#knowing this so like. i see how torn she must be | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wakebymoonsleepbysun · 1 month ago

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My TV (Working Title) (Tenna x Reader) Chapter 1

I knooooooooooowwwwwwwwww I really shouldn't start another fanfic but uhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....ummmmmmmmm......teebeeman cute TwT

I do plan on continuing this but we'll see what LIFE has planned for ME. Secret of the Mimic comes out Friday and I'm sure that'll launch at least 2 new fics for me because I have no impulse control, and I plan on ArtFight in July sooooo don't be surprised if this isn't updated til August. (It'll be on ao3 once it is tho)

Word count: ~4600

Your task: Find a TV. An old one. CRT, ideally. The bigger, the bulkier, the better. Doesn’t need to work, just needs to be big.

Big enough to explode dramatically when hit with a sledgehammer.

You can’t say you fully understand the vision of your friend Jodie’s short film, but she’s paying you to edit it…which means you have a vested interest in helping her film it, which means an interest in helping her get ready to film it… even if she’s not directly paying you for that part of the process. If a day of running around checking thrift stores and pawn shops meant your payday might come a bit sooner, then so be it. You’re technically not strapped for cash just yet, but contract work isn’t exactly steady--one slow month could have you running up a balance on your card that’ll take the rest of the year to pay off.

At least Jodie’s paying for your gas and will pay you back for the TV, so all you’re losing is time…though you hope Jodie will still stick to the agreement when she sees just how many stores you had to hit up.

You can’t remember if this is the fifth stop on your “tour” or the sixth, but you must look tired, for the cashier, a middle-aged woman with her greying hair in a messy bun, winces visibly when you ask about a CRT TV.

“Sorry, hun. Nobody’s donated a working CRT in…probably a decade.”

Yet you perk up, catching something in her wording. “Working? It doesn’t have to work. Just has to be a big, boxy old TV.”

She hums sympathetically. “Well we don’t tend to keep--” She stops suddenly, her face lighting up as she snaps her fingers. “Oh! You know what, I think there is one out back! Or at least there was last night…I assume it’s still there?”

“Can I take a look?”

She nods. “Yeah, I’ll show you,” she says. She grabs her keys from beside the register, walking you through the store and out the back employee entrance to a small alleyway.

The dumpster behind the store is overflowing with donations that had been deemed in too poor of shape to sell, all in various combinations of torn, stained, dirty, and broken. You see a sofa that’s so torn to shreds that most people couldn’t be paid to take it…and yet someone had donated it expecting it to be sold.

“Someone came by with a truckload yesterday. Emptying out an abandoned storage unit, I think,” she says. “Some of it was sellable, this wasn’t,” she explains, nudging the TV with her boot. “Is it about what you’re lookin’ for?”

“Oh yeah, this looks great!” you say, crouching down to look at the TV. It’s pretty dirty--covered in so much dust some of it has actually become caked on. The antennae are folded in, at least mostly--one antenna has a bit of tape on it that prevents it from being fully tucked in. The power cord is so frayed that you think plugging it in might be a fire hazard. But the TV can be cleaned up and made to at least look like it’s in good shape even if it doesn’t actually work.

“Exactly what I need,” you add, picking at a clump of dirt with your nail. You rest a hand atop the TV, leaning on it briefly as you pull yourself to your feet. “How much?”

She laughs. “It’s not sellable. So I can’t ‘sell’ it. But if you wanna bring your car around you can load it up.”

“Free? Really?” you say, surprised.

She shrugs, waving a hand. “The paperwork isn’t worth what I’d end up charging for it.”

“Heh…well, thanks!” you say. Maybe if you tell Jodie the TV ended up being free, she won’t balk at the gas bill so much.

One cordial handshake later, the TV is officially yours. You bring your car around and load up the TV into the trunk and finally head home. When you arrive in your apartment’s parking lot, the sky is tinged yellow from the pending sunset and the shadows stretch long across the pavement.

Getting the clunky CRT into your apartment is a hell of a task. Park close to the door, carry the TV to the elevator, then push it down the long hall to your apartment. It’s too heavy to lift for more than a few seconds at the time, and even the brief walk to the elevator has you setting it down a couple times to rest for a couple seconds before continuing.

But, you’re able to get it up to your third floor apartment at last, and you shove it into a corner of your mostly empty room.

The apartment itself is a two bedroom, though really you probably should have just gone for the one bedroom. You use the second bedroom as an office, and the living room had, at one point, been intended as a place to host guests, but you’ve ended up doing far less of that than you’d anticipated. You’ve even moved your flatscreen into the office, leaving behind an empty TV stand and a living room even less equipped to hosting anyone.

Once the TV’s in place--next to an empty TV stand that definitely isn’t strong enough to hold an old CRT--you glance down at yourself, wincing at the dust and dirt from the TV that’s now all over your T-shirt.

You debate with yourself a moment before deciding to just clean up the old thing a bit. Moving it is difficult enough without also getting streaks of dirt all over your clothes every time you lift it. Besides, Jodie will probably want it somewhat clean for the shot she’s planning.

You grab the kit you usually use for cleaning up your computer--some compressed air, alcohol wipes, and a handful of Q-tips. Probably a bit more thorough than you need for an old TV that doesn’t even work and is going to be destroyed soon anyway….but you figure if you’re going to do it, you may as well do it right.

You’re surprised at how much dust and dirt come away with the wipes, given how much has already come off onto your shirt, but that only solidifies your decision to give it a thorough cleaning. You at least have the sense to cover your nose and mouth with your shirt before getting to work with the compressed air, though once you see the size of the dust cloud that rises from the TV’s vents you wonder if you should have dug around in your closet to see if you still have any N95 masks left.

You use a damp Q-tip to clean around the dials and the edges of the screen. By the time you’re done, the TV looks…well, not new, but at least like it’s been kept in a house and taken care of for the past few decades.

As you’re putting away your cleaning supplies, you wince when you notice how dark it’s gotten outside. There’s still a hint of sun on the horizon, but it won’t be there much longer.

You quickly gather up the trash from your kitchen and head downstairs to the dumpster. You’ve already put off taking out the trash for about two days longer than you should have. You hate taking it out at night, especially since building maintenance has been pretty slow to replace some of the bulbs in the parking lot’s lights. But, you manage to toss the bags away just as the sun slips below the treeline.

Finally, after a day of driving from store to store, hauling a huge TV, then cleaning said TV, you can relax for the night.

Or so you think.

You lock the door behind yourself and step into the living room, where you immediately notice that something is amiss.

Something is very amiss.

Comedically amiss, even.

Where the CRT had once sat, now sits a man. An impossibly tall man with a TV--with the perplexing addition of a cartoonishly long nose--as his head. He’s too tall to even stand up in your apartment--instead he’s seated on the floor, his knees tucked against his chest.

“There you are!” he cries happily in a staticy, showman-y voice. He crawls towards you with a big grin on his face. “My new favoritest Lightner! Thank you ever so much for taking me home and fixing me up and--” He cuts himself off, canting his head. “What’s the matter?” he asks.

Your back is pressed against the wall, your eyes wide and your shoulders tense. Your hands are held up, your fingers curled like claws as your body instinctively prepares to defend itself from the massive creature shuffling towards you.

And he asks “what’s the matter?” as if you’re reacting strangely to a giant TV-headed man in your apartment!

Before you can recover your wits enough to answer, he frowns, tilting his head in the opposite direction.

“Wait…you’re not a Lightner!” he says, his antennae straightening in surprise.

He lowers his head, leaning forward until his nose is nearly poking you in the chest. You close your eyes, covering your face with your hands. You’d probably fall to the floor in a heap if doing so wouldn’t mean colliding with his nose on the way down.

“Hmm…but you’re certainly no Darkner…” he says, his gloved hand rubbing his “chin” in thought. He shifts his gaze to your face and he flinches when he sees how frightened you are.

“O-Oh! ‘Scuse me! Shouldn’t sit too close to the screen! Especially in the dark!” he laughs apologetically as he shuffles backwards, still on his hands and knees. His antennae are almost bumping against the low ceiling of your apartment as it is.

Your knees give out and you slide down the wall, your trembling hands still covering your face.

This can’t be real. It just can’t. What the hell kind of hallucinogens had you inhaled when cleaning that old TV? You’ve clearly lost your damn mind!

The TV man pulls back even further when he sees your distress. “A-Ah!” he says, nervous beads of sweat appearing in the staticy white image that makes up his “face”. “I-I suppose this is…shocking! Me being…like this…outside the Dark World!”

Don’t indulge the delusion. Wait for it to pass. Whatever you inhaled will wear off. Surely you just need to wait it out? You’ll recover or sober up or…whatever…and it’ll all go back to normal!

But you can’t help yourself.

“I-I…have no idea what you’re talking about!” you admit, cringing internally at how meek and timid your voice sounds.

“Aha, right! Proper introductions are in order!” He clears his throat, then raises one hand to his face to push in his nose, flattening his face. The screen goes dark for a half second before loud, triumphant music begins to play, accompanied by some kind of low-resolution video.

“It is now time…for our feature presentation!! (Feacher…!!) Coming straight from YOUR house…coming straight from your house!! COMING! He’s the 1!! COMING!! The KING of ONLY!! He’s groovy! And NEVER glooby! You can’t get this from an egg!! The sensation of your screen! The show that makes you SCREAM!! Say it with him folks!!

Mr. (Ant) Tenna’s T~V~TIIIIMMMMME~!!!”

Once it’s done, the screen returns to the white static that is his “face”, his nose reappearing with a cartoony “pop!”.

The whole sequence does little to ease your confusion…though the fear is at least fading. You lower your hands, adjusting your position so you’re sitting with your back against the wall rather than cowering against it.

“Um…”

“And who do we have the honor of speaking with tonight?” he asks, a microphone appearing in his hand, which he holds out to you.

“E-Erm…” you squeak awkwardly.

“Hmmmm?” he hums in an almost playful tone as he holds the mic just a bit closer. The cartoony smile on his screen is huge but…there’s also a gentleness there. As if he’s trying to coax you out of your shell.

Finally, you manage to speak your name, albeit a bit haltingly.

His grin widens. “I shoulda guessed! A perfect name for a perfect sorta-Lightner!” he crows.

You laugh weakly, your cheeks warming at the bit of flattery despite the situation. “A-And…you said you’re…um, Mr. Ant Tenna?”

He nods. “Tenna to my friends, my friend!” The slight head tilt and the cartoony “pling!” noise that accompanies it suggest he would be winking if he had eyes.

Again it’s hard not to smile at the quip…and the fact that, intentional or not, he’d answered your question before you’d even had a chance to ask it. “A-Alright…Tenna…” you say, slowly starting to relax. You’re not entirely convinced this is real, but…it seems to be at least…not dangerous? “M-Mind…explaining…what’s going on?” you ask tentatively.

Tenna laughs. “Well, it’s quite simple!” he says, holding up one finger and waving it slightly, poised like a man about to explain a complicated topic in three or less easily digestible sentences. “You see--” He freezes suddenly, his mouth fixed in his usual big grin.

Your brows drift slightly upwards.

“...I simply don’t know!” he says, his grin turning mildly apologetic as a laugh track echoes around you.

Your shoulders slump. Maybe this is just a dream…one you’re not creative enough to fill in fully. Still… “Wh-What were you saying before? Something about…Lightners? Darkners? And…a-a…Dark World?”

“Ah! Right!” he says. “I can get you up to speed on that, no problem! Y’see, there’s the Dark World and the Light World, Darkners and Lightners.” He places a hand on his chest. “I’m a Darkner, and you…well, seem to be mostly a Lightner.”

You shake your head. “Um, I’m a human, actually…” you say hesitantly.

Tenna nods patiently, unsurprised by your comment. “Which is a type of Lightner!” he says. It’s almost as if he’d anticipated such a response.

“I…see…” you say uncertainly. “But I’ve never…heard of that. Or Darkners, or the Dark World…”

Another nod. “Most Lightners haven’t! And, since they don’t know about the Dark World or Darkners, they have no reason to think of their world as the Light World nor themselves as Lightners! To them, it’s just the world! And they’re just--” He pauses, his smile looking a bit more like a wince before his bright grin returns. “--NERS!” he declares proudly.

You give a weak laugh, sensing that last bit was a joke. “Right…So then…what’s a Darkner?”

“Residents of the Dark World! The place where light doesn’t reach. Darker than dark, where imagination takes hold and is made real!”

“Imagination…?”

“Imagination made REAL!” he says pointedly, emphasizing the last word. Blue flashing text appears on his screen spelling out the word “REAL!” in bold letters.

“And…I’m now imagining a TV as…a giant TV-headed man?” you ask skeptically.

Tenna’s expression falters and his antennae seem to drop. “...A-A TV?” You can barely process the remark before his bright grin reappears. “I-I mean! Yes! Er, no! Not…you’re not imagining anything! This is how I am in the Dark World! I’m quite real!”

You frown, glancing around despite knowing full well you’re in your apartment. “But we’re not in the Dark World…are we?”

He mimics your thoughtful frown, finally adjusting himself to sit crosslegged, propping his elbow on his knee and resting the bottom of his TV-head on his palm. He has to hunch over to an almost comedic degree to keep his antennae from hitting the ceiling. “No, definitely not! But I’m not so sure it’s the Light World, either…”

“Why not?” you ask.

“Well, aside from all this,” he says, gesturing at himself with both hands, “It just…doesn’t feel like the Light World…” The showmanship fades from his tone, his voice becoming quiet, almost somber.

“How so?” you ask curiously.

Tenna laughs awkwardly. “I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you! It’s just a feeling.”

“What’s the Light World like?” you ask, getting to your feet and taking a step towards him.

“Almost exactly like this one,” he says thoughtfully. “In fact…I’m…not even sure how long I’ve been in this world…I was thrown away at some point,” he says with a frown, his shoulders tensing. “Then I…” His frown deepens. “I…I don’t know what happened next. I don’t…even remember how I ended up in that storage unit…” His tone makes it sound like it’s just as much a revelation to him as it is to you. His frown grows more melancholy and his antennae droop.

You open your mouth to speak, then close it again. What could you possibly say? What do you say to a living TV that seems to be lamenting being thrown away?

Before you can summon an answer to that question, Tenna’s mood turns on a dime and he brightens. His antennae perk back up and he leans forward towards you. “But I’m sure glad I did!” He touches his index fingers together shyly, red circles appearing on his screen as he glances away with a bashful smile. “If it meant being found by a nice Light--er, human who’d clean me up and take care of me!”

The awkward, almost pained laugh you let out barely sounds like a laugh to you, but Tenna doesn’t seem to notice. Dream or no, you really don’t want to tell him the true reason you’d been on the hunt for a CRT.

“Now! I’ll bet you’re excited to watch all your favorite shows on your brand new TV!” he says in a playfully smug tone. “So, why don’t you whip up some popcorn and I’ll find us something good!” he says. His face begins flickering as if flipping through channels…though all the channels are the same white static.

“I don’t have any--” you start in a faint protest. You pause, frowning up at him in confusion. “Can we even watch TV on you when your cord’s broken?”

“Oh sure! Don’t need electricity in this form, I run on good ol’ Tenna-Watts!” he says cheerfully. His smile fades a bit as he continues flipping through channels. “Although…I can’t seem to find a signal…”

“You’re an analogue TV, aren’t you? They uh…kinda moved to digital like…ten years ago?” you say hesitantly.

Tenna pauses, staring at you. His screen goes blank, which causes his nose to disappear as well. His head slumps forward and he turns away, his antennae drooping. “O-Oh. S-So I. I can’t…I can’t really…I wouldn’t be…very useful…as a TV…would I?”

He’s so dejected that he actually seems a bit smaller as he slumps forward miserably, but you quickly rush over to him.

“H-Hey, don’t say that!” you say quickly, the words spilling out of your mouth before you really think about what you’re saying. “We could buy an adapter--”

His gaze snaps to you so abruptly you have to duck to avoid being beamed by his nose as it reappears. He grins brightly, red circles appearing on his cheeks as he leans forward. “An adapter? You’d buy an adapter? For me?” he asks giddily, cupping his screen in his hands.

You falter a moment. Despite your phrasing, you’d meant the remark as a hypothetical, not a plan…certainly not a promise. You’re still not completely sure this is even real…maybe it is a dream and whatever promises you make actually don’t matter. But…even if it’s not…how expensive can an adapter be?

If Tenna thinks anything of your slight pause--or even notices it--he gives no indication, continuing to beam down at you eagerly.

“Uhm, s-sure…Yeah, I can do that…”

“Oh thank you!” he cries eagerly, clapping his hands while the sound of applause plays. “And in the meantime, if you want to hook up a VCR or DVD player or game console…?”

You stare at him a moment before letting out an awkward laugh.

Tenna’s antennae twitch in confusion. “Oh? Did you have something else in mind?”

You shake your head, smiling weakly up at him. “Not…as such, but…you’re…a…a giant TV-man from another world…a-and this is all so…impossible…”

He scoffs playfully, waving a hand. “Can’t be that impossible if it’s happening!”

You sputter a moment, trying to come up with a counterpoint, but none presents itself. “I…suppose you’re right,” you admit. “But…still…just sitting down to watch TV after all that seems…so mundane…”

“Takes a bit of mundanity to wind down the day, doesn’t it?” he says. “Besides, why go to all that trouble of cleaning me up if you don’t wanna watch TV?” he adds in a smug, cheeky tone.

You manage to stop yourself from flinching too visibly at that question, but you’re sure a brief look of nausea still passed over your face.

“I--I s-suppose…”

“Then it’s settled!” he declares with a clap of his hands. “You go pick out your games or movies or whatever you want and I’ll do the rest!”

“Heh…” you chuckle thinly. “S-Sure, Tenna…” You consider a moment…as tempting as it is to dig out your old SNES and see if the rumors of old games looking better on CRTs is true, you don’t think your brain can handle anything resembling thinking and strategy right now. Certainly not anything involving reflexes either. So perhaps best to stick with a movie. You glance up at him. “What kind of movies are you into?”

“A--!” He stops, his mouth open in surprise and subtle pink blush lines appearing on his cheeks. “M-Me?” He lets out a hearty laugh, waving his hand and shaking his head. “Oh, silly! I’m the TV!”

You pause, regarding him thoughtfully. You…suppose it’s not that weird that he’d truly have no opinion--or that his opinion would be that you should pick the movie--but he’s clearly flattered that you’d asked.

So for tonight, you’ll oblige and make the pick yourself. Tomorrow--

--Would he even be here tomorrow? Suddenly you find yourself hoping he will be.

“...Right,” you say, trying not to seem too deflated as you give him a bracing smile.

You sidestep around him, crouching in front of your empty TV stand and opening one of the drawers. You pull out your PS3 and its wires, setting them atop the TV stand. Your newer consoles are in the office with your TV, but you doubt Tenna has an HDMI port. So, older console it is, even if you’re just using it as a DVD player.

Tenna scoops up the console and its wires and you glance over at him, watching as he plugs the wires into the back of his head and holds the PS3 in his hands.

As for the movie, you grab a couple DVDs of lighthearted cartoons. You close the drawer and get to your feet, and are surprised to see the PS3 already powered on, the menu screen displayed on Tenna’s (once again noseless) face.

“Wh--How’s it on? It’s not plugged in…?” you ask.

“Tenna-Watts!” he chirps proudly.

“Right…” you say again, a bemused smile on your face. You put one of the movies in, then take a seat on the couch, lazily tossing a fuzzy throw blanket over your legs.

Once the disc is in, Tenna sets the PS3 on the floor beside him, then tucks his knees to his chest. He wraps his arms around his legs and rests his screen on his knees…more or less acting as his own TV stand, albeit a very tall one.

You find yourself watching him more than the movie, barely paying attention to the plot as you try to process everything he’s said. You suppose “another world” is as plausible an explanation for a twenty-foot tall TV man as any. An old TV turning into a guy is already so far beyond the realm of possibility…how can you say anything except “Sure, why not?” to whatever explanations are given?

“Can you…actually see the movie?” you ask eventually.

He doesn’t move, keeping his screen angled towards you, but you see the lines of his mouth appear over the movie as he speaks. “No, but I feel it.”

“Feel it?” you repeat. “What…what does it feel like?” you ask, intrigued.

He pauses the movie, though his face doesn’t fully reappear. “Hmmm…interesting question! I suppose…it feels like colors. Sounds. Music…it feels like a story!”

You stare at him a moment before giving a soft chuckle. What sort of answer had you expected? “Well…a-as long as you’re not sitting there bored, I guess…”

“Bored? Not at all!” He frowns slightly. “Are you? We can put in something else--you don’t have to finish it for my sake!”

“Oh, no, I’m fine!” you reassure him quickly. “I just…wanted to make sure you were doing alright…”

His antennae perk slightly in surprise and the pink circles that appear on his cheeks stand out starkly against the paused movie. “Oho, you! Of course I’m just peachy! I’m a brand new TV all cleaned and polished and set up for movie night! I couldn’t be better!” he says in a chipper tone.

Your cheeks warm at his enthusiasm and his smile is infectious. “Heh…well, that’s…good…” you say, awkwardness making you feel a bit shy.

Tenna’s grin widens before disappearing, and he resumes the movie, sensing the conversation is over.

Before the movie’s over, you adjust yourself to be laying on the couch, your head resting on the pillowed armrest. Tenna’s height actually makes the position more comfortable--you don’t have to lay on your side or with your head turned ninety degrees to see the TV. You can lay on your back with your head angled only slightly towards him.

As the credits roll, you almost tell Tenna you’re too tired for a second movie, but he switches out the DVD before you can even think about sitting up. So you stay put, letting your eyelids get heavy as the second movie plays.

Maybe hauling the CRT up the stairs and then having your sense of reality severely questioned has taken more out of you than you’d realized. Or maybe it’s just time for the dream to end. Either way, you find yourself drifting off far more readily than you’d thought you ever could under such unusual circumstances…it’s not even a third of the way through the second movie when your eyes fall shut.

Tenna can immediately tell when you’ve fallen asleep. Lightners dozing off in front of the TV is a very familiar sight to him, after all. Still, he waits for the movie to play out and for the credits to roll before turning off the PS3. He unplugs the cords from the back of his head and quietly tucks the PS3 and the DVDs back into the drawer on the TV stand.

He leans forward, shuffling towards you slightly, careful not to bump the coffee table. He picks up the blanket from the floor and carefully spreads it over you as you sleep. You stir slightly, snuggling into the blanket and it’s all he can do not to let out a delighted little squeak.

Blankets knocked askew had always been a sad sight for him. He likes doing what he can to give anyone who falls asleep in front of him a good night’s rest, though those abilities had been highly limited until now. In the Light World, he could only dim his screen slightly and lower the volume just a touch. Sometimes if he really focused he could switch off the screen and let the Lightners think they’d done it themselves at some point in the night.

But the simple act of adjusting some blankets? Absolutely out of the question.

What a wonderful world this must be to let him finally do that small gesture for his dear Lightner! Well, almost Lightner. Basically a Lightner. A Lightner to him.

Tenna smiles softly, leaning back against the wall and watching you sleep. He’s loved all the Lightners who’ve had him, but…there’s something different about you. About this world.

He thinks…He thinks he’ll like it here!

#deltarune chapter 3 #deltarune spoilers #deltarune tenna #tenna deltarune #tenna #mr ant tenna #mr tenna #tenna x reader #tenna deltarune x reader #canon x reader #x reader #my writing

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traveler-at-heart · 16 days ago

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A redhead a day (makes the doctor act gay)

Request by @natromilf - Surgeon!R, who is known for her precision, but acts all clumsy around Natasha.

Natasha Romanoff x F!Reader

Everyone makes mistakes.

Though some people can’t afford them. Like you, and your line of work. One wrong move can lead to a deadly result.

It almost mirrors the life of the agents you operate on. Bad intel, a wrong turn, an ambush and the whole world can go to shit.

Which is why you take your job so seriously.

If their mission goes wrong, you’ll be there to pick up the pieces and put them back together.

That’s what you trained your whole life for and you were proud to serve SHIELD and the Avengers

Too bad med school didn’t teach you how to keep from acting like a fool when a pair of beautiful green eyes set on you.

The first time you see Natasha, you barely have time to process it was her. The Black Widow, who seems to be visiting someone, instead of looking for medical attention.

Still, you are intrigued by her presence (it was known she’d rather deal with any injuries alone). So much so, that you keep looking at her until you crash against the elevator doors.

“Shit” you mutter, your face burning up with embarrassment.

One of the interns rushes to your side, but her movements only draw further attention to you, and you sigh.

“All good, Elena” you say, hoping the next elevator comes soon.

Still, when you finally get inside and press the button to the second floor, your eyes meet Natasha’s once again.

When she winks at you while sporting a teasing smile, you wonder if she can read your very flustered thoughts.

—

That first impression was bad. You were hoping that if you ever saw Agent Romanoff again, that could be corrected.

Unfortunately for you, that is not the case.

It’s another day, between urgent calls and an extraction mission gone wrong. Three injured SHIELD agents under your care are enough to make the first twelve hours of your shift fly.

By the time you have a minute to sit down and rest, it’s close to midnight, your eyes heavy with exhaustion and missed sleep. But you still have to review charts and follow up with post ops, so going to the cafeteria will have to do.

“What a fucking night” your friend Daphne says, standing next to you as you pour some coffee in a disposable cup. This and the vending machines are your only choices in the middle of the night.

“Tell me about it” you sigh, adding sugar. That won’t make the dark beverage any better, but you gotta try. As you look up, you see Captain America walking down the hallway, face full of soot and suit torn in some places.

Right behind him, Natasha walks with purpose, frowning and reviewing a file. She looks busy enough, so you think you’re free to admire her without the woman noticing. But of course, she’s a trained spy. As soon as she feels someone staring, she turns to look at you.

“Damn, the Avengers are here, this must have been real bad” Daphne says next to you. You don’t listen.

Not when those green eyes are fixed on you, frown softening and the corner of those full, enticing lips turning into a playful smirk.

“Oh, careful. The coffee is super hot…”

It’s obvious you miss that part too, taking a large gulp to hide your blush.

“Fuck” you spit it out. “Oh, God, I have third degree burns, Daphne, help” you say like an idiot, tongue hanging out.

“I TOLD YOU TO BE CAREFUL” she barks, making some people stare.

Gosh, you just know Natasha was looking and must think you are a total idiot. Or maybe not, because when you finally recover from the burning sensation, she’s not standing next to Captain America.

Oh, maybe she didn’t see me.

“Hi, there”

You’ve never heard her voice before. And yet, you know it’s her.

You slowly turn to look at Natasha. She’s even more perfect than you imagined.

“Hot” you blurt out.

“Pardon?” she says, her voice dropping an octave.

“Coffe is hot. Uh, just keeping anyone from burning” you mumble, blushing madly.

“Oh, I’m not here for the coffee. I was told you were in charge of the injured agents. Could I get an update on them?”

“Right, of course. Come with me”

You walk next to Natasha, hiding your hands in the pockets of your labcoat.

“Agent Lusaque needed a liver resection. He’ll recover with no issues. Agents Palmer and Bryant, on the other hand…” you sigh, pulling out their charts from the nurse’s station. “Palmer is in the ICU, and Bryant will need a second surgery for that broken leg. But we need her BP to stabilize”

“Did you see anything significant in their injuries? Anything that stood out?”

“I’d say they are consistent with an IED, Agent”

“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of. Old man wanted to wait for intelligence but sometimes you just know” Natasha sighs. You resist the urge to reach out and squeeze her shoulder. Her expression shifts to something neutral, and you know the moment of vulnerability is gone. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your hot coffee”

“Of course. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know”

“Will do. Bye, Doctor Y/L/N”

And with that, she’s gone.

—

For once, it’s a slow day. You discharged the agents that were involved in last week’s mission and are about to take a break, when you hear some cursing in one of the examination rooms.

“Everything ok?”

You’re expecting to see an intern struggling with an IV, but instead you’re greeted with the sight of Natasha trying to stitch herself. She looks from the gash in her leg to you, smiling.

“Yeah, all good”

“No! You’re not even wearing gloves!” you protest, looking horrified at how badly she’s doing. Before she can open her mouth to answer, you push her down the hospital bed, glaring. “Do not move”

“It’s just a small cut. And I don’t need anesthesia”

“Hush, Romanoff. Or I will place you on medical leave” you say, glaring at her.

You expect Natasha to apologize or at the very least look ashamed. But instead, she’s still smiling.

This is a nice change for her. She’s only seen you flustered, being a complete mess when she’s around. Now, though, your movements are calculated as you prepare the sutures and glove up.

“How did you do this?” you ask, your tone even. This must be routine for you.

“That’s classified” Natasha jokes with a little smile. You clear your throat, adjusting the light to focus on the gash.

“Doesn’t stop other agents from telling me”

“Who?” Natasha says, and you can’t help but laugh at her tone. She seems ready to kick their asses for sharing classified information.

“I’m kidding. They tell me family stuff, small things, really. It’s to keep them talking, if only to distract them from the pain. Sometimes I get good gossip, too”

Natasha watches you work in silence for a few moments. Even if she tries to act though, the needle piercing her skin always sends a shiver down her spine.

“I have a cat” she blurts out. For the first time since you started working, you look up. It’s Natasha’s turn to feel like a blubbering mess, admiring your beautiful eyes.

“That sounds nice”

“Do you like cats?” she winces at how lame she sounds, but you mistake it with pain.

“I’m sorry, I’m almost done. Yes. My father is a veterinarian and we had a family farm, so there were all types of animals around” in spite of yourself, you smile.

Now, you live in an all white world of sterile hallways and OR lights. But your days were once spent in the middle of feeding chickens, walking around the muddy fields and checking horses and cows.

“So, why not be a veterinarian?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I remember this one time where a worker fell and hurt his head. It took a while for help to get to us and my father left me alone with him while they found a doctor. But I wasn’t scared. I knew I could keep my cool around blood, unlike my sisters”

“That’s definitely helpful”

“Yeah, except when my Dad figured out I was the only one who’d be able to help so I’d work during school break” you laugh, remembering everything with a new light. You used to hate it back then, because it was early mornings and lots of work. But now it’s a fond memory.

“The rumors are true. Your work is impeccable” Natasha comments when you remove your gloves. “Where were you when that bullet went through my side?”

“That’s classified” you say, and feel a small surge of pride when she actually laughs. You stand up and look around for antibiotics.

“Is that really necessary?” Natasha grumbles, and you roll your eyes.

“An infection in the 21st centhury is the dumbest way to go. Take these for five days. And rest”

“Yes, Doctor”

“If you have any questions, page me” you say. Now that your hands and mind are not focused on the task of stitching her up, you’re aware of the fact you’re alone with Natasha in a room. If you stay here any longer, you’ll probably stab yourself with a needle or something even more idiotic.

“What if you’re not working?” Natasha calls when you walk to the door.

“Well, I’m sure someone else could…” you begin to say, completely oblivious about what she’s really asking.

“Or…”

“Yes?”

“I could get your phone number? For a consult, of course” she adds, smiling as you blush.

“Of course” you echo her words, pulling out a card and scribbling your number. “My personal number”

“Thanks, Doc” she says, lingering in the door for a second too long, and somehow getting out before you, who had been standing next to it for some time now.

