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houseofpendragons · 20 days

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What We've Lost Holds No Cost, It's Love That Truly Stays

Summary: Sharing is caring…but it might lead to death

Warning: Gun’s, Breif Mentions Death, Cursing, Smoking

A/N: Yeah, no, imma be honest when I say I used ai to make that little song bc I am no songwriter💀 Also it's been a fat minute, since I updated, I'm so sorry. I've been dealing with the loss of my mother, but lately I've been rewatching again with news of part 2 of season 2. That being said you can expect more frequent updates I hope. Next chapter is going to be a sort of filler chapter, taking place on another day on the trail just to introduce a few more people and to develop Calamity and Billy's friendship more. Let me know if you have any ideas of thought, I always open to constructive criticism and/or ideas. Love ya ❤️ until next time.

In the aftermath of the river's tumult, the caravan continued its westward trek, now a mere shadow of its former self. Its numbers were diminished, its spirit dampened. It all leant a haunting silence to the journey, filled sporadically by the rhythmic creak reduced to the few mangy wagons, each creak filled with the burden of loss and uncertainty.

The sun, indifferent to their plight, blazed with a ferocity that seemed to sap the last reserves of their strength, casting a harsh light on the solemn faces of the settlers. The usual vibrant chatter that once painted the air with strokes of life had faded, leaving behind a canvas of solemnity. Each individual enveloped in an aura of introspection, the collective spirit of the group as parched as the earth beneath their feet. Each person was lost in their own thoughts, as well as their own losses.

Amos rode at the front, his figure a steadfast beacon amidst the uncertainty. Though his face was a mask of unwavering resolve, beneath the surface, his thoughts were adrift in a sea of memory and reflection not unlike the river they had crossed. Amos's gaze, shaded beneath the brim of his hat, often wandered to Kathleen, her visage tinged with a hollow sadness. Her soul marked heavy, by the sorrow of watching Paddy withdraw into a silent, catatonic state as her eyes trailed silently after him. The man had retreated into himself, his once-vibrant presence now just a shell, curled up in the back of a wagon as if trying to hide from the world that had nearly claimed him.

He saw in her the echo of his late wife's enduring spirit—the same unwavering resolve in the face of adversity, the same fierce determination to protect and persevere. It was a flame of kinship, not of romance, that flickered in his chest, a recognition of shared experience that transcended mere words.

Another life, another journey on the unforgiving trail.

His mind wandered back to the days when he had led his wife down this very trail, her laughter mingling with the rustling of the prairie grass, her courage as constant as the northern star. He could still feel the grip of her hand in his as they faced each new challenge—the biting cold of early frosts, the relentless torrents of sudden storms, and the searing heat of open plains. He could see that same strength reflected in her gaze—a gaze that had weathered storms and would weather more. It was a flame that spoke of shared trials and a shared resolve, a flame that had once guided him through the darkest nights and the fiercest storms. Her courage had been a beacon, much like his wife's, illuminating the path ahead with hope and unwavering determination, even in the face of insurmountable odds.

It was a connection forged by the shared knowledge of what it meant to endure, to carry on when the path grew steep and the rivers rose.

Now, as he led this group of settlers, each carrying their own stories and struggles, Amos felt the ghost of her presence beside him. Amos's heart ached at the sight before him, not merely for Paddy's pain, but for the collective sorrow that seemed to hang over them all like a shroud. He understood loss, understood the hollow pit that it left in one's soul. His own experiences with grief were a well from which he drew empathy, and he found himself wishing he could reach out, offer some semblance of comfort to Kathleen, to any of them. But he was the guide, the one they looked to for strength, and so he kept his silence, his support offered through the unwavering certainty of his leadership. The trail was an ever-present reminder of all they had endured, of the love that had blossomed in the wilds and the legacy she had left in the form of their daughter, Calamity.

Calamity, for her part, studied the caravan from her vantage amidst the wagons, felt the weight of their circumstances in the set of her father's shoulders and the distant look in his eyes. Her gaze shifted to Billy, the young man had an expression that was difficult to decipher—a blend of pity and a deeper, more complex emotion that Calamity couldn't quite name as he watched his father grappling with the aftermath of the rivers wrath. She saw in him the reflection of his mother, Kathleen—those same eyes that now spoke of a burgeoning understanding of the fragile line between life and death, between holding on and letting go.

Billy's attention shifted from his father to his mother, and the subtle exchange between them spoke volumes. Kathleen's eyes, heavy with concern and weariness, met Billy's, and in that silent conversation, there was a transfer of strength. Billy reached out, his hand finding his mother's, their fingers intertwining in a display of mutual support that seemed to anchor them both. Calamity recognized the silent language of comfort and solidarity, a language she had come to know well. A reflection of the bond she shared with her own father, a connection forged through shared experiences and the unyielding will to persevere.

Calamity's eyes then found her own father, who was still watching Kathleen with a look that seemed to stretch across the distance between them. It was a look of shared understanding, of unspoken empathy. She could see the wheels turning in Amos's mind, the way he grappled with his role as protector and the personal connections that were forming despite the hardships.

With a gentle tug, Calamity drew her father's attention back from the horizon of his thoughts, slipping her hand into his. Amos, pulled from his reverie by the touch, met his daughter's gaze, his eyes crinkling at the corners beneath the wide brim of his hat as a smile, that spoke of a love deeper than the rivers they had crossed spread across his face. In that smile, she saw the reflection of every sunrise and sunset they had shared, the unspoken promises and the history of their journey together.

"Pa," she ventured, her voice carrying the weight of all they had been through and all that was still to come. "We'll make it through this, won't we?"

Amos's hand tightened around hers, his grip was both a comfort and a declaration, his thumb caressing her skin in a rhythm as familiar as the beat of their hearts. "Darlin', we're cut from the same cloth, you and I. If there's one thing I know, it's that we're made of tougher stuff than we look. We've weathered worse, and we'll weather this. We'll make it through, and we'll do it together. Just like we always have," he affirmed, his voice a steadfast drumbeat against the vast silence of the plains.

They rode on, the sun relentless above them, the wagons carrying not just the remnants of their material lives but the collective resolve of a group of people determined to overcome. In their hearts, memories of the past were intertwined with the threads of the present, forming a tapestry rich with the colors of love, loss, and the enduring strength of the human spirit. Calamity, her hand in her father's, felt the truth of his words resonate deep within her bones. They were of the frontier, shaped by its challenges, and together, they would see it through to the end, wherever and whatever that might be.

As twilight draped its indigo shawl across the vast prairie, the caravan settled into a makeshift camp. The day's losses still hung heavily in the air, raw and tender, a palpable presence that drew the remaining men, women, and children closer together around a crackling fire that served as both hearth and heart of their camp. The fire's flames, a defiant dance against the creeping chill, cast a tapestry of shadows and light that flickered upon their faces, in the interplay of darkness and glow, each weary soul found solace in the shared silence.

A little ways away from the close huddle of the McCarty family, Calamity and her father, Amos, sat slightly apart, their separation a respectful nod to the sanctity of another family's grief. Amos tended to their meal over the open fire with a practiced hand, the flames licking the underside of the iron skillet and it hissed and popped in retaliation as he warmed their provisions. The aroma of beans, rice, and the last of their meat filling the air. Their meal, a concoction of necessity, was nestled within the hollow of bread—a clever solution to the staleness that had set in from a day's exposure to the arid winds. To Calamity, however, it was a feast befitting the end of a day filled with too much loss.

Yet, even as her mouth watered in anticipation, poised to partake in their evening ritual, Calamity's attention shifted to the McCarty family, their somber silhouettes a stark reminder of the day's trials. The sight of their huddled forms, particularly the retreated figure of Mr. McCarty, now a withdrawn shadow of himself, beginning to distance his broken spirit, curling up with his own thoughts, gnawed at something in the back of her brain. Calamity's heart ached with empathy, urging her to extend a gesture of kinship, but as she rose, she was gently stayed by Amos—a gentle anchor in the tide of her intentions.

"Are you gonna share everything that I give you with Billy?" Amos's voice was soft, a whisper barely louder than the crackle of the fire, his eyes searching hers for understanding.

Calamity met her father's gaze, her eyes alight with the fierce determination that had been her birthright. "Why not, if I might have a chance to help him?" Calamity's response was immediate, her eyes brimming with honesty and compassion. To her, Billy was like her, another soul navigating the rough terrain of life, and though words might falter, her actions would carry the weight of a thousand comforting phrases.

Amos's smile, a quiet affirmation of his daughter's generosity, was an unspoken blessing that graced his lips as he let her go. Though his gaze returned to the fire, he kept her in his periphery, a silent guardian always watching, always protecting.

As he watched her approach the McCarty's, Amos couldn't help but mentally compare Calamity to her mother, Birdie. His heart swelling with a mix of pride and a wistful ache for the woman who had handed down her compassion to Calamity. She had her mother's spirit—a spirit that had been as vast and embracing as the plains themselves. Birdie's laughter had been a beacon, her kindness the glue that bound their family. Now, in Calamity's every gesture, in the way she reached out to Billy, he saw Birdie's legacy continuing to weave through the fabric of their lives.

As Calamity approached the McCarty's, heralded by the soft crunch of grass beneath her boots, their heads lifting to track her steps as if drawn by the magnetism of her movement. Billy's eyes, a rich well of emotions churning with the day's events, locked with hers in a silent exchange that bridged the distance between them. Without a word, she offered up the bread bowl, her hand outstretched with the simple gesture laden with meaning.

