#was shaking and trying not to cry and floating somewhere on the ceiling

[donttouchtheneednoggle]

shout out to thomas from ghosts for yoinking me out of a panic attack before it could really get going

[mandos-mind-trick]

Instinct, Part 11

Summary: Omegas were rare. Some even thought them extinct. So when Boba contacts Din saying he has a gift Din can’t refuse, the last thing he expects to find is an omega in need of an alpha. Din has to make the hard decision, but what else was he really doing anyways? But naturally, there’s more to this omega than meets the eye.

Pairing: Din Djarin x female!reader

Warnings: Injuries, blood, PTSD, some light medical stuff, The Empire, A/B/O

A/N: Uhhh yeah, it's been a minute with this one. I probably shouldn't say I had most of this one written up already, but I couldn't decide where I wanted to take the story. Well, I've decided now so I can confidently finish this one up.

< Previous | Next > | MASTERLIST | OC Version

It doesn’t hurt. 

You’ve felt a lot of pain in your lifetime, but the stab wound is almost nothing. Or maybe you’ve just gone numb. You had practically seen the shift in Din as he’d stood there, staring at the red on your fingers, the red staining your shirt. 

You're not sure when exactly he’d stabbed you. You hadn’t felt it in the haze of adrenaline. You're not sure where the knife is either. 

Din had approached you, taking one look at the wound before lifting you into his arms. You could sense the change in him, the detachment. He had one instinct in that moment and that was to get you help. You feel dizzy, vision in and out as you stare up at the sky. It’s blue, very blue. 

The blue fades to white as he enters the medical center. Your arms and legs have begun to tingle. Were you going to pass out? You're bleeding a lot. You can feel it. You squint up at the ceiling as Din lays you on the hard exam table. He’s scared, you can scent it under the tang of blood. 

You blink as your vision fades in and out, someone coming to stand over you. You don't recognize them...no. You do.

“No...no...please!” You struggle, but your limbs are restrained. 

“It’s alright.” He speaks quietly, leaning down closer to you. “Everything will be alright.” A bright light in your eyes. You feel far away, like your body is floating right out into space. 

“No!” You cry, weakly fighting the urge to sleep. “No!” 

“Everything’s going to be just fine.” 

****

His hands are shaking. 

He had felt the shift in his brain, his mind shutting down as soon as he saw the red on your fingers. He had acted purely on instinct, moving to catch you before you fell. He had held you up, analyzing the wound oozing thick red liquid for half a second before scooping you into his arms. He’d walked out the front door, uncaring of the police droids making their way down the street. 

He’d been totally numb as he carried you to the nearest medical facility. He could have taken you back to the Crest, but it was too far, and he wasn’t sure a simple bacta patch would work fast enough. The wound was deep and clean, the straight edge of the vibroblade meant to make the wound bleed and bleed. 

You had been awake the whole time, though your gaze had been hazy. He’d been rushed back into a room, the Nautolan doctor jumping right in to try and help. 

That was when everything had gone wrong. 

You had started fighting, struggling against the doctor and nurses. You had been screaming, eyes far away like you were seeing something else. He had managed to get you calm enough for them to administer a sedative. He had held you until you were unconscious and limp, the bloody smear on the front of his chestplate as you’d reached out for him. 

“Buir.” 

His hands are still shaking, the event playing over and over in his head. He’d never seen you like that before. He had been scared of you possibly losing control and your omega coming out, but it seemed you were somewhere else entirely. You had never spoken about anything like that, nor had Boba mentioned any aversion to medical centers or doctors. 

Maybe it had been deeply buried far below, repressed by years of suppressants. 

He’s worried. Whatever you had been seeing, it had been bad enough for you to call out for your parents. You never talked about them, never mentioned them beyond the night you’d told him how you got off Mandalore. They likely hadn’t made it, like so many others. That was a harsh reality to face, one he knew well. 

He stares at your peaceful face. You're still unconscious, the bacta working quickly to heal the stab wound. He feels guilty. You were here because of him. He had failed to consider that they might have known about him, about his quest. You had gotten hurt because of him, because of his mistake. 

He wants to call it quits, wants to load you onto the ship and fly back to Tatooine, but he knows he can’t. If you wanted to continue, he would, even if it was a bad decision. 

You have a lot to discuss when you wake up. He stares down at the smear on his chestplate. Just what exactly was that outburst? What had happened to you that had caused that kind of reaction? 

******

“Hello. My name is Doctor Ellezac. I am the chief scientist on this vessel. I will be overseeing you.” You flinch away from the hands that reach for your face. “How are you feeling?” 

“Where am I? Where is my buir?” You ask, voice thin sounding from the dryness in your throat. 

“You are on a transport vessel heading for a research base.” He pries your mouth open, looking inside. “Don’t worry. You will be well cared for.” 

You jerk your head away, glaring at him. “Where are the others?” You remembered the transport taking them to Concordia. The four omegas, the last four to make it off Mandalore alive. 

“Don’t worry. They’re being looked after.” He turns, grabbing something off a table. “It’s very fascinating to me, your kind. The ‘second gender’ Mandalorians utilize. All beings carry the ability, but the mechanics of it have been lost to most of us for centuries. Except for the Mandalorians.” He turns back to you, a syringe in hand. “The ‘instincts’ as you call them, are incredible. Heightened senses, increased strength, enhanced regeneration, among many other benefits.” 

You struggle against the restraints holding you to the bed as he sinks the syringe into your arm. He draws your blood, pulling from you until you begin to feel dizzy. 

“You’re going to be a great help to us.” He says, looking down at you. “You’ll be a great help to the Empire.” 

*****

You jolt as you wake, hands gripping the blankets tightly. You're wrapped tightly in blankets and a cloak, buried deep in Din’s scent. The whirring of the engines and the subtle shake of the ship tells you you're in the Crest. 

It takes you a moment, but you remember everything. You had been hunting their next targets, when everything had gone wrong. You’d been stabbed and Din had taken you to a medical facility. 

You had seen him. 

In truth, you had forgotten it entirely in the haze of memories before awakening from suppressants. It seemed like a long time ago, because it had been a long time ago. You couldn’t have guessed you’d react in such a way. You hadn’t reacted like that on Tatooine when the medical droid had looked over you. You hadn’t reacted that way any of the times Boba’s medical droid had treated you. 

Maybe simply because you didn’t remember. 

You remember now. You remember everything. 

You manage to free yourself from the cocoon of blankets, keeping Din’s cloak around you. It smells like him. It smells safe. You stand, stretching your side a bit. Your fingers slip under your shirt, feeling the smooth skin underneath. Not even a mark. 

You climb up the ladder, knowing Din is in the cockpit. He’ll have questions, and you’ll answer them. It’s dark in the cockpit, the Crest drifting through space. Din is seated in the pilot’s chair, back to you as you enter. You sit in one of the passenger seats, bundling yourself in his cloak. 

“We need to talk about it.” He says, keeping his gaze forward. 

“I know.” You say. “First I need you to know, I didn’t remember. I didn’t remember any of it until now.” 

“You were screaming. Calling out for your parents.” He says, voice pinched. “As soon as you saw the doctor it was like you’d lost your mind.” 

“I wasn’t there. I was somewhere else. Somewhere worse. I didn’t know it wasn’t happening again.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m sorry if I caused a scene. I’m sorry if I made things difficult, but please don’t be mad, I really didn’t remember exactly-” 

“I’m not mad.” He says, finally turning around. “I just want to know what you saw that caused a reaction like that.” 

You nod, taking a shaky breath, trying to calm the nerves that had built up. “To start, we have to go back to the Purge. There were four of us on the last ship that left the omega temple before it was hit. Four omegas and the droid pilot with coordinates to Concordia. Only we didn’t get that far. As soon as we left the atmosphere, something was waiting. Something pulled us in.” 

Din nods. He knew most of this already from what you’d told him. The small bit you’d remembered after the suppressants. 

“It wasn’t pirates or smugglers. It was the Empire. I don’t know if it was your luck, or somehow they knew where we were heading...they pulled us in. I remember them breaking through the hatch. Stormtroopers flooding the hull. I don’t remember much after that. I woke up sometime later in what looked like a medical facility. There was a man there. His name was Doctor Ellezac. He was the head scientist for some division of the Empire. He knew a lot about us, about omegas and alphas. Too much to be coincidence.” 

Din shifts in his seat, hands closing into fists. The thought that it was the Empire that took the last of the omegas...it makes him angry. 

“They took us to some facility. They ran tests on us. They wanted to know how our instincts worked, how our abilities manifested, how they were controlled.” You wipe a tear from your cheek. “I don’t know how long we were there, but I remember when the Empire fell. They tried to get off world, tried to evacuate us somewhere else, but that’s when the pirates arrived. They thought it had been abandoned, but we were still there. The Empire took ten omegas. There were only three of us by the time the pirates came.” 

“They knew what you were.” Din says, trying to calm his raging alpha. 

You nod. “They knew what we were worth too. That’s when it started. The suppressants, being traded across the galaxy.” You shake your head. “If I had known...I wouldn’t have-” 

“I’m glad you did.” Din says. “Even if we’ve only killed seven of them, even if we can’t finish, I’m glad we at least gave some of them what they deserve.” 

You wipe another tear from your cheek. “I don’t know if we should continue. I-I mean...we could wind up in something bigger than just the two of us. If there’s remnants out there, if they find out...I don’t know if they’ll come for me again. I don’t want to put you in danger like that.” 

He leans forward, pulling you up from the passenger seat. “I made a promise when I mated you that I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. That I would protect you and our pack. If that means fighting off the Empire again, then I would do it.” 

You climb into his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I don’t want you to have to fight the Empire. I-If something happened to you...” 

“Nothing is going to happen to me.” He says. “I think we should take a break.” 

You look up at his helmet, looking at the visor. “What?” 

“We’ll take a break. Find somewhere to lay low for a while. I know you’re stressed, and this new development is concerning.” He spins you back around, keeping you in his lap as he begins hitting buttons on the console. “I already found us a place.”  

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this.” You murmur. 

“You were asleep for a while.” He puts a hand on your back as the Crest hums to life, preparing to jump into hyperspace. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while too. You’re not as accustomed to this as I am, and it’s not your nature to run around the galaxy non-stop. We have enough credits for now. We can worry about what’s next later.” 

You press your nose into his neck, breathing him in for a moment. You can’t sense what he’s feeling, the beskar and his flightsuit blocking you from reaching his neck. You don't move to remove his helmet, not feeling like you’re in a good enough place to do something so bold. 

“Din...” You murmur after a few moments, the blue of hyperspace flashing around you. “I’m sorry.” 

He tightens his hold on you, the hand that had been on your back sliding up to the back of your neck. “Don’t.” 

Tears spring into your eyes, your body pressing closer to his out of pure instinct. He lets go of you for a moment to pull his helmet off, letting it clunk to the floor. You immediately press your face against his throat, breathing him in. He’s not angry, not at you. His scent is thick with worry and the sharp edge of protectiveness alphas projected when their clans were in danger. 

“I shouldn’t have put you in that position. I never wanted you to get hurt.” He says, pressing his face into the top of your head. 

“You couldn’t have known.” You murmur against his neck. “It was always a risk.” 

He tightens his hold on you for a moment. “I should have done more. I should have tried harder.” 

“I was the one that asked to do this.” You say, pulling back to look in his eyes. There’s tears in them. “Maybe...maybe we need this break. Like you said...we can worry about what happens next later.” 

He pulls you back in, holding you until the ship drops from hyperspace. 

**** A Few Weeks Later ****

The warm breeze feels good against your skin. The sand is warm against your bare feet, your toes digging in, enjoying the feel. It’s not like the sand on Tatooine. This place couldn’t be more different than Tatooine. 

Blue water stretches as far as you can see in front of you. It’s bluer than you’ve ever seen. Behind you stretches a line of trees, only broken by the small shack you had been staying in. There’s no one on the small island but you, most of the inhabitants on the larger island a short boat ride to the South. 

You’re very much in love with this planet. You could stay here forever, basking in the warm sunlight on the beach. When Din had first landed here, it had been in the midst of a storm and you had been skeptical. By the time you woke up the next day, the storm had cleared and left a bright blue sky behind. Storms were rare here, according to the locals. There hadn’t been one since the day you arrived. It had been nothing but beautiful weather, and you had been soaking up every minute of it you could. 

Arms wrap around your middle, pulling you back against the warm chest. You lean your head back against his shoulder, relaxing against him. “I could stay here forever.” 

“I know.” He says, kissing the top of your head. His bare hands trail up your arms, brushing along the sun-warmed skin. “Eventually we’ll need credits.” 

You pout. “I’m sure you could find a job doing something for the locals.” 

“I doubt they have much use for bounty hunters out here.” He says, turning you back towards the shack. 

“I wasn’t talking about bounty hunting.” You say. “You could be a fisherman.” 

He opens the door to the shack, giving you a look. 

You shrug. “What? You could! You’re good with repairs, I’m sure they could use a repairman or something.” 

“Don’t get any ideas.” He says, lifting you up and dropping you on the bed. 

“I know.” You sigh, pulling him down with you. “Boba might never forgive us if we moved to a planet like this without him.” 

He leans down, kissing you softly. You kiss him back, wrapping your arms around him. “We need to get more supplies soon.” He murmurs against your lips, running his hand along your back. 

“Tomorrow.” You sigh, pressing closer to him. 

He shifts his body on top of yours, your thighs parting to welcome him. You tug at his shirt, pulling it over his head. It was a miracle you got him out of his armor, but after their confirmed solitude on the island, he loosened up. 

“I love you.” You murmur against his lips, drawing his body closer. 

“Kar'taylir darasuum.” He breathes, losing himself in you. 

***

“Do you ever miss it?” You ask as you sit on the porch of the shack. The sun is setting, painting the sky in oranges and pinks. 

“What?” He asks, pulling you closer against his side. 

“Being with the covert?” 

He stiffens a bit at your question. You hadn’t talked much about it, beyond him telling you about his exile. You know it’s a sensitive topic to him, but that’s what you had been doing during this break. Digging up all the ugly things, talking about them and working through them. 

“Sometimes.” He says honestly. “It was what I was raised in. Being in exile, hiding away...it’s not the way Mandalorians are supposed to live.” 

“Would you ever want to go back?” You ask. 

He’s quiet for a few moments, his fingers tracing patterns along your bare arm. The touch sends shivers through your body. “It would be impossible.” He says. “Mandalore is cursed. Going there to try and bathe in the Waters...it would be impossible.” 

You squeeze his side, offering him comfort. “I’d go with you, if you ever wanted to try.” 

He sighs, leaning his head on yours. “It would be too much of a risk.” 

Silence settles between you as you watch the sun set, turning the sky purple then grey as night begins to settle in. 

“What would you do, if nothing was standing in our way?” He asks you, breaking the silence. 

You chew your lip for a moment, thinking it through before sighing. “I’d get through my next heat. Then maybe decide what I want.” You shift just slightly in his arms. “It’s coming, in the next couple days.” 

“I know.” He says. “I can smell it.” 

“Do you want to leave?” You ask. 

“No.” He shakes his head. “We’ll ride it out here. Then like you said, we’ll decide what to do.” 

You rest your head back on his shoulder, breathing in his scent. It smells good, mixed with the salty air of the sea. You wish you could just stay here, but you know that’s not an option. 

Taglist:

@donttamethebeasts, @unicorntrooper, @spacecluster, @hugmedin, @hungrhay, @fic-for-readers, @jaydiann, @tonystank3, @lokigirlszendaya, @6oceansofmoons, @star-trekker-0013, @bobaprint

[akindofmagictoo]

manuscript search tag game

another from @diphthongsfordays :D (actually, two!)

my words this time are tragic, entry, bland, unnatural, fall // dust, pile, note, sing, breath

tragic

entry (Hurricane draft 3) (tw misogyny, condescension)

“You can go now, sweetheart. You have your orders.”

She’d also have to deal with fees; Grimmur wouldn’t be happy if they paid more than they had to, but the deposit they’d paid on entry to Kings Cove would be a bit more than one night’s stay. There was also the question of… “Sir?”

“Yes?” He folded his arms.

“What about the men getting supplies?”

He sighed. “Wait for them. Then bring the Marquess back out into the bay. Not difficult, darling. Now go.”

She turned to leave. “Sorry, sir.”

His voice floated out into the corridor. “Shut the door behind you, sweetheart.”

Stomach twisting uncertainly, she did so.

bland

unnatural

fall (Dragonsong draft 1) (Isi no)

“Isi, if we keep going much longer, you’re going to fall over,” said SB.

“I’ll be fine.”

Silence from SB.

“How are Ebele and Cole?” They’d walked a fair way. SB was partially right: Isi was beginning to get tired, and a little lightheaded, but the others had to have it worse. Isi was young and fit, even with Robin on her back. She’d survive. For now, they had to get as far from the prison as they could. Pursuit would follow as soon as they recovered from the mages’ sleep spells.

A rest and some food would be good, but not if it got them caught and thrown back into prison.

When Ebele and Cole began to struggle, they’d stop. But if those two could keep going, they should.

“I would answer that, but actually I don’t think it matters.” SB overtook her and stopped dead, hands on hips, forcing Isi to either stop or crash into him.

She stopped.

dust (Hurricane draft 3)

Again, he was quite content to let Aella do her own negotiating. He stared out the window, enjoying the sight of the round fluffy clouds that sailed across the sky. The thought from earlier—what if he never went home?—tugged at the edge of his mind. Worry began to rise in his gut. He did his best to ignore it. Instead he concentrated on the clouds and the dust that danced in the rays of sunlight streaming through the window.

pile (Dragonsong draft 1)

Robin hesitated, then said, “No.” He was silent for a moment before raising his eyes to meet Isi’s. There was an urgency there she hadn’t expected. “But Isi, you don’t understand. I—I never told you what happened to my leg.”

Isi said nothing, leaving him the space to elaborate. She’d thought she’d known; she’d been the one to find him, legs pinned by a pile of ceiling stones, crying out for help. She hadn’t asked about the exact cause, but it hadn’t seemed relevant. She’d been focused on reassuring him, trying to distract him from the pressure and the pain, until more help arrived to dig him out.

note (Hurricane draft 3) (Aria and Tempest my beloveds)

Aria wasn’t finished, though. “If any of us had thought it was a bad decision, you know we’d have said. Cai certainly told you she disapproved of chasing Anvindr in the first place.”

Tempest had to smile. As usual, Aria was right. And she knew exactly what to say to help. Even if she couldn’t shake the feeling of doubt, it was reassuring to know that even if she wasn’t confident, Aria was.

“On a completely unrelated note,” said Aria, “I detest bandaging shoulders.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll get the next drunk idiot with a broken bottle to hit me somewhere else instead.”

Aria snorted. “Please do.”

sing (Dragonsong draft 1)

As a trainee knight, Isi had studied dragons for a few months. Most old writings on them had been destroyed long before Isi was born, but some had been saved and used for education. Sometimes they mentioned dragons singing, but mostly they’d been annotated to amend it to shrieking or roaring. At the time, she’d assumed the original writers had just gone for a poetic approach, that shrieking was a more accurate description.

The original writers hadn’t been poetic. She knew that now. But just like she had no words to describe it properly, so neither could their words really encapsulate the sound. Nor the crackle in the air, the shiver down her spine.

breath (Hurricane draft 3) (tw blood, injury, death mention)

Aella landed hard on her back, knocking the breath from her lungs. For a second, she felt nothing. Where was she? This must be the landing she’d passed earlier. So the stone above her was the ceiling.

All at once, the pain set in.

The point of her hip throbbed, along with the cuts on her eyebrow and arm. Her cheekbone swelled, oddly warm as blood rushed to it despite the cold air around her. The skin of her arms was raw and torn; every tiny bump in the stone beneath her grated brutally. She took a deep breath of stale air.

Pain lanced through her ribs and she let all the air out in a gasping cough. The metallic taste of blood lingered in her mouth. She spat and put a hand to her side. 


Her ribs had only just healed after last time. Aria was going to kill her.

If Anvindr didn’t kill her first. 

passing this along to @zmwrites @ellatholmes @vellichor-virgo if you’re still around! your words are tragic, bland, unnatural, legend

[goodeapple]

i had all and then most of you / some and now none of you

III

hi all and welcome back to my channel! i honestly don't know where all these words came from but this was a wild ride. 

note, there is some Valyrian dialogue in this chapter so i've listed the translations at the bottom. i got them from a web generated translator so bear with me, mmkay? i'm emotionally fragile so if anyone is mean to me, i will not take it well.

hope you all enjoy!

pairing : Aemond x Ysilla (Rhaenyra'sDaughter!OC)

warnings : unprotected sex (would Trojan condoms be on brand for Westeros?), choking, minor slapping, references to oral

word count : 9500+

masterlist

tags : @rainy-day-lady @blonddnamedhandz @hnybitches @highexpectationsgurl @jankityjankjank @signyvenetia @c0wb0ym3nace @mirandastuckinthe80s @lizajane2

Ysilla smiles a false grin, lips stretched too tight over her teeth.

“Thank you Lord..” Ysilla falters and trails off into silence. 

Beside her, Daemon slurps from his glass, one leg crossed over the other, a painting of nonchalance. He leans into her and whispers too loudly, “Vahxos.”

Ysilla winces at the obviousness of her forgetfulness, trying for a more believable smile for the pudgy, sweet man clad in the light robin egg blue colors of his house. Ysilla never liked herself in blue. She picks that as the reason for this particular suitor’s dismissal. 

“Thank you Lord Vahxos, for traveling all this way and meeting with me. Please, enjoy the rest of your evening.” Ysilla tips her head to him and the man smiles tensely, face flushed a deep pink. He shuffles off to the feast table and Ysilla lets the smile drop from her face. 

“Add him to the list.” Luke snickers to Jace somewhere behind her, and the answering smack! to the back of their heads brings Ysilla the most happiness she’s felt all day. 

The great room of Dragonstone is a cacophony of sounds- the flutes and strings of the musicians float above the clink of silverware, the dull roar of conversations, and the booming laughter of the most eligible lords of Westeros. Banners of her house drape from the high ceilings and flowers that bloom in bursts of burnt oranges and lushy greens are bundled in glass jars among the tables. Candles and torches bring warmth to the cool stones and everyone seems to be enjoying the evening’s festivities.

All but the guest of honor it’s being thrown for. 

“You could attempt to look a bit more welcoming, my little love.”

The annoyance tinging Rhaenyra’s words takes away from the sweet epithet as she settles beside her daughter, clutching Ysilla’s chair for support. Her belly, growing ever bigger by the day, billows out her black and red gown and stretches the material until the stitching seems as if it might burst. 

Ysilla scoffs in the back of her throat, turning her cheek the opposite direction, finding the table full of drunken Baratheon and Tyrell men fascinating. 

“I am as amiable as I can be, mother.” Ysilla tries not to spit the words out but she can taste the venom in her mouth. The rage that has swirled in her gut for days has settled into bitter betrayal and she keeps her words blunt whenever they’re aimed at her mother. 

It’s easier to be mad than to be sad because Ysilla worries if she starts to cry, she may never stop. 

How could her mother not tell her from the beginning what her plans were? How could she let her continue on, accepting her new reality in King's Landing, growing accustomed to her new duties and surroundings to then just be told to paint her face and make good impressions to the lords of the lands? 

Ysilla knows that she will be allowed to reunite with Aemond after this farce concludes, her mother promised her so, but… she worries it may be too late. 

“Aemond!” Ysilla hissed, latching onto his forearm, attempting to drag him to a halt. Trying to stop a wild horse would’ve been a simpler task.  

He shakes her off so roughly it twinges something in her shoulder, but at last, he stills, spinning on his heel to face her.  

The rage filled glare he shoots at her is a look she hasn’t felt since they were children. She hasn’t seen it since the night he lost his eye. Her blood pumps cold in her veins.  

“I didn’t know! My mother didn’t tell me any of this before you and I started…”  

Ysilla blanks on what to call their actions. They were betrothed, but now, are they truly? Are they still?  

Her mother had told her of their upcoming plans: to sail back to Dragonstone and host all of the mightiest lords of Westeros to auction off Ysilla’s hand like a goat at a market. Said that they had to put up a good front, a convincing act, before Ysilla and Aemond’s true betrothal could be announced. How it would be good for the realm; how if her mother went back on her invitation now after reaching out to the lords of Westeros herself, it would be like spitting in their faces. A woman ruler, already an affront to so many, it would be an added kick to a downed man. 

The weight of her family, the pound of her heart, the scream of her soul. Ysilla felt like she was being jerked this way and that by the tide, pulling her in all ways until her limbs snapped and she floated in pieces apart from herself.  

Her family waited for her now, down at the docks with their ship packed tightly, ready to sail for Dragonstone. Ysilla felt like it was a trap; like if she stepped foot onto the floating vessel, she would sail away into the arms of a foreign lord, never to return to her silver haired consort.  

The very idea made Ysilla want to toss herself overboard. 

“You expect me to sit back and watch these men throw themselves at you? Pleading and tripping over themselves for something that belongs to me." Aemond speaking so openly of his thoughts about her would flush her with wantonness if it were any other situation, but Ysilla feels the furor steaming from his skin.  

“And I’m sure my sister loves this,” Aemond lets loose an ugly chuckle; it feels sharp in her ears. “Gaining trust in my mother’s hand and agreeing to our betrothal, only to laugh in our faces and parade you in front of me, done up for others while I sit and eat roast fucking pig!”  

Aemond is enraged simply by the conjured vision of what could be. He dares not to think what he would do if he were actually made to pay witness to Ysilla’s courting.  

He will not go.  

“I only want you.” Ysilla wishes her voice was stronger, but she hears the rush of the ocean in them, the salt of her tears stinging her nose.  

“For now.” Aemond feels like shouting it at her, pouring his rage and fear into the words but they speak as almost a strangled whisper.  

His face heats; he’s so close to lying it all bare for Ysilla to pick and choose what parts of him she would like to keep. His heart a trinket box, his bones paperweights, his hidden sapphire eye a pendant hanging from her delicate neck. How she would wear him on her person so loudly and unabashedly, telling the entire court how Aemond would rather tear himself to pieces than ever cause Ysilla pain. The cruel second son, kneeling before a royal bastard. How far he’s fallen.  

And now, Ysilla will be tempted by all the things Aemond knows he’s not, by men that might make her realize she’s made the wrong choice. It feels like dirt in an open wound. Feels like losing more than just an eye.  

“You mustn't keep your mother waiting, Princess. You have quite the party to attend.” Aemond turns and flees in the other direction, ignoring the plea in his very soul to rush back to his heart he leaves behind with Ysilla.  

Ysilla sighs, fatigue heavy in her limbs, her lips pulling upwards into their rehearsed position. The faster she can get on with this, the better. 

“Apologies, Your Grace,” she glances up at her mother, eyes as crystalline as the Dragonglass filling the earth hundreds of feet below them. The golden crown adorning Rhaenyra’s flaxen hair seems as if it has always been there. 

“The night has dragged on and I am a bit tired of sitting; I fear I may grow roots the longer I stay planted.”

Ysilla rises from her chair, knees popping and stiff spine straightening. 

Rhaenyra fixes her with a look, the perfected disappointed/fond face only a mother could wear, and Ysilla rolls her eyes. 

“I’m not making a hasty escape, mother. My legs feel like logs and it’ll do the lords good to see that I can be more than just a wall ornament.” Ysilla smiles tightly. “Baela and Rhaena can accompany me as well- they won’t let me run away.” 

Her cousins, seated next to their future husbands, rise from their seats and Rhaena loops her arm through Ysilla’s, tugging on it for good measure. Rhaenyra gives a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and Baela guides Ysilla down the steps with a hand at the small of her back. 

Rhaenyra watches the trio join the crowd amongst the floor and exhales a heavy breath. She lowers herself with great effort into Ysilla’s empty chair, uncomfortable no matter if she is standing or sitting at the tail end of her pregnancy. 

“This was a mistake,” she whispers, more to herself than anything. “She is so hurt by this.”

A bark of laughter makes her flinch. Her counterpart must have overheard her. 

“She’ll get over it.” Daemon sneers into his cup. 

Rhaenyra frowns at her husband. A foolish boy, even at a man of five-and-forty. At times, it feels as if Rhaenyra has eight children.

“There has to be someone else.” He sniffs, his tone leaving no room for argument. 

“What if there’s not?” Rhaenyra questions him.

“Look around, my love,” Daemon sets his cup down a bit too harshly, wine sloshing over the rim and dribbling down the side. 

“All of the lords of Westeros are gathered in this room, showcasing their want for our daughter’s hand. For her name and her house. For the power she holds in her womb. They wish to wear her colors, not the other way around. One of them is bound to make an impression on her.” Daemon’s hand is squeezing her’s, thumb rubbing tenderly at her knuckles. His eyes bore into Rhaenyra, attempting to share what he sees with his wife. 

But her attention is elsewhere, instead focused on the intricate flowing braids of her daughter’s hair. There are wild roses pinned throughout the plaits, some ringlets of charcoal black loose around Ysilla’s face. She looks like a fairy of the forest, her flowing lavender dress keeping bare her slender shoulders, clutching at her curves and swishing around her ankles. Her skin glows under the flames and her eyes are glittering jewels in a periwinkle sunset. Rhaenyra feels emotion tighten her throat- her little girl is not so little anymore. 

“Ysilla can do better than that twat.” Daemon sneers with finality. 

Rhaenyra gazes sightlessly at Ysilla ambling around the hall, recalling her at four, picking flowers in the Red Keep’s garden and bunching them together in a bouquet for Harwin and a newborn Jace. Her only tala.

“What bothers you more, my love?” Rhaenyra’s voice is a dreamy drawl, mind a thousand miles away. “The fact that you weren’t involved with her betrothal to Aemond, or that you see too much of yourself in that boy?” 

He stares at her, love always present in his sage gray pools of displeasure. 

“Both, actually."

.

.

.

The girls stroll about, Rhaena and Baela whispering in Valyrian their thoughts of the men in attendance tonight. 

“That one, did you see him? So drunk already that he nearly tumbled down the steps.” Baela chuckles behind her palm, hand still at Ysilla’s back and eyes glossing over the crowd.

“What about him, Silli? He isn’t half bad- just look past the wandering eye and the limp.” Rhanea pokes at her arm and Ysilla manages to huff out a laugh. Rhaena and her shared a bed until just a few years ago- not for lack of space, more so for not wanting to part with each other. Being surrounded by so many boys drains Ysilla endlessly and Rhaena is always a breath of fresh air. 

Not to mention, she’s the only person who knows of her and Aemond’s… affairs.

It didn’t go over too well, when Rhaena found a straggling piece of silver hair clinging to Ysilla’s gown when they were dressing. But Rhaena had accepted it with the same amount of darling charm and grace she does with everything else in her life. She wanted to smack Ysilla silly and kiss her cheek afterwards- she wouldn’t dare but the thought was a soothing balm to her anger. 

Baela on the other hand, lacked a bond with the young princess, more-so from Rhaenys’ doing than living apart from the girls on Driftmark. But her vivid nature and lovely smile made up for lost time in a matter of weeks. The two Velaryons feel like the only thing keeping Ysilla’s sanity in check tonight. She’s more grateful than simple words can express.

Baela tugs on her wrist, casting Ysilla’s eyes towards a sharp looking Tyrell that isn’t too far apart in age from her when she collides with a furry mountain. 

Well, a mountain of a man, more like. 

“Ooohh!” Ysilla careens back on her feet, dress tangling between her legs as she bounces off of the man before two mammoth hands lock on to her forearms.

“Easy there, tiny one. Can’t have the woman of the hour breaking an ankle on me.” The thick, barking accent of the North never quite agreed with Ysilla’s ears, but tonight it is without its chafe. Ysilla has to crane her neck so far upwards to look upon the visitor, she feels her curls plummet from her shoulders and swing about the small of her back. 

“Apologies, my Lord, I was not paying attention to where I was going.” 

A shock of white teeth appear from behind full, pink lips in a fleeting grin.

“No apologies needed, Princess. With how many visitors you’ve hosted tonight, I’m surprised you haven’t fallen asleep in your chair.” He leans forward just a tad, releasing his grip, but his left hand trails down her arm before catching her fingers gently. He’s warm and Ysilla smells pine on his furs; it’s pleasant. Ysilla feels gooseflesh rise from the tickle of his touch. 

“The South isn’t the land of my people, nor a land I find quite welcoming but I must say,” the Northern timbre of his voice rolls through Ysilla like thunder, “You are a sight worthy of any long journey.” 

Cregan Stark is devastatingly handsome: chilly blue eyes, a thick, full beard and shoulders wider than a tree trunk, Ysilla can’t lie and say that she isn’t a touch flustered at the kiss he leaves chastely along her knuckles. Baela and Rhaena giggle girlishly behind her and Ysilla feels her cheeks tingle, the truest smile she’s donned all night plucking at her lips. 

The Stark grins cheekily, straightening from his bend and casting her in his shadow. The chandelier’s glow carves him into a shape of winter and muscle and Ysilla flutters her lashes to bring him back to focus. 

“May I steal a few moments of your time tonight? I’d like to get to know you better whilst I have the chance, as you are one sought after maiden.” 

“Please do, before another Lannister makes an effort to talk to me.” Ysilla makes a face and Cregan guffaws at her, a loud belly laugh that makes Ysilla’s ears redden and causes her to duck her head as they catch the stare’s of the other partygoers. 

Ysilla straightens, tucking her hair behind her ears in a nervous tick, before clasping them in front of her and strolling alongside Lord Stark. 

Baela and Rhaena hang back a few paces, watching the two with feasting eyes.

The air of the great room is stuffy from the flames and the bodies and Ysilla thinks Cregan must feel suffocated by his heavy furs, but he has not even a drop of sweat on his brow. His curls gleam a chestnut brown and the thump of his heavy footfalls are clear over the plucks of the harpist. 

“Tell me about yourself- if you would, my Princess.” 

“Ysilla, please, my Lord. Just Ysilla.” She shoots him a small, pleading smile. 

“Well then, Ysilla, call me Cregan- no need for the ‘Lord’. Lord is my uncle’s name.” Cregan twists his lips up and the way it brightens his face would make the breath catch in any maiden’s throat. 

A bubble of her own laughter surprises Ysilla and she nods her concession. 

“Cregan it is. I excel at embroidery, I am not half-bad at painting but I do prefer sketching. I know all seven steps to a formal dance and I can ride a horse better than my brothers can ride dragonback-”

“Fascinating.” The sarcasm drenching the word makes Ysilla frown, cutting herself off as she aims a furrowed stare up at Cregan. They’ve stopped in their walk and Ysilla crosses her arms defensively. 

Cregan smiles, not quite reaching his eyes. “Apologies, my uncle always says I don’t possess much tact. I meant, what do you like to do for fun?” Cregan shrugs his shoulders unperturbed and the rise and fall of his cloak seems to breathe like the beast it was skinned from. “You sounded like you were reading from a list. What burns your fire, Ysilla?”

Ysilla blushes, her dismay draining from her in a blink and she tangles her fingers in her skirts. 

“Well, when you put it like that...” Ysilla breathes easier at the chuckle Cregan lets out. 

She thinks for a moment, taking small steps forward, causing Cregan to follow along as he stares wistfully at her. 

“Baking!” Ysilla declares with a snap of her fingers, jubilance sparking in her eyes. Cregan smiles something that seems too soft for a man of his stature. “When I can, I steal away and bake in the kitchens. I burn more than I make but I enjoy the process. And… singing. Only when I’m alone, but I quite like it.” 

Ysilla smiles to herself, the words finding her much easier the more she speaks. Her Northern companion is a good listener. 

“I love to read; poems about lost loves, histories of my lands, tall tales of the East and West. Anything I can get my hands on, really.” Ysilla’s smile starts to droop and she wrings her hands together. It’s all truths spilling from her lips but she can’t help but feel a burgeoning betrayal build in her chest. 

“Read to me.” Aemond demands of Ysilla, his head in her lap, icy blonde strands whipping wildly in the warm wind rolling through the gardens. Ysilla snorts, wiggling her knees so his head jostles against her thighs. He aims a glare at her, pinching at her side until she giggles and swats his hand away.  

“You are a man of many talents, including studies. You can read it yourself when I am done.” Ysilla quips but the softness in her smile takes away all the bite her words may have held.  

Aemond rolls his eye fondly.  

“I don’t care to read it myself; I’ve read it time and time again. I want to hear you read the words. I want to listen to the way you hear them in your head.”  

Ysilla’s heart pounds at that.  

It amazes her that she can straddle his thigh only this morning, riding along the ridge and cum with his fingers shoved in her mouth and not blink twice, but the moment he requests something so plain of her, she’s blushing like a Septa.  

She clears her throat, blinking away the recollection before starting at the top of the page, her free hand finding his hair, working her way through the wind swept tangles as she reads aloud the tales of Aegon and his sisters.  

Ysilla doesn’t notice Aemond’s eye slipping closed, his hand reaching out to rest against her bare ankle, tracing lines into the skin.  