Naturally, the second she’s out of sight, you pull the door to exit and it bounces against your foot, hitting your forehead.

“That’s more like it” you mumble, rubbing the spot.

At least she didn’t see it this time.

—

Your name is at the top of a list, but it doesn’t bring you any benefits, or enjoyment.

It means that when an Avenger gets hurt, you’re the first person they’ll page for surgery.

Two days ago, the code appeared suddenly in your pager and your heart dropped. You couldn’t help but think of Natasha, and guilt and shame invaded you in equal parts when you prayed it wasn’t her. The shame hit once you found out it was Barton, and you couldn’t help but feel relieved.

He had a bullet wound that went through and through, but you still decided to operate and clear your schedule to follow up every hour of his recovery. Clint had trusted you enough to introduce you to his family, to the point where you had been their doctor during the birth of Lila and Nathaniel.

Laura knew what happened, and was happy to hear you were overseeing his recovery. Barton was in good spirits, always welcoming any excuse to take leave and be at his farm.

So, as you both waited for his lab results, he began to throw cereal at you, saying he could aim exactly at your mouth even if you moved.

And he proves to be right, most of the time.

Because when Natasha walks in the room, you move your head to look at her and a piece of cereal hits you square in the eye.

“Barton!” you say, covering with one hand. “Oh, my God! I can’t go blind. I won’t operate again”

“You moved!” Clint protests.

“You said I could move!”

“Hey, it’s ok” Natasha says, kneeling in front of you. When you remove your hand and blink several times, you can tell she’s trying to hold back laughter. Glaring, you decide to swat her hand away, but then she’s craddling your face, smiling softly.

“I guess I’ll ask Fury for an eyepatch” you say after looking at her lips for a second too long.

Natasha rolls her eyes, and then turns to look at her friend.

“Maybe you should retire”

“I do more work at the farm than here, Tasha. I’m fine. Tell him, Doc?”

“Through and through, no shattered bones. But he still needs to rest” you say, standing up to take his results. You begin to go through everything, not paying attention to what Natasha and Clint are talking about.

Until…

“The mission can wait” he insists.

“You know I can’t”

“I’d feel better if you had someone with you. Take Steve, Wilson. Even Maximoff could be…”

“I’ll think about it” Natasha interrupts him. But her tone is clear; she’s not changing her mind.

Your stomach twists at the idea of Natasha being in a dangerous situation, which is stupid. For one, that’s her literal job and also, you’re just a doctor from SHIELD. She doesn’t care about you, and your own interest shouldn’t go beyond a professional capacity.

“You’re ready for discharge, Agent Barton” you say, trying to pretend you didn’t hear the exchange. “I’ll get the paperwork ready”

“Thank you, Doc”

You nod, leaving them to their conversation. You hope Clint can convince Natasha to postpone whatever mission she needs to go on, but you can’t say you’re optimistic about his chances.

While you review the paperwork, your mind goes back to the few text messages you’ve exchanged with Natasha ever since she asked for your number. Of course, it started out as a consultation over her stitches. You, checking up on her. Then, some random texts throughout the day. Still, nothing that indicated she was thinking about asking you out.

Once you’re done with paperwork and run into her, you decide to take your chances.

“Hey, about what Clint said…”

“About working more when he’s home? He’s just being a baby, Laura…”

“No. The mission”

“That’s class…”

“Classified, I know. I just… promise to be careful. Please?” you fidget with your hands, looking at your feet.

“What? You don’t want to see me around?” she jokes.

“Not as a patient” you say, blushing at the way it comes across.

“So, maybe, when I’m back from that mission…” she says, smiling as she inches closer to you. Your breath hitches, but you don’t back down, or look away when her green eyes meet yours. “We can go out for dinner?”

“I’d like that”

Natasha nods, her hand reaching for yours as she leaves the hospital.

All you want is for her to come back, safe and sound.

—

We can’t always get what we want.

When you get paged, and see the code, you know it’s Natasha.

Daphne rushes right behind you, straight to the Medbay where Natasha’s getting evaluated.

Steve, Sam and Wanda are already there, but there’s another woman. She has blonde hair, and is wearing a suit you don’t recognise as something SHIELD agents use.

“Doctor…” Steve rushes to your side, but you shake your head.

“Tell me what happened. Now!”

Nurses and doctors step aside as you look at the X-rays, vitals and injuries. There’s a lot of blood, and Natasha is slipping in and out of consciousness.

“There was an explosion. Please, you have to help her” the blonde finally says. “Help my sister”

Those words make you falter for a second, but then BP’s crashing and you don’t have time to think about the fact that Natasha has a sister.

“We can’t wait. She has flail chest and her lung is collapsed. Page Lane, we’re moving to the OR now”

Everything becomes a blur, with people moving and prepping for surgery. The staff is trained for this and you have everything ready in under 5 minutes.

“Do you need anything else?” the head nurse says as you prepare to start.

“Silence. And focus. All of you. We’re gonna be here a long time”

7 hours, two units of blood and a lot of stitches later, Natasha is transferred to the ICU.

“I should have gone with her” Barton mumbles when you give the team an update. But he’s still wearing an armsling, and there’s no point in thinking about this now.

“Can I see her?” the woman who called Natasha her sister says, eyes red from crying.

“Later. Only staff can be at the ICU. I’ll stay with her, you go shower, eat something. Natasha needs to recover, she’ll be out of it for at least another day”

No one seems pleased with the idea of leaving the hospital, but Steve insists and they follow him, as usual. The blonde girl stays behind, and in that moment you realise she doesn’t even know Natasha’s friends.

To your surprise, she turns around and hugs you.

“Thank you. For saving her”

You wrap your arms around her shoulders, because it sucks that her sister is hurt and you can’t do more for her right now.

—-

For over 22 hours, you’ve been by Natasha’s side. As soon as she’s out of the ICU, you call Yelena.

You give her an update on her status and what to expect. She listens, only showing emotion when she sees Natasha connected to all those machines.

“Is she… does it hurt her? Is she going to be ok?”

“Her body needs time to recover. But she’ll be fine. Natasha’s strong” you say, pushing back a strand of that fiery hair from her forehead. It’s silly, how much you miss her cheeky smile when you’re doing something stupid because she looks your way.

“So, you must be the girl she likes” Yelena says, making you look up.

“What?”

“While we were hiding, I asked her if she was seeing anyone. She told me she had a date with this cute doctor so we’d better hurry”

“Oh” you say, blushing. “Yeah, we were… going to dinner. When she came back”

“I’m sorry. It’s my fault”

“No, it isn’t. Natasha wouldn’t want you to think that. Come here, sit. You can stay for as long as you want” you lead her to the couch, sitting right next to her.

“I hadn’t seen her in so long” she whispers, a tear rolling down her cheek.

“It’s ok, Yelena. You’ll have plenty of time with your sister. She’s gonna be out of missions for at least a month. But she’ll probably be grumpy about it” you joke, and the blonde laughs.

Exhaustion finally catches up with both of you, and without realising, Yelena ends up asleep on your shoulder. With a sigh, you close your eyes, convincing yourself it will only be for a couple of minutes.

By the time you open your eyes, a raspy chuckle makes you look up.

“I knew Yelena would like you”

“You’re up” you say, letting the blonde rest against the couch and standing up to check Natasha. You go over her blood pressure, the IV and pupils, but are interrupted by her hands holding on to your wrists.

“Hi” she says, smiling up at you.

“Hello, Agent. Can I please finish my examination?”

“What do I get in return?”

“Getting discharged”

“Trying to get rid of me?” she taunts and you have to roll your eyes. It’s been almost two days since she almost died and here she is, being a smartass.

“You’re the one who went through all the trouble just to get out of our date” you joke. Natasha doesn’t get to protest, because Yelena wakes up, rushing to her side.

“Sestra! Are you ok?”

Yelena switches to Russian, talking so fast even Natasha has trouble keeping up with her.

“Let’s just calm down, ok? I’ll give you guys a minute” you say, smiling at Natasha as Yelena drags a chair to sit next to her sister. You have a feeling that there are some things they have to talk about.

—

Time goes by quickly, and before you know it, it’s been three weeks since Natasha’s surgery. You’ve been texting more frequently, but you’re not expecting to see her anytime soon. Between reconnecting with Yelena and recovery, she has more than enough on her plate.

Work is distracting, but not enough. During small breaks you do end up thinking about her, and missing her.

You think nothing of it when you get paged to do a follow up, as it is a slow day and you’re short staffed.

But when you open the door, Natasha is smiling at you, in that way that makes you act like a fool. The shock lasts a second, and then you worry.

“Hey. Are you feeling ok? Why are you here? Are you hurt? I told you not to train for another week” you spiral, getting ready to order X-rays and a CT scan immediately.

Natasha calls your name, once and then louder, when you don’t look up from her file.

“I just wanted to see you” she says, making you blush. “But there’s this thing too. Thought I should get it checked”

“Ok, what is it?”

“Well, in spite of all the rumors, I do have a heart. And it has been beating faster, and I get this feeling in my stomach…” she begins to say. You nod, pulling out your stethoscope.

Natasha watches with a smile as you listen to her heartbeat, thinking how adorable you look when you’re all focused. Without realising, your other hand goes to rest on her knee, and she can’t help but let out a sigh, wishing you could be even closer.

“Ok, I hear it. It’s beating a little bit faster” you say, still oblivious. “Is there anything specific triggering this…?”

“I have an idea” she says, her hands resting on your waist. You finally look up, eyes lingering on her lips. Natasha sees realisation in your features, and takes it as a sign to inch closer, her lips brushing against yours.

It’s quick and tender, but it still makes your knees weak.

Well, this is going to be a problem. No way you can go back to work now that this happened. You’ll be so distracted that you’ll end up running over someone with a wheelchair or something.

“Let’s check again. Just wanna make sure your heart is ok” you say, leaning forward. You feel Natasha smile into the kiss, hands pulling you against her.

“What did the doctor say? Ah, gross!” Yelena walks in a moment later. “I didn’t think you meant this kind of physical exam, Natasha”

“Get out!” Natasha shouts, and you have to laugh.

“Gladly” Yelena huffs, slamming the door. She adds a second later. “And I’m telling everyone at the Compound!”

“So annoying” Natasha mumbles, but turns to look at you with a smile. “Is it anything serious? Will I be ok, Doc?”

“Yeah, you just need to kiss me more so your body gets used to the feeling” you say, meeting her lips in another kiss.

“I can definitely do that”

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x y/n

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sabraeal · 1 month ago

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For those interested in putting this into their eyeballs, you may find it here on AO3!

“A single set.” Her touch travels to his wrist, rubbing over the delicate nub at its waist. “That is all I am asking."

“Your father.” The words are little more than a breath. His body stills beneath her, save for the frantic pulse beneath her fingertips. “He will not approve of it.”

A weak parry. It would take a sterner father than her own to deny a single dance. “Then let us dance out of sight. We will not be missed.”

“My lady–”

What he means to say is lost; her fingers smooth along the vein, and what words he has elide into something softer than a moan.

“Lowen.” She teases the edge of his cuff, a nail slipping just beneath. “Do you not trust yourself alone with a lady?”

“A lady? Yes.” His breath rattles out of his chest. “With you…?”

—x—

Finally finished! My very first work for kiss art february, bodyguard au hakizana co op with @sabraeal :D based on ‘Il bacio’ by Francesco Hayes

#excerpt is from the first chapter #art is for a chapter to come in the future >:3c #because Izana may be a chessmaster but he has been edging himself with this relationship for years #i am OBSESSED annie like look at how haki is giving into him with WILD abandon #this girl is supposed to marry someone else-- some who is on the other side of this curtain #but this is what she has been wanting for years. what she had been hoping for as her Birthday Gift since before Ch 1 #and here is Izana with his eyes just slightly open. because he can't shut his brain off. he can't just surrender #there are no higher thoughts happening because this is the most impulsive decision he has ever made #he had been entertaining himself the past few years playing bodyguard. biding his time before he revealed himself and his plot #to take the throne and rule Clarines as it deserved to be ruled. to wrest his country from the hand of the madman that sired him #and it was just Sort Of Funny at first to be the bodyguard of the girl he was affianced to. she was so bratty and young to start #but now she's grown into a woman he not only respects but actively desires. one that he KNOWS is his to take #but has been holding himself back both because It's Funny and also because he MUST be Lowen to keep them both safe #he's been so jealous of himself for YEARS because she talks about this fiance she's never met and molds herself to be the woman he needs #and then suddenly it's all torn out from beneath him and given to his BROTHER. his brother who he loves and is trying to save #and carries SO much guilt over abandoning. but at the end of the day she is the one thing he cannot give up to him #he HAS to take this kiss for himself. and so he can't close his eyes. he's SAVORING this moment #because he might never get it again. he's holding her face SO gently. like she's PRECIOUS. because this is STOLEN #and meanwhile she's got her arms thrown around him take-me style which is NOT helping his control 🤣#annie this is SO amazing like haki's dress is SO perfect. I gave annie two reference photos of different worth gowns #and annie immediately was like. yes okay I see how you want these stitched together and WENT for it #god that scalloped lace is CRAZY #hakizana #lionheart au #ans

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vunblr · 6 months ago

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Toy Soldier (part 3)

Bit by bit, torn apart. We never win, but the battle wages on for toy soldiers.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Fluff. Smut. Canon-Typical Violence. Dark Content: Sexual Assault Wounds (Bucky). Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Mentions and depictions of Non-Con (both characters as victims).

Summary: She had been the tool Hydra used to keep him operational; he, the weapon manipulated by their tendrils to execute their ambitions. Years after breaking free, fate Sam Wilson brings them together once more. Now, they must navigate the challenges of forging a connection beyond the twisted dynamic that once bound them in the past.

Word Count: 6.8.k.

notes: This chapter includes flashbacks to non-con situations. Please be mindful of your media consumption and take care of yourself. Passages containing this content are marked with ****** at the beginning and the end, in case you wish to skip them.

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

The next days passed uneventfully after the brawl at the bar. Every location listed in the government-provided intelligence was either empty or completely inconsistent with the reports. It felt like chasing ghosts, a frustrating pattern that left them all on edge.

By the end of the week, they were on a military plane heading back to New York. Sam leaned back in his seat, glancing idly at the other two. It didn’t take him long to notice that they were... talking.

Not in the awkward way of the first days, or the strictly mission-related conversations that followed. In fact, it wasn’t the body language he’d expect from two people who barely knew each other. Bucky’s body was more relaxed than Sam had seen in years while interacting with someone, and at one point, he caught a faint smile on Tinman’s face, a real smile.

What the hell happened between those two?

Asking Bucky directly wasn’t an option. The guy was like a human wall when it came to personal questions. He had learned long ago that pushing him only made him clam up more.

No, if he wanted answers, he’d have to go to the other source. She might be more willing to spill the details, especially if he caught her in a casual moment.

A smirk tugged at his lips as he leaned back in his seat. He’d find a chance to ask her soon, maybe over coffee. Whatever had happened on this mission had clearly done the impossible: it got the Winter Sulkier to actually drop the act.

His attention was drawn back when he noticed Bucky tense slightly, as his expression shifted while she asked him a question. She leaned toward him, perched on the edge of her seat, focusing on the phone he held in his hand. Sam, feigning a search through one of the nearby bags, edged closer to eavesdrop.

“See, you just tap here,” Bucky said, oddly patient, something Sam would’ve thought impossible coming from him. “Then swipe left to go back, or hit this button if you want to-”

“Wait, wait,” she interrupted, holding up a hand. “So anyone can message me, or is it just the guys I pick if we... match?” Her brows furrowed, her tone a mix of curiosity and skepticism.

Sam’s eyes widened slightly. Is he teaching her how to use a dating app?

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat. “Just the ones you match with,” he replied evenly. “But... don’t expect much. Most of these guys don’t know how to hold a conversation past ‘hey.’”

She snorted. “That’s it? No effort at all?” Then she tilted her head. “How’d it go for you, then? Using the app, I mean.”

Bucky shrugged, with a carefully neutral expression. “Tried it a little. Didn’t stick with it.”

She narrowed her eyes and the corners of her lips twitched in amusement. “You ‘tried it a little,’ huh? Because you seem to know a lot about it for someone who barely used it.”

He shot her a quick look before deadpan. “You pick things up.”

“Uh-huh.” She leaned back slightly, crossing her arms as she studied him. “Come on, you are handsome, you can’t tell me you didn’t get one match.”

“I got a few,” he admitted reluctantly, blushing slightly. “Didn’t go anywhere.”

“Why not?” she pressed.

He hesitated, and his discomfort was more noticeable now. His gaze quickly darted to Sam and then went back to her. “It’s all surface-level. A few pictures, some vague descriptions, it doesn’t mean anything.”

Her teasing expression softened at the shift in his tone. “Okay, fair. But isn’t that the point? It’s just supposed to be an icebreaker, right?”

“Maybe,” he muttered, leaning back in his seat. “But I’m not great at... small talk. And that’s all this is. Small talk that leads nowhere.”

Sam, who had been quietly watching, finally spoke up. “You’re not really helping her case, you know. You’re making this app sound like a deathtrap.”

Bucky shot him a glare. “It’s not a deathtrap. It’s just... not worth the hassle.”

She raised a brow, clearly unconvinced. “Well, I won’t know until I try it. Maybe I’ll get luckier. How different could it really be once you meet in person, like a traditional meetup?”

Before Bucky could respond, Sam chimed in from a few seats over, a mischievous smirk on his face. “Well, you should also know that you might receive some... unwanted pictures.”

She tilted her head, frowning. “Unwanted pictures? Like what?”

“Dicks,” Sam deadpanned, his expression unflinching.

“What?” she exclaimed. “Why would someone... Is that supposed to attract me? Like they think, ‘Oh, I’ll send her a dick pic, and she’ll say, sure, John, let’s go feed the ducks at the park?’”

Sam doubled over laughing, while Bucky shifted uncomfortably, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor. “Yeah, uh... I forgot to mention the unwanted pictures,” he muttered.

She quirked a brow, and her lips twitched with amusement. “How is it for the guys? Did you get unwanted pictures too? Like, ‘Hey, handsome,’ and bam! Wet nipples pic?”

Bucky froze, his eyes widening slightly “I- what? No,” he stammered, his usual stoic mask cracking under her teasing.

Sam burst out laughing, leaning back in his seat. “Oh, man, you broke him.”

Bucky shot Sam a death glare, but the flush creeping up his neck betrayed him. “It’s not... That’s not how it works.”

“Oh, come on, someone must’ve tried.”

Bucky ran a hand over his face, clearly wishing for the conversation to end. “No,” he said firmly. “Guys don’t get stuff like that. Not usually.”

Sam wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, still chuckling. “This is the best thing I’ve heard all week.”

“Glad I could entertain you,” Bucky muttered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, fixing his gaze firmly on the floor.

Sensing his discomfort now that Sam had jumped into the conversation, she decided to redirect the attention. She leaned slightly toward Sam, with a mischievous grin tugging at her lips.

“Speaking of unwanted pictures,” she said casually, “remember when that agent flashed us his brand-new Prince Albert in the Rome safehouse? Because he thought it was infected and wanted me to take care of it?”

Sam choked on his laughter. “Oh, man, that guy! How could I forget?” He shook his head, still grinning. “I got traumatized. The guy showed it off like he was proud of it. Even with the swelling and all. And you…you just stood there like it was any other Tuesday.”

She shrugged, her expression deadpan. “What was I supposed to do? He dropped his pants before I even knew what was happening. First of all, you might find it hard to believe, but it wasn’t the first time I’ve seen a dick, and second, I’ve seen worse things over the years.” if he only knew how much worse.

Bucky’s frown deepened, snapping his sharp gaze at her. His jaw tightened, and there was a flicker of something in his expression, something dark and protective. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, coldly.

She glanced at him, startled by the sudden shift in his demeanor. “What?”

“That guy,” he growled, crossing his arms over his chest. “Dropping his pants like that. You’re a lady, for God’s sake.”

Sam burst out laughing again, “I hate to break it to you, but modern life’s not exactly full of boundaries, Buck. Especially when the dude thought his dick was going to fall off.”

Bucky ignored Sam’s laughter. “Still doesn’t mean it’s right.”

His gaze drifted, growing distant, and she knew exactly where it was traveling. The countless times Hydra had forced her to touch him in clinical detachment, to treat his groin marred by shrapnel, burns, and other injuries she’d long since pushed to the darkest corners of her memory. Also, that time when…

She clapped her hands suddenly, trying to steer the conversation away.

“Anyway, about the app-”

“Wait,” Sam interrupted, leaning forward with interest. “About that, last time I talked to you, you said you were dating some dude from the library. Some kind of meet-cute.”

Bucky’s attention snapped back to the conversation, as a strange, twisted feeling settled in his gut.

“Clearly, if I’m asking about the app, I’m not seeing him anymore,” she replied, with a certain edge.

“What happened?” Sam pressed, furrowing his brow. “You seemed interested in the guy, and it sounded like he was into you, too.”

She sighed, crossing her arms. “It just... didn’t work out.”

Sam gave her a pointed look. “That’s not a real answer.”

She groaned, leaning back in her seat. “Fine. Over the weeks, it was like everything he said he liked about me at first became an issue.”

“Like?” Sam prompted, tilting his head.

“Like preferring to stay home instead of going out all the time, it bored him. Or how he’d tell me he loved my cooking but would complain about his sweater smelling smoky after I’d make something. Little stuff like that.” She paused. “Then one day, I knit him a scarf. And do you know what he said?”

Sam raised a brow. “What?”

“He said, ‘I have a grandma who can do that,’” she said flatly.

Sam let out a sharp laugh of disbelief. “What a jackass.”

“Yeah,” she said with a humorless chuckle. “That was the last straw. Especially since he was the one who said he’d love it if I made something for him while flirting.”

“Oh my God, Sarah would’ve shoved the scarf through his ass, crochet hook included. And… uh did you two, you know…” Sam made a wave with his hand implying intimacy.

She couldn’t stop herself from briefly side-look at Bucky, who was staring at the ground. “No. I mean there was… but no. I don’t know, maybe that’s why suddenly everything started to annoy him.

Bucky felt a sharp surge of anger toward the faceless man. His fingers flexed against his thigh as he tried to push it down, but it stayed there. Sure, things had changed over the decades, he’d seen that much already. But memories of Rebecca knitting gloves for her sweetheart by the window, or his ma stitching clothes for them during the Depression, flooded his mind.

He knew what it meant to make something with your hands, the time, care, and thought behind every stitch. For that man to dismiss it like it was nothing, to compare her work to something anyone could do... it was a slap to everything he’d grown up valuing.

“That guy was an idiot,” he muttered, with irritation. “You took the time to make something for him, something personal. That matters. If he couldn’t see that, he wasn’t worth it.” The look on his face betrayed rage, the kind that made it clear he’d have no problem to physically teach the guy a lesson if he were standing in front of him.

She felt warmth rise in her chest at his words, “Thank you.”

Sam, who had been watching the exchange with growing amusement, leaned back in his seat with a knowing grin.

----

A couple of days had passed since they returned to New York, and she sat on her couch, biting her nails absently. The soft ticking of the wall clock felt louder than usual.

It was almost time for the doorbell to ring.

When they landed, Bucky had set her aside hesitantly and asked her if it was alright for them to talk. He’d made it clear that there was no pressure, no expectations. If she didn’t want to, he’d leave it alone. The last thing he wanted was to cause her discomfort.

She’d promptly agreed, “We can talk at my place if you are okay with that.” the offer had spilled from her lips before she could even think it through.

Her house was small but cozy, cluttered in a lived-in way. Books and plants filled old wooden shelves, the soft glow of a lamp in the corner painted the room in warm tones, and the faint scent of lavender lingered from a candle burning on the coffee table. She’d baked cookies and tidied up, in an unconscious effort to keep herself busy.

The doorbell finally rang, startling her.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she stood quickly, smoothing her hands over her shirt before heading to the door. When she opened it, there he was. Red henley, dark jeans, and a stuffed paper bag in his hand, standing on the threshold with a casual but guarded expression.

“Hi,” she managed to say, calmer than she felt.

“Hi,” he replied, nodding slightly before extending the bag toward her. “Um, for later. I figured it’d be rude to come empty-handed.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have” she said, clearly pleased, stepping aside while taking the bag, gesturing for him to come in. “Make yourself comfortable”.

Bucky hesitated momentarily before stepping inside, flicking his gaze briefly over the room. It felt... welcoming, familiar. He sat on the couch stiffly, resting his hands on his thighs.

She followed him, putting the paper bag on the coffee table and taking a seat across from him. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“So,” she began, breaking the silence, “what did you want to talk about?”

His eyes met hers, and for a moment, he seemed to weigh his words carefully. “I just... wanted to say I’m sorry,”.

“For what?” she asked, puzzled.

“For everything,” he said, dropping his gaze to his hands. “For what Hydra put you through because of me. For being part of the reason you were stuck in that hell.”

Her breath caught, and she shook her head instinctively. “What- Bucky, you weren’t the reason-”

“I was,” he cut her off gently, lifting his eyes to meet hers again. “I might not have had a choice in what they did to me, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t pay the price for it.”

She swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. “You’re not responsible for what they did.” she said softly. “Neither of us is.”

“Objectively I know,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel it is.”

The air between them felt heavy, charged with unspoken pain and understanding.

She sighed. “They abducted me because of my mutant powers, Bucky. They eventually assigned me to be your… maintenance tool because you were their most effective asset, Hydra’s fist. But even if you have not been there, there were others. For one reason or another, I would have ended up there anyway.”

The others.

******

Her words triggered memories he didn’t want but couldn’t avoid. The unending hours of hand-to-hand combat, training the newly enhanced assets. His missions didn’t end when he returned from the field; Hydra had repurposed him to mold their next generation of tools.

The rules had been clear: restrict his strength, take the blows, and avoid permanent damage. These trainees were expensive investments, after all, and he had the privilege of having his Tinkerbell next door to sprinkle some powder to fix him anew after every session.

Was in one of those travels to the neighboring cell when Soldat’s brain used the gray zones in the rules for the first time.

As he opened the heavy door, his gaze landed on the stretcher. She wasn’t alone. The asset bending her over the surface, fisting her hair, was making sure of it. His other hand fumbled, trying to place his excuse of a cock inside her, as she twisted helplessly beneath him.

His jaw ticked.

His fist connected with his target’s jaw in a blur of silver and crimson, sending him flying against the nearest wall with a sickening thud. The orders were to restrain himself while training. Her cell wasn’t meant as a place to train.

The asset groaned, attempting to push himself upright, but Soldat was already on him. In two long strides, he closed the distance, seizing the man’s throat with a crushing grip, lifting him up as if he weighed nothing. The asset’s eyes widened in panic as his legs kicked futilely against the air.

“Soldat!” a voice crackled through the speaker overhead. The handler’s voice.

He froze momentarily, loosening his grip just enough for the asset to suck in a ragged breath.

“Stand down,” the voice ordered, laced with the unmistakable threat of consequences.

His gaze flickered toward the camera in the corner of the room. He knew they were watching, assessing every move. But as he looked back at the asset, his grip tightened again.

She was still there, trembling against the stretcher, her wide, teary eyes locked on him. Her lip was split, and her arms were wrapped tightly around herself as though trying to hold her shattered pieces together.

A flicker of something broke through the red haze in his mind.

“Soldat,” the handler barked again, sharper this time. “Release him. Now.”

His hand twitched, and the hum of his arm vibrated faintly as if resisting the command. Slowly, deliberately, he dropped the man to the ground. The asset crumpled in a heap, coughing and clutching his throat.**

He walked toward the stretcher where she sat, frozen in place. Without a word, he leaned on the edge, reaching for the clasps of his upper vest and unfastening efficiently. The vest came off, revealing his beaten torso. His skin was mottled with bruises, and a sickly shade of purple spread across his ribs, the uneven swelling at the zone was a clear indication of fractures.

For a moment, the room was silent, save for the faint static from the intercom and the asset’s wheezing on the floor.

He turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze in a silent request. Her hands shook as she reached for him, steading when they met his skin.

“Soldat,” the handler’s voice snapped through the intercom. “Report back to the training room.”

He didn’t move. His gaze remained fixed on her, unwavering, unyielding. His hand twitched again, resting lightly on his thigh as though restraining himself from reaching out.

“I said, report back.”

******

“-cky… Bucky…” her voice broke the trance, bringing him back to the present.

He blinked, as his focus returned to the present. He saw her now, not trembling inside a depressing cell but sitting across from him in her living room, looking at him with concern.

“Sorry,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. The words felt inadequate, but they were all he could manage at the moment.

She sighed, leaning back in her seat. “It seems we still have a lot of shit to unpack,” she finally said. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her shirt as she continued, flicking her gaze back to him. “For some reason, you feel responsible for my captivity, and on the other hand, I feel responsible for prolonging your torment.” Her lips quirked into a faint, bittersweet smile. “Maybe we need to do some couple’s counseling.”

The joke was light, silly, considering what they’ve been through. Still, Bucky’s lips twitched into the faintest semblance of a smile.

Grabbing onto that tiny smile like a lifeline, she seized the opportunity to steer the conversation toward something more pleasant. “So, what’s in the mystery bag you brought?”

His gaze flicked to the paper-wrapped goodies on the coffee table. “Some... pastries,” he admitted, almost self-conscious. “Figured you might invite me for some coffee.” He quirked a brow, the faint hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“It was my intention, yes,” she replied, leaning back in her seat, “Also, I might or might not have baked enough cookies to feed an army to go with it.”

“That so?” His smirk deepened slightly.

“Well, for starters I know your metabolism screams at you to inhale calories even in your sleep, and... I was kind of nervous before our meeting,” she confessed, almost murmuring toward the end.

He blinked, caught off guard by her honesty. “Nervous?” he echoed.

She shrugged, brushing an imaginary lint off her pants. “Yeah, nervous. I mean, it’s not every day you have a sit-down heart-to-heart with someone you...” She paused, searching for the right words. “...went through hell with.”

He didn’t respond immediately, fixing his gaze on her. Finally, he nodded, “I get it.”

For a moment, they sat in a silence that felt lighter than before, and then she clapped her hands lightly and rose from her seat.

“Well,” she said, “How about we see what kind of pastries you picked, and I’ll grab the cookies and make the coffee?

“Seems like a plan.” He agreed, standing and following her into the kitchen.

She grabbed a tray and began arranging the pastries he’d brought, their golden crusts promising a delicious treat. Beside them, she added a generous pile of cookies she’d baked earlier. The hum of the kettle heating the water filled the small space.

Bucky’s eyes drifted to the counter as she prepped. He hummed in appreciation when he realized she was setting up for brewed coffee, and the familiar sight of a pour-over filter caught his attention.

“Don’t like coffee makers,” she remarked, noticing his gaze. “Tastes like dirty water to me.”

He smirked faintly. “I couldn’t have expressed it better. There’s a machine for almost everything now, but some things...”

“...are better the old-fashioned way,” she finished, flashing him a small smile.

Bucky nodded toward the tray. “May I?”

“Go ahead,” she said, motioning to the cookies.

He reached for one, and before he realized it, his hand kept returning to the tray. They were warm, buttery, and just the right amount of sweet, a huge contrast to the food he’d grown accustomed to over the years.