His instinctive refusal was silenced by her playful tilt of the head, a smirk dancing on her lips, a spark of mirth in the midst of sorrow. "I would have no company if it weren't for you. Besides, I want to watch you eat. You rattle like a bag of bones anytime you walk," she teased with gentle humor, sinking to the grass with an ease that belied the effects of gravity, her body language open and inviting.

Billy's reaction was a smile and his laugh, both a sound most rare and precious, a genuine expression of delight that broke through the facade of grief. He tore the bread in half, his offer a mirror of her own generosity. "I want to watch you eat too," he replied, the faint trace of his mother's accent coloring his words, a subtle reminder of their roots.

A blush, as delicate as the prairie rose, bloomed upon Calamity's cheeks, as telling as the laughter that bubbled up between them. They ate, their eyes locked in a moment of levity, their eyes sparkling in shared amusement as they took bites in unison.

Kathleen, observing her son and the girl who had become his unexpected ally, felt the edges of her own sorrow softened by the sight. She allowed the ghost of a smile to grace her own features. There, in the flickering light, she saw something budding between the two youths, a thread of something delicate yet resilient, weaving its way through their interaction. It was a sight that nurtures the soul, a reminder that even amidst the harshest trials, the seeds of new beginnings could take root.

Her gaze then drifted beyond them, finding Amos, whose attention was divided between his paternal duties and the scene unfolding before him. The smile she offered was an unspoken invitation, a bridge across the divide of the fire to join them in this moment of camaraderie.

Amos hesitated, his half-eaten meal momentarily forgotten, before shaking his head with a chuckle and returning to his food. Amos's response, a mix of reluctance and mirth, was a testament to the gentle push and pull of their own burgeoning friendship. And so, when his eyes sought hers again, he found Kathleen still watching, her smile now laced with a playful dare, her eyebrows raised in playful challenge.

A resigned laugh accompanied his rise, his body protesting the sudden movement with pops and groans that spoke of long days in the saddle. He joined her, settling beside her warmth with an ease of a man who knew the trials of the aches that came with age and hard work.

"How do you do, Mr. Grace?" Kathleen greeted, her voice a kindled warmth against the evening's chill.

"Amos, please. Mr. Grace was my father," he corrected gently, his tone tinged with a reverence for the past and the legacy that shaped him.

"Well, if he was your father, then that implies that you are now Mr. Grace, isn't that correct?" Kathleen's quick wit caught him off guard, her words a playful spar.

He conceded with a soft laugh, caught in the gentle snare of her wit, he could not help but smile in surrender. "Well, I suppose you have the right of it then."

"Since we have come to an agreement, perhaps we can also form a compromise. What do you think, Mr. Amos?" she proposed, her tone cloaked in casual repartee, was an invitation to share more than just conversation—a desire for a deeper connection and support as they both shouldered the responsibilities of their families.

"I think that sounds mighty nice, Mrs. Kathleen," Amos agreed, their shared smiles a gentle acknowledgment of the connection that was slowly knitting together the fabric of their little community.

As they turned their attentions back to their children, Billy and Calamity lost in a bubble of refuge filled, were oblivious to the adults' conversation. It was a world where laughter came a little easier, where the weight of the day's hardships could be set aside, if only for a moment between shared bites. And as the night deepened around them, the fire continued to burn, its embers a constellation of hope on the prairie floor.

Amos, his silhouette hunched over the flames, beckoned to Calamity with a nod. "Fetch me a quirly from my saddlebag, would you, girl?" His voice was gruff but not unkind, the request for a quirly was a tether to the simpler routines of life on the trail.

Calamity obliged, her fingers navigated the familiar contents of the worn saddlebag, retrieving the corn shuck cigarette with a practised hand. She returned to the circle, the quirly held between her lips, practiced in the art, she held as she leaned into the fires own outstretched fingers, her breath coaxing the quirly to life, a dragon's whisper igniting the tinder of survival. The fire's glow reflected in her eyes as she exhaled, the fire's glow briefly painting her face with the colors of night's first bloom. The quirly, now lit, passed from daughter to father, her own cheeks flushed from the heat or perhaps the act itself.

Kathleen's gaze widened, flitting between the girl who'd been drawing the fire's breath and the man inhaling the quirly's smoke. Amos, feeling the weight of her stare, chuckled, a rumble of embarrassment mingling with the heat crawling up his neck. "Bad habit," he confessed, his voice tinged with a sheepish embarrassment. "Should quit having Calamity light these for me." Kathleen's nod was dramatic, an unspoken agreement to his self-rebuke, yet her smile returned as she watched the children.

Calamity, sensing the need for a diversion, began to sing—a family tune that had always brought the Grace family together, even when miles apart.

Her voice rose, clear and sweet, carrying the first verse over the camp:

"In the land of open skies, where the rolling prairie lies,

We lost our gold, we lost our homes, but found the worth of ties.

For the riches that we seek, lie not beneath our feet,

They're in the hearts we hold dear, in memories we keep."

Amos joined in, his baritone lending weight to the second verse:

"The storm may claim our stead, the river rise above our head,

Yet what we've lost is merely dross, against the love we've spread.

For when the fire's light grows dim, and the chances slim,

We'll find the strength to rise again, in the song of kin."

Together they sang the third, their voices intertwining like the threads of their shared history:

"So let the winds take what they may, and the night swallow the day,

For what we've lost holds no cost, it's love that truly stays.

With hands entwined we'll face the morrow, through joy and sorrow,

For in each other's company, we'll borrow hope for tomorrow."

The song was cut short. The world shifted, the horses, those loyal companions of the trail, sensed the danger first, their nervous snickers and restless hooves beating a staccato rhythm of alarm as the rustling of unseen forces encroached upon their circle. Amos's fingers brushed against the handle of his gun, his senses alert to the unseen threat. The men rose, rifles at the ready, their silhouettes stark against the fire's glow as protectors against the unknown.

The campfire, a lone sentinel of light against the creeping darkness, became the heart around which the caravan's pulse beat with nervous anticipation. The night air, once filled with the harmonious strains of the Grace family's song, now quivered with the tension of a drawn bowstring, poised to snap.

Kathleen's hand found Billy's back, her other reaching out to draw Calamity close. Amos however drew Calamity aside, his urgent words were a low whisper, meant only for her. "I don't know what's out there, but you and I both have a pretty good idea," his eyes locked on hers, ensuring she understood the gravity of his message. He wanted her to tell him what else was out there.

She stumbled over her response, but managed, "Nothing but the tall grass."

"Good. Now, the moment you hear that shot ring, you ignore everything here in the middle and you run as fast as you can towards that grass. And you find a place to hide, duck down low. Alone." he instructed, his voice a granite command.

Calamity's eyes, wide with alarm, reflected the flickering flames, her heart rebelled against the thought of isolation. "Alone? No—" she protested, her gaze flicking momentarily to Billy, seeking him out even as her father's hand tightened on her arm.

"No," Amos cut her off, his voice adamant. "The moment that shot rings out, you can't trust anyone. Not even Billy." He insisted, casting a wary glance towards the collective—their camaraderie now a fragile thing, easily shattered by fear. "Just lay low down low until I tell you it's safe to come out."

Tears pricked at the corners of Calamity's eyes as she gave a reluctant nod, but she nodded, understanding the harsh necessity of his words. With a sound of acknowledgment, a tender kiss on her forehead served as both benediction and an anchor. Amos rose, his knee popping in protest, before he gently led her back to be seated beside Billy.

"What is it?" Billy's voice was a mix of confusion and concern as he looked to Moss.

"Horse thieves," Moss replied with a gruff certainty. "You all stay here!" Amos shared a knowing look with Moss.

He then melded into the night with the other men, into the inky embrace of the trees, the darkness swallowing them whole as they ventured forth toward the unseen threat. They left behind silence, soon to be shattered by gunfire.

The sound of each shot shattered the stillness, each report echoing like thunder across the open prairie, a harbinger of strife. Calamity and Billy instinctively reached for each other. Crouched low, the world around them narrowing to the beat of their shared pulse as Kathleen enfolded them and Josie in her embrace, her own body a shield enveloping them.

Frank, unable to suppress his pride, seized a rifle and charged into the fray, against Kathleen and Paddy's pleading words. The shots grew nearer, and panic set in.

Calamity couldn't stem the flow of tears, nor could she resist the instinct to burrow closer to Billy, seeking refuge in his nearness. Kathleen's distressed voice mingled with the chaos, her question to her husband filled with fear. "What's happening?"

"Hell knows," he replied, his voice a gruff command. "Get down."

"What are we doing here?" Mr. McCarty's rhetorical question echoed Calamity's own fears. She feared for her father, for their safety, for the future.

Calamity squeezed her eyes shut, willing the gunfire to be nothing more than a harsh symphony of the wild. But the reality of their peril was undeniable, the dread a heavy cloak around her shoulders.

The gunfire ceased as abruptly as it had begun, leaving behind a haunting silence. The laughter of the retreating thieves was a sinister epilogue to the night's events. The group trembled, the tension palpable—until the crunch of grass signaled a return, halting her breath. Calamity's grip on Billy's arm was a vise of fear, her nails imprinting a memory of the night's terror upon his skin.

"Frank?" Paddy's voice called out at the shadow. Something was amiss. From the darkness, Frank emerged, a figure stumbling as if puppeteered by unseen hands. His approach, heedless of Paddy's call, was a silent march toward his wife, the blood seeping from his side a crimson stain unnoticed by its bearer.