Ysilla winces at the memory, smoothing down her dress to hide the tremble in her fingers. She can’t stomach the thought that that will be the only time she’ll idle carelessly with Aemond, sun on her cheeks and him lounging against her. 

She needs more, yearns for it like nothing she has ever felt before. Ysilla would give it all up- her gowns, her books, her own name, to just be able to lie about the grass with her Dragon Prince for the rest of her days. 

Melancholy swirls about her head again, and she fights the sadness creeping its way into her heart. She longs for her dragonheart, the blood boiling in her veins and the roar reverberating in her soul. It gives her starch in her spine but the absence of it is dismal. She hasn’t felt her dragon since she left him behind in King’s Landing.

Cregan’s brow comes together at the gloom that falls over the princess’s heart shaped face, and he catches her softly by the elbow.

“Ysilla, does something trouble y-”

The herald bangs his staff thrice against the floor, the booming knocks calling immediate attention from all of the night’s attendees and cutting off Cregan’s question. 

Ysilla spins to face the entrance to the room, all heads swiveling to catch sight of the very late invitee. Ysilla’s heart gallops in her chest, and she wouldn’t be surprised to find her breast bruised in the morrow with how fast it's beating. 

“Prince Aemond of House Targaryen, second son of the late King Viserys, rider of Vhagar, and brother to the Queen Rhaenyra.” 

Whether it be the clear vibrato of the herald’s announcement or Aemond’s very presence, a hush falls over the masses as the man swaggers into the room. Absent are the emerald shades of his mother’s house, in place, an inky black doublet with silver accents paired with black leather breeches, his sword clasped to his hip. His hair, glimmering under the torches, is half pulled back and secured with a leather band, his eyepatch ever present and secured along the left side of his face. 

Ysilla pinches her thigh to see if she’ll awaken from a dream. She fears if she blinks, he’ll disappear like a wisp of smoke on the breeze.

Her eyes are glued to him, sight unwavering, and it isn’t until Aemond is within arm’s reach that she can finally thaw. 

“Uncle,” Ysilla clears her throat in hopes of dispersing the breathy, awe-struck tone her voice has adopted. “What are you doing here?”

Aemond regards her in silence, before bowing forward slightly. 

“I am here to join in the night’s tourney for your hand, my beautiful niece.” Cregan’s nose wrinkles, a blatant expression of distaste for her family’s queer customs. 

Aemond straightens, eye holding a thousand promises Ysilla cannot begin to unpack right now, as she worries a slight brush of an arm will topple her over.  

“I seek to steal you away… for a dance, is all.” The side of Aemond’s mouth jerks in a private joke.

“Actually,” the hardness in Cregan’s voice is as brisk as a glacial wind, “Ysilla and I were in the middle of a conversation before your last-minute arrival… my Prince.”

Aemond’s eye twitches at the sound of her name, said so informally by this visiting lord. 

He turns his attention to the taller man, scanning him over with obvious detestment that only deepens as he takes in his worn boots, thick hide trousers, and swathing furs. Ysilla has seen looks aimed at rats that are more appreciative than the look Aemond sends Cregan’s way. 

She fidgets in her stance, glancing over her shoulder and finding the many eyes aimed their way. A heavier stare she cannot see but can feel, trained on the back of her head, threatens to send her up in flames. She can nearly feel the sear of steam on the back of her neck from her step-father’s glare.

“The winds were rough and the cloud layer thick, so I took hesitance in flying through them. I wouldn’t want to break my poor niece’s heart if they were to pull my lifeless body from the sea. You understand the perils of flying.” Aemond exhales a laugh that reminds Ysilla of her grandsire’s last dinner- the laugh that Aemond released after taking Jace’s fist to the face with less ache than a papercut. It’s a dangerous sound; the hunger that it sparks in her belly has nothing to do with her not eating. 

“Wait, you don’t know, do you, Stark?” 

Cregan’s mouth is a thin line that threatens to dissolve into his face.

“Of course not. Well, you wouldn’t want to monopolize the Princess for any longer than you seemed to have already, would you, Northman?” Aemond could have called Cregan a shit-kicking swine and it would have had the same inflection as “Northman”. 

Cregan looks ready to object, stare darkening bluer than the Shivering Sea. But he glances down at Ysilla, taking in the worry in her features and the nibbling of her lip, before sighing and releasing her elbow. 

He tips his head towards Aemond, a display of respect that Ysilla knows is just for show. Cregan turns to her next, a ghost of the radiant smile he aimed at her earlier dancing around the corner of his mouth. 

“Thank you, Ysilla,” Aemond rustles, boots digging into the stone irritably, “for your time. It was the highlight of my entire voyage. I won’t soon forget it.”

Ysilla curtseys, fondness lifting her heart as Cregan stalks off to the sidelines. The young Princess composes herself, ever the lady, turning to face the object of all her desires and frustrations. 

“What do you think you’re doing, Aemond?” Ysilla barely twitches her lips as she speaks, wishing for even a smidgen of privacy. 

Aemond’s gaze softens a tad, slouching in his stance, curving his frame around Ysilla and kicking one foot up behind his other. 

“This is a ball, is it not? That dress is too grand not to let me spin you around the stones.”

Ysilla stares at Aemond as if he’s sprouted wings and asked her to climb upon his back for a ride. She blinks at his offered hand, calloused and raised, steady as a shadow, waiting for her answer. The weight of the entire room’s stares build on her shoulders and Ysilla feels as if she might crumble. 

She meets Aemond’s gaze, and she sees something she hasn’t seen there before. 

Finality, acceptance, readiness. He’s truly here, in her home. He came back for her. 

Ysilla places her hand gently in his. Her feet follow a practiced step, starting on a dance, the tap of her shoes echoing off the walls. 

“That was quite an entrance, my Prince. I did not think you would make it to this banquet.” Ysilla speaks quietly, meeting chest to chest, Aemond’s hand finding home in her’s and the other planted on her hip. 

He smirks, turning them in a circle that twirls her skirts. 

“I couldn’t let Lord Massey have all the fun; I heard he brought an entire herd of horses to sweeten the deal for your hand. I figured Vhagar could use a good snack.” 

Ysilla frowns, her nails digging into the back of his hand. 

“Is this all this is to you? A pissing contest to see which one of you lords is higher up on the ladder than the other? To see which one will polish me as a trophy and keep me at their side like a pet?” 

Aemond spins her so quickly Ysilla’s head whirls, before tugging her back into his arms. She crashes into his chest, flush against him, lips nearly brushing, breathing as one. 

Aemond smells of sea salt and dragon, oranges and musk. 

Ysilla smells of smoke and rain, honeysuckle and spiced wine. 

They halt in their battle, neither breaking gaze, the soft strings of a fiddle still strumming somewhere in the distance. 

“The only reason I am here is to end this little charade, and bring you home with me. Any lord or lady that has fucking problem with that can answer to my blade or my dragon. I’ll be kind and let them choose.” Aemond hisses into the air between his and Ysilla’s mouths. 

His heart is in his throat, not a sliver of deceit in his words - only the absolute promise that he will go through anybody who dares to stand in the way of what is his. 

Ysilla looks into his eye, face as blank as a canvas, a steel fortress the color of lilac are her eyes. 

Aemond fears nearly nothing, but he’s terrified she will end their dance. That she’ll thank him with a curtsy and move on to the next lord, abandoning him as a mistake she made in the heat of many moments. 

Perhaps he is too late, too stuck in his own stubbornness to admit when he is in the wrong. His mother would agree with that. 

But then, before Aemond feels the wash of panic, Ysilla finally lets her eyes flutter shut, relaxing the stiff line of her shoulders. She melts into his hold. Her nails loosen from his skin, her fingertips sliding down to trail over his wrist. Her hand settled primly on his shoulder slides to the back of his neck, tangling her fingers into his silver mane. Aemond breathes with her, dropping his chin to rest on the crown of curls atop her head. 

The roses pinned in her hair compliment her perfume beautifully; Aemond makes note to ask her to put them in her marriage bouquet. 

Off to the side, Bennard Stark buries a laugh into his fist, eyes unwilling to break from the two dueling dancers in the center of the room. He claps his nephew on the shoulder, making a grumbling apologetic noise. 

“Sorry boyo, it looks like that little lass is already spoken for.” 

Cregan sighs in defeat, taking a swig from his cup, watching the way the duo twists and sways around each other. Like two people who already know each other’s bodies. They’re riveting to watch, on the edge of a fight and a coupling at any given moment. 

“Fucking Targaryens.”

The metallic shling of a sword being unsheathed shatters the soft tempo of the flutes. 

An obviously drunken Lannister had stumbled into the back of a sitting Baratheon, upturning his entire mug of ale over the man’s head. 

The House of the Stag, “Ours is the Fury”, took great offense, drawing blade and cutting off the Lannister's hand with a nimble swing. It took about three seconds before both houses upturned their tables and began to rage in an all out war. 

Ysilla gasps, tearing herself away from her Prince, eyes finding her mother and family already secured behind the entire Queensguard. Rhaena and Baela had returned to Jace and Luke at the beginning of her dance and they were safe behind the guard’s shields. 

She can see her mother, blonde hair and blazing eyes and dainty pale hands trying to rip through the line dividing them. 

“Ysilla!” Her mother’s cry can scarcely be heard over the shouting curses and angry yells of the men determined to slice each other into pieces. 

“Mother!” Ysilla bellows back, and she wants to warn her to stay put and not come out onto the floor but she’s being tugged back by the hand that never left her own. She glances back at Aemond, fingers intertwined tightly together, his other hand on the hilt of his sword. His eye is trained on the brawling mass of men, making sure they don’t get too close to her. He looks positively lethal. 

Ysilla tries not to swoon. 

Daemon, finding it fruitless to try and budge against the guards, climbs atop of Ysilla's abandoned chair, catching sight of long white hair disappearing out the great room’s doors. A swish of purple silk rounds the corner after it before the doors close behind them. Daemon thinks he could clear the guards at this height if he tucks his feet when he jumps but thinks better of it. 

Clambering off the chair with a grunt, he finds Rhaenyra’s hand quickly, tugging her into his side. 

“I saw her, love, she’s safe.” He whispers into her temple before pressing a kiss there. 

Rhaenyra breathes out a choked rush of air, taking a few calming inhales. Daemon rubs her belly, and glares through the line of guards; the clashing of metal stirs the dragon’s fight inside of him. But the only opponent he truly wishes to face is currently dragging his stepdaughter out of the great room, to somewhere else in the castle. Alone. At night. After that dance they just subjected everyone to watch. 

Daemon ponders if “Kinslayer” is such a terrible title to add after his name. 

.

.

.

Ysilla, breathless and trailing after Aemond, quickly realizes he has no idea where he is going. 

She laughs a light note, tugging at the hand he insists on keeping in his own. He stills, questions in the look he aims at her. 

She gives him a sly smile, pulling him down a different corridor and starting up a set of stairs. 

“You do realize if you try to kill me here, someone will find me eventually.” Aemond whispers into her ear. He’s so close to her, Ysilla can feel the rise and fall of his chest against her back. She rests her weight against him, hands still locked together and swinging at their sides. He smells divine.

“Oh my love, they’d never find your body. I know of all the hiding places in the entire castle.” Ysilla maintains a straight face through the joke before suddenly twisting in his hold, shoving him against the wall. She slithers up his body and presses her lips to his pounding pulse.

“You do realize,” she echoes his words back to him, “what happened the first time you and I were alone together in a darkened hallway?” She flicks her tongue over the shell of his ear. Her free hand slips down his front, palm pressing into the bulge at the start of his laces before giving him a soft squeeze. 

She’s giddy, spun off the idea that they’re together again, alone and at last, set in stone to marry. Ysilla determines a celebration is in order. 

Aemond growls, lunging in to capture her lips, but Ysilla is quicker here, with these familiar stones under her feet, and she dances out of his arms, finally breaking their held hands. Aemond feels her loss in more than just his touch, and the desperation that claws up his neck to have her back in his arms jolts him forward. 

Ysilla arches a fine brow, tongue darting out to moisten her lips, teeth catching the light of the moon pouring in through a high window. She glides further up the stairs, unblinking and smirking so widely it might split her face in two. 

The challenge is clear to Aemond: come and catch me.  

What kind of a man would he be to deny his future bride? 

Ysilla must see him tense before he springs, for she turns on her heel and takes off running up the stairs right before he is able to capture her. 

Her exhilarated giggles bounce off the stones, torch flames whipping as Ysilla and Aemond sprint past them down a lonely hall. 

Aemond’s blood sings in his ears, all predator on the tail of his prey, and he’s never felt more connected to his winged sigil than in this moment. He’s a dragon, through and through, and his reward will be decadent. 

And while Ysilla may know this labyrinth like the back of her hand, she’s tiny compared to Aemond and his legs easily outpace her. 

She squeals as arms wrap around her middle, swinging her off the floor.

Aemond has a face full of her curls and all he can smell is Ysilla Ysilla Ysilla. His mouth pools with saliva and he battles the urge to sink his teeth into her neck to mark her with his bite. 

He pushes her into a closed door, her cheek scraping and breasts crushing against the unforgiving wood. Ysilla whimpers, her cunt already dripping a puddle into her small clothes. She’s been wet since Aemond first stepped foot into the great room. He tends to have that effect on her. 

“Has anyone else ever had you like this?” 

If Aemond doesn’t get the answer he likes, more than just Lannister blood will paint these ancient halls tonight. He’ll strike down any man, any kin of the man, any servant of the man who dared to defile his dragon princess. 

“We’ve already played this game.” Ysilla speaks with broken words, breath sparse the tighter she’s squeezed against the door. 

“Mmmmm, yes we have.” He pecks the side of her mouth, tenderly, with closed lips. It’s chaste, loving; it drives Ysilla mad. She wants him to throw her down, to strip her bare and to take what’s hers and make it his. 

Ysilla whimpers as Aemond's hands slide underneath her dress, winding up the back of her thighs and drifting higher and higher until he rests them at the swell of her backside. He wrenches her small clothes down her legs, aiding her in stepping out of them. He dances his fingertips back up, kneading the bared flesh of her cheeks, full in his palms, his thumbs stroking up towards the dip of her back. The dress she wears tonight is exquisite and does wonders for her beauty but it takes every ounce of self control Aemond possesses to not tear it to shreds with his hands.

“But my little dragon lied, didn’t she? No other has been where I have- no man, no woman. You just said it to make me envious, to burn for something someone else already had.” 

Aemond’s palm meets the globe of her ass with a stinging smack and Ysilla hiccups a cry, thighs quivering. Her flesh burns a beautiful crimson, Aemond’s hand a perfect impression amongst the golden skin. 

She sucks her bottom lip to stunt the noises wanting to tumble from her mouth. It’s too early to give in to his game. 

“It worked didn’t it?” A husky laugh escapes Ysilla, wiggling around against Aemond, skin burning through her clothes and all she craves is for them to be ripped from her body. She wants Aemond stripped bare, wants to see the pale plains of his body, to admire the muscles carved into the marble of his skin. She yearns for every delicious ridge of him to find their home against the plushness of her frame. 

Aemond growls, a dark warning sounding from his chest. His hand wraps around her throat, tightening just so that her breath stutters on exhale. 

His thumb digs painfully into the crook of her jaw, wedging it open and he lifts Ysilla up by her neck. She dances on her toes, heart hammering and Ysilla wonders how much her body must crave this cruel man’s handling as the inferno pulsing between her thighs burns even hotter at the stunted breaths she pulls in. 

Ysilla faces him now, and the flickering light of the torch casts shadows over his handsome visage. He looks like a creature of the night, hungry and wanting, waiting for a helpless maiden to stumble into his clutches so that he can feast on her until there’s nothing left but the bones.

Ysilla wonders if he’ll feast on her cunt tonight, jaw working her open and tongue buried so deep he must taste nothing but her essence. 

“Ysillaaaaa…” Aemond draws her name out, brushing his lips over her temple, across her brow, down her nose, over her eyelids. Ysilla forces herself to breathe every few moments, lest she plummet to the ground in her desire. She’s fainted once already in front of him; one more time, and he might take it personally. 

Worse, it might make his ego bigger than it already is. 

Aemond’s hand is less constricting now, more so keeping her in place than pinning her down. His thumb strokes over her jugular, nearly feeling the rush of her life’s blood darting through her veins. Aemond feels a foolish urge to crawl inside of her, to feel her heart beat through his body, the zap of her nerves, the call of her thoughts. 

He’s taken with her, so much so that every moment they were apart felt like a dull blade inching further and further closer to his heart as the days fell to night. 

Aemond brushes his lips over Ysilla’s, and he opens his eye to drown in her gaze. He curses Lucerys Velaryon for the umpteenth time because Aemond is sure even two eyes wouldn’t be enough to capture Ysilla’s beauty. Her pupils are blown black, eyelids heavy over her murky stare. 

Aemond dares to let a faithless wish bloom in his thoughts. 

He wants to fuck Ysilla silly tonight. To finally make himself a home between her legs. 

Because they haven’t done that. Not yet. 

His fingers, his tongue, they’ve both mapped every part of her womanhood, carved themselves a home in her but he hasn’t fucked her with his cock yet.

Made her beg for it, sure. Wrapped her fist around him and pumped him to near madness, of course she has. Ysilla even dropped to her knees, peered up at him like he was some holy thing, wrapped that plush mouth around him and whispered her prayers of his seed down her throat. 

Him inside of her, uniting as one, was something he was saving for their marriage bed. 

But now, in the face of these men, these unworthy dogs, begging on their knees for her hand that is already promised to another, in the face of temptation, in the face of Cregan fucking Stark, Aemond wants Ysilla to know he’s the only one for her. He’s her dragon she’s waited all her life for. 

He wants to take her maidenhead and keep it forever. Emblaze it upon his chest like the sigil of their house, wear it like a crown of glory. 

So he will. As long as she’ll allow him to. 

“Ask me, Ysilla,” Aemond scarcely recognizes his own voice, rumbling and low. “Ask me to do it and I will. I’m at your command, my Queen.”

Ysilla thinks she might cum right then and there.

“Please,” Ysilla breathes against his mouth, “Please Aemond, take me back with you. Don’t let me leave again.” Her chest feels like it might burst open, all of her love spilling out onto the stones like a heavy rain.

“Give me a reason to stay.”

Aemond snarls a wicked sound, yanking at the back of her knees to wind her legs around his hips. Ysilla locks her ankles at the small of his back, burying her face into his neck, kissing every bit of skin she can seek out. 

She’s missed the taste of him. She never wants the chance to miss anything about him; she wants Aemond, always and forever, beneath her, beside her, with her.

He kicks the door open, the heavy wood banging off the wall and swinging shut after the two tangled lovers. 

Ysilla unlocks her ankles, sliding down Aemond, whimpering at the hard jut of his cock through his breeches that presses into her naked center. 

Ysilla worries (and not for the first time) that it may not all fit inside of her. But she’ll be damned if she doesn’t give it a good try. 

Ysilla balances on her toes and sucks at Aemond’s lower lip once more, before grasping him around the waist and pushing him back onto the bed. 

Aemond’s eye goes a bit wide, a fight blooming brightly there before Ysilla extinguishes it with a single raised finger. 

“Do you know where you are, Aemond Targaryen?” Her voice is thick with lust and it drips over Aemond like honey. He swallows, trying to relax on the sheets. 

“This room,” Ysilla’s hands rise up to her hair, her tits lifting and pushing at the silk of her dress. Two piercing buds are visible through the fabric and Aemond’s mouth waters. She pulls out one rose after the other, tossing them carelessly to the ground, golden pins following after and clinking on the stones. “This room is no spare room. This is my room; my chambers, my lair, my den.” She shakes out her locks, and it's an onyx halo around her face. 

“I’ve led you right to it, because I want you here, in my sheets, in my bed. Under my hand.” Aemond’s smile is a nasty twist of his lips; he is no easy man to control and in this bedroom, Ysilla will fall apart time and time again under him. 

He twists his hands in the blankets beneath him, a witty retort on his lips that sinks like an anchor when Ysilla’s hand goes to the strap at her shoulder.

“Because here, Aemond,” the other hand to the other strap, “Ao issi ñuhon.” 

And Ysilla unwraps herself, her frock pooling at her ankles. She steps out of it, bringing herself to Aemond’s still form.

“Se nyke aōha's.” Aemond loses it at her Valyrian attestment, hands springing to her hips and pulling her flush against him. The softness of his shirt caresses her nipples and Ysilla bites her lip, unwilling to let her eyes drift shut. She wants to pay witness to every dazzling expression to grace her lover’s face. 

“Ñuhon, ñuhon, ñuhon." Aemond gasps into the valley of her chest, teeth catching along the heavy swell of her breasts, his hands leaving her to tear at his clothes, eager to feel her exposed against him. 

“Aōhon, aōhon, aōhon.” Ysilla busies her hands in his hair, untying the leather band to free his strands in order to twist her fingers in them. Aemond kicks off his boots and breeches, at last free of his offending garments, pulling her around the waist with him to recline against the bedding. His lips still pepper kisses and bites along her breasts.

Ysilla releases a shaky breath, confidence wavering as she lets Aemond roll atop of her, surrounded all over by pure man. 

Aemond feels the stutter of her chest beneath his mouth. He looks up at her, catching her eyes as he lays one last kiss to the skin over her heart before rising to be face-to-face with her.

His pearlescent hair curtains around her face, and his heavy hand cups her cheek, thumb swiping back and forth along her cheekbone. His other hand reaches for the back of her right knee, pulling it over his hip and spreading her wide. He settles lower into the bed and Ysilla’s pulse races at the velvety weight of his cock against the inside of her thigh. 

Aemond holds her stare still, reaching blindly for her hand. She finds him first and laces their fingers together. 

“Are you ready, Ysilla?” Aemond’s voice threatens to break the moment and Ysilla clenches around nothing at the sound of her name on his lips. 

Ysilla kisses his knuckles, resting their intertwined hands beside her head. 

“Do it, Aemond. Make me yours.”

Aemond slides forward without another word, swallowing Ysilla’s cry with his mouth as he sinks inch by inch into her heat.

Holy fuck. 

Aemond whispers half-Valyrian, half-English praises into her cheek, her lips, her neck- any spot where his lips can shower her skin.

My little love, so willing for me. So ready to take every piece of me. You were made for my cock.  

Ysilla lets out a whimper, a tear clinging to her lower lash as she feels the brush of Aemond’s curls at last press into her lower belly.

“Breathe, issa jorrāelagon.” Aemond’s voice is a cracked mess of words. His fist is bunched in her sheets, nose pressed to the crown of her head. All thoughts focused on not coming inside of Ysilla like a green boy. He’s struck suddenly by a memory of the Street of Silk when he was coming into manhood, embarrassed and flustered at the depravities his older brother shoved in his face. 

Ysilla’s mouth, insistent against his own, draws him back from his thoughts. 

Her eyes, brimming with tears and desire, seek out his gaze. He stares back, unpleasant memories floating out of his ears like wings on the wind. And then, like a gift from the Seven, a smile, his smile curls her mouth and she places a simple kiss on the jut of his chin. 

Aemond loves her. He knows he does. 

“I’m okay, Aemond. You can move.” 

He arches a brow, ruddiness darkening his cheeks and his breaths labored. Ysilla smirks, widening her hips even more; if she looks even an ounce as her beloved appears, so wanton and needy, she must be a sight to behold. 

“Qogralbar nyke, ñuha valzȳrys.” 

Aemond growls, untangling their fingers to grasp her wrist, pinning it over her head. He draws his hips back and Ysilla shivers at the feeling, every vein and every ridge of his manhood dragging out of her before plunging back in. Her own slick mixes with her maiden blood and Ysilla feels heady, the weight of what they’re doing settling around them. 

The sharpness in her belly starts to dissipate and the buzz of their joined bodies starts to feel like a jolt each time Aemond bucks into her.  

She’s bared to him, completely and in every sense. And as she gazes upon him, focusing all thought on the pleasure and not the pain, all she wants is for him to do the same. 

Her free hand’s fingertips graze along the scar branching out from his eyepatch. 

Aemond snaps his head back violently, stilling inside her as his chest rises and falls harshly. Ysilla says nothing, letting her eyes speak for her. I love you. I choose you. Let me see you as you are. Please trust me. Trust me as I trust you.  

Seconds, minutes pass and Aemond breathes with her. His lone eye betrays nothing and Ysilla frets she’s ruined this, overstepped a boundary she shouldn’t have crossed when Aemond shifts his head forward a fraction. An invitation to her waiting hand.

Ysilla ever so slowly reaches for the strap secured around his head, slipping it up and over. 

The sapphire hidden behind the covering twinkles brighter than any star hung in the heavens.

Ysilla is bewitched. Her dragon, hoarding a precious gem for her to discover, right in front of her face. He’s more handsome than any God dared to create; he is divine and he is all her’s.

Ysilla is dizzy with the thought.

“Aemond, my love,” the wonder that Ysilla breathes into her words releases a clenched fist that has held tight to his heart since the day they were reunited. 

When he saw her in the courtyard with her brothers, he nearly let Cole take his head off with his flail. She was ethereal, opposite of him in every way, and the absolute want that had overtaken him from a simple violet glance she cast his way laid the path they were on now. But the worry, the dread that choked him that she would find him revolting turned his stomach sour. 

But now… she loves him still, even faced with his disfigurement. She is a gift from the Gods and Aemond has no intention of refusing such a gift. 

Aemond pulls back suddenly and he’s sitting. He pulls Ysilla with him to rest atop his lap, and he’s deeper than before. She’s completely flush against him, their hips slotted together; he couldn’t be deeper unless he pierced her chest with his blade and took her heart in his palm. Then, he would feel each beat, each thrum pound just him.

Ae-mond. Ae-mond. Ae-mond.  

A piece of Ysilla feels complete now. She was made for him, there is no denying it. Not in the way her body flowers for him, accepting every inch and molding it to her memory. 

“Ao istan crafted ondoso se gods toliot, ao līs’ve issare.” Aemond groans in Valyrian, face pressed into the hollow of her throat. Ysilla chuckles hoarsely, shivering as his tongue licks from clavicle to chin. 

“As were you, my Dragon. My cunt was made for your cock. Do you feel me, how I’m dripping all over you. How much of a mess you’ve made of me.” Ysilla would burn at the vulgarities spilling from her mouth but her demureness has long since abandoned her, leaving only a thirst Aemond can quench in its wake. 

He rolls his hips up sharper into her and Ysilla moans long and loud, throwing her head back and fucking herself down against him. Every graze of their hips grinds against her nub, zapping every nerve ending and squeezing her lungs until they might pop. 

She feels heat lick up her back, her nails rooting into Aemond’s shoulders, desperation itching under her skin.

“Cum for me Aemond, cum inside of me. Spill it all into me and fuck whatever leaks out back into me with your fingers. And let me suck them clean when you’re done.” Ysilla bites into the curve of his neck, teeth sinking deep and reveling in the broken sounds Aemond sings into the air. 

His hips slap against her, the sounds of their fucking a song that plays loud into the night. 

Ysilla wouldn’t care if the entire court of men downstairs were to walk in on them now, as long as they would finally realize she is a taken woman. Heart, soul, body- all belonged to Aemond. And he to her. 

And then, fingertips strum sharply at her button and Ysilla shatters into a million pieces, unclenching her jaw from his neck to scream Aemond’s name to the Gods above. The searing seed that Aemond unleashes inside her makes her eyes roll back into her head, her body spasming in pleasure as he continues to thrust into her. Her thighs slip over his own, sticky and sweaty and slick with their juices. Ysilla feels pleasantly messy, covered in the proof of their union. 

Aemond at last stills in his movement, not a moment too soon as the pleasure tightens painfully in her cunt. Ysilla is already addicted to the feeling of him sheathed inside of her, but it is too much too soon. 

“Mmmmmmm,” Ysilla moans tiredly, sliding down his thighs, not quite dragging him out of her yet. She rests her palms on Aemond’s chest, foreheads pressed together and breaths being drawn as one. 

Ysilla peels her eyelids open, the enticing blue jewel in Aemond’s scarred socket more beautiful than any sight she’s ever seen. His hair is flung about, his lips swollen, and his neck tinged red- Ysilla smiles a victory. Her husband, a right mess, the same as she. 

Aemond chuckles at her look and Ysilla promises silently to do her very best to forever draw that sound from his mouth. 

“So…” she brushes her lips along his, arms going around each other, unwilling to part even in their body’s heat, “when can we do that again?” Ysilla’s eyebrows wiggle and Aemond laughs a boisterous sound. 

“I seem to recall a certain vixen saying to ‘fuck it back into me with your fingers’.” Aemond bites at her chin and Ysilla whimpers a desperate sound, her body warming again for her dragon.

Not one to be outdone, Ysilla whispers before sucking at Aemond’s tongue and rolling them onto his back. “Don’t forget to let me suck them clean.”

.

.

.

“Aemond.”

The soft call of his name barely rouses the man from his slumber.

“Aemondddd.” 

He groans, sleep swimming heavily in his bones, pushing his face further into the sheets. They smell of oranges and smoke and Aemond presses a smile into them- his and Ysilla’s scents fuse together splendidly. His betrothed coming to mind, Aemond presses the stiffness of his prick into the bedding, stretching out a hand unseeing towards the melody of her voice. Aemond frowns against the pillow, finding only a vacant space still warmed from her body.

“Gods, you’ve rendered the fool absolutely cuntstruck, Ysilla.”

“Daemon!”

“Father!”

Aemond spins in one fluid motion, darting his reach over the edge of the bed to where he recalled unfastening his sword the night before but stopping short, gaze locking on the glinting tip of Dark Sister nearly slicing off the start of his nose. 

Daemon Targaryen appears ready for battle, blade at the ready and fury upon his face. 

Aemond has been trained better than to take his focus off of his opponent, but the urge to make sure Ysilla is unharmed is too great to bear. 

He glances behind Daemon, finding his woman wrapped and tied tightly into a dressing robe, hair wild and lips bruised, held back firmly by the swollen form of her mother.

Rhaenyra’s own hair is wild, the platinum tresses done in a sloppy braid and her gown draped over the baby bump. Fury similar to her husband’s pulls at her mouth, but there’s an acceptance in her tired eyes. Reluctant, but accepting.

They’re the only four in the room but Aemond knows the Queensguard must be right outside Ysilla’s shut door. Aemond wouldn’t have much chance to tear through Daemon to get to her before they would enter and halt the fun. Plus, it is much too early for a fight and the bed grows colder each second Ysilla is not next to him. 

Aemond measures his odds, feeling more naked without his eye patch rather than not having a stitch on him. 

But the blood crusted on the sheets by his hand spells something that cannot be undone, something that even a furious father cannot split him open to reverse. 

Aemond smiles, jeweled eye twinkling in the early morning sun spilling in from the balcony. 

“Good father, good mother, what perfect timing. We have a wedding to plan.” 

Aemond rests on his elbows, cavalier and frivolous, uncaring to the sheet still tented over his hips. 

“And if the Gods are good, your grandbabe’s impending arrival in the coming months.”

Ysilla’s gaze widens comically large, Rhaenyra pinches the bridge of her nose in exasperation, and Daemon’s fist meets his one good eye, the smile never wiping from Aemond’s face. 

.

.

.

Tala 

Daughter

Ao issi ñuhon. Se nyke aōha's. 

You are mine. And I am yours. 

Ao istan crafted ondoso se gods toliot, ao līs’ve issare.  

You were crafted by the Gods above, you must’ve been

Issa jorrāelagon

My love

Qogralbar nyke, ñuha valzȳrys. 

Fuck me, my husband. 

.

.

.

as always, thank you endlessly for the love. any thoughts, comments, requests, concerns, hmu <3

[wkemeup]

Crawl Home to Her

summary: Stranded without coms, alone, and bleeding out in the middle of a Russian snow storm, Bucky is content to let nature take its course. Only you won’t seem to let him go.  pairing: bucky x reader word count: 8k warnings: passive suicidal thoughts, hallucinations, ghosts???, its all very confusing but humor me ok,  a/n: based on Work Song by Hozier ✨

No grave can hold my body down I'll crawl home to her

Laid amongst old wooden floors rotted in decades of weathering and the whistling brush of wind sweeping in steady drift of snow from the open doorway, Bucky wondered whether he might have preferred the coffin of ice Hydra once shoved him in for storage.  

The chill nestled deep into his bones and he tried not to focus on the small puff of breath as it touched over chapped, cracked lips. It was the only warmth he had left and that, too, was leaving him.  

It was getting hard to breath under the sting of freezing temperatures barreling into the cabin; sharp, like crystals had formed in his lungs and punctured into his chest from the inside. The fireplace long extinguished, his rifle laid in a heap amongst his tactical vest and gear too far out of reach. He was unprepared when the mercenaries barreled in through the windows, leaving shattered glass along the floor, safe house exposed to the elements of a Russian winter.

He’d stopped shaking an hour ago, which he knew was a bad sign. His body had given up on fabricating false heat through the tremors in his arm and legs, the twitches of his breaths, the chattering of his teeth. The serum only did so much before he was left with the frayed remnants of his humanity to cover the slack.  

Bucky’s fingers dipped down and glazed over a thick, warm pool at his stomach. He pulled his hand back to find an unsettling, deep red coating his skin. It was warm to the touch and it dripped down along his fingertips into his palms, soaking into the dried patches.  

A violent cough suddenly broke through his chest and Bucky’s head fell back to the floorboards, a dull ache in his stomach from the effort. He could taste copper on his tongue as a fuzziness began to take over, like he was floating on the edge of a cloud, somewhere high up in the sky. It was a pleasant feeling, he decided, a break from the world that had not shown him kindness in nearly a century.  

He stared up at the ceiling, at the blades of a fan lined in decades of dust, as it spun around and around and around and around and —

“What the hell are you doing?”

Bucky jolted awake, a sharp flinch through this nervous system like the current of electricity. Eyes wide open, he turned to find a figure sitting on the loveseat to his left. The fabric was torn in the trajectory of dozens of bullets, cotton lining oozing out the cushions and littered amongst the snow. It was too dark to see but the dim flicker of the swaying light in the kitchen illuminated the corner for only a second. It was enough to still his heart.  

“Y/n?”

You raised an eyebrow at him, a scowl on your face as lips pursed together.  

“Hey Buck.”

No.

No. That—that can’t be right...

You were wearing a SHEILD crewneck with a rip on the hem of the sleeve, faded in color from the wash, and a pair of sleep shorts he’d seen you in dozens of times. The slight imprint of a pillow case fold on your cheek, your hair a little out of place in sleep, and cast in the glow of sunshine through his bedroom window despite the stars littering the night sky outside the cabin’s door.  

It was what you were wearing when he left on assignment two weeks prior. He knew because he memorized every moment he left you behind.  

There was always that uncertainty, that knowledge that every mission could be his last, so he took the time to bring you with him; a memory, an image, of you laying under rustled sheets, curled up against his pillow with that pout on your lips as you told him ‘five more minutes, baby’ when he was already ten late.

He held that memory close because he could feel himself slipping. The blood pooling at his stomach was seeping into the floor beneath him and he felt dizzy, the spin of the fan above him throwing him off balance even as he laid completely still. It was the last good thing he had left -- this image of you -- because he knew it was time to let go, time to let the universe make things right again, to take him from the time he never belonged in.  

There was a relief in that... almost.  

"You’re not giving up, are you?”

Bucky gritted his teeth as your voice pulled him back sharply from the edge of dreamless sleep. He glanced over to you and found there wasn’t a trace of goosebumps on your skin amongst the snow sliding along the floorboards by your feet. You were unbothered by the rush of wind barreling in through the open door though it picked up in the small wisps of your hair, carrying them away from your face before it settled again.

“This isn’t happening. You’re not real,” Bucky chanted under his breath, but the way you were looking at him—Jesus—he'd seen that look too many times before. The pinch of your brows, the slight tug of your cheek between your teeth, your eyes narrowing down on him from a distance, never in anger, but determination.  

Bucky closed his eyes, clenched his jaw real tight, but he could still hear as you push yourself up off the couch, the slight squeak of floorboards under your feet as you paced. Bucky dared to steal a glimpse and you were kneeling down over one of the mercenaries he was able to get a shot in before hell broke loose. You pursed your lips, tilted your head just so, and pulled off his helmet to get a better look. It rolled a good few feet before it hit a sudden stop against the edge of the couch.  

It was the wind, he told himself. His mind was playing tricks on him again.  

“Jesus, they make ‘em big around here,” you murmured to yourself before you pressed two fingers to the side of the man's neck. You started ruffling through his pockets for weapons and Bucky could hear the jingle of coins in his pockets, the swish of the fabric. He was certain he’d gone mad.  

“You need to get warm, Buck,” you told him and a coat dropped down on his left. “You’ll die if you don’t.”

“You’re not real,” he argued, keeping his eyes closed, hoping that you’d just disappear and let him die in peace. “You’re... you’re in my head.”

It was hard enough knowing he was going to die in Russia of all places before you ever knew he was in trouble, hard enough to imagine you crying over his body as his skin paled to blue and grey, hard enough that he’d already said his last goodbye, already had the last kiss from your lips…  

“It doesn’t matter if I’m in your head or not, Bucky,” you warned, though he was almost certain he could feel the warmth of your breath touch his skin as you leaned down next to him. “You’ll die if you stay here. Do you understand? You’ll die."

