation he could hear.

“No, sorry, of course not- I’ll call him right-” Dick let out a frustrated sigh.

“I will try Mrs. L/n. Right, thanks- bye.”

Despite the nagging feeling he knew exactly who was on the other side of that line, he asked, “Who was that?”

Dick sat on the edge of his bed, another irritated sigh leaving him.

“Remember Y/n?”

Ah, fuck.

“Yeah.” he said, doing his best to give the impression of disinterest and flippant-ness .

“That was his mom- Y/n works over at the GHL Warehouses- well, he used to before last night. His mom wanted to make sure he was ok.”

Jason breathed out- you were fine. He knew you were fine because you don’t work the night shift anymore- when the bomb went off you should have been safely at home, sound asleep, trying to get some rest for your morning shift.

“Is he?” The deception in his voice was blatant this time, his thoughts having drifted to you and away from the mask he had perfected literally a second ago. Dick turned to look at him, a grin splitting across his face. Dick, who was just as much of a detective as the rest of the family, clocked that something was off immediately.

“What?”

“Oh Jason,” He said, all too happy to have been just talking about you potentially getting blown up. “Are you still into him?”

“Get out.” Jason responded, which only made Dick happier.

“You are, aww Baby Bird’s got a little crush-”

“Fuck off, I’m serious.”

Years ago, before his death, Jason had confided in his brother. During a quiet moment in the library of the manor, Jason told Dick that he liked guys, well, one guy, so far. He didn’t know what he was then and doesn't have the energy to label it now, but he does know that at 14 he had a massive crush on a boy his age that he went to school with– which only became a hundred times worse when he actually became friends with said boy. Y/n. You. One of his few attachments outside of his family.

When he came back he didn’t think about you for years, revenge, rage, and violence were the only things on his mind- but when he settled, you popped back into his mind. Just as much of a stalker as the rest of his family, he did some digging on you. It was invasive as hell, as he went through every bit of public (i.e., the stuff that was only slightly illegal to obtain) information about you before asking Barbara for more private(super illegal) information.

Barb- whose closeness to Jason surprised everyone, including themselves (paralleling traumas, they supposed)- was more than willing. Her moral compass was a bit sideways, understandably, but she couldn’t help but “play match-maker” as she had put it. He intentionally ignored that comment from his accomplice.

It’s how he knew about your work schedule, and just about everything else about you- and why he really, really hated your fucking parents.

He was…captivated. It wasn’t love, he didn’t love you. He didn’t even know you anymore.

…

He should check on you, though. Losing your job so suddenly couldn’t have been easy for you. Finding a legal job in Gotham was hard enough as it was- he didn’t want you spiraling, or worse, getting involved with criminals- except for him. He huffed out a short chuckle. He wished you could get involved with him. He was, legally, still very, very dead. And you had no idea he was back. Which he’s somewhat happy for.

He killed…a lot of people, he got his ass handed to him in public by his father, and had lost his shit in PTSD fueled episodes of rage multiple times.

It was better if you stayed as far away from him as possible. Your life was just getting good, you had friends, an apartment of your own, you could probably fuck anyone you wanted- an unsurprising amount of people were into that independent, blue collar thing you had going on- Jason sure as shit wasn’t immune to it. He wouldn’t be mad if you did- you don’t. He has his ways of knowing. (your entire apartment is bugged thanks to Bruce’s almost unfounded paranoia, which was only a bit fair, Jason and Bruce were still on new ground in their… reborn relationship when he broke into your house for the first time, B probably thought he was trying to kill you, which- if it had been any other member of the family- would have been outlandish and entirely unfounded. But it was him, so…yeah, wasn’t really coming out of left field with that one) Which was a surprise, but a relieving one.

Fucking hell, Dick was still looking at him with that stupid smile.

“You’ve got a boyfriend.”

Jason, as he did everytime a conversation steered in a direction he didn’t like, brought up his own death.

“I don’t have anything, Dick, can’t be anything to him if he still thinks I’m dead.”

“..right.”

A moment passed before Dick spoke again, “He’s fine, by the way. Barb sent a list of the confirmed victims earlier. He wasn’t on it.”

___

Fuck Bruce Wayne. No, really. This guy fucking sucked, you hated him and you hated that the only way you’d be keeping your apartment was by signing up for his stupid unemployment program. You’ve reloaded your inbox a dozen times waiting for the confirmation email, after spending hours upon hours reading through fine print and having to dig out your own documents, send proof of unemployment- you’re brand new letter of termination had been emailed to sometime earlier- and digitally signing your signature with your mouse pad and just wading through piles and piles of exhausting corporate bullshit-

You were really sick of this shit, to say the least.