"We got 'em," Frank gasped, his declaration a feeble victory cry. Calamity and Billy watched in horror as Frank, oblivious to the crimson bloom spilling across his side, collapsed at his wife Mary's feet. His eyes, once full of life, now stared vacantly at the sky as though searching for answers among the night sky—a tapestry of stars now obscured by the veil of death.

"Frank?" The disbelief in Mary's voice was a fragile thread in the tapestry of night, a question posed to the cruel cosmos. Kathleen turned away, hiding her face from the grim reality as she shielded Josie from the grim tableau before them.

Billy rose to his feet, a slow and somber movement, a statue stepping out of marble, his sorrow etching a visage of classical tragedy, a beauty marred by grief. Her hand slipped into his, gaze flitted between him and the tragic scene before them. Calamity, her hand entwined with his, conveyed a silent warning—a plea to recoil from the precipice of despair.

The brilliance in Billy's tear-filled eyes, deep and sorrowful blue pools reflected the sorrow of the world, their beauty a stark contrast to the pain that shadowed his features. He was a heart-wrenching reminder of the pain that beauty could hold. In this moment of raw vulnerability, he seemed a figure from an ancient tapestry, a vision of grief and grace frozen in time.

Mary's cry, a lament that tore through the silence, was a sound of pure anguish. It ignited a dormant instinct within Calamity, a chain reaction that ignited her senses. She released a piercing wail, an echo of Mary's despair, before fleeing into the tall grass, propelled by her father's earlier words—a command now etched into the marrow of her being.

Amos, mere paces away, felt the fabric of his world unravel at the sound of his daughter's cry. His feet, as if bewitched by the urgency of her need, carried him through the wilderness, racing towards the source of Calamity's distress—to find her in the labyrinth of grass and darkness, where fear and love collided in the heart of a father racing against the night. Each step was a prayer whispered into the night, each breath a vow to protect her from the chaos that had descended upon their world.

Amos tore through the trees, the urgency of a father's fear giving strength to his limbs beyond the endurance of ordinary men. The forest seemed to fight him, branches whipping and clawing at his skin, each one a stinging rebuke. The air was thick with the scent of pine and earth, a pungent reminder of the wilderness that both cradled and menaced them. Leaves, sharp as accusations, scratched at his skin, leaving behind a litany of tiny cuts, a testament to his frantic passage.

His breath tore from his lungs in ragged gasps, each inhale a fiery demand on his burning lungs, each exhale a burst of vapor in the chill night air. The icy fingers of fear clutched at his chest, threatening to squeeze the very life from him. His heart pounded, a drumbeat threatening to burst from his chest, yet he ran on, propelled by a terror that overrode all pain.

Amos's mind was a maelstrom of dread and desperation, swirling together until they were indistinguishable. The not knowing was the sharpest pain, the cruellest adversary—the fear of what he might find, or worse, what he might not find, gnawed at his imaginations resolve. Her scream was the only certainty in this, the one that had set him on this reckless sprint, echoed in his ears, a haunting refrain that drowned out the cacophony of the nighttime forest.

Meanwhile, Calamity crouched, her body coiled tight with fear, every snap of a twig or crunch of leaves beneath unseen feet sending shocks through her frame. Her hands, slick with a cold sweat, found an unexpected solace as they wrapped around the revolver's grip. The metal was cool to the touch, a stark contrast to the humid air that clung to her skin like a second layer.

She sought for courage, for the steely resolve that she had seen in Amos's eyes countless times before. "Be brave, Calamity. Be the storm, not the one caught in it," she whispered to herself, drawing strength from the words as she had from her father's lessons.

The weapon's weight, once a cumbersome presence, now felt like an extension of her own will—a conduit through which her fear was transformed into a steely resolve. The ivory grip, pristine and smooth, adorned with the engraving of a rearing mustang, seemed to pulse with life against her skin. As her fingers curled around the engraved grip, it was as though the fear that had encased her heart began to unravel, slipping away like water off a duck's back, leaving behind a core of solid determination.

Back in the clearing, Amos's world came to a jarring halt at the sight of Frank's lifeless form and Mary's figure hunched over him in a silent scream of grief that resonated with the crackling flames. His skin turned ashen, his breath caught in his throat. He frantically scanned the clearing for a glimpse of golden hair, for any trace of his daughter. But there was nothing.

The return of Moss and the other men was a murmur in the chaos of Amos's mind. Moss immediately went to comfort Billy, Kathleen, and their family, but Amos was a tempest of emotion. Their presence, their movements, were a distant concern as he tore through the camp, his voice a thunderous roar that rent the night. "Where is she? Where is she!" His movements were wild, unthinking—a bull rampaging through the delicate confines of reason and order, driven solely by the primal need to find his child.

Billy stood amidst the chaos, his young mind grappling with the night's brutality. His thoughts were a tangle of concern—the sight of Frank's lifeless body, Calamity, the sounds of gunfire still ringing in his ears, left him in a state of shock, the world around him a surreal landscape. His world had tilted on its axis, and in the midst of his turmoil, his gaze found Amos's as the older man searched frantically for his daughter. No words were spoken, but volumes were communicated in that brief exchange. In that moment, despite his own shock, Billy felt the weight of responsibility, a foreshadowing of the protector he would need to become.

Calamity, her pistol in hand, was a lone figure of defiance amidst the tall grasses that swayed like whispers around her. She heard the distorted roar of a man's voice, its words muffled by the pounding of her own heartbeat. The coldness of the metal, the smoothness of the ivory grip with its mustang engraving, became her talismans against the night's dread. Her fingers stilled their tracing over the engraved mustang, and she took hold of the gun with purpose. Taking a deep breath, she allowed the slow exhale to be a moment of calm in the storm of her fear.

Rising from the grass, she stepped forward, the night parting before her like the Red Sea. As Calamity emerged, her eyes closed and the gun cocked, the night seemed to hold its breath. The coolness of the metal, the smoothness of the ivory, became extensions of her very being—a transformation from frightened child to emboldened survivor.

When she emerged, gun drawn and poised for any threat, she was the image of fierce determination. Amos heard the parting of the grass and let out a soft, relieved chuckle before turning toward the sound. His relief was short-lived as he found himself staring down the barrel of the pistol, his daughter's eyes closed, her stance unyielding. Billy watched from the periphery, his heart caught between the relief of seeing Calamity stand tall and the fear of what might have been.

Amos stood before her, his hands raised in peace. "Calamity," he whispered, a gentle plea that reached across the stillness between them.

Realization washed over her, her eyes snapping open, and the recognition dawned, the tension in her frame collapsing as she lowered the gun with a hesitation that spoke volumes. The revolver was carefully set aside as she forgot the weight of the gun and launched herself into her father's waiting arms. The tension that had gripped Billy released its hold, and though he remained silent, his eyes spoke a thousand words of gratitude.

He enveloped her, his embrace a fortress against the night's terrors. Amos, now holding his daughter tightly, allowed himself a moment of vulnerability. The chaos of the night receded as he committed to memory the feeling of Calamity safe in his arms. "It's alright, you're alright, you're okay. We're both okay," he murmured repeatedly, a mantra for them both.

Billy, witnessing the reunion from afar, felt the shock of the night's events begin to recede. His gaze lingered on Calamity, the girl flickered in his mind like the promise of dawn after the longest night. For now, he remained a silent guardian, his future a nascent spark waiting to ignite.

In the aftermath of fear and violence, as the campfire's light continued to flicker against the darkness, everyone was lost. No one spoke, no one slept, the night just continued to play her sonnets until the sun began to singe the horizon.

#Spotify #billy the kid x oc #billy the kid fic #billy the kid mgm+#billy the kid fanfiction #billy the kid fanfic #billy the kid 2022 #billy the kid #william h bonney #kid antrim #calamity grace #amos grace #tom blyth fanfic #tom blyth

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zeciex · 8 months

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Are you ready for my requests :) Any of them would be fun.

Dad Aemond - His wife has just given birth and Aemond is determined not to end up like Viserys so he's very hands on and involved in everything.

Aemond is married to Rhaenyra's daughter, but he kills Luke so she wants to kill Aemond in revenge, but when she has the chance she can't do it.

Aemond is married/his wife is pregnant and during the war, he goes to Harrenhall, meets Alys Rivers but instead of falling for her tricks, he ends up killing her.

My ideas are a little bit pants but there we are..

Number 2 will literally come up in A Vow of Blood.

Also, I'm sorry that this became as bloody and properly not at all what you imagined, but here's nr. 3;

Aemond stood at the threshold of the room, his gaze fixed upon the heart wrenching scene before him. His wife sat beside the crackling hearth, the warm, flickering light casting a soft glow upon her features. She cradled their child in her arms, gently swaying in a rhythmic embrace, her voice a tender lullaby that filled the room.

His emotions tugged at him, his heart wringing within his chest as if a hand had burst through his ribcage to clutch it. He longed to enter the room, felt the need tingle at his fingertips, but his feet remained steadfastly bolted to the threshold. The joy of witnessing his wife’s nurturing care for their child was tinged with the realization that their relationship had suffered. He knew, deep down, that she didn’t want to seem, that the right between them had grown too wide and deep. The melancholy in her eyes mirrored his own, and he branched himself as a realization settled within him.