Your hand slid into his hair and he could feel the trace of your fingertips, your nails, on his scalp; combing through locks matted in blood and dirt and drawing shivers in his spine untouched by the cold.  

He whimpered, tears burning at the corner of his eyes, because you were right there and somehow not at all. He didn’t want to say goodbye but his energy was draining. It slipped from him in every breath, the pain becoming a tired memory and he knew his body was giving in.  

He’d spent so much time fighting in his life. He just wanted to rest. That’s all. Just some time to rest...

“Bucky!”

He snapped awake, heart beating frantically for a few minutes before it lulled again; his breaths too short, too far apart.  

You were hovering over him, hair falling down into your face and there was real fear in your eyes. Your hands settled on his chest, trying to draw his attention back to you and he was certain he could feel the pressure of it, the grip of your fingers to the fabric of his shirt. The touch of a ghost.  

“You need to get up. We’ve got to get you out of here,” you ordered, hands fumbling for the coat you dropped by his side and trying to drape it over him, but he pushed your hands away. You sat back on your heels, wide eyed, desperate.

“I’m already dying, sweetheart,” Bucky choked out, voice raspy and raw. “There's nothing left to do. Coms are out... nearest town is a dozen miles away... I’m-- fuck—I've got at least four bullets in me. This is it, honey. I’m-- I’m sorry...”

It hurt as he said it and he dared himself to meet your eye. Draped in sunlight and all that was ever good in his life, you were an ethereal wonder; a stunning image of the women he left behind, even if his mind was fading on the edge of insanity. It was nice, he thought, to see this memory of you one last time, to hold onto it tighter as the darkness gently carried him away from this world.  

His hand lifted slowly, wanting to touch you one last time, and he was surprised when it didn’t slip straight through you like a ghost, but instead, landed tenderly against your cheek. So tangible, warm to icy chill of his hand, he could feel the clench in your jaw, the strain of the muscle, the divot of a scar by your ear.  

A final blessing he didn’t deserve.  

“Bullshit.”  

He winced as you grabbed a firm hold of his wrist and pulled it from your face. Everything started to hurt again, in his chest, his stomach. He was falling apart.  

“I’m so sorry, honey, I’m—I’m not making it out of—”

“Bull. Shit.”  

You slammed your hands to the floor beside him and suddenly, you were up and rummaging through the kitchen, tossing old utensils around and making a mess of the withering cabinets. You tore them to shreds, emptied the drawers onto the floor, the shattering of glass and the crash of metal to tile in an unsettling scream.  

“You don’t get to do this. Do you hear me? Not after all you went through! Just to die in fucking Russia!”

Bucky swallowed though it tasted like bile. You tossed out the mugs from a cabinet with the swipe of your hand and the sound they made as they crashed to the floor skipped several beats in Bucky’s dimly beating heart.  

“Sweetheart,” Bucky tried again, voice falling on empty, a whisper, “no one’s comin’...”

“Then you fucking get up and get to a goddamn phone!”

You froze then, your hand curling around whatever you were looking for with a sigh of relief. As you stomped back over to him, Bucky looked down at your grasp to find two sets of hand towels and an ace bandage clutched in your grip.  

You were grumbling under your breath as you sank down to your knees. Hands shaking, you pushed up at the thin fabric of Bucky’s shirt. He didn’t even hiss as the cold air touched his skin. That wasn’t good.  

You pressed a towel to his open wounds, hard enough for Bucky to groan at the impact and he bit down hard on his tongue. There was no apology as you wiped away the pools of blood, tossing aside the soaked towel to the corner and pressing down a new one in its place. You were angry, furious even, and Bucky had only seen you like this once before.  

The Hydra base in Siberia. He was surrounded, ordering you to get back to the jet without him though he had no clear path to an exit. It was a diversion, one you saw through instantly, because he had no intention of leaving that warehouse, not as long as you made it out alive. You almost killed him yourself by the time the last Hydra agent fell to the floor. Panting, covered in blood, you had slapped him hard across the face before you gripped at his shoulders and kissed him.

The first kiss between you.  

The beginning of it all.  

Fitting it should end like this, too.  

“Sit up,” you demanded, pulling Bucky back from his memories.  

He sighed as he stared up at you, your teeth gritted as you pressed down harder to his wounds. Everything hurt. He couldn’t move, could barely breathe.  

“Sit. Up.”

“I can’t,” he whimpered, voice breaking in the effort. “I-- I can't, honey. I’m sorry. Just—Just let me go. It’s time, Y/n. It’s okay…”

There was a silence, one that carried over the scream of the wind outside and the scratch of tree branches against the shattered windowpanes. Bucky’s own breaths were shallow, raw and wheezing through his lungs, and they sat in pained contrast to your silent, elongated inhales, the seconds you held them before you released it. He could have heard a pin drop even over the whistling wind and the mess in his chest.  

“No.”

Bucky swallowed back the dryness in his throat. “No?”

“No,” you gritted out, sinking back onto your heels. “No! You don’t get to just give up, Bucky. You don’t get to leave me behind!”

“You’re not even here...”

You clenched your teeth, biting on the inside of your cheek. “Maybe not. But you know exactly where I am back home, don’t you?”

Bucky’s jaw wired shut in an instant. It was what he’d been avoiding, why he clung so hard to the image of you as he left, the glow of the sunlight on your skin and the sleepy mess in your hair. The perfect memory to take when him as he died, but it was being ripped from him, torn away in an instant because as you knelt beside him, your ghost began to change.  

Dark circles colored under your eyes, a sunken look hollowing in at your cheeks and temples. Your hair fell down from the bun at your crown and braided down the side, a nervous habit you’d taken up to keep your hands busy when you were anxious. Lines formed on your lips, cracking along the center; broken skin now exposed on your knuckles from a restless night in the gym.  

Tear tracks burned down your cheeks; some old, some fresh, and your eyes were bloodshot red.  

“Please, stop,” he begged, trying to will his mind to give him the memory he had before.

“You know what this is doing to me,” you told him. “You missed your checkpoint eight hours ago, Bucky. We both know what that means. We both know I’m scared out of my mind for you. I’m panicking. I’m desperate to find you and you’re going to give up before I can.”

Bucky closed his eyes, choking back tears as he pictured you frantically pacing back and forth in the intel room next to Steve, waiting by the satellite phone, waiting on a call that would never come. His coms had been destroyed in the shootout, torn and shattered under the boot of a Russian enforcer. There was no way to get word to you, no way for you to track his location. He was entirely on his own.  

You would have figured that out by now, too.  

He could practically hear your voice as you shouted for an update every few minutes, biting the head off of an Agent who dared to give you any answer outside of Bucky being found safe and on his way home to you. He could see you clenching at your fists, digging your nails into flesh, and shrugging off Steve as he tried to ease your distress. You’d be terrified, with a deep kind of unsettling dread burning like a hole in your stomach. He knew, because it was how he felt when you were on assignment. It was agonizing.  

“Don’t do this, Bucky,” you said quietly, softer now, begging. “Don’t give up. Don’t—Don’t leave me.”

He could hardly keep his eyes open, every breath drawing him further away.  

“You’ll be okay,” he said slowly, achingly, though a flash of shock widened your eyes. “You’ll be okay without me.”

Bucky’s fingers crawled along the floor to you, nails digging through a mess of blood and splinters before the curled sweetly around the palm of your hand. He squeezed it gently, the most he could manage, and he watched with a fading smile as you stared down to where he held you.  

“How could you say that?” you whispered, gaze glued to blood stained hands. You swallowed, a tear slipping past your eye as you turned to find ocean blue. “How could you possibly think that would be true? You’re my life, Bucky. I need you. You can��t—Please, baby. You have to come home to me. You have to.”

“You’ll move on,” he exhaled, closing his eyes as the exhaustion started to pull him under. “It might take some time, but you’ll be fine, honey. You don’t need me. You never did.”

“That’s not true—”

“You were always too good for me,” he chuckled sadly to himself. “At least now you can find someone who really deserves you…”

“Dammit, Bucky!” you cried, hands gripping into the fabric of his shirt and shaking him until he opened his eyes again. “You don’t get to just throw your life away because you have some backwards, fucked up notion that you’re not good enough to love me because newsflash, you idiot, I don’t care! I love you! I love every goddamn part of you and there is not a person on this planet, or any other, that I want to love me the way that you do!”

There was a silence that followed. The whistling wind and the scratch of branches on exposed windows the only solace between you. Your features softened, your hands releasing from his shirt and you gently patted his shoulder, running your fingers along his neck to touch the side of his face. He leaned into the palm of your head, jaw quivering as he bit back tears.  

“Why are you here?” he whimpered, voice cracking as a sob crawled its way through his spine. “Why-- Why won’t you just let me go?”

Tears spilled out the corners of Bucky’s sides, sliding down along his temples and soaking into his hair. He was exhausted and aching and – god—he just wanted to sleep.

You smiled sweetly at him, brushed the hair from his eyes. “It’s you, Bucky, don’t you get that? I’m in your head, remember? I’m apart of you. Stop fighting yourself and come with me. Let me help you survive this. It’s why you brought me here in the first place.”

“No... that’s…” Bucky shook his head, heart racing a little faster, “that’s crazy.”

“Crazier than talking to yourself?” you chuckled light-heartedly. “It’s been you this whole time, Buck. Look.”

You gestured to the floor leading into the kitchen, and sure enough, there was a trail of bloody footprints in the size of his combat boots leading into the mess of shattered mugs and scattered utensils. His palms had tiny pieces of broken glass in them, colored in the paint of the kitchenware on the floor.  

Then, you showed him the wrapped bandage at his stomach, the one with his own bloody fingerprints at the clasp. He’d done it all himself.  

“Your imagination can’t do all that for you, baby,” you said, a soft smile on your face, though it faded to something solemn as he stared at you in shock. “You’re dying, Buck, really dying and I know you’re scared. I know you want to come home. Stop fighting me. Stop fighting yourself.”

“I don’t--” he swallowed, though his throat was dry and it burned amongst the cold air, “I don’t understand…”

“The mind is a funny thing,” you shrugged. “It does what it has to, to keep you alive. This is what you needed, to be reminded of the love you have waiting for you back home when you survive this.”

You nodded to the edge of the cabin, and sure enough, there was Steve standing at the door. Hands tucked into his pockets, wearing the thin white shirt and suspenders from their youth, though it looked a little funny now on the man he was today. He was smiling, that hopeful kind of look in his eye that Bucky never quite learned how to replicate.  

Sam stood next to him, hand on Steve’s shoulder, smirk plastered across his face as he nodded at Bucky; the strange and varying brotherhood between the two of them full of bickering fights and unbridled loyalty.  

Natasha was on Sam’s left, arms folded, scowl present as her eyes flickered down to the mess of bodies littering the floor. She raised an eyebrow at the burly looking soldier you’d rummaged through the pocket of— or, or maybe it was Bucky, he was still trying to wrap his head around it – and nodded as if she were impressed.  

Then, there was Shuri and T’Challa. Lang and Barton. Wanda and Vision. Peter Parker sneaking his way in behind Steve, looking just damn excited to be standing in the presence of Captain America. Even Tony Stark stood in the corner of the cabin; arms crossed, sunglasses on, observing from a careful distance, but still present.  

“You’re not alone, Bucky,” you said quietly, drawing his attention back to you. “Not here. Not at home. Please don’t give up on your family. Don’t give up on all you’ve built. We’re waiting for you, honey. Come home.”

A blur in his vision, Bucky couldn’t quite focus on your silhouette, not until you tenderly brushed the tears from his eyes, droplets on the edges of long lashes. He clenched his jaw, searching for a stronger breath as you held his face. Your lips pressed down to his forehead and he found his strength again.  

“Okay.”

Bucky grabbed onto the edge of the couch and pulled until his muscles were at their limit. A scream tore threw him, his body raw and broken and falling apart at the seams. It burned in his throat, in his chest, and it echoed deep into the empty cabin. It was no louder than the wind outside.  

“Okay,” he repeated as he sat up with his back pressed against the couch. He clutched at his stomach, heavy breaths in his lungs. The bandages were holding up, with little leakage onto his palm in all the effort.  

When he looked back over to you, he found you smiling, proud, though your appearance had changed again.  

Your hair was pulled down to a bun at the nape of your neck, a few strands falling out the sides. Dressed in a large winter coat with a thick fur around the hood and mittens on your hands; the navy-blue jacket you’d worn in your mission in the Swiss Alps last year where you’d convinced Bucky to stick around a few extra days in the blizzarding cold. You’d told him then how much you loved the snow, the mountains, but mostly the hot chocolate, the fireplaces, the snuggling in close to him at night. It was a pleasant memory.  

Bucky smiled back at you, though it took most of his strength. He turned to look at Steve and the rest of his family, but they were gone, disappeared to thin air and his stomach lurched as he quickly shot his eyes back to you.  

“You ready, baby?” you asked him sweetly, nodding towards the door.  

“Stay with me. Please.” He felt childish as the words left him, talking to what amounted to nothing more than particles of snowfall and thin air, but it carried his whole world.  

“I’m not going anywhere,” you replied, as if it was never a choice at all, and you offered your hand.  

Bucky nodded, stringing together all the strength he had left in his body and slipped his hand into yours. He tried not to think of the logistics of it all, how he was really getting up on his own because you weren’t here to tug him to his feet. It created a dull ache in the back of his head and he figured he better not mess with the remaining functioning pieces of himself. Let his mind get him through this, even if he felt absolutely insane.  

“Put the jacket on, honey,” you told him, bending down to grab the coat of the mercenary you’d swiped earlier. “It’ll be a long walk in the cold.”

“Y-yeah, okay.”  

The wind barreled in from the open door and it pushed at the little balance Bucky had left, leaving him to sway unsteadily, grunting at the pain that resulted in his stomach. He clutched at the wrapped bandages, relieved when fresh blood did not add to the stains on his fingers and palm.  

“Time to go,” you urged him, nodding to the door. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”

Bucky stared out into the blanket of darkness beyond the door, the snow falling and dancing amongst the violent sweeps of wind, illuminated by starlight untouched by the pollution of a city. He didn’t know where to go, but you promised you’d guide him; a piece of his subconscious that must have picked up on a sign along the road at some point, he figured.  

As he made his way to the brutal cold, shivers tremoring in his spine and his feet limping dragging along the floor, facing a journey across miles of exposed land, he was thankful he wasn’t alone.  

***

Bucky had never been so cold in his goddamn life; not even when Hydra would put him on ice.  

It had been a relief then, a dreamless sleep and safety away from his captures, but this – this was torture in itself. His boots dragged through two feet of snow, the winds picking up the further he trudged out into the darkness. He wrapped the scarf tighter around his face, trying to shield himself from the cold, though ice crystals had formed on his lashes.  

Everything hurt and each step was more painful than the last, but he kept moving.  

“You’re almost there!” you shouted over the scream of the wind in his ears. You were smiling, jogging out a few paces ahead. It was easier for his feet to carry him when it was you he was walking towards. “Come on, sweetheart. One more mile. That’s it.”

Bucky panted, his breaths far too labored, his head feeling quite fuzzy, but as he looked over your shoulder, he spotted a light in the distance. Blurred by the snowfall, but still clear as day. A gas station with half the letters missing in its name. His saving grace.

“I’m coming, baby,” he whispered and for the first time, he wasn’t talking to the mirage beside him, but the woman waiting thousands of miles away.  

Picking up in pace, Bucky pushed himself harder than he’d ever tested the limits of his body before. He knew that without the serum, he would have been dead before he even left the cabin. There were few moments Bucky was ever thankful for the hell he’d been through. This – giving him a second chance to get home to the love of his life – was one of them.  

“Careful,” you warned him, gesturing to the trail of red droplets in his wake; blood that had seeped out from the soaked bandages at his stomach and trailed down under his coat to the snow below, marking his path.  

Bucky nodded, determined as he finally broke through to solid ground, to dirt roads plowed just enough from the snow, and sprinted the rest of the way. You were on his heels, cheering him on like you did when he first got back on a treadmill after he broke his leg in New Mexico last year. He was smiling so wide it hurt his cheeks, laughing as artificial light illuminated his path.  

He shoved his shoulder to the door, winced at the sound of the bell above, and charged straight up to the counter.  

A man in a thick overcoat and a fur hat stood behind the counter, reading a newspaper quietly to himself, and paid no mind to the man frantically rushing up to him. He glanced up in Bucky’s direction, eyes flickering to the blood trailing in his wake, before turning back to his paper.  

“Phone,” Bucky panted. “I need a phone.”

The man didn’t respond.  

“Russian, Buck,” you reminded him quietly to his right.  

“фона,” Bucky tried again, slamming his hand down on the table.  

The man rolled his eyes and set the paper down. Stone cold expression, he took his time as he muddled around behind the counter, leaving Bucky on edge. You nodded at him, running a hand along his arm to keep him calm.  

Then, the man set a flip phone down on the counter. He didn’t say another word as he sat back onto his stool and picked up the paper again.  

Bucky grabbed the phone and quickly stumbled his way back to the far end of the convenience stores. Brushing up against rows of chips and shouldered a few to the ground, he was starting to lose his balance again. The dizziness was kicking in and it became evident as he tried to dial the SHEILD emergency call number and kept hitting the wrong numbers.  

“Breathe,” you said softly as Bucky started to panic. “Try again.”

Deep inhale in, Bucky typed the ten digits and held the phone to his ear. It rang three times.  

“Good morning,” a voice replied, deep and clinical, “this is Sandbox Bakery. What can I get for you?”

Bucky leaned his forehead to the glass of the freezers, cold compress on his skin touching a blaze of heat.  

When did he start sweating? When did it start to soak through his clothes?

There was a stickiness under his feet and Bucky glanced down to find blood dripping down from the edge of his coat and staining the dull-white of the plaster floors. Dark red seeping into the cracks between tiles, filtering through years of dirt and dust and muddied tracks. The outline of his boots in perfect pattern.  

“Good morning,” the voice said again, “this is Sandbox Bakery. What can I get for you?”

Bucky swallowed, trying to find his voice, but he was sure he’d left it behind in the cabin. He could hardly hold himself up, his hand slipping on the handle of the freezer doors, nearly taking him down to the ground amongst the blood and dirt.  

Under hooded, heavy eyes, Bucky glanced over at you as you nodded encouragingly at him, but there was two of you; swaying over one another, blurred, out of focus.

“Good morning, this is—”

“Baklava,” Bucky muttered the code word between labored breaths, the meaning of it sitting somewhere along the line of I shouldn’t be alive but I am – Fucking come get me. The dizziness was starting to take hold on his body and he leaned his shoulder against the freezer doors in search of the cold glass to offset the burning heat on his skin.  

A darkness started to tunnel at his vision, thick black rings closing in around him and he tried to grip at the handles on the doors, but he missed each time; his fingers too weak to grip onto the edge, his vision swaying and doubling over.

The agent on the other end of the phone was asking him questions, but they barely registered, like white noise no louder than the burrowing winds past the door. Bucky clutched at the handle, phone slipping from his grasp as it fell to the ground. He stumbled backwards, hitting a tower of plastic cups as they collapsed around him.  

“Bucky, lie down,” you warned gently as he struggled to hold himself up.  

“I’m—I’m okay,” he gasped, voice barely a whisper, unintelligible, before the darkness caved in completely and he met the floor.  

***

When Bucky came to again, it was to hands gripping harshly at his arms, at his legs, dragging his body onto a rock-hard surface that smelled of plastic and the sting of sterilizing alcohol. Pain ripped through his stomach at the sudden movement and he whimpered quietly, painful breaths in, lips quivering as he tried to bite down hard on the dried, cracked surface; the movement jarring enough to make him wish he was back in the cabin amongst the snow and broken glass.

But there was a hand encasing his. One that was soft, impossibly gentle, a slight squeeze, and Bucky realized there were voices around him. Muffled, barking orders, but they were distant, like an echo at the edge of a ravine. They were too far away for him to hear.  

All except one.  

“Stop it! Jesus, you’re hurting him,” one of the voices warned; soft and melodic, even within the tension, within the slight tremor of panic. It was a voice that called to him, as the grip on his forearm tightened, and Bucky forced his eyes open.  

He was seeing double, couldn’t quite focus on what was right in front of him, but he could see the three agents dressed in black combat vests huddled over him, strapping him on the stretcher while a petite Englishwoman with mousey brown hair and slender fingers worked to stabilize the mess at his stomach.  

Then, he focused on the voice to his left, the kind voice, the familiar voice – yours.  

“We’ve got to get him out of here, Simmons,” you urged, glancing back at the doors to the shop and the chaos of broken aisles in between. “God knows how long he’s been here like this...”

“I just need to stabilize him before we make a break for the jet,” the woman with the quiet English accent replied. She pressed down hard on Bucky’s stomach and he was surprised to find he didn’t feel a thing.  

Bucky swallowed back the dryness in his throat, trying to find his own voice, catch your attention in some way, but you didn’t seem to notice him watching you.

“It’s been ten hours since he missed the checkpoint. Ten hours,” you stressed, your free hand reaching up to brush back hairs from your face, tucking them behind your ear. It was then Bucky noticed the braid sitting over your shoulder, the dark tactical suit, and the discoloration under your eyes. There were marks in the shape of crescent moons on your hand from where you’d dug your nails to your skin. You looked tired, scared; it was different than how you appeared when Bucky collapsed.  

You gritted your teeth, brushing away tears Bucky so desperately wanted to reach to wipe away if he could only move.  

“We don’t know how much blood he’s lost or— or if he has internal bleeding or--”

You froze suddenly, words pulled right out of your mouth as Bucky’s hand twitched under your grip. Slowly, you turned to meet his eye with a kind of panicked shock and relief and an array of complex emotion.  

“Bucky?”

He nodded, a weak smile on his face.  

You nearly cried. “Oh, thank God you’re--”

“You stayed,” Bucky muttered, voice groggy and slurred. A tired smile etching up against broken lips.  

You blinked, biting back your tongue as your eyes shot over at Simmons. She shrugged, working quietly to reseal the bandages at Bucky’s stomach. There was a smile on Bucky’s lips, broken and cracked in dried blood, almost hazy, like he was floating high above in the clouds.  

“Honey, I’m here now,” you told him, voice a little cautious, but Bucky shook his head, though his vision was starting to leave him again, the comforting pull of darkness wrapping its arm around him.  

“You... you really stayed with me...” His voice was barley a whisper.  

Your eyes widened, a fear taking over and your quickly snapped your attention back to the agents surrounding him.  

"We need to get him out of here, now,” you ordered as Bucky’s eyes started to flutter closed again and he did not return the grip to your hand when you squeezed. Sudden movements and he was lifted into the air, though your grip on his hand did not leave him.

He fell back to the darkness before the cold air of Russian winter could touch his skin.  

***

The first thought Bucky registered was that he was warm. Not warm enough for sweat to form on his brow, but enough so that a chill didn’t press its way into his bones, enough that the thin layer of a freshly washed blanket draped over his legs chased away the goosebumps on his arms.  

He blinked his eyes open gently to take in the stream of light from the window to his left and the reflection held against bare, white walls. The room was not one he knew and quiet murmuring of strangers passing by outside in a language he couldn’t place didn’t help the rush of panic etching up through his veins.

Bucky turned to his left to see a monitor carrying his heartrate and the increasingly frantic rhythm of his pulse. There was a bruised mark on his right forearm around an IV that stemmed to a bag hanging over his head.  

Could be filled with anything, he reminded himself. Always on the defense. It was how he stayed alive.  

A hand settled against his stomach to find it wrapped in bandages, no longer searing in pain, but still sore; a dull ache left behind to remind him it was real, that he’d been shot and left for dead in the frozen wastelands of Russia, that he’d walked miles alone in a blizzard and found comfort in the ghost of –  

Bucky jolted upright, a hiss pulling swiftly from clenched teeth as a sharp pain reemerged at his stomach. He groaned, breaths coming in a little heavier now as he glanced around the empty room. Up at the open door ahead of him, he watched as stray physicians and nurses passed by in white lab coats talking quietly amongst themselves in... German, maybe? His brain was too foggy to register much of anything.  

“Y/n?” he called in search of your ghost, but his voice was too weak, he could barely hear it himself.  

Kicking the blankets away from his legs, Bucky felt a chill sweep up his spine. The pain was excruciating, but he’d been through worse. He ripped the IV from his arm. He kept his hands gripped tight to the mattress, setting his bare feet to the cold floor and wincing as the pain in his stomach worsened with every movement.  

But he needed to get out of here. He needed to get home to you. He’d promised.  

He set his stance to the ground, careful to hold himself up on the edge of the bedframe, but his legs were shaky under him, muscles unused and tired and so incredibly useless, his left hand started to warp the plastic of the railing in his frustration.  

“Bucky?”  

Wide eyes shot to the door to find you standing in its frame, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in your hand, lips parted in shock. Your hair was swept to the side in a long braid, dark circles hanging under your eyes, your clothes wrinkled with days of use.  

He tried to speak, but suddenly, his hold on the bed frame gave out. The smell of dark roasted coffee beans filled the air before he even met the ground and his skin touched the ice of tile flooring. Sharp pain in his hip and a heat of embarrassment in his cheeks, Bucky tried to find an ounce of his dignity on the ground.

You slid up on your knees beside him; coffee cup noticeably missing from your hands as it laid in a puddle by the door to his room.  

“Jesus, Buck, what were you thinking?” you gasped, hands roaming down over his arms, fingers warm to the touch from the coffee you’d held between your palms. A worry line creased in your forehead, lip tugged between your teeth as you grazed your touch over his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones and jawline in concentration as you inspected for damage.  

Bucky closed his eyes, a little lost in the feeling of it as he leaned into your touch, missing you and wondering how he could possibly feel that heat from your skin.  

“You’re lucky you didn’t reopen your stitches,” you murmured, hands touching gently at his wrapped bandaged around his waist. It was still white, at least, so that was something. The scowl on your face was a comfort, something familiar, and he was thankful to have it.  

But there were small differences he noticed as you tried to help him back up into the bed. Like how when the light from the window touched your skin, it reflected a little differently, got caught in your eyes and you’d have to squint away from it. Or how there was a new scratch on your jawline he hadn’t seen before. You huffed a hair away from your face as you struggled to life him back to his feet and it fell back into your line of sight almost instantly.  

“Give me a sec, I’ll be right back,” you told him before you pressed a quick kiss to his forehead, hands sinking into his hair. It felt so real, he almost convinced himself you were really there.  

When you came back into the room, a nurse was at your side, hands planted firmly on her lips.  

“I thought you were joking,” the nurse huffed in a thick German accent, exchanging a glance with you. You shrugged, scowl present but lips curved up in a smirk. The nurse groaned, sinking down to the floor to grab Bucky’s arm. “Why would I expect a man who’s been under for nearly a week to just up and walk out the room? Huh? I wouldn’t! No one is that foolish, Sergeant Barnes.”

You were laughing quietly beside her as you helped to guide Bucky back up into the bed. As he settled back into place, he found himself watching you intently as you conversed with the nurse. She told you keep your eyes on him, that he was a flight risk, and that she’d be back to check on him again soon. You nodded, thanking her for her time and quickly pulled up a chair beside his bed.  

“You've got terrible timing. You know that, right?” you chuckled, shaking your head. “I haven’t left this room for days, Buck, and the second I go to get coffee, you decide to wake up.”

“How long?” he asked quietly and the smile faded from your cheeks.

“Five days,” you told him. “Almost six.”

“Longer since I missed the checkpoint, then,” he reasoned, pinching at his brows. “We should get moving again. I’ve got to get home.”

“What? No,” you said quickly, leaning forward in your chair in an attempt to set your hand on him, but he pushed it away. It seemed to surprise you because you paused for a moment before you said, “Bucky, you’re still healing. You need time before we can—”

“I didn’t almost bleed out in a goddamn cabin in middle of Russia just to end up trapped in some hospital in Germany and still not make it home!”

Bucky threw the blanket off of him again, pushing himself to the edge.

You rushed forward, grabbed a hold of his shins before he could swing his legs off the side of the bed. Your grip was forceful, but not enough to hurt. You planted your hip down on the bed to block his path.  

“We’re staying here, Buck,” you pressed, a slight tremor in your voice. “You almost died.”

“Why are you arguing with me about this now?” Bucky groaned and the flash of confusion on your face went unnoticed. “You’re the one that convinced me I had get home, aren’t you? You’re the one who wouldn’t just let me die and made me walk into a fuckin’ blizzard while I was bleeding out! I have to get home to you, right? That’s what you said! I’m not giving up on her – or, or us – or... fuck it— on myself, ok? Whether you’re with me or not. I have to get home to her. Even if I have to fucking crawl.”

Through the frantic swelling in his chest, the heavy pants of his breath, and the dizziness forming back in his head, Bucky didn’t register how quiet you’d become until his eyes flickered over to you. Your body was rigid, lips parted just slightly, a semblance of shock in your eyes and Bucky’s stomach sank.  

“Is that... Is that what you meant when you said ‘I stayed with you’? Back in the gas station in Russia? Do you... Do you think you’re just imagining me here?” you asked slowly and a burning heat ached into his cheeks. Something like shame or embarrassment or guilt, but none of it stronger than the relief that coursed through his veins as your hand reached out for him, fingers encasing his. Smaller than his own, warmer, and so real he could feel the divots of your lifeline and old scars and the soothing trace of your nails. Tangible. Real.  

“I...” Bucky started, stealing a glance up at your eyes before they darted back down to your hands wrapped so tenderly around him. He exhaled a heavy breath. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, honey,” you sighed, bringing his hands up to your lips and kissing sweetly at his knuckles. You pressed the chill of his fist to your cheek and he could feel the warmth burning there. The way you watched him, with eyes so filled with the kind of love and adoration he’d longed for his entire life, it was enough to mend his heart whole.  

“I’m here, Bucky,” you whispered, another kiss to the tips of his fingers and it took the breath straight from his lungs. “I’m really here, honey. Your mind isn’t playing tricks on you anymore. You’re not alone.”

Bucky nodded, watching as you peppered kissed along his hands, over flesh and metal like they were one in the same.  

“It felt so real...” he murmured, sinking into the way your hand stretched up along his arm, rising over his neck like the crest of ocean waves, and rested to his cheek. He leaned further into the touch.  

“I know,” you soothed, your thumb tracing over his cheekbone. “But I’m here now, love. You found your way home.”

Bucky nodded, shifting in the bed just enough for you to crawl in beside him. The dull ache in his stomach lingered, but he didn’t mind, not when you curled up into the crook of his neck, your hand gliding down over the marred scarring on his shoulder, your breath warm against his collar.  

“Home,” he echoed, the word slipping from behind broken lips, a curve of a smile etching into his cheeks. He leaned his cheek to the crown of your head, eyes closing in a relief that spread through his chest and through the very ends of his body in a gentle kind of warmth he could only ever hope to find with you resting in his arms.  

He found his way home.

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

[avintagekiss24]

polar | ari levinson

|| pairing: ari levinson x black!reader

|| word count: 1,827

|| warnings: pure pwp, smut, sex, oral sex (female receiving), vaginal fingering, over-stimulation, crying, multiple orgasms, nipple play

|| note: this was one of the ari headcanons i got when i requested that y’all send me some. hope you like!

You throw your towel to the floor as you turn off the small lamp next to your bed. The moonlight washes into the room as you push open the wooden shutters to let in some of the cool air moving in from the ocean. You take a breath, inhaling the fresh scent of the sea as the water crashes up on the beach. You chew on your bottom lip as you stare out over the dark water, squinting a little to see if you can catch a glimpse of their boats moving towards the coast - but there’s nothing, just miles and miles of water. 

Your mind starts to drift to something dark, something tragic, but you turn away from the window quickly to push them away. He’s fine. He knows what he’s doing. He’ll be fine. You climb into bed, pulling the thin sheets over your naked body and close your eyes, trying to relax enough to the point where you can actually get some sleep. You roll over onto your side, push your hands underneath your head and pillow, and let out a focused breath.

He’s fine. He knows what he’s doing. He’ll be fine.

----------

It’s late now. The moon is high in the sky as the waves continue to crash against the beach. You’re breathing is deep and rhythmic as you sleep, your body still. You’re sleeping so soundly, that you don’t hear all of the commotion as Ari, Sammy, Jacob, and Rachel burst into the lobby. You shift a little as the pressure changes in the room and a sudden gust of wind washes over you; but still, you don’t fully wake.

You let out a breath as the bed dips from a new heavy weight that presses into the mattress. You’re rolled over onto your back roughly, the sheets suddenly pulled away from your body. Moaning, you roll your head back and forth, still not coherent, teetering between your dreams and reality. You roll your back against the mattress as your legs are spread open and then hiked into the air. Hands pushing into the back of your thighs. 

You’re eyes flutter, catching quick glimpses of him as he hovers between your legs, his lips mere centimeters from your naked sex. His hair is messy - disheveled - his shirt buttons popped damn near down to his navel. His face is flushed, his eyes dark - it must not have gone well - but then again you can never really tell. He just gets like this sometimes. 

“Ari,” you breathe, “Baby.”

“Shhh.” He coos, wrapping his arms around your thighs. 

“Baby,” you continue to press as you push your hands into his hair, “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer. He drags his tongue between your folds before he closes his lips over your clit. You nearly choke on your breath as his tongue starts to swirl, his lips sucking on you softly. A light moan falls from your lips as your hips start to roll into his face. He tightens his grip around your thighs, digging his fingers into your thick flesh as he moves his head back and forth. 

You can hear your wetness bouncing off of the walls of the room as he makes a snack of you, his lips smacking like he’s devouring a peach. Your fingernails scratch at his scalp as you pull on his long hair, bucking your hips into his face. His tongue pushes into your opening, stroking your insides before he drags it up along your clit again, flicking at the sensitive bundle. His beard scratches against the inside of your thighs as you close them around his head, heightening the sensation. 

You grab your breasts with your hands, squeezing your flesh gently before you start to pinch and roll your nipples just as he pushes his fingers inside of you. Your hips jerk at the intrusion. You grunt, snarling your lip as he pumps his fingers quickly, pressing his large thumb against your clit as he leans back to watch. You push your hips down, meeting every thrust of his fingers hungrily as you grow louder - becoming unrestrained - not caring who hears. 

He peeks up at you from underneath those long lashes of his, through strands of his hair that fall in his face, from between your quivering legs. The moon highlights the flexing muscles of his arms as he fingers your cunt with every ounce of passion in his body. He leans in and kisses your sticky flesh - a light kiss - one where his lips barely touch your skin. He then puckers his mouth to blow on you, closing his eyes as he pushes warm air onto your balmy sex.

You pinch your nipples harder, “God,” you sound, bucking your hips into his mouth and nose, wanting his lips and tongue again, “Ari,” you choke. 

He chuckles, quiet and low - you shiver at the sound. You love knowing that he loves fucking you. He returns his mouth to you, pulling his tongue through your folds again as he curls his fingers inside of you, stroking your tight, slick muscles. He sucks your lips into his mouth before he releases them with a smack, only to pull your clit into his mouth next. You feel the tip of his tongue, outlining, pressing, flicking and flattening against you - everything that makes you wild. 

You’re writhing now. Your back arches from the mattress. Your legs close around his head and neck. Your whole body starts to shake, quick ripples of the impending apex flooding through you. You push your hips from the mattress, somehow wanting him deeper, closer. Your voice is unrecognizable as you curse and howl, your heart in your throat. You’re so close you can taste it, but you’re also so close it hurts. 

Your sex quakes. Your thighs and hips and stomach burn from the strain of you keeping your lower half thrust into the air. He sucks hard on your clit. His fingers pound into your constricting cunt. You flick your hard, thick nipple as tears start to slip down the sides of your face. 

You start to pray.

“Please!” you whine, your voice strained and thick, “God- please! I jus’ wanna-”

Your hips jerk hard and the beast is unleashed upon you. Your toes curl as you scream into the night, your hips rocking into his face as your body trembles with bliss and release and rapture. He pulls away from your cunt, his teeth biting down into his bottom lip as he rubs his fingers over your convulsing, jumping clit. He growls slowly, before inhaling sharply - he loves to watch you come. 

You hear a zipper, the ruffling of clothing and then - oh, and then -  you’re suddenly full again. Your cunt now full of his warm, hard cock as he threads his fingers with yours, pushing into you deep. Your body isn’t even finished with the first orgasm and he’s already trying to bring on another with long, hard ruts. Unforgiving drives of his hips into yours. 

You’re sobbing. Crying out to the heavens, the angels, the Gods, the devils, the demons above and below as he pushes, pushes, pushes. He leans in to kiss you, moaning into your mouth, chuckling as you cry. He knows. He just knows that he’s the only one that can break you like this. Turn you into nothing, just because he can. How heavenly. 