“You bake like this often?” he asked between bites, in an almost casual tone.

“Not really,” she admitted with a chuckle, leaning against the counter. “I had a lot of nervous energy before today. Figured I might as well channel it into something productive.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “They’re good.”

She grinned. “Glad you approve.”

By the time the coffee was ready, most of the cookies were gone. She blinked at the near-empty tray and arched a brow at him.

“Seriously?” she teased, pouring two mugs of coffee. “I don’t think the cookies were supposed to be dinner.”

Bucky shrugged unapologetically, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Couldn’t stop. They’re better than anything I’ve had in a while.”

“Well, I’m taking that as a compliment,” she said, handing him a mug.

He took it, warming his hand with the cup. “It was.”

They settled at the small kitchen table, with the tray of pastries and the few remaining cookies between them. The conversation flowed easily, and their laughter mixed with the freshly brewed coffee aroma.

At some point, Bucky’s fingers tightened around his mug, lowering his gaze to its content. He hesitated for a moment, pressing his lips into a thin line before he spoke. “When you asked me about the dating app the other day... how long... when did you feel you were ready to, you know…”

He trailed off, cursing himself inwardly for the clumsy phrasing and lack of subtlety.

She tilted her head, “Well, you mentioned it as a joke, and then I took the opportunity to ask since, you know, I was curious about them.” She chuckled lightly. “Not that my attempts at normal dating have been anything to brag about. As you heard on the plane... pretty pathetic.”

Bucky’s lips quirked briefly, but his eyes stayed on the coffee, waiting.

She shifted slightly in her chair, toying with the edge of her mug with her fingers. “As for being ready... I don’t know. It’s been a couple of years since I started feeling the... the need to have someone. Someone who’s more than just a friend.” She paused, and her gaze drifted somewhere far away, before returning to him. “But, honestly, the world changed so much. Dating now is... different. Messy.” She offered a faint smile, “Well if it feels like that for me, I can’t even imagine what it’s like for you. You probably grew up around my daddy’s time.”

Bucky’s head shot up, quirking his brow in mock indignation. “Your dad’s time?”

She grinned, catching the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You were probably handing out love letters, not even using a phone.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Hey, we weren’t that old-fashioned.” He paused, “But... yeah. It was different.”

“Guess that’s one thing we have in common,” she said softly. “Figuring out where we fit in a world that’s... moved on without us.”

He looked at her then, somehow the weight of her words made him feel less alone in his own struggle.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I guess we do.”

Gathering her courage, she nodded toward his vibranium hand, “Can I see it? Properly, I mean.”

His body tensed for a fraction of a second, but he saw genuine interest in her eyes. Slowly, he lifted his arm, extending the sleek prosthetic toward her.

She reached for it with both hands, brushing her fingers trough the cool, polished surface. His gaze widened slightly as she turned it gently in her grasp.

“Wow,” she murmured, running her fingertips along the ridges and smooth joints. “The fingers are less edgy than the old one.” She traced a line along his palm. “How’s the sensory feedback?”

Her question startled him out of his momentary daze, and he cleared his throat. Her touch was making harder to stay composed than he wanted to admit. “neuro-connections are more advanced,” he began, in an almost clinical tone. “So I have better control over it. I can feel pressure and temperature more accurately. But that’s... all.”

Her thumbs brushed over the pads of his fingers, “That’s a lot, though,” she said quietly. “It’s incredible. Do you ever... forget it’s not flesh and bone?”

His lips twitched faintly, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “Until I catch someone staring at it. Or...” His gaze dropped to her hands, still cradling his. “Until someone touches it. And I remember it’s not real.”

Her grip tightened slightly, an unconscious response. “It is real, Bucky,” she said firmly, lifting her eyes to his. “It’s you.”

“Thanks,” he said after a long pause.

Noticing that she still hadn’t released his hand, she let go quickly, feeling her cheeks warming under his stare. “Sorry, I got carried away.”

He shook his head lightly. “It’s fine,” he muttered.

She grabbed a pastry from the tray and took a bite to occupy herself. The silence lingered before she worked up the courage to ask, tentative but curious. “So... when did you feel ready to date and try the apps and stuff?”

He stiffened almost imperceptibly.

“You asked me,” she deadpanned as she gestured toward him with a half-eaten bun. “Fair if I get to ask you the same.”

He sighed, brushing his fingers over his temple as he scratched it absently. “I don’t think...” He trailed off, then started again. “Last year, my therapist suggested I start stepping out of my comfort zone. Told me it’d help with... things. So... I tried.”

“And?” she prompted, leaning slightly forward, encouraging but not pushing.

His gaze dropped to the table. “I’d be lying if I said it’s been great.”

She remained silent, giving him space to continue.

“It’s just...” He hesitated, his hand curling into a loose fist on the table. “Meeting new people it’s hard. Small talk feels fake, like I’m watching it happen instead of being part of it. There’s this constant voice in my head, reminding me of all the things I can’t tell them. All the stuff I can’t explain. I look at someone across a table, and they’re smiling, talking about their favorite movies or where they want to go on vacation. And all I can think about is how much they don’t know. How much they can’t know.” He paused, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “That I’ve done things... that I’ve had things done to me. And if they ever found out, they’d run away.”

She set her pastry down quietly, folding her hands in her lap as she listened, letting him talk, suspecting he probably hadn’t spoken this much in years.

“And then there’s the other stuff,” he continued, lower now. “The touch. Sometimes, even a handshake feels wrong. Too close, too much. I can’t control how my brain reacts. Sometimes I flinch, or freeze. And how do you explain that to someone on a second date?”

“Yeah. Touching can be... hard if you’re not familiar enough with the person,” she murmured, dropping her gaze to the table.

They both understood why.

The silence stretched. He didn’t need to ask what she meant, and she didn’t need to elaborate. Hydra had ensured they both carried scars that made even the simplest gestures of connection fraught with hesitation.

She straightened in her seat, trying to shake off the heavy mood. “You know,” she said, with a faint edge of humor creeping into her tone, “for a conversation about dating, this has turned into a pretty depressing therapy session.”

He seemed to hesitate, curling his fingers slightly around his mug before he spoke. “It’s not like that with you.”

Her brow furrowed. “Uh?”

“Touching,” he clarified, his voice quieter now, almost as if he were confessing something. “Those days in Poland... I noticed.”

“Oh,” she said softly, as her fingers brushed the edge of her cup while her gaze flickered to him.

He looked down at his hands, gathering his thoughts before continuing. “I’ve been... thinking about it. And the only reason I can come up with is... because you were the only ‘good’ thing in that hellhole.”

She stared at him, unsure how to respond. Then she shook her head slowly. “After everything Hydra made me do to you, how can you feel-”

His gaze snapped to hers, sharp and unyielding. “I don’t blame you,” he cut her firmly. “I’ve told you that.”

She bit her lip, afraid to ask. “But... how much do you remember about-”

“Everything,” he said quietly.

She inhaled sharply, tightening her fingers around the mug and locked her eyes onto his. “E-even...”

“Everything, doll,” he said again, softer now.

She swallowed hard. “I see. And still...”

“Don’t blame you,” he repeated, resolute, as though daring her to argue.

******

It had been two days since they’d injected him with that burning substance, two days of his body rebelling against him in the most excruciating way. The unrelenting ache of the forced erection was a constant, painful thrum, and despite his silence, the slight tremor in his movements betrayed the toll it was taking.

At first, the staff had dismissed it as a side effect of the experiment. But as the hours stretched into days, and Soldat’s body refused to yield, it became clear that something had to be done.

The traditional methods failed. They’d barked orders for him to “take care of it himself,” but he stood motionless and unresponsive. They had thrown him into freezing water, and his body had trembled violently, but the condition persisted. Even a brutal beating did nothing to break the cycle.

Finally, they summoned her.

She’d entered the sterile room, and her stomach churned. He was shirtless, his skin flushed an unnatural shade, and though his expression remained stoic, she could see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands curled slightly at his sides.

“You,” the handler barked, gesturing toward him. “Fix the inconvenience.”

Her heart sank. She swallowed thickly, forcing herself to remain composed. “But... he’s not injured, sir. I don’t-”

The sharp crack of a slap cut her off, her head snapping to the side as pain bloomed across her cheek.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, pet,” the handler sneered, his voice dripping with venom.

She bit down on her lip, as she nodded numbly. “Yes, sir.”

Approaching him hesitantly, she reached out and hovered her trembling hand over his overheated skin. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move, just stared ahead, his blue gaze void of anything human.

Tentatively, she placed her hand against his chest, and noticed the heat radiating off his body was almost unbearable. Closing her eyes, she tried to infuse him with her healing surge, willing it to work, to cool the fire that was consuming him.

Nothing.

She retracted her hand, “It’s no use, sir,” she excused herself in a whisper.

“Try harder,” he snarled, sharply.

Before she could react, he grabbed her trembling hand and shoved it between Soldat’s legs. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. He remained still, his lifeless gaze kept fixed on the far wall, as though none of this was happening.

Slowly, reluctantly, she wrapped her hand around him -or tried to-, her fingers barely circling his length. Her heart pounded in her ears as she forced herself to send another wave of her healing surge through her palm.

Nothing.

“S-sir, it’s not...” she stammered, withdrawing slightly.

“Try a different approach,” the handler barked, his patience wearing thin.

Her stomach twisted painfully. “B-but...”

“Don’t act like you’ve never seen a cock in your entire life, slut,” the handler spat with malice. “We both know very well that’s not the case.”

Shame and rage bloomed inside her chest, but she didn’t dare meet his eyes.

The handler’s cruel smile widened, and his next words were laced with venom. “Jerk him off.”

Her body froze. She stared down at her hand, still trembling against the Soldat’s unmoving form.

When she didn’t move, the man stepped closer. “Do you prefer if I order him to fuck your brains out?” he sneered. “I’m pretty sure he’d gladly comply. His fried brain probably can’t even remember the last time he did it.”

The Soldat’s jaw ticked imperceptibly at the words, a flicker of something passing through his otherwise blank expression. A muscle in his temple twitched, so slightly it was almost imperceptible, but she noticed.

“Do it,” the handler barked, his tone icy. “Now.”

Slowly, she shifted her gaze to the side, staring at the far wall to avoid looking at him, at either of them. Her hand trembled as she reached out, brushing against the overheated skin of his abdomen before curling around him again.

The Soldat kept being unresponsive.

Her fingers tightened slightly around him, and she began to move her hand in a clinical and detached way, trying to retreat her mind to a faraway place.

The handler leaned against the counter, and his smug smile made her sick. “See? Was that so hard, pet?”

She didn’t respond, focusing instead on keeping her breathing steady. Soldat remained as a statue, with his gaze fixed straight ahead. But she saw it again, the faintest twitch of his fingers, a subtle clenching of his jaw.

Was it anger? Pleasure? She didn’t know, and she couldn’t afford to dwell on it. She tried to focus on the rhythm of her movements, the hum of the fluorescent lights above, anything to drown out the humiliation.

“Good girl,” the man praised her mockingly.

At some point, the Soldat’s breath hitched slightly, a small, involuntary response. She froze for a fraction of a second, before forcing herself to continue.

The handler’s gaze was fixed on her with sadistic amusement. “See? The horny dog is starting to stir,” he sneered, chuckling darkly. “Keep going, pet. Put some effort into it.”

She kept going, trying to block out the handler’s taunts and the oppressive heat radiating from Soldat’s body.

“I can’t wait to see how this ends,” He stepped closer, and his boots clicked against the sterile floor as his shadow loomed over her. She could feel his cruel satisfaction like a physical weight pressing down on her.

He smirked, tilting his head as if studying a piece of art. “It’s almost poetic, isn’t it? The indomitable Winter Soldier reduced to this.” He leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear. “And you, pet... always so eager to fix him.

Her hand faltered for the briefest moment, and the handler’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t stop,” he hissed, sharply.

Her fingers resumed their mechanical rhythm, trembling slightly as they moved over the heated skin.

Soldat’s body betrayed him, starting to respond to her ministrations. His chest rose and fell slightly faster, and the faintest sheen of sweat formed along his collarbone. A muscle in his jaw ticked again, and his metal hand twitched at his side, the slightest flex of his fingers betraying the struggle beneath the surface.

She noticed every subtle reaction, every unwilling signal his body sent. It felt like a cruel mockery, this was not a man choosing to respond, but a body manipulated and prodded to betray its instincts.

The handler’s smirk widened as he circled them, amused. “See? The body don’t lie, pet. No matter how much you both fight it, nature always wins.”

Soldat’s breaths were growing more uneven, and his nostrils flared as his chest rose and fell with increasing urgency. For a moment, his steel-blue gaze flicked down to her hand, a fleeting acknowledgment before snapping forward again, returning to the blank void.

The handler leaned against the counter again, crossing his arms, watching with sick satisfaction. “He’s close, isn’t he? Just look at him.”

Soldat’s fingers twitched again, curling slightly into a loose fist. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, a small, involuntary moan escaping his lips. Barely audible but deafening in the oppressive silence of the room.

The handler laughed, cruelly. “There it is,” he sneered, clapping his hands mockingly. “Hydra’s fist reduced to nothing more than a desperate animal. Guess even the strongest aren’t immune to a good touch. Keep going, pet,” he ordered. “We’re almost there.”

Soldat’s gaze flicked down to her hand again, and the faintest flicker of something passed through his otherwise blank expression. Another quiet moan slipped out, broken and involuntary, while his body tensed beneath her touch, and the muscles in his abdomen started to tighten,

The handler licked his lips as his gaze kept glued to the scene before him. “Almost there, loyal pet. Finish it.”

Soldat’s breaths hitched again, and his body betrayed him further as his head tilted back slightly, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat. The faint sheen of sweat on his skin glinted under the sterile light, and every detail etched into her mind despite her desperate attempts to detach herself.

And then it happened.

His body went rigid, his metal hand clenched into a fist, so tight it trembled at his side. His breath hitched, and a low, guttural sound tore from his throat, a mixture of release and anguish that echoed in the sterile room.

She froze, retreating her hand almost immediately as though burned. Her chest heaved with shallow, shaky breaths as she stumbled back a step.

Soldat’s body sagged slightly, and his head dropped forward, while his breathing started to slow down, bleeding the tension out of his system. He didn’t look at her, didn’t acknowledge the handler either, his gaze fixed again somewhere distant, unreachable.

The handler clapped, grinning wide and cruelly again. “There you go, pet. Good job. I knew you had it in you.”

Her hands clutched at her sides, biting her nails into her palms as she forced herself to stand still, to remain composed even as her world felt like it was shattering.

Sensing her discomfort, he kept his smirk firmly in place. “Now clean yourself up” he said coldly. “You look like cheap whore.”

Then he turned around. “You, take him to cryo,” he lazily ordered to the guards who had been standing silently by the door. “He’s done for now.”

******

“I know what it’s like to not have a choice,” he said simply, “I know what it’s like to be used, controlled, forced into something you’d never choose for yourself.”

Her gaze dropped to the table.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. “I’m no saint. I’ve hated a lot of people, doll. Hated myself more than I can say. But you? Not once. You were there, real and raw. And, maybe, is because of that that I trust you.”

She stared at him, and her hands twitched on the table, wanting to reach out, to bridge the gap between them. But instead, she sat there with her heart pounding.

“Bucky, I-” her voice faltered. The weight of his admission was almost too much for her to bear.

The way he looked at her then, open and bare, broke whatever restrain was keeping her still.

Her body moved before her mind could catch up. She stood abruptly, scraping the chair against the floor, and rounded the small table.

Without a word, she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace.

He didn’t flinch. Slowly, his arms came up to encircle her waist cautiously, as though afraid he might break her. She pressed her cheek against the crown of his head and put her hands around his broad shoulders.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice muffled against his hair.

She felt him shift slightly, dipping his head lower until his forehead rested lightly against her shoulder. His breath was warm against the side of her neck, and the subtle weight of his body leaning into her made her heart ache.

“For what?” he murmured.

“For not hating me.”

Next chapter

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andvys · 3 months ago

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The edges of your soul (I haven't seen yet) ⭐︎ chapter eleven

⭐︎ And I'll fear no evil because I'm blind to it all

Warnings: gore gore gore, violence, blood, death, murder, angst, mentions of sexual assault, threats of r*pe (it does not happen), literal slaughter, read this chapter with caution, it's a very heavy one. one character turns into a killer, not giving away who ofc. hurt/comfort in the end

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Summary: In the haze of your distraction, you let your guard down and the monsters you have warned your friends about catch up to you — and now you will have to pay… in one way or another.

Word count: 11.7k+

Author’s note: This chapter is a wild ride, and it’s not an easy one to read! Be prepared for some heavy angst — but it will only get better from now on hehe. @hellfire--cult and I are evil cackling knowing how shocked you all will be after this one! As always, give her some love for coming up with the sickening chapter with me and for beta reading and working on this one with me! 🤍

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Steve awakens to the feeling of something tickling his nose causing him to scrunch it up. The feeling continues. He brings his hand up to his nose and rubs it before he drops his arm again, bringing it back to its original position – around something or someone.

He registers the warmth, the weight of a body against his own. A sweet scent fills his nose and he can’t help but breathe in deeply. It’s your scent. It’s your body against his, and it molds into him like it was meant to.

He peeks one eye open. There’s no sun shining through the blinds today, and the grey clouds outside make the RV seem darker than usual.

Steve’s chest heaves strongly when he looks down at you. You are sleeping heavily still, your cheek is squished against his chest, your hair is covering your face, and your hand is on his waist.

He breathes in shakily as his heart starts thumping strongly. He’s got you completely wrapped in his embrace, one arm is under you, and the other wrapped around you tightly, like he was afraid to let you go in his sleep.

But just like the other times you have shared a bed, he slept peacefully, unlike ever before. He wasn’t plagued by nightmares, by pictures of his best friend getting ripped away from him and torn into pieces. He didn’t wake from dreams of losing Eddie, Nancy or… you.

He just slept and he dreamed – normal dreams. He knows it is your presence that calms him, that takes away the fear in him, that makes him feel safe. He knows it should make him happy, but it only worries him.

Steve watches you, his hand slowly moving up to your face to push away your hair. His lips curl into a smile as you lean into his touch, sighing softly in your sleep. Your eyelashes flutter, and you press yourself further against him, making his heart flutter.

Screwed. He is screwed.

The bed dips faintly under him, he goes to turn around, only to feel the tiny paws on his shoulder. The wolf pup must have escaped your embrace to explore the RV. You have taken such good care of it yesterday, it only made Steve’s case worse to see you take care of the lost little pup.

You sat outside by the fire for what seemed like forever, warming up the pup and feeding him with some canned meat. You hoped for the mother to appear; you even whistled in hopes that it would attract her attention, but she never came. So you took him into the RV, wrapped him in your blanket, and held him against your chest. Steve joined you moments later. He lied down with you and you talked for what felt like forever. It wasn’t his plan to fall asleep, let alone cuddle you in his sleep, but he won’t lie and act like it doesn’t feel good, like it doesn’t feel right.

He held you all night, you and the pup who found comfort in your embrace, just the way he did too.

A chuckle falls from Steve's lips when the pup jumps on top of you, wobbling on his paws as he balances on your shoulders and leans down to rub against your cheek, making you scrunch your nose up in your sleep.

“Hey buddy,” Steve chuckles as he lifts his hand to pet him, his palm is twice the size of his little head. The pup suddenly jumps at him, attacking him with licks to his forehead.

“Whoa!” Steve laughs softly as he furrows his eyebrows and shuts his eyes as the pup licks his eyebrow. “That’s–” He laughs as he starts rubbing against his cheek.

All the movement and the laughter make you stir against him. You open your eyes slowly, furrowing your brows as you take in the sight before you. An instant smile appears on your face, your heart fluttering at what you’re seeing first thing in the morning.

The wolf pup is on top of Steve, rubbing against his face, purring. And Steve is chuckling softly, holding him. His hair is messy, and his eyes are still sleepy. He looks so cute.

You feel his arm under your body, and you realize just how close you actually are, how you fell asleep in his arms the night before. Your cheeks heat up, and your stomach jumps weirdly. It’s not the first time, it’s the third time, but unlike those other times, you had no reason to fall asleep in the same bed or all cuddled up.

You are not complaining though; if it was up to you, you’d have this every night.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

His voice pulls you out of your thoughts. You look back into his eyes. He is smiling at you, making your heart flutter even more because you can’t help but wonder what it would be like if you woke up together as something more than friends — if he pulled you closer and his lips met—

The pup jumps at you so suddenly, you fall back into the pillow behind you, making Steve chuckle again.

“Oh my god,” he laughs as he watches the pup attack your face the way he did to him just moments ago, before he nuzzles into your neck.

“I think my heart is going to explode,” you whisper as you wrap your hand around the puppy. “He is so stinking cute.”

Steve pushes himself up onto his elbows, watching you with a smile on his face, how the pup cuddles you, how it nuzzles against you, like you’re the mother. His heart warms at the sight of it in a way it never did before.

“He loves you.”

You pout at his words, your eyes softening.

“He loves you too,” you whisper.

“Nah,” Steve shakes his head, still smiling. “Not like that. He feels safe with you.” Just the way he does.

“I wish I could keep him,” you say as you push yourself up, holding the pup against your chest. “But I have a feeling his mother is still around.”

Steve nods, “yeah. We should stay put another day, if we don’t find her, we leave.”

You nod in agreement, though you can’t hide the sadness in your eyes. You know you shouldn’t have gotten attached to the pup as quickly, but you did.

“Hey,” Steve whispers, reaching for your hand. “Maybe we’ll find you a dog puppy someday.”

Warmth rushes through you as he squeezes your hand. You so badly want to entwine your fingers with his.

“Yeah,” you smile, nodding. “I always wanted a dog, a big one.”

“Yeah? What kind?”

You shrug, looking down at the pup cuddling against you. “A german shepherd.”

“Then we’ll find you a german shepherd, Sunshine.”

“Really?”

Steve sees the way your eyes light up at his promise and it only causes his smile to widen.

“Yeah, unless we don’t find his mother, then we’ll keep this little buddy.” He whispers, petting the pup. “You think we can raise him like a dog?”

“Oh yeah! If wolves are raised around people and get proper training, they’re basically like dogs! Just with sharper teeth and more strength.”

“You know a lot about them?” Steve smiles, raising his eyebrows.

“Kinda, I guess? They’re my favorite animals.”

“Oh?”

Steve looks surprised, and it confuses you.

“Why do you seem so surprised?”

He shrugs as he turns on his side, moving closer to you.

“I don’t know. I just thought you’d like something uh… more tame.”

You squint your eyes at him, tilting your head to the side. “Tame? Like what, a sheep?”

Steve chuckles, growing a little nervous under your gaze. He shakes his head, “no, not a sheep. I thought that maybe your favorite animal would be a kitten or a duckling.”

“Oh! So you thought that I’m too soft to like a wild animal?” You chuckle, shaking your head at him.

“No, no. It’s just…” He pauses, trying to think of the right words to say. “It’s just… you are soft– not in a bad way!” He panics as his eyes suddenly widen, and he looks like he is afraid that he said the wrong thing again.

You keep your face straight, enjoying his struggle… a bit too much.

“In a good way, in a… a pure– not like that… fuck.” He sighs, bringing his hand up to his face. “Just in a good way.”

You can’t hold back your giggles when you notice the fear in his eyes and how he must think that he offended you.

His shoulders slump, and he relaxes when he realizes that you aren’t offended by his words.

“Oh Steve,” you murmur as you reach out to him, tapping his nose. “You still think I’m some soft, pure thing. You think that I’m a sheep, don’t you?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “Not a sheep, certainly not a sheep.”

No, you could never be that, especially not by the end of this day.

“Alright,” you mumble, still amused by his panicking. You sit up and take a look out the window. The pup gets off you and jumps from the bed. “Wow, the weather looks nice today,” you frown at the grey clouds.

“Yeah.” Steve mumbles as he sits up too.

“Let's get some coffee, and some food for baby over there.” You nudge your chin towards the pup sniffing on the fridge.

Steve chuckles, “we should probably give him a name.”

“Not yet.” You shake your head.

“Eddie called him Ozzy already.”

You roll your eyes, “yeah uh no! Not happening!”

You scoot to the edge of the bed and lean down to put on your shoes. You tie your laces and push yourself up when Steve stops you, reaching for your hand. You look down at it, eyes stuck on his large hand enveloping yours. His warmth inviting as always.

“Hey,” Steve whispers softly, looking up at you.

You look into his eyes. All the amusement is gone, his face is serious again, his lips curled into a soft frown.

“Are you feeling okay?”

You furrow your eyebrows, tilting your head to the side again.

“What do you mean?”

“After yesterday… After our conversation a-and after you jumped into the water?”

Your heart flutters at the way he cares, at the softness in his eyes, and his touch.

You nod, giving him a genuine smile.

“Yeah, Steve. I feel okay, I feel good actually.” You squeeze his hand, promising him that.

“You’ll let me know if that changes, okay?” He says softly, giving you a pointed look.

“I will,” you whisper with no hesitation.

Steve squeezes your hand back. He looks into your eyes for a moment longer before he tilts his head down, looking at your joined hands, at the way your hand fits into his… so perfectly. Something in him stirs, something in him yearns to keep holding on, to pull you closer.

He clears his throat and lets go of your hand, “alright, let’s go grab some coffee.”

The pup is the first to jump out the moment Steve opens the door of the RV.

Nancy and Eddie are sitting in front of the small fire, each with a cup of coffee in their hands, a map on the ground before them. Eddie looks up, his eyes lighten up.

“Ozzy!” He grins as he puts his coffee down to pick up the pup.

Nancy laughs beside him when she sees your disapproving expression.

“His name is not Ozzy!”

Eddie ignores you as he pets the pup, “don’t listen to her, you got the most badass name, Ozzy.”

Steve watches the way you roll your eyes and the way you try to hold back your smile. He chuckles softly and turns around, giving Nancy a nod as he reaches for the coffee pot. He pours you a cup first and hands it to you before he pours his own.

Silence settles between you all for a moment. Eddie lifts his blanket over the pup before he continues to pet him, smiling brightly.

Nancy tries to put her focus back on the map but finds herself distracted by you and Steve. Her curiosity is too big as she looks between you both. She watches the way Steve puts sugar in your coffee and the way you steal glances at him while he isn’t looking.

A smile tugs on her lips when she sees him do the same, stealing glances when you’re not looking.

How didn’t she notice before?

“So what’s the plan for the day?” Eddie speaks up after a few minutes of silence.

Steve glances at you, eyes meeting yours.

“We thought we’d stay here for another day, see if we can find the mother or if she finds him,” he explains as he gestures to the pup in Eddie’s lap. “And uh, you two can get some rest for now, get some sleep. Sunshine and I are gonna check out the nearby town afterwards.”

Nancy lifts her mug to her lips, nodding at both of you, “sounds like a plan.”

“And if we don’t find the mother?” Eddie asks, looking a little too excited at the thought of it.

“Then we keep him.”

Eddie’s eyes lock with yours. He wants to keep the pup just as much as you do.

“We’ll fight over the name if we do, right?” He murmurs, squinting his eyes.

“Mhmm,” you nod.

Steve chuckles at the two of you. He looks down into his coffee. He can see his reflection in the dark liquid, he looks away.

“You can give him two names,” Nancy shrugs as she gets up from her seat. She leans down and picks up the map. Pointing at you, she looks at Eddie, “she gets to pick first, she saved him.”

Eddie’s eyes widen, a frown making its way on his face, “that’s not fair, you are just saying that because she’s a girl.”

“That’s such bullshit,” Nancy chuckles as she continues her way to the RV. “Now get your ass up, we gotta catch up on sleep.”

“Yes ma’am,” Eddie mumbles as he gets up as well after putting the pup down, he pets his tiny head, “keep these two on their toes will ya, bud?”

Eddie winks at you before he looks over at Steve, wiggling his eyebrows, “have fun playing mom and dad.”

Steve gives him a deadpan look, sighing in annoyance.

But you pretend not to hear, not wanting to blush in front of Steve now. You busy yourself with your coffee.

“C’mon,” Nancy calls out to him as she opens the door. “Before I take the bed.”

Eddie skips up the stairs, chuckling. “I don’t want it anyways, who knows what happened there last night.” He says loudly before he shuts the door. The last thing you hear is Nancy’s laughter.

You choke on your coffee as your eyes widen.

Steve leans forward, ignoring Eddie’s comment. He pats your back, “you okay, Sunshine?”

You nod your head quickly, blinking away the tears that built up in your eyes as you start coughing.

“Peachy.” You manage to croak out after a moment.

From the corner of your eye, you notice movement in the window. You turn towards it and find Eddie looking out, wiggling his eyebrows at you as he puckers his lips, making kissing movements as he points between you and Steve.

Your eyes widen, and your cheeks heat up strongly, burning hotly even beneath the cold wind.

Right. You forgot that you haven’t talked to him yet after yesterday, when he called you jealous after you found out about Steve and Nancy’s history.

You shake your head at him, wanting nothing more than to flip him the bird.

You see him laughing.

God. This is gonna be a long day.

The RV is filled with nothing but silence as Eddie wakes up hours later. He opens his eyes and stares up at the ceiling, feeling tired still. A weird, unsettling feeling pulled him out of his sleep.

He swallows the lump in his throat as he pushes himself up, placing his palm against his beating heart, and he looks around. He tries to remember his dreams, if a nightmare had left him feeling weird, but he can’t recall it.

Nancy isn’t sleeping anymore, she isn’t around the RV at all, but he can hear the movement outside. He peeks out the window to see her cleaning her gun. He closes his eyes and breathes out in relief.

Despite being stuck in this world, he rarely feels unsettled. He rarely feels fear nowadays, which is surprising considering he almost died because of it. He used to run from things, he used to wake from nightmares covered in sweat, he used to feel crippling anxiety. It’s not like that anymore. He doesn’t know what it was that changed him, if it was a sudden surge of strength and confidence or if it was Nancy’s presence or something entirely else.

But he is not the guy who woke in fear every day, not anymore. So he feels nothing but confused as the unsettling feeling in him continues to spread.

“Calm down, Munson.” He mumbles to himself as he rubs his chest. He makes his way into the bathroom and splashes some cold water into his face before he puts his jacket and his shoes back on.

When he walks outside, he takes an immediate look around, hoping that you and Steve haven’t left yet.

His shoulders slump in relief when he finds the two of you on the field with the pup, playing with him as you and Steve throw sticks for the pup to catch.

Eddie takes a deep breath before he makes his way down the stairs, he glances at Nancy, “can’t sleep?”

Nancy shakes her head. Her eyebrows are furrowed in concentration as she continues to clean her gun, polishing it. “Took an hour nap, woke back up. It’s not my day, I think.”

Eddie nods in agreement, he looks around, eyeing the snow covered field, the road nearby, and the forest that suddenly feels eerie to him. Nothing is moving, the wind isn’t howling the way it usually does. The silence is unsettling, adding to the feeling growing inside of him. There is a fog spreading as the grey clouds grow darker.

The darkness will bring nothing good.

“I think we should hit the road.”

Nancy’s movements stop, she looks into the fire for a moment before she looks up at him. Her blue eyes flashing with concern when she sees the look in his eyes.