Aemond reluctantly retreated from the threshold, his heart heavy with the weight of unfulfilled desires. He carefully closed the door to the place he longed to be the most, the room where his heart ached to reside.

The decaying, damp corridors of Harrenhal stretched out before him, their once-grandeur now a haunting memory, as if the very stones themselves mourned the passage of time.

Since his arrival, an eerie sensation had clung to him like a shroud. It was as if the ghosts of Harrenhal, those spectreal remnants of history, hand found a peculiar fascination with him. They trailed him with unseen eyes, lurking in the shadows, their presence an uncanny reminder of the castle’s bloody history–a history he only added to.

And perhaps their ghostly curiosity was justified, for Aemond had left an indelible mark upon the land. He had saturated the earth with blood, raising mountains from the corpses of his foes, and unleashed fiery devastation from the skies. The weight of his actions didn’t so much weigh him down, as her reaction to seeing him did. He could never cleanse his hands of the blood he had spilled, the stain that threatened to mare the only thing he had ever truly cherished.

As he walked the sodden halls, his thoughts swirled like the misty tendrils of smoke, pulled along to where he knew the witch would be.

It all began with Aemond’s ill-fated plunge into Daemon’s treacherous scheme. The inferno of rage and humiliation had encircled him, poised in incinerate everything in its path. Aemond felt the searing heat of those flames, each like of fire stroking the tempest within him, a tempest manipulated by none other than the witch who claimed to hold his heart.

Alys Rivers, the very woman who had nearly wrought his downfall, haunted his thoughts like a malevolent spirit, sinking her claws into him. She had wormed her way beneath his skin, meaning to tear his heart from his chest and allowing the wound to fester, a venomous toxin coursing through his veins.

For months, Aemond had been ensnared in a maelstrom of fury and bloodlust. The metallic tang of spilled blood clung to his senses, a scent so persistent it had become a part of him, numbing his palate to its once-distinct flavor. Alys Rivers had whispered honeyed promises into his ear, sweet nothings that had swirled like intoxicating incense, luring him deepering into her web of deceit.

She had painted vivid fantasies of fulfillment, assuring him that his deepest desires would be realized. In the midst of these seductive murmurs, Aemond had allowed himself to believe that his dreams were within reach, that he could escape the torment of his own making.

But then, like a sudden break in the storm, his wife had set foot upon the bloody soil of Harrenhal. Her arrival had acted as a salve, lifting the shroud of rage that had cloaked him for so long. The haze of vengeance and destruction that had clouded his vision seemed to disperse in her presence, leaving behind a lingering sense of clarity and hope.

Alys Rivers did not hold his heart. His wife did.

Aemond ventured down the dimly lit corridor, his steps heavy with purpose, his destination clear in his mind. He knew she would be waiting here, in the map room, a shadowy meeting place that held the promise of secrets and betrayals. And indeed, there she stood, a striking vision with hair as dark as ink and eyes like glittering emeralds. Yet, beneath her captivating exterior, an rot festered.

Her beauty possed an elusive quality, like a fleeting glimpse of something less opulent lurking just beneath the surface. It was akin to peering into a still pond, only to discern the dark, unsightly depths concealed beneath the stillness.

Alys, her voice honeyed and languid, drew nearer to him as if she held the very essence of temptation. Her hand settled lightly upon his chest, just above his heart, and in that instant, a disorienting haze threatened to envelop him once more. Her fingers ascended, gliding past the collar of his doublet, an intimate touch that climbed towards his face, seeking to ensnare his senses.

Aemond’s reaction was swift and visceral. His fingers closed around her wrist with a grip that elicited a whimper from her lips.

“I know what you did,” he declared, his voice tinged with an intensity that mirrored the turbulent storm within him.

“Aemond–”

“I know what you did,” Aemond interjected with a ferocious snarl contorting his lips.

The memories of almost losing his wife and child were still fresh, like open wounds that refused to heal. He seized her with his other hand, fingers closing around her throat, pressing her body against a weathered stone column. The pressure he applied was enough to stifle any protest she might have voiced, to keep her silenced in the face of his fury.

Her emerald eyes widened, panic sparkwing within them as her fingers clawed at his wrists, struggling to free herself from his unyielding grip.

“You dare to bewitch me!” Aemond spat out the accusation, his voice dripping with a venom that transcended mere anger. He felt as though it wasn’t just blood that had stained his soul but also her touch, her attempt at tearing his wife from his arms. “You dare to send your men to kill MY WIFE! MY CHILD! I can forgive the bewitching, but you dare make an attempt of their lives…”

Her voice trembled as she managed to stammer out a desperate plea, her vocal cords strained by the pressure on her throat. “P-please… I did it–for–us.”

Aemond’s eye blazed with fury and disbelief. He leaned in closer, his grip unrelenting. “There is no us, there never was.”

With chilling precision, Aemond thrust the dagger between her ribs, angling it upward with the expertise of a seasoned killer. The blade found its mark, pierving through her lung. In that harrowing moment, a symphony of fear and anger danced within the widening expanse of her eyes, her terror mirroring the savagery etched across Aemond’s face.

A cruel smile curled upon his lips as he twisted the dagger, savoring the visceral response it elicited, relishing the pain that contorted her features. With a slow and deliberate motion, he withdrew the blade, a distinct rush of er escaping the wounded long, followed by a macabre gush of blood.

What was a little more blood?

Her tremblign hand instinctively sought to stem the flow of blood, her green dress now marred byt he grusome stain spreading across the fabric. Aemond released her throat, allowing her a gasp for precious air, only to witness her realization that her lung had collapsed, leaving her choking on the creeping tide of her low life’s blood.

The once-vibrant green of her eyes now gave way, as the blood vessels within ruptured, lending a grotesque crimson hue to the surrounding whites. Her fingernails scraped futilely against the unforgiving stone beneath her as she plummeted towards the floor.

Alys’s desperate attempt to escape towards the door was abruptly thwarted by Aemond’s unyielding grip. He clutched her inky-black hair, his weight bearing down on her, pinning her to the floor. With calculated and practiced brutality, he forced her head back, exposing her vulnerable throat, and then, with a ruthless stroke, drew the blade across her neck.

A torrent of blood erupted from the grievous wound, cascading in crimson spurts onto the black stone. The warm, sticky splatters coated his face forming a grotesque mask of violence and finality.

Aemond’s gaze remained locked on Alys’s fading eyes, as if he were an unwilling witness to the inevitable darkness that was swallowing her.

In that haunting moment, he couldn’t help but exhale a sigh, one laced with relief, as the persistent pressure within his skull seemed to gradually relent, the weight of his torment easing.

Aemond retracted his steps, his resolve unwavering, as he made his way back to his wife’s chambers. This time, he didn’t pause at the threshold; instead, he pushed the door open and entered with purpose.

She remained in her familiar spot by the hearth, the soft flicker of flames casting a warm glow upon her. Cradling the child in her arms, she swayed gently, the rhythm of a lullaby filling the room. “The father’s face is stern and strong,” her voice sang out, melodic and soothing, “he sits and judges right from wrong. He weighs our lives, the short and long, and he loves the little children.”

Aemond knelt before her, his expression etched with pain and a touch of desperation. Her searching eyes took in the telltale signs on his face – the crimson splatter across his cheekbone and the stains that marred his hands. He swallowed, hard, then broke the silence with a horse declaration. “The witch is dead.”

Her hand reache dup, a gesture of tenderness, and gently cupped his face, unafraid of the blood. Aemond leaned into her touch, his eye closing involuntarily as he sought solace in her presence. He released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and with a deep sense of relief, he rested his head upon her lap, the weight of his burdens finally finding respite in the comfort of his wife’s embrace.

She held his heart all alone, torn from his chest and put in hers.

#request

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blackkatmagic · 2 years

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I shall take the leap and ask for 4, if it hasn't been done? If not then uhhh 12?

I'm going to answer these in reverse order, but:

12. Is there an episode above all others that inspires you just a little bit more?

Hmm. I would say probably Monster, because it spawned....all of rwlf and a bunch of other fics regarding Savage and Feral and Maul.

4. How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Care to share one of them?

I currently have 19 docs open in word, so that's what I'm going to count here. 2 of them are posted WIPs that should be updated sometime this week, while the rest are random bits of ideas that I'm playing with. For a snippet:

Maedhros wakes in a darkness without stars, a heavy chain around his throat, a crown like cold iron around his brow.

He thinks, in the first moment, that he’s been consigned to the pits of Angband, lightless and hot. It’s too cold for Melkor’s fortress, though; Maedhros’s scars ache, and his breath gusts white like there's frost in his lungs. He curls in on himself, covered only by his hair, and grasps for the collar that’s tight around neck.

It’s no collar, though, but a thin chain. A thin chain that slips through his fingers with the coolness of water, and makes the bright stone hung from it slide against his collarbone as pure starlight shines in the dark.

Breath tangling in his throat, Maedhros freezes. He swallows hard, but the beat of the oath doesn’t rise in his heart, doesn’t drive him on like madness. The Silmaril glows in the darkness, the light of the Two Trees undimmed even here, and Maedhros holds his breath, lets his fingers slide down the chain—

Jerks them away with a cry, skin burning with the heat of the flames he flung himself into, as the Silmaril’s light brightens like a warning.

Desperate, quick, Maedhros fumbles for the chain, tries to jerk it over his head. It’s too tight, though, won't come free, and he wrenches at it until it cuts at his skin but can't find a way to break it. The Silmaril sears his skin whenever it touches, and finally, finally Maedhros curls forward, letting it swing free, and closes his eyes against the light of his father’s doom.