He kisses you again, his tongue sweeping across your lips before delving into your mouth. He sucks on your tongue as he continues to fuck you senseless. You can’t breathe, you can’t speak - you can barely open your eyes. There’s only sounds. The sweet sound of his cock shoving into your sex - that slick, wet squeak filling the room. The sound of your strangled sobs. 

He pulls you up into his lap as he sits back on his knees - chest to chest. He spreads his long fingers across your back, holding you to him as you bounce up and down. You let your head fall, your face tilted towards the ceiling as you whine. You feel his eyes on you all the while, just watching. Waiting. He feels you shudder again, your legs clamp around his sides and he knows. 

He fucks into you harder, but this time, you’re not the only one who’s on the brink. He leans forward as you stretch back, unable to keep yourself up straight. He kisses between your breasts as he rocks into you, his hot breath drawing goosebumps out on your skin. His teeth nip, his fingers dig - scratching into your flesh. 

“Come on baby,” he breathes, low and husky, “Come for me. Please?”

As if you needed him to ask. Within seconds of the words spilling from his lips, you completely shatter. Gripping onto his shoulders, you slam your chest back into his, screeching and howling as you're possessed again. You bounce hard and fast onto him, pulling on the ends of his hair as you come for the second time in as many minutes. He’s close behind, rutting into your tight, wet cunt until his own release blooms. He slams into you one last time and then holds you there, pushing his cock deep as he spills, wanting to fill you to the brim - not wanting you to waste a drop. 

“That’s all for you,” he pants into your ear, “All for my girl.”

“All for me,” you murmur as the jolts of your orgasm still flash through you. 

He lays you back onto the mattress and falls on top of you, your damp skin sticking to his damp skin. Fingertips brush along the inside of your arm. Hot lips press to the side of your face. Sweet words are whispered in your ear as he brushes away the emotion underneath your eyes. He hooks one of your legs over his hip as he nuzzles into you, his ear pressed to your chest, his fingers replicating your heartbeat against your skin. 

Your body is still hyper - jumping, shuddering, jerking with each little touch from him. You still cry, the tears hot as they roll off of your face. The waves of the ocean are loud, his breaths loud, your thoughts loud. You feel everything - feel fuzzy all over, like radio waves or tv static - overstimulated. His fingertips continue to trace your arm, he continues to whisper - trying to alleviate it.

The next thing you know, it’s morning. The sun is high, the breeze warm, the sound of distant voices float towards you from somewhere down the beach. 

A leg is pushed between yours. His hand grips your hip. His warm breath washes over the back of your neck. I love you falls from his lips as he fucks into you from behind - different from last night - not so needy, not so stressed. This is soft and slow. This is gentle. This is for you, not him. 

The dichotomy of it all. 

It’s why you’ll never leave.

[anna-justice]

Crash My Party - Upstead

Summary: Hailey receives some terrible news and suffers a severe panic attack, and like always, Jay is there for her. (Pre-Established Upstead/8x03 never happened)

Warnings: fluff, swearing, maybe mentions of violence

Requested: Yes! #66, “I can’t do this alone anymore.”

…

The walk up the stairs to his apartment building seemed longer than normal. Her hands shook as she fiddled with her keys, the clinking creating white noise that echoed through the stairwell. She pushed the door at the top open and made her way down the hall, subconsciously reading the numbers on every door as she passed.

When she reached his door, she took a deep breath, running her hand through her blonde hair that - for once - was falling over her shoulders. She raised her hand to knock, but held it there for a second. Something about this didn’t seem right, her showing up unannounced with a million things to drop on him. Even though they had both done it a thousand times, there was always a voice in the back of her head that told her that it wasn’t his problem.

She fought the feelings and knocked on the door, shifting on her heels as she waited. She stared at the ground and squinted hard, pushing the possible tears back down. The door swung open a few seconds later, revealing a smiley and very shocked Jay. Hailey watched as his face contorted from a big grin to confused, and then to concern. She wished the floor would just swallow her up. “Hailey?”

“Hey.” She said quietly. She knew she should have called or texted, or maybe even stayed home to face it alone, but she always felt better after a drink with him. After the day she had, she just needed to be close to him.

Jay stepped slightly in front of the door, closing it partly behind him. It was then Hailey realized he probably wasn’t alone. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” He asked, genuinely.

Hailey blinked back tears for the upteenth time that day, the thought of Jay spending his Friday night with any other girl but her cut deep. She knew she was jumping to conclusions, but right now, he heart couldn’t take it.“Yeah, yeah, I-”

“Jay!” Someone called from inside the apartment, “What’s taking you so long to get a pizza?” Jay’s cheeks heated up and Hailey let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Kevin.

“Oh, sorry.” Hailey said, fighting the urge to smile (an action that hadn’t crossed her mind in hours). He had company, and she didn’t want to interrupt, but every part of her was extremely relieved that it was just their friends hiding behind the door. “I didn’t realize you were busy. I’ll just go.” She turned to walk away, but Jay placed a hand on her shoulder, stepping out of the doorway.

He shook his head, “I’m not. It’s just the guys. What’s up?”

Hailey was opening her mouth to protest when she was interrupted again. “Jay, quit flirting with the delivery guy and get back in here. You’re missing the game.” Another voice yelled, which Hailey assumed was Severide.

Jay held up his hand, motioning for her to give him a second. He leaned his head back in the apartment, “Give me a second.” He shouted.

“Jay, really, it’s fine. I’ll see you later.” She said, trying (and failing) to give him a reassuring smile.

Jay cocked an eyebrow at her, “You sure?” Hailey nodded, even though she wasn’t. Even though hers was long gone, she didn’t want to ruin his night.

She was about to leave again when they heard footsteps behind them, “Okay, I need to see what this girl looks like-” The door swung open to reveal Will, who stopped dead in his tracks. “Hailey, hi.” He said, a lot louder than he needed too. Hailey blushed and Jay rolled his eyes. Will glanced between the two of them, a tiny smirk showing on his face. He looked at Jay, “Take your time.” Before either of them could say a thing, he shut the door.

Jay chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh, sorry about him. They thought you were the delivery guy.”

Hailey nodded, “Yeah, I got that.”

He took her in, noticing the fading tear marks on her cheeks and the half smile on her face. She wasn’t okay, and he knew that. “You wanna come in? We have beer and a hockey game.” He asked, gesturing at the door.

Hailey shook her head, glancing at the ground. “That’s okay. You guys have a good night.”

“Yeah, you too.” They both retreated to where they came from, Jay shutting the door and leaning against it. He couldn’t shake the sad look in her eyes. He made his way back to his couch, surprised to see the three grown men already there watching him expectantly. “What?”

“How’s Hailey?” Will asked, smirking again.

Jay sighed, “I don’t really know, she looked upset.” He glanced between the three of them. “I think I need to…” He said, looking back at the door.

“Of course, man, we get it.” Kevin said, taking a swig of his beer.

“Yeah,” Kelly agreed, “We’ll just sit here, drink your beer and eat your food.”

“And miss you.” Will added and Jay rolled his eyes, “Seriously, it’s Hailey, go.”

Jay smiled at his friends, “Thanks guys.” He grabs his coat and his keys and was out the door in a matter of seconds.

They heard the door close behind him and Kelly shook his head, taking a sip of his drink. He nodded his head in the direction that Jay left. “He’s so whipped.”

Kevin and Will both laughed, nodding in agreement. “So…” Will said.

“It’s honestly kind of sad.”

…

By the time Hailey made it inside of her apartment, she was pulling hard on her fingers. She could feel her pulse picking up, and the pain of squeezing her anxious hands was keeping her grounded. It felt like it was a hundred degrees inside and she aggressively pushed off her coat, throwing it over a chair. She crossed the room, gripping the edge of her counter while trying to focus on her breathing.

Her chest felt tight and her knuckles were white from her tight grip. She clamped her eyes shut, pushing herself away from the counter and squeezing her hands in a fist at her sides. She stood in the center of the room, looking up at the ceiling as she blinked back tears. She wouldn’t cry again, no, she couldn’t cry again. That didn't stop her though, the salty liquid began to trickle down her face.

Hailey let out a frustrated groan - the distraught noise coming out very un-Hailey-like - and gasped for air, finding her way back to the counter. She refused to give in, it had been so long since this had happened, and she was going to fight like hell to make sure it didn’t follow through. She thought she was past it, she thought she was old enough to deal with things correctly.

However, her mind and her body had a different idea. Her chest burned and her throat felt like sandpaper, she almost didn’t even notice her phone buzzing on the counter. She absently reached out and picked it up, letting out a sob as she read the caller ID. A second later, her phone hit the wall next to her, shattering and falling to the floor along with any sense of calm she had left.

She heaved, she felt almost like she was floating. The only thing keeping in place was the counter in front of her. She finally let herself slip, she stopped fighting the pain and let it consume her.

Jay was almost to her door when he heard the crash inside, “Hailey!” He yelled, immediately kicking the door in (not even bothering to see if it was open).

Everything happened so fast. The commotion behind her caused Hailey to look up from her fixed gaze on the granite and the sudden movement sent her head spinning. Jay watched it all happen, catching her just before she hit the floor. “Hailey, Hailey.” He said, panicking. She slumped against her chest, sobbing uncontrollably. Jay held her to him on instinct, noticing her trembling body. “Hailey breathe, please.” He said, trying to sit her up as she heaved.

“I can’t, I can’t,” She choked out, clutching her chest. Her crying continued as Jay wracked his brain for what to do. He was sure she was having a panic attack, he had had quite a few of his own, but he was in shock. His calm - put together - force to be reckoned with - Hailey was nowhere to be found.

He shifted so that he was in front of her, hands braced on her upper arms to keep her upright. “Look at me Hailey, deep breaths. It’s okay, everything is going to be okay.”

She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “Make it stop,” She gasped, “Please Jay, make it stop. It hurts.”

Jay felt his heart clench in his chest, he absolutely hated seeing her like this. And it was probably good that he had no idea what was going on, because otherwise he would be planning a murder in his mind. “Hailey,” He said, but she was lost somewhere. “Hailey, look at me.” His words were gentle, but firm, and it grabbed her attention. Her head snapped up and her teary blue eyes met his. He cracked a smile, letting his hand slide up to her shoulder. “Good, now try to match my breathing.” She nodded, fixing her eyes on his chest and watching it rise and fall.

They sat on the floor together for at least fifteen minutes. Hailey watching Jay breath steadily and trying to match it. She was hyper focused, she didn’t dare let her mind wander. It had proven to be dangerous territory. Jay though, he felt like his brain was going to explode.

When Hailey finally felt like she could control herself, she slid onto her bottom, leaning her back against the kitchen counter. She ran her hands on her eyes and pulled her knees to her chest, partly to collect herself, partly because she was absolutely mortified. She sniffled, taking a few deep breaths on her own.

Jay relaxed as well, sitting back on his heels and keeping his distance. His eyes never left her, like if he looked away she would fall apart again. She looked so sad, so scared and it made him feel physically ill. “I think I broke your door.”

Hailey laughed out loud at his bad excuse for lightening the mood, “It’s okay.” She said quietly, running a hand under her nose. They sat there for a moment, just looking at each other. Hailey felt a strange sense of calm, one that she only felt around him, and it was a nice contrast to the past hour of pure panic.

“Are you okay?” He asked, giving her a pointed look.

It felt like such a loaded question, and honestly it was one. Jay had asked her that a million times, but there was no doubt that this time was different, she couldn’t backtrack this, not after what just happened. And as easy and safe to brush it off her shoulder and tell him that she was fine, she couldn’t, and she didn’t want to. Hailey’s gaze shifted down and she shook her head slowly.

Jay sat in front of her, legs crossed and a somber expression on his face. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Hailey sniffled again, shaking her head. She rested it in her hand and took him in, something about him sitting on her kitchen floor felt so right. So right that she didn’t want to ruin it with how wrong everything in her life was. She didn’t want to tell him that her mom called her for the first time in years to tell her that her father was dying - and not only that - but that she wanted Hailey to come see him and possibly donate a piece of her major organ to him. She didn’t want to admit that she couldn’t do it, that she couldn’t bring herself to save him. She didn’t want to tell him that despite all the terrible things her father had done, she still felt sadness over his possible passing. She didn’t want him to know that a mere phone call had sent her into such a tailspin. She didn’t want him to know anything.

But here he was, looking at her the way no one else ever had, caring in a way no one else ever had. What was she supposed to do with that? “I can’t do this alone anymore.” It came out quiet, and neither of them were sure that she was actually talking to him. It felt more like a realization than anything.

“Hailey,” Jay said, taking the hand that was resting on her knee on her own. “You don’t have to, you never had to.”

The look on her face when he said those words was something Jay would never forget, the utter shock that showed so clearly. It pained him at how surprised she looked to hear something that had never been a second thought to him. She was his rock, his compass, at this point, maybe his entire life. How did she not see it?

“I thought it would be easier, to ignore it all.” She said, eyes glassing over again. She leaned her head against the wall, sighing. “I just can’t run fast enough to escape it.” Jay gave her a soft, but pointed look, urging her to continue. “My dad, um, he’s sick. Really sick, and, my mom, she called me to tell me. And she asked if I would come see him and if I would -” She laughed cynically “- if I would consider giving him a piece of my liver.”

“What?” Jay said, the word sort of just tumbling out of his mouth.

Hailey nodded her head, giving him a fake, tight lipped smile, “Yep.” She took a breath, “I don’t know, it was like years and years of suppressed pain just all came flooding back at once. So I went to your place, but you were busy and…” She gestured to them, implying that that is why they ended up where they were. “I’m sorry, that you had to see me like that.”

“Don’t apologize, I’m glad I was here.” Jay said, brushing his thumb over the back of her hand that was still in his. “I always want to be here, you just have to let me in.”

The genuine and vulnerable look in his eye was too much for Hailey to handle, so she avoided his gaze. “I don’t know, you seem to be pretty good at getting in on your own. You did break my door.”

Jay laughed, knowing that the joke was meant to offset the realness of the moment. He didn’t blame her, he was scared too. “I’m serious Hailey, this is where I want to be. All the time, with you.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Here he was: her beautiful, emotionally stunted, action first partner laying his heart on the floor in front of her. “I want you here.”

“Good,” He said, “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, each of them lost in their own thoughts. There was so much more that needed to be said, so much more that needed to be clarified, but at that moment it didn't matter. They were just them. “Is it bad that I don’t want to help him, does that make me a terrible person?” Hailey asked, breaking the silence.

“No,” Jay said immediately, “Not at all. It means you are strong.” She nodded, but Jay could tell that she didn't really believe him. “Hailey you are the strongest person I know, you make me stronger, you make me better. He doesn’t deserve your help, especially if you don’t want to give it.” He stood up, holding out a hand to her and pulling her up off the floor. “He doesn’t deserve your forgiveness.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to forgive him.” She confessed.

Jay shrugged, “That’s okay.”

Hailey looked up at him, complete adoration in her eyes. He smiled down at her and even though she had doubted it before, she didn’t now. Something was different, something had shifted, he felt the same way she did and it was dulling the ache inside her. “Jay-” She started.

“I know.” He said, his grin growing a bit. “Me too. But we don’t have to talk about any of that right now. Let’s just get some sleep.”

Hailey hesitated, the thought of being alone terrifying her. “Will you be here when I wake up?” She asked, fixing her gaze on the floor in between them.

“Hailey,” Jay said, taking a step forward and cupping her cheek with his hand, “I promise, I’m not going anywhere.”

…

A/N: This was so fun to write, also, I’m alive haha. Sorry I haven’t posted in forever, I am so ridiculously busy, but I’m hoping that within the next month I can start posting regularly again. Thanks for reading! <3

[chockfullofsecrets]

okay, this is very much a WIP but i am stressed for the finale and needed something fluffy so! wizard reward tickles!

(extremely mild episode 140 spoilers, no specifics)

He’s making his way up to the third floor of the tower, Fjord and Jester floating alongside, when Jester turns with cautious concern writ large on her face. “Essek, have you been crying?”

Essek is enough of a stranger to tears, until recently, that he cannot tell how she knows. “It is all right, Jester, I am…” He pauses, fishing for a suitable word. “Recovered.”

He looks at Fjord over her head, willing him to convey some kind of guidance. The reason for the aforementioned lapse, one he is hardly sure of his reasons for committing in the first place, is sleeping safe and whole just a floor below in this magical tower of Caleb’s - surely there is no reason to keep the matter open? 

Jester beams at him, fangs on full display, and claps her hands together. “I know exactly what will make you feel better, Essek!”

“As do I, I would hope,” he rejoins, gesturing to the vast library that the three of them are currently hovering in the midst of. “I know it is a little late, but I have not had a chance to take the, ah, the full tour, and I am certain I can find something of interest-”

“Essek, no!” Jester interrupts, throwing her arms wide. “You need cheer up tickles!”

At the last word, he instinctively clutches his mantle closer. “Ah - what?”

Fjord snorts. Essek pointedly ignores him. “Jester,” he says weakly, “I am sorry, but frankly I do not think my heart can take any more strenuous activity today.” 

“It’s not strenuous,” Jester insists, arms still brandished to either side. “It’s super gentle and relaxing! Caleb loves them!”

His disbelief must show on his face - Jester pouts, and Fjord shakes his head indulgently and steps up to wind an arm around her waist. “He does, truly,” he reassures. Essek watches Jester tip her head back and grin at him, two synchronized sweethearts, and smiles a little despite himself. “Ask him, if you like, I don’t think you’ve seen us do it to him before.”

Frankly, Essek is more familiar with the brand of tickling that sends Caleb scrambling to Teleport away when the Nein so much as look in his direction with particular intent. He’s particularly proud of that Counterspell. “I - I am not quite sure where he is, at the moment, and I do not wish to disturb him.”

“Are you sure? You don’t want to be in a room alo-one with him?” Jester wriggles her entire body suggestively and promptly returns to pouting when he refuses to blush. “Come on, Essek, we fought an evil flesh city together this morning, can’t you trust us for like five more minutes?”

Perhaps someday trust will stop seeming so new and fragile to him - but today, looking at both of their faces and seeing no trace of deception, he sighs and lowers himself slowly to the ground. “I suppose it cannot hurt.”

“Yes!” Jester cheers. She shakes Fjord’s arm off and digs his out of layers of clothing, towing him into the library and over to a cozy lounging section patterned in Zemnian reds.  “You’re gonna feel so good, Essek, I promise. Take your cloak off!”

There’s little else to do but obey. He drapes it neatly over an adjacent seat, gestures questioningly at his boots and removes them as well when Jester nods authoritatively. “And now your shirt!”

He freezes. “What.”

“Kidding, kidding!” She flops down on the lounge, fluffing out her skirts, and beckons for him. “Come here - Fjord, go away, you’ll make him nervous!”

Fjord glances over at Essek, eyebrows raised in clear amusement. “He’s not a stray cat, Jes.”

“He’s a wizard, it’s practically the same thing!”

“Ah-” Essek starts. Fjord raises his hands in surrender.

“Fine, fine, I’ll be over here.” He backs towards the lounge with Essek’s things strewn over it, mockingly cautious. “If I’m allowed to stay in the room, that is.”

“Of course you can stay!” Jester tells him. “You know, I bet this library has a copy of Tusk Love somewhere-” 

She breaks off into giggles as Fjord grimaces at her. Essek watches the two of them, back and forth, and almost feels glad when Jester turns back to him with more instructions. “Okay, now you lie down in my lap.”

“Jester.”

“Essek.” She pats encouragingly at her knees. 

Essek steps closer and - he doesn’t know how to get in a lap. He frowns, twisting minutely to one side and then the other as he tries to judge the best way of lowering himself-

Jester grabs him around the waist and yanks, pulling his back flush against her, then pushes his chest down with one muscled arm and scoops his legs up with the other.

He stares breathlessly at the ceiling. “Oh.”

A grinning blue face bobs into his field of vision. “I’m gonna tickle you now, okay?”

Essek closes his eyes and braces himself.

Seconds pass without the immediate zinging shock that he’s expecting. He cracks an eye open. “Jester?”

She’s frowning. “You’re so tense, Essek! Just-” She sucks in an exaggerated breath, cheeks ballooning, and whooshes it out. “Breathe.”

He tries. As he’s exhaling, Jester rests one warm palm on his belly and starts to rub gentle circles. 

He sighs despite himself - it is a new feeling, but not an unpleasant one, and he can feel himself relaxing as she widens the circles to climb his chest. “Jester-”

“Shh,” she soothes, and trails her fingertips down his chest and back onto his belly. “Aw, does that tickle?”

His breath hitches as she draws her fingertips slowly from side to side, fluttering at his hips where the fabric of his shirt bunches. “I - hnnnh - nnnn-”

His belly twitches involuntarily as he tries to keep himself from laughing outright. Jester clucks in disapproval and goes back to her circles. “Ess-ek, don’t fight it, just relax!”

She stays at his belly this time for what seems like minutes, smoothing gently over an expanse of skin that warms with each pass. Essek feels his breathing slow, his eyes start to drift shut. The weight of heat and proximity press down on him like a blanket, and he thinks he might fall asleep then and there.

Then she tickles him again, that same light trailing of fingertips, and a laugh slips out before he can think to contain it. 

She doesn’t stop, tracing light swirls of sensation over his belly and sides, and he can’t quite bring himself to try and stop snickering either - it’s pleasant, the waves of warm tingles radiating up into his chest and down to his hips, and all his muscles are loose and pliant enough that he doesn’t even feel the need to squirm away.

Jester coos at him through the haziness. “Aw, you look so comfy, are you having fun?”

“Mm - heh - mmhm,” he manages. 

“Oh, good - I’m glad you like it, Essek. I wanted to do something really nice for you since you did such a good job in Aeor with us, you know?”

There’s a proper response to that, something about how much he owes all of them already and how no amount of good cheer now will see him through his uncertain future, but it’s hard to come up with words at the moment. Instead, he closes his eyes and lets his head fall back even further as Jester starts to skim her gentle touches up to his ribs. “So many cool spells-”

Her fingers creep up into his armpits, a distinctly more ticklish spot, and he’s halfway through humming out a protest when she shushes him again and starts rubbing slow, careful circles in the hollows with her thumbs. “And when you broke that crystal to make sure we could all rest and heal up - that was really good, Essek.”

“Hnnnn,” he manages.

Every muscle in his upper body feels like jelly. He can’t even twitch as she repeats that same skimming swirl under his arms, just giggles a bit harder. “Doesn’t it feel nice to relax and not have to worry about all that anymore?”

Oh, that’s a question - he thinks for a long, liquid moment, trying to string together a sentence. “Hhh - hehe - mhmm, s’nice.”

“It is! You did such a good job, you should get all the tickles.”

“Tickles,” he nearly purrs. He can feel his ears flicking contentedly.

Jester shifts beneath him, whisper-shouting over to where he assumes Fjord is still sitting. “He’s so cute, Fjord.”

“Adorable,” Fjord whispers back. “And - hey, looks like we’re about to have two of them.” 

And then, louder - “Hey, Caleb.”

Caleb? Essek’s eyes snap open.

He’s walking over to them, sans coat and scarf with his hands tucked neatly behind his back. “Ah, I did not expect to find anyone else here.” He turns to regard Essek. “I see they’ve gotten to you too, hm?”

Essek struggles for a moment, trying to wake himself with the realization that Caleb is usually the one receiving Jester’s attentions in this way - and this isn’t a conversation he wants to have while Caleb is standing and he’s flat on his back. 

Jester makes a frustrated sound as he tries to sit up. Caleb looks a little surprised too - even more so, when Fjord walks over and wraps a hand around each of his shoulders. “Oh, don’t be jealous, you’ll get your wizard tickles too.”

Essek blinks. “Caleb, I didn't mean to take anything from you-”

Caleb’s ears go red, but he leaves Fjord’s hands where they are as he crouches down by Essek and pats his shoulder. “I did not mean to tease, my friend - please, relax and enjoy yourself.” He smiles, then, a little flick in the corner of his mouth. “Or Jester will make you, I’m sure.”

He blinks again. “You’re not - upset?”

Caleb shakes his head, sending wisps of red hair flying around his face. “Not one bit.”

Essek lets Caleb press him gently back down into Jester’s lap, watches blankly as she grins down at both of them and reaches out to tap Caleb’s nose.

He stands before she can, quirks a loose smile in her direction. “Not today, Lavorre, I think.”

He turns as if he might walk away, starting to lock his hands behind his back again, and Essek nearly calls him back, offers to let him take his place - but Fjord is just behind him, hands still on his shoulders, and he pins him easily in place. “Oh, I’d love to see you try to avoid this.”

Caleb opens his mouth to reply, snaps it shut again as Fjord’s hands slide off his shoulders and bracket his sides, fingers curling in ever so slightly. 

Fjord’s a little taller than Caleb, enough that when Caleb starts to shrink in on himself he has to stoop to get his mouth next to his ear. “You’ve had a hard day,” he says, low and steady. “Don’t make us watch you hide from a little lightness, after all that.”

Caleb looks all of them over once, frantically, and then looks pointedly away. It’s a sentiment Essek is familiar with - looking for escape, and resigning yourself to none - and he’s surprised when Caleb gives a slight nod.

Fjord’s face splits into a relieved smile, tusks on full display. “Right, then,” he continues, wrapping his arms around Caleb’s waist and lifting him straight off the ground to carry him the few feet to the other lounge.

He sets him down and sits next to him, waiting patiently until Caleb huffs a quiet breath through his nose and leans over to put his head in Fjord’s lap. “Right.”

Jester reaches for Essek’s belly again, but he catches her wrist and looks up at her to shake his head. 

She raises her eyebrows. He tilts his head ever so slightly towards the other lounge.

Jester’s mouth forms a silent O of understanding before pursing into a mischievous smirk. Essek frowns - he’s curious, there’s no need for eyebrow waggling. 

She does draw her hands away, though, so he contents himself with a single stern look before turning his attention towards Caleb. “You’re healed, yes?” Fjord asks.

He starts patting at Caleb’s ribs as if to check them, but the way he starts massaging little circles into them seems distinctly meant to tickle. Essek watches, perplexed, as Caleb doesn’t laugh at all,  just sighs a little and lets his shoulders lay flat. “Ja, Caduceus helped with that.”  

“That’s good. Proud of you,” Fjord says approvingly. 

Caleb looks more flustered at that than he has at anything else said tonight, a reluctant smile working its way over his features. Fjord smirks and bends down to whisper something else to him  - Essek doesn’t catch it, but apparently it’s terrible enough to make him squeak and roll defensively onto his side.

Their eyes meet.

They both stare for a moment, and then Caleb’s eyes narrow - Essek has just barely seen him mischievous enough times to recognize the look. He flicks his fingers in a particular pattern even as Fjord rolls him back over with a series of nibbling little pinches to his ribs that send him squirming, and there’s a slight pop as an illusory feather appears by Essek’s bare feet.

He doesn’t even have time to protest before the damned thing wriggles up against his sole and he’s squealing. He bolts upright, clinging to Jester as he laughs frantically. “HAAA - ahaha - Caleheheb!”

“Cay-leb, stop that!” Jester cries, but she looks absolutely delighted as she cuddles him close with her own fingers wriggling mischievously. “Do you know how long it took us to convince him to let us tickle him?”

Fjord laughs. “ I think someone’s trying to tell me they want their feet tickled. Isn’t that right, Caleb?”

The feather switches to his other foot, and Essek presses his face into Jester’s shoulder and cackles loudly enough that he nearly misses Fjord’s next statement. “Oh, feeling shy? No, no, tell me - do you want feathers or fingers?”

Between one flick and the next, the feather disappears with another pop. 

Essek pries his face up from Jester’s shoulder and turns to strongly protest this treatment, but it looks like Caleb’s been thoroughly distracted from him - Fjord’s taken his chin in one strong hand and tipped it gently back, leaving the thin column of his neck hopelessly vulnerable. He’s already giggling, hiccupy little things, as Fjord runs his fingers gently along a tendon. “Well, speak up - feathers?“

He switches suddenly to the other side of his neck. “Or fingers?” 

Caleb whines, scrunching his shoulders as far as he can against Fjord’s thigh. “Ahaha - nngh - nein, mean! Mean!”

“I’ll be nice just as soon as you tell me what you want.” Fjord tells him. “Come on, you can do it.”

“I - heheheeeeh - I can’t!” Caleb pleads. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t have bothered Essek, then,” Fjord scolds lightly. 

Caleb makes a helpless little sound, still giggling. Fjord’s voice softens then, to something cajoling. “This is supposed to be fun for you, Caleb. Let me know how I can do that.”

Caleb whines a little more, squeezing his eyes shut, but he seems to relax a bit at the command. “Feathers,” he says finally. “There’s a writing desk around the corner with some quills.”

“Good boy,” Fjord says, letting go of his chin and patting his cheek. “I’ll be right back, then.”

He helps a heavily blushing Caleb off his lap and lays him back down, smoothing once over his ribs and getting the same blissful giggles Essek remembers himself echoing just a minute ago.

Caleb flops back, catching his breath, and looks wryly across at him. “If you run now, maybe you can get away before they learn too much about you.”

“Nope, too late!” Jester says cheerfully, her arms still wrapped tightly around him. Essek jumps as she starts to tickle his sides. “Aw, Essek, are you going to get all embarrassed if we tell you you’re a good boy?”

Essek scoffs, fighting the laughter and the blush that threatens to climb the back of his neck. “I have received many accolades over the years, I do not think so.”

“A good friend, then? One that we trust completely?” Caleb suggests. It’s more the way Caleb looks at him as he says it, like he already knows how much that means, but Jester still squeals excitedly at the dark purple gathering in his cheeks. 

“Ooh, and what if we tease you about how ticklish you are?” Jester asks, worming her fingers onto his tummy and tapping them there until he’s giggling helplessly at the implied threat. “Cause Essek, you are really, really ticklish.”

“This is not what I was promised,” he manages through his laughter. A few weeks ago, he would have been fearful at this clear intrusion, a transparent search for weakness. Now he mostly wants to calm himself enough to trance in the next few hours.

“Oh, shitballs, you’re right,” Jester rushes out, and stops tickling in favor of rubbing warm circles up his sides. “Okay, okay, lie down and I will give you the best cheer up tickles.”

“I heard that,” Fjord says, rounding the corner with a feather dangling from his fingertips. “You two are going to have to compare notes afterwards and let us know who’s really better.”

“I don’t think-” Caleb starts. He yelps as Fjord pounces on his feet, protests for a moment before dissolving into soft laughter at the introduction of the feather.  

Essek’s busy falling back into dazed, happy snickering as Jester trails her fingertips back up under his arms. 

He feels very cheerful, at the moment.

[xwing-baby]

Living The Dream (Javier Peña x f!Reader)

For #WriterWednesday hosted by @autumnleaves1991-blog​

Summary: A new house, dog and a baby on the way, Javier’s life couldn’t get any more perfect... its a dream come true.

Word count: 1.6k (good things come in small packages)

Warnings: Angst (cus duh), blood and injury description, mentions of pregnancy, dog death, hardly edited.

Masterlist

—

A tiny little house in the country, with a dog and a child on the way, was not how Javier thought his year would end but he wouldn’t change it for the world.

In the chaotic and dangerous life he led he never thought he would settle for more than two minutes let alone marry someone. You’d snuck up on him, coming out of nowhere to drag him into domesticity. Drag is the wrong word because he willingly went despite how much he pretended to drag his feet. He fell into it comfortably, he was even the one to suggest the house in the first place. You were happy in his apartment in Bogotá but Javier traded you a dog and you couldn’t say no.

A house, a girl, a dog. All he had ever wanted. Everything he swore he did not deserve but he could not imagine anything else now. Everything felt a little more manageable when he could come home to you. His own little oasis away from all the devils that haunted him in Bogotá or Medellín .

Javier planned to show Steve the new house on the drive back into Bogotá . You’d moved in a few weeks ago and everything was basically unpacked now, Javi was desperate to show off to his partner and could barely wipe the smile from his face as he pulled in.

The house was an old farmhouse, covered in iconic white plaster and red tile. The surrounding farm land had been sold off years ago, but left the house with a sizable garden around it to do whatever you wanted. There was enough for the baby to happily grow up and play in when the time came, for now the dog just chased rats through the long grass.

It was a mess when you bought it, but you were handy enough to get on with decorating and fixing up holes in walls while Javier was away working. He loved that part. Though he never admitted it, he always worried about you when you were working in the city. He never knew where you were until you came home. It was a lot easier to keep you safe, in his mind, with you at the house all day. You had done a fantastic job. For someone who claimed to have never even painted a wall before, the house was looking nice. It was becoming a home.

He called your name as he entered expecting to hear your music floating through the house. Instead he was met with silence.

“Must be asleep,” Javi said to Steve, “Pregnancies kicking her ass already,”

“Still can’t believe you’re gunna be a dad, man,” Steve clapped him on the shoulder, “I’ll get Connie to give y’all some baby books when she comes over,”

The two men chatted about the house, the baby, and everything else that had once seemed so out of the question for Javier but was now commonplace. He pulled beers from the fridge, cracking each open before sliding it across the patio table to sit and enjoy in the sunshine. They didn’t have anything to get back to urgently. The stop was justified and needed.

“Where’s that mutt of yours?” Steve asked looking around. In the weeks before the house was liveable, Javi had kept the dog at the apartment and used the Murphy’s as dog sitters whenever needed. Steve was excited to begin with but became a little more ambivalent when he ate his shoes one day. He was very happy when you moved him out to the house permanently.

“Must be with Y/n, they’re inseparable at the moment. In fact I will go check on her, she’ll be pissed if you leave without her seeing you,” Javier emptied his bottle and stood up. Steve chuckled and nodded.

Javier hadn’t been around the house as much as you had. Every time he had been you’d been close by making some kind of noise, a radio on somewhere in the house playing music with you singing along to it. He wasn’t used to it being quiet. It made the whole house seem so much bigger.

He walked upstairs to your bedroom, noticing the photos you had put up while he was gone. Simple wooden frames held photos from your wedding, photos of your family, and his favourite photo of you and him, taken by Steve candidly on the first day you had met. No one knew then just what would come from that one conversation but he was so happy it had led him here.

He pulled himself out of the fond memory and continued along the hall to your shared bedroom. The door was open, sunlight streaming in through half drawn curtains, the entire house was still. He smiled to himself, knowing that behind the door would be one of his favourite sights. He did not doubt that he would find Ringo, the dog, and you curled up on the bed. As much as Javi protested that the dog couldn’t sleep in your bed he knew you let him in as soon as he left in the morning.

Javier called your name again, listening carefully as he crept into the room. A full laundry basket sat on the floor, underwear and socks scattered the wooden floor boards. The drawers were open. You never left things untidy like that. Javier wasn’t the most untidy person in the world but you kept everything pristine. You wouldn’t just take a nap mid task. He frowned and touched the door to push it open.

“Peña!” Steve suddenly called urgently from downstairs. Javi knew that tone, instantly putting him on alert. You could wait for a moment. Javier stopped and turned back, leaving the door as it was and jogged back downstairs.

He came outside to see Steve, white as a sheet with grief written across his face.

“What is the-,” Javier started as he walked towards his partner. Steve brought him around the side of the house and Javi looked down and saw what was bothering him, “Oh fuck,” Javi swore the entire world stopped in that moment. Poor Ringo, shot in the head where he stood around the side of the house, just left without a care on the ground.

“I found him like that I swear! I am so sorry man,” Steve quickly explained. Javier wasn’t listening, couldn’t hear anything but alarm bells, his mind only thinking of one thing. You.

In a second Javier turned and ran back inside the house, picking up his gun from the kitchen counter where he’d left it. Steve followed quickly, keen on his heels. Javier knew exactly where to look, running up the stairs three at a time. He barrelled into your shared bedroom, praying that you were asleep and the dog was just an accident.

If his world had slowed at the sight of the dog the entire universe had stopped now. 

He couldn’t move his feet, mouth agape in total shock at the sight before him.

There was blood everywhere. On the bed, on the walls, even on the ceiling. Three bullets marked the walls behind the headboard. So much blood. He didn’t understand how he had not smelt it when he was outside a few moments earlier.

They had not been kind in your death, three shots to the stomach meant you did not die quickly. You were sprawled out on top of the sheets, still in your pyjamas. The white shirt you wore, Javi’s shirt, was now deep red, soaked through. There was a handprint dragged over the landline phone on your bedside table, glass and book knocked over in your effort to call for help. You hand still reached for it, so close yet so far.

Steve heard his cry of agony and ran in. He saw you, then Javi, and his heart sank. You were dead, there was nothing he could do now but he had to get Javier up. He pulled at his shirt trying to get him to move but was only met with violence as he ripped himself out of Steve’s grip away.

“Javi,”

“Javi,”

“Javier! Wake up!”

Javier’s eyes finally opened, his chest heaving and covered in sweat he was dazed for a moment before he finally looked at you. Your heart broke at the sight. He looked at you with such terror in his eyes, you didn’t have a chance to say anything before he grabbed you and pulled you in tight to his chest.

“It was just a dream,” You comforted him, “It’s okay,”

He took a deep but shaking breath, taking in the scent of your hair. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. It felt so real.