‘It's been five minutes..’ You thought, glaring at your laptop screen.

Trying not to think about how this was literally the only way you’d be keeping your apartment and not go back to living in your car, you reloaded the page again.

And again and again until finally-

“Congratulations! You have been accepted into the Wayne Int…”

You didn’t even need to open the email, the preview told you all you needed to know, a long sigh of relief leaving you as you shut your laptop.

Well, that’s over, now what.

You’ve worked nearly every day since you’ve got this apartment, and when you weren’t working you were either catching up on sleep or, well, that’s it really. Despite planning on “having afternoons to yourself” when you switched schedules, you haven’t actually done anything with those afternoons, cleaning, watching TV, and texting more than anything. Because of course none of your friend schedules aligned for more than a couple minutes a day- usually early in the morning or really late at night.

You breathed in again- looking out the window, you could see the sun just barely peeking over the horizon, mostly hidden by the typical gothic skyscrapers that were found all over Gotham. Another heavy breath, you rolled out of bed, feeling a sudden pang of hunger after neglecting yourself all day.

You didn’t bother taking your phone with you, even though your mother had pretty much announced to her loyal 1,267 followers that you were okay, you were still getting text and calls at random- you needed to take your mind off of all of this for at least a moment, cooking and then maybe a long, long sleep could help. You did a mental coin toss on what to eat, burger or pasta- either would do, really- conjuring up a slow, dramatic coin toss in your head, letting your subconscious decide.

Heads. Pasta it is.

Rummaging through your cabinet until you pulled out the little pot you were looking for, perfect for a single serving. Filling it with water from the sink- completely forgetting for a moment that this was Gotham and you probably should have checked to see if it had been poisoned or tampered with- it was such a common occurrence that there was a whole app for it…Created and funded by Bruce Wayne of course. You sighed for about the millionth time today. That fucking jerk has his hands in everything- can’t even be in your own home without running into the motherfucker.

You huffed, it’d be fine. If there was something wrong with the water you would have seen it on the news.

Putting the pot on the stove, repeatedly turning the knob until the fire lit. Putting a bit of salt in the water as it heated- staring into the pot for who knows how long as bubbles started to form. Thinking about things hurt right now. You lost half of your co-workers, your income, the first thing you felt you earned on your own, and on top of that you had to indirectly beg a man you couldn’t stand for money. It would only get worse from here. That was guaranteed- but you couldn’t spiral- because that would only make things so, so much worse. So, you’d face whatever the next couple of weeks brought with maturity and strength and when it was all over things would be semi-normal.

Hopefully.

You moved to the cabinet and pulled out a half empty box of bowtie style noodles and dumped them into the boiling water- then moved over to the fridge to see if you had any jarred sauce.

___

Barbara was just about the only person Jason actively texted- he didn’t need casual conversation with anybody else, not yet anyways. Roy maybe could have been the exception, but Roy barely responded, Jason doubted he even kept his phone on him.

Leaving his bike in the alley before scaling your building- resting on the roof for a short moment as he texted Barbara.

“Think you can keep B out?”

She didn’t respond instantly, but when she did,

“You know he’s still home, right?”

‘Obviously, Barb’ he thought as he typed out a response

“I’m just checking on him.”

Then,

“He won’t see me.”

“You’re getting bold, thinking of saying ‘hi’ soon?”

No, definitely not. That would be a horrible idea. It would blow up in his face and he’d not only freak you the fuck out but would piss off his entire family (excluding Barbara, and maybe Dick- now that he’s thinking about it Tim would probably have been a good accomplice too- no, he’s not forming a little stalker crew, not gonna happen). It was, definitively, a terrible idea. Even if the infinitesimally small chance that you wouldn’t lose your shit and he was able to have any semblance of a relationship with you was calling his name like no other, he wasn’t going to take that risk. Stalking you- no, watching you in a completely non obsessive, platonic manner, would be all he did- and an occasional breaking and entering. But that was all.

“No” he finally responded.

She sent a sad face emoji back, then a middle finger, then,

“You’ve got 5 minutes.”

That jolted him into action, the sun quickly setting over Gotham as he crossed the building. He’s done this enough times to know just how to get through your window. Using a rope to scale down to the 4th floor windows- stopping right next to yours, closed, but unlocked for once. Good, he wasn’t looking forward to picking the lock.