“What? We said we’d–”

“I know what we said,” Eddie mumbles, glancing towards you and Steve, neither of you seems affected by the darkening clouds.

“Is everything okay?” Nancy frowns.

Eddie breathes in deeply, continuing to look around as though in search of something, for danger.

“Yeah, just… have a bad feeling about the weather.” He lies. He wishes it were only that.

Nancy doesn’t believe him; she can see right through him. She gets up and throws her gun on the chair.

“Eddie.” Her voice is stern.

He gulps, bringing his hand up to his chest again, which she notices right away.

Her frown deepens, and she shakes her head at him, “what is it?” She asks a little softer now, bringing her hand up to his upper arm. “You were fine before. What happened? Did you have a nightmare? Are you dealing with panic attacks again…?” She whispers softly.

Eddie shakes his head, sighing.

“No,” he murmurs as he stares at her, intensely. “I just… I just think we should leave this place.”

She presses her lips into a thin line as she looks into his eyes, trying to figure him out, trying to figure out the fear lingering in them, but it only infects her as well. She doesn’t understand where this growing fear is coming from or why, but it makes her feel unsettled too.

She looks into the forest and then at the clouds in the sky. Grey. Nothing but grey clouds. No red in them, no lighting surging through them. A part of her feels relieved. The other part feels a kind of fear she hasn’t had to deal with yet.

Nancy takes a deep breath as she slowly looks towards the field, but you and Steve are no longer there.

“If the wolf mother was around, she would have been here by now. We should go; there is no use staying here any longer.”

Nancy looks back at him.

“We’ll stop in the town down the road, and then we’ll get back on main.” Eddie speaks sternly, which surprises her, not knowing this side of him. “I’m not accepting any no’s.”

She is a little taken aback when he brushes past her and turns his back to her, walking along the RV as his eyes are set on the field, “I’m gonna get Steve and–”

“Eddie.”

“You heard what I said, Wheeler–”

“Eddie!”

Only as she says his name a second time, does he pick up on the trembling in her voice, the fear.

He halts in his tracks. Staring down into the snow, he feels the hairs on his neck stand up, goosebumps rising without him knowing why she sounds so afraid all the sudden. He doesn’t know what to expect when he turns around, but the fear grips him tightly.

He feels the threat without having to look.

Eddie slowly brings his hand up to his belt as he turns around. His eyes widen as his heart lurches to his throat when he meets Nancy’s panicked gaze, when he sees the gun to her head and the woman standing behind her.

“Don’t even think about it, boy.” The woman calls out to him, her eyes stuck on his hand.

He instantly reaches for the gun in his belt when the sound of a gun cocking behind him makes him freeze.

“Nuh uh.” A man’s voice murmurs behind him, “drop the gun or this pretty girl right there will be covered in the remains of your brain.”

He feels the gun against his head now. He sees the fear in Nancy’s wide eyes. He feels his own fear eating at him. The despair clinging to him now.

“Take whatever you need and get the fuck out of here.” Eddie says through gritted teeth, feeling a surge of anger rushing through him.

The man behind him chuckles.

“I don’t think you’ll like what I’m here for.”

Eddie’s face curls in disgust and in rage. He hasn’t even seen him yet, but he can tell what kind of man he can expect.

Nancy’s hand is shaking, her eyes are filled with fear as she looks over Eddie’s shoulder before her eyes lock back with his.

She wants to fight. She wants to fight so badly but she is crippled with fear.

“Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

Eddie’s head snaps up at the third voice. A guy walks around the RV, brushing past the woman and Nancy. A gun is strapped to his thigh, a machete in his hand. He is around their age. Tall, dark hair, a wicked look on his face that shows Eddie nothing but cruelty.

The woman shared the same expression as him.

The guy stops, sparing Eddie a glance before he puts his attention on Nancy. His eyes roaming her figure as he brings his machete up to her face, tilting her chin up with the blade.

So those are the monsters you have told him about.

“Don’t touch her!” Eddie snaps at him as the fear wears off and the anger grips at him. “I swear to god, don’t fucking touch her or I’ll–”

Before he can even finish his sentence, he gets pushed and thrown to the ground. He barely gets to recover before he feels the heavy boot stomping on his back, forcing him to stay down.

“Let him go!”

“Tie these two up, will ya, Randall?” The man keeping Eddie down orders, gun still pressed against his head. “Now… where are your little friends?”

“Come on, buddy.” You whisper to the pup, petting his head, “call out to your mama, you got this.”

Steve is standing with his arms crossed, a big smile on his face as he watches you. You are kneeling on the snow, not caring about the cold digging through your jeans. The wolf pup has been trying to howl for the past ten minutes, though with failed attempts.

“How does one teach a wolf to howl?” You ask, looking up at Steve.

He shrugs, “guess you gotta show him.”

He chuckles when you roll your eyes at him, “I don’t think that it would sound very cute.”

Steve kneels down beside you, looking down at the pup who rolls around in the snow instead of howling to lure in his mother. He reaches his hand out, petting his belly.

“Maybe he picked you out to be his mother,” Steve chuckles, watching with fondness in his eyes.

“Would that make you his dad?” You blurt out without thinking.

Steve raises his eyebrows and turns to you, amusement flashing across his face when he sees the realization of your words sink in. Your eyes widen, and you start blushing beneath his gaze.

“I’m… I mean because he–”

“Sure.” Steve shrugs.

Your words get caught in your throat, and your cheeks heat up further. Something stirs in your chest as you look into his eyes, something deep, something hopeful.

He doesn’t look away from you like you expect him to; he stares into your eyes just the way you stare into his. His gaze causes your heart to stop for a moment.

The pup jumps up and around you both, kicking some snow into your lap, forcing your attention away from Steve. A giggle falls from your lips when it jumps towards you, crawling into your lap and nuzzling against your hand.

“You know what, Stevie might be right,” you chuckle as you pet it. “I’ll happily be your mama.”

Steve stares at you, his eyes softening more and more. Those words made his heart skip and flutter strongly, catching him off guard a little. His cheeks heat up for some reason, probably burning a bright red.

“Guess we’ll just have to take you with us, huh? But first I need you to howl, I need to make sure,” you whisper. “Just one howl, baby.”

Steve forces his eyes from you, he looks into the forest, squinting his eyes.

“I think if she was still around, she’d be–”

A gunshot cuts him off, echoing through the large field and the forest.

Your blood runs cold, and you both freeze.

The pup jumps off your lap and runs off in the direction of the forest, giving you no time to grab him.

You and Steve turn towards each other, the looks in your eyes matching. Fear.

No words are spoken as you both move into action. You are the first to jump up, glancing at the pup one more time before you take off. Steve is right behind you as he reaches for the knife in his belt.

You grab your gun, clicking off the safety. You hold it tightly in your hand. Your heart begins to pound strongly against your ribcage, your throat closing up from the panic rising up inside you.

Million thoughts run through your head. The worry for your friends coursing through you like lightning.

You don’t know what kind of danger to expect, what kind of death you will face now.

Infected. Creatures. Or monsters.

You let your guard down. You let it down, and now you will pay in some way.

You pick up the pace when you are closer to the road. Steve’s footsteps echo behind you. The snow slows you both down. Neither of you is thinking, neither of you tried to come up with a plan, there can’t be one in a moment like this.

Your friends are in danger, that much is clear.

You have a feeling, a hunch. That sickening realization is rushing through you before you even set eyes on what you know you will face.

What he had never faced before.

Your blood runs colder, and your heart stops beating completely when your eyes lock with Eddie’s first. There is a machete to his throat, his nose is bleeding, dripping down onto the pavement he is kneeling on.

Nancy is right beside him, kneeling with her hands tied behind her back. You can see how much she is trembling, how scared she is.

You freeze, halting in your steps as you take in the sight before you.

Your eyes move up and down their bodies, making sure they aren’t hurt. Neither of them is shot or seriously injured, but you can tell by the dirt on their clothes and the state of their hair that they had been dragged from the RV to the road.

Anger ripples through you, killing any fear that lived in you just moments ago.

Three. Three of them. Four of you.

Two men. One woman.

One is standing behind Eddie, smiling cruelly at you as you lock eyes with him for a moment. The woman standing next to Nancy is holding a gun to her head. Her eyes are void of anything. You have encountered people like her, like them.

And lastly, your eyes meet the ones of the guy who shot to lure both of you in. He is big and burly. A sickening smile spreads across his face when Steve steps in front of you, pushing you behind him.

“There is no use, boy.” He chuckles as he holsters his gun. He raises his eyebrows at you, eyes moving between your face and the gun. “Put the gun down, kid.”

You step around Steve, shaking your head as you clench your jaw.

“Let my friends go.” You demand, tightening the hold of your gun.

They all chuckle, sharing glances with each other – angering you further.

Steve’s eyes move back and forth between his friends and the man who is eying you with a smirk on his face. He can see the look in his eyes from miles away, the disgustingly wide pupils.

A mixture of rage and despair rushes through him. The panic of not knowing how to get you all out of this situation. His fist clenches around his knife, his eyes locked with Eddie’s.

“Put the gun down,” the man repeats as he motions with his hand.

The woman shoots into the sky before she puts her aim back on Nancy’s head.

You all flinch, Nancy especially.

“Put your weapons down, now!” The woman orders roughly as she nudges Nancy’s head with the gun.

Your eyes never stray away from the man, your gaze never faltering. You know he wants you scared, you know he wants you trembling in fear.

Steve is the first to move, he throws his knife onto the ground, the blade clinking against the pavement.

“It’s okay, Sunshine.” He whispers as he takes your gun from your hands and throws it down as well. “It’s gonna be okay.” He isn’t sure if he even believes his own words.

“Randall,” he orders, never looking away from you either. “Tie them up.”

“What the hell do you want!?” Steve grumbles in anger, his eyes burning with rage. “You want food? We got it, you take it and you get the hell out of here–”

“That’s cute.” The woman chuckles, shaking her head at him. “Does it look like we’re starving?”

Steve clenches his jaw, breathing in angrily.

“No, I suppose not.” You speak in anger as you look the man up and down.

The guy, Randall, stops before you two. He looks down at you, holding his machete tightly in his hand.

You know you can’t fight back now, not when there is a gun to Nancy’s head. But you feel desperate to fight back. You’ve been in bad situations before, but it never came this far. You always managed to get away before this.

“Get on your knees.” He orders, glaring at Steve.

You have no choice, none of you do.

“Do I have to repeat myself?” Randall asks as he lifts his machete up to your throat.

Your heart keeps beating strongly, not out of fear. Not now.

Steve’s eyes flare in anger. The urge to rip the machete from his hand and handle this growing deeper and stronger.

“Don’t fucking touch her or I’ll–”

“Or you’ll what?” Randall mocks him, catching you off guard when he delivers a punch to his cheek before he forces him to his knees and gets behind him, grabbing his wrists.

Steve grunts in pain, and he curses under his breath. “Fucking asshole.”

Your breathing quickens, the fire in you burning deeper and stronger.

You slowly get on your knees, knowing there is nothing you can do about it without losing one of your friends. If you move now, there will be a bullet in Nancy’s head, and you will not lose her.

You never break eye contact with that man before you, not even when he slowly begins to make his way towards you. You know where he wants you, he wants you to feel scared, intimidated.

He wants you to feel like prey.

But you are no prey.

Your heart is racing in your chest, though no longer out of fear. You can’t explain the feeling rising in you, you have never felt anything like this before.

You know what will happen.

You always do.

But anger never flared up in you so strongly.

The sickening look in his eyes is so clear, the disgusting smile spreading further as he grins at you wickedly. You can see how much he is enjoying this, and it does nothing but add fuel to the anger and the adrenaline growing in you.

Hatred burns in you the way it never did before, a growing lust to take him apart and feed him and his friends to the infected taking place inside of you, especially when you feel Nancy’s fear and Eddie’s despair, when you hear Steve grunt in pain.

“I’m gonna kill you.”

Steve glances at you, needing a moment to register that those words fell from your lips.

“I’m gonna kill every single one of you.”

Eddie looks into your eyes as you repeat your threat. A shiver runs down his spine when he realizes that it wasn’t a threat but a promise. There’s no emotion in your voice, no fear, no bluff, nothing.

He can see it now, how you survived on your own for so long.

Randall chuckles behind you as he grabs your arms forcefully, wrapping the rope around your wrists. “You know how many people threatened us? What’s a small little girl like you gonna do, huh?” He asks as he works on tying you up.

The burly guy kneels before you, cocking his head to the side as he reaches out to touch your face.

“Don’t touch her!” Steve snaps at him with nothing but venom in his voice as he watches them both corner you. He feels helpless and desperate. The fear in him kills him slowly as he is scared for you. “Get your filthy hands off her!”

But the man barely looks at him, he keeps his eyes on you, caressing your cheek, even as you lean away.

“Don’t worry, man.” Randall chuckles behind you. “I’ll fuck her little brains o–”

You throw your head back against his face with force, wanting nothing more than to hurt him, to break their bones, to kill. The loud crunch gives you the outcome you were hoping for.

“You fucking bitch!” He cries out in pain, dropping your hands and the ropes he was working on, leaving the knot unfastened.

Before you can even react, the man before you slaps you with the back of his hand, cutting through your skin in the process. Your head hits the pavement, causing your ear to ring.

Steve calls out your name in panic, rising to his feet, ready to fight even with his hands tied behind his back. But Randall recovers quickly as he lurches forward and kicks his knees in, forcing him back on the ground.

“Stay the fuck down!”

Eddie says your name, calling out to you in despair.

Nancy stares in shock as she looks between you and Steve.

“God.” The man sighs as he looks up into the sky. “I love it when they put up a fight, makes it all even better.” He steps forward. “I’m gonna have so much fun with this pretty thing.”

Steve senses heighten, fearing for you and Nancy as the anger takes further hold of him. His gaze is on the ground as he struggles, trying to tear the ropes around his wrists.

He freezes when he feels a hand grabbing his chin, making him look up. The man towers over him with a disgusting smirk on his face.

Steve freezes.

“Yeah… I’m definitely gonna have fun with you.”

Nausea washes over him as he takes in the dilated pupils in his eyes, the perverted look that was never meant for you but for him.

“Yeah, you look tight.”

The bile rises in Steve’s throat as a new kind of fear he never felt before rushes through him.

Eddie’s and Nancy’s faces grow pale, both unable to move, both feeling helpless as they watch the man grab Steve by the collar of his jacket, dragging him forward.

“Get your hands off me!” Steve grunts through his shock, trying to fight despite the restraints on his wrists. His movements cause something to fall out of his jacket pocket, landing right by the feet of his attacker.

“Aw, have problems breathing, pretty boy?” The woman chuckles, eying the inhaler that Steve kept in his pocket in case you ever have an attack again.

Even after your sickness, he never removed it.

“Let him go!” You scream, struggling as you push yourself back up on your knees, watching in panic as Steve gets dragged away. “Let him go if you want to live–”

Randall grabs your cheeks. There is blood running from his nose. Knowing that you broke it makes you feel satisfied. He kneels before you, moving close to your face. His disgusting breath hitting your cheeks.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get your turn too. I’m gonna make your friends watch and I’ll make it extra painful for your little move back there.”

“I’m going to rip your throat out,” you spit into his face, feeling nothing but uncontrollable rage now.

“You–” He stops, eyes growing wide at the sound echoing through the trees.

Everyone freezes, even the man dragging Steve. He keeps his hold on him as he looks around.

You look over Randall’s shoulder, eyes locking with Eddie’s.

Howling.

“Wolves?” The woman mumbles as she lowers her gun and steps away from Nancy. “I haven’t heard a wolf in–”

A shadow moves past you, catching you off guard.

Before any of them can blink, the woman is taken to the ground with a force she can’t fight against. She drops her gun. Her scream echoes through the empty streets as teeth sink into her throat.

The wolf you’ve been calling out to since last night, mauling at her neck.

Randall turns around.

You struggle against the restraints, cutting your skin open in the process. You don’t think, you don’t have the time to. You only see one way out. The adrenaline courses through you, gripping at you tightly.

He reaches for his gun, ready to take out the wolf.

You lurch forward, hands still bound behind your back. You don’t see another way out. You sink your teeth into his ear, biting through it with a force that could only be triggered by a hatred and an anger you didn’t even know you could have.

He only manages to gasp in pain, unable to even fight against you at the sudden attack. The gun drops from his hand, clashing against the ground. His blood splatters all over your face as you rip his flesh with your teeth, not caring about the weight of your action, about the metallic taste now in your mouth.

All you feel is disgust for these people, knowing that you weren’t the first they tried to do this to, knowing that they were successful all the other times.

Who knows how many people they have done these things to?

Who knows how many people they have raped and murdered?

You would do anything to stop that from happening. You would do anything to save your friends, to save him. Anything. Even this. Even if it means losing yourself. Even if it means becoming a monster yourself.

You pull away and spit out the flesh and the blood in disgust. The blood oozing from the spot his ear used to be getting all over your face and your hair.

He brings his hand up to the side of his head, weakly. His head turns towards you as he looks at you in horror. In this moment, you see into his eyes, into his soul and you see what you have caused, but even that isn’t enough.

You rip your hands free from the ropes and push yourself up. You reach for the gun he is weakly struggling to get to. You rip it off the ground and look into his eyes as you finish him off. Shooting into his head, not once or even twice, you shoot several bullets into his head.

The wolf dragging the woman across the floor back and forth, doesn’t even flinch nor do your friends.

Steve stares at you, his eyes wide just like Eddie’s and Nancy’s. You are dripping with blood, the look in your eyes not recognizable as you hold the gun in your hand.

You slowly look up, eyes locking with the man who is still holding onto Steve’s collar. Without a second of hesitation, you move your arm up and aim at him, pulling the trigger, but the gun never goes off, the clicking sound telling you that it’s empty.

You throw it on the ground. Your eyes search for the machete of the guy you killed. Blood drips down your chin as you lean down and grab the handle. You wrap your fingers around it, gripping it tightly.

“I–” The man who held Steve, drops his hand and lets him go, dropping him back on the ground again. His eyes move between you and the wolf still mauling at the woman’s neck, her body just as limp as the guy you murdered.

You look up at him, eyes flashing with an even deeper rage. His threats of what he wanted to do to Steve brought out the ugliest side of you.

He didn’t fear you before, no one did. But the sight of you now is sickly and disturbing, you don’t have to look at your reflection to see what kind of monster would do this.

It doesn’t matter how much height or weight he holds to you, he had lost the moment your teeth went through Randall’s neck and his blood splattered all over your face.

The wolf growls at the man after letting go of the woman, her teeth dripping with blood just like your own. She circles him, ready to attack for you if he tries to run.

You start walking towards him, turning him into your prey now. He should have stayed far away, he shouldn’t have put a finger on them, on him. You don’t look at Steve or Eddie or even Nancy. You don’t look at anything but your target.

You want him to suffer, knowing what would have happened if things had gone different, knowing what he would have done to Steve.

“We– let’s forget this,” the man speaks, clenching his jaw as he looks at you with fear in his eyes. He glances at his dead friends as he begins to back up, not even considering reaching for his gun that is still in his holster. “Okay? I’ll take my truck– and we can simply pretend we never met. Yeah!? I have so many things in my truck–”

You swing the machete before he can even finish his sentence. You swing it between his legs, cutting through his testicles. He yells out in pain, eyes growing wide as he stares at you in horror.

You rip the blade out and he drops to his knees, murmuring nonsense as he looks down in shock, watching his blood rush onto the pavement.

But you aren’t done. You are far from done.

You see red.

You see blood red.

You made a promise and you never break them.

Your friends watch. They watch how you start stabbing him with the machete, again and again, drawing more and more blood with each stab into his body. Draining the life out of him. Stabbing until no more grunts of pain or whimpers fall from his mouth. Even when he lies lifeless on the ground, eyes wide and void, you don’t stop. The blade rips through the flesh, blood splatters all over you until you are dripping in it. Like you want his ghost to see what a mistake it was to mess with him.

Steve calls out your name.

But you are lost in the haze, drowning in the hatred, blinded by everything you didn’t know lived inside of you.

“Sunshine…”

His voice is somewhere far away, but you hear it, you still hear it. It pulls you out, he pulls you out of the trance you are in.

You drop the bloody machete on the ground and step away. Your chest is heaving, your eyes dark and burning with despair. Your hands are dripping with blood, everything is dripping with blood.

For a moment, you stand there, breathing heavily as you look down at the slaughter caused by your own hands. Your shoulders are rising up and down heavily as you try to catch your breath. You look down at your palms, at your fingers that are dark red. You can wash them, you can wash the blood off, but your hands are forever tainted. Your soul is too.

You didn’t kill. You slaughtered.

And you’d do it again. For him, you would do anything.

An angry scream rips through your throat, and it takes every bit of power left in you.

You step away from the body on the ground. You turn away from it, facing the other one that you killed. There is blood. Everywhere. It’s all over the ground, it’s all over your face, all over your hands. You can’t even wipe it away.

As the adrenaline wears off and reality faces you again, you feel the sickness in your throat rising up. Your chest starts heaving, and your vision becomes blurry; you can’t breathe in anymore, and the metallic taste makes you nauseous.

A pained whimper falls from your lips as you step away from the bodies lying around you. You stumble back into the field, not noticing the wolf pup who found his way back here, sitting in the field watching you.

You drop to your knees, the blood drips into the snow, redness covering the white ground. You stare at it for seconds, minutes, for what feels like hours. You stare at it until the wolf who ripped the woman’s throat apart walks past you.

You stare at it, looking into its eyes. You see your sickening reflection in them.

It’s the mother of the pup you have saved. She knew where he was, your scent was all over him. You saved one of her own, so she saved your friends.

A tear slips down your cheek as you watch her walk away, back to her pup, back into the forest.

Your bottom lip begins to tremble, the saliva on your tongue building up to the point you can’t take anymore. You clutch your stomach as you puke out the lunch you have eaten earlier.

“Take it off, Nance. Please.” Steve trembles as he struggles with the ropes around his wrists. His eyes burn with tears as he watches you lose yourself in what looks like a panic attack.

Nancy stumbles forward, her hands are shaking after cutting through her own restraints with the knife Eddie managed to reach for.

Once free, Steve jumps to his feet and grabs the inhaler that fell out of his jacket. He runs to you, heart pounding in his chest. Worry etched into his features. He drops to his knees beside you.

Tears are running down your cheeks, you are trying to breathe, but you can’t. Your throat is wheezing, and your eyes are filled with panic.

“Sunshine,” Steve whispers, his own voice trembling. “I’m here. I’m here, you hear me?” He is desperate. Grabbing your bloody cheeks, he forces your attention on him.

“I’m here, Sunshine.” He repeats, moving closer to you in the snow. “You have to breathe with me, okay… baby?” He whispers as he hands you the inhaler, in case this is what you need.

You nod quickly and grab it.

“Steve…”

Your whimper breaks his heart, the whole sight before him breaks his heart.

Nancy and Eddie watch from the side, their own faces pained.

“It’s okay, you’re okay, I’m okay.” Steve whispers to you as he grabs your hand and brings it up to his chest. “We’re all okay.”

You look down at your hand on his chest, at the blood you are getting all over him. You pull away and try to rub it off. You won’t calm down until you get it all off you.

Nancy senses your distress and she wastes no time to make her way over to you. “Hey…” She calls out to you softly, getting down beside you, she places her hand on your back, whispering your name. “Come with me. We’ll get you cleaned up, okay?.” She takes your arm softly, gesturing to the blood you can’t get off.

You sniffle as you nod quickly.

Nancy helps you to your feet, wrapping her arm around you.

Steve watches with a worried look on his face. He rises to his feet, reaching his arms out to you. He takes your hand and gives it a strong squeeze before Nancy leads you away.

He doesn’t want to let you go, he doesn’t want any distance between you, not now. But Nancy pulls you away and towards the RV.

Steve follows, not planning on following you both inside, but he just needs to be close.

“Steve…” Eddie murmurs as he starts walking after him, ignoring the bodies on the ground.

“I’m fine.” Steve mumbles, only really caring about you at this moment. He feels angry and weak. He watched someone hit you, he watched while he was dragged away, and he was unable to fight back.

He swore to himself that he would protect you, that he would protect his friends – he did none of these things.

Eddie picks up the pace, walking up beside him. He stays silent, for a moment at least.

Steve glances at him. There is dried blood on Eddie’s face, a forming bruise on his eye. His nose is swollen; it’s clear he put up a fight, unlike him.

“Hey, she will be fine…” Eddie speaks up after a moment.

Steve frowns as he stops in front of the RV. He looks around, the fire is still burning, small but burning. He sees the blood on the snow, from where Eddie must have been beaten. A heavy feeling settles in his chest, knowing he wasn’t there to help, knowing that there wasn’t even anything he could have done.

“Did you see her face? She is not fine.” Steve scoffs, shaking his head as he begins to pace around.

“She will be! She is just shocked!” Eddie exclaims. Everything that happened has shaken him up as well.

“Yeah, no shit, Eddie!”

“Harrington, calm the fuck down before I puncture a tranquilizer on you. I also saw my friend getting punched and threatened to be taken advantage of. So please…” Eddie begs, his voice is shaking.

Steve frowns, turning to face him slowly. It only now begins to dawn on him that Eddie isn’t only worried about you but also shaken by what almost happened to him.

And it hasn’t even dawned on him fully either. He was worried about you, not thinking about what almost happened.

But now, as he looks down at the blood that rubbed off your hands and onto his own, at the blood from the man you killed to save him, he begins to realize, and it makes him sick, it knocks the wind out of him.

His breathing quickens, and he reaches for his chest.

“Oh god,” he mumbles as his knees almost buckle. He stumbles over to the camping chair and sits down.

Eddie rushes to his side, worriedly. He kneels beside him, grabbing his wrist. He notices how he begins to hyperventilate.

“Man, you need to breathe…” He murmurs softly, his eyebrows furrowed. “Steve…”

“I– what would have happened…” Steve croaks out as his eyes flicker with shock. “Oh god… If it wasn’t for her, right now I would probably–”

“No. Don’t think about it,” Eddie shakes his head, grabbing his hand and holding it strongly. “It didn’t happen, that’s what matters… alright?” Eddie says, looking into his eyes intensely.

Though the thought sickens them both. Neither of them had to deal with such threats in their lives. Never before.

Steve closes his eyes as he takes deep breaths.

It all happened so quickly, so suddenly.

You saved him.

You. Only you.

You killed for him, you went so far just to protect him.

“She… god, she…”

“I know,” Eddie says softly, understanding without needing to hear him say more. “I know, Steve.”

“How is she gonna–”

“She’s gonna be okay… You know her, man.” Eddie mumbles as he squeezes his hand. “She has us, she has you.”

Steve swallows, nodding at his words.

You are strong. Stronger than he once thought.

“I get it now.” Eddie mumbles.

Steve’s heart is still racing in his chest, strongly. His mind is still in a whirlwind, he will need time to process all that happened.

“What do you mean?” He asks softly as he looks into Eddie’s eyes.

“People are the real monsters. She told me that.”

The water is splashing against the tiles, warming up still.

Nancy glances at you worriedly as she takes off your bloody clothes. You are not moving, your face is void of emotions as you stare at the wall before you.

“Step out of your shoes, please.” Nancy says softly after undoing your laces.

You do as you’re told, stepping out of them. You look down at your feet, even your white socks are red.

“I’m gonna take off your pants, okay?” Nancy mumbles, looking at your face, her eyes scanning your every feature.

You only nod, not finding it in yourself to speak up.

Nancy unbuckles your belt, pulling through the loops as she removes it from your jeans completely. She throws it into the sink, leaving it there to wash it later.

“Come on.” She pushes you forward towards the shower. The space is small and definitely not meant for two, but she won’t leave you alone here, not now.

You look down at yourself, the blood seeped through everything, even your bra. The blood clinging on your whole body. You step into the shower, letting the warm water envelope you.

Nancy keeps her arm around you, her other hand on your wrist as she helps you inside. The water hits her too, seeping through her sweater.

“You good?” She whispers, her blue eyes searching for any discomfort. “Is the water too hot, too cold?”

You shake your head, “fine.” You manage to croak out before you close your eyes and step beneath the stream completely. Letting the water wash away the remains of this day. As though it could actually clean you.

You place your hands against the wall as the water runs down your back, pooling at your feet – the blood.

Nancy steps back to take her sweater off, she throws it into the corner before she reaches for the shampoo.

“I’m gonna wash your hair, okay?”

You don’t really say anything, just nodding at her words. You keep your eyes closed and you listen to the sound of the water, feeling the warmth splashing onto you, feeling her fingers running through your hair, washing away the blood.

You lower your head for her, and you make the mistake of opening your eyes and seeing just how much blood is flushing down the drain now.

You knew there was no running from it. You knew this day would come. It almost came before, but back then, you managed to get away before you had to take such a burden on you.

There is no regret in you, no remorse. It had to be done, and you would do it again and again if it meant saving someone you love.

They deserved it. You know they did. You saved not only him, Eddie, and Nancy but many others who would have encountered them if you didn’t stop them.

You know what he wanted to do to Steve. You know what would have happened to Nancy, to you, and to Eddie if it wasn’t for the wolf, if it wasn’t for your sacrifice.

You wouldn’t be here now.

You wouldn’t be here at all by the next morning – none of you.

A whimper falls from your lips as your eyes well up with tears again. The tension slipping off you slowly as the realization rushes through you of the pain you have spared your friends and yourself from.

Nancy stops her movements, glancing at your face in concern.

Your bottom lip begins to tremble, your whole face crumbling as a sob tears from your throat, and you start crying.

Nancy’s own eyes burn with tears as she stares at you. You just stood there like a lifeless doll, and now your face is etched in pain. Her heart breaks at the sight of you, and she doesn’t hesitate to move forward, to step into the shower with you, not caring about her clothes getting wet. She wraps her arms around you, pulling you into her embrace. She holds you tightly as she presses her forehead to your temple.

You say her name brokenly as the tears cascade down your cheeks, mixing with the blood still clinging to you.

“Shh, it’s okay,” she whispers into your ear as she tightens her hold on you, hugging you tighter when she feels your knees buckling. “I got you.”

You wrap your hand around her bicep, gripping it tightly, like you need to be sure that she is there, that you are all okay.

“Steve–”

“He is okay. Eddie is with him, I promise.” She whispers, not trusting her own voice as her chest tightens. “I’m sorry you had to do this. I am so sorry…”

You hold onto her tighter, feeling safe in her embrace, knowing she would have done the same for you if things had gone differently.

“It’s okay,” you whisper weakly.

You stand there for a moment, not moving, not speaking, you just stand there, holding onto each other, being there for one another.

You know you won’t be okay, not today and not tomorrow but you will recover with them by your side. You will. It’s gonna take a while, you know that but it will be alright again.

You know that when you look into her eyes and you see the unspoken promise that she makes.

She will be there, and they will be too.

Eddie keeps the fire smaller than all the nights before. The anxiety of this day takes over as he wonders what mistake was made for these people to attack so easily.

Nancy’s gun is strapped to his thigh for now. He is staring into the small flame, his eyes moving back and forth between that and Steve, who is pacing around again, who won’t stop pacing.

Eddie cleaned the blood from Steve’s hands, brought him fresh clothes to change into so he won’t have to look at the stain of blood on his shirt. He took care of his friend the way he once took care of him.