“I bore you to the heart of the earth,” he tells it, ragged. “I threw you far from me. Why still do you haunt me?”

There's no answer, not even the echo of his own voice. The Silmaril hangs, gleaming, and still Maedhros isn't worthy of it, still the jewel is nothing meant for his foul hands, but it hangs around his throat like a hangman’s noose regardless.

And then, quiet, there's a step, a shift in the darkness.

Maedhros raises his head, slow, the weight on his brow seeming an impossible thing. The darkness stretches, nothing Elven eyes can see through, but he hears the faintest brush of leather and cloth and metal, hidden away by the shadows.

Too cold for Angband, he thinks grimly, and curls his hand around his other wrist, the stump of his severed hand aching in the cold. He isn't strung up from a mountain, either, left to the mercy of someone who should have no mercy left for him or his family.

“Who are you?” he asks, and wants to rise, but—his skin still stings from the burn of the Silmaril, and he crushes down the urge.

There's no answer, just a pause, as though his watcher wasn’t expecting to have been seen. The silence stretches, more complete, and Maedhros closes his eyes for a long second.

He isn't chained, he thinks, and carefully, gingerly gets his feet beneath himself. The jewel bumps against his collarbone, burns, and Maedhros winces but doesn’t waver.

“Am I not to know the name of the one who holds me?” he asks. “Or the location where I am held?”

The silence stretches, stretches, and then finally there's a breath.

“You are on a ship,” a low, rough voice says, and cloth drags over leather. Light comes up, a wash of painful and artificial brilliance, and Maedhros half-raises a hand to block it before he realizes the gesture is entirely futile. The light is all around, and in its glow he can finally see the bare metal that stretches out, the blue glow of a barrier bright and steady. He’s in a cell, twelve paces in either direction, and everything is polished metal and harsh, empty space, the hum of a hyperdrive loud in his bones.

Just outside the cell is a sentient, tall and horned, with skin marked yellow and black. He wears an armor Maedhros doesn’t know, and his eyes are gold and dark and wary as he watches Maedhros as though expecting an attack.

“You look to be a Zabrak,” Maedhros says after a moment. “But no Zabrak I know.”

The man frowns, just slightly. “A Nightbrother,” he says harshly. “From Dathomir.”

#kat answers #my writing #came singing in the sun

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terrence-silver · 3 years

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“Spread your legs for me, love” with TERRY MCCAIN YANDERE IF YOU WANT (sorry but I found out what ''yandere'' means thanks to you and your One Shots and now I'm addicted to it). May God bless you and your stunning blog!!

The cold barrel of his gun serves to separate your thighs from under the covers. Detective McCain, the shameless night-time intruder who no doubt covertly managed to make a discreet copy of your front entrance's key. The type who has the habit of breaking into your apartment at two in the morning like he owns the damn place and then brushing the ordeal off with a boyish smile. Illegal? What's illegal? Next time he can come in with an official search warrant, if you'd prefer? But, here he is; surprising you in your own bed, right from the busy, smoggy streets of Chicago, mid-autumn, enveloped in a heavy November fog and rain - he reeks of the street still and all the accumulated, palatable desire he brought in from outdoors like some sort of starved, tense vagrant - having no poise to him where proving a point is concerned. He doesn't announce himself. Doesn't knock. Doesn't even tend to make a noise to warn you of his presence. It's like he lives in the walls of your home. A ghost. Wet coat still on, shoes still on his feet, badge and firearm ready. You always had the impression he sometimes had the manners of a commonplace thug rather than someone in law enforcement, breaking and entering, somehow even lower in methodology and class than the mobsters and gangsters he regularly makes enemies out of. Terry is an ordinary thief with a cop's badge. And he's above the squeaking mattress you intended to peacefully sleep on tonight, you weren't so crassly walked in on, frightened out of your mind and disturbed. His tall, muscular frame heavy above you. His breath hot. Needy. He is a bit insane. That much is a given. And he looks like he hasn't rested in two days straight, the toll of his job wearing heavy on him. For a moment, you feel pity for him. Until he opens his mouth - then, you fear him;

-“Spread your legs for me, love.”-

Is all he says, his blue eyes, overly wide in their expression, to the point of appearing unhinged and haunted alongside the beaded sweat that lined his forehead underneath his heavy, dark curls, twinkling in the partial darkness of your bedroom laced with the neon light peeking through your drawn-on shutters, yellow, blue and red mingling into a purple, moonless haze, the gun still freezing next to the searing warmth on the inside of your hips. It was a bad idea to catch his attention. A bad idea. It's a bad idea to lead him on. To ignore him. To mind your own business. To not mind your own business. To simply exist. To do anything at all, if it's not done with him. Terry once told you, that for as long as you're in this city, you are his concern, much like any other civilian under his jurisdiction, and then doubly so, because he has a private attachment to you. When you retorted you can in fact, leave this city, and this State included, he merely rebuffed you and said, with infinite ease -"No. You can't. I won't let you."- and he's made due on that promise since, eclipsing your every move and now finding himself in your bed, uninvited, bringing the barrel of the gun close to the outline of your underwear, tenderly rubbing the thin fabric of where your sex touches the material. He wouldn't be above fucking you with a loaded firearm. Or would he? No - he wouldn't. He just came here to remind you of his existence. Terry McCain never lets you forget, that he's here, close-by. On the corner, in the nearby alley, sitting on the steps that lead up to your room. That he could pop in, when you sleep, when you wake, when you're not here. Surprise all peril, even the mere chance of peril, before it could even think of happening to you, like a loyal watchdog.

Someone has to protect you - and it's a dangerous world out there.

A dangerous city; a kiss pressed to your temple as he tucks his gun away.

Right back into the leather holster of his belt and he's gone.

No longer hellbent on pleasuring you, he's gone as quickly as he arrived.

Bidding you the sweetest of dreams, he disappears into the embrace of midnight.

Locking the door behind him firmly and securely, the same way he's found it.

#terry mccain #excessive force #yandere #terry mccain x reader #anon ask #request #always a pleasure to teach people what yanderes are #thank you #you're so sweet

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shespeaksinsongs · 3 years

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brand new follower, but I wanted to take part in the fairy tale celebration... the whole thing just seems so lovely and fun !.... 🌷 - scenario, Harry Potter has saved Y/N (outside of hogwarts, lives in an orphanage) from the chamber of secrets, and the aspect of tom riddle... the incident of which, revealed to y/n and the rest of the wizarding world that y/n isnt just a slytherin... shes the living heir, and is tom riddle's niece. food friend, and crush fred weasley finds her distraught.???

hi love, thank you so much for participating, and welcome to my blog!! i hope you find it a safe place to be. this idea is really very wonderful! do you mind if i consider writing a series about it? <3

It had been about five hours since the incident. Fog painted the night sky from the grounds of the courtyard to the top of the Astronomy Tower, where Y/N was currently slumped in shame and self-hatred.

Lukewarm tears slid down her face as she buried her head deeper into her hands, having flashbacks of herself, bleeding out on the stone floor while watching her friend of two years, Harry Potter, spar with a large and ugly snake. If it weren't for the scars that covered her body from head to toe, she would've believed it was a dream.

Every move she made seared the same pain her uncle and renowned psychopath, Tom Riddle, forced into her body the days that she was missing from Hogwarts.

As her sobs got a little more broken and her sniffling got a little louder, she had gotten so lost in her misery that she didn't even notice her tall ginger liking standing at the steps to the Tower.

"Y/N?" Her lunch buddy (and slight huge crush) Fred spit out, rushing over to the floor a few paces in front of him, where she lay weeping on the floor.

Y/N nodded, not able to hold back her cries, leaning into Fred's side, and nuzzling closer to his body as he wrapped his arm tighter around her.

They sat like that for hours. Fred felt the world crumble in his arms with each light tear that dampened his shirt. He tried his best to soothe her by rocking her back and forth, humming German lullabies that his older brothers used to sing to him when he had trouble falling asleep.

Eventually, Y/N grew a headache that emanated from her eyes to the back of her head. She sniffled before speaking. "I'm the Living Heir." She said quietly, letting a few more tears escape her eyes.

Fred continued stroking her hair with the most delicacy he had ever touched anyone. Not knowing what to say, he tilted her head to face him. Her eyes and lips were puffy, skin clear from the tears. He held her chin and laid his forehead on hers. Her heart raced as she watched him confidently move her body so it fit more comfortably in his.

He drew her lips closer until they were only breaths apart. She nodded slightly as he looked into her eyes with longing. Then, with the smallest motion Y/N had ever witnessed, he pressed his lips on hers, hugging them until she felt safe and warm again.

When they separated, Y/N buried her face in the crook of his neck, slightly embarrassed and frazzled, but the memory of Voldemort being her uncle haunted her mind.

"I promise I won't leave you alone in this. Okay?"

Y/N simply nodded, taking a deep breath as she found solace again in Fred's arms.

#hlbutterflycelebration #fred weasley #fred hurt/comfort #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley angst #fred weasley fluff #fred weasley blurb

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thefallenbibliophilequote · 3 years

Text

Bad Blood

Loki x Reader

1989, chapter 8

"She made friends and enemies"

Summary: It's hard to find the one, but even if you do find him it's always going to be a daily struggle to make it work. Can you even make it work after he broke your heart? The answer to that is complicated, but it all started when you found each other again in the stark Tower- and that's where our story begins.