As quietly as he could, he pushed your window open, cursing at the small creek it made about halfway up. Slipping inside, landing silently on his toes, pausing before pressing forward. Pressed against the wall of your nearly pitch black room, your bedroom door cracked open he could see the yellow-ish light emitting from outside it, he could hear you shuffling around out there, the faucet running for a second, and the ticking of the gas stove as you turned it on and off and on again. You were fine, you were up and active, cooking, not sulking. You were fine.

Mission complete.

Time to go..

He heard you open the fridge, let out a small sigh before closing it.

He leaned closer to the door, peaking through the small opening- your apartment small enough for him to see everything from his place in your room, including you standing in the kitchen standing over a boiling pot of whatever it was you were cooking. Ok, seriously, you were ok, he needs to go- he’s already been here for too long- he’s sure his time is up. You were fine, you are fine.

“Fuck, ow-” You muttered to yourself, barely audible in the already near silent apartment.

He pressed forward again, taking a step, then another, until he was standing just behind the door- half hidden in the dark room, illuminated by the kitchen light.

—--

‘Stupid fucking cheap pot, why the fuck is the handle so hot?’ You thought as you checked your hand for any actual burns. You were fine, but dammit that hurt- first thing you’d when you got a new job, buy better pots and pans- ones that didn’t scorch your hands when you touched the handle. Turning around to face the sink, and run some cold water over your flushed hand-

What the fuck was that.

You paused at the sink. As you turned, you caught a glimpse of something…red. Just barely illuminated, standing in your bedroom.

Your heart dropped to your stomach, a feeling of impending doom washes over you as you turn to stare at whatever it is you just saw. Red and shiny, with stark white eyes- the rest of whatever the hell it was is hidden by the darkness of your bedroom and the door.

A part of you wants to run- out of the apartment and into the street, scream for help at the top of your lungs until either whatever it was caught you, or one of many vigilantes showed up. Unfortunately, you lived in the absolute shit hole that was Gotham- so you were more likely to be an unsolved case than actually get saved. You really, really didn’t want to join the billion of unsolved cases already plaguing Gotham- you had so much more life to live, and shit was just getting good, well- not really but you still didn’t want to fucking die. Shit still could get good in the future! As long as you don’t get murdered tonight.

‘Ok, time to think rationally,’ You thought, eyes still locked on the whatever-the-fuck-it-is standing in the doorway, ‘I’m not dead yet, so maybe it doesn’t want to kill me, maybe it’s..I don’t know, trying to rob me or something.’

Robbed was probably the best possibility, considering all the other things that it could be.

“I do not have any money, I’m poor as fuck I swear, can you please leave?” You tried.

You nearly tripped over your own feet, clambering backwards as the thing moved forward, stepping into the light and-

…

…Somebody is fucking with you, you almost immediately decide as your brain finally processes what you had been seeing this entire time. Fucking Red Hood. Every bit of fear is replaced with frustration and annoyance.

Taking a deep breath, you put your hands over your face, letting out a groan that quickly turns into a small, muffled scream.

Why? Why you? Huh? This is the second vigilante home intrusion you’ve experienced. You weren’t afraid of vigilantes, you had no reason to be- you aren’t a criminal and unlike certain organizations, they actually protect the innocent and whatnot. So, for you at the very least, seeing them was less of a terrifying experience than it was a wonder to behold…as long as they’re not in your fucking house. You just wanted to eat dinner. You just wanted to eat dinner and go to bed and then watch stupid 2000’s shows in the morning. But no Red Hood is in your house, and now your whole night is interrupted and you’re stressed and irritated and you really want to throw the nearest thing at him- but that’s rude and he might actually be here for a reason so you should really get out of your own head and hear him out.

You bring your hands down to your side, take a deep breath, and stare right into the eyes of his helmet.

“What do you want?”

—--

Jason has a very inappropriate answer to that question- he doesn’t say it, he doesn’t even give himself the chance to fully think it. But he does need to find an appropriate answer as to why he was in your house.

“You work at GHL?” He asked, his voice unwavering.

You rolled your eyes so hard he thought they might get stuck in the back of your skull. Fuck, you’ve always had a bad attitude, he hasn’t seen it up close in years. He hasn’t seen you this close in years either. During his…other illegal excursions in your house, he always kept a respectful distance from you, mostly out of fear of waking you up, but also because standing over you while you were asleep just felt…wrong.