And now Eddie is sitting down, staring at Steve who is looking just as restless.

You haven’t come out yet, he doesn’t know how long it’s been, but it feels like forever. That sky has turned dark already, and he refuses to spend another night here. He will drive through the night, he doesn’t care, but he needs to get you all out of here.

“Fucking Nebraska.” He murmurs under his breath.

Steve stops pacing the moment the RV door opens, and you step outside first. Steve’s eyes scan your whole body. Your hair is still wet, there is a bruise forming on your cheek, a band aid covering the cut on your cheekbone. You’re wearing a sweater that looks way too big on you.

His eyes lock with yours, and they turn glassy immediately when he sees how red and puffy they are. His heart aches at the sight of you, yearning to feel you close, to wrap his arms around you and never let go.

He whispers your name, and you instantly move forward as he does the same. You meet each other halfway, wrapping your arms around one another into a tight hug.

You don’t bother hiding your cries as you nuzzle your face into his chest and wrap your arms around his waist, melting into his embrace and holding him shakily.

He closes his eyes as he hides his face in the crook of your neck. He holds the back of your head as he finally gets to feel you again. His heart calming down yet racing at the same time.

“Are you okay?” He whispers softly.

You nod against him, squeezing him as you bury yourself further into him, not wanting to let go, not wanting to pull away just yet.

“Are you?” You mumble.

Steve sniffles softly, nodding as he runs his fingers through your wet hair. He breathes in the scent of your body wash, of his toothpaste you have used, of the cherry shampoo that you only have a little left of. He holds on tighter, never wanting to let go, never wanting to miss the touch of you.

There was a reason why he felt so safe with you.

“I am now.”

Eddie glances at Nancy. She still stands in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, as she watches you both with a weak smile on her face. She turns to face the metalhead when she feels his eyes on her.

‘You okay?’ He mouths, eying her figure.

Nancy nods with furrowed brows, giving him a tight lipped smile. ‘You?’

He lifts his hand up, giving her a thumbs up as he tries to smile at her, wanting to lighten her up a little, but even he can’t act okay. Not today.

Eddie gets up from the chair, and he clears his throat.

You and Steve pull away from each other, though keeping your hands locked.

“I won’t stay here another night. You guys can uh, get some rest in the back.” Eddie gestures to the back of the RV, where the ‘bedroom’ is. “Nance, you can get some sleep too, but I’m driving. I won’t take any more chances, we’re gonna get the hell out of here.”

No one protests against him.

Nancy nods in agreement, wanting nothing more than to get away from here too.

“Yeah.” Steve mumbles, looking down at you.

Your gaze meets his. You don’t speak, you don’t have to, your eyes say enough.

Nancy disappears back into the RV. Eddie follows her after killing the flame still burning in the little pit. He nods at you both before he walks away.

Steve tugs at your hand, “come on, Sunshine.”

You squeeze his hand as you move towards the stairs, you halt in your tracks and look over your shoulder one more time. Taking a look at the field you have last seen the wolves.

The pup now reunited with his mother, like you wanted it to.

A lingering sadness spreads inside of you. You take a deep breath, sighing softly before you turn back around and walk inside.

Without any words shared, Steve leads you to the tiny ‘bedroom’. He takes his jacket and his shoes off and you follow suit before you settle on the bed, scooting closer to the window and making space for him.

There is a small lamp on the shelf above the bed, it’s burning an orange golden. The color of the light kisses your skin. His chest aches at the sight of the evidence the fight left on you. The anger still living in him, despite the attackers being dead.

Your wet hair falls in front of your eyes, and he doesn’t hesitate to move forward, he sits down close to you, and he lifts his hand to cup your cheek.

“Hey…” He whispers, lifting your face to make you look at him. The look in your eyes is soft, vulnerable. Its so different from what he saw in you before. It makes his heart ache more. He saw how much you struggled with yourself after what you did, how much you still struggle.

You weren’t ready.

“Sunshine,” he whispers as his eyes roam your face, as he notices the tears welling up in your eyes.

He won’t ever let anything like this happen.

He won’t let anything happen to you.

“I would have done the same for you,” he whispers as he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. “I hope it doesn’t come to it, but I would do it if–“ His words get caught in his throat.

He heard the threats that were directed towards you as well and it pains him and angers him at the same time.

Your sniffle breaks his heart as another tear rolls down your cheek.

“I would do so much worse…” He whispers.

You bring your hands up to his shoulders, your body trembling in his embrace as you look into his eyes.

“You would?” You whisper shakily.

“I would.” He nods, promising it to you with a determined look in his eyes. “I would do anything for you.”

You don’t know if it’s his promise or if it is him caring about you that makes you so emotional, if it’s this day catching up to you or the fact that he is here and well but before you know it, you break into cries and you throw your arms around him, pulling him tightly against you.

Your heart is in your throat as you cry, beginning to feel him shaking under your embrace. His mouth is pressed against the crook of your neck and shoulder, his tears staining the shirt you are wearing, but you couldn’t care less. Not when your mind drifted back to him being chosen for that. Not when your mind reeled back to how the man grabbed him by his collar, dragging him inside this RV, eager to do stuff to him you couldn’t even imagine.

You’re not sure who moved first, if you or him, but somehow you two got under the covers, still holding each other close, crying into one another, not being able to stop, not being able to stop the images and the repetition from replaying in your heads, over and over and over again.

Your voice was small as you tried to talk, completely broken as you felt you felt your throat dry as sandpaper.

“You almost– You almost got–”

“I don’t want to think about that, and I don’t want you to think about that either… Please, Sunshine. We’re safe… We’re safe because of you…” He couldn’t stop shaking. After all the horrors he endured, the horrors he witnessed, the horrors he fought against… maybe that could have been the worst one yet. The one who could have shattered him completely. The one who could have probably made him lose himself, if not for a while, forever.

But if it hadn’t been for you, who knows what else they had planned for your group. What they had planned for you, for Nancy, for Eddie. You choked on a sob, feeling your eyes as if they were about to explode from how puffy they felt, how raw.

“I– I killed humans. People. I killed people.” You were in shock, and he took a deep breath before pulling his head back to make you look at him. This is the first time you two saw each other this broken. This anguished. He shook his head at you, his arms never leaving your body.

“You killed monsters… True monsters. A demogorgon would not do what they planned to do… They go for the instant kill, with no other ulterior motive, with no torture… And that makes them more humane than whatever these three beings were.”

And he was right.

Your head leaned close to his chest, your tears finally slowing down after his words processed inside your head. His heart resonated in your ears, and you could still hear it because of what you did.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Yes. You would do it again if it meant you could keep hearing this. Just like this. Close. Warm. Calm.

“Stay with me, Steve…” His embrace tightened around you, his eyes finally closing as he felt your breaths slowing down under his palms. Up and down. Up and down. Gentle, little by little.

His lips instinctively pressed at the top of your head, but you were already sound asleep before you could notice them, before you could feel the tender touch he just gave to you. His eyes closed as he felt safe, the RV starting to rock him to sleep as Eddie drove, heading to whatever destination he desired, just far away from here.

“Always, Sunshine…”

☀︎

taglist: @prettyboyeddiemunson @pretentious-blonde @thecreelhouse @tvserie-s-world @thesickestqrmydcll @crispystarfishhottub @sophal22 @definitionwanderlust @talkativecarnation @mysticalwoolenfroglegs @ariesandwolves @mortqlprojections @sattlersquarry @sherrylyn0628 @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles @micheledawn1975 @keepingitlokiii @littleromanoff2005 @sunshine-mrk @xxladymjxx @bananasplits-world @myharrington

#steve harrington x reader #stranger things angst #steve harrington x you #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington #steve harrington smut #grumpy x sunshine

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oldtowrs · 24 days ago

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𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐒' 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 cregan stark / afab!reader

summary—the hour of the wolf has ended, and cregan stark marches north again. upon his return to winterfell, he wants nothing more than to see you, his wife. when he finds you in the godswood, he could not be more pleased to see you and how you've changed in his absence. he's so pleased in fact, that he decides he must thank the gods for blessing him so.

word count—8.8k (i will not apologize)

tags & warnings—canon divergence (meaning i fuck with the details and timelines. read the author's note for exactly what i mean), pregnant!reader, afab!reader, reader prays to the old gods, SMUT (mdni), oral sex (f receiving), heavy pregnancy kink on cregan's part, breeding/pregnancy kink (its baked into those stark genes, i don't make the rules), flashback containing smut (missionary, vanilla-y type sex with cregan and his wife, p-in-v, unprotected sex, breeding), mentions of death and canon-typical violence, porn with minimal plot, porn with feelings, cregan loves his lady wife more than life itself, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns used for reader, no detailed description of reader other than afab!/fem!, private public sex (they have sex in the godswood, but no one catches them). let me know if i missed something.

author's note—this was barely proof read towards the end. let me know if i missed something. anyway, so detail-wise, it technically takes 5.5 months to travel from winterfell to king's landing, and technically, cregan is gone for closer to a year than 9 months, but for the sake of the plot and for cregan smut, pretend that his march to king's landing, the hour of the wolf and his return all takes place in a little less than 9 months. besides, the show condenses the dance by ~10 years anyway, so just pretend. please. for cregan's sake, your sake, my sake, etc.

special thanks to @dipperscavern @eldrith @aesteries @cassieopeiia and @swordgrace. this fic would not have made it out of my drafts if it weren't for you all and the kind words you offer and your encouragement and the inspiration of your beautiful works. this one is for you <3.

also if you like to listen to mood playlists while your read, may I suggest the one that I used to write this: listen to me here !

FEEDBACK & COMMENTS & REBLOGS ARE EXTREMELY WELCOMED, PLEASE SUPPORT YOUR CONTENT CREATORS ! 18+ CONTENT AHEAD, MDNI ! YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT YOU CONSUME !

a storm was brewing over winterfell, if the ever-darkening clouds that seemed to amass in the sky above the keep were any herald. there was a metallic chill in the air that cloyed at one’s skin, chilling any and all to the very bone — even the most hardy of northern warriors succumbing to it. cregan stark took it as both welcome and warning.

the hour of the wolf, though named after his short control over king’s landing, had felt longer than cregan wanted to, filling his senses with enough southern pleasantry to last a lifetime. the roads were rough, and the days of marching along the kingsroads were long — the groaning of his men growing louder with every day, and every mile that brought them closer to winterfell, to home. the dust from the road covered every inch of him, clinging to his furs and the sweat along his brow, collecting in the strands of his hair and in the beard he had grown while on the road.

but mostly, cregan stark, lord of winterfell and warden of the north, held a deep longing in his heart — an ache that only seemed to grow in his absence from winterfell, from you. the roads were rough and the days were long, but nothing compared to the ache that had torn his heart asunder in the days that he had parted from you, his ladywife.

you had only just been married when duty had summoned cregan south, only three turns of the moon before he was called from the marital bed to the battlefield. and while cregan was an honorable man, a man bound by obligation and noble responsibility, and so he went willingly. but he could not deny the image of you in his mind’s eye the night before the whole of the north marched south in the name of the rightful queen — queen rhaenyra targaryen.

⋆.*･⋅𖥔⋅

“by the gods, cregan!”

your moans echoed against the stones of your marital chambers, high and sweet and filled with the evidence of your husband’s amorous devotion. sonorous whines and lewd sighs fell from your reddened, swollen lips with every deep roll of cregan’s hips into your dripping heat. the sweet sounds mingled in the late summer’s air like a song, a murmur of cregan’s deep snarls and heaving grunts and the soft smack of his heavy stones against the softness of your core as a result of his relentless pursuit adding to it, a swelling symphony rising from the coupling of your pleasure to his own, from his sinful devotion and your heavenly desire.

your hands, which were so dainty compared to his own, maneuvered their way to his chest, your fingertips running over the thatches of brown curls that covered the warmth of his skin and swirled over the hardness of the thickly-corded muscles that lay beneath, grounding him to you.

“oh, my love!” you cried, a testament to the depths to which cregan had buried his cock, the tip — which was undoubtedly weeping and swollen with arousal — kissing the inner most wall of your core with each impassioned thrust.

cregan groaned roughly, allowing his hand — which was wide-of-palm and calloused by years of northern frigidity and the trials of the sword — to trail its way up your torso, from the plush curve of your hip, past your navel, between your tits that bounced with every thrust of his hips, to engulf the curve of your cheek as he cupped it with his palm. his weight shifted to the arm which had found purchase in the furs beside your head, forcing more of the weight and bulk of himself to bear down upon you, opening you wider to make room for him, your warden of the north, your lord husband…your love.

“c’mon, take it for me, love. just a little longer,” cregan rambled, allowing the tenderness that filled every last frontier of his soul to seep into his voice as he praised you.“i know you can, my sweet wife.”

“oh, cregan, i can’t! i’m going to—”

and with that, cregan felt you spill over the edge — your heat becoming impossibly tighter as you met your peak, walls fluttering around his length with every wave of pleasure that tore you beneath its tide and consumed you wholly. cregan’s every thrust grew easier with the slick of your peak and he groaned, his hips stuttering as you sighed and arched your back, forcing him even deeper into your sweet heat.

your legs, which had settled about his hips ages ago, tightened around his torso in your pleasure and fought against the wide expanse of his torso to no avail — the thickness of him kept you entirely spread for him. cregan felt his release building in the base of his spine, a winding coil of fire that begged for absolution. and you would be the one to give it to him. his sweet girl. his lovely wife. the heavenly lady stark.

some part of him, deep within the confines of his mind, imagined his seed taking root within you, imagined the sight of you swollen and glowing with his child. gods, it drove him mad. his mind wandered the imagined view you would make — tits heavy and amassing against your neckline and the corset beneath, the swell of your stomach protruding from your dresses, the glow that would overtake you like the warmth of a thousand summers after the long winer. and ti would be because of him. you would be pregnant — with his child.

and that’s when the coil within him finally snapped and a blinding wave of pleasure had his hips stuttering, and his head drooping, forehead coming to rest upon the your sternum — just above your thundering heart.. cregan’s incessant attention, which he paid in bruising kisses and laving tongue, was broken as a moan ripped through him — the sound a near growl that originated somewhere deep within that he had not known existed until you pulled it from him.

“my wolf, my king of the north,” your voice echoed from somewhere deep in is memory, the titles given to him so freely behind closed doors, would the world was quiet and the snow fell, and it was no one but him and you.

softly, cregan’s lips found your skin, as a weary wanderer finds himself at the mercy of the gods.

but the pulsing of your heartbeat against his swollen lips was addicting, and so kiss after kiss was laid to your skin, as cregan filled you with rope after rope of his thick cum, until he swore that you had drained him entirely. he wasn’t sure when it had happened, but the fingers of his right hand had tangled with your own haphazardly against the plush down of the pillow beside your head, and he took the hazy moment in the aftermath of his release, when every inch of him was warm with the tingling of his frayed nerves to ground himself to you and squeeze your hand lightly — a silent testament to how wholly he relied on you, how wholly he loved you. the heady scent of arousal cloyed sweetly at his nose, something so distinctly you hidden beneath it that it drove cregan wild — even as he dropped his head to your sternum in exhaustion.

and when he finally raised his head, he was delighted to see your glossy gaze brighten and a hint of your radiant smile shining through the haze of your own pleasure — pleasure he gave you. and by the gods, were you a sight.

“gods, woman,” cregan teased as a hint of his own smile broke through his normally roughened exterior, his timbre thick and the harsh syllables of his hardy, northern accent honeyed with his love. “you’ll be the death of me.”

your laughter echoed through your marital chambers. and cregan swore there was not a more beautiful song in all of westeros.

.*･⋅𖥔⋅

the remembrance of you, angelic and soft in his arms, glowing with the warmth of a thousand suns and flushed in the most heavenly manner from your peak, had cregan blushing even now — months later — as he lead his men through the gates of winterfell and into the keep. grey, stormy eyes scanned the parapets and walkways that lined the courtyard and found only servants rushing about the keep, preparing for a welcome feast or returning the horses to their stables, carrying luggage from the tired, dispersing men back to their chambers.

you were nowhere to be seen. in fact, it was only until maester kennet found his way to his side, did cregan learn of your whereabouts.

“she has taken to godswood, my lord,” the maester whispered in hushed tones, intonation speaking volumes of information left unsaid. it sent something akin to a deep-seated worry wriggling through his veins, as he slung the straps of his longsword and scabbard over his shoulder and unloaded his luggage from his sturdy black stallion.

“thank you, maester,” cregan said, voice rougher than he meant for it to sound, as he passed the reigns to a nearby stable boy, who lead his horse away dutifully.

“she insisted, sir,” the maester continued. “i tried to warn her about the storm, that she need take precaution, especially in her state — but she would not heed my council.”

her state? i leave her in your care for nine cycles of the moon, what is amiss with her state? cregan thought, a hint of annoyance seeping into the edges of his fatigued mind.

with a heavy sigh, he pushed the thought away and reminded himself that the journey had likely unraveled his last nerve, and his faithful maester was not deserving of such treatment. cregan clapped a hand over the maester’s shoulder then, a show of good faith, as he passed the older man his belongings.“i shall see to it she makes her way back to the keep safely. take this to my chambers will you?”

“of course, my lord.”

and with that and a heaving of his sword, and the stark legacy, more securely over his shoulder, cregan stark departed for the godswood with a determination only love could place in his step and in his devoted heart.

*･⋅𖥔⋅

may the frost be kind to the remainder of the summer’s harvests. may every man, woman, and child have the facilities to feed themselves heartily so that they may last the winter. may the winter be kind, even if it is long, you prayed quietly, as your gaze flitted between the blood red leaves that hung in a canopy above you and the snowflakes that softly perfused through.

the godswood was your refuge, when your husband couldn’t be. it was quiet and it had a constancy, a calm steadiness similar to that of your husband — enough so to turn the ache and yearning to a moment of lovesick reprieve. even if it was only a moment and especially in times like this, when the impending storm sent the birds to their nests, and the snow blanketed all sound in its cold grasp, turning the small forest into the most peaceful sanctuary you had ever known. these were wartimes, and in wartimes, only the gods truly knew the path that lay ahead.

may the north’s soldiers return home safely and with little fuss.

the past nine months had been strenuous, what with your husband’s campaign south as had been demanded by the late queen rhaenyra targaryen. it had left the people of the north tense, the absence of those who had marched south and those who would never return north again felt in every absence from small council and feast alike. one of those absences that weighed heavily on your heart was that of your husband, cregan stark.

but the troops were set to return any day now, what with word of their journey up the kingsroad having arrived to winterfell and to you on the dark wings of cregan’s raven nearly a fortnight ago.

may my husband return with haste. i pray that you all have taken care of him in his absence from me, and may you return him to me healthy and happy and warm. may the burdens of war not wear too heavily on him. he’s been through enough, after all.

you missed the steadiness of his presence, the way he knew exactly when to pull you close and where to place his kisses to placate even your most tiresome worries. you missed his warmth, especially now that the nights grew colder and darker and his absence from your bed was more thoroughly felt. you missed his hugs, when he would bury you in his wide, burly chest, surrounding you with his arms and all of their thick corded muscle. there was nowhere you would rather be, nor anywhere you felt safer than in the arms of your husband.

you had found peace beneath the blood red leaves, cried with the gods as the sap from the tree soaked its many faces. when he couldn’t soothe your fears, the gods did. and now, as the little flakes of ice settled in your hair and in the furs that were bunched about your neck and which kept you warm, the silence was more of a comfort than anything else could be in your husband's absence.

and yet, the reminder of the peace which had failed to meet you every night for the past nine months crept into your thoughts, sending them spiraling. gods, you missed your husband — terribly so. and while the gods and the silence could offer you comfort in your most trying times, it was only cregan who could offer you what you truly yearned for — companionship, his sweet tenderness, the gentleness with which he loved you.

you missed cregan’s tender devotion and steady heart which you knew only beat for you, and for his people. you missed the gentleness with which he held your face between his thumb and forefingers and tilted your head back to place a tender kiss upon your lips. you missed the careful way with which he tucked your arm into the crook of his elbow as you walked about the keep, and held a steady hand upon the small of your back as he talked extensively with visiting lords or members of his council — a way in which to remind you where his attentions truly lied. all were wordless reminders of the love that burned hotter than the greatest hearths in his heart and in his soul — for you.

you missed his nobility — how he tended to winterfell with a sense of duty that ran deeper than that of flesh and blood. you missed how he cared for all of his people, whether they be from as far away as the wall or widow’s watch, or as close as castle cerwyn. you missed his stiff upper lip and his forceful hand, his intelligence, his compassion, his loving heart.

some selfish part of you missed how he would fuck you with a heady, passionate fervor, and how gently he would hold you in the aftermath, as if you were the most precious of treasures that the gods had given him to protect. you missed his kisses in the quiet of the mornings, where only the fire crackled steadily in the hearth and the gruffness of his northern accent turned soft and honeyed as he murmured praise after affectionate praise in your ear until you were burying your face in his large chest and he was rearranging the furs to swaddle you in to hide the flush that covered you from head to toe from any gaze but his own.

a similar flush covered you now at the thought, a slight guilt nagging at your heart. this was a holy place and here you were kneeling at the foot of the gods and reminiscing about your husband’s… physique.

you shook your head, and placed a hand over the swell of your stomach, remembering your task at hand. yes, the burden of your yearning weighed heavy upon your heart, as you sat beneath the weirwood tree, but you would ask this last favor of the gods. you had to.

may you return my husband to me before our child makes their way into the world, for i do not know if i can go through the birth alone. i cannot do it without him.

a tiny pulse against your hand was felt through your heavy furs and woolen dress, as if the child that you carried — his child, consummated the night before his southern departure — wished for their father almost as much as you missed your husband, your cregan.

“i know, little one,” you whispered, wishing not to disrupt the peaceful quiet that had settled over the godswood as the storm rolled in and the sky grew dark. “i miss him too. but he’ll back soon, i’m sure.”

another glance upwards at the tree struck a chord of hope in your heart — sap, viscous and red as freshly spilled blood slowly pooled in the eye of one of the tree’s many faces and began to drip slowly downward over the pale bark.

perhaps the gods had listened.

.*･⋅𖥔⋅

cregan’s footfalls were heavy upon the icy ground, the soft crunch of his boots in the frosted grass and icy patches of snow left by storms past broke the silence that had fallen over the wood. it was a quiet kind of moment, one that echoed reminiscent of a fragile peace the lingered before the storm, daunting and heavy, in the static air.

the small trek was a familiar one, as the gods were almost as close to cregan’s heart as you, his lovely lady wife. he felt blasphemous at times for the thought, but you were dearer to his heart than anything or anyone else could be — old god or not — despite bringing you beneath his family crest in marriage only a short while before his departure south. you were soft and sweet, and a kinder sight than any other cregan had known — and he loved you dearly, and deeply, and more than words could ever truly say.

and so, when cregan finally approached the weirwood and saw you sitting on the small wooden bench beneath its blood red leaves and stark white branches, it felt as if his heart had finally found its way back to him, thundering to life in his chest after the gruelling nine months he had been apart from you. you were a breath of fresh air in his tired lungs, and he found his pace slowing to a halt as he admired you, with your face upturned ever so slightly, with your eyelashes kissing the curve of your cheek, your hair and cloak alike catching the small flurries that had begun to fall through the trees above you. you were beautiful — angelic, in every sense of the word. you were peace — his peace.

he caught sight of your guards a few yards away. a soft nod had them approaching their lord, and with a wave of his gloved hand he dismissed them.

“i shall see to it that my lady returns to the castle safely,” he murmured gruffly, laying his hand on the shoulder of one of them — a show of his good graces. “thank you.”

it was only when the sound of the snow and the ice and the frost beneath his boot sounded did you resurface from your thoughts, your attention drawing to him with a gentle turn of your head and a straightening of your back. a small smile found its way to his lips as he basked in the tenderness of your gaze. he always had liked being the center of your affections.

“cregan?” his name was somewhere between a murmur of hesitant disbelief and almost child-like excitement on your tongue as you realized who it was that had come to disturb your peace. tears had begun to sting at the corner of your eyes, burning in the frigid air.

but the sting was short lived: a few quick strides and cregan was before you in an instant, large hands casting both sword and leather riding gloves into the dark earth in favor of holding your face within their warmth. the towering figure of your husband soon became a kneeling mass before you — in all of his wool and leather-bound, fur-wrapped glory.

it was then that cregan’s thundering heart truly allowed him to observe you. your face had grown slightly more full in the past months, cregan realized with calculating grey eyes that seemed to soften to something more akin to molten silver as they beheld you. indeed, the curves, which had become heated and flushed from the chill, had grown ever plump, bunching at their heights as you smiled ever sweetly at your lord husband. an angel indeed.

“cregan,” you repeated, voice somewhere between a sob and a burst of long-awaited laughter, delicate hands leaving their place in your lap to cover his own, as his thick thumbs pet at the curve of your well-rounded cheeks, exploring just how soft they had become with a heart which had undoubtedly melted like a freshly fallen dusting of snow in the springtime.

cregan allowed his eyes to drift ever downward, deliberate in the way his eyes dragged longingly about your features, committing every detail to memory, with the aim of taking in the whole of you — a sight he had so dearly missed and so desperately clung to in his absence. your cleavage was on full display, even through the modest neckline of your dress and the heavy fur cloak that hung about your shoulders and tickled at the bare skin of your neck in the shifting air of the godswood.

had her tits always been that full? cregan thought bashfully, a lick of shame running up his spine — you hadn’t seen your husband, the lord of winterfell and all of the north in months, and here he was looking at you like a green lad who had never laid a hand upon a woman. a hot flush rose to his cheeks, even through the cold of the impending storm.

it wasn’t until the lord of winterfell allowed his yearning for you to pool in his gaze, allowing it to wander ever downward that cregan realized the heavy protrusion of your stomach. the curve of it was great enough to show through the heavy cotton and wool of your dress— and finally, the realization fell into place.

your state.

“you’re—”

“i didn’t know how to tell you,” you murmured as a delicate frown gathered upon your lips. your voice quickly became an uneasy, fleeting thing that interrupted both him and the quiet of the wood in no more than a mere moment. yet, it was enough for cregan’s breath to catch in his throat, the word slamming to a halt on his tongue.

you were pregnant.

“i didn’t wish to worry you,” you went on. cregan’s heart clenched in his chest, a blade — born of love and fidelity — driving itself into his very core. cloudy grey eyes flitted back up to your own and caught sight of the tears that gathered there, in the corners of your beautiful, downcast eyes. unsurety and anxiety radiated off of you, as if you were unsure of cregan in that moment, of how he would respond. and with the crease of your brow, and the sweet way that you looked at him, as if pleading for the understanding that was already unequivocally your own, he knew without a doubt that you had spent the entirety of the past nine months missing your husband desperately, just as he had you. and yet, cregan stark, lord and warden of the north, couldn’t imagine how much weight this must’ve added. and you — you sweet, sweet thing — you didn’t wish to worry him?

“you already had so much to worry about,” you tried to explain, tears overflowing in two heavy droplets that caressed the curve of your cheeks as it careened down them. eventually, the two droplets wet the careworn palms of his hands as he gently swiped his thumbs beneath your tired eyes and the plump curve of your cheek, tuning your every nerve to his touch.

“i didn’t wish to burden you.”

guilt, a heavier burden than even that of the sword on his back or the weight of his title and honorable duties, weighed on his heart as he beheld you then. in that moment — in the quiet of the godswood, beneath the bloody leaves and the gaze of the old gods, as he knelt before you — cregan stark swore a vow. he would never part from your side. never again. not when you had given him more than he could’ve ever thought possible, and not when the gods had cursed him with a distance that had rendered him unable to show his utter gratitude.

“what with the wa—”

cregan’s lips were warm and slightly chapped as they covered yours completely, swallowing your protests as he did so. the wide bridge of his nose was sturdy against your own, the tip of it kind as it graced your skin, his teeth and tongue clashing and roving against your own in a storm of tender frivolity as if he was reclaiming your mouth from the months apart. smoked pine and musk mixed together into a heady scent that was so undeniably cregan that it had your heart aching as his lips worked to consume your own, and so too your fears with it. the shape was familiar, a kind reprieve, as they molded to yours so perfectly — oh, how had you forgotten how well the gods had made him for you, and you for him.

the kiss was only broken when his lungs burned for air, his forehead finding yours as a hand dropped to the swell of your stomach — to where you harbored his child.

“i swear to you. with the eyes of these gods, both old and new, as my witness, that i will never, ever leave your side again. from this day, until my last day,” cregan murmured, northern accent thickening in his vigor and sure with steely resolve. your name was a soft sigh that left his lips only moments later.

“i should have never left in the first place.”

tears continued to fall from your eyes, which had fluttered shut in total contentment the moment the frosted cloud of cregan’s breath had fanned across your face and his lips had found yours. a soft, mirthful chime of your laughter fell from your lips. .

“it was your duty, my love. the realm needed you.”

“damn, the fucking realm,” cregan was quick to huff, reinvigorated conviction swallowing his composure whole, the hint of a smile dissolving into that firm northern resolve you so admired, basked in honor and commanded with steady strength. “no duty means more to me than you…and our child.”

he should’ve been here, with you, ensuring that you were taken care of as you grew so round and swollen and beautiful with his pup. a need came over cregan then, his hands itching to hold you, to press himself so close that his soul might merge with yours forever — a need to feel your warmth and the promise of life that lingered within you. the need to show you how grateful he was of your effortless sacrifice and selfless devotion overcame him then, as if it were a searing flame that lingered just beneath the surface of his skin and you were the only cure for his every ailment.

wandering hands brushed a stray lock of heavy brown tresses from his face before your fingertips buried themselves in the short beard cregan had taken to styling himself with in the months spent apart from you. a soft smile broke out across your pretty lips, a sign of your approval.

“you did not sport this when last i saw you,” you hummed, pulling cregan from his thoughts. you smiled with the light of a thousand suns, ever the light of his life, as your gaze roved every detail of his face, a far-off look gleaming in them. what cregan wouldn’t give to see it grace your pretty lips for the rest of his days — for all the time the gods would allow him to remain by your side to witness it. and gods, had they grown fuller since he had left? pregnancy truly had treated you well.

“you always pestered me to grow it out, did you not?” cregan laughed quietly in a moment of recollection, his hand covering yours as it cupped his bearded jaw. a twinkle of your laughter filled the cold air, soaking into the trees like sunshine after a long winter’s night. it was the most beautiful sound cregan had ever heard.

“i will admit, it was a way to feel closer to you on the road,” he hummed softly, voice turning softer with the weight of his confession — as if, should he speak too loudly or too forthright, the sound of his voice may dampen the shimmer that seemed to remain in the air in the wake of your laughter. and cregan simply did not have the heart to overshadow such beauty.

“it reminded me of you, you know,” cregan murmured, a soft fluttering thing as he gently gathered your hands into the warmth of his grasp.

“it’s a welcomed change,” you sighed wistfully, a girlish admiration twinkling in your eyes, the radiance of your smile soaking into the soft lines of your face, burying the evidence of your joy such that it would never evade you again.