Word count: 4,601

Warnings: language, sexism if you squint, angst, torture(Bucky style with needles and blood and knives etc), and a little fluff- not in that order.

A/N: I'm sure you guys will hate me after this. Sorry in advance? I'm saying this again- remember the timeline from the last chapter and this one...

A/N 2: thank you for @peterbenjiparker for helping me outline this chapter! And thanks to @chrissquares for the dividers! And of course to @nacho-bucky for reading this over!

No one is allowed to repost my writing or steal or copy my work! Reblog on tumblr is fine.

Series masterlist

Song on Spotify and YouTube

The pain in your head almost pulled you under and out of consciousness with the way your body felt heavy and all the- were they hands? That seemed to touch you. You shivered when you felt a spark of electricity travel through your body and your eyes shot open.

There was a blinding light directly from above you and both of your sides but after a couple of moments you managed to see through that. You saw the agents, the building, the chair you were seated in with equipment you did not know but you did not want to find out what they do. When they noticed you were awake, two men walked to you.

Mike was standing on the side, grinning, while the doctor from the warehouse seemed to look you over.

"And she is awake." His voice wasn't charming anymore, now it just sent red alarms in your brain. "She looks so cute asleep."

In a glare you looked at him and he fell to his knees in the agony that overtook him, his eyes were hazy and you wanted to make sure it hurt.

"Put her under!" the doctor yelled and a searing electrical pain ran through your body and instead of his yelling in the room, it was now filled with yours. You didn't hear anything anymore and then all you knew was black. Your body jolted in its place despite the restraints before it went limp.

"When are you guys going to solve the problem?" Doctor Zazu laughed at the remark.

"What problem?"

"Her powers, they are intense and harmful! When she wakes up again, this will keep happening!" the doctor looked at the young agent who was struggling to get up and shook his head, he was still young.

"That's not the problem- that is the solution!"

"How the hell is that a solution? We can't use her until we make her under our control." Mike looked over at you. "Besides, it took years to make the Soldat."

"We are making advances on detecting her powers, and with the new technology and knowledge that we have now, we will be able to overpower her. I doubt she will make such a fight, especially with what you've told me."

"She was quite fun, certainly worth working there for as much as I did."

"I'm glad you enjoyed her, now it's my turn to toy with that brain of hers." He stood at the railing and watched as agents prepared the room that will soon be yours, and the staff that stood proudly just outside of it.

•

Three months ago in Asgard…

"This is such a blessed day to unite the lovely couple!" Lady Iyllir's mother raised her glass during breakfast. It'd been mere hours since Loki knocked on her door and here he was sitting at the long table with his father and Iyllir with her family.

Glasses clunk against each other but they only made Loki wince when he came back to the reality of the situation.

"Indeed it is, I am glad we will be uniting the families soon enough," his father then looked at him. "And I am happy it worked out as it should've."

Loki couldn't speak against Odin. Your voice was haunting him and you were right- he could get away from this if he wanted to, but he can't. He needed this too much even if he didn't want it.

"We are so excited! Right, Loki?" the girl looked at him with bright eyes her ginger hair was just as bright. He nodded and spread a smile.

"Of course, my dear, I look forward to it." She gave him her hand and he was a proper prince after all, so he raised her hand to his lips and gave her knuckles a gentle kiss.

"When shall we do the wedding?" Iyllir's parents talked to Odin more than Loki and the girl who sat behind him.

"We could have it soon, I'm sure we are just as eager to have this wedding just as the two lovers are to getting married." The father talked to Odin.

"Actually, father-" Iyllir quipped up and he felt her hand tighten around his. "I thought we could have it a couple of months from now, the flowers will be the brightest then."

"Dear, don't be silly the flowers are still pretty now." Her mother shook her head at her.

Before she could go further, Loki spoke instead of the girl.

"Shouldn't the bride decide how her own wedding will be designed?" the mother in front of him smiled nervously.

"Of course, Prince Loki, you are right."

With this the conversation went into planning the wedding which left Loki only half listening.

"I want it to be golden, we can even have our clothes be of such too!" he heard her before zoning out of the conversation. Breakfast ended soon after, with a promise from Odin to send maidens that'll be at the Lady's disposal for any wedding idea she wants.

Loki was walking beside her in silence as he escorted her to her chambers.

"What made you change your mind?"

"Pardon me?"

"You didn't want me or this wedding before, so what changed your mind?" he was at a loss of words, not knowing how to answer that- he couldn't bring you up, but Iyllir was indeed clever so she must know already.

"I came to a few realizations lately, but I assure you that I want this marriage." She nodded to him with a smile and he decided to sway the conversation away from you, the redhead beat him to it.

"Thank you for standing up for me earlier." She took his hand in hers as they neared her room.

"Of course, I understand parents can be tough." She let out a huff at that. "I admire that you spoke up."

"My parents sure can be hard to deal with. They like to decide everything for me but one good thing they did was lead me to you." She giggled up at him and he couldn't help but think that she deserved someone who will actually love her, and he hoped for both of their sake that he will learn to do that with time, and time can heal almost everything right?

"Yes, now I will let you go rest."

"I hope I'll see you later."

•

The sting of the needle only grew when you resisted it, your body was shaking still trying to relax from the shock you were put through yet again.

Your eyes were hazy but you were more stubborn than to submit to pain.

"They will come for me, you know." You heard your own voice stumble out the words.

"You think the Avengers will come save you?" Doctor Zazu chuckled and your vision came back to reality. "How long will it take them though? By the time they manage to find you, you will have already become my new soldier."

You focused your stare at him, but before you could do anything he pushed a button that sent searing pain into your mind.

"Blue." You heard him say and it wasn't hard for you to guess what he meant.

•

"Tony, have you seen Y/N?" Tony raised his mask and looked over at Steve.

"I haven't seen her in a few days but it's alright we don't have missions now." He was about to return to fixing his suit. "Plus, she is probably shaking up with that new boyfriend of hers."

"Tony…" Steve groaned at it.

"She's an adult Steve, get used to it. She can fondue whoever she likes." He snickered at the supersoldier who only looked at him in a not amused look.

"It's been a couple of days Tony, I'm getting worried. She would tell me if she was going away- she never went away like this before."

Tony sighed at Steve's stressed face.

"Hey F.R.I.D.A.Y, do you know where Y/N is?" he called to the AI.

"I'm afraid I don't know, the last she has been in the building was a few days ago, she was in the garage and she took one of your cars alongside some of your wine bottles, sir."

"She did what now? I told her several times to not touch my cars." Tony got up from where he was sitting. "Okay, can you call her?"

A moment has passed before they got a reply.

"She is not answering, and it seems like she took out the tracker from her phone since I can't track her."

"You see Tony I have every reason to be worried!" Steve grew angry at the new information, he paced the lab. "F.R.I.D.A.Y where is Mike? The guy that Y/N was with"

"He has not showed up to work in a few days, on the same day Y/N drove away."

Silence took over the room. Tony looked at his friend's crestfallen face.

"I might know where she went to."

"What, where?"

"She has an apartment up in Brooklyn, I saved it for her."

"Why didn't I know about it?" Steve walked up to the billionaire who held his hands up in defense.

"She didn't want to tell anyone, she wanted it to be only hers. I only know it because she needed to buy it, so I bought the entire building."

"We are going now. Get Nat in one of your cars and I will go on my motorcycle." It was a command more than a request.

It didn't take them long to get to the building, Steve did not care about any traffic lights and Tony couldn't blame him. Natasha insisted that she drives faster than Tony and to her credit they arrived at the place at the same time Steve did.

It was eerily quiet and Tony used the scan on the door to open it. They reached inside and Natasha already had the clutch of her gun open,

"Y/N!" Cap called at the small apartment but no answer came. Tony spotted the two glasses in the living room, one full on the table and the other half empty on the floor next to the big red stain it left on the carpet.

"Cap," Tony put his hand on his shoulder and Steve turned and saw Natasha raising the fallen glass to her face and smelling the content of it.

"This is not good, boys."

•

"Blue." The words were distant.

"Five." You were fighting to stay awake.

"Airplane." No. You screamed, trying to get out of your head.

"No, I will not turn into one of your soldiers! I won't!" your eyes flashed to a group of guards and with your anger it took no time for them to fall screaming on the ground, they could barely move when you felt the pain in your head again and you were shot back inside your mind.

"Blue."

You didn't know how much time you've been in this chair, reality and fiction blurred as you eased in and out of your mind.

"I won't turn into your soldier." You repeated again and again every time the doctor played with you and let you be awake. You knew at this point it'll take a lot from you to use your abilities.

"Even if your little Avenger friends get here, you won't be theirs either."

"What?" you hated showing weakness but your inhibitions were low.

"Either you will become my soldier, or you won't be here at all." He laughed right at you and then looked at the scientists beside you. "Put her under again, restart her."

"No, please no." They pushed you back against the chair; put the mouth guard between your teeth, and you felt yourself sink into the numbness of the pain.

You were shivering next time you woke up, you still heard those familiar words.

The machine they put you in was now rusted, at the moment you had clear mind you picked up the discarded needle on the side of where you lay. You were weak but you won't go down without a fight.

You lay there silently until the next agent came next you. Attacking them, you took the needle and stabbed them right in the throat, red blood started pouring but before you could pull out the agent's gun another agent came and their knife made a really deep cut. You looked up at chocolate brown eyes that now only held darkness when you fell to the floor and other agents lifted you up and restrained you.