Slowly, he let you go and sat up wiping his hands over his face to clear the tears on his cheeks. He looked around him. He was in his apartment, three am on the clock. There was no dog, no baby, no new house. No body. It was just a dream.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You asked, sitting up with him and putting a hand on his shoulder, lightly rubbing his warm skin. He shook his head.

“It was just a dream,” He said softly.

The reality was he couldn’t afford to give you that vulnerability yet. He couldn’t let you know just how much he liked you for exactly the reason his dream had shown him. He was dangerous to be around. If you stayed, while it would be nice for a while, someone would pull the rug out from underneath you both eventually. It could only end in disaster. He would rather keep you at a distance, emotionally at least, so when that day came it would maybe hurt a little less.

He settled back down again, pulled you closer with your head on his chest. He could have you for now, like this, and let his imagination run wild with ideas of a picket fence future. But, to protect you that was all it could ever be. A dream.

—

A/n: I don’t know what is wrong with me... I am sorry Javi one day I will write something nice for you but today is not that day.

tagging: @autumnleaves1991-blog @hunters-heathen @beskarbabs @wille-zarr​ @all-hallows-evie

[theshipsfirstmate]

Black Widow Fic: No Time Left to Start Again

Post-BW, between the end and the post-credits. Yelena Belova faces life after The Snap.

No Time Left to Start Again (AO3 - wc: 4983)

She looks down to see her hands disintegrating -- fingers floating away like the wispy tufts of the dandelions that grew in their front yard in Ohio -- and Yelena thinks, Is this a cool way to die?

The question is still on her mind when she comes to, even though she’ll find out later that five years have passed since she started wondering. 

She puts the pieces together as fast as she can, even though each one only makes the picture more grim. She learns she was lucky to be in the Widows’ safe house in Istanbul when it happened, even if the rancid smell of the rotted fridge makes her gag and there’s a hole in the ceiling and straight through the floor from a bathtub left running. 

She learns that the best estimates say it was half of the population that floated away with her that day, and has now returned just as abruptly. The world wasn't ready for them to go, and it is even less prepared for them to return. Cities are plunged into chaos in an instant, governments and aid organizations just starting to steady themselves after half a decade of desolation get the rug pulled out from them once again.

She learns that her phone still works, even if internet service is shit, thanks to dwindling maintenance and overloaded servers. She learns that the Avengers are fighting a war for the fate of the universe (again), somewhere in upstate New York. And she learns, quickly, where she needs to go next.

“Малышка.”

Melina greets her at the gate with an unexpected softness -- so different than the last time -- and Yelena wonders if the woman has simply spent the last five years alone with her pigs, if they've felt any different than the twenty before. Then, Alexi steps out the door behind her, and she realizes that they have. 

“So, neither of you…” Yelena starts to ask as they let her in, though she doesn't really have to. She can see the years on them both, and for a moment, she's a child with a family once again.

My mother is going grey at her temples. My father's glasses are thicker than they used to be. 

They both have deeper crinkles at the corners of their eyes and Yelena finds herself hoping that it’s laughter that’s left them there.

“For five years we've been on our own,” Alexi answers, but he can't help himself a little smirk before he continues, “and moss grows fat on a rolling stone.”

He doesn't smell so bad this time, when he wraps her in a bear hug. Mercifully, he's shaved and taken to civilian clothes -- she decides to keep to herself how much she dislikes his new handlebar mustache.

“You did?” Melina guesses, and Yelena nods her agreement into Alexi’s chest before he relents and lets her go.

When she turns back to face the question, she finds herself on the receiving end of a look that feels equal parts discerning and maternal. That too, she remembers from her childhood.

“Are you alright?”

“I seem to be,” Yelena answers, gesturing down to her hands, tangible once more. There won't be an answer that satisfies the woman scientifically, she’ll have to be proof enough. “I don't remember any of it.”

What she truly doesn't expect from Melina is a hug, and it's even more surprising when it’s fiercer and longer than Alexi’s. A beat too long, Yelena realizes slowly. Alexi turns away when she tries to meet his eye, and her stomach turns over with dread.

Something else has happened. Something she doesn't know yet. Something worse.

“The report came over my comms just an hour or so before you got here,” Melina says softly, an arm reaching up to stroke the back of Yelena’s head, just like she did when she was a toddler. “It's over. The Avengers have won.”

There's the sound of splintering wood and both women step back sharply, turning to see Alexi clutching a handful of splinters that used to be the back of a dining room chair. He drops them to the ground and strides back out the door, pointedly not looking at either of them, and Yelena tastes bile in the back of her mouth. 

“What else?” She tries and fails to stop herself from asking the question. It comes out on a choked kind of half-breath.

“Tony Stark is dead.” Melina answers, dropping her eyes, an uncharacteristic waver in her voice. “And it's been... harder to confirm, but we are almost certain that Natasha is too.”

In the Red Room, after the treatments, there would be a buzzing in your ears for days, like static from an old radio. Widows in training were known to be disciplined after missing commands, and would do their best to shake it off as quickly as possible, but Yelena sometimes welcomed the fuzzy silences, the chance to try and focus inward, no matter how painful.

This is nothing like that.

This is a heartbreak in a cry, a desperate, wailing sound that builds and builds, cutting through the quiet isolation of the farm compound like a knife. It's only when it gets muffled by Melina wrapping her up in her arms once more, that Yelena realizes she's the one making it.

“Малышка,” her mother whispers again -- my baby -- and Yelena can’t tell if it’s meant for her or not.

They sit around the table again that night, but dinner consists only of vodka and memories and they all try -- and fail -- not to notice the empty chair closest to the windows, the one with the broken back. 

“Oh, I hated that blue hair!” Melina admits with a watery chuckle, paging through the photo album when their second bottle is nearly gone. “But she was so good at getting what she wanted.”

“You know, I begged her to dye mine too,” Yelena shares, recalling a long-forgotten memory that means something completely different now. “She said no, that she wouldn't let me be spoiled.”

Alexi interrupts the reverie before she goes too deep, laughter overtaking him as he pokes at Melina’s arm. “I remember the night she did it. You came to bed and you were so fed up, you cried! She made you cry!”

“And I punched you for laughing at me, do you remember that too?” Melina fires back, swatting his hand away.

When she was old enough to realize what had happened to her as a child, Yelena remembers scouring her memories for real moments, signs of genuine affection between the family she hadn’t known enough to question. It was difficult then, to believe any of it had been real. But sometimes now, it's not so hard.

“The only reason I was glad we left when we did, was because I knew I could never have handled her as a teenager,” Melina muses then, but there's little humor left in her voice. Yelena wonders if her face darkens in the same way as her mother’s when they think of that day on the airstrip.

It's quiet for a long moment, but Alexi never stops looking at Melina. Yelena's head is heavy from liquor and tears and she rests it on folded arms as she watches them. (Sometimes, it's not so hard to believe.)

“You didn't want to go,” her father says, low and mournful. “I should have listened.”

“You followed the orders,” her mother answers. “What was the alternative? They would have killed us and taken the girls back if we had made even one misstep.”

None of them had a way out, Yelena thinks, they never had. A super soldier and a Widow, weapons both, with daughters destined to follow in their footsteps. Maybe that's still true. Maybe there is no peace when all you've ever known is war.

But they'd had each other.

“It was real,” she murmurs, as her eyes drift closed. “Natasha said it was real.”

-----

A public memorial for Tony Stark is held on the National Mall. Steve Rogers is consecrated at the Smithsonian, again. But no one seems to know quite what to do about Natasha Romanov. The Black Widow, the female Avenger, the Russian-born assassin, only claimed by America, it seemed, when they wanted to accuse her of treason.

Still, Yelena flies to Washington DC, half-curious and half-desperate to burn off the fog she’s been wandering around in since Melina’s suspicions had been confirmed. 

Captain America, the new one, had announced the events on a world-wide broadcast -- making a point to mention Natasha by name, Yelena had noticed -- and so she heads to the museum first, though she's not entirely sure what she hopes to learn. The Avengers have saved the world several times over, but those conflicts are usually reduced to heroic platitudes when it comes to the public, and she expects this to be no different.

She's mostly right, but the exhibit is worth it for a few glimpses of Natasha fighting alongside the Captain, scattered throughout the pictures and video of the Avengers’ years together. That's how she finds herself in a darkened theater, watching a compilation of newsreel footage, broadcasts and shaky cell phone shots, the valiant timeline of Earth’s Mightiest Heroes.

She feels him sit down beside her, catches the glint of metal in the sleeve of his leather jacket before she can even clock his face. Her nerves are instinctively on edge, but if he came for combat, they’d already be in it, so she stays still and quiet, waiting to follow his lead.

“ты сестра?” he asks softly. You're the sister?

Yelena turns to face him, the question and answer on her lips. But the Winter Soldier speaks again before she does.

“She showed me the pictures once. From when you were kids.”

Yelena couldn't count them if she tried, the nights she spent in the Red Room, rubbing a finger along the torn seam of her photo strip, willing the thought that Natasha was out there somewhere, holding the other half, to be enough to comfort her enough to sleep.

She turns away before he can see the tears in her eyes, but it’s no use -- they’re there in her throat when she speaks.

“They didn't even know her.” She nods back to the crowded museum and hopes he can grasp her meaning. There’s no way Natasha can be properly memorialized by government officials, who knew her as little more than a recon file, or the adoring public, who only thought of her when the world was ending.

“She liked it that way.” He means it as a comfort, but still, it makes Yelena flinch.

He notices, and she knows he understands when he tries again. “They were never gonna do her justice.”

The world never would, never could, Yelena thinks. A spy. A sister. A survivor. A lost girl, who fought her whole life for the kind of peace she’d never allow herself. These are not the people who get parades in their honor, holidays in their name. 

“I will,” she says, and the stubborn tears win their battle, spilling down her cheeks. “I will do her justice.”

The Winter Soldier nods, with as much of a smile as he seems to allow himself. “I hope you will.”

Then he's gone, back the way he came, and Yelena thinks it's time to leave this city, with its buttoned-up bureaucracy and privatized secrets.

She doesn't care much about the Stark memorial, but skirts around the periphery on her way back to the airfield, catching a glimpse of the enormous photos and expensive-looking displays.

Natasha’s in these too, off to the side or just out of focus. It's starting to wear on her, the way these people seem to barely even notice the Black Widow, how quick they are to disregard one of their greatest heroes because she didn't fly or transform or wield some mystical weapon.

Shouldn’t that have made her even more impressive?

She's standing in front of a tribute to the Battle of New York just beside the bridge, weighing that unanswerable question, hands clenched unconsciously to fists, when Valentina finds her.

“I've been looking for you.” It sounds more like a taunt. I found you.

Yelena scoffs. “Probably a bad idea, if you know anything about me.”

“Oh, babe, believe me. I know plenty,” the woman answers, offering up that ridiculous name, a business card and a tone that's too familiar for Yelena's liking.

She's not to be trusted. That would be clear even to the Red Room’s youngest and most naive recruit. But it's this gleeful performance of espionage, or maybe villainy, that keeps Yelena from writing her off entirely. From the outfit to the attitude, she's either insane or untouchable. Or both.

And then: “So I have some… let's call it interesting information about your sister.”

Yelena clenches her fists tighter, digging her fingernails into her palm. “I don't believe you.”

Valentina seems to anticipate this, and is already reaching into her bag at the answer. She pulls out a thin, soft-bound book, printed with colorful block lettering: Parkside Elementary School, ‘95-’96.

Instantly, Yelena feels like someone's tightening a vice around her ribcage. “No.”

The woman shrugs, with that haughty grin she's already starting to loathe. “See for yourself.” 

She flips it open, turning only a few pages to find the first grade classes, and there she is. Six years old. An innocent smile on her face and a fake last name beneath her picture. Orange juice spots on the collar of her shirt -- Melina had scolded her when they brought the photos home. 

“How did you get this?” Even if it's a fake, it was done by someone who knows far too much.

“Well, you don't trust me, so I won't bother telling you,” Valentina snaps, taking the book back before she can look for Natasha. “Let’s call it proof that I know a lot of people who have been keeping a lot of secrets.”

Yelena tries to look unimpressed, dropping her shaking hands to her sides when she realizes they're giving her away. “You and me both.” 

“Ha! No kidding,” Valentina replies. It's not actually a laugh. “That's exactly why we're gonna work so well together.”

Maybe it's the grief clouding her judgement or residual conditioning left over in her frontal lobe. Maybe it's the unspoken threat to the rest of her family. Or maybe she was just born for this -- a soldier like her father, an assassin like her mother. Whatever it is, Yelena can feel herself agreeing to Valentina’s “offer” before she's even made it explicit.

“We'll start you out small,” the woman assures, but she knows better than to be comforted. “How do you feel about some light arson? There’s some documents and hard drives at a warehouse in Bethesda that need disappearing.”

“Fine,” Yelena answers, ears already buzzing, as a small voice in her head sings along. Fire is the devil's only friend.

-----

When the money from her first job comes in, she buys an old Chevy C/K and drives to Akron, with a useless hope to disappear again. She's lucky enough to find a modest apartment with a kind neighbor who's always happy to dogsit, which becomes a blessing -- Valentina’s demands only increase as the corners of her fake smile tighten. 

But it's enough. Enough that when Yelena thinks about home, she can once again think of Ohio.

Not long after, Alexi and Melina keep a promise she’d asked them to make, and return for a few days. She picks them up at the airfield, and drives to the spot she and Fanny found on one of their long walks together -- under the trees that are just starting to blossom with pink flowers.

Alexi lifts the heavy gravestone from the back of the truck and places it at the end of a row, under a tree, where the ground can't be dug up anyway. 

“Toughest girls in the world,” Yelena hears him murmur as he runs his hand over the inscription.

Melina hasn't spoken much since they landed. Yelena thought at first that she didn't want to come back, but when she closes her eyes and takes in a deep, shuddering breath as they stand facing the grave marker, she understands that it isn't that at all.

“Big girl,” her mother begins with an uncharacteristic, watery softness, and Yelena is transported back to another lifetime once again. “I’m so sorry...”

There might be more to say, but the long, mournful silence is broken by the sound of another car pulling up. All three of them go on alert, until Yelena spots a familiar flash of metal from the driver's side.

“не волнуйся,” she says, still stepping defensively in front of her mother. “It’s OK.”

The Winter Soldier -- Sergeant Barnes, she reminds herself -- parks and exits quickly, moving to the rear of the car to help an elderly man step out and straighten himself.

He isn't what Yelena expected, but once he's at full posture, it's impossible not to recognize him. He's the man from the news, the internet, all the posters — give or take a few decades.

“Captain America.” Under normal circumstances, she might chuckle at Alexi’s awed whisper.

“Forgive us for interrupting,” the Captain says by way of a greeting. He sounds like him, too, so it must be true. “And, in advance, for not explaining. I just… I thought both of her families should be here.”

“If that's OK,” Barnes adds with a look, first at Captain Rogers, then back at the family.

Yelena nods her acceptance, but feels her heart sink a little when Melina turns back silently to face the gravestone. Only Alexi steps forward, extending his arm, first to the captain, then to his comrade.

“Alexi Shostakov,” he offers. “You probably don’t…”

“The Red Guardian,” Captain Rogers interrupts, and Yelena tries not to let her eyes go wide as they shake hands proudly. “The Soviet super soldier. Of course I know who you are.”

Alexi puffs his chest up for just a moment, and gives himself a pleased nod, before returning to Melina’s side. It's proof of his grief, Yelena thinks, that that's the end of it.

Then it's her turn. “You must be Yelena.”

“Captain.” She nods once and then twice, looking past him. “Sergeant.”

“Buck mentioned you two had run into each other in Washington,” the older man says with a well-worn, knowing smile.

“I would say we're glad to have you,” she offers as a reply, “but now I'm mostly worried that I'm not covering my tracks as well as I should.”

“Don't worry about that,” Captain Rogers replies, with a shake of his head. “I had to call in multiple favors to find you. Big ones, too.”

“Well then,” she sighs, “I guess I should say I'm sorry you went through all that trouble.”

Another small smile, and then the captain steps closer, lowering his voice almost conspiratorially. It strikes her that, while he's likely still one of the most powerful men in the universe, there's nothing about him that feels threatening to her.

“I don't know if you've noticed,” he tells her, “but I'm getting up there in years. Why don't you save us both a lot of time from now on, and only bother saying what you mean.”

He means it as a kindness, Yelena can tell, but there's only one question she wants to ask, and it's screaming in her mind like a klaxon horn.

“Will you...” she begins, stopping to swallow when her throat turns to sandpaper. “Will you tell us what happened?”

“Yelena,” Melina says sharply, and she almost takes it back. But she knows the curiosity will eat her from the inside out if she doesn't take the chance now, when it's literally right in front of her.

“No, I want to know,” she tells her mother before turning back and steeling herself once again. “I want the truth.”

Captain Rogers purses his lips and tilts his head, like he's seeing something different in her now.

“You really are her sister, aren't you?” he muses.

She scoffs, almost reflexively. “There's no family resemblance, if that's what you mean.”

“Isn't there?” She hears Alexi chuckle softly behind her and makes a mental note to elbow him in the ribs later. One super soldier at a time.

“Please,” she asks again, and the twinkle leaves Captain Rogers' eye as he nods solemnly.

“Natasha sacrificed herself to retrieve the last of the Infinity Stones.” Yelena only understands part of that sentence, and she's not sure if it's the important part.

“The stones were the key to bringing everyone back, to defeating Thanos once and for all,” he explains. “We made a plan, as a team. We each had our assignments, but we didn't know the cost.”

The cost, it's evident now, had been Natasha, and it grates again at Yelena that all the other Avengers had returned from this mission for their final battle, while her sister’s sacrifice had merely been part of the unknowable set up. 

But Captain Rogers continues, and she finds consolation in the fact that at least he doesn't take Natasha's death lightly, not in the slightest. 

“I went back, after,” he reveals, sounding close to tears. “I tried-- I tried like hell to get her back. I never should have let her go.”

“You wouldn't have been able to stop her.” Melina’s voice comes out of nowhere; even she seems surprised to have spoken. But they all nod at the truth.

“Clint said he-- she wouldn't let him go in her place,” Rogers adds. He’s turning something over in his hands, but when Yelena looks closer, it seems to be just a simple pack of bubble gum. “She was just too…”

His eyes, cast towards the sky, return to their group, and he speaks first to Alexi, and then to Melina. Yelena reaches out for her mother's hand, and it's taken with a fierce squeeze.

“I'm not sure I ever really understood her until now,” the Captain says. “I thought her strength, her heart, who she was, was in spite of what she'd been through. But I know now, it was because of it.”

Yelena’s eyes have blurred with tears, but she can see him turn to her next. “We fought that war for her,” he adds. “And I think she fought it for you.”

It's the eulogy Natasha deserves, the one none of them could have hoped to give, and it feels both fitting and unfathomable that it comes from Captain America, of all people.

They sit in it for a moment, each thinking of Natasha in their own way, until the silence is broken by two people speaking in unison -- perhaps the two that understood her best.

“She would have hated this,” Yelena mumbles, only realizing after a moment that Barnes had said the same thing.

A reserved chuckle rumbles through the five of them, and then a deep, forgiving breath. It’s time to go. 

But Yelena drops Melina’s hand as the rest of them turn back for the road, suddenly unable to move. She can’t pull her eyes away from the grave, stuck staring at a legacy that makes her feel six years old again, a metaphorical pair of shoes she'll never be able to fill.

When she doesn't hear either car start, she expects maybe Captain Rogers or Alexi, but surprisingly, it's Barnes who returns to her side.

“I haven't… I didn't make a speech or anything,” she admits, gesturing at the stone with her sister’s name and titles, and willing him, once again, to understand the feelings she can’t put into words. “I don't know what to say to her.”

He's quiet for a moment, and when he speaks it's lower than she’s expecting, like he’s drawing the words from somewhere deep. “Nat never shared much with us,” he tells her. “I understood that. It's hard to talk about memories you don't think you deserve to miss.”

Yelena knows she’s felt that too, that kind of arrested nostalgia. And she’s seen it in the Widows she recovered before the snap. It's not a surprise that the Winter Soldier could understand it as well -- what it’s like to be freed from a prison in your own mind, but constantly aware of how easily that door could slam closed on you once again.

“She wouldn't care what you say here,” he continues. “She would care what you do out there.”

Suddenly, Yelena wonders if his heightened senses include a bullshit detector, if he can somehow see the marionette strings Valentina has looped around her conscience.

“I might have lied to you when we met,” she admits, telling him as much of the truth as she can muster. “I'm not sure I know how to do her justice.”

“I think you do,” he answers. “Even if it’s hard. Even if it takes a while.”

She turns to face him, and he’s staring at the gravestone like he can see something more than the paltry words they had paid someone to carve in Natasha’s memory.

“Nat was haunted by the red in her ledger, but she also thought it was what made her a good Avenger. She thought it made her fearless, unbreakable.” Yelena looks down and watches the metal of Barnes’ bionic hand curl into a fist, and then release. “But I'll take a wild guess that she was fearless before that, wasn't she?”

Through the years of mind control and conditioning, Yelena has never forgotten the feeling of Natasha’s arm wrapped around her back on that airstrip in Cuba, screaming and threatening men twice her size to try and keep them both safe.

“You may not know what to do now. You might feel like the things you've done, or the things you want to do, have set your future in stone,” Barnes continues, cutting through the haze of her memories.

“But there's gonna be a moment, maybe in the future, maybe soon, when you're faced with a choice. And in that moment, if you choose to be the person she thought you could be, that'll do her justice.”

Yelena looks up and Barnes’ eyes are there to meet now. Whatever he knows, it’s enough. 

“Thank you for coming,” she tells him. “Truly. And thank you for bringing the Captain.”

“Couldn't keep him away,” the man admits, with his little half-smile. “The two of them...I think that was as close as they let themselves get to anybody. I know he’ll always blame himself, but I hope this helped.” 

Yelena nods her goodbye, thinking idly, mournfully, about the way Natasha never gave any thought to her future -- wondering if that’s something she and her teammates had shared. But as Barnes returns to his car, the back window rolls down and Captain Rogers flags her down with something dark and folded in his hand.

“I found this with her things on the quinjet,” he says as she approaches the window, and her throat is tightening with new tears before he can finish, before she can even reach out to touch the familiar fabric. “Thought maybe you might want it. It’s pretty nice, it’s got a lot of pockets.”

-----

When she returns Melina and Alexi to the airfield a few days later, it's the most Yelena has felt like a real person in a long time, maybe the whole of her adult life.

“You’ll come to visit, yes?” Alexi asks, but his raised eyebrow tells her it's more of an order than a request.

“I will.”

“Come for Christmas!” he booms as he climbs out of the truck. “I will tell Santa Claus where to find you.” 

Melina doesn't follow him out the passenger door right away, turning back to face her and looking for all the world like a typical worrisome mother.

“Yelena…”

“мама, I'll be fine,” she promises, trying not to hear how hollow it sounds.

“I know you will. But please, watch out for yourself.” Yelena’s stomach knots at the memory of Melina telling Natasha the very same. That was the last time they were all together, she recalls. It always will be. 

“And if you need us,” Melina adds, “just come home, where it’s safe. OK?”

It's something about the way she says it that steals Yelena's planned reply from her lips. She doesn't want to lie, not now.

So she ducks forward, pressing her head against her mother’s and willing them both a little bit of peace.

“You are the best of us. Strong like your father, smart like your mama,” Melina whispers. “And like Natasha, through everything, you’ve kept your heart.”

Yelena pulls back then, swiping at her eyes, unable to stop herself from asking. “You don’t think that’s a weakness?”

“Maybe, at one time,” Melina admits. “But now, I think it’s lucky. Because now, you have a place to carry her.”

She can do that, at least, Yelena promises herself, reaching down to tug instinctively at the hem of her vest. Natasha died for them, and so she can live for her. She can do her justice.

“Stay safe, Малышка,” Melina says again, kissing her on the cheek before climbing out and following Alexi towards the runway. They two of them turn back to wave before boarding their jet, and Yelena’s heart knocks in her chest to remind her. That’s my family.

She puts the truck in gear and is pulling out to the main road, brushing away a few stray tears, when she notices it. A cassette, half-ejected from her ancient tape deck, with a Post-it stuck to the end. 

She peels off the note and grins at the mismatched handwriting -- “Love, Mom. And Dad,” both in Cyrillic -- before pressing the tape in and starting to sing along.

“A long, long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile…”

[q-gorgeous]

Fallen Star

fanfiction

ao3

The events of Doctors Disorders reveals that humans CAN have ghost powers. How does the public react to this? What does this mean for Phantom? prompt by @mystyrust

prequel to Ghost Farm

word count: 2665

warning: character death, experimentation, kidnapping

i need you guys to know that agent z sounds like either e boy or fix it felix from wreck it ralph

A glowing mosquito sat in an ecto-proof jar on a pristine white counter. It bounced off the sides of the glass, desperately trying to escape. A black, gloved hand reached out and grabbed the jar and shook it. 

“So humans can have ghost powers.”

An agent in an all white suit studied the mosquito. 

“How was this any different than possession? Why did this kind of possession grant the students ghost powers instead of overshadowing them?”

He put the jar down and pushed himself away from the counter, facing another man in a white suit who had been standing behind him. 

“Agent K. If we can figure out how these mosquitoes gave the teenagers ghost powers, we can use it in our fight against the ectoplasmic scum.”

“How would you suggest we go about that, Agent O?”

“We’ll have to reopen the old research compound. We can’t have the people of Amity Park finding out we’re doing this kind of research. The old compound is further away from the city so they won’t be able to trace it back to us so easily.”

“What about the test subjects?”

Agent O smiled darkly. 

“We’ll have to go find some, now won’t we?”

QQQQQ

Star was walking down the street, on her way to meet Paulina at the mall. They were supposed to go pick up some dresses for a fancy dinner at Paulina’s house. Star had told Paulina that she already had something she could wear at home, but her friend insisted Star let her buy her something. 

She turned around a corner heading down another street. The sidewalk here was pretty empty. The only person she saw was an old woman walking into her house and when her door shut, Star was all by herself. 

That’s when she felt it. There were eyes gazing into the back of her head and she quickly picked up her pace. 

She could hear heavy footsteps approaching from behind along with the crunch of gravel underneath tires. Looking over her shoulder, Star saw a man in a white suit behind her and a white car trailing behind him. For a moment, she felt a small relief. It was the GIW. They couldn’t possibly be after her. They must be tracking a ghost.

But the man had nothing in his hand and the way he stared at Star said otherwise. 

She turned back around and was about to start running when a hand grabbed her long blonde hair. She cried out as she was pulled backwards towards the man. The car stopped beside them and another man left the car, pulling a bag over her head and tying her wrists together. They both lifted her up and she heard one open the trunk and then she was being thrown in.

“Help!” She screamed before the trunk slammed shut above her. 

She heard two doors open and close before the car revved up and started driving away. Panic wormed its way into her chest and she started trying to pull her hands free. 

Luckily, the rope around her wrists loosened. She didn’t know why these agents couldn’t tie a knot, but she had to be grateful for it. She pulled the bag off of her head but she still couldn’t see anything from inside the trunk. 

Feeling around, Star tried to find a corner of the trunk where the tail light would be. When she found it, she turned around and started trying to kick into the spot. It took a couple tries, but she finally felt it start to give. With one final kick, a hole was made and she could see light coming into the trunk. 

She turned back around and started pulling material away from the hole, trying to make it bigger. When it was big enough she stuck her hand through and started trying to wave it around in the daylight. 

Suddenly, Star could feel the car turning. She hadn’t noticed they were slowing down until the turn and her heart rate began to pick up. Did they hear her kicking?

After another couple of turns, the car came to a stop and she could hear a door open. 

The pop of the trunk sounded and she was blinded by the sunlight that shone behind the man who was staring down at her. She held his gaze in fear for a few moments and the next thing she knew he was swinging at her and she was gone. 

QQQQQ

Star slowly woke up. The world came to her slowly and through her blurry eyes she could see white tiles, white walls, and a glass with a different man standing outside it. 

She yelped and suddenly she was falling into the hard cot beneath her. She looked back up towards the ceiling. She had been floating? But how?

“What did you do to me?”

The man finished taking notes on his clipboard before his head tilted up to look at her. His dark sunglasses glinted in the light of the bright room. From somewhere to his left, he held up a jar with a bug in it. Was that…?

“The ghost mosquitos?”

“We are currently studying the causes and effects of ghost powers in humans. Our first study involves introducing one of the ectoplasmic specimens to a host and observing.”

Star took in a sharp breath. “You put one of those inside me? On purpose?”

The agent continued without acknowledging her. “You have the honor of being our first test subject. We would have never thought of the possibility of humans having ghost powers until half the high school was quarantined. We can guarantee this information to be invaluable in the battle against ghosts.”

A mounting horror was beginning to gnaw its way into Star’s chest. “What are you going to do to me?”

“We will be performing a series of tests, starting with measuring the effects of long term possession and then moving onto introducing ectoplasm to the host.”

“Ectoplasm?! Isn’t that toxic to humans?!”

“Yes, but we’ll introduce it in small amounts that increase over time.”

Star stared at the ground below her, horrified. “You guys are crazy.”

“Not crazy, innovative.”

Her head snapped up to look at the agent. He had a sly look on his face, like this was the best possible thing he could be doing at this time.

“You’re crazy!” Star shouted.

She shot forward faster than what should be possible and slammed her fist into the glass in front of the agent’s face. He didn’t so much as flinch. He just lifted his clipboard back up and began to write another note. 

“Promising progress.”

Then he began to walk away. 

“Come back!” She pounded on the glass again. “Come back, you son of a bitch!”

He continued walking away down the hallway until she couldn’t see him anymore. Alone in her quiet room, Star’s anger faded back to fear. She looked down at her shaking hand.

How much worse could this get? What kind of changes were they expecting to happen to her? It was just possession! Overshadowing! Albeit, a different kind. Normally people don’t remember what happened while they were overshadowed, she didn’t know the difference between this and that. She wasn’t even in the batch of kids that had been quarantined. 

But she had been flying. Moving faster than she should be able to. She’d been so much stronger than what she actually is, and she still couldn’t get out. Couldn’t break free. 

Star took another look down the long hallway and dread filled her stomach. 

She didn’t think she’d be getting out of here. 

QQQQQ

With no changes in her powers via mosquito three days later, the agents went onto the next part of their plan. 

One minute Star was floating above her bed counting the ceiling tiles, the next she was on the floor clutching at her head as something pulsed in her room. By the time the pulsing stopped, she was already strapped into a chair. She could feel the full weight of gravity and she knew the mosquito was gone. They were moving onto the injections now. 

She looked up and sitting in front of her was another different agent. This one looked younger than the three she had seen already. 

“Hi! I’m Agent Z!”

She hasn’t met any rookie GIW agents before, but that must be what this guy is. The newest addition. 

“Today we’ll be starting the introduction of ectoplasm trial! Today we’ll start with a small amount of ectoplasm, which will increase in amount each day! As the days go by, we’ll start doing two doses of ectoplasm per day.”

Maybe she can work with this.

“Uh. You seem real chipper. Are you new to the GIW or something?”

“Yep!” Agent Z said brightly. “This is my first special assignment!”

“Doesn’t it bother you that you’re experimenting on a human though? Isn’t that a terrible thing that they’re making you do?”

“They’re not making me do anything!”

Star paused. “What?”

“I was the only agent who volunteered for the position! I think this is all very exciting!”

“What the hell.” Star whispered. “You’re all insane.”

“It’s not insane if you’re benefiting the rest of humankind!”

“That-”

Star let out a cry of pain as she was interrupted. The needle plunged into her arm and Agent Z pushed the ectoplasm out of the needle and into her veins. It burned as it flowed into her arm and was kind of cold, but it was nothing compared to the pins and needles sensation that began to cover her entire body. 

“There we go!” Agent Z said chipperly. “I’ll see you again tomorrow for your next dose!”

He got up and walked to the door, scanned his keycard, and left. 

What happened to the observation part of their research?

Suddenly the straps holding her wrists and ankles in place opened and she shot up away from the chair. She hobbled her way to her bed, the pins and needles sensation crawling faster through her legs and feet with each step she took. 

She flopped onto the bed and cringed as the sensation crawled over every inch of her body. She looked up at the ceiling, intending to continue counting the tiles again, when she saw something new. 

A small camera was fastened to the glass on the outside of her room, staring at her. 

She stared at it for a few moments before she lifted her hand up and flipped off whoever was watching her. 

QQQQQ

Four days later and she was starting to feel sick from the ectoplasm injections. Today was the first day they’d be giving her two doses and the pins and needles sensation still settled in her limbs, never having gone away from when they woke her up with the prick of a needle at seven am that morning. 

She was starting to face constant nausea and her hands had been clipping through the things in her room for two days now. She could barely stomach the meager amount of food they were giving her anymore and she knew she wouldn’t last much longer if this kept up. 

Star heard the door slide open from where she laid on her bed. She knew they could tell she wasn’t doing well. They no longer used that horrible pulsing thing on her before they came in. She didn’t have enough energy to fight back anymore. 

Agent Z quickly approached her and sat her down in the chair, positioning her wrists so that the straps locked firmly around them. He roughly grabbed her arm and stabbed her with the needle. She screamed as the ectoplasm flowed into her arm, hot and burning all the way in. 

“There we go, all done!” Agent Z said as he pulled away. “That wasn’t so hard was it?”

She glared at the man through her greasy hair. He was talking to her like she was a child getting a shot at the doctor’s office. 

“Fuck you.” She spat.

“I’ll see you tomorrow for your next dose!”

With that, he swiped his keycard and walked through the door and out of the room. 

The straps released her wrists and she collapsed to the floor. Shivers wracked through her body even though she could still feel the hot ectoplasm flowing in her veins. 

Star didn’t want to die, but she hoped to whatever deity might be out there that this would all be over soon. She didn’t know how much more she could take. 

Suddenly, her stomach rolled and she was gagging and throwing up the little bit she had managed to eat earlier. Spots lined her vision and she slowly crawled her way to her bed, just wanting to fall asleep. Almost as soon as she got on it and curled up, she was gone.

QQQQQ

When Star awoke the next morning, she realized she was already strapped into the chair with Agent Z standing before her. The two agents that had first picked her up were standing on the other side of the window.

“Due to your worsening condition, today will be the last day of the ectoplasm injection trial, you’ll only receive one dose today. Starting tomorrow we’ll begin testing the effects of ectoplasmic charged electricity. We will take a few days break in order for you to gain some semblance of stability.”

“Why not just stop the trials altogether then?” Star rasped.

“The information we have gathered this far is invaluable. We’ve learned that some ways to attain ghost powers are safer than others, while others are more dangerous but much more potent. If We can find that balance between these then we’d have the ultimate weapon in our hands.”

“You guys are monsters.”

“Your participation will do much to protect your friends and family in Amity Park.” He nodded at Agent Z. “Go ahead.”

Agent Z plunged the needle into Star’s arm. 

With that last injection, Star screamed. The sound reverberated around her room over and over again, Agent Z covered his ears to protect himself from it. And then suddenly, Star’s ghost was ripping itself from her body, which fell limp against the chair it was strapped to. 

Her ghost form flickered brightly, like a star in the sky. She turned her brightly glowing eyes on Agent Z who was looking up at her with wide eyes, his hands still covering his ears. Star dove for him. 

Lifting him by the throat, Star picked him up and started throwing him into every wall as she flew around her small room. The ghostly trail she left behind her looked like the tail of a sparkling comet and soon blood was spattering onto the glass. 

Agent O pressed a button on the outside wall and the room lit up in a bright green flash and Star was falling to the floor, a beaten agent falling from her grasp into a heap. 

“Call in the sanitization and disposal team and have them come clean up this mess.” Agent O said to Agent K, who was staring at Agent Z inside the room. 

“Our Agent Z’s never last long.” K said sharply. “What should we do with the girl’s ghost?”

Agent O had a thoughtful look on his face. “We’ll keep it here for study. Her ghost must be a powerful one, that act it displayed immediately upon death is one I’ve never seen before.”

He turned around to face Agent K. “We’ll need to go gather another test subject. We’ll plan to go in two days once this mess is cleaned up.”

“Sir, I respectively ask how will we get any conclusive data if all of our subjects keep dying?”

Agent O barked out a laugh. “Who cares if they die. All that matters is that we get our answers in the end. What better way to get ghosts for research and dissection than by harvesting them ourselves?”

“Like a ghost farm, sir?”

“Yes.” Agent O Smiled wickedly.

“Like a ghost farm.”

[kaitoujokerscans]

The Night the Silver Cape is Set Ablaze CH1

Notice!

"Tonight, I'll come to take the 'Crimson Crystal' from Mister Kaneari's possession! Phantom Thief Joker"

<1> The Usual Battles

A plump full moon was shining that night. A man's cry rang through the banquet room of the striking mansion seated right in the middle of the city.

"JOKER, YOU'RE SO UNDER ARREST!"