“you’re even more beautiful than the day i left you,” cregan sighed in awe, a smile of his own working its way onto his face for the first time in months. he stroked a thumb over the back of your hands, over the little band of wrought silver that encircled your finger — a promise, a testament, a reminder.

confusion was quick to set in however, as the compliment caused you to quickly avert your gaze as your allowed your hands to slips from with swath of his beard and the clutch of his large hands, and fall to your lap. there had been a time before the war that such a compliment would’ve had you beaming up at your lord husband with a smile brighter than the long summer’s sun. but now, it was received with what seemed to be shame.

“oh, please, cregan,” you huffed gently. it was a quick dismissal, a thing that came too easily for cregan’s liking, if the drawing of his dark brows downward into a contemplative frown was any judgeable evidence. “i’m not the same as when you left. i’ve become—”

a wide thumb tugging at your bottom lip was your interruption, a fleeting press of rough calluses and warm skin halting whatever blasphemy cregan knew would come pouring out in your moment of insecurity. and as his other hand buried its finger tips in the roots of your hair and cradled the back of your head, you could feel the devout tenderness that lingered within him still. it was a small comfort to be sure, but you couldn’t ignore the sinking of your heart as the weight of the months apart began to feel apparent.

you had changed. some little inkling of doubt wriggled its evil way deep into your heart, even though you knew it was your duty as his wife to give him children, to give yourself up to continue the stark bloodline, to ensure that the north would be guarded by the family who had acted as its warden since before the conquering of the this land by the old targaryen kings from old valyria — likely as early as the days of the first men. your marriage was still young after all, and the few months you had had with cregan before the war had been overshadowed by the very thing that tore him away from you. for when dragons fight dragons and the realm cleaves itself in two and armies march to an ensured doom, there is little time to discuss future wants and familial aspirations — especially, given cregan’s position, his duty to his people, to the rightful queen, to the realm.

and despite your best efforts, cregan could almost see the manifestation of your doubts — in the way you hung your head and allowed your hair, which was beautifully unburdened by plaits or decoration, to obstruct your features. in the way your hands wandered up your skirts to cover your swollen stomach — a poor attempt to hide your newly changed form from his observations, as if it would halt the criticisms that would never come to fruition from forming upon his tongue. cregan could see how deeply his absence had affected you, how going through pregnancy alone had instilled a hesitancy in love that you had once given so freely.

“oh, sweet girl,” cregan sighed, when his lips finally did part from yours and the guilt had wormed into some deep darkened pit of his very soul as he watched you whither before him. his voice was heavy with a longing that filled the space where your silence sat. the thought that you were anything less than beautiful was abhorrent to cregan’s heart, even if it remained unspoken. “i regret that i have given leave for this thought to flourish in my absence.”

“but it is true, cregan, i —”

“hush, my love,” cregan interrupted once more, a gentle swipe of his thumb along your lower lip silencing you in a moment. with the other, he covered your hand that still laid over the swell of your stomach and leaned closer to press a wary kiss to the plump curve of your cheek.

“you, my darling, have brought a light back to winterfell — one that i had thought was long extinguished. you breathe the promise of life back into her very walls. you are my light. you were when the war tore me from you,” cregan murmured, his voice growing huskier with each word, “and even now you shine ever brighter in my eyes.”

cregan’s blood ran hot through his veins as he pressed another kiss to your flushed skin — his time to your temple, your hair soft against his cheek as it fluttered about you in the wind. your eyes caught his as he pulled away, hand still lingering to where it had drifted — at the base of your neck — and it was then that cregan caught the glossiness that lingered in your eyes, tears inevitably building up within them at his words. a ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lip, a soft huff settling into the quiet of the moment, weighing it down even more than his words already had. you always had been such a sweet-hearted thing — soft and loving, and always his to honor, to defend, to protect, to guard, to love. oh, how could you not see?

“how could i shame the most divine beauty when she stares back at me so sweetly, hmm?” he murmured. his touch was gentle as it trailed from where he held your chin, fingers spanning the expanse of your face, thumb tugging lovingly at your lip, downward along the line of your neck, skimming your sensitive skin and pulse point alike, and up again, until finally his hand settled at the base of your pretty skull, fingers tangling in the loose roots. a delicate pressure built there as he gently tugged, pulling your head back and exposing your most sensual points to lips that immediately graced their surface. his breath was a delicious repose from the chill that had begun to work its way down your spine, replacing it with warmth as it fanned your neck.

“must i show you how beautiful you’ve become in my absence?” cregan murmured, a certain mirthful insolence snuck its way into his tone in between the kisses he placed to your skin. “must i show you what lengths your beauty drives me too, my darling? especially now?”

“cregan stark!” you gasped quietly. it was then that cregan realized you had abandoned your tears and instead fixed him with an incredulous gaze as you laid your hand to the sigil inlaid into the leather of his doublet, just above his heart, and gave a soft shove to his chest. “this is a holy place — you of all should know!”

“all the better,” cregan murmured, voice fully lowered an octave, the salacious syllables rolling like warm honey off his tongue — easy and saccharine. “perhaps then the gods will take those sweet little moans of yours as my sacrifice.”

a whimper nearly tore itself from your throat as cregan dragged his teeth along the skin of your neck playfully before suckling at the same spot, nursing the reddish hue to a deep purple as it bloomed on your skin.

“come now, my love, let’s give them a show of thanks for their mercy. for the gift of my dear lady wife.”

“cregan.”

his name was a whisper of a moan, a song so high and breathy, a sweet manipulation of your normally steady voice. it was a sweet thing that almost left cregan dizzy with the amount of blood that eddied out of his head the moment it left your lips, the distance from you leaving him so depraved that his heart had no choice but to redirect his blood flow… lower.

“they can’t hear you, my love,” cregan smirked as he withdrew from your neck, normally ice grey eyes turned dark like the brewing storm above — heavy and alight with a terrifying energy that set your heart beating furiously in your chest.

there had always been stories of the stark’s icy stoicism, of their stubbornness, their steady-handed rule and the silent ways in which they commanded respect — stories of their… fury. here, beneath the blood red leaves and the gods’ ever-watchful eyes, under the command of your lord husband and the way in which he seemed to hold you in the palm of his thick, warm, calloused hand, you thought that, perhaps, the stories rang true.

“you’ll have to be louder if you wish for their ear, darling,” cregan hummed as he leaned back on his haunches, allowing him room to find the hem of your heavy skirts. the simple caress of his fingertips was a welcomed sensation as they sent warmth radiating through your wool stockings as they roved your thighs, the back of your knee where your leg bent so prettily, anywhere his fingers could reach.

a glint of surprise flickered in his darkening gaze as he realized how much softer your legs had grown, how he could feel how wide they had become as they overwhelmed his grasp — even as large as his hands were. cregan felt the familiar ache of his heart clenching in his chest, the thought of your body unknowingly changing to better accommodate the life you fostered within it settling in, and the realization of just how strong you had grown under the added weight of your child… well, the thought drove cregan to madness.

cregan’s fingertips, as calloused and rough as they were, found the sumptuous splendor of your thighs, and the softness of them which pooled over the rippling cuff of your heavy stocking and the silken grey ribbon that struggled to hold them up. it was then, as cregan’s wartorn hands found the plush undersides of them and tugged until you rested on the edge of the wooden bench upon which you sat, that cregan made a note to fully explore the extent to which your heavenly body had changed later, away from prying eyes and without the furs and the wool and the loosened corsets and the heavy cotton hiding you from his hungry view. yes, he would ravage you later, of that he was sure. he had, after all, been taken from you for longer than he would’ve liked. but for the moment at hand, you were his to thank, to praise, to show how utterly sorry he was, to make up for time stolen by forces greater than himself.

“oh, gods, cregan!”

the warden of the north’s thumb was warm as it found your pearl, the rough callous providing a delicious friction which you had so dearly missed. your hands flew to grasp at his forearms for some semblance of stability, only to find the solid mass of bulging, corded muscle that was only softened by the weather worn leather and the heavy pelts that kept the pale, sculpted planes of cregan’s physique from your gaze.

perhaps, you were not the only one who had changed as a result of the months passed apart, you thought then, a blush collecting against the bridge of your nose and the tips of your ears. perhaps, the trials of sword and cold, the months of grueling battle and tedious marches, the dirt and the blood, had roughened your husband around the edges. perhaps, the months apart had not only softened you, but also hardened him into what now stood before you: your husband, an insatiable wolf whose grey eyes had gone soft as the dense fog that so often rolled over the mountains surrounding winterfell, as they beheld you at long last, whose warmth set your nerves ablaze, who’s love was so great it threatened to consume you whole as he hiked up your skirts and buried his head between your thighs.

the first swipe of his tongue was fire as it licked its way up between your swollen folds. the sensation was in direct opposition with the frigid chill of the air and the snow that began to gather in the soft strands of your hair like the southron crowns cregan had fought to place upon the brows of those who now seemed so utterly undeserving of them given the sight you now made.

“cregan!” you gasped again, utterly taken aback that he would choose to do this — this heinous act of lovely sin — here beneath the eyes of his gods, but too overwhelmed with the feel of his tongue and the heat of his mouth to form proper protest.

“i am right here,” cregan hummed deeply, his mouth leaving your core for a merely a moment, his words muffled by the heavy velvet, wool and cotton of your skirts. the reprieve was only momentary however, before your husband continued the waltz of his tongue through your folds and the assault of his kisses that had your core pulsing in protest to its emptiness, driving you mad with each beat of your heart.

and alas, there he was: between your thighs which he caressed with hands so diligent and kind. it was there that he knelt, with his knees in the blackened dirt and lips dripping with a nectar more sweet than any the gods could think to procure, with his shoulders bearing the weight of your calves, with his hands bared along the swell of your hip, that his tongue worked a song more beautiful than any lyre could hum from the beautiful column on your throat. it was there that he turned your body — in all its heavenly-wrought splendor and indulgent softness, with its every swell and curve and valley — into an altar of his own worship. there, beneath the crimson leaves, and the maroon sap which leaked slowly from its ivory bark, beneath icy flurry and darkening storm, beneath the eyes of the god’s which had brought you into his arms and beneath the cloak of the dire wolf and the fields of white and sage that cregan stark prayed.

cregan stark could live the rest of his life and be known by none other than the softness of your gaze, the heat of your lips and the honey of your mouth on his tongue, and the familiarity of your heart and still die a happy man. there was no better future than the one in which he was your husband, when he got to kneel before you, his lovely wife, and worship at the cradle of your thighs and the altar of your hips.

yes, cregan would die the happiest man in westeros. and he showed you just that. with every tug of restraint at your skirts, every swipe of his loving tongue, every reverent turn in the never-ending circles his thumbs to reverently traced into the softness of your flesh. and as he knelt and as his tongue set every fiber of your being alight with the pleasure he worked so diligently to pull from you, cregan pulled forth a sensation that had every ounce of sense eddying from your mind and a high, keening whine working its way from your throat.

frustration soon began to bleed into the pleasure as your hands searched for purchase in cregan’s tawny hair, only for the swell of your stomach to impede your desperate attempt to ground you to this — to him.

as if sensing the frustration that worked your fingers into a fist buried around the fabric of your skirts, cregan’s strong hand fully enveloped yours, guiding it to his shoulder, allowing you to feel the hulking mass of him, even through the thick furs donned in spite of the oncoming winter.

“i’m right here, my darling.”

it was such a minute gesture, to be sure — yet it was a gesture made all the more sincere as his tongue fixated its pursuit upon your hooded pearl and began to circle it in wet, tantalizing circles as the pads of his calloused fingers found your entrance.

“so wet for me, my girl.”

the mumbled hum of prideful admiration, though mostly lost in time with the electrifying pursuit he waged against your core, ensured that all remnants of the winter chill be driven from your mind and memory, grounding you to him. to him. only him.

“i’m right here, my darling.”

it was with those last final words, the heat of his mouth, the diligence of his tongue, and the deft precision of his fingers that you found your peak, pleasure a pleasant burn that engulfed you entirely and left your heavy bosom heaving for ragged gasps of cold winter air.

“oh good gods in heaven above! cregan!”

a warm chuckle was barely audible beneath your skirts and through the blur of your high, but its reverberations against your core were enough to have you lurching forward, fingers delving into the worn leather , thick wool and cotton, and the corded muscle of his shoulders alike.

soothing kisses were the next sensation that registered through the pulsing bliss that had yet to subside and which sent you reeling, grasping for any ounce of your husband to ground you to the present, to this albeit lovely moment with him beneath the weirwood tree. each one was a delicate bloom of warmth against your plush thighs. when had he pulled your stockings down? truthfully, you believed in that moment that you would never know.

“that’s my girl,” cregan murmured, voice low and husky. he had somehow resurfaced from the depths of your skirts, large calloused hands coming up to brush your wetness that still lingered in his beard, pink tongue peaking out to lap up whatever remained of his now shiny lips as he eyed you — with some lovesick reverence lingering in his gaze that fought with the greedy mischief that had dominated their icy gray depths only a moment ago.

through the ebbing haze of your pleasure and fluttering eyelashes alike you gazed back at him, nearly melted into his hand as he reached up to cup your cheek, its warmth all encompassing against the flushed surface of them — winter chill and burning pleasure making themselves both known.

“there she is. there’s my girl,” cregan hummed, his other hand beginning to draw circles along your backside where his hand still lingered, his thick arms still supporting the majority of your weight in tandem with the little wooden bench. he lowered his head as though he were making a vow to the king of westeros himself, neck craning to allow him to place a gentle kiss upon the swell of your stomach. “hello, love.”

“hello,” you swooned sweetly, voice pitched and breathless under his affections. a wide smile spread across your lips, open mouthed and pliant. it was a smile which cregan returned, in his own subtle and lopsided way.

“you know,” cregan mused, the mischief returning to his smile tenfold, snapping you out of your trance, your laughter ringing clear in the crisp air. “i believe they finally heard you, darling.”

“cregan stark!” you yelped, your hands gently pushing away from his shoulders in disbelief. though it did nothing to move the brawny, war-honed mass of thick, corded muscle that was your husband. “you are a scornful, greedy bastard!”

his laughter, a rare noise that seemed to rattle the very branches of the quiet forest with its deep radiant joy, echoed alongside yours. and when it quieted, his eyes found yours once more, his large hand cradling your own as he brought it from his shoulder to his lips.

a million or more men resided in westeros, but none loved more fully than cregan stark. he was the stuff of legend, the type of lord little girls read about with their septas in their fairytales and folklore and dreamed of for the rest of their days. perhaps, there was something to thank the gods for — the devotion, the nobility, the honor of your lord husband and the love that he harbored in his heart for all things, but especially you.

his hands were gentle as reached back beneath your skirts to pull your stockings back up over the swell of your thighs, tying the silken gray ribbons into bows with leisurely precision. and then he shifted his weight to place your feet fully on the ground once more, and grasped your hands to help you upwards with him as he stood.

“now, let’s get you inside, my love,” cregan hummed, now-gloved hands finding the collar of your cloak, hoisting it gently upwards to secure it about your shoulders, the long furs coating the collar tickling your jawline as he did so. “the storm is rolling in.”

“if that mattered to you, husband, you would not have taken me in the godswood,” you teased sweetly, with a purse of your lips and a setting of your jaw in faux protest to his obvious excuse to overwhelm you with his love, to herd you inside to the warmth of the fire and the comfort of a good meal. you would let him utterly consume you, you were sure, if only to feel the press of his warm lips against your skin, to watch his eyes catch ablaze when he beheld you, to feel the evidence of his love move within you, to know he loved you as clearly as you beheld him now — a stoic mass of warmth wholly attuned to you as the snow gathered in his hair and the blood red leaves rustled in the wind above.

“i believe the gods will be pleased with my tribute,” cregan teased, his hand trailing down, over your widened hips to settle upon the curve of your lower back, the light pressure he laid there enough to gather you against the thick wall of his leather-covered chest. “if i remember properly, sweet wife, you too were quite pleased with it as well.”

a warm chuckle sounded somewhere deep in his chest, as he watched you rest your forehead against the cool leather of his doublet sheepishly. cregan knew full well a wide, toothy grin bloomed on your face as well as his, despite your best efforts to hide it in leather and wolf’s fur and the wall of muscle that was your husband, knew it pulled at features he so dearly admired — the ever-so-faint lines that had begun to form in the corners of your eyes when you smiled, your eyes that no doubt shown with mirth, the sweet pull of your lips.

“you shouldn’t speak like that, my love,” you murmured, though any ounce of scolding tone that lingered in your voice was swallow by him as he encompassed you whole.

“aye, i shouldn’t,” cregan smiled warmly, voice even and subtle joy unshakeable. “but if done in pursuit of your heavenly smile, perhaps the gods can find it in their hearts to forgive a humble lord like me.”

the warmth of the cregan’s gloves was warm and soft against your skin as cregan placed itself beneath your chin and lifted until he could behold your smile in its truest form — the one that you reserved for him and him alone. foggy grey eyes darkened to a hazy storm of lust then as his true motives shone through, despite his best efforts.

“now, will you continue to be stubborn, my darling, or will you, at long last, allow me to take you to our chambers to show you the true extent of my utter gratitude?”

©𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐑𝐒 2025— do not steal, copy, repost or expand upon my works without my explicit permission. i do not give permission for any of my works to be fed to any sort of ai generator or otherwise.

#cregan stark x reader #cregan stark fanfic #cregan stark smut #cregan stark x you #cregan stark x y/n #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fan fiction #hotd #hotd fanfic #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire

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sweet-pea-channie · 2 months ago

Text

Yours, Elsewhere

Azriel x female!reader

Summary: A mission gone wrong hurls Azriel into a parallel Velaris. There, he meets a woman who knew him intimately in her world. As they search for a way to send him back, grief tangles with growing affection. He teaches her how to breathe again; she shows him a version of himself he never knew could exist. But the Cauldron is cracking, time unraveling. He must leave—or risk destroying everything.

Warnings: grief, past death of a loved one, emotional angst, mentions of trauma, memory loss, canon divergence. Bittersweet but healing.

Word count: 11.6k

A/N: I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of soul-deep connection, something that survives even across worlds. Writing this fic was a journey of emotion, comfort, and quiet hope, and I truly hope it resonates with you. Also, English is my third language, so thank you for your patience with any little mistakes along the way. I’m always learning, and I’m just grateful to be able to share this story with you. Thank you for reading 💙

The spell left her fingertips just as he vanished.

The witch’s lips moved in a frantic whisper, the ancient incantation torn from her throat like a last breath, desperate and reckless. Magic sparked blue at her hands, arcing like lightning across the broken altar stones. It twisted into the air, weightless and burning, then launched toward the night sky.

But Azriel was already gone.

He didn’t see the light flare behind him. Didn’t hear the way the wind screamed as it bent around the surge of power.

His wings beat once, powerful and sure, and then the shadows took him.

Velaris.

His destination shaped itself in his mind, rooftops glistening with dew, the scent of citrus and moonflower in the air. The shadows wrapped around him like silk, folding the world inward and then outward until the mountains welcomed him home.

His boots touched stone.

He exhaled slowly, the winnow sliding off his skin like a second breath. Easy. Clean. Just like always.

The balcony beneath him was familiar, high above the Sidra, at the top of the House of Wind. The air was sharp with pine and river mist, a spring breeze curling over the tiles.

He glanced up. And paused.

The stars were wrong.

Only slightly. Barely noticeable. But Azriel had flown these skies long enough to know every constellation, every shift in the heavens, they were old friends, silent sentries. And now, the stars blinked like strangers.

Frowning, he stepped forward, shadows curling idly at his heels. The door was unlocked. Odd. He stepped inside. The House was quiet. Too quiet.

Not in the peaceful way it usually was but empty. Hollow. As if no one had passed through in days. No scent of food, no lingering traces of Cassian’s boisterous laughter or Feyre’s paint-streaked energy. Just silence.

Azriel reached for the bond. Rhysand.

No answer. He stilled.

He pressed harder, pushing through the mental link, summoning the familiar pulse of his High Lord's mind.

Rhys. Come in.

Nothing. Like throwing a stone into water that didn’t ripple.

He tried again Cassian? Mor? but each attempt came back with the same flat silence.

A cold unease began to thread through his chest. The shadows responded immediately, rising like smoke along his shoulders, alert and watchful.

Something was off.

He launched into the skies again, this time gliding silently over Velaris. It looked... untouched.

The buildings were the same. The Sidra still shimmered like liquid silver beneath him. People walked the streets below. But when he dipped lower, he saw the way they looked up.

Saw the expressions that bloomed across their faces. Not awe. Not fear. Shock.

One woman clutched her child tighter to her side, eyes wide as she watched him pass. A group of males at a café stopped mid-conversation, staring. One stood abruptly, knocking over his chair, his mouth falling open.

Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter. He landed in an alleyway behind the familiar stretch of the Rainbow, his feet hitting cobblestone with barely a sound.

He turned toward the street, and froze. A shop window reflected him.

His armor, his blades, his shadows, all exactly as they should be. But behind him, in the glass, Velaris was... different. Too bright. Too sharp. Like the color had been turned up just a little too high.

He blinked. Turned. The illusion held.

No, he thought. Not illusion. Not glamour. This is real.

The truth whispered through him like a crack in the foundation. He was home. But something was wrong with home. The streets felt narrower here.

Or maybe it was the way people kept staring, some openly, some with barely concealed glances over shoulders, as if they’d seen a ghost and didn’t want to be rude about it.

Azriel kept to the shadows. He’d just rounded the edge of the Rainbow when he heard the gasp. A sharp inhale, half-shocked, half-sucked through clenched teeth.

He turned.

She stood beneath the awning of a flower stall, a spray of wild violets clutched in one hand, her other frozen mid-reach.

Human. Or maybe half-Fae. Familiar enough to recognize the expression on her face: recognition slammed into disbelief, then sank quickly into pale, careful confusion.

She didn’t speak at first.

Azriel gave her a cautious nod, not slowing his stride.

She took a step toward him. "That’s not funny."

He stopped. "I beg your pardon?"

She stared. “Who put you up to this?”

Azriel tilted his head, shadows coiling tighter around his boots. “No one put me up to anything.”

Her hand trembled, still gripping the stems. “You shouldn’t wear his, I mean, your armor. That’s... sick. Even for Cassian.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said evenly. “Who are you?”

Her brows drew together, uncertain now, brittle. “This isn’t funny,” she said again, softer this time. “Is this some sort of cruel Solstice prank?”

“I don’t play pranks.”

“No, he didn’t either,” she whispered. “Not like this.”

Something in her eyes shifted. The anger cracked, just a hairline fracture and beneath it, something raw flickered into view. Fear. Or maybe hope.

She dropped the violets.

Azriel stepped forward instinctively, but she flinched, then shook her head, waving him off like she couldn’t bear to be helped.

“This has to be a mistake,” she muttered. “Or... or a glamour. Are you-? No. You can’t be...”

She looked up at him again, really looked, and he watched her decide something.

“You need to come with me.”

Azriel hesitated. “Why?”

She didn’t answer, just turned on her heel.

“I don’t follow strangers,” he called after her.

She paused at the corner. “You’re not following a stranger.”

She looked back. And for a moment, her expression softened not quite fond, not quite grief-stricken, but edged in something that made his stomach twist.

“You’re following a friend of hers.”

Azriel’s wings rustled. “Her?”

“She’ll know what to do with you.” A beat. “Or... what’s left of her will.”

He didn’t like the sound of that.

But the shadows, ever attuned to unspoken truths, whispered go.

So he followed.

────────────

The children were covered in paint.

It wasn’t entirely her fault. The sun was warm, the breeze soft, and after a long week of rain and restlessness, she had promised them something fun. So the easels were out, brushes flying, water cups sloshing precariously on the garden stones.

Y/N knelt beside a little girl with wild curls and green streaks on her cheeks, helping her mix blue and white into a swirl of sky.

"Like this?" the girl asked, tongue between her teeth in concentration.

"Perfect," Y/N murmured, smiling. "That looks just like a cloud before it rains."

Laughter bubbled nearby. The world, for once, felt light enough to hold.

So she didn’t notice the footsteps at first. Or the quiet tension just beyond the garden gate. Not until a shadow crossed her canvas.

She looked up.

Her friend stood there, a strange expression on her face. Breathless, like she’d been running, though the walk from town wasn’t far. And behind her, half in the sun and half in the shade, stood a male Y/N hadn’t seen in a very long time.

Everything stopped.

The paintbrush slipped from her fingers. Her breath caught on the edge of his name, but she didn’t say it. Couldn’t.

He looked the same.

The armor, the blades, the face she’d memorized long ago. The face she still saw in dreams, the one she sometimes whispered to when sleep clung too tightly. But there was something missing. No recognition in his eyes. No quiet pull between them. Just… calm. Measured wariness. And then there were these things... shadows?

He wasn’t hers.

Not really.

Her friend stepped aside, watching her carefully.

Y/N rose slowly, brushing her hands against her apron out of habit, though streaks of dried paint still clung to her palms.

Azriel’s eyes followed the motion.

She didn’t speak. Not at first. She just stared.

And he stared back.

One of the children tugged on her sleeve. “Miss Y/N? Is that the scary man you told us stories about?”

A huff of laughter slipped from her friend, almost hysterical. Y/N managed a breath.

"No, sweetheart," she said quietly. "He’s not scary at all."

Azriel tilted his head. “You know me.”

She swallowed, forcing her eyes to stay dry. “Not you, exactly.”

He looked down for a moment, then back at her, something almost apologetic in the tilt of his brow.

"I'm not supposed to be here, am I?"

She took a step closer, heart pounding, unsure what to do with it all. The sight of him. The voice. The way her body recognized him even if he didn’t recognize her.

"No," she said. "But you're here all the same."

The breeze picked up, rustling through the garden. The scent of lilac and paint and spring.

She didn’t cry. Not yet.

But the world felt suddenly too full, and too empty, all at once. "Come inside," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "We need to talk."

And he followed her, just like he used to. Even if he didn’t know why.

Y/N kept her voice steady as she called over to the other caretaker, a soft-spoken male named Tarian who’d been helping with the younger ones that day.

“Arios, would you mind staying a little longer? I need to step away for a bit.”

He glanced up from where he was braiding daisies into a toddler’s hair, his expression gentle but curious. His eyes flicked briefly to the male standing behind her, then back. He didn’t ask questions. Just nodded once.

“Of course. Take all the time you need.”

She offered a grateful smile she didn’t feel, touched a child’s shoulder in passing, and turned.

“Follow me,” she said without looking back.

Azriel obeyed in silence.

The garden gave way to the winding path toward the cottage she used for art and quiet reading. It was set apart from the others, tucked between climbing roses and silver-barked trees. Each step she took seemed more uncertain than the last, but her posture stayed rigid, collected. Just enough to keep from unraveling.

Azriel’s eyes moved over everything as they walked.

The cobblestones here weren’t the same. Laid in a different pattern, slightly darker in hue, almost as if the rain had never stopped soaking into them. The flowering vines on the archway above them curled in unfamiliar directions, lavender in color where they should have been white. And the House of Wind, though distant, didn’t quite look like itself either. The cliffs cradled it too tightly. As if the mountains had shifted just enough to close their grip.

Velaris. But wrong.

Beautiful still, but subtly off. A painting that someone had copied from memory rather than life. Familiar and foreign in the same breath.

He could feel the magic in the air too. Not buzzing. Not screaming. Just trembling softly at the edges of everything, like a note held too long on a string.

His shadows had quieted, uncertain of what to guard against.

He studied the woman in front of him. She moved like she was trying not to feel. Like her heart had shattered and she'd pressed the pieces back in place with nothing but breath and willpower. She wasn’t crying. But the tension in her shoulders said she could, at any moment.

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice low but clear.

She didn’t stop walking.

“Absolutely not,” she said.

Her voice didn’t shake. It didn’t need to. The words landed like a stone in his chest.

Azriel let the silence stretch. Not empty. Not awkward. Just necessary. He understood grief. He lived in the shadows of it.

But this was something else. This was her past colliding with his present. And whatever version of himself had once belonged to this world, it was obvious that he had belonged to her.

And now, somehow, so did the weight of his absence.

They reached the door to the cottage. She paused with her hand on the knob, inhaling slowly, the breath catching like a thread snagged on glass.

She looked at him, truly looked. Not at the armor or the blades or the shadows, but at his face. Like she was trying to find something in it. Or make peace with the fact that she wouldn't.

Then she pushed the door open, stepped inside, and let the light swallow her.

Azriel followed.

And for the first time since arriving, he felt the world shift slightly again. Not the magic. Not the timeline. Just his own heart. Something had cracked open.

And he didn’t know yet whether it was meant to be sealed again, or stepped through.

The door clicked softly shut behind them.

Inside, the air was warm with the faint scent of paint and clay and something citrus-sweet, orange peel maybe, left out in a little bowl on the windowsill. Children’s drawings lined the walls, some framed with pressed flowers, others curling at the corners from age or love.

Azriel stood just inside, uncertain of the space but unwilling to impose.

Y/N moved slowly. Not towards him, but toward the shelf where the water pitcher sat. She poured herself a glass with steady hands. Didn’t offer one. Didn’t look at him. Just needed something to do.

Azriel let the silence hold for a moment before speaking.

“I don’t think this is my world,” he said quietly.

She glanced at him, then back at her glass.

“I figured.”

He nodded, stepping forward. The wooden floor creaked faintly beneath his boots. He stopped a few paces from her, careful not to cross whatever invisible line she needed right now.

“There was a mission,” he said. “We were tracking a rogue spell-weaver. A witch who’d been bending too many old laws. I...” He exhaled slowly. “I might’ve said the wrong thing at the wrong time. I made her angry.”

Y/N set her glass down but didn’t drink from it. “And?”

“She was casting something. Ancient magic. I interrupted her. I thought I’d stopped her in time.” He gave a small shake of his head. “But something must have hit me. Something… twisted.”

She finally looked at him then, brows slightly furrowed. “You’re saying she sent you here?”

“I think so,” he said. “Not on purpose, maybe. But the spell left her hands just as I winnowed. I landed in Velaris. But not mine.”

He looked toward the window, out at the sky that wasn’t quite the right shade, at the garden path that curved too gently.

“I knew the moment I saw the stars. They’re wrong here. Familiar, but rearranged. Like someone shuffled the sky when I wasn’t looking.”

She said nothing for a long beat. Then, softly, “You’re a Shadowsinger there?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“And who… who do you work for?”

Azriel’s mouth twitched slightly. “Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court. I’m his spymaster.”

Her breath caught. He could hear it, even with the distance between them. She looked down at her hands, fingers curling in against her palms.

He took a half-step closer. “I didn’t catch your name,” he said, his voice gentler now. “May I ask?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Swallowed.

Then, almost to herself, she said, “Your voice is exactly the same.”

Azriel went still.

Her eyes flicked up to his. “The way you speak. It’s like… like he’s standing here.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t know how to.

She closed her eyes briefly, as if the air itself had become too heavy.

“My name is Y/N,” she said finally. Quiet, but clear. “I used to mean something to you. I mean, to him. In this world.”

Azriel let the weight of it settle between them.

“I believe that,” he said.

Azriel’s eyes lingered on Y/N’s face, on the way she held herself just a little too still, like one wrong move might shatter the fragile calm she’d built around her.

“If you don’t mind,” he said carefully, “could you tell me more about this place? This version of Velaris. Is Rhysand the High Lord here too?”