"Look what you've done! What happened baby? You never put up such a fight from what I remember." Mike mocked you, you really thought he could be trusted. You were certainly wrong when he pressed on your fresh bloody wound. "At least, not in bed."

"Don't worry, she can fight all she wants, the wounds that we will leave on her pretty little brain will last and they'll last no matter what you'll try to do." You recognized the voice of their commander.

"So, did your parents name you after the parrot from Aladdin or the traitor from Othello?" you snickered at him "Then again I don't think you're smart enough to read such a high level literature, all due respect Commander Iago. And don't even get me started on the good doctor over there."

"Oh don't think you have the upper hand here, see we know something you don't. Did you ever bother checking where your powers came from? I'm sure the great Tony Stark tried, but while he failed we didn't. So we are already smarter than your avenger friends!"

You were taken aback by that, whatever created those powers within you always remained as a mystery in your head. But if they knew that, then they know a way inside of your brain and powers that you don't want to imagine.

"Well then, if you are so sure that I will never get out of here- why not share the knowledge with me?"

"We never said that you'll never get out of here, trust me," he stroked your jaw and his hand went down to your throat. Disgust blossomed in your stomach. "We have quite a plan for you if you'll get rescued, I'm sure your friends will appreciate the surprise."

Your heart hammered in your chest, mind racing with possibilities.

"Give her a dose then send her to her new special room." He stepped away and then a needle was inserted in you again, pumping blue strange liquid into you, your mind was hazy with its heaviness, and you barely remembered being put inside a sealed room. You saw a blue glow from outside of the transparent room, barely seeing the long stick and cords that ran from it. Then a blinding light flashed in the room and you felt yourself sinking, sinking inside your own mind.

The light was bright as it shone from your window. Curiousity got the better of you and you almost got blinded by the light outside until it stopped and you could see clearly again. There in through the light Loki stood in some quiet unusual clothing but that all changed with a glowing green glimmer of light and he was in regular clothes looking like the Loki you knew.

You stood there by the window with wide eyes but you couldn't seem to move as you were frozen in place trying to understand the lucid dream that occurred right before your eyes in your empty street.

A knock on the door caused you to shriek and you stumbled down to the ground, looking at the door.

"Y/N dear, are you okay? I can hear you inside." Loki's voice called out to you when you have yet to open the door.

Gathering up the courage you walked to the door and slowly opened it, willing yourself to look normal.

"Hello Loki, hello." You mentally cringed at your awkwardness.

"Are you okay? I heard something falling." He walked into your apartment casually while you were trying to gather up your thoughts.

"Yes, I'm- I'm okay. How are you?" you closed the door and locked it, facing away from him.

"I'm alright, thank you for asking." Loki looked at your form still standing by the door. "Why are you acting strange?"

"I am always strange, you should know that," you turned to him and briefly met his eyes before you made a move to go to the kitchen. "Do you want water? I'll bring us some water."

Loki caught your wrist and turned you to him.

"Are you mad at me for something? Come on, out with it. You know I always find out what you're hiding." He laughed that beautiful laugh of his and looked at you again when you were quiet. "Come on, you can tell me anything, you know that."

He let go of your hand when you still didn't answer and looked at the ground. Deciding to let it go he walked towards your kitchen.

"I'll get you a cup of water then-"

"Why are you glowing?" you winced when your voice was too loud for your liking.

"What?" you turned to him.

"You can glow, like a lamp or something. You glow-" you didn't know how to explain what you saw. "I saw you glow outside!"

"Oh." You almost felt bad at your accusation when you saw his face fall. "Well I guess there's no point in hiding it anymore- I am not who or what you think I am. I'm sorry I lied to you, do you want me to leave?"

"No! I don't want you to leave Loki, of course I don't want you to leave." He looked at you strangely and you looked at him back, a silent chuckle leaving your lips at his absurd question. "No don't leave, can you just tell me what's going on? Please."

Loki studied you then as he saw all the nerves leave you, or at the very least the fear that he dreaded seeing in your eyes.

"Very well," you've never seen Loki this nervous before. "You might want to sit down for this."

You sat down on one side on the couch and pouted when Loki chose to sit on the far side of the couch, away from you.

The talk was long to say the least, and you couldn't tell who it was harder to.

"I can make you forget all about this if that'll make it easier for you." Loki told you after you took in the information he gave you. A god was sitting on your couch. Your best friend was a god. But he was still your best friend.

"No! I don't want that!" You shook your head at him. "Can you maybe show me?"

"Show you what?"

"Your magic, I want to see it."

"You want to see my magic?" Loki was taking aback by the request, he expected for you to be scared of him or hate him. He knew you were special to him, but he didn't think you will find interest in his magic over everything else.

"Yes!" The smile on his face sent shivers down your spine, you recognized that smile.

The next second Loki disappeared from his place on the couch and you stared at the place in shock. Cautiously you scooched forward until you were sitting right next to his former place on the sofa. You reached a hand forward, searching for him in the air but when your hand went through nothing you looked at it and tilted your head.

That's when you felt the breath in your ear. "I'm not there, love." His voice was right beside you and you turned too fast and fell off of the couch.

You saw Loki there sitting right behind where you were a second ago. Gaping at him, you huffed when he laughed at you.

"You can't just scare me like that!"

"You wanted to see my magic and I showed it to you. It's your fault that you couldn't handle it well." Getting up you took a pillow in your hand. "I am the god of mischief as I just told you. So come on what did you expect?"

"I don't care if you're the god of my ass, you are a little shit." You hit him with the pillow over and over again. "Don't you ever scare me like that again!"

"Okay okay I yield!" his laughter calmed down as yours started and he knew he was done for. Out of all of the scenarios he played in his head about this moment, he never would have expected this. "What are you laughing at?"

"I just punched a god with a pillow."

•

"Why haven't you killed her yet?"

"Well, it takes time to extract what we want from her. Don't you want to see her before it?" the commander stuttered a bit when he saw who stood in front of him, coming unannounced. The moment they heard the loud familiar noise from outside, they started to hide everything they were working on so that they won't be interrupted and killed.

The two of them walked towards where you still lay in the almost empty room. At the commander's order you were taken out of it and strapped to the chair again.

You slowly opened your eyes a small gasp leaving your throat at the cold shivers that you felt as you got back into reality. You couldn't tell how long it was.

You felt yourself being watched, warning alarms ran through your head and suddenly the shivers weren't from the cold. You forced your eyes to focus back and when you did you finally saw them clearly.

"So there she is, finally with us sweetheart?" Commander Iago's voice ringed in your ears.

"Is this the little girl that is causing so much trouble? She looks so delicate, so breakable."

The second was a voice you did not recognize, it was almost melodic.

"I'm afraid her powers are the danger here, nothing more. We are taking the powers away from her like we agreed."

The new information registered in your brain, you didn't call him out on his lie- not yet at least, not when you actually have an advantage.

"You told me," you could see his eyes widen. "That you know about my powers, so at least be decent and tell me about them before you drain them out of me."

"Go ahead, tell her." The Hydra commander swallowed loudly before he let out a laugh.

"Well, did it ever occur to you that maybe your encounter with a deity left some marks on you?"

"What are you saying?"

"Dear Loki must have put some ancient spell on you not knowing it would cause what it did."

Oh. Then you cast your eyes down and let it register in your brain. All the incidents, the weapons…

"And how would you know about Loki? Who are you?" you looked into those dark grey eyes.

"I guess you're not used to this kind of grace to recognize royalty. I'm Princess Iyllir, wife of your dear little Loki."

"Oh you're no princess." You won't let her see what you were feeling, the effects of her words.

"I will be soon, he was so eager to marry me. I must say I understand why you liked him," she leaned down to you a bit. "He certainly comes with perks with that silver tongue of his."

You knew he was never yours, but hearing her say that only put salt on your open wound.

"He is probably waiting in bed for me, so I should go. But I hope you'll have fun here, it's not like you will be staying with us for long." She then looked back at the agent. "Good job with her, I want you to finish this as soon as possible.

"Yes of course." You saw him pull the remote in his hand and your heart started to race when they put a mouth guard, tears gathered in your eyes as he pressed it and the pain began again.

•

"How did you not know that Mike is Hydra?" Steve yelled at Tony.

"We must have missed him somehow but we don't have time to blame me for that! The question we need to ask is how do we not know of other Hydra bases?" Bruce took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes.

"Wasn't he working in analysis?"

"F.R.I.D.A.Y, scan everything Mike worked on ever since he and Y/N got together."

"It's his fault."

"Yeah we know- he kidnapped her."

"It's Loki's fault. Everything went wrong after he got here." Steve kicked over a chair and paced the room.

"Steve let's not focus on the blame right now, we need to focus on finding Y/N." Bucky put a hand on his friend's shoulder until he looked up at him and he shot him a reassuring smile. "We all care about her, it's not just you."

"I know Buck, sorry."

"Why would Hydra target her?" Natasha thought out loud.

"It must connect to everything that is going on with their Asgardian technology." Clint sat down next to Tony.

"What about the Asgardian things they stole?" Thor walked into the room and everyone stared at him.

•

One month ago in Asgard…

"The view from here is beautiful, isn't it?" Grey eyes looked up at him. Iyllir and Loki sat on a bench in the balcony of his room, the skies were clear and the sun shone bright.