The voice belonged to Oniyama Dokusaburou, member of the international Anti-Phantom Thief Coalition and chief of Japan's Metropolitan Police Anti-Phantom Thief division. Next to him were his subordinates Ginko and Momo, similarly bristling in their police uniforms. Long-haired, short-and-stout Oniyama, lanky and bespectacled Ginko, and the petite blonde Momo looked as different from each other as could be, but their eyes were all fixed on the same thing. Standing in the direction they were glaring toward was a boy in a red suit. His translucent silver hair grew in pointy spikes, and his blue eyes gleamed with pools of light. Perfect teeth sparkled in his huge mouth, which was curved into a beaming smile. A golden badge in the shape of the letter J shone on his chest.

This was the man himself — Phantom Thief Joker!

"Ha ha ha. As promised, I've taken the 'Crimson Crystal'!"

Joker held a red gem in his hand. Another man shouted, resentfully eying the crystal. "KEEEH! Return my treasure, indeed!"

His big rectangular face was framed by rectangular glasses, and his big mouth was contorted as he glowered at Joker. He was master of the mansion, Mister Kaneari. He was also the owner of the 'Crimson Crystal' which Joker had just stolen.

"Sorry, Kaneari, but I'm taking this with me!" Joker twirled his purple cape.

"Not if I can help it! GET HIM!" Oniyama bellowed, at which the officers waiting for orders behind Ginko and Momo fell upon him.

"Whoa, here comes trouble♪" Joker gave a nonchalant smile before snapping his fingers. Just as he did, a peeling sound came from under Oniyama's sprinting feet.

"Hmm, what was that?"

Then suddenly, the carpet on the floor sprang up in front of Oniyama's eyes and tossed him into the air.

"Waaagh! What's going on here!?"

Once Oniyama landed, the carpet rolled him up like he was a sushi wrap.

"Uwaaaaaah!"

The supersized sushi wrap rolled up Kaneari and all of the officers in the room as it whirled towards the center of the banquet hall.

"There we go♪" Joker, in the very same center, said as he jumped over it. The carpet had been rolled up from all four edges and was now a giant ball stuffed with the officers and Kaneari. Oniyama and the rest of them, their heads sticking out of the ball, all yelled at him at once.

"Joker, you rascal, what did you do!?"

"I set it up from the start so that it'd shrink, by making a carpet out of Image Gum!"

The Image Gum that Joker mentioned is a phantom thief tool. A mental image is transferred into the gum being chewed, which then takes the form of anything one can imagine. There are no limits to the shapes it can take, and it can be used to create large things like a banquet room carpet or for wrapping oneself in a disguise.

"So you set up a trick!"

"Get us out of thiiis!"

Ginko and Momo, their heads squirming out from the gum, glared at Joker up above.

Joker grabbed hold of a large balloon and floated upwards. This is also one of his phantom thief tools, Balloon Gum. By blowing it just like chewing gum, the gum’s ingredients chemically react to form a gas lighter than air which is trapped inside the balloon. If held above one's head, it can lift up the weight of about one person.

"Ha ha ha! Well then, everyone, au revoir!" Joker threw a card up at the ceiling, where it exploded and opened a gaping hole. He was about to fly into the night sky, when— A large silhouette jumped in through the hole and popped Joker's Balloon Gum.

"What!?" Joker pivoted around and jumped down. As he did, the silhouette alighted in front of him. "Shadow!?"

The boy was the spitting image of Joker. He wore a purple suit and black cape. Like Joker, his cyan hair was growing in pointy spikes. However, his golden eyes had a colder glint in them.

The boy called Shadow glared sharply at Joker. "Hu hu hu, you're not getting away with the treasure so easily. I'll always be chasing after you!"

"Heh, it's a bit late for you to show up. You're always getting in my way every single time."

"Getting in your way is my purpose in life!"

"Your sights are set way too low!"

"Shut up!" Shadow pointed the umbrella he was holding at Joker. Energy focused at the tip and shone in a circle of light. "Bloody Rain!" At Shadow's yell, a beam fired from the umbrella tip.

"Ghh!" Joker threw himself in a hurry to dodge. The beam grazed Joker's cape and hit the wall. BOOM! It exploded, leaving a yawning hole in the wall.

"AAH! My house!" Kaneari cried from the gum.

—Just then, the sound of tremors came from somewhere within the house.

"W-What's that?"

"What's this sound...?"

Joker and Shadow looked all around, when Kaneari gave a smirk. "Oh yes, indeed. I have my beloved wife here with me!"

"Wife?"

"Now do come, indeed! My darling honey, Sacchan!"

Immediately, the chandelier swayed, and then a huge door flew open with a bang right off the hinges. The door crashed like a shot into the wall and splintered into pieces.

"HRMMMMMMUUUUUUUUH!" In came a bestial roar, along with a massively beefed-up, over-two-meter tall person. "Person" because their gender could not be immediately determined, but one could conjecture that she was probably female because of the lock of braided hair hanging from her head.

The woman entered the room with heavy, thudding footsteps and took a look around. "Ruffians have broken in, have they?" her throaty voice boomed. In contrast to her fearsome figure, the eyes she turned toward Kaneari were filled with gentle light.

"Yes indeed, Sacchan! That right there is Phantom Thief Joker!"

"Joker!?" The woman Kaneari called "Sacchan" spun around and glared at Joker. She was staring daggers at him. She was like a jungle tiger that had just spotted its prey.

"Eek..." Joker and Shadow instinctively cowered.

"Phantom Thief Joker, you have some nerve to sneak into our nest of love. And to steal treasure at that — a heinous crime! I will punish you!" No sooner than she had spoken, the woman swung down her gargantuan fist down.

"...!" Joker and Shadow threw themselves out of the way before the fist plummeted into the floor with a BAMMM! which made the whole house shake.

"She's too powerful..." Joker was recoiling, and for good reason too.

Sacchan, or Commando Satsuko, was a combat expert who had undergone special training in the world's strictest army. She could run faster than a cheetah, bite down harder than a hippo, and was mightier than an elephant. She knew survival techniques for every situation, even how to cook and eat a savage crocodile. A strange turn of events had led to her marrying Kaneari, but her combat capabilities had not declined at all.

"What IS she...!?" This was Shadow's first time seeing Satsuko, and he was stunned still by her appearance. Joker didn't miss this chance.

"Okay!" Joker seemed to have thought of something, as he took out cards and held them up facing Satsuko. "Straight Flash!"

The fanned-out Ace, Deuce, Trey, Cater, and Cinque of Hearts cards shone. Blinding his opponent with their glaring light was Joker's trademark move.

"Ghh...!" The brilliance made Satsuko close her eyes for a moment. Yet when she opened them again, she saw something unbelievable.

"Just what is the meaning of this...?"

Strangely enough, there were two Jokers. Both of them were in red suits, and they were completely indistinguishable. Inside one of them was probably Shadow, disguised in Image Gum.

One of the Jokers grappled the other. "You! What the hell is this!?"

"The hell are you saying!? You did this, didn't you!"

The two of them grabbed at each other's lapels and squabbled. They looked like mirror images; seeing the pair with the same appearance and same face feuding with each other was somehow bizarre.

Satsuko watched them, not quite sure what to do, before she came to her senses. "E-Enough of the games, Jokers!" Satsuko fell upon them, trying to seize both of them at once.

Yet both of them were phantom thieves with equally impressive physical aptitude. Joker, as well as Shadow in the guise of Joker, nimbly bounced around to dodge. Even Satsuko was bewildered. Two people who looked exactly the same were jumping all over the place, so it was very disorienting. It was like she was fighting a ninja who had used a cloning art.

"Stop flitting about so much...!"

If she tried to seize just one of them, she would be distracted and the other one would get away, meaning there was a chance that she wouldn't get the real Joker. To prevent that from happening, she had to catch both of them at once no matter what, or so Satsuko thought.

If only I could tell which one was the real Joker...

Satsuko observed the two more closely and then noticed something. Something she had seen for a moment previously was now gone. Bloody Rain, the umbrella that only Shadow possessed. When Joker disguised Shadow, he had probably taken and hidden it. If Joker were to hide an umbrella he had stolen abruptly...

Satsuko cast her gaze around and spotted the black umbrella stuck in the chandelier. "There!"

True to form, Joker. Not only is he quick on his feet, he also makes good judgement calls... Satsuko stomped her foot on the ground with a thud, shaking the ground and making Bloody Rain fall from the chandelier.

"...!" The two Jokers took a quick glance at the umbrella. Written on one of their faces was: "Why was my umbrella there?", while the other's expression read: "Oh shoot, she figured it out!"

"There you are, Joker!" Satsuko ran up to the Joker who had "my plan's been exposed" written on his face and grasped him whole in her hand. "I've got you now, Phantom Thief Joker!"

"Guhh, oh shoot...!" Joker couldn't move, and his face contorted with pain.

"I've got him!" said Satsuko as she turned back around to Kaneari.

"Well done, indeed!" rejoiced Kaneari from the gum. "Now, return my Crimson Crystal!"

"...ha... it."

"Hm? What was that? I can't hear you, indeed!"

Then Joker raised his chin, looked at Satsuko, and grinned. "I don't have it."

"Huh?"

"What?"

"I said I don't have it. I don't, anyway."

"You don't? Then that means..." Satsuko looked up in realization, only to hear laughter from somewhere.

"Hu hu, is this what you're looking for?" She saw the other Joker standing at a distance. There seemed to be a colder glint in his eyes than usual.

Then that Joker's body puffed up and burst apart with a pop! Shadow, clad in his purple suit, appeared from within. In one of Shadow's hands was Bloody Rain, and in the other he was holding the Crimson Crystal.

"That's my Crimson Crystal, indeed!"

"Yeah, that's right. It's your treasure, the genuine article!"

"Why! Why do you have it!?"

Then Joker wriggled out of Satsuko's grasp and landed on the floor with a click. "Phew, that's some grip."

"Answer me, Joker! Why did you hand over the treasure?"

"Easy," Joker responded nonchalantly. "What Shadow wants most is to fight me. The treasure's secondary. So I promised to fight him at a later date if he'd just hold onto the treasure for me for a while."

"Hmph..." Shadow was averting his gaze, but that was enough proof to see that Joker was telling the truth.

"But willingly giving one's prized object to an enemy during combat is inconceivable. He could have run off with it."

"Ha ha, you don't get it. Shadow wouldn't do that."

"Tch..." Shadow scoffed.

"Regrettably, fighting me means more to Shadow than anything else. He wouldn't try to beat me through unfair methods like that."

"Hmph, course not," Shadow muttered after Joker spoke.

Then Satsuko chuckled and said, "I see, so he's not an enemy, but rather, a rival..."

"Well, guess you could say that!" Joker inflated his Balloon Gum and began to float toward the hole in the ceiling. "Shadow, gimme the treasure!"

"A week from now! Don't forget your promise to duel me!"

Shadow tossed the treasure up to Joker. Once he had securely caught the Crimson Crystal, Joker shouted down below. "All right, Kaneari, I've taken the treasure! Inspector Oniyama, Shadow, see you later!"

"You had so better wait, Joker!"

Taking one last backwards glance at Kaneari and Satsuko grimacing, Oniyama shouting, and Shadow tsking, Joker flew into the sky. His airship, the Sky Joker, floated in the night sky above him.

Just then, a panicked voice came from the communicator on Joker's wrist. "Joker-san!" It was the voice of Joker's assistant, Hachi.

"Oh, Hachi. What's up?"

"Terrible news!"

"Ah, sorry. If it's about the pudding that you were hiding in the fridge, I ate it this morning."

"You did!? ...Wait, that's not the problem! An advance notice has been delivered here, and it's addressed to you!"

"An advance notice?" Joker looked at the device with a puzzled expression.

[secondhand-trash]

Love at First Bite

A/N: we love a man who can cook where can I find myself an osamu (and yes this is an excuse for me to write about food)

Pairing: Miya Osamu x reader

Description: Your story with Miya Osamu began with tears, rain, and really good food.

Word count: 5270

Playlist:

Making Breakfast//Twin Peaks

Sunday Kind of Love//Etta James

Baby I’m Yours//Arctic Monkeys

-

You met Miya Osamu on what felt like the worst day of your life.

“I don’t feel the same about you anymore.”

The words that your boy- no, ex-boyfriend said to you rang in your ear. You could not get it out of your head ever since he uttered those few words in front of you, leaving you dazed and alone on the street as he turned away without even looking back. 

He did not even look back, not even bothering to see the look on your face and hurt in your eyes as the reality sat in.

I don’t feel the same about you anymore.

What the fuck was that even supposed to mean? Your face heated up at the anger that was starting to boil up. It was humiliating how you just stood there and say nothing as he walked away, you could have at least say something smart, or demand an explanation. But instead, you stayed still like a block of wood.

Pathetic, maybe that was why he got tired of you.

It did not work. You tried so hard to shake off the echo in your head of last voice you ever wanted to hear at that moment but the more you tried, the louder it was in the void of your mind. You hated how easy it was for him to walk away and how hard it was on you, you hated how you could barely even think straight as you mindlessly walk along the straight road ahead, taking turns whenever there was one without even having a single thought.

There was a moment when you stared at his figure as he walked away and felt the urge to say something that would make him stay, and that was the worst part of it all.

How sad, how pathetic.

The streets were getting dark and one by one, the shops along the sides dimmed their lights. It was late and you should go home but just the thought of being along made your stomach twisted into knots. 

There would be no one waiting for you when you get back, which you should have gotten used to by now. But being by yourself was one thing, the thought of there being no one you could go to anymore was another.

You had not felt so lonely in a long while, and you weren’t sure how to deal with this foreign hollowness.

You did not want to be surrounded by nothing but four walls. You knew that the voices in your head would be clearer and louder when you were accompanied by nothing but silence. At least when you were out, wandering on the empty streets, you had the eyes of the people walking by to keep you from breaking down completely in fear of the looks you might get, a sad attempt at convincing yourself to stay strong.

But the reality was that the emotions that were boiling up at the depths of your chest were starting to bubble up, and you had never wanted to cry so badly.

You grimaced when you felt the bead of water rolling down your chin, then you realised that it wasn’t you.

It was like the sky could sense your conflict and it decided to cry on your behalf when you were o hellbent that you wouldn’t be vulnerable. It started off as sparse drops of water on your face until the silver strings of water became a downpour. 

You were a mess as you scrambled to find cover, clutching your bag close to your chest as you ran under the rain, barely able to see what was in front of you. Amidst the heavy veil of rain that covered the street, you spotted a distant glow. A warm light from afar, and with your clothes soaked through and your brain tangled by every train of thought that had been bothering you, your feet moved on its own.

You just wanted somewhere you could be, somewhere you could hide for even just a second.

“I’m sorry, we’re closed-”

The man standing by the counter turned around at the sound of the wooden door being slid open. He was holding a cup in hand and a towel in another, clearly in the middle of closing things up. He froze in place when he saw you standing by the door, drenched from top to bottom and your eyes looking down. Your shoulders were drooping down, your lips quivering as your chest rose and fell to the heavy breaths that you were struggling to maintain. You looked like a mess and shame burnt through your face when you realised you were barging into someone getting ready to be finished with their day, unlike you who were just finding a place to escape to.

He paused and stared at you for a while before slowly opening his mouth again, “Welcome, take a seat wherever you like.”

You felt the lump at the back of your throat at this stranger letting you stay even though it was likely that you being there wouldn’t be anything but helpful to his work. Your dignity wanted to say that you wouldn’t want to be a bother and that you would be leaving soon but as the loud crack of thunder made your body shock, you swallowed it down and muttered a soft thank you as you pulled out the tall stool right in front of the bar table.

The crisp sound of rain drops falling onto the ceiling and the occasional thunder filled the empty shop as you sat there. You stared at your crossed hands that were in front of you, your brain completely blank as the wetness of your clothes slowly seeped through. You shuddered at how cold the layers felt, trying to curl up on your seat as a last resort for some warmth. The man, who you assumed to be the owner of this shop, was at the back and you wondered if it was because he took pity at how disheveled you were and decided to give you some space.

You could hear the occasional clank of ceramics and pots from the kitchen. Warm lights, steam that was slipping past the door curtain, the clicks of gas stoves being turned on. It all felt so terribly like home. Not the small apartment that you had to be careful doing anything to in fear of losing your deposit, the one where you could hear the sound of the tv even at the door right as you step in, the one with someone waiting for you to be home, the one where you could smell the sweet scent of rice from the kitchen.

The one where you were not along.

You felt the tear prickling at the corner of your eye and you quickly brought your hand up to press against your forehead, forcing the soreness in your nose to go away. You had been on your own for so long and probably would be for even longer, you could not let your mind wander to places that would crush you down like that. Not now, not when you knew how hard it would hit you.

The click on the table in front of you broke you out of your spiraling thoughts, and your eyes widened as you looked up to see what was placed in front of you.

White streams rose from the black lacquerware, the shine and the patterns on top a sharp contrast to the onigiri placed on the plate by its side. They were rounded, put on a long rectangular plate side by side with a small stripe of nori wrapped around them. You could see each grain of rice clearly, the light made it looked like they were clear enough for you to see through it. You looked into the bowl to see pieces of vegetables and tofu floating in the cloudy liquid, the soft scent of miso filling your senses as you leaned forward.

Tonjiru and onigiri, how long had it been since you had this?

“You need something to warm you up.” the man said with a small smile, brushing the fallen strands of his silver bangs away from his eyes as he turned away from you.

You nodded as you took the bowl from the counter, your lips pursed together into a thin line at the million flavours that were in your heart. You let out a soft sigh at the heat on your finger tips. It had been awfully long since you had anything as homely as this, and your own breath melted in with the steam that was blurring over your vision.

You tasted the warm soup at the tip of your tongue with your first sip, slowly gliding down your throat into your stomach and then the warmth slowly spread across your entire body from your core. The onions were cooked through, melting into the soup and soft against like jelly. slices of potato were nearly mashed up, the sandy texture still permanent in your mouth even after you gulped it down. The pork was cut up into thin pieces, tender and with the flavour of the stock all blended in. You could still taste the vague hints of the stock between your teeth, your breath shaky as you hold the bowl in your hand.

They said life was made up of different flavours, and right now the flavour on the strings of your heart was salty, from the jar of sealed emotions that shattered on the ground at something as simple as a bowl of warm soup made handed to you by a total stranger.

You did not know you were crying until you tasted the saltiness at the corner of your lips, and you lifted the bowl to your mouth before the sobs could even leak out.

You gulped down the soup, despite how you felt like you were having trouble trying to breathe with the ache at the back of your throat. The man had his back towards you, continuing with cleaning up the many dishes piled up as you cried at the far corner away from him. He had never met you and in his head, you were probably just another annoying customer who took up the time he could have had to himself by being a sobbing mess in his shop, but there was a silent gentleness in the way he didn’t flinch or budge even once as your sobs slowly erupted in a bawl, like you were not there at all, like the fact you were there was just another part of his routine.

You had calmed down a little when you saw the bottom of the bowl, your cries now turned into broken whimpers. You took a small bite into the onigiri and smiled amidst your tears at the sweetness from the grain and the hints of vinegar that expanded in your mouth. There was no filling within, but just the taste of rice was enough to make you feel the purest form of joy. The sound it made when you bit down on the seaweed was nothing less than satisfying and as you felt the crunch between your teeth, the tears rolling down you face and making your chest ache stopped. 

The man’s hands slowed down as you stopped crying but he waited for a moment before turning around like he wanted to make sure that he would not interrupt you at a moment of vulnerability. 

“How much is it?” you asked. Your voice coming out much weaker than you wanted it to be, like you were out of breath and with a strong nasal from your earlier sobs. 

“It’s on the house.” the man said and he couldn’t hide the slight amusement behind his eyes as you visibly panicked.

“I really shouldn’t-”

“I can’t charge you for something that isn’t on par with our usual quality,” he said, pushing your hand that was holding your wallet away softly. You wanted to argue that it was the nicest meal that you’ve had in a while but he stopped you before you could even speak, “so please.”

You stared at him. His eyes were fixed on you, not once wavering during this exchange. You sighed, knowing that there was no way he would back down, and a sly grin found its way to his lips.

You thanked the owner again and again before you walked out the door. With a soft swish, you were alone on the street again but somehow you didn’t feel all too bothered by that.

The rain had stopped.

Taking a deep breath, you could smell the distinct smell of rain lingering in the air. Walking away, you took one look at the shop before you left. The door curtain hanging on the upper half of the door was flowing with the wind, the symbol of the shop printed on in white.

“Onigiri Miya”.

-

Onigiri Miya.

You looked up from your phone to the front of the shop and then back at your phone. 

You had deliberately put off coming again after last time for a couple of days, even though there wasn’t a moment when it wasn’t in your mind. Somehow, you were paranoid about if you actually had the face to show up again after the owner had practically seen you at your lowest point. It was embarrassing to be remembered as the person who barged in late at night and cried on someone’s bar table.

And it most definitely didn’t help that even with tears in your eyes and you practically struggling to breathe properly, you still clearly remembered that the owner was likely your age and very attractive.

Maybe you should just leave. Your legs planted firmly on the ground as you thought of everything that could happen if you go in there. But really, you should go in as a proper customer at least for once after the owner practically treated you to a free meal. You gulped at the reminiscence of the warm soup that washed down your system and the crunchiness of the nori, you could feel your stomach rumbling just at the thought of it. How was it that such simple food had such an impact on you that you couldn’t stop thinking about it? 

You would just go in there, eat your food, actually pay this time around and leave. What was the worst that could happen?  

But on a second thought, did you really want to go back in there? Did you really-

“Sorry to interrupt whatever deep thought you might be having,” you jumped at the voice from behind you and was shocked to see that it was the owner standing behind you. 

Wait, no, this wasn’t him. 

“But are you going inside?” the man pointed at the sliding door of the entrance.

“Yeah,” you blurted out and went to grab the door like it was exactly what you were about to do anyways, groaning inside at how your earlier conflict was all for nothing, “yeah, of course.”

“Irassha-” the man behind the counter, the actual owner, looked up as the door was slide open, “ara?”

“Samu...” the man brushed past you as he sat right at the center of the bar table but the owner didn’t look away from you and nodded in greeting which you immediately reciprocated, your eyes glancing between the two subtly. Seeing them side-by-side, you could now see that while their facial features were near identical, the two men had deliberately styled their hair differently and dyed them a different colour. The blond laid on the wooden table the moment he sat down, rambling on about how “people nowadays didn’t know what a good joke was anymore”. 

You gingerly picked the seat that was the furthest away from him, carefully pulling the stool and had your back straight as you looked around the store. You were too deep in thought that you didn’t even pay much attention to your surroundings the last time you were here. There was nothing fancy about the humble interior, the earthy tones of the wooden structure of the building and the warm lights that were used a very good compliment to the food it served. Down to earth and simple, but sometimes it was the simplicity that draws out the best flavour.

“What can I get you?”

Your back tensed up at the sudden attention that was put on you. The owner of the shop stood in front of you with his arms crossed and you tried your hardest to save yourself the embarrassment that your eyes immediately picked up on the way his biceps flexed under the black t-shirt that fit his form perfectly. You had already broken down in front of this man, the last thing you would want is for him to notice that you were subtly not-so-subtly checking him out.

“Oh,” you snapped out of your trance, your nerves returning as you felt him waiting for you to say something. “um...”

Leaning back, you looked around at the many items that were written on thin wooden boards hung right above the counter. Salmon roe, tuna with scallion, marinated plum, stewed pork... the list went on and on, and that was only for the onigiri. How were you supposed to make a decision when there were so many to choose from? 

Miya Osamu felt a foreign swell in his chest as your eyes racked over the menu. Your tongue slightly poking out as you were lost in your thoughts and it was like he could see you debating with yourself as your glance jumped back and forth. He did not get to talk to you when you first walked in but he immediately remembered you as the one who came in that night with the particularly heavy rain. Even as his twin’s blabbering held a tight grip on his attention, he could not help himself but stealing glances at your direction. He could see the way you sat with your back straight and your shoulders stiffed at the corner of his eye but right now, the previous density was all gone.

He would have to admit that he had been wondering if you would come back after your initial encounter. He was not keen on acknowledging that he had been waiting for you to show up again even though judging by the look on your face as you took that first bite, he was almost certain you would.

You were still not able to decide on what you want which normally would be quite an annoyance (especially if it was Atsumu being indecisive because seriously dude, why are you being conflicted? You would get the exact same thing in the end anyways) but he just found how serious you were to be oddly endearing. He was tempted to tease you a little, to see you flustered and panic a little but bite his tongue at the potential of you tensing up again.

“Do you want to try a new product?” and there it was, the subtle glint of excitement in your eyes that you immediately tried to hide, “It’s not out on the menu yet and I’ve been hoping to find someone to try it out.”

The blonde at the other side perked up, his cheeks puffed out as he chewed on the onigiri he had in hand. His voice was muffled as he spoke, “Wait, samu-”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” the owner snapped around before turning back to you with a smile, ignoring the look of discontent on his brother’s face. “So?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you were quick to nod, smelling the lingering smell of gunpowder in the air, “sure.”

The owner hummed and went to the back of the kitchen. You shuddered when you suddenly met the gaze of the man sitting opposite to you. Were you roped into some sort weird sibling rivalry? You wanted to look away but didn’t have the guts as he stared at you. His eyes pursed into thin lines as he chewed slowly before glancing at the kitchen and then back to you. His eyebrows quirked up as his eyes widened, his lips curling up like he had gotten something figured out. You let out a heavy breath as he finally turned his eyes back to his meal.

Ok, what was that supposed to mean?

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” 

You gleamed at the plate that was placed in front of you. Unlike the small rice balls from last time, this one was nearly the size of your fist and you could feel your mouth watering just at the smell of freshly cooked rice. 

Clasping your hands together and giving a quick nod, you picked it up and took a bite. You could not stop yourself from humming in delight when you bite straight into the filling, the flavour immediately filling your cavity. The distinct taste of toro hit you in full force, but the fishiness was not too overwhelming as the saltiness from the soy sauce balanced it out. The tuna was well marinated with the sauce soaking through each piece, small dots of roasted sesame seeds making it look extra enticing. You could taste the hint of sesame oil that followed as the fish melted on your tongue, the mix of flavours still left between your teeth after you swallowed. The sauce seeped into the rice surrounding the filling and you could taste the careful balance of saltiness and the aftertaste of the vinegar with each bite. 

Everything was just right, not one flavour outshining the other.

“How is it?” Osamu asked and chuckled as you frantically nodded.

He liked eating, but watching other people eat was a whole other kind of enjoyment.

He watched as you licked away the drop of sauce at the corner of your lips before taking a large gulp of the warm cup of tea in front of you, letting out a satisfied sigh as you held the rim of the cup by your lips.

“It’s so good,” you said, your voice muffled as you pressed the tissue against your mouth, “it’s marinated tuna right?”

You could see the blonde’s behind the owner shook when you mentioned the word “tuna”.

Osamu nodded, his chest puffing out in pride. “Tuna toro marinated in special soy sauce overnight.”

“You had something with a toro filling but you-”

Osamu turned around to give his twin a sharp glare, and Atsumu muttered about how this was the utter betrayal.

“It’s gonna be a hit if you put it on the menu,” you dipped your hand in your bag to search for your wallet, “how much is it?”

“Well, I can’t charge you for something that isn’t actually on sell.”

Your eyes widened. No, you were not going to let him give you free food again. “But-”

“Just get more food when you come back next time,” he said nonchalantly like it made total sense, taking the empty plate in hand and didn’t allow you the time the object, “ok, and that’s settled.”

You wanted to argue that it was not settled, but he didn’t look back as he disappeared into the kitchen again. 

Atsumu looked between his brother and you as you thanked him once again for the meal before leaving. He tilted his head as he watched Osamu smiled at the door even after you were gone. He looked at his twin, and then back at the door, tilting his head as he recalled your exchange earlier.

Next time? Next time???

Atsumu smirked, “You sly, sly bastard.”

“Shut up, tsumu.”

-

“Irasshaimase-” Osamu said, a small smirk gracing his features as he spotted that it was you pushing the door open, “arara?”

“I came to get my daily fix of Onigiri Miya onigiri.” you said in a sing song voice, plopping on your regular seat at the corner of the bar table. The store was bustling with people but somehow, the seat at the corner was always empty when you arrive no matter how many people there was. You greeted several of the other regulars that you recognised, leaning your chin on your palm as Osamu put down the cup of tea in front of you.

“What do you want today?”

“Hm... I don’t know...” your brows furrowed together. No matter how many times you had come here, there was still no way that you could decide on what to get at the spot. It felt like you were missing out on something no matter what you settled on. “What is the owner recommending today?”

Osamu laughed and you couldn’t help but grin. You weren’t sure if it was that he got you so hooked on his cooking that you were mistaking it as attachment or was it genuine attraction, but there was no denying that part of the reason you came back was for the young owner who managed to make the simplest of food tasted like something fit for a king.

“I think I have just the thing for you.” he said, filled with confidence as he turned around.

“Are you not going to tell me what it is?” you leaned forward as you yelled, snorting in amusement as a distant “nope” passed through your ears from behind the curtain. 

You closed your heads, tilting your head as you listened to the soft sound of ceramics clinking, the ticking of the stove and the sound of water boiling. This was nice, you thought to yourself, like home.

“There you go.”

You couldn’t help but laugh when you saw what he put in front of you, attracting the stare of several other customers but you didn’t care. Your cheeks were hurting from how wide your smile was as you took the black lacquerware in hand, humming as you smelt the delicious scent of miso with the stream.

“You are not reminding me of very happy times here,” you pretended to glare at him, your eyebrows quirking up as you sent him a look of judgment but your features softened when you took a sip of the soup. Same old taste, still brought the exact amount of warmth to your heart. Looking back, you were glad that things happened the way it was. There was no more pain left inside your heart when you were reminded of that night, only the simple gratitude that everything turned out alright.

You were doing better now than you were before, and with something to look forward to whenever you walked past the wooden doors that you now know so well.

You finished the soup in gulps, letting out a satisfied sigh as you closed your eyes to take in the flavour. 

It was a good thing that you had your eyes closed, or else Osamu couldn’t stare at you as shamelessly as he was. The way you hold each dish in hand and took each bite with so much joy never failed to give him a rush. 

Osamu liked eating, and he liked watching people eat too but nothing could compare to the thrill he felt when it was you munching down on his cooking like you had been starving until you came to him.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love everything you make,” you said, wiping the corner of your lips with your thumb as you took a bite at the plain onigiri, “but I can never get tired of this.”

“I can keep making it for you," he blurted out. You looked up, watching as his eyes widened when he realised what exactly he just said, “if you want...”

And there it was, the same feeling that he felt when you first came into this place drenched from head to toe and your eyes swollen. The same ache at the back of his throat and the weight in his chest that gave him the impulse that he had to cook you something, that he had to make sure you left this place with no more tears in your eyes. 

You smiled, and at that moment he was certain that if it meant he could see that every day, then he wouldn’t mind cooking for you for the rest of his life.

“Of course.”

-

The sharp buzz of your alarm rudely interrupted you from your sleep and you groaned as you rolled to your side.

The other end of the mattress was empty, as always. You laid on the bed, facing the ceiling as you struggle to keep your eyes open. God, you pressed your palm to your forehead, why couldn’t you just spare me five more minutes?

It was the sweet smell floating down the corridor into your nostrils that gave you the motivation to stay awake. You sighed as your stomach rumbled, pushing the blanket off of you as you sat up straight against the back board.

Pulling the first shirt you could find on the floor, you yawned as the black t-shirt that was far too big for you draped over your body. You rubbed your eyes as you made your way down to the kitchen, the sizzling getting louder and louder as you got close.

You leaned on the frame of the door, smiling as you watched your boyfriend stirring at the frying pan with a pair of long chopsticks and the other hand at his waist. You had a deep appreciation for him at all times, but you always swoon for Miya Osamu the hardest when he was in the small kitchen of your apartment.

How could you not fall in love again and again with a man who wakes up early every morning to make breakfast for you?

His back tensed up when he felt you wrapping your arms around his waist from behind and you leaned your face against him pressing a small kiss at the blade of his shoulder. You chuckled as he relaxed again, feeling each flex of his body as you silently admired his built.

“Morning, samu.”

“Morning,” his hand didn’t stop, curling the egg in the long rectangular pan up until it was a nicely formed roll, “breakfast will be ready soon, can you get the bowls out?” 

You hummed, your hands lingering just a little as you let go of him. You took a whiff of the steam as the lid of the rice cooker sprung up, taking the rice spoon in hand and give it a quick fold before filling the bowls up.

Sitting down in front of the table, you leaned back to stare at Osamu who was still busying himself in the kitchen. He was always so concentrated when he cooks, his brows pressed together and lips pursed. The scent of food filled the air as you waited for him at the table, the sound of morning news playing in the background.

Home was knowing that each dish on the table was cooked by someone that has you in their mind and to the person who did the cooking, that no matter what you bring out, there was someone waiting for you by the table.

You looked at the plates lined up on the table with a smile on your face. Today’s breakfast was rice with miso soup, tamagoyaki, pan-fried salmon and salad made with last night’s leftovers. 

“So,” Osamu took his chopsticks in hand after sitting down in front of you and you did the same. 

It was not about what you were eating, it was about who you were eating with.

You grinned as your voices overlapped.

“Itadakimasu.”

[page150]

The Stain 🧼 Peter Parker x Reader

Request: None 

Pronouns: None stated 

Word count: 3430 

Warnings: Mentions of glass shards  

It was huge. Right above the famous Spider-Man logo and neon pink. Neon pink! 

You stared at the stain in horror. In a few hours Peter was supposed to be on a stage in front of hundreds of people to accept an award and you had gotten a neon pink stain on his super suit. 

You had been in the lab to start working on a new project, but Tony and Peter always left it in a mess. After spending two hours getting it organized you started working. It was hard to focus, though. The lab smelled bad and no matter how hard you complained about the darkness Tony didn’t want to install better lights.

 You were mad you always had to clean up after them and that now you were starting late. It was just too much and when you added 35 ml of chlorine to your formula instead 30, the test tube you used exploded. Chunks of glass flew everywhere and just missed your face. Luckily you had ducked just in time but when you looked down you sighed at the spots of pink that were forming on your lab coat. 

“Just what I need,” You mumbled. “I’ve always wanted to look like a pink dalmatian.” 

 But when you looked down to start picking up the large pieces of glass you felt the world stop as you realized some of the formula had splashed onto Peter’s suit which had been crumpled up on the floor. 

“Shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot, no!” You shouted. You took off your googles and with a shaking hand picked up his suit. Uncrumpling it lo and behold, a bright pink stain where everyone could see it. You sat back down at the table and placed your head in your hands. This couldn’t be happening. Peter and Tony had spent hours customizing the suit and you ruined it.

 Regular dye wouldn’t have affected the suit but this wasn’t dye. It was a combination of chemicals, the wrong combinations of chemicals. A 5ml difference doesn’t seem like a lot but in this sense it was everything. The formula could have made that area of the suit weaker or caused something to short circuit. You wanted to continue to sit there in your misery, allowing yourself to snowball the situation but there was still the ceremony to worry about. 

You looked at your watch. The award ceremony was at 6 and you still needed to get dressed. It was 1:00pm on Saturday and you had 5 hours to get that stain out if you wanted to get to the place on time. You sat up and groaned. 

“I have to- I have to call him. But he’s going to be so mad at me. This is so so so bad, stupid!” You whispered to yourself. You fought the urge to smack yourself on the forehead and picked up your phone. Dialing the numbers you thought about what you would say. 

“Oh hey baby, you know that important event tonight that you have to dress up nice for. Well I ruined your suit! Yes, your super suit that you and your mentor worked on and you were super proud of.” That wouldn’t work, but before you could come up with another idea Peter answered the phone. 

“Hey, baby!” He chimed. His voice instantly made you relax a bit. 

“Hey, babe. Are you busy?” You replied nervously. 

“Actually I am. I was just about to call you for a favor. I’m with Steve and training’s going a bit longer than expected and I still have to practice my speech. Can you put my suit and my tux near the front door. Tony said he’ll bring it to the place.” 

“NO,” You shouted. “I- I can bring it when I arrive.” You felt your heart beat faster. If Tony came to get the suit now you wouldn’t have time to get the stain out. Peter sounded like he was thinking about it and you were hoping he would say yes. His voice came back over the phone. 

“Okay then! I’ll send you the address once I’m done working out. I love you.” 

“I love you too,” You mumbled out. Once you heard the ending click of the phone call you shot up. 

The suit wasn't like a regular suit made out of just fabric. It was more like fabric that covered plastic that covered hundreds of wires. It wasn’t something that could be just washed out. To deep clean it you had to specifically get the fabric part off and you had no clue how to do that. 

You grabbed the suit and ran up the stairs to the living room. 

“Hey Jarvis!” You called out. Sprinting into “your room” you sat down at the computer and started doing some research. Your room was really one of the many spare rooms Tony had in the building that he let you sleep in when things ran late. 

“Yes y/n?” Jarvis replied.  

“Call Ned please and tell him it’s urgent. Oh! And can you set an alarm for 4:30pm. I was going to leave later but I have to get Peter’s suit to him at 5. Before the award ceremony starts at 6.” 