Something shifted in her expression. Not shock. Just quiet confusion.

“Rhysand,” she repeated, as if tasting the name for the first time. “I’ve never heard that name before.”

That struck deeper than he expected. He kept his face impassive, but inside, a slow ripple of unease moved through him. Rhysand had ruled for centuries. If no one here knew his name…

“Then who rules the Night Court?” he asked.

“Lord Tharanis,” she said. “He’s been High Lord since before I was born.”

The name meant nothing to him. Not even a whisper of familiarity. Another piece of the puzzle that proved it beyond doubt, this world wasn’t just a copy. It was a divergence. A different thread entirely.

Y/N must have seen something in his face, because she stepped away from the table and crossed to one of the nearby shelves, tracing her fingers over the spines of a row of books without reading any of them.

“There’s a witch who lives near the cliffs on the eastern side of the city,” she said. “She studies old magic. Real old. Quiet about it, but good. We could ask her to help. Maybe she’ll know how to get you back.”

Azriel caught the way she said it. We. But the tone didn’t hold warmth. It was kindness, not invitation. She wanted him to leave.

He watched her closely now, the subtle tension in her shoulders, the way her hand paused over a small ceramic sculpture on the shelf but didn’t pick it up. She didn’t want to look at him again.

He took a step closer, his voice soft. “Are you afraid of what might happen if I stay?”

Her gaze stayed fixed on the shelf. “No.”

“Then what is it?”

Silence.

Then she turned, slowly. Her eyes met his, clear and unwavering.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said. “But you’re not supposed to be here. And… part of me keeps waiting for him to walk in.” She didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. “And he won’t.”

Azriel didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Her voice was steady now. Empty of drama, full of weight.

“My Azriel died,” she said. “Years ago. Not in battle. Not in glory. Just a quiet thing. Magic sickness. He didn’t even tell me until it was too far gone. He thought he could protect me from it.”

Her breath shivered at the edges.

“And he’s been gone long enough that I stopped dreaming of him. Until today.”

Azriel exhaled, low and slow. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Y/N gave the smallest nod, then sat down on the edge of a low bench, hands resting on her knees.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” she admitted. “You’re not him. But every time I look at you, my chest forgets that.”

Azriel lowered himself into the chair across from her. No armor between them now, no title. Just two people caught in something too large to name.

“I’ll help you find a way home,” she said again, quieter this time.

But Azriel wasn’t sure if she meant it for his sake, or hers. Maybe both. And maybe neither of them knew what it would cost when the way opened.

────────────

The room was small but clean. Simple linens on the bed, a chipped blue vase on the windowsill with a few sprigs of dried lavender tucked inside. The shutters creaked faintly in the wind as Azriel stood at the window, arms folded, staring out at the river.

The Sidra glittered under the early evening light, silver and shadowed, the current moving slow as syrup. In his Velaris, it danced faster. The curve of it was a touch different too, this one bent around a cluster of buildings that shouldn't exist. The skyline was off by inches, by centuries. He couldn’t stop cataloging it.

His shadows whispered around him, brushing the walls, curling through the corners of the room like restless thoughts. They brought him details he hadn’t asked for. The smell of something baking three floors below. The hushed footsteps of a couple arguing in the hallway. The flick of a candle being snuffed out in a room across the street. And whispers — always whispers — carrying scraps of names, old magic, things his mind could barely catch before they slipped away.

But he couldn’t focus.

He watched the light shift on the water, caught between the golden pull of sunset and the first hints of stars above. Stars that didn’t belong to him.

How many versions of Velaris were out there? How many Azriels? In this one, he had lived. Loved. And died.

He turned away from the window, ran a hand through his hair, let his fingers drag over his jaw.

He’d seen grief in Y/N’s eyes, coiled tight under her calm. But what haunted him more was the way she looked at him, like her heart didn’t know how to tell the difference yet.

He wanted to ask her. Everything. What he had been like. What he’d done. What they’d been.

But some part of him worried that asking would crack her open, and he wasn’t sure she’d ever put herself back together again.

Still, the questions clawed at him.

He needed to know. If not from her, then from someone who hadn’t loved that version of him with their whole chest.

His mind returned to the woman from earlier, the friend who’d brought him to Y/N in the first place. Sharp-eyed. Suspicious. Protective. She knew more than she’d said.

And if he and Y/N were going to visit the witch tomorrow afternoon, then this was his only chance to find answers before everything shifted again.

Azriel strapped his knives back onto his belt, out of habit more than necessity, and cast one last glance toward the Sidra.

The sky was deepening, thick with color. A world of strangers, and one familiar soul. He slipped into the shadows. And went looking for the truth.

Azriel found her near the edge of the old market, tucked behind a row of shuttered stalls. She stood alone by a railing that overlooked the Sidra, arms crossed tightly as she watched the river move in silence. The lanterns from the lower paths cast flickers of gold against her dark coat.

He didn’t try to be stealthy. He wanted her to see him coming.

She did.

“You’re not exactly subtle,” she muttered, her gaze flicking to his armor, his shadows, the stillness in the way he moved.

“I wasn’t trying to be,” Azriel said, stopping a few steps away.

She exhaled, jaw set. “If you’re looking for Y/N, she’s not here.”

“I came to talk to you.”

She hesitated. “Why?”

“Because I need to understand what this place is. What he was.”

The muscles in her arms tightened where they crossed. “You don’t get to dig through his life like it’s a map back to yours. He wasn’t a version of you. He was someone… And that someone was married to her.”

The moment the word left her mouth, her expression shifted, a slight widening of her eyes, as if she’d only just realized what she’d said.

Azriel’s voice was quiet. “Married?”

She flinched but didn’t deny it. Didn’t backtrack.

“Yes,” she said. “Since they were hundred-twenty-four.”

His breath caught. The word sat in his chest like a stone, unfamiliar and too big to ignore.

She watched him carefully. Noticing, perhaps for the first time, the way he didn’t quite stand like the Azriel she knew. How he held tension in his body like it was armor. How the shadows around him didn’t just cling — they listened.

“You really don’t know anything about this world, do you?” she said, softer now.

“No,” Azriel admitted.

And then, slowly, like the weight of his surprise had unlocked something in her, she began to speak.

“They grew up together. Their fathers were old friends, your father was a smith, hers a spice merchant. They were just… always around each other. Always in each other’s orbit. You used to tease her for stealing fruit off your plate. She used to braid flowers into your hair when you fell asleep in the fields behind her house.”

Azriel listened in silence, the image unfolding before him like a story written in a hand he almost recognized.

“He became a soldier,” she said. “Not a Shadowsinger, he didn't have those shadows. Just a fighter. Loyal. Brave. A little reckless, when it came to her.”

Azriel’s hands were still at his sides, but his knuckles had gone pale.

“He loved her,” she went on. “More than anything. He was quieter than most of the other males we grew up with. Thoughtful. Steady. But gods, when he looked at her…”

She trailed off, blinking fast.

Azriel said nothing. There was something raw sitting in his throat, but he didn’t know what name to give it.

“They were married under the spring cherry trees,” she added after a moment. “I stood beside her. I watched him shake when he kissed her.”

He closed his eyes briefly. The breeze off the Sidra caught the edge of his coat, pulling it slightly. His shadows stayed close, hushed, as if mourning someone they’d never met.

“He died nine years ago,” the friend said finally. “It wasn’t his fault. But it didn’t matter. She hasn’t been the same since.”

Azriel’s voice was barely above a whisper. “And now I’m here.”

She looked at him again, really looked, and for the first time, her eyes softened. “You’re not him,” she said. “But you’re not nothing either.”

Silence stretched between them, and Azriel breathed through the ache of it.

“I don’t want to hurt her,” he said.

“I know,” she answered.

And they stood together at the edge of a world where two lives had almost, impossibly, collided.

Y/N shut the door behind her, turned the lock with trembling fingers, and let her back fall against the wood.

For a long time, she didn’t move.

Velaris was quiet beyond the window, the kind of stillness that always came after the children's laughter faded and the lanterns blinked to life across the Sidra. But the city felt foreign now. Tilted somehow. Too sharp in its familiarity. Like someone had redrawn the lines of everything she'd learned to live with.

She pressed a hand to her cheek and felt the tears that had dried there. She hadn't even noticed when they'd fallen.

Slowly, her feet carried her into the room that used to be theirs.

The walls were warm with the same soft blue he used to say reminded him of summer skies. Her fingers brushed the edge of the dresser, skimming over the old glass bottles and the cluster of pressed flowers still sealed in a frame.

She reached for the drawer beneath the bed. It groaned softly in protest. And there it was. The painting.

A small canvas, edges frayed from being held too many times. A portrait, clumsy, rough-edged, painted on a spring afternoon years ago when the breeze kept stealing her brush and he wouldn’t stop laughing. She’d made him sit still for it, half-scowling, half-grinning. His hand was on hers in the picture, even though she’d never meant to paint that part.

She cradled it in both hands now, sinking slowly to the floor, her back against the side of the bed. Her forehead pressed to the edge of the frame.

He looked so young in it. And now he was standing in her world again. Breathing again. Looking at her with the same eyes but none of the memory.

She had told herself she was fine. That she could handle this. That helping him find his way home was the right thing to do.

But the truth hit her like a blow to the ribs. He wasn’t her Azriel. Her Azriel was gone.

Gone in a way that left the world quieter. In a way that had hollowed out parts of her she’d never been able to refill. And now this new one, this stranger who wore his face and spoke with his voice, had stepped into her life like the echo of a dream she’d spent years trying to forget.

It was too much.

Her hand curled around the bottom of the frame, and her breath hitched.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to breathe around you.”

A shadow slipped through the crack beneath the door.

She didn’t see it. Didn’t feel the gentle shift in air as it moved, curious, cautious. It hovered in the corner of the room, keeping its distance like it understood grief by instinct alone.

She pressed her face into her knees, shoulders shaking.

“I miss you,” she whispered. “I miss you every day.”

The shadow watched, then slipped back through the wood and stone, weaving between alleys and eaves, past flower boxes and lit windows, all the way across Velaris.

It found him at the inn, standing at the window again, still staring at the stars that didn’t belong to him. And when it reached him, it didn’t speak. It didn’t have to.

He felt the truth curl against his ribs as the shadow touched his shoulder, cold with the ache of her.

She was crying.

And somehow, the sound of it broke something open in him too.

────────────

The sun was warm where it filtered through the trees, casting soft shadows across the cobblestone walk. Azriel stood near the gate of the care station, wings tucked in, hands clasped loosely behind his back as he waited.

He didn’t have to turn when he felt her approach. The shadows told him before her footsteps ever reached the stone.

Y/N’s pace was steady, but her shoulders were a little higher than usual, her chin set with quiet resolve. Her eyes met his as she stopped beside him, and for a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.

Then Azriel offered a soft, “How are you doing today?”

She looked at him for a long moment, then gave a small, honest smile. “Coping,” she said. “But… it’s hard. Seeing you like this. Every time I look at you, my heart forgets, for just a second, and then it remembers all over again.”

Azriel nodded, gently. “That makes sense. I'm sorry you have to go through this all."

She glanced at him sideways, searching. “And you? How are you doing in a world that doesn’t quite know you?”

His mouth lifted slightly. “Figuring it out as I go. Trying not to get too attached to the wrong sky.”

That surprised a breath of laughter out of her, small, but real.

“I thought maybe,” he said, “you’d feel better if I distracted you a little.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” she admitted, her voice softer now.

They fell into step, walking side by side down the shaded street that led toward the edge of the city.

“You mentioned a High Lady,” she prompted after a pause. “You really have one in your world?”

Azriel nodded. “Feyre. She’s my High Lady, and Rhysand’s mate.”

Y/N blinked, eyes wide. “You have a mated High Lady?”

“We do,” he said. “And she earned it. She was mortal once. Human. Fought through war and death to save our kind. Rhysand gave her the title because she earned her place beside him. Not behind. Not beneath. Beside.”

Y/N shook her head slowly, clearly captivated. “I’ve never even heard of a female high ruler. In our court, the males still hold the bloodlines. Always have.”

“Feyre shattered that,” Azriel said with quiet pride. “And she didn’t do it alone. Mor helped guide her. Amren too. Powerful females, each in their own way.”

Y/N’s brows lifted. “You’re surrounded by strong women.”

He gave a faint, rueful smile. “That’s an understatement.”

The wind stirred as they turned onto a narrower path lined with stone lanterns.

“I think I would’ve liked your Feyre,” she said after a moment.

“She would’ve liked you too,” he said. “She sees people. The quiet strength in them. The ache they carry. She would’ve seen yours right away.”

Y/N looked at him then, really looked, and for a brief moment, the weight behind her eyes eased.

Ahead, the path curved upward toward the rise of a mossy hill. At the top stood a narrow building nestled in wisteria vines, its windows darkened with age, a carved raven perched over the lintel.

“She’s in there?” Y/N asked.

Azriel nodded. “I can feel the wards already.”

They stopped at the base of the hill.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Are you?”

She took a breath that trembled slightly. Then nodded.

And together, they climbed toward the witch who might hold the answers, and the thread that would lead him home, or unravel everything they’d just begun to hold.

The climb slowed as they reached the top of the hill. The weight of the city seemed to fall away behind them, replaced by the heavy scent of moss and wildflowers. The air was cooler here, still enough that the faint rustle of leaves sounded like a secret waiting to be shared.

Azriel glanced at Y/N. She stood a few steps ahead, shoulders squared but tension visible in the tight set of her jaw, the way her fingers curled lightly at her sides.

He shifted, shadows flickering softly around his ankles, a quiet reminder of the darkness he carried and the light she tried to protect.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly.

She looked back, surprise flickering in her eyes, but her voice was steady. “I don’t know any other way forward.”

He nodded, stepping closer, feeling the subtle tremor in her breath. “Whatever happens in there, I want you to know...”

She cut him off with a small, sad smile. “You already know. It’s not the witch I’m afraid of. It’s what comes after.”

Azriel’s fingers itched to reach for hers, but he held back. “Then we face it together.”

She swallowed, eyes drifting to the carved raven above the door. “I’m not sure if I’m brave enough.”

“You’re braver than you think,” he said, voice low enough that only she could hear.

They stood side by side, the silence stretching between them like a fragile thread. Azriel’s shadows curled protectively, sensing her fear, her hope, and the impossible bond that held them here, tangled between loss and the chance at something new.

Y/N took a shaky breath, and without another word, she lifted her hand and knocked.

The door creaked open slowly, revealing a dim interior that smelled of damp stone, dried herbs, and something older, the scent of magic that had been rooted there long before Velaris rose around it.

The witch was already waiting.

She stood at the center of the room, pale hair swept into a thick braid, her eyes the color of moonstone. Everything about her felt quiet and vast, like a pond with no surface ripple — but Azriel felt the power gathered beneath her skin like coiled smoke.

“You’re not from here,” she said before they even stepped inside.

Azriel inclined his head. “No.”

She gestured them in, and the door shut behind them with a breathless hush. Y/N hovered just behind him, silent, wary.

“Explain,” the witch said, voice like frost curling up a windowpane.

Azriel took his time. He told her about the mission. The witch he’d cornered. The way she screamed in an old tongue as she’d vanished into shadow. The spell that had struck as he was winnowing away. And the moment he landed in Velaris only to find that the stars were wrong and nothing quite fit.

The witch listened without interrupting. When he finished, she moved to the shelves lining the curved wall, fingers gliding over jars and scrolls like she already knew what she’d find.

“That’s weaving magic,” she murmured. “Time-threading. Ancient. Nearly extinct.”

Azriel’s brow furrowed. “You recognize it?”

“Barely,” she replied. “It’s old enough that even most witches have only read about it in theory. Which means the one you angered was exceptionally trained… or dangerous beyond sense. Or both.”

Y/N swallowed, watching the way the witch’s shoulders tightened.

“So what does that mean?” she asked quietly. “Is there a way to undo it?”

The witch turned, scroll in hand. “Maybe. But not quickly. This kind of casting unravels space around it, rips a hole through layered time. You’re not just misplaced, Shadowsinger. You’re displaced. And you’ve dragged the thread of your world with you.”

Azriel stilled. “What are you saying?”

The witch looked at him like a storm just waiting to form. “The Cauldron can only bear so much. When a being slips through timelines like this, especially one bound to another world, another rhythm, the strain begins to tear at the core of everything. Realms blur. Boundaries weaken. If you stay much longer, the damage could become… irreversible.”

Y/N’s breath left her in a slow, unsteady exhale.

The witch's voice dropped lower. “One wrong soul in the wrong timeline is a ripple that doesn’t end. Eventually, the Cauldron cracks. And if that happens, it won’t be just you or this world that falls. The entire weave could collapse, all timelines, all lives. Every version of you. Every version of you and her.”

She didn’t have to gesture toward Y/N for the words to land like a blade.

Azriel’s voice was quiet. “Can you fix it?”

The witch hesitated. “I can try. I’ll need time. And help. I’ll reach out to every coven that still remembers the old languages. But we’re not talking about days. You have to be ready when the moment comes, and it will come suddenly. We may only get one chance.”

Azriel nodded once. “Understood.”

The witch gave him a long, unreadable look. Then turned her gaze to Y/N.

“I don’t need to ask how much it hurts to see him,” she said. “But I do need you to understand that if you keep trying to hold him here, even with your heart, the cost might not stop with you.”

The silence that followed was heavy. The kind that broke bones.

Y/N didn’t speak as they left the witch’s house. Not at first.

But when they reached the edge of the hill, with Velaris spread beneath them like a world pretending to be whole, she finally whispered, “You really do have to go.”

And Azriel, who had watched the edges of her tremble and steel themselves with quiet dignity, didn’t argue.

He simply said, “I know.”

The sun had shifted lower by the time they made their way down the hill, painting Velaris in a watercolor haze of lilac and pale gold. The path was narrow, flanked by wild heather and whispering grass, the city glittering below like a dream waiting to be remembered.

Y/N walked beside him in silence, gaze flicking to the horizon, her jaw tight with thought.

Azriel didn’t speak. He could feel the tension in her steps, the storm moving behind her quiet eyes. It was a familiar silence, but not a comfortable one. This wasn’t the silence they’d shared in the witch’s house, filled with fear and consequence. This one was quieter. Raw. Human.

“I know it’s dangerous,” she said suddenly, voice low, like she wasn’t quite ready to admit it out loud. “I know you shouldn’t be here. I understand what’s at stake, what could break because of this.”

He glanced at her, but she kept her eyes forward.

“And still,” she breathed, “some part of me was hoping you could stay. Just a little while longer.”

Azriel’s heart thudded against his ribs. He said nothing, waiting.

Y/N shook her head, her voice thinning with guilt. “It’s selfish. I didn’t even think about… Oh gods...” she stopped walking and turned to him, wide-eyed. “Is someone waiting for you back home?”

Azriel blinked. Then slowly, gently, he said, “No. No one like that.”

She looked away, swallowing hard, but not before he saw the flicker of relief that passed through her features. Relief and shame.

“My family,” he added, softer, “my court. They’ll be worried. But they can wait a bit longer… if staying here means I might help you heal.”

Y/N’s lips parted, but the words didn’t come. Her throat bobbed with the effort to speak.

“I won’t force anything,” Azriel went on. “While we wait for the witch to find a way back, it’s your choice. If you want me to stay away, I will. If it’s easier to forget I’m here, I’ll disappear into the city and you won’t see me again until it’s time.”

She looked at him now. Fully. The grief in her eyes shimmered, but so did something else. Something fragile and reaching.

“But,” he said, the barest trace of a smile curling at the edge of his mouth, “if you think maybe… maybe we could spend some time together, even just as strangers, I’d like that too.”

Y/N stared at him, and then, slowly, her lips curved into a faint, wistful smile.

“There were things,” she whispered, “my Azriel never had time for. Little things. I always told him we had forever.”

Azriel took a breath, feeling the tightness in his chest ease.

“Then let me do them with you,” he said. “I have time.”

The city glowed warmer below them now, the river catching the last light of day.

Y/N nodded once, more to herself than him. “He never got to learn how to paint. Or dance without armor on. Or ruin a cake recipe just because he always wanted to.”

Azriel chuckled, a low, quiet sound that made her eyes brighten.

“I’m excellent at ruining recipes,” he said. “That one I’ve already mastered.”

Y/N laughed — and it cracked something open.

They kept walking.

This time, they walked slower.

────────────

The next day dawned pale and bright, the kind of morning that smelled like clean air and promise. Velaris stirred gently to life as Azriel made his way to the care station, a small satchel slung over one shoulder, shadows curling lazily along his collar like drowsy cats.

The children spotted him first.

Cries of delight broke out across the garden as a handful of small figures dashed toward the fence, little hands waving, eyes wide. Y/N stood under the canvas awning that shaded the painting tables, her apron already dotted with a dozen different colors. She looked up, and despite everything — the pain, the weight of yesterday — her smile came easily.

“You came,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

“I said I would,” Azriel replied, glancing around. “Besides, I’m here to ruin your art supplies.”

“You’re about to be in a lot of trouble,” she warned playfully, already handing him a paintbrush.

The table was covered in bright pots of color, paper curling in the corners from the morning breeze, little hands dipping brushes into everything at once. Azriel found himself seated between two wide-eyed children, both whispering about how tall he was.

“Are you a warrior?” one of them asked.

“Sometimes,” he said, lips twitching.

“He’s going to paint with us today,” Y/N said from across the table. “Be nice.”

Azriel dipped his brush into something bright pink and started dragging uneven strokes across his page. Purposefully clumsy, exaggeratedly bad. The kids giggled with delight as his “painting” became a lopsided blob with what might’ve been wings.

“This is terrible,” Y/N said, leaning over his shoulder.

“I warned you.”

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

He didn’t reply.

Her voice lowered. “You’re better than this, aren’t you?”

He looked up, surprised to find her gaze already waiting for him. Calm. Patient. A little amused.

Azriel sighed. “A little.”

“Then paint something real.”

He blinked. “Real?”

“Something that reminds you of home.”

The children were still lost in their own work, but Y/N had settled across from him now, eyes steady, hands stained blue at the knuckles.

Azriel picked up a clean sheet, silent for a long moment. Then he began.

His brush moved slowly, deliberately this time. Thin strokes forming shadows first, not harsh, not frightening, but soft, layered darkness like the kind that gathered under quiet trees. Then came the mountains, sharp and proud, painted in indigo and deep green, rising in the distance.

A sky filled in next. Not just blue, but dotted with constellations, each one placed with careful reverence.

At the center, a single stone balcony, draped in ivy and overlooking a silver river. There were no people. Only light. Stillness.

Y/N didn’t say a word while he worked. She watched, hands folded in her lap.

When he was done, Azriel set the brush down and sat back.

“That’s the House of Wind,” she said quietly.

He nodded once. “It’s where I feel most like myself.”

She looked at the painting for a long time. “It’s beautiful.”

His voice was soft. “Thank you.”

There was a quiet between them, warm and full, not the silence of absence, but of something being gently built. In the background, a child was explaining to another that Azriel’s first painting was definitely a dragon.

Y/N smiled. “Tomorrow, you’re baking.”

Azriel raised a brow. “I’m what?”

“Ruining a recipe,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Like you promised.”

He chuckled, a low sound that stirred something in her chest.

“All right,” he murmured. “But only if you help me clean up the disaster.”

Y/N leaned her chin on her hand, watching him.

“Deal.”

Azriel wiped his hands on the edge of his tunic, smirking faintly at the streaks of paint across his skin. Most of it was probably from the children, but some, he admitted, was definitely from him.

“Should I help clean this up?” he asked, glancing at the mess of paper, drying brushes, and tipped-over jars of color.

Y/N had already started stacking the unused paper. She looked up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“No, you don’t have to. You’re a guest.”

“I insist,” he said simply.

She hesitated, then laughed under her breath. “You’re very stubborn, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

With a small shake of her head, she handed him a cloth. “Fine. Wipe the brushes gently. We try to save them as long as possible.”

Azriel took the cloth, his hands deft and steady as he followed her instructions. They moved quietly beside each other, the easy rhythm of shared work wrapping around them. For a while, it felt almost ordinary. Light spilling in through the awning, soft laughter still trailing across the yard.

Then, suddenly-

“Miss Y/N!”

A small voice broke across the space.

One of the children, a little boy with untied boots and paint on his chin, came barreling up to them. His eyes were wide, worried.

“It’s Lyla,” he panted. “She fell. Her knee’s bleeding. She’s behind the swings.”

Y/N’s face changed instantly — concern replacing ease. She set down the brushes and knelt to the boy’s level, brushing his curls back gently.

“Is she crying?”

He nodded. “A little.”

“Good job coming to get me,” she said, squeezing his shoulder before rising and heading off across the garden.

Azriel watched her go. The way she crouched beside the small, crumpled shape near the swings, her hands soft as she checked the child’s knee, her voice low and steady. The boy hovered near them the whole time, guilt in every line of his little frame. She pulled him close too, one arm wrapping around each sibling as she whispered something only they could hear.

Azriel didn’t know what it was, but both children clung to her like roots to soil.

He didn’t look away.

Not when she kissed the girl’s forehead. Not when she helped them both stand. Not when she walked back across the grass with her braid loose and her cheeks a little flushed from the sun.

“She’ll be all right,” Y/N said as she reached him again. “Nothing serious. A scrape and a fright.”

“You’re good with them.”

She gave him a small smile. “They’re easy to love.”

Azriel’s mouth twitched. “So are you.”

She froze just slightly. He looked away, but the words lingered between them, soft and unthreatening. Like a truth neither of them needed to acknowledge yet.

“I should let you go,” she said gently. “You’ve spent enough of your day here.”

Azriel’s brows lifted. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”

Y/N tilted her head. “You really don’t?”

He shook his head once. “Not until the witches find a way home. And even then…” He looked around at the garden, the half-dry paintings, the swing swaying slightly in the breeze. “I don’t mind being here. Not at all.”

Something in her chest eased. Not everything. But something.

“I could tell them a story,” Azriel said then. “If they’re tired. Something from my world. I could… make it sound like a fairy tale.”

Y/N studied him for a long moment. “You know any stories with dragons and starlight?”

He gave her a rare, small smile. “I know one with a High Lady who turned a battlefield into a blooming field of moonflowers.”

The surprise in her eyes turned to delight. “Go on, then. They’ll love that.”

Azriel turned toward the group of children now gathering under the big tree near the edge of the garden. The sun had shifted again, dappling light through the leaves, and as he sat down in the grass, a dozen eager faces leaned closer.

He looked back once, just briefly.

Y/N stood nearby, arms crossed loosely, watching him.

For the first time in a long time, in either world, Azriel let himself settle.

────────────

The wind howled low through the canyons of Velaris, carrying with it something strange, a pulse beneath the air, as if the city had drawn breath and forgotten how to exhale.

In a dim, windowless chamber beneath her ivy-covered cottage, the witch worked.

Scrolls lined every surface. Spellbooks lay open to pages so brittle they nearly crumbled beneath her hands. Runes flickered along the floor in fading gold, ancient symbols drawn in circles of salt and powdered quartz. Candles burned with sickly blue flames, their wax dripping sideways, as if gravity itself was beginning to tilt.

Her fingertips trembled. She had felt it again. The Cauldron.

Not in a dream, not in a vision, but in her own bones, a thunderous crack of power, distant but real. Like a ripple through the ocean of time itself. One timeline brushing too close to another, dragging its weight behind it.

She dropped the crystal she had been scrying with. It shattered.

“Damn it,” she hissed, rising to pace the circle.

Magic swirled in the corners of the room, uneasy. The Cauldron did not like to be tampered with. It hated interference, especially from mortals who meddled with the delicate weave of fates not meant to cross.

And yet… someone had done just that.

A witch. Skilled enough to rip one Azriel from his thread and toss him into the wrong tapestry.

And now, the Cauldron was fraying. Not yet breaking. But it would. Soon.

She raised her hands again, whispering the tracing spell. The map of timelines floated before her, glowing strings dancing in the air. One line flickered, silver and pulsing. Azriel’s.

It crossed where it should not.

“I need more time,” she murmured, eyes scanning a dozen different volumes, trying to remember where she had last seen the binding rite. “Just a little more…”

Outside, the wind shifted again, dry and sharp with something like heat. Magic was unraveling. And if she couldn’t fix it… The worlds would bleed.

In the meantime, Velaris held its breath in quieter ways.

The sun filtered through clouds like gold poured from a pitcher, softening the sharp edges of the city. Along the Sidra, the river murmured to itself, weaving through stone bridges and glass-lit walkways as if it had never heard of timelines or cracking Cauldrons.

At a quiet corner café by the water’s edge, Y/N sat across from Azriel, a half-eaten slice of honeyed pear tart on the plate between them.

Azriel had no idea how she’d convinced him to try it, only that the moment she wrinkled her nose and said, “You’ve never had this before?” he’d already agreed. Her smile had done most of the work.

Now, he sipped warm tea from a delicate mug far too small for his hands, letting the sweetness linger on his tongue. The sun caught in his hair, in the curve of her cheek as she laughed at something he didn’t know he’d said quite that funny.

He didn’t think about the witch’s warning. Or the ripple he felt in his shadows earlier that morning. Not right now.

“You’re staring,” Y/N said, her voice light but not teasing.

Azriel blinked, caught. “Just listening,” he said softly, and her expression flickered with something warmer than the sun.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly shy. “To what?”

“The river. Your laugh. Everything.”

That earned a softer smile. Not the kind she gave the children or her friend or even the strangers in the market. This one was quieter. More uncertain. Like she didn’t quite know where to put it.

Their plates sat between them, a shared little mess of tart crust and berry stains.

Azriel leaned back slightly, watching the boats drift past on the Sidra, their sails bright against the water. His wings were folded, his shadows quiet.

“How do you do it?” he asked after a pause.

“Do what?”

“Live like this. After everything.”

Y/N stirred her tea, eyes on the rippling water. “Some days I don’t. Not fully. But then… the sun still rises. The children still laugh. And someone has to be there to hear it.”

Azriel looked at her for a long time. Then, with a faint smile, he said, “I’m glad it’s you.”

Her gaze met his, steady and unsure at once. “And I’m glad you’re here.”

Azriel set his mug down, fingers brushing the rim once before he leaned forward slightly, voice soft in the lull between river sounds and city life.

“You know, back home,” he said, “Feyre, the High Lady, she painted stars on the ceiling of her house. Said they reminded her of hope. I never really understood that until I saw them in the dark once. Alone.”

Y/N smiled faintly, resting her chin in one hand. “And do they remind you of hope?”

Azriel’s gaze lifted to the river, to the way the light danced like silver thread along the surface. “They did,” he said. “Still do.”

But her eyes weren’t on the river.

They had fallen to his hands, gloved as always, even in the warm air. The fabric was worn, the seams faintly frayed at the knuckles. But where the glove slipped back from his wrist, she could just make out the beginning of raised skin. Scars. Twisting like old fire, etched deep and permanent.

Her Azriel didn’t have those scars.

She wondered how far they went. Up to his knuckles? His fingers? Were they from a battle? A punishment? A childhood that had taken more than it ever gave?

She didn’t ask. It wasn’t hers to know, not yet. And maybe not ever.

But something in her chest ached anyway, because she could feel how heavy it must be. Whatever weight those gloves hid, it pressed into the silence between them like an old bruise.