You groaned, crossing your arms as your glare set on him.

“Yes, I worked at GHL before it blew up, no, I don’t have anything to do with the explosion, I was here all night, there are cameras in the halls, feel free to check them if you think I'm lying. Is there anything else or can you go now?”

Fuck- uh.

“No.” He said, before he could even come up with a reason why.

“‘No’?!” You were, reasonably, upset by this, “Why the hell not?”

‘Good question,’ he thought.

“I know-” Jason started without actually knowing what he wanted to say, his voice modulator making him sound a lot more sure of his words than he actually was, “-you’ve been very..vocal about your disapproval of the police in Gotham, they were temporarily holding a shipment of weapons and ammo there.”

Accusing you of being a criminal maybe wasn’t the best option, definitely wouldn’t get him into your good graces, but it was believable- his preexisting knowledge of you made it just that much easier, even if you look offended by the accusation.

“So what, you’re stalking me?”

You don’t even know the half of it..

“Investigating you.” He responded sternly.

You nodded, so clearly on the verge of losing your shit, “Right, right, ‘investigating’. I don’t care what you call it, I already told you I wasn’t involved in whatever happened so can you please-”

A sudden, blaring alarm shocked both you and Jason. You stormed back into the kitchen a pot of what was previously edible pasta sauce having been reduced to a soldering, smoking mess. Frustrated mumbling filled the space, you groaned and growled as you grabbed the pot handle with a towel and damn near threw it into the sink, turning on the faucet and letting it run. You turned to him, thoroughly pissed off at this point, so many thoughts and words festering in your mind- probably vulgar and violent- but you said nothing, clenching your fist at him and staring at his mask with an nearly dazed but somehow still enraged expression before turning to handle the fire alarm. Using a towel to fan smoke away from it until it stopped beeping.

Then, you sat on the floor, facing away from him. Breathing deeply, rocking slightly. Jason just stared, there wasn’t much else he could do-

He heard you sigh, the tension in your shoulder reducing until you were slightly hunched over.

“You owe me dinner.” You said, calmly.

Jason blinked behind his mask- that’s it? You were over it? Just like that?

He halfway expected to be yelled at, hell, he’s surprised you didn’t throw the pot at him. But the ability to just calm down wasn’t something that came easily, if at all to Jason.

“I can do that.”

You sighed again, pushing yourself up off the floor. Turning to him, you face tired and your eyes dark- he knows he just made an already hard day even harder for you, he knows the guilt is going to crush him later, too.

“I know you’re just doing your job and all but you’re kinda a jerk, you know that, right?” Your tone was flat and dim, “Look, I don’t know anything about what happened. I’m just…really fucking tired now so can you just go?”

I know

“I believe you.”

You sighed, “Good, I’m going to bed now, good night.”

He watched as you walked past him, your shoulder bumping him and he tried to ignore how his heart clenched at even the briefest touch from you.

“Oh, and-” you glanced over your shoulder at him, “-if you’re going to come back, use the door.”

You didn’t give him time to respond, closing the bedroom door behind you.

He stood in your apartment alone, a minute passes, and then another as he attempts to process what had just happened and just how fucked he was when Bruce inevitably found out. But…

A small smile crept on his face, could have been a lot worse, you don’t hate him, hell, you invited him to come back in a way. Bruce might scream his head off at him and he’d likely be placed under some kind of suspension and heavily monitored for the foreseeable future. But none of that mattered right now, because he’s seen you, he’s talked to you, and suddenly he has a goal.

—-

Last night felt like a fever dream, but you could tell it was real. Early in the morning, when the sun was just barely peeking through your window, there was a knock on your door- your bedroom door. You should have been freaked out by it, but you had a sneaking suspicion that a familiar red jerk was on the other side. Stretching and yawning before getting up, your body was more tired than you realized, feeling heavy and anchored as you dragged your feet to the door. When you opened it, there was nobody there, but a little white paper bag sat on the floor just outside. You looked around, the living room and the kitchen were both empty and the big red jerk was nowhere to be seen.

Taking the bag in your hands, the familiar logo of the 24 hour cafe down the street plastered on it, as well as a note. Taped to the bag, a torn square of paper read,

“Not dinner, but I figured this was close enough.

And I used the door this time. You’re welcome.

-R.H”

And for some stupid, unfortunate reason, you found it charming.

“Fucking stalker..” you muttered, fighting a smile as walked back to your bed with the bag.

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