“Of course. I’ll pair him to your computer once he answers.”

“Thank you!” 

A few seconds later Ned’s face popped up in the corner of the computer screen. Before he got a word out you unloaded everything onto him. You told him how frustrated you were because you were having a bad day, how the suit was now stained and that Peter doesn’t know about it. When you finished he stared at you in shock. 

“Wow y/n,” He gasped. “That’s uh, a lot.” He noticed your worried expression and gave a small smile. 

“But, I can help! I’ve even helped him with some updates to the suit. We’ll get the stain out, you’ll get dressed, and then you’ll deliver the suit to him and everything will go fine, okay?” 

You took a deep breath and nodded. Ned and Peter were both really good at calming people down. 

After a few minutes of brainstorming ideas you moved to the kitchen and had Ned on a tablet, propped up against a leftover cereal box. 

“Okay so I don’t think the formula will affect the internal composition of the suit, so that’s good. All we have to do is worry about getting the stain out and I already helped you disconnect the fabric from the plastic.” Ned chatted through the device. He watched as you came back into frame with the blue and red fabric. 

“Yeah, I checked the wires and everything seems fine. I had Jarvis pull up some of Peter’s available notes about the suit but most of them are private. It’s been in the washer twice and the stain hasn’t budged so we’ll have to go with plan B.” You explained. 

Plan B was to use fire to remove it. Fire should break up the molecules in the compound and have them float to the top of the fabric. Then all you would have to do is scrape off the remaining bits and then the suit was going to be fine. You placed a fire extinguisher and a bucket of water on the table. 

“Jarvis, please put 911 on speed dial.” You yelled. Natasha’s old mini flamethrower was placed firmly in your hand and even Ned had backed away from his camera. 

Flipping the switch, fire shot out from the tip and ran against the fabric of the suit. The stain seemed like it faded through the smoke but to your surprise once you turned off the flamethrower it was still there. 

“Maybe once I start scrapping it it will go away.” You thought to yourself. 

You grabbed a butter knife and began violently scrapping the neon pink imperfection. No matter how many times the silver knife went over the fabric, nothing changed.

“Look!” You cried. You held up the suit to Ned and he stared at it questionably. “I’m running out of time Ned!” 

You sat down in anger, your head heading back in your hands. 

“It’s okay y/n we still have time. How about you go get ready and when you come back we can try something else. I’ll even come with MJ to pick you up so we can get to the ceremony at 5. I think you would rather want to ride with us other than some random chauffeur.” He reassured. 

“Thank you so much, call me when you get here and Jarvis will let you in.” 

He said okay and hung up, leaving you in silence. You had to get this stain out before Peter saw or he would be furious. He would be embarrassed, humiliated. A superhero that can’t even have a clean suit, the news would eat him up! In a way you knew that you were overreacting but you were so stressed and this was another problem, YOU had to deal with. 

You took a shower and slipped on the outfit that someone had arranged for you. You did your hair and even though you realized how good you looked you couldn’t seem to get excited. Suddenly Jarvis spoke, “y/n it is 4:30pm and I have just allowed Ned and MJ to come into the building. You have 30 minutes to get to the award ceremony at 5. Leaving an hour before it starts.”

“Thank you Jarvis!” You replied. When you left your room and headed back into the living room you saw Ned and MJ coming out of the elevator. The theme of the ceremony was black and white and Ned was wearing a cute black tux along with his “formal” fedora. MJ was wearing a gorgeous white dress that had a slit in the middle of her stomach. Her heels clapped against the floor as she ran towards you, embracing you in a big hug. Feeling her warmth and remembering what you had done made you almost want to cry.

  “How are you doing? Well Ned told me how you’re doing but we’ll get the stain out.” You let out a long sigh. 

“I don’t know what to do MJ. I wish I could go back in time and just forget about my stupid project.” 

“It wasn’t stupid. It’s practically his fault for leaving his important suit on the floor. He’s always been gross. One time his room was so messy when we came over he had to make a web hammock attached to the ceiling so we could have somewhere to sit.”

You felt a smile creep onto your face, but you still didn’t feel completely better. In your head it made sense that it wasn’t your fault  but you still felt like it was. In a way though, MJ had given you an idea. 

“Wait! MJ, can you get the car running? This should only take a second.” Ned tossed her the keys and she walked back to the elevator. “Ned can you get the suit off the table and come with me to the lab? I have an idea!” 

“To the lab? Cool!” Ned exclaimed. He grabbed the suit and followed you into the hallway to the lab. You punched the code in while Ned was ooing and awwing at the super suit in his arms. The door opened and you both went into the lab. The dim lights went on and on the floor was what you needed. You handed Ned some goggles and a lab coat and you put one on yourself.

“Peter and Tony don’t like to wear these but Tony always sets his clothes on fire so I think we need them.” You explain. You and Ned walked over to the table you had been working on earlier. 

“This is where my test tube exploded. We don’t have much time but I think I know how to get the stain out. Can you place the fabric on the table?” Ned laid it on the table and backed away. 

“If you're doing what I think you’re doing you’re either a genius or a future hospital patient.” He joked. 

You felt a smile form on your face as you poured another 5ml of liquid nitrogen into a test tube. 

“I added an extra 5ml to my formula last time and the glass bottle exploded. I think if I add another 5ml to the stain the molecules will have more space to dissolve, making the stain turn into a fume that will disappear.” You said excitedly. 

“And if that doesn’t work what will happen?” Ned questioned. 

“I have no clue.” You replied. And with that you fastened your googles, tightened your lab coat, and poured the liquid onto the stain. A loud hiss was made and to your surprise pink smoke started to rise from the fabric. It went on for a few seconds until the hissing stopped and you waved your hand over it to clear the smoke. Setting your googles on the table you peered down at the fabric.

There was no stain! You leaped up and Ned ran over to give you another hug. 

“I can’t believe that worked!” Ned exclaimed! “I thought we were just going to have to lie to him. I already came up with two in my head!” You laughed at him and picked up the suit. 

“Okay, it’ll dry in the car and you can reattach it to the plastic. We have 20 minutes to get to the ceremony!” 

The both of you quickly took off your equipment and ran up the stairs, to the elevator, and out to the car that MJ had been waiting in. Once safely inside she drove off, fast enough that if you looked out the window for too long you would get sick. The minutes seemed to be passing by at twice their speed but you got to the ceremony with 5 minutes to spare and Peter was waiting for you at the entrance. 

“Hey, baby! I got worried you forgot to get here an hour early. Wait are you okay?” 

You thrusted his suit towards him and finally took a break. You rested your elbows on your thighs and tried to catch your breath. You had ran to get the suit to Peter and when MJ and Ned caught up they were also out of breath. 

Peter stared at the 3 exhausted people in front of him, confused. “Uhh, hey MJ, hey Ned. What happened?” He slowly rubbed your back and worried you were going to throw up. “It’s okay, y/n, you got here on time. Everything’s okay, heck even if you came a hour late I think it would be hard for me to get mad at you.” 

You gave a small smiled and stood up straight. He was so perfect. Peter gave you a smile and kissed you. You forgot about the suit, and the mess, and everything. It was like you two were in your own little word until Tony came in. 

“Y/N, MJ, Ned! I’m glad you made it. Thanks for bringing the kid his suit. Of course he forgot it.” Instead of messing with his hair like usual, he gave him a pat on the back. “Where’s the tux?” 

You felt your heart fall to your shoes. You forgot the tux! You had been so focused with the suit you-. 

“Here you go.” MJ stated. She handed him the tux in its protective covering. “He was so busy doing the smooching I couldn’t hand it to you.”  She gave you a wink and you grinned even more. 

“Great, great!” Peter beamed. “I’ll put the tux on and meet you guys back here. Then I can show you around.” He gave you another kiss on the cheek and went with Tony to the dressing rooms. Once they were gone you turned to MJ. 

“You’re a lifesaver MJ! And thank you Ned, I really couldn’t have done this without you.” You thanked. Both Ned and MJ gave you a smile. 

“Don’t worry about it! I got to go down to the lab! And I’m at a ceremony with The Tony Stark!” Ned exclaimed. His hands were waving around frantically and kept going up to adjust his fedora. 

“You’re welcome y/n, but I think you should tell Peter the truth. Maybe not all of it but if the lab is too messy for you to work maybe he can do something to fix it.” MJ added. You hadn’t thought about that, but this whole situation was a big wakeup call. 

“I will,” You decided. “ Once the ceremony ends I’ll talk to him. Now, I just want to relax, though.” You all laughed and sat down in the chairs that were placed in the lobby. 

The ceremony went great. Peter wore his tux and kept sneaking over to show you some new moves he learned. When the ceremony actually started he put on the Spider-Man suit in secret. The crowd was so loud when he came onto the stage you would have covered your ears, but you were too busy clapping with everyone. After it was over, Spider-Man “had to leave” but Peter returned. You pulled him off to the side. 

“Can we talk?” 

Peter looked at your worried expression and led you to an area where there weren't a lot of people. “Of course. I knew you looked bothered.” 

You let out another sigh and pulled up the picture of the suit with the stain on it on your phone to show Peter.

 “I ruined your suit earlier. I was in the lab working on something and I couldn’t see. I added too much of a chemical to my formula and the test tube exploded. Some of the formula went onto it.”  

Peter looked at the picture while you looked at the floor. You could feel some tears forming in your eyes. 

“I’m really sorry. I was able to get it out, but I still should have cleaned better before I started and I get I’m sorta new and I shouldn’t expect you to change how you and Tony work for me but it’s just so messy and dark and I can’t focus and-” 

“Darling it’s okay, it’s okay, don’t cry.” Peter reassured, he pulled you into a hug and started to rub your back again in a circular motion. “I can’t believe you got the stain out. I wouldn’t have known what to do if I had gotten it there.” He joked. “But, you could have told me, I would have gone home to help you.” This time he let out a sigh. “It’s not your fault, though. I definitely should have put it back in its case.” You nodded and let out a small laugh. With each breath you could smell some of the cologne Tony probably sprayed on him. It was a good decision. 

“I’ll clean up better and Tony will just have to manage. I’ll talk to him about it, okay? But the suit looks amazing, babe. You did a good job. I don’t think the logo has shined that bright since I got it. Plus Karen even told me that it felt fresher.” 

You pulled away and looked at his eyes. “You’re the best, you know that?” 

He flashed his famous smile, “I can’t be The Best if you're around. I can’t even compete.” He said sincerely. 

“And neither of you two are the best in general because I am.” Tony added. You rolled your eyes at his comment. “How much of that did you hear?” 

Tony frowned and shook his head. “Enough to wish I had left with Pepper when she said she was headed toward the Bar. And by-the-way neither of you get any ideas. I already notified the bartender I have four underaged guests that can only be served water and caprisuns.”  

“What type of caprisuns?” You asked. 

“Lemonade ones are the best.” Peter added. 

“I don’t know ones.” Tony mocked. “But anyway y/n I hear your concerns and that was good problem solving skills you had. The suit did look great. I’ll work on getting you your own section in the lab. It’ll be nice and bright and you can keep it however clean you want it. So, you’ll be close to us while we’re working and I won’t have to listen to you and Peter compliment each other 100 times a day.” 

You and Peter laughed and you felt his arm go around your waist. “That sounds great Mr. Stark, thank you.” You chimed. 

Tony had already started to walk away but you heard him call out, “Stop calling me Mr. Stark and I’ll buy you your own building to work in.” 

With that Peter grabbed your hand and you left the quiet area to where the after party was, to meet up with MJ and Ned. 

Author’s Note: Wow first Peter Parker imagine and it’s my longest one. Is this a sign? jk anyways I hope yall enjoy this! I might rewrite it and change it to first person because I keep getting confused lol. I think I should start getting into Marvel as this was really fun to write.  Please like, follow, and remember requests are open! I hope you have a wonderful day ~c’ k

[comingtothetree23]

How Long Is Forever?

Paring: Peter Parker x Stark!Reader

Summary: You didn’t know how much would change when you did it. You didn’t know you could travel to five years in the future. The worst part? Thanos won when you were gone. 

Word count: 2K

Warnings: Nothing actually....There might be swearing but I don’t think so.

"What are you doing!?" You looked toward your father who was fighting an alien who looked a lot like Squidward. You put your hands in front of you to block your enemies' hits. 

"Trying to save the earth, daughter of mine." Was his only response before falling into the ground, Squidward floating toward him. You groaned as you shot lasers toward the new guy who suddenly appeared, seemly not with the others. 

"Hey man." You heard a familiar voice say, "What's up, Mr. Stark?" You look over to see Spider-Man looking straight at you, "(Y/n)." he nodded making you smile. Your Boyfriend is finally here!

"Kid what are you doing here?" Your father asks as you focus on the fight. The man looks around before his eyes open wide making you tilt your head, "what? what is it?" You demanded walking closer, aiming your hands right at him.

"Just had to be today. Too bad." the man growled before tapping on his wrist making your eyes wide. A portal suddenly opened.

"Woah!" You heard Peter somewhere behind you. You looked down in thought before looking up at the man who was entering the portal.

"(Y/n), Sweetie, whatever you're thinking. Don't." You stood up getting ready to do what you had too, "I mean it! Don't do it." You turn to face your two favorite people before tackling the man, right into the portal.

"(Y/n)!" Peter's voice was the final thing you heard before being lost.

"Stupid girl! What are you thinking!?" The man yelled as you two float in a dark place. You punch the man right in the face, eyes glowing from the anger you were feeling.

"I am thinking I am not losing my family!" You landed another punch on the man. The man looked at you with a frown at made you confused.

"(Y/n) Stark? Should have realized."

"What does that me-" 

"You have no idea what's in store for you, young Stark." He stared you in the eye as he said that. He looked up before smirking, "Good luck." He suddenly pushed himself off of you and hopped into another portal.

"He-Hey! Get back here!" You yelled as you looked around the dark realm before a portal appeared in front of you. You covered your eyes as you went through. 

You landed on the ground with a thud, you groaned as you looked in front of you. the compound. You frowned before standing up on wobbling legs before shaking your head and jump. You flew on the roof and found the vent Clint used to use all the time. 

You fell into your room with a thud, again. You rubbed your head as you looked around the room, it was the same. You stood up and walked over and grabbed a picture frame. You wiped the dust off to see you and Peter, You were kissing his cheek as his eye lit up. You frown as a thought occurred to you.

How long were you gone?

"Dad." Your eyes widen as you remembered you left him in the middle of battle, the same with Peter, "Dad!" You ran out of the room and through the halls in search of your family. 

"Dad! I'm home!" You cried out as you entered the dark living room. It was the same but different at the same time. You walked close to the couch and sat down on it your hands going to the cushions. You frowned as you felt something familiar, a mask.

There in your hands was the Spider-Man mask, making your already deep frown somehow deepen. With a sigh, you tucked your hair In the mask as you put it on. 

"Hello?" 

"Hello (Y/n) Stark, Long time no see." You heard Karen's voice rang through the mask, making you give a tiny smile. You helped program Karen, you loved her.

"Karen, You have no idea how glad I am to see you." You smiled as you stood up, "Where is everyone? Dad? Peter? it's too quiet here." You put your hands on your hips as you waited for an answer. Karen was quiet for a moment before she whispered.

"(Y/n)... It's been five years." 

Your heart stopped

"...No...." You took a couple of steps back, "Karen whatever prank you're doing it isn't funny." You couldn't have been gone for five years, it was just a couple of seconds! 

"It's true." Was her only response, even though she was an AI she had emotion in her voice. That's how you knew she wasn't joking. 

"Five years." You put a hand on your forehead as you sat back down on the couch, "I've been gone for five whole years. Everyone must be so worried." 

"Your father has spent years searching for you," Karen informed you, making you feel even worst. You let out a sigh as you looked toward the ceiling. 

"God, That battle must have been something, huh?" You meant to lighten the mood but when she hesitated you knew something was wrong, "...Karen?"

"Do you know what happened?" Karen questioned you making you confused. What kind of question was that? You slowly shook your head as you prayed for some good news, "(Y/n)... Thanos won." 

"You're kidding. Karen, please tell me that isn't true." shaking your head as tears trickled your eyes. If he won.... you lost more than you thought you did. 

"You know the answer, (Y/n)." Her soft voice came through. You find out that you've been gone for five years and Thanos won, today isn't fun. 

"HEY!" a voice yelled out making you stand up quickly and rip off the mask. Your eyes widen at who you saw standing there.

Natasha Romanoff,

"(Y/n)..." Her usual firm voice wavered as she saw you. Her blue eyes filling with tears as she stayed put as if she's scared to move closer.

"Nat." You whispered, tears filling your vision before running to her and tackling her in a long-awaited hug. She tensed up for a moment before hugging you just as tight.

"You've gotten big." You see, you haven't seen her since the Civil War fight where you've gotten in trouble for defended Cap. Her hair has grown long, you kinda love the blond at the tips actually. 

 "It's so long." Your voice broke as tears went down your cheeks. Nat sighed through her nose before closing her eyes and closer you closer.

"You have no idea." Your eyes opened as you broke the hug and out your hand son her shoulder with a determined look.

"Where's dad?"

~~

"You have no idea what's going on too?" Scott nodded as he sat next to her. You tugged the old hoodie closer as you hoped your fathers had answers. Maybe he knew where Peter was, "Do you think he'll miss me?"

"(Y/n), of course, he will." Steve looked at you through the mirror, giving you a firm look, "He never stopped looking for you. One of the first things he said to me when he came back was 'my daughters gone'." You tugged on the sleeve as you thought about it, "He'll be so happy to see you. just like all of us." 

The first thing Steve did when he saw you was giving you the strongest hug you've ever given. 

"We're here. Get ready, boys." Nat quipped as she got out of the car, Steve and Scott following him. You stayed behind for a moment tugging at the sleeves before growing courage and stepping out of the car and walking toward the cabin.

As you walked on the steps you made eye contact with your father for the first time in five years. He dropped his drink as eh stared at you, you staring back.

"...(Y/n)." His voice wavered as he quickly stood up and took a step forward you, "I-...Is it really you?" he gently put a hand on your cheek, as if seeing it you were real.

"It's me, dad." You whispered as he wiped a tear from your face. tears prickled at your dad's eyes as he presses a small kiss in your hair.

"Oh sweeties, I can't believe it." he suddenly hugged you tightly making you smile in his shoulder, "You're really here." it was so quiet you thought it was in your head.

"I missed you so much. I really thought you were gone with everything that happened I...." He stopped himself before he could finish. You instantly felt guilty, for you it was a minute but for everyone else, it was five years. They lost so many people including you for a while.

"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have gone after him it was so stup-" Tony grabbed your shoulders making you look him in his eyes.

"I will admit yes it was stupid but I am so glad you're back. I've been waiting so long for you to be back, Peppers going to be so happy you're back." 

"God, I haven't seen Pepper in a minute."

"no one says that anymore." Your dad sassed making you roll your eyes and stick your tongue out.

"Okay Boomer." 

"You haven't changed in the slightest." Tony smiled, looking at your features, "expect for the wardrobe change." His eyes suddenly saddened as he stared at the hoodie you wore, Peter's hoodie. 

"Where is he? Please tell me you know where he is?" you practically begged for him to tell you where Peter was. You honestly couldn't wait to he in Peter's arms again. 

"Oh, Sweetie...." Tony sighed before hugging you again mumbling out, "He's gone." your heart stopped when you registered what he meant. You didn't realize until they were on Tony's shoulder for you to realize you were crying. 

"He... He can't be gone." you pressed your face in his shoulder as you sobbed, "N-No! I-it isn't true!" You tried to pull away but your dad kept you there, knowing you needed to let it all out.

"Dad, H-he has to be somewhere! M-Maybe in space...He can't be gone." You hiccuped as you slowly started losing energy from struggling in your father's grip. The others watched sorrowfully as they watched you cry your heart out. 

"Actually, we have an idea...." Your father stared at them.

~~

You closed your eyes as you rest your forehead on Morgan's head. Yes, it was quite a shock to see that Pepper and your dad had a kid when you were gone. You've known Morgan for a day but if anything happened to her you'll kill everyone and then yourself. She was ecstatic to see her sister that she heard stories about come back home.

Your dad couldn't help but smile every time he saw his two little girls together finally. he's been waiting for this day since Morgan was born. Pepper couldn't stop hugging you when she saw you again, After so long she became your mother.

"Let's see what's dad's doing." Morgan smiled up at you making you smile back. you've been in a bad mood since you found out your boyfriend is gone and your dad won't help the others. Morgan's been helping you feel better tho.

"Yeah... Let's see." You smiled as you took her hand and went downstairs. You noticed he was working on something that looked a lot like the time travel things he uses to mess with.

Something suddenly happened as our dad stared in shock and sat back in his chair.

"Shit!"

"Shit." Morgan's voice rang out making your dad's head whip at you two. Morgan sat on your lap with an innocent smile. Your dad put a hand on his lisp and shushed her.

"what are you doing up, little miss?" he whispered down at her, You smirked as you made eye contact. He rolled his eye at you.

"Shit."

"Nope. We don't say that only mommy say that word, she coined it it belongs to her." You had to cover your mouth not to laugh at his excuse. He used to say that to you when you were little.

"Why are you up?" 

"'Cause I have some really important shit going on here. What'd you think?" He pointed to the model as both you and Morgan gave him a look, making him sigh, " No i-I got something on my mind." 

"Like juice pops?" Morgan asked innocently making your eyes widen and hugging her closely. Protect. Protect. P R O T E C T! Tony stared in space for a moment before speaking up softly.

"Sure was. Great mind thinks alike Juice pops exactly." she jumped off your lap and took your fathers hand as they left a room. Tony gave you a nod before he left. You smiled as you realized...

.....Everyone's coming back!

~~

"I...Am...IronMan." Was the last thing you heard before a bright light hit you. It's been ten minutes and you finally found your father.... holding on to dear life.

"Dad..." You walked closer to him before going on your knees, "I am so sorry, I should have been here. You shouldn't have had waited five years just to see your daughter again. I am... sorry." You felt the tears rolling down your cheeks, You gasp lightly as you felt his hand gently fell on yours. You look up and make eye contact with your father, you could see the damage on his face from the snap.

"I love you Dad.... So much. I'll never forget you." You sniffle but keep a smile for your dad's final moments, You squeeze his hand knowing he can't return it. You place a kiss on his cheek before standing up and taking a few steps back. 

"Mr. Stark?" You frowned and closed your eyes as you heard your boyfriend broken voice. He runs up to his fallen mentor. Tears start- to form in his eyes, "Hey– Mr. Stark? Can you hear me? It's Peter." when Tony didn't say anything Peter gives a sad smile, "Hey. We won, Mr. Stark– We won, Mr. Stark. We won. You did it, sir. You did it." He kneels in front of him Tony is unresponsive. Peter breaks down and hugs him, "I'm sorry– Tony–"

Peter is gently led aside to grieve, You both make eye contact and you open for arms. He sniffles and runs into your arms, snuggles his face in your shoulder letting his sobs out.

"It's okay. It'll be okay, Peter." You whispered and pressed small kisses to his hair and head as you look back at your father, never stopped whispering to Peter. Pepper Potts sits in front of the fading Iron Man.

 "Hey." your dad is barely able to move his head but manages to look Pepper in the eyes.

"Hey, Pep.." Your dad says so quietly you thought you make it up. You hugged Peter tighter as you knew what that meant. Pepper places her hand on Tony's Arc Reactor and Tony rests his hand on hers. Pepper takes a good look at Tony's fatal injuries before kneeling in front of him.

"F.R.I.D.A.Y.?"

"Life functions critical." You heard F.R.I.D.A.Y say and you knew for a fact Peter did. Super hearing and all. You gently rubbed his arm as you continue to watch.

Tony smiles with tears in his eyes.

 "Tony. Look at me." Pepper firmly says as she makes sure Tony gets a long look at her smiling face, "We're gonna be okay. You can rest now." That- That broke you but You kept the sad smile on your face as your father stares at both you and Pepper. You knew he need to make make sure his family would be safe when he was gone.

With that acknowledgment, Tony's arc reactor flickers off for good. Pepper can no longer contain her grief and starts crying on his shoulder.  Tony Stark, Iron Man, Earth's Best Defender, died. All the heroes gather, and kneel in honor of Tony. The tears started to cover your vision as everything hit you.

Nat was gone. 

Your father is gone.

You let out a sob as you and Peter cling to each other, never wanting to let each other go.

~~

"He missed you, you know." You stated as you and Peter sat on the roof of the lake house. Everyone was still here for Tony's funeral, even if it was now nighttime.

"I know." Peter's voice rang out, he was staring at the pond and moon. It was a nice night, cold thought but Peter being the nice friend he was, gave you his jacket.

"I missed you too." Peter finally looked at you, his usually bright brown eyes were now red and puffy from crying. He let out the breath he was holding in. You moved closer to him and as you did Peter grabbed you and held you close.

"I missed you too." He murmurs as you lay between his legs, chest becoming you pillow as he rests his chin on your head, "I'm really gonna miss him." 

"I know you will." You closed your eyes as you finally relax, " We'll all miss him but it'll be okay. We're all back and we can be... a family again." You felt Peter's arm tighten around your waist as he smiles in your hair, "We'll ever leave each other again."

"That sounds really nice." 

[alecmagnuslwb]

Time Doesn’t Love You Anymore

Read on AO3

Day One

“I got the magic in me, every time I touch that track it turns into gold!” his phone rings out from the makeshift nightstand that’s actually just a stack of old yellow pages.  

Zatanna groans reaching out in an attempt to silence the damn thing, not even lifting her head from under the covers. She pushes out a little too hard dislodging one of the yellow pages from its Tetris style stack nearly knocking them all to the floor. Sometimes she really hates staying in one of John’s so-called safehouses.

Above her she hears a deep sleep addled chuckle and feels the warm press of skin against her back as John stretches for the phone. The motion moves the covers down past her shoulders and she grumbles as the sunlight rudely hits her eyes.

“What?” John says answering the phone, she grumbles again moving her pillow from under her head to over her ears. The conversation goes muffled after that until she hears the distinct snap of John closing his ridiculous drug dealer flip phone.

“Zee?” he says rubbing a warm hand up slowly up the back of her oversized Star City tourist t-shirt. With his other hand he slowly pulls the pillow from her grasp she only yields when his fingers start trailing up and down her spine slowly, a touch she always just melts right into.

She flips over and John’s hand stays put on her skin resting on her stomach. “What?” she says finally opening her eyes to look up at him.

“That was Chas, a friend of a friend gave him a tip on that cup Midnite’s been after,” he says slowly moving his thumb back and forth against the delicate skin of her abs. Zatanna hums in response. “It seems it’s right here in New Orleans and in a mausoleum not far from here.”

“Good for it,” she says and pulls the blankets up over her head again. John chuckles again tugging at the covers a bit just enough to uncover her eyes again.

“We should go check it out, last thing anyone needs is for Midnite to get his hands on yet another magical artifact to hold over everyone else,” he says. Zatanna sighs cracking open her eyes once again and lifting herself up to lean on her elbow mirroring John’s position.

She concedes his point, any chance to have something over Midnite and actually be able to bargain with is a good thing. Especially for her boyfriend, he’s always getting himself into tangled deals with the man.

That being said she has no intentions of leaving this bed just yet, they were out far too late last night dealing with some League business that had been floated her way by Diana. She was happy to do it, she’s has to keep that Justice League membership card up somehow, but that doesn’t mean she’s not going to catch up on her sleep in the aftermath of it.

She trails her fingers along his collarbone and starts traveling down, down, down until her fingers trail through the dusting of hair on his chest.

“Okay, but five more minutes here,” she says trailing her finger and eyes lower and lower.

John’s breath catches when her fingers move the cover even further down and she reaches his belly button.

“Your hand gets much lower and it’s gonna be a hell of a lot more than five minutes,” he says not trying to stop her in any way.

Zatanna shrugs lifting her eyes up to his and showing him an innocent little smile. “And that’s a bad thing?”

John lets out another stuttering breath as her fingers stop their path downwards bypassing the spot he wants them most. She trails to the side lingering back and forth at the top of one of his thighs.

“And everyone thinks I’m the devil in this relationship,” he says with a smile shifting so that her back is pressed into the mattress. He situates himself so that he’s comfortable between her legs and she smiles lifting a hand to run through his hair.

“Not my fault you’re such a sucker for me,” she says cupping his cheek with her hand and running her thumb along his lower lip. John moves just a bit taking the digit into his mouth and swirling his tongue around it slowly once, twice. Zatanna’s breath hitches this time.

Slowly he releases her finger and her hand drops as John leans down placing slow open-mouthed kisses on her neck trailing a line down, down, down.

He doesn’t mention going to a mausoleum for a long, long while.

It’s the latter half of sunset by the time they reach the mausoleum, the bright summer sun low in the sky minutes away from welcoming night. The outside of the crypt is warded, but not too heavily at all; John places one sigil on the weather worn stone and it all drops.

Inside there’s not a single protection, Zatanna steps in first and waves a hand across the air forming a trail of glowing lights along the ceiling to illuminate the space. The place is largely barren, no caskets empty or filled, nothing but some broken down old gates and a few hundred cobwebs.

And there in the center sits the cup nothing special or seemingly magical about it. It looks like a normal silver chalice, worn and aged by however many years it’s been sitting in the same exact spot for. There’s not a whiff of magic in the air, unusual for any corner of the entire city.

“That’s it?” Zatanna says scrutinizing the thing, her arms crossed.

John shrugs stepping closer to the stand where it rests, “Chas says it is.”

Zatanna hums, Chas is usually right and despite its outward appearance and its lack of any sort of energy signature this wouldn’t mark the first time Zatanna has seen great power come from something so mundane.

“What’s it supposed to do?” she asks.

“Supposedly drinking from it will grant one powers unknown,” he says continuing towards it. “Sounds like a bunch of shite to me, but Midnite doesn’t think it is and I’m always happy to have one up on Mr. chose no sides himself.”

He tilts his head and smirks over his shoulder at her before he takes the final step right up to the stand.

John doesn’t even touch the cup, just hovers in its space his foot still a full inch from the base of the stand but before he so much as lifts a hand fully over it, before Zatanna can even say a single backward word John goes up in flames. The sick crackling of skin and the unnatural falling into ash happens in an instant, he doesn’t even have the chance to scream.

Zatanna rushes to his side but it’s far too late not even a full second has passed and as soon as her fingers reach him she brushes through ash drifting in the air, his bones shattering to the ground with a loud crack in the quiet echo of the empty mausoleum.

Zatanna falls on her knees to the floor alongside what’s left of him eyes wide, breath heavy, she’s fairly certain she feels the track of wet tears from her eyes, but mostly she just feels nothing. She feels vacant, like she’s not even here like this isn’t even real, like this is some horrible nightmare she’ll wake up from at any moment. She digs her hands hard into the cobbled stone beneath her the ash of the man she loves, loved, seeping underneath her fingernails.

She’s not sure how long she stays there, she’s not sure how much time passes, but eventually she’s not alone. Doctor Fate settles by her side taking off his helmet and then it’s just her friend Khalid settling a heavy sorrowful hand on her shoulder. She’s so out of body she’s not certain if he asks her what happened or just figures it out for himself, she vaguely hears him say something about feeling a surge of magical energy and tracing it to her, but none of it truly registers.

A dark gloved hand that belongs to some bat settles on her shoulder in passing and she replays the morning when everything had been okay. A red cape flits past the corner of her eyes and she thinks about how she should have not let him step inside this place without checking it more thoroughly. A ghostly energy with a flash of red hovers around her tentative and frantic at the same time and she finds herself replaying the last milliseconds of John’s life and hollowing out a little more when she realizes just how similar it is to when her father burnt to a crisp in her arms as well.

Another pair of fishnets kneel down beside her before leaning in and placing strong arms around her shoulders, blonde hair brushes against her cheek and that’s what breaks her from her semi-catatonic state, the proverbial dam breaks and she just sobs and wails and she’s certain it’s a horrible sounding affair.

Eventually between the trauma, crying and dehydration she tires herself out passing out between one last hiccupping sob and the next.

 Day Two

“I got the magic in me, every time I touch that track it turns into gold!” his phone rings out and Zatanna twists and bolts upright. She looks at her hands first, clean and not marred with the ashes of the man she loves. To her left the covers rustle and John curves an arm around her gripping the phone with is fingertips and flipping it open.

“What?” he says his voice muffled by his face still buried half in her pillow. Zatanna just looks at him as he talks to whoever’s on the other end of the line waves of shock and relief washing over her. He slowly sits up as he talks noticing the way she’s staring at him; he raises an eyebrow moving the conversation along before shutting the phone and dropping it somewhere in the tangled sheets around them.

“Love?” he starts and she doesn’t even give him a chance to breathe before she’s on him, the kiss is a little desperate and John hesitates to return it at first, no doubt a little worried about her sudden reaction but between one press and the next he gets with the program responding to every movement.

She pulls back after a few more beats and touches her forehead to his.

“Whew,” he says and she feels the puff of his breath against her lips still so close, warm and real and alive. “What was that for?”

Zatanna just shakes her head. “Bad dream,” she says raising one had to rest over his heart, happy to feel the steady beat underneath her fingertips. “Very bad dream.”

Because that’s what it was, no matter how real it felt, she’s had some doozy dreams like it before so she’s not unfamiliar with the feeling. She lingers close for a few moments coming down from the shock of the nightmare before pulling back.

“You gonna be okay?” John asks quietly reaching out to brush the hair that’s fallen into her face away. She nods feeling the tension that the nightmare left behind exit her body, her shoulders loosen. “Want to talk about it?”

She shakes her head and gives him a small reassuring smile. Maybe later, right now she just needs the distraction of seeing him right in front of her.

John smiles one of those rare bright smiles he lets out and kisses her on the cheek.

“So, what was that phone call about it?” she asks.

“Chas has a lead on that artifact Midnite has been after, right here in the city,” he says and starts going on about it. Zatanna listens carefully and a little worried, it’s exactly the same thing that led to that horrible nightmare.

It’s a coincidence though, definitely. He’s been talking about this cup a lot lately so of course it was on her mind, of course her dream latched on to a thing that’s been near the top of their to do list for weeks now. It’s purely coincidental.

But just to ease her mind Zatanna plays things out differently, she doesn’t talk him into lingering in bed. John makes them a late breakfast; she puts on a completely different outfit than the one that ended up covered in ash and convinces him to walk through the city to the mausoleum instead of portaling over.

There’s a weird air of deja-vu around it all, a weird lingering of the nightmare at the edges of her mind. Everything is playing out differently than the dream, but only because she made it that way and when the mausoleum comes into view her uneasiness grows. It looks exactly like it did in her nightmare and she’s certain she’s never seen it before.

They get in just as easily, there’s still barely any sort of magical signature around it. John puts one sigil on the stone and it falls away like there was never a thing in the way in the first place. It’s the same as it was in her dream she just doesn’t brush it off this time.

“Wait,” she says tugging John’s coat before he can step inside of the crypt. John raises an eyebrow in question. “I’ve got a bad feeling, my bad dream it was just like this and it didn’t end pretty.”

“How not pretty?”

“Like you dead not pretty,” she says eyes lingering over his shoulder looking into the mausoleum, it’s just as dark but she’d bet money that cup is sitting in the exact same spot on the exact same pedestal.  

“You think it was a prophetic kind of dream?” he asks turning fully towards her his hands on her shoulders.

“I mean that’s not usually my thing, but it’s way too similar,” she says reaching up and holding his forearms a sense of urgency in her voice. She does not want him going inside of there.

“Okay, then I won’t go in,” he says easily. Occasionally stubborn as he can be sometimes he just listens to her and she’s never been more grateful for those moments until now.

She breathes out a sigh of relief tugging him further back from the entrance.

“Let’s run a few more spells over it, make sure nothing’s off,” she says hand already outstretched to start a few more scans.

John nods his head. “Alright, I’ll take the back you take the front,” he says with a wink as he turns back to shut the mausoleum gate he’d easily broken into. He shuts the gate fully and winces.

“John?” she says turning back to him and he pulls his hand away and looks down.

Flames crackles at his skin and not the bright orange ones she’s familiar with him carrying.

“Shit,” he says and just like in her nightmare they take him over completely.

This time she screams his name when his body succumbs to the flames to the ashes, she screams because this time there’s no way it’s not real; this time she won’t wake up and it’s a nightmare, maybe it never was in the first place.

When Khalid shows up this time she’s sitting with her back to the mausoleum her fingers gripping into the grass tightly. She’s crying still when he leans down and reaches an arm out to comfort her, crying because she could have stopped this, she saw this coming. Something out there gave her the foresight and she brushed it off as a dream. She knows better than to ignore something like that, goddammit she knows better.

She knows better and now John’s dead because she didn’t listen to it.

When Khalid takes off his helmet Zatanna can’t bear the look of sorrow, of pity on his face so she shuts her eyes tightly and curls her fingers even tighter into the grass.

 Day Three

“I got the magic in me, every time I touch that track it turns into gold!”

Zatanna sits upright in an instant watching as John stretches out behind her for his phone clumsily.