Azriel had noticed her glance. He always noticed.

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift to hide. He only lifted the cup again, held it steady between those gloved hands.

Y/N looked up quickly, catching his gaze.

“I won’t ask,” she said, the words barely above a whisper. “But… I see you.”

Azriel stilled.

And then, with a quiet breath, like the softest exhale of his shadows, he nodded. “Thank you.”

They didn’t speak again for a while. Not because there was nothing to say, but because something deeper was already being understood.

Y/N sat with her legs tucked beneath her on the bench seat, a smile playing at her lips as she watched a little boy toddle past with a string tied to a stick, his makeshift dragon clattering behind him across the cobblestones.

“He reminds me of my brother,” she said suddenly, gaze drifting.

Azriel looked over from where he was peeling apart a croissant. “You have a brother?”

“I do,” she said, still smiling, though there was a soft melancholy to it. “He's in another court now. Duty called him. But before that, he was a terror. In the best way.”

She turned toward him, chin resting on her hand. “We used to sneak honey cakes from the summer festivals. Hide them in the garden under the old peach tree and pretend we were squirrels storing food for winter. Of course, we’d eat them all by sunset. I always had the crumbs on my face, and he never took the blame. Not once.”

Azriel chuckled quietly. “Did you get caught?”

“Every time. My father pretended not to know, but he’d bring out extra sweets at dinner. Said something about growing appetites.” She paused, her eyes twinkling. “That peach tree is still there. Overgrown and wild, but every year, it blooms just the same.”

Azriel watched her as she spoke — the way her hands moved, how the sunlight caught in her hair, how her voice lightened as the story unfolded. There was something brighter in her now. A part of her that had been submerged in grief when he first arrived, now slowly surfacing.

She didn’t look fragile anymore. She looked real. Whole, in a new way.

He smiled, quiet and genuine. “You loved him.”

“With everything,” she said. Then, after a breath, “Like I loved him.”

Azriel’s expression shifted, softening even more. “You’ve been smiling more,” he said.

Y/N glanced at him, caught off guard. “I have?”

He nodded, his shadows curling lazily along the floor beneath the table. “You laugh more too. The children said so yesterday.”

She leaned back, exhaling slowly. “I didn’t think I would, again. Not like this.”

Azriel didn’t say anything, but his gaze stayed steady on her.

She looked down at the tea in her hands, fingers tracing the rim of the cup. “It’s strange, isn’t it? That you could come here by accident and still... somehow bring light back with you.”

Azriel swallowed, the words landing like a weight and a gift all at once. “Maybe it wasn’t an accident.”

Y/N looked up at him and for a moment, the world around them slowed. The rustle of leaves. The breeze off the water. The soft laughter of someone nearby. It all hushed.

“Maybe not,” she whispered.

They sat in that quiet together, the sun warming their skin, and the scent of fresh bread and citrus between them.

And though neither of them said it aloud, they both knew, something was shifting. Not just timelines. But hearts, too.

The moment the breeze shifted, Y/N knew. It was as if the day exhaled, soft and cool, suddenly too still. The scent of citrus faded, replaced by something ancient and electric, like a storm not yet seen but already felt in the bones.

Azriel noticed it too. His shadows straightened, alert. Then, without warning, she was there.

The witch stepped out of the air beside their table, her robes dark and shimmering faintly with threads of starlight. Her face was as calm as the Sidra behind them, but her presence brought with it something colder. Final.

Y/N’s heart clenched.

She stood quickly, nearly knocking her tea. “It’s time, isn’t it?”

The witch nodded once. “Yes. I’ve found a way.”

Azriel rose more slowly, his jaw tightening as he faced her. “You’re sure it will work?”

The witch’s eyes glinted, old magic whispering in her voice. “As sure as I can be. But there’s no room for delay. The threads of your presence here have begun to fray the structure of this realm. I can feel the Cauldron straining, one more crack, and it won’t be this world that breaks.”

Y/N felt her breath catch in her throat.

It was happening.

It had always been coming, but hearing it aloud, seeing the truth in the witch’s steady gaze, it tore the air from her lungs.

Azriel said nothing for a long moment. Then he looked at Y/N.

He didn’t reach for her. Didn’t need to. The look in his eyes was enough. She tried to hold herself steady. Tried to breathe. But the witch’s words echoed inside her.

It’s time.

He was leaving.

Azriel turned back to the witch, voice rough but steady. “How long do we have?”

The witch considered. “A few hours. Sunset.”

Sunset.

That left so little, and somehow, far too much.

Y/N forced herself to nod. Her fingers trembled slightly at her sides, but her voice was level. “Where do we need to go?”

“I’ll find you again,” the witch said. “I just needed to give you warning. You’ll know when.”

She stepped back into the wind, and with a rustle of her robes and a flicker of violet magic, she was gone.

Silence fell again over the café.

The world kept moving. People still passed by, unaware that anything had changed. But for Azriel and Y/N, the day had shifted on its axis.

The end had a shape now. And it was coming fast.

The sun had begun its slow descent, casting the Sidra in liquid gold. The river flowed gently beside them, quiet and endless, its surface glittering like stardust.

Y/N walked beside Azriel in silence, her fingers brushing occasionally against the edge of his cloak. The breeze tugged at her hair, and for a while, all they did was walk, as if they could outpace time itself, if they didn’t speak, if they just kept moving.

But Azriel felt it in her. The way her shoulders curled inward just slightly. The soft tension in her breath. Her sadness folded itself neatly around her like a second skin.

And he felt it in himself, too. That ache.

Not the sharp pain of battle wounds or the burn of shadows in his blood, but something quieter, heavier. A kind of loss that hadn’t happened yet but had already taken root.

He glanced at her, then away. “You’ve helped me more than I ever expected.”

She looked up at him, lips parted as if to protest, but he kept going, voice low. “I came here thinking I’d just disrupted something. That I’d landed somewhere I didn’t belong. And I did. But it’s not just that.”

The shadows at his back stirred gently, like they, too, were listening.

“You’ve reminded me what gentleness looks like,” he said, his voice a near whisper. “You reminded me that healing isn’t just survival. It’s... softness. It’s letting yourself laugh again.”

Y/N’s eyes shimmered, but she kept walking.

Azriel stopped. She did too, a step later, turning toward him slowly.

“If there was a way,” he said, voice barely above the hush of the river, “I’d take you with me.”

The words hung between them, fragile and impossible.

His gaze dropped, and he exhaled softly. “But I know it wouldn’t work. It’s not that kind of magic. It’s not that kind of story.”

Y/N smiled. Not because she was happy, but because she wanted to give him something kind. Her eyes, though, they told the truth. They ached. They mourned.

Still, she stepped in close. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

Her arms came around him, quiet and certain, and she pressed her cheek to his chest. Her hands flattened against his back, holding him there, like maybe she could memorize the feel of him before he was gone.

She inhaled, deeply, taking in his scent, the leather and pine, the faint trace of wind and steel and something only he carried.

Azriel hesitated only a moment before his arms wrapped around her too. Firm, steady, as if he could hold this second in place forever.

Neither of them spoke.

The Sidra flowed beside them, patient and unknowing. The sun dipped lower. And the minutes they had left slipped quietly by, wrapped in silence and warmth and the weight of everything that would never be said.

The witch emerged from the dusk, her presence silent but heavy with ancient power. Her eyes, gleaming with stars and secrets, settled on them both. There was no urgency in her voice, only a steady certainty as she said, “It is time. You must return.”

Azriel’s gaze shifted slowly to Y/N, searching her face as though trying to etch every curve, every unspoken word into memory. The shadows curled protectively around him, but the strength in his eyes softened with something almost like sorrow.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward, his fingers trembling just slightly as they traced the gentle line of her cheek. The skin was warm beneath his touch, grounding him in this impossible moment.

He leaned in slowly, closing the space between them with a kiss oh her cheek, soft and reverent, a whisper against her skin. The kiss spoke of gratitude and regret, of all the stolen moments and all the things left unsaid.

“Thank you,” he breathed, voice raw with feeling. “For everything. For this.”

Y/N’s breath caught, and for a moment the world seemed to hold its breath with them. Her hands twined in the fabric of his cloak, reluctant to let go, desperate to keep hold of this fragment of a life she never thought she’d have.

His eyes searched hers once more, filled with a fierce tenderness, before he stepped back, shadows rising like dark wings around him, cloaking him from the world.

The witch raised her hand, fingers weaving a silent spell, and a pulse of violet light rippled outward, wrapping Azriel in its glow. The air thrummed with the power of the Cauldron itself, fragile and fierce.

In the blink of an eye, Azriel was gone.

Left behind was the fading warmth of his kiss, the faint scent of leather and pine hanging in the quiet evening air, and Y/N — standing alone by the Sidra, holding onto the echo of a goodbye that still felt impossibly too soon.

────────────

The familiar hum of Velaris pulsed all around him—the distant laughter of street performers, the soft murmur of the Sidra’s waters, the gentle clinking of glasses from nearby taverns—but Azriel felt strangely untethered, like a ghost wandering through his own city. The days since his return blurred together, a fog swallowing his memories whole. Rhys and Cassian had told him he’d been gone for over a week, vanished without a trace, only to reappear as if nothing had happened. He couldn't remember what happened. But inside, Azriel knew something had changed.

There was a quiet, steady warmth beneath the surface, something healing, gentle, like a balm on old wounds he hadn’t realized were still raw.

Today, he was helping Feyre move canvases and crates into her art studio, the smell of fresh paint mingling with the scent of spring rain drifting through open windows. Feyre’s laughter was bright and easy, her presence grounding him even as a restless pull tugged at his chest.

His gaze drifted across the bustling town square just as he set down a heavy crate. And there, among the crowd, he saw her.

A fae, standing with an effortless grace that made the sunlight catch in her hair, turning it to molten gold. She was looking not quite at him, but through him, as if glimpsing into places only shadows could reach… a spark of recognition he couldn’t place, like a forgotten song playing just beyond hearing.

Azriel didn’t understand why his heart quickened, why his hand lifted almost instinctively in a hesitant wave.

The fae’s eyes widened, and then a soft, almost knowing smile curved her lips. She returned his wave before slipping quietly into a nearby shop, disappearing before he could reach her.

His hand dropped slowly, confusion settling over him like a shadow.

He didn’t know who she was. He couldn’t remember her.

But the pull, the silent thread connecting them, was undeniable, aching beneath his skin like a promise he couldn’t yet understand.

"You've been quiet all day," she said, her voice low and knowing. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

Azriel blinked, distracted. Across the square, he could see her through the glasses of that shop.

Feyre followed his gaze, then looked back at him, her brow furrowed. "Az?"

"I... I don’t know," he murmured, almost to himself.

"You don’t know what?" she asked.

But he couldn’t answer. The feeling was too strange, too sharp. His heart thudded in his chest, and before he could stop himself, the words left him like a breath, half-formed and distant.

"I need to go."

"Go where?"

But he was already walking away, crossing the street without looking back, the hum of Feyre’s concern fading behind him.

She had disappeared into a shop moments before, but he knew. He didn’t know why. Didn’t know how. But he knew.

The bell above the door chimed softly as he stepped inside. The world quieted, holding its breath.

And then, there she was.

Closer now. Real. Solid. Her eyes widened, the same as before, but now with something else behind them. Something fragile, something infinite.

Azriel felt it again, deep in his chest. That pull. That thread. It trembled between them like spun gold.

She tilted her head, voice tentative, soft. “Do I... know you?”

He hesitated for a breath, then offered a small smile, one that felt strange and familiar all at once.

"I’m Azriel."

A beat of silence. Then she returned his smile, something in her gaze breaking open.

"I’m Y/N."

Their names, shared again for the first time. A beginning carved into the end.

And somewhere, just beneath the surface, the thread between them tightened.

Not remembering. Not yet.

But knowing, somehow, all the same.

#azriel #azriel acomaf #azriel acotar #azriel acotar series #azriel fanfic #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #acotar #acotar series #a court of thorns and roses #rhysand acotar #rhysand #feyre archeron #rhys acotar #acotar fic #acotar fanfiction #cassian acotar #shadowsinger #azriel fic

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lexiputellas · 4 months ago

Text

In My Defense, It Was Pretty

"I did something," you announce, strolling into the room like someone who definitely did something.

Alexia doesn’t even look up from her phone. She just sighs, already bracing herself. “Define something.”

“You’re going to find out anyway, so I’m pre-apologizing in advance.”

That gets her attention. She finally looks up, eyes narrowing like a detective about to crack a case. “What did you do?”

“Okay, so… maybe—and this is just a maybe, babe—imagine this,” you say, gesturing vaguely as if that’ll soften the blow.

She crosses her arms, unimpressed. “I’m imagining.”

“I got a text from Carla.”

“Who’s Carla?”

You gasp, clutching your chest like she just insulted your entire bloodline. “Carla? THE Carla? My sales associate from Miu Miu—Carla, who personally curates pieces for me, Carla, who understands my soul better than my own mother?”

“Which, I must add, is not that difficult,” you tack on.

Alexia blinks. “Ah.” She nods slowly, like someone preparing for bad news. “Okay.”

“Anyway, babe, you might recall a recent conversation where you suggested—very lightly, not even that seriously, honestly—that I should maybe stop buying things because it was maybe becoming a problem?”

She tilts her head in slow, deliberate suspicion. “I recall saying it very seriously.”

You wave off her correction. “Right. Well. The thing is… I don’t think it’s a problem.”

“Of course you don’t,” she mutters.

“And because I don't think it’s a problem… I may or may not have bought some things.”

“We don't even have space!” Alexia throws her hands up, her voice shooting an octave higher. “We’d have to buy a whole new house just to store your clothes! I’m this close to sleeping with your shoes next to my face because there’s literally no more room!”

“Okay, but in my defense—”

“There’s no defense!”

“—it was really, really pretty.” You grab her arm, pouting up at her. “Do you want to see it?”

She stares at you, visibly weighing whether it’s worth engaging or if she should just book a one-way flight somewhere and start over.

“Is this the part where I say no, and you show me anyway?”

“You know me so well,” you beam, already pulling out your phone.

She groans. “How much did you spend?”

You clear your throat. “That’s not important.”

Alexia pinches the bridge of her nose. “It’s very important.”

“Okay, first of all, Carla gave me a deal—”

“You mean she let you buy more so you’d think it was a deal.”

“—and second, I didn’t just buy for me!”

That makes her pause. She narrows her eyes. ”What do you mean?”

You grin, wiggling your eyebrows as you pull up the pictures. “I got you something too.”

Alexia’s eyes flicker with the briefest hint of curiosity before she schools her expression back into exasperation. “I don’t need anything.”

“You say that,” you hum, scrolling through your purchases, “but first, I saw a Naplak jacket—then a silk zippered blouson, then a boat-neck sweater, and oh, the sneakers, straight from the runway. They’re leaning into a sporty aesthetic now, and honestly, it felt wrong not to include you in the movement.”

She folds her arms, unimpressed. “You bought me a jacket.”

“Not just any jacket, babe. The jacket. A jacket so perfect, so immaculate, that I had no choice but to buy it—with all the love in the world, of course.”

Alexia exhales sharply, trying so hard not to look interested. “It better not be ugly.”

You gasp dramatically. “How dare you? I picked it, babe, have some respect.”

She sighs, clearly torn between annoyance and knowing that, in about five minutes, she’s going to be in front of the mirror trying it on.

“You’re impossible,” she mutters, shaking her head.

“And yet, you love me,” you grin, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

She side-eyes you. “I’m thinking about it.”

You laugh, already knowing how this will play out. Because later, when she thinks you’re not looking, she’s going to run her fingers over the fabric, mutter something about how it is nice, and inevitably start wearing it everywhere.

She always acts exasperated. And yet—somehow—her closet keeps making space for the things you buy.

#barcelona x reader #x reader #woso x reader #alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader

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ii-shiro · 3 months ago

Text

Fetishes.

+18! - SMUT .

! ft ; Meguru Bachira, Itoshi Rin, Mikage Reo, Ryusei Shidou, Itoshi Sae, Tabito Karasu, Shouei Barou, Seishiro Nagi.

• Omniscient narrator.

• Remember, this is a translation. I speak Spanish, but this is translated.

What is the fetish of...?

____________________________________________

Meguru Bachira !

Bachira is very playful, and one of his greatest fetishes is role-playing games. Knowing that Y/N would act as the game dictates, that he would always dominate. She may be a mere student, and he, her teacher, who has complete control over her, loves feeling dominant. He appears innocent, but his dominance doesn't diminish in the face of this appearance. He knows how to dominate, when to let Y/N dominate, and how to dominate specifically. But playing that role-play drives him crazy, it excites him so much. Thinking about Y/N, so defenseless, simply innocent, and him, the dominant one, the one who must defend her—that idea excites him.

____________________________________________

Itoshi Rin !

Rin's fetish is undoubtedly Y/N's body. He is overstimulated by every part of it, but he favors Y/N's thighs and butt; he sees them as so plump, so appetizing. Rin loves to lick, bite, kiss and leave his mark on Y/N, the way Y/N reacts, moaning, asking for more, Rin is excited to mark her and for her to ask for even more marks, more touch.

____________________________________________

Mikage Reo !

Reo's fetish is hitting his girlfriend, not out of violence, but rather, he likes slapping Y/N's breasts and butt. He loves watching them deform like a simple but delicious flan.While Reo loves this, he's torn between what he likes more: slapping Y/N's breasts and butt, or seeing the reddish marks it leaves on his lover's skin. It's a very difficult question for Reo.

____________________________________________

Ryusei Shidou !

Shidou's fetish is, without a doubt, Y/N's voice. While Shidou finds it difficult to explain this fetish, he backs it up in Y/N's moans, the way she asks him to do certain things to her, like moaning, panting, or sighing his name.

Shidou loves Y/N's voice, the way she begs him for more, the way she moans his name, or even the sounds she makes when he's choking her with his penis.

____________________________________________

Itoshi Sae !

Sae's fetish is talking dirty to Y/N, verbally humiliating her, and having her nod along to whatever he says. If he says she's a fucking whore, she'll just nod, humiliating herself. He also loves humiliating her by exhausting her and making fun of her for not being able to keep up with him. But talking dirty to her without complaining definitely turns him on. His superiority over her makes him eager for more.

____________________________________________

Tabito Karasu !

We all know that Karasu is extremely skilled with his hands. His fetish is keeping Y/N in the 69 position. This allows him to use his hands very freely, inserting one or two fingers of each hand inside her, while Y/N sucks his hardness. It's a fantasy he always manages to fulfill.

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Shouei Barou !

He's the king. His fetish is reminding Y/N that he's the king, that he's the one who decides whether to increase speed, strength, whether to stop doing it, in what position to do it. This fetish on Shouei's part excites him. He's excited by the thought that he controls whether Y/N is a pawn, the queen, or even the king, whether she can control him or he can control her.

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Seishiro Nagi !

Nagi's fetish might be Y/N's voice, her body, the way she moves. Nagi is a little lazy to think of anything that overstimulates him about Y/N.

But if he has to choose something, thinking about it carefully, he can say that his fetish is the way she moves when she's on top. He's too lazy to move on top of Y/N, but she makes him feel so good when she rides him, the way she bounces on him, the way she moves her pelvis and causes more depth. His arousal goes through the roof just thinking about that.

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a/n ; written by me! @ii-shiro

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dearlenore · 4 months ago

Text

THE WAY THINGS GO • S.REID

SUMMARY: after a video of you and Spencer on a date—one he had taken—gets sent to the BAU along with a threatening message about taking your life, Spencer knows he must make a heart-wrenching decision: break up with you to keep you safe.

PAIRING: gf!surgeon!reader x spencer

tags: reader is a pediatric surgeon (I’m obsessed w peds!reader x Spencer rn) canon cm violence, blood, mentions of surgery, mentions of death, mentions of child death, mentions of stalking. Pure angst

a/n: i don’t usually write angst so I guarantee this is booty butt :3

w/c: 2.4K

vote for surgeon reader here

Spencer Reid walked into the BAU bullpen, a stack of files tucked under his arm, a fresh cup of coffee in hand. He barely had time to set them down before JJ approached, her expression tight with urgency.

“You need to see this,” she said, motioning for him to follow.

A familiar dread settled in his stomach. He had seen that look before—too many times. Something was wrong.

The rest of the team was already gathered in the conference room, the tension thick in the air. Garcia stood by the screen, her fingers anxiously tapping against the keyboard. Hotch, arms crossed, gave Spencer a measured look. “Take a seat.”

Spencer lowered himself into the chair, his mind racing through worst-case scenarios.

Then Garcia hit play.

The screen flickered to life, and Spencer’s stomach dropped.

It was you.

You sat across from him in a dimly lit restaurant, the candlelight flickering between you. You were laughing, your eyes crinkling in that way he adored, your fingers idly playing with the sleeve of your sweater as you leaned in closer.

“I think you just like showing off,” you teased, your voice warm, affectionate as you pointed your fork at him.

Spencer chuckled on the screen, shaking his head. “It’s not showing off if you ask me to explain it.”

“Mm, debatable,” you said with a playful smirk.

Then the screen went black, replaced by bold white text:

“She doesn’t belong to you, Doctor Reid. Say goodbye before she disappears for good.”

Silence choked the room.

Spencer swallowed hard, his pulse roaring in his ears.

“Reid,” Emily’s voice was gentle but firm, pulling him back. “We need you to explain.”

He took a breath, pushing past the knot in his throat. “Her name is Y/N,” he began. “We’ve been seeing each other for a few months.” His voice wavered slightly, but he forced himself to continue. “That video—it was from our third date. I took it myself.” He shook his head, his stomach twisting at the implication. “Whoever this is, they got into my phone.”

Rossi exhaled, his expression grave. “And now they’re threatening her.”

Spencer clenched his fists beneath the table. He had seen this play out before—victims used as leverage, people torn apart before they even realized they were in danger.

He would not let that happen to you.

Hotch met his eyes. “We’ll do everything we can to protect her.”

Spencer nodded, but his gut told him what he had to do.

Because if this person was willing to go this far…

Keeping you in his life might be the very thing that got you killed.

The conference room buzzed with heated discussions, the team already brainstorming ways to keep you safe. The air was thick with urgency, but beneath it all, Spencer felt the crushing weight of helplessness. No matter how many plans they came up with, how many precautions they suggested, there was only one truth that gnawed at him: he couldn’t protect you from scratch.

Every instinct in him screamed to find a way to reassure you, to tell you that everything would be fine, that he could keep you safe. But deep down, Spencer knew better. He had seen too many situations where disobedience from scratch meant death. The threat was real. He couldn’t let his emotions cloud his judgment.

Reid rubbed his eyes, his fingertips pressing against the bridge of his nose as if that could block out the suffocating sense of dread closing in around him. His gaze drifted to the table, the outlines of his teammates’ faces blurry in his peripheral vision. They were all talking over each other now, their voices blending together, but the words didn’t register. Not really. He couldn’t focus on anything but the horrible, sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Reid… kid, we’re gonna protect her,” Morgan’s voice broke through, soft but firm, trying to offer reassurance. But Spencer knew it wasn’t that simple.

“Not from scratch,” Spencer whispered, barely audible, his voice thick with emotion. His eyes flickered toward the door as if he could run out and fix everything in that moment. “I can’t just— I can’t just let it happen.”

A heavy silence followed, only broken by the harsh sound of Spencer’s breath. He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “I have— I have to warn her,” he choked out, his hands shaking at his sides. His mind raced, his fear for you escalating by the second. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to protect you, to get to you before the threat could take root.

Hotch’s voice was quiet but laced with a cold warning. He stepped toward Spencer, his expression unreadable. “Do that, and he kills her.” His eyes bore into Spencer’s, unwavering and intense. “Think about her well-being. Think about what’s at stake here.”

Spencer’s stomach turned at the thought, but his chest tightened in protest. He wanted to argue, wanted to fight against the inevitable. “I can’t just sit here, Hotch,” he whispered, the words feeling like nails in his throat. “What if he targets her at work? What if he’s already there, watching her? What if—”

Hotch shook his head slowly, his voice heavy with regret. “I know the urge to act is overwhelming, but you have to stay rational, Reid. We can protect her with a plan, but going rogue… that’ll make her a target.”

Spencer’s mind was a whirl of thoughts, none of them making sense. He gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white, his gaze flicking to each of them in turn, trying to understand why they weren’t as desperate as he was. “She works with kids, Hotch! She’s a surgeon . She has a baby at home. What if they go after her when she’s with them?” His voice cracked with the force of his emotions, and he could hear the panic rising. “You don’t understand… she’s everything. I can’t lose her.” His voice cracked.

Hotch’s face softened, but his tone remained firm. “You’re not thinking clearly, Spencer. We’re all in this together, and we’ll do everything we can to protect her. But right now, you need to step back. Go home, take a moment. We’ll have a plan in place by tonight.”

Rossi stepped forward, his face marked by concern. “Kid, we’ll protect her, but you can’t act on your own. We need you here, not running off half-cocked. Think about it—if you go to her now, you’re only putting her in more danger.”

Spencer’s heart pounded in his chest, his body frozen in a battle between doing what was rational and doing what his heart screamed at him to do. He felt a burning sensation in his eyes, a mix of fear, anger, and helplessness that boiled inside him. The thought of you—vulnerable, unaware of the imminent threat—was unbearable. His mind screamed for him to act, but the reality of the situation pressed down on him like a suffocating weight.

But the truth hit him like a punch in the gut. He had to let you go. He had to push you out of harm’s way, and if that meant stepping back from the only real happiness he had known, then that was what he had to do.

“No,” Spencer whispered to himself. He took a shaky breath, his voice barely audible as he turned away from the team. “I have to do something. I can’t just sit here while she’s in danger.”

Hotch’s voice was a firm command. “Reid, I’m ordering you to go home. Rest. We’ll handle this.”

But Spencer didn’t hear him. Without another word, he bolted out the door, his mind consumed with the image of you—your laughter, your warmth, your smile. All of it threatened to slip away if he didn’t act fast. He didn’t care if he was being irrational. All he knew was that he couldn’t lose you.

The team’s voices echoed behind him, but Spencer didn’t stop. He couldn’t. The fear that gripped him was too great, and the only way to quiet it was to get to you. To warn you. To make sure you were safe. Even if it meant losing everything he had fought for.

SPENDER STOOD UNDER the harsh glow of the hospital’s exterior lights, his pulse thrumming in his ears. The bouquet in his hands felt heavier than it should have, the small bag of gifts weighing him down like an anchor. The items were meant to celebrate another year with you, a future he had once believed was certain. Now, they felt like artifacts of a life he could no longer have.

His heart clenched as he spotted you walking out of the hospital, the familiar sight of you sending a fresh wave of pain through his chest. Your hair was still loosely tied in low pigtails, the way the children on your floor adored. But as soon as you stepped outside, you reached up and pulled them free, letting out a soft sigh as you transitioned from Dr. Y/N L/N to simply Y/N. His Y/N.

Your eyes brightened the moment you saw him.

“Spence?”

Your voice, so full of warmth, nearly shattered him.

You jogged up to him, your smile radiant despite your exhaustion. “What are you doing here?” You took his hands in yours without hesitation, squeezing them like you always did when you were excited. He wanted to squeeze back, to reassure you, to hold on just a little longer.

But he couldn’t move.

He could only stare at you, frozen, as the reality of what he was about to do bore down on him like an unstoppable force.

Your happiness. Your love. The home you shared. The way Hugo would be waiting for you, probably curled up with one of his favorite toys (aka anything a baby wasn’t meant to play with), blissfully unaware that everything was about to fall apart.

His vision blurred.

Before you could say anything else, he kissed you.

It was desperate, hard and filled with a longing that terrified him. His hands cradled your face as if you might slip through his fingers if he let go too soon. You kissed him back, but it wasn’t with the same urgency. It was softer, slower, searching—like you could already sense something was wrong.

When he pulled away, you blinked up at him, concern now taking the place of your smile.

“Is everything okay?” you asked, your brows knitting together. Your hands, still wrapped around his, squeezed just a little tighter.

Spencer swallowed hard.

He wanted to tell you it was fine. He wanted to lie, to delay this moment, to pretend he could keep you safe while still keeping you his.

But he couldn’t.

This was the last time he’d get to see you like this—happy, untouched by the terror that had now wrapped its claws around both of you. He had already made his decision. And as much as it killed him, he couldn’t turn back now.

“Uh… it’s not,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He forced himself to lift the bouquet, the bag of gifts. “But I wanted you to have these.”

You hesitated before taking them, your laugh soft but uncertain. “Spencer, what’s going on?”

He couldn’t meet your eyes.

His breath came out uneven as he forced the words up his throat.

“Y/N…” He clenched his jaw, swallowing back the sob clawing its way up. “You know I love you. And I—” His voice broke. “I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Your grip on the gifts faltered, but you caught them quickly. The hesitation, the fear creeping into your expression, shattered something inside him.

Wanted.

Your brows furrowed. “Wanted?”

The word hung between you, suffocating.

Spencer couldn’t stop the tear that slipped down his cheek. He turned his head slightly, ashamed, as if looking at you for too long would make him change his mind.

You stepped closer, your free hand reaching for his, but he took a small step back.

“Spence, you’re scaring me,” you whispered. “What’s wrong? Whatever it is, we can—”

He shook his head, cutting you off. “No,” he choked out. “We can’t.”

Your lips parted slightly, confusion and hurt flashing across your face. “What do you mean?”

Spencer forced himself to look at you, really look at you—because this would be the last time. The last time he’d get to see the love in your eyes before he crushed it. The last time he’d hear his name spoken with such warmth.

He took a shaky breath.

“I have to let you go.”

The world seemed to stand still.

Your eyes widened, the color draining from your face. “What?”

He blinked rapidly, forcing back the tears burning his eyes. “It’s not safe. I’m not safe. And if you stay with me… neither are you.”

A shaky breath escaped you, your grip tightening around the bouquet like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “Spencer, what are you talking about? I don’t—”

“I can’t explain,” he interrupted, his voice thick with emotion. “But I need you to trust me.”

You shook your head, stepping closer. “No. No, I do trust you, but this isn’t—this doesn’t make sense.” Your voice cracked, your own tears starting to well in your eyes. “If something’s wrong, we face it together. That’s what we do.”

Spencer squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted nothing more than to pull you into his arms and tell you that. That you were right. That you were in this together.

But that wasn’t the truth.

If he stayed, Scratch would find you. Would hurt you. Would take you away in a way far worse than this.

And Spencer couldn’t let that happen.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered, shaking his head. His voice was raw now, each word slicing through him. “If I stay, you die. And I—” He let out a broken breath. “I won’t survive that.”

Your face crumpled, tears slipping freely down your cheeks now. “Spence, please,” you begged, reaching for him again. “Please don’t do this.”

He caught your hand for just a moment, his fingers curling around yours like muscle memory. And then, with everything in him screaming not to, he let go.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Then, before he could take it back—before he could fall apart right in front of you—he turned and walked away.

He didn’t look back.

Because if he did, he knew he wouldn’t be able to leave at all.

#x reader #criminal minds #spencer reid #fanfic #spencer reid x reader #cm #criminal minds angst #pure angst #angst with a sad ending

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