“What?” he answers it and Zatanna snatches it from his hand.

“Chas?” she says confirming it for herself.

“Hey, Zee,” he starts and she cuts him off hanging up the phone immediately. She moves to throw it to the end of the bed, but changes her mind flipping the phone over and taking the battery out for good measure. Her phone is somewhere around here and she vaults from the bed to give it the same treatment for when Chas inevitably tries her next.

She can’t blame him if he does after that display of panic she just provided, but she has good reason to be in a panic.

She finds her phone in a pile of last night’s clothes and dismantles it as well. She lets out a breath as she tosses the battery to the other side of the room.

“Um, Zee?” John says voice filled with concern and confusion. She turns standing to a full height to look at him, him alive and well at least for now.

“I think I’m stuck in a time loop, and that cup you’ve been trying to find, well Chas found it and it started this whole thing,” she says running a frustrated hand through her hair.

John runs a hand across the stubble on his jaw and nods as he works to get out of bed himself.

She’s not sure if it’s the worry in her voice, the no doubt look of fear on her face or just his unstoppable faith in her, but he doesn’t question it, doesn’t second guess it or think she’s crazy for a beat. He just simply says, “Tell me about it.”

So she does, she settles down at the kitchen island a cup of coffee in her hand grounding her to the now and not to the what could be and tells him everything about her past two Wednesdays.

“So we don’t go to the mausoleum,” he says easily when she’s done. He curls a hand around her wrist stroking the skin lightly.

“John I don’t think that’ll work, it’s all connected to there, so there is where answers might be,” she says moving her hand to link their fingers together.

“It is, but the only way to know if breaking it is just not going is to not go,” he says. “I don’t die maybe it’s over.”

Zatanna shakes her head. “You know it’s not that easy, it’s never that easy.”

John shrugs, “Maybe just this once it will be.” It sounds borderline optimistic which means it must be really bad, she’s the optimist not him.

“But the day doesn’t reset when you die, trust me I have to live with it for a while,” her voice cracks a little when she says the last part. John shakes his head and rounds the counter pulling her into his arms.

“I know this is gonna be hard, but it’s the only way to know for sure that it’s not this easy,” John says. He presses a kiss into her hair. “If the day starts over again whether I make it through today or not then you tell me all about it again and we figure it out together.”

She pulls her arms around his middle tightly and takes a deep breath.

“We need to look up more about that cup, I need to know everything I can about it no matter what,” she says pulling back and looking up into those deep blue eyes she’s seen burn up right before her twice now. She can’t stomach seeing it again.

They spend the day buried in a few hundred books she conjures up from every library she has access to and a few she doesn’t but can’t be bothered to ask permission for right now. This is a time sensitive situation she can deal with the fallout if the day doesn’t restart.

The cup has barely made a peep in its years of existence, most of what they find correlates with the vague knowledge that John had given her on the first day.

It’s surrounded by myth more than fact. No one’s ever had it in their presence for longer than a few minutes. It’s powers, if any are largely unknown. Most of the accounts even the ones from some of the greatest magical minds in history have chalked it up to nothing more than a totem of luck at best. She disagrees, she’s had the opposite of luck since they came into contact with it.

She hovers over him a bit more than she should brushing her fingers across his skin or through his hair every time he passes by. They make it all the way to 11:50 without incident and for a bright hopeful moment she thinks that maybe he was right, maybe this will be easy to get through.

So of course, just as she thinks that it all goes to shit. They’re sitting on the couch surrounded by books and Chinese takeout boxes John has a cigarette hanging from his lips his focus on an old weathered book when the window rattles. Zatanna notices it not eager to brush it off as something as simple as the wind. She stretches out her hands magic already brewing at her fingertips.

The weather picks up lightning strikes and thunder rolls, the window shatters and Zatanna ducks. The last thing she hears is John shout.

 Day Four

“I got the magic in me, every time I touch that track it turns into gold!”

Zatanna groans into her pillow and reaches out an arm shoving over the entire makeshift nightstand. She doesn’t know what the fuck happened last night, or this night last night, whatever the hell it is, but she’s pretty sure John wasn’t going to survive or if he had midnight was going to trigger a restart one way or another.

“Damn luv,” John groans leaning over to look at the tossed about stack of yellow pages and his phone. She lifts herself up and flips over rubbing a frustrated hand over face as she looks at the ceiling staring angrily at the crack that’s streaking along the discolored white paint.

She turns her head looking him in the eyes with a sigh. “We need to talk,” she says praying to someone that this will be the last go around.

This time they decide they have to go to the mausoleum, staying at home didn’t achieve much. They scan and spell and do a million little ward checks and safety sigils on John before they even get within a hundred yards of the place.

This time he makes it all the way in, even picks up the cup, only to end in ashes and flames.

***

Ten days pass much in the same way. She wakes up, screams bloody murder at John’s phone, tells him everything and then they get to work. For ten days they call friends for leads, friends of friends, even a few friends of friends of friends much to no avail. Very little new information comes their way about the cup itself and as for time loop well every time loop spell is different every time loop spell has its own eccentricities and lessons to be learned.

Every day she watches him die, sometimes it’s just like the first time, sometimes like the second, every now and then they don’t even get inside and he still bursts into flames. Once they spend the whole day going through the entire graveyard, checking for anything that might have a connection to their mausoleum and somehow a zombie pack rises from a corner of graves tearing into John’s flesh and hers before midnight even hits.

Every day that passes she feels a little more broken, a little less hopeful.

 Day Fifteen  

She doesn’t even stand a chance this time, John’s dead before breakfast. She ignores the phone ringing; she just stays in bed and lets John kiss her and slip out the door by himself this time. She doesn’t feel like explaining the time loop, she doesn’t have it in her to watch him burn today.

Just one day, she needs just one day to try the one thing she hasn’t, to reach out to the one person she hasn’t yet.

Tracking down Doctor Fate is never an easy thing to do and he never appreciates when people just summon him up without warning, but she’s beyond caring about that now. She gets dressed quickly and pulls her hair into a ponytail and moves the couch and coffee table out of the way to draw the sigil to summon him on the living room floor all while trying not to think about John dying alone.

She says the words and the sigil lights up gold and blue with an angry Doctor Fate floating in the center, or she assumes he’s angry it’s not like he has facial expressions.

“You know I don’t like to be summoned this way Miss Zatara,” the voice inside the golden helmet booms. “I have no-“

Zatanna raises a hand, her eyes cold and hard cutting him off.

“Listen, you can give me the whole respecting the laws of my magic and interference speech later,” she says knowing there won’t be a later. “I don’t need the all-knowing Doctor Fate to tell me he can’t tell me things right now; I need my friend Khalid. So, if you could drop the helmet and let me talk to him that’d be great.”

Fate tilts his head in consideration. “That’s quite demanding of you,” he says his feet finally settling to the ground.

“Yeah well I tend to feel pretty demanding when Constantine keeps dying,” she says frustrated, she doesn’t have time to argue or listen to his philosophy.

The glow around him settles and finally the helmet comes off at that. Khalid looks at her concern overtaking his young features. She’s seen that look on a lot of faces lately and suddenly she’s missing the unfeeling glow of a golden helmet instead.

“Keeps dying?” he asks stepping outside of the sigil and placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Time loop,” she says and tells him everything, well not everything, there’s a lot of useless information she’s learned over the last few days. He listens to it all and she’s pretty sure the helmet does too.

“You’ve learned a lot,” he says when she’s done. “And you’re certain no one has specifically placed this curse on you, it’s the cup?”

She nods. She’s already gone through the list of usual suspects; Midnite stays neutral so it can’t be him even if he wants to get his hands on the cup, Nick is locked away tight, Faust isn’t clever enough for something like this and anyone she’s fought with the League is preoccupied with trying to destroy other League members or the world at large not just fucking with her.

Khalid is thoughtful for a moment his arms crossed, the helmet glows from where he’s sat it on the coffee table.

“I don’t have any answers that you haven’t already found, but he might,” he says gesturing to the helmet. Zatanna sighs, Fate tends to be more ominous than helpful, but she relents.

Khalid puts his hand on her shoulder one more time giving a comforting squeeze before he puts the helmet back on. A burst of light and Fate is once again floating before her.

“You know as well as anyone, that sometimes you cannot fight magic. Sometimes you must let it take its course,” he says and with another burst of light he’s gone. She shields her eyes as he goes, dropping her arm when the bright white light fades.

She huffs angrily at the space where he’d been.

“That’s all he’s got, let it take its course,” she says flopping down onto the couch. “Fuck that.”

Letting it takes its course will get John killed and she’s not about to let that stick anytime soon.

***

The days start bleeding into one another from there. She can’t remember what number day things happen on, but she remembers every excruciating detail. She tries to act like she doesn’t know just how many days it’s been on the ones where she decides to tell John what’s been happening, but she can tell he sees right through her.

She knows exactly how many days it’s been; she knows exactly how many times she’s watched John die. She remembers when the hellhound showed up and tore him to shreds, she remembers every flame that’s burned him away, she remembers the day he slipped in the shower and cracked his head open bleeding out and she didn’t even know it and for as long as she lives she won’t ever be able to forget the sight of him taking a magical lance to the heart to save her from another Faust scheme.

Every day she’s given some new horrific memory that if she ever does manage to get out of this will haunt her for years to come.

 Day Twenty-Five

She feels stuck, he always dies and it’s not always the cup anymore. Today she lets it happen doesn’t even fight him to stay in bed a moment longer he picks up the cup and he’s gone just like that. She doesn’t scream or cry this time; she just freezes and clenches her fists so hard that she feels the skin break and blood drip down through her fingertips.

She turns her phone off and covers herself in enough glamours that no one will be able to find her unless she wants to be found.

She wanders through the city, aimless and uncertain for hours, blood drying on her hands. She just walks and walks until her legs are as tired as the rest of her. She falls heavily onto a bench and watches the people pass by. Couples hand in hand pass her and she wishes so desperately that could be her and John. Today, the first today, should have been an easy day off in a city with good food and instead it’s become all this.  

A girl in all black and a boy in a trench coat pass by her and it’s too much, she opens up a portal, not even caring if anyone sees and rushes through. She doesn’t realize where she’s sending herself until her feet land on cobbled sidewalk and she literally walks right into a familiar yellow cab.

Chas must hear the thump of her running into it from the driver’s seat because he’s out of his seat in an instant, already standing before her.

“Zatanna!” he says happily, that big smile of his she’s always glad to see. He wraps her up in his arms in a big bear hug that she easily returns lifting her off the ground a little. She smiles a little sadly wishing she could be just as happy to see him. He’s always been, and always will be, her favorite of John’s seedy friends. He’s a good man, maybe the best man she knows choosing to help and stay good even if he’s not really superpowered in any way.

Any other day she’d smile right back, she’d ask him about Renee and Geraldine and they’d laugh about whatever new stupid thing John’s gotten himself into. But today something about his warmth about his joy makes her break immediately.

It’s been quite a few days since she let herself have a good cry she guesses it was inevitable the dam would break again. She sobs into his chest as he settles her back down on the ground, his arms go around her a little tighter.

“Woah, Zatanna, you’re okay,” he says reaching his hand up to brush against her hair soothingly. “You’re okay.”

She’s not sure how long she stands there crying into Chas’ flannel shirt making it a mess of tears, fading makeup and snot. She calms down eventually pulling back a little but he keeps her close his hands rubbing up and down her arms comfortingly.

His face isn’t pitying, she’s gotten a lot of that over the days, it’s just kindness and care.

“I’m fine,” she says hastily wiping the tears from her face.

“You’re not,” he says lifting her head up with a gentle knock under her chin and a smile. “And that’s okay.”

“I should tell you,” she starts sounding the most tired she thinks she’s ever sounded.

Chas shakes his head. “Only if you want to, you sound tired darlin’ and you sound like you don’t want to have to say it all right now and that’s fine.”

Zatanna smiles gratefully brushing a hand uselessly across the damp spots on his shirt.

“Sorry I ruined your nice shirt.”

Chas snorts looking down at it for a moment, “I think being with John all these years has made you forget what a nice shirt on a man looks like.”

Zatanna starts to laugh, but it comes out with a small sob. Just the mention of John gets to her now, especially from someone who loves him as much as she does. She’s glad he’s okay with her not talking, she doesn’t have it in her to break his heart too.

He notices the slip and reaches out again taking one of her hands between his own.

“Hey, so what do you need? Need to cry some more or would punching me in the face relieve some of that heaviness you’re carrying even, I’ll let you have three good hits for free,” he says and Zatanna smiles a little. “Or maybe we can take a drive and just be, I’ll only charge you for half on the meter even.”

Zatanna laughs at that a real genuine one.

“A drive sounds good,” she says and he squeezes her hand once before walking her over to the passenger seat. He opens the door for her and she soaks in the familiar comfort of his cab while he gets in. He turns on the radio, some oldies station that he’s obsessed with and they just drive.

He doesn’t push her for answers about her behavior he just hums along with every song that’s on and drives.

“I’m totally not paying the meter,” she says long into their drive, the sun has gone down and she’s starting to nod off. Being comfortable like this she’s staring to wonder how much sleep she’s actually gotten through all this, if she’s gotten any.

Chas chuckles warmly and that’s the last thing she hears before drifting off with her head against window. When midnight comes she doesn’t know not until she wakes to the loud ringing of John’s damn phone the next morning.

 Day Thirty-One

She beats him to the phone; it’s been a month, a full month and she’s so tired. She’s tired of losing him, tired of fighting to stop it for it to only happen no matter what she does. She’s tired of going to everyone she knows for help and coming up empty on answers. She feels powerless, like her magic is a waste of time and space right now, like she’s just a waste of time and space. What good is magic and being a supposedly all-powerful witch if she can’t even save the person she loves most in the world.

She talks to Chas longing for the day she had with him where she didn’t have to go through explaining all this to someone; she nods and agrees with what he says at the right spots leaning far enough away that John can’t hear a single thing he says on the other line. She parts with a cheery goodbye and lies straight to John’s face making up some story about his cab that won’t get John moving to go anywhere.

She wants to make the most of this day, it’s a depressing time loop anniversary for her and she wants to forget for a little while, forget with him.

They waste away the morning in bed, if the sex feels a little more desperate than usual, a little more intense John doesn’t say a thing. They have breakfast in bed, feeding each other in the sappiest ways. She glamours a book that has some stories about the cup into the latest novel in a mystery series she’s been into and sits on the couch all afternoon. John lingers reading something of his own and giving up eventually choosing instead to rest his head in her lap with a cigarette in his mouth. She runs a free hand through his hair tickles of sparkling blue magic playing across her fingertips. They walk down the street to a little bar that makes a damn good veggie burger for dinner and she pulls him back into the bedroom as soon as they’re in the door.

Soon enough he falls asleep. She watches him sleep for a while, his sandy hair tousled, the eyeliner he fell asleep in from the night before still smudged under his eyes and only half his nails painted black. She wants to sear this into her memories, not the horrific visual of him burning to a crisp in her arms.

He shuffles in his sleep a bit, instinctually rolling just a little bit closer to her. She reaches out running her fingers through his hair slowly before she glances at the phone that has become her greatest enemy seeing that the time still gives her an hour till midnight. She slips from bed quietly and waves her hand over John letting some sparkles of peaceful sleep fall all over him to make certain he doesn’t wake.

She gives him one last lingering look as she slips out of the room, he may not remember each day but if there’s any lingering pain when all is said and done at least this time she hopes he won’t even wake up to feel whatever takes him from her this time.

She goes to the mausoleum alone, she shouts backwards words and walks in without a single check, she steps up to the cup and just stares at it.

Nothing happens. No fire, no brimstone. At least not to her, maybe she unknowingly just lit her boyfriend on fire in bed which feels and sounds terrible even if she’ll get another day to stop it.

“What do you want from me?” she shouts at it the sound echoing into the empty mausoleum. Nothing, it just sits there like a boring old cup.

She picks it up from its stand curling the stem hard in her hand.

“Tlem yawa dna ekat lla ruoy cigam htiw uoy,” she snarls at it and nothing happens her magic just fizzles out around the cup. It’s not the first time she’s tried something of this nature, but it’s the first time she’s been here alone.

She lets out a frustrated shout and tosses the cup into the nearest wall hard, it doesn’t even crumple. That’s not new to her either, she’s tossed it into walls, sidewalks and everything in between. It doesn’t even seem to care if she takes it out of this mausoleum the same thing always happens and it never even bends. She picks it up tossing it again and again until her arms are tired, until she feels her phone vibrate in her pocket the five-minute warning till midnight she’s started setting each morning letting her know her time is up.

She uses it wisely taking her frustrations out on the cup again and again and again.

***

She tries to save him every day and fails.

So one day she just leaves. The phone rings and she’s up out of the bed in an instant, tossing on the first pair of pants she can find. John chases after her ignoring the phone that keeps on playing that same damn song.

“Love, where are you going?” John asks hastily following her. She’s barely dressed and she’s already halfway out the door, she just has to get out of here.

She sighs pressing her forehead to the half-opened door before turning back to him.

“I just need to get out of here,” she says and it comes out a little more desperate than she intended.

“Alright, well just give me a minute and we’ll leave town if you want,” he says already turning to get ready and get the hell out of dodge with her. She appreciates his unwavering loyalty to follow along with her no matter what more than he’ll ever know, but she just can’t be with him today.

“No, John, I just need to go alone,” she says grabbing his hands that are reaching for his own discarded pants from the night before. He looks at her his face a mask of worry.

She steps closer and cups his face in both of her hands.

“I swear I’ll explain everything when I get back,” she says knowing that she won’t be coming back and even if she did he won’t be here when she does. She leans in kissing him soft and slow, she savors them all a little more these days, fearful that one will become the last.

“Just trust me, okay?” she says when she pulls back from his lips. He lifts his arms up holding her wrists and rubbing his thumbs into her skin.

“Alright,” he says letting her go. She slowly runs her hand down from his cheek and along his chest before she turns away.

“I love you,” John says. He doesn’t say it a lot, but when he does he pours everything into it and it breaks her heart and pieces it back together at the same time.

She turns quickly to meet his eyes, making sure he knows she means it just as much. “I love you too. I evol uoy oot.”

She catches sight of a small raised smile at the corner of his lips before she shuts the door behind her. She portals to San Francisco, smashes her phone into a hundred tiny little pieces, puts up a glamour spell to protect her from being found and spends the whole day in her old bed. She doesn’t know if it’s the cup or something else that kills him that day, she doesn’t want to know.

She stares at the bright red numbers on the clock beside the bed until it turns to midnight and the day starts all over again.

 Day Fifty

“What if it’s me?” she asks studying the ash underneath her fingertips. It was the cup again this time, just far earlier in the day than usual. She ran before any Justice Leaguer could show up not needing to once again see and feel their sadness and pity alongside her own.

She still had four hours till midnight so she’d wandered and wandered until she ended up here in the House of Mystery leaning back against the bed that’s sometimes theirs, a bed she hasn’t gotten to wake up in in fifty days.

Boston found her there about two hours ago and settled down beside her the best he can. He hasn’t said a word, he’s just listened as she’s spilled out the condensed version of the past fifty days to him.

“What if what’s you?” he asks.

She sighs dropping her hands between her knees. “What if it’s me, what if I’m the one who’s supposed to die?” she wonders, it’s not the first time it’s crossed her mind. Aside from the zombie incident she’s never even been physically scathed on any of the days so maybe it’s her. “Maybe if I die, he doesn’t. Maybe this finally fucking stops.”

She’s so tired, so fucking tired.

“Tanna,” Boston says with so much pain in his voice. John’s his friend and he’s dead and here she is talking about her own death so casually. Just because everyone else gets to start over every single day with no memory of this doesn’t mean they don’t still hurt in the moment.

“He’d never want that, he’d never want you to die for him,” he says. He reaches out hovering his hand over one of hers, the closest to a touch he can muster in this form.

“He’d die for me,” she says and she feels the tears coming, she keeps thinking she’ll run out, but she never does.

“Yeah, well the bastard is a hypocrite that way,” he says with a chuckle and for a moment Zatanna smiles. “Plus on a selfish note, I’d miss you.” She turns her head to look at him, his white eyes look serious and caring.

It’s a good reminder that she has friends in all this, even if she feels completely alone.

“No dying okay,” he says holding her eyes. “You’ll sort this, or the universe will or something, you’ve never been beat and you never will be.”

Zatanna smiles a sad smile his way and lifts up her hand her palm hovering under his, very nearly holding hands.

“No dying,” she says as she leans her head back onto the bed keeping her hand steady beneath her friends. She stays put like that till midnight feeling a little bit lighter just for having him there.

 Day Fifty-Six

She’s decided that this is hell. Knowing the fate that awaits someone you love and not being able to do a damn thing to stop it. Despite the pickup of Boston’s optimism days ago, she still feels too defeated. She’s done a few thousand spells, played the day out fifty-six different ways and she’s still got all that’s left of John under her fingernails.

She’s sitting in a bar on the far side of New Orleans well on her way to finishing a bottle of whiskey the bartender has kindly left for her.

She doesn’t even flinch anymore at the bit of ash at her fingertips she catches sight of as she tosses back her latest glass, she’s becoming more and more numb to it all which is more than concerning. Problem is there’s no one to be concerned about her anymore, anyone who is will just forget to be when the clock strikes midnight.

“Hey, gorgeous,” a voice beside her says sliding into the stool next to her like he belongs there. Zatanna eyes him, he looks like his name is Chad and she’s instantly annoyed by his presence.

“You look lonely, maybe I can help,” he goes on and yeah she may have infinite time these days, but she doesn’t have time for this. Her patience is thin at best fifty-six days into the same day.

She gives the man a fake joyful smile and for a moment she can see he thinks he has a chance.

“The love of my life has died in front of me fifty-four times and this bottle here,” she pauses pouring herself another glass. “Isn’t for sharing.”

He looks like a deer in the headlights and opens his mouth surely about to say something that will just make her more annoyed.

“Og yawa,” she says flicking her fingers in his direction. A blasting magical wind takes hold of him flinging him across the bar and out the door. Everyone in the bar freezes and stares, she ignores them turning back to her bottle and sliding an extra twenty towards the bartender for his troubles. He just shrugs pocketing the money and moving along.

Slowly the other people in the bar decide she’s not a threat to them and go back to their own business. She slowly sips on her refill until someone else slips into the stool she just flung Chad from.

“Well that was quite the show,” Papa Midnite says tapping the bar once signaling the bartender. He slides a drink in front of him without hesitation.

She hums in agreement, she’s not surprised to see him, this is his bar after all.

It's the second time she’s seen Midnite since all this started, the first time had been confrontational Zatanna still holding on to some little bit of hope around day twenty. She’d confronted him fast and violent with John’s blood still drying on her hands from where he’d been mugged of all things. She’d held magic flames close to his face, a thing she usually wouldn’t do, and forced answers out of him about why he wanted this cup so bad.

“Because I like the illusion of power, even if it’s just an illusion,” he’d said. He knew less about it than she did at that point. Whatever that damn thing is it’s not an illusion of power at all she knows that all too well now.

This time though she’s not here to fight him she’s just here to drink.

“Don’t worry I won’t throw you out a door too,” she says taking another sip and looking at him from the corner of her eye. He raises his glass to her in appreciation.

They sit side by side quietly for a few beats before he puts down his drink and turns to her.

“So, where is your lesser half?” he asks.

Zatanna swallows the last of her drink hard. “Dead,” she says feeling her heart lurch at the word.

Midnite’s head drops a little and he hums. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says running his hand over his goatee. His tone is surprisingly genuine, so much so that she has to turn and look him in the eyes. He looks genuinely sorry, maybe even a little sad with the glow of the bar lights in his eyes.

“He was a right bastard,” he continues on raising his glass and tipping it to her empty one still tight in her grip on the bar. “But he always kept things interesting for me.”

He takes a sip of his drink before turning back to face forward.

“You don’t want to know what happened?” she says refilling her glass.

Midnite shakes his head and waves a hand dismissingly in her direction. “Why bother, you’ll find a way to fix it.”

Zatanna snorts. She wishes she had the same belief in herself that Midnite seems to have.

“Not this time I don’t think,” she sighs running her fingers along her glass, a bit of the ash slips into her drink and she feels bile rise in her throat pushing the glass away from her fast.

Midnite laughs a deep, smooth thing that sounds like how French press coffee would if it could chuckle.

“Bullshit,” he says. He twists a ring on his finger and hovers his hand over Zatanna’s glass. It disappears in a cloudy whisp replaced with another fresh clean one already filled for her.

“Stubbornness is the thing you two have always shared in common,” he says tilting his head thoughtfully. “You show it in different ways, different reactions, but when it comes to each other it’s the same. He’s slipped through hell for you and you’ve put a beat back in his heart against the better wishes of the universes magic, he’ll be back annoying me soon enough.”

Zatanna shakes her head gulping down the new drink in one go. He will be back, that’s true, but it won’t matter because it’ll just end the same way it always does again and again. She doesn’t have to tell him all that though, she doesn’t have the energy too, so she just deflects.

“Is the neutral party encouraging necromancy?” she says trying to make it sound teasing, but it falls flat. This time loop has beat all the humor from her.

Midnite lets out another low chuckle. “Not encouraging, just being smart enough to know to stay out of your way if you choose it.”

He downs the last of his drink and pushes up and away from the bar leaving her to it. She’s drunk enough this time to not even realize when midnight comes.

***

For a brief unexpected run of days, she’s given some new fight. Somehow encouraging though without context words from someone who’s not a friend gives her new drive to fight.

But that drive turns into anger eventually.

One day she just snaps and the only person around to take it out on is the person she’s trying to save. The phone rings and she tosses it against the wall immediately shattering it into a hundred pieces.

John looks at her like she’s gone crazy and before he can even so much as question her she’s railing into him.

She doesn’t know why, it’s not like he planned this, it’s not like she blames him, but she’s just so angry.

Angry at the world, angry at this curse she can’t seem to break, angry at Midnite and Chas and everyone who’s ever mentioned this cup. Angry at John for dying. Angry at herself for not solving this yet. So she picks a fight, yelling at the cup isn’t cutting it anymore evidently, she doesn’t even know what she says first to provoke it, but it’s something harsh enough it stuns John silent. She shouts and says things she doesn’t mean and walks out eventually with a loud slam of the door.

It hurts her to hurt him, but she’s just so damn angry.

The upside is tomorrow she’ll get another shot. She’s not worried about running out of chances to redo this anymore, she can say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, act as out of character as she wants because tomorrow she’ll be the only one who remembers it, the only one who has to live with it.

She’s out of fight, she’s out of answers, she’s just out. So when the phone rings the next morning she’s determined to just make the most of every second even if it means she’ll lose him again before midnight strikes no matter how hard she tries not to.

 Day Seventy-Eight

Seventy-eight days, seventy-eight deaths most of which she’s seen and she’s finally decided to listen to what Doctor Fate said to her what feels like a lifetime ago.

She lets the magic takes it course. She’s done everything she could think of, she’s altered every course she could and the result is always the same. So this time she just lets the magic dictate the day.

She just accepts fate, destiny whatever the fuck it wants to call itself, she accepts she can’t save him even if it breaks her heart.

The day goes much like the first had just with a few different bumps and changes here and there. She doesn’t fight anything, she doesn’t argue. She just takes it all in in ways that she hasn’t allowed herself to on any of these repeats.

She doesn’t bother checking the time on her phone, she slips it in her pocket out of sight and out of mind. She just keeps her fingers twined with his and listens to him rattle on about finally having an upper-hand against Midnite the next time they have to see him.

She soaks in every word, every bit of his accent, the way he says her name and the way his chuckle sounds when a cigarette is dangling from his lips.

She just soaks it in, accepts whatever this day brings. She’s done being reckless, she’s done fighting. This day has been the closest to the original one yet and she’s letting it go.

It’s a little closer to midnight than usual since they decided to shower together after breakfast when they finally walk into the mausoleum, easy breezy just like it always is.

She lights the place up and feels her minutes to midnight reminder vibrate in her pocket. She ignores it, silencing it quickly as John investigates the space. He steps up to the cup and Zatanna closes her eyes, just because she’s accepted what’s inevitable doesn’t mean she has to watch it.

There’s no sound. No shouts or screams, no sick burning flesh, no ash floating in the air. Just the sound of John making the start of a humming sound.

She opens her eyes as John touches the cup and nothing happens, just nothing. He picks it up and passes it around between his hands back and forth, back and forth like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s breathing, he’s whole and he’s humming a fucking Metallica song under his breath tossing an ancient magical artifact around like it’s a tennis ball.

She pulls her phone from her pocket and there in bold letters across a picture of her and John from that day they borrowed the Wayne mansion pool for themselves is the time.

12:01 A.M.

It’s a new day, it’s Thursday.

She doesn’t know if she should scream or cry or laugh, but evidently her body chooses for her, chooses the thing it thinks will be the most cathartic for her. She laughs, hard and loud and frankly maniacal. She feels like the final girl at the end of a horror movie, like she’s riding off in a stranger’s truck as a man with a chainsaw can’t quite catch up, like a girl who just watched the rich bastards who spent all night trying to kill her explode one by one. She won, she fucking won and she doesn’t have a clue how and it feels impossible, but she did and all she can do is laugh.

She probably looks and sounds crazy, cackling like the witch she is, tears of joy? Relief? She’s not sure which, streaming down her face. John freezes with the cup in hand staring at her a look of worry on his face. Something about the look on his face makes her double over in laughter even more, she crouches closer to the ground head down and hands on her knees.

John comes over to her side a gentle hand on her back.

“Luv, you alright?” he says sitting the cup down on the ground. She catches sight of it and falls further to the ground flat on her butt, her legs kicked out on the ground purposefully kicking the cup away from them.

“I’m fine,” she says through hiccupping laughs as she finally starts to calm down. John settles down beside her a hand on her thigh. “Best I’ve been in seventy-eight days.” She giggles a little lifting her head to the ceiling. She wipes under her eyes clearing her face of the tears that fell during her unexpected laughter.

She curls a leg under herself and turns to him lifting her hands to his shoulders.

“I need to tell you something,” she says shaking her head in disbelief.

And tell him she does, everything. She tells him all the little details from day one to day seventy-eight. She tells him the good, the bad and every bit in between. She tells him about the days she didn’t handle it well and the days she made the most of.

She tells him the things she regrets, even if he doesn’t remember them. She even tells him about the day Boston talked her out of letting herself die to save him and he holds her hands a little tighter. She lets it all pour out, seventy-eight days of heartache, frustration and anger and he takes in every word.

It’s well after midnight by the time she runs out of steam, runs out of things to tell him and he pulls her in close. He presses a soft gentle kiss to her forehead.

“You are the strongest woman I know, strongest person I know,” he says his eyes looking a little glassy. “I never could have survived all that, I never could have handled losing you so many times.”

He’s said that before, he doesn’t remember of course, but it’s more comforting and fulfilling today than it was before. Because today he’s alive and she won’t have to go through this same damned day again.

“Let’s go home,” he says rising from the floor. He holds out his hands that she accepts immediately and pulls her up alongside him. “Forget this cup ever existed.”

The cup. Yeah she’s not leaving without dealing with it first.

She drops his hands and raises one of her own putting a protective wall around John. He opens his mouth to argue about it and she silences him.

“Nope, this thing has killed you, so bubble boy it for a minute for my peace of mind,” she says turning and picking up the cup from the ground. She doesn’t bother with trying to destroy it, it’s never worked before and she has an inkling it won’t today either.

She sits it back where it started and closes her eyes. She twists her hands in a complex movement and speaks loudly echoing across the mausoleum.

“Dnes siht raf yawa dna reven tel enoemos eb deppart nihtiw s’ti sehctulc niaga!”

A swirl of her magic, a kaleidoscope of colors swirl around the cup and lift it into the air and in the next second it’s gone puffed out of existence, or at least her existence, in an instance.

She breathes out a sigh of relief waving a hand to drop the protective bubble from around John. She walks over to him and wraps her arms around his waist.

“Home now?” he says rubbing his hands up and down her back. “You need some rest.”

She nods her head into his chest, her nods matching up with the beat of his heart.

 Day Seventy-Nine (aka Thursday)

“I got the magic in me, every time I touch that track it turns into gold!”

Zatanna shoots up immediately from where she’d been curled comfortably in bed her head against John’s chest. No, this can’t be happening.

No, no, no, no, no.

She saw the time, it passed midnight, John’s alive. It’s a new day and this can’t be happening.

John grabs his phone from his own nightstand, not hers where it usually sits, and silences it quickly.

“Sorry, luv, I should have changed it, I didn’t think,” he says reaching out and putting a tentative hand on her shoulder. She deflates with his words and his touch, reaching up to curl her fingers around his.

“Never use that ringtone again,” she says turning towards him. “I never want to hear that song for the rest of my life.”

“Consider it done,” he says moving their joined hands to his lips and kissing the back of hers softly.

 Day Eighty (aka Friday)

She spends more of Thursday, Thursday god isn’t that a nice thing to be able to say, than necessary trying to work out what exactly it is that broke the time loop.

John never leaves her side as she pours over her memory and over the books she’s already memorized but nothing quite adds up. All she can chalk it up to is the cup protecting itself, why it cursed her instead of John who got closest first she’s not certain, but it’s the best she’s got. Hopefully the spell she cast on it will keep it from ever putting someone else through what she went through.

She eventually decides to settle on what Doctor Fate said all along, sometimes you can’t fight magic. And maybe when she finally stopped fighting the fight stopped for her.

She wakes on Friday to a normal alarm and John’s arms around her. He presses kisses across her shoulders, he indulges her need to be a little more cautious and her occasionally overprotective moments as they come one by one.

He definitely doesn’t complain when they shower together and only snorts a little every time she bubble boys him. He even doesn’t bat an eye when she won’t let him use the toaster. She already saw that electrocute him once and she’s good without witnessing that again.

John’s in the kitchen now flipping some stir fry in a pan over the oven’s open flame. Zatanna had only flinched a little when he lit it and the protection spell she sent his way when he did, well it was a small one.

She uncurls herself from the couch and joins him slipping her hands up under his barely buttoned shirt. She warms her hands rubbing them slowly across the light trail of hair on his chest. His skin is always borderline fiery and it’s soothing against her cold hands. She’s so glad she won’t have to go without this anytime soon. So glad he’s breathing and still just as hot blooded as he’s always been.

She drags her nails just above his waistband and his breath hitches a bit.

“So handsy,” he says with a wink over his shoulder to her his focus still on the food in front of him. She shrugs, she’s going to be very tactile for the foreseeable future just to remind herself this is real.

She’s also going to need to make a few of those therapy sessions she’s been skipping up, but that’s a job for Monday. Because there actually will be a Monday, and every day of the week after that. It just feels refreshing to think about.  

A few minutes later their food is done and she backs away from him slowly still trailing her hands across his back. They curl up comfortably on the couch with their plates in hand and some cheesy Godzilla movie on tv, Zatanna’s legs thrown across John’s lap.

When she’s done she leans over to sit her empty plate on the table alongside John’s just as a flame appears on the coffee table. She pulls her hand back quickly and John’s grip on her thigh tightens as the flame dies out a piece of crisp burnt at the edges paper appearing in its place.

Zatanna grabs it slowly and brings it up so that she and John can both read it.

The note is written in delicate, old style cursive that she doesn’t recognize.

‘Thanks for getting that cup for me, New Orleans and its superstitions happen to be all too true for me. Too much hallowed ground and all that, especially with an artifact so shrouded in mystery. Sorry, the process had to be so daunting, they do say that cup can be unpredictable, but hey acceptance is important, right? – your favorite enemy, Circe.’

A second piece of the flaming paper appears on the table as they finish reading the first and she snatches it up.

‘P.S. I’ll let you know if I figure out what it does, or if it’s really good you’ll just hear about it ;)’  

Zatanna turns from the notes in her hand and meets John’s eyes.

“Midnite never did say where he heard about the cup from did he?” John says. He takes the notes from her hand where she’s started to grip them a little too tight. He crumples them up and tosses them into his half-filled glass of water.

“She whispered in his ear and he didn’t even know it, she knew you’d find out and want to beat him to it and she knew that I’d help, she knew we would make it safer for her,” Zatanna says gritting her teeth. This whole time she’d been so angry at so many things and it never crossed her mind that Circe would want something so inconsequential. A cup that for all intents and purposes is nothing more than a trap.

“I’m gonna kill her next time she makes her way to this dimension for putting you through that,” John snarls.

“Imprisonment seems more fitting,” she says in response drifting her hand up and into his hair. She moves her fingers along his scalp and feels his anger simmer down just a bit.

John turns from where he’d been staring at the soaked notes in the glass and looks into her eyes. He leans in and kisses her hard.

“I’ll hunt her down,” he says fiercely pressing another quick kiss to her lips.

Zatanna smiles resting her hand at the base of his neck. “Okay, but can you do that tomorrow?” she says because the word tomorrow won’t lose its novelty any time soon. “I just want to keep basking in your aliveness for now.”

“Tomorrow,” he whispers into the space between their lips. Tomorrow. Isn’t that a beautiful thing?