He spent the day with the girl. They read books together and she was good conversation, he knew that.

"It is." He looked over all that was below them, the gardens and workers and surrounding all of that were the palace walls.

"It's been lovely spending more time with you, I'm sure the wedding will go splendidly!" she gushed to him and sat ever so closer to him. "It's so soon too."

It really was soon, Loki knew that. You were still there though, all around in his mind. In a crowd he sometimes thinks he sees your face, but he didn't.

He knew he was just chasing shadows, trying to keep himself away from Iyllir but it was of no use, the wedding is soon and he needs to forget about you. He looked over to her.

"I look forward to our new start together." She smiled back at him.

He tried to think clearly, he had to get over you somehow.

The girl in front of him was as beautiful as any Asgardian princess would be- from her soft eyes to her plump lips, and to the rest of her figure. She was smart and perfectly polite like any lady should be.

In the last four months he got to know her better, he couldn't deny her kindness and if only he could forget you he knows he might be satisfied with her.

He had to forget you.

He gently grabbed her chin, moving it slightly upwards to him. He had been dragging this for months, denying it all but the wedding is already planned and he wanted this, he couldn't live in the shadows anymore.

Loki saw the look of surprise on the redhead's face but it soon turned lustful when she leaned up as he leaned down to her. He captured her lips in his and gave it his all; there was no turning back now. She tasted sweet; he brought her even closer to him, deepening the kiss, starting to feel her lust take over him as well.

•

Tags: @ayybtch @buckys-other-punk @chaoticpete @madcrazy50 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @the-departed-potato @rogerrhqpsody @onceupona-happilyeverafter-love @percabethismyotp14

#my writing #bad blood #loki x reader #loki odinson x reader #loki #loki series #loki odinson #loki laufeyson #angst #loki imagine #loki fanfiction #1989 #1989 taylor's version #loki angst #loki layfeyson x reader #taylor swift

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megsironthrone · 3 years

Text

Meg's Game of Tales: Tale 1

*familiar characters are, of course, not mine! And the original fairytale is the work of the Brothers Grimm!*

Warnings: Slightly dark, especially toward the end. Some steam?? Angst. Probably an overuse of variants of the word "wolf", and Oberyn is a warning all his own.

Pairings: Oberyn x fem!reader

As you walked through the village, you could almost drown in the fear and anxiousness. That meant only one thing. The wolf had come out again and the people were scared. But not you. You'd never been afraid of the wolf not even when you had grown up to the age of the girls that disappeared. The bodies of the wolf's victims were always found. Except for the young women, usually between 17 and 25. Their bodies were never found.

"Come along. We need to get to your grandmother's," your mother said, pulling your arm gently. You followed after her and used your free hand to wrap your red cloak tighter around you. Winter was coming as was evident by the light coating of snow on the ground and trees.

"Coming, Mother." Your mother smiled at you before you heard a call of her name. You realized that another villager needed your mother's help. You weren't surprised. She was a midwife. She was needed all the time. "Go on. I can get this basket to Grandmother's. I'm not a child any longer and I know the way." Your mother bit her lip, thinking if it was a good idea. When her name was called again, she sighed.

"Very well. Go as quickly as you can, stay on the path, and whatever you do, never-"

"Take off the hood," you finished at the same time. You heard the speech every single full moon. The cloak had been a hand-stitched gift from your grandmother. According to legend, wearing a red clock could keep the wolf at bay and you would be safe. You weren't sure you believed that, but you humored your grandmother by wearing it every time you went out and especially during the full moon.

Leaving your mother with a kiss, you headed out of the village and into the dank, dark woods. To many, the woods seemed haunted. A place no one should ever dare to enter. However, your grandmother lived just on the other side of the wood and you knew your path. You'd been walking it at least once a week for your entire life. The woods held no fear for you. At least, usually.

You took your first step into the trees just as the sun beginning to set. If you hurried, you could be at your grandmother's house just after dark. The basket you carried with your grandmother's food for the week was clutched firmly in your hand as you walked deeper into the woods. A little hum of a song escaped your throat while you walked. For some reason, you felt at home here and it made your steps lighter. You almost felt like skipping until you heard a noise, causing you to freeze on the spot.

"Hello?" you called but received no reply. After a moment of silence you shrugged your shoulders and kept walked. This time, however, you felt like you were being watched. If you hadn't known better, you'd swear you heard a growl. You were so focused on the strange sounds that you never heard him coming.

A scream tore from you when you felt two arms around your middle. You nearly began crying until you heard a familiar voice in your ear. "It is not safe for you to be outside, Flower." You relaxed instantly, spinning in the arms of your lover. "You scared me," you admitted. That earned a cheeky grin. "It's not funny, Oberyn!" He laughed out loud that time before capturing your lips in a searing kiss.

"However shall I make it up to you, my flower?" You rolled your eyes and bit your lip. "Meet me tonight? You know I'll have to stay at Granny's tonight. I could use the company." Oberyn gave you that dazzling smile you loved. "Only if I can sneak in your window. The cold doesn't agree with me, as you know." You giggled. Of course you knew. If you were being honest, it was the cold of the last winter that ended up being the reason you found your way into Oberyn's bed.

"I have to go. I'll see you tonight?" He nodded and kissed you again before leaving you for the time being. With your rendezvous with Oberyn planned, you turned back toward your grandmother's house with newfound energy and determination.

Your grandmother greeted you with a hug and a smile before letting you in. You went to remove your cloak, but a sharp noise from her stopped you. "Y/N, we've told you never take off the hood. Not even inside. Not when the wolf is about." You bit back a sigh. You couldn't understand why she and your mother were like this. It was just a cloak. Surely they didn't really believe it had some kind of magical power attached to it to keep the wolf at bay. Nevertheless, you kept it on until you could retire to the room your grandmother kept for you.

After a sweet, "goodnight, Granny," you closed and bolted the door behind you. As soon as you were safely tucked away, you removed the heavy cloak. "Finally," you breathed out. You began bouncing in anticipation of Oberyn coming to see you. And it didn't take him long. "Little Red, let me in or I'll huff and puff and-" you threw open the window and shushed him. "Granny will hear you. Get in here."

Oberyn hopped in the window, gracefully landing on your bed. You let out a soft giggle. "You are ridiculous." He shrugged before pulling you down with him. He laced his fingers with yours and you hummed in content. You glanced at your joined hands. "You have such big hands." He chuckled while using his free hand to grip your waist. "All the better to hold you with." You rolled your eyes. "My what a wicked tongue you have." Oberyn shifted so your back was on the bed and he hovered over you. "All the better to taste you with," he whispered as his lips pressed against yours fervently.

*time skip*

You awoke the next morning to a pounding at your door. You bolted upright and glanced around in confusion. Oberyn was gone and you were alone once more. "Y/N! Open the door!" you heard your mother call out. You shot out of bed and unbolted the door. "Oh thank the g- Why didn't you answer? And where is your cloak?!" your mother cried, wrapping you in a hug.

"I was asleep, Mother. What is going on?" Your mother exchanged a glance with your grandmother. "The wolf was here. Took out a few of Granny's chickens and sheep. We found tracks outside your window. Both human and wolf." You instantly froze. Had the wolf gotten to Oberyn when he left you? You ran to the window and glanced down. Sure enough there were human and wolf tracks. You grabbed your cloak, pushed passed your family, and went outside to investigate.

Upon closer inspection, you realized that the footprints were both coming and going from your window. But worse than that, they seemed to disappear when the wolf tracks started. Your eyes widened. You'd read stories of wolves that could be human all the time except at the full moon. Then they turned into ruthless monsters. Wolves. Werewolves.

The next thought that came to you nearly had you sinking to your knees. The only person that had been near your window the night before was Oberyn. Was he the wolf? Could the man you loved be the wolf that terrorized the village? You didn't want to believe it. It was almost better to believe that the wolf had carted him off. But you knew that wasn't true when you saw his form rushing toward you.

"Are you alright?!" he demanded, "I heard the wolf had been here. Y/N? Flower, are you alright?" You nodded, not really seeing him but the monster you thought he might be. "I need to talk to you. Alone," you whispered, "Meet me in an hour at our spot." Oberyn's brow furrowed in confusion, but he agreed and left after pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You had to dodge a hundred questions about where you were going when you headed off to meet Oberyn a little while later. You didn't need your family worrying any more than they already were. So when their backs were turned, you snuck out. As you passed by your window, you did you best to ignore the footprints that were slowly being covered in new fallen snow. If you looked, you'd lose your courage.

Oberyn was already waiting for you when you arrived at your spot. He moved to hug you, but you stepped back. The look of hurt that crossed his face almost had you backing down. It was so out of place. "Flower?"

"Are you the wolf?!" you blurted out, unable to stop yourself. Your eyes met Oberyn's and he laughed. "Don't be ridiculous, Y/N." He grinned at you, but this time, there was something different there. Something sinister. He took a step toward you and you backed away. He put his hands on his hips, shaking his head and chuckling under his breath.

"You truly don't know, do you? Very well. I suppose there's no sense in lying to you anymore. But I am not the only one. There's more than one wolf. There always has been. The problem is, once these girls reached the age of 17 and their wolves started fighting to get out, they had no control. I had to do something. So they had to disappear. Believe me, it hurt me just as much. Losing potential pack members is never easy on me."

"You killed them. You really are the wolf. I was hoping…" you trailed off. Your head was spinning. You really had hoped you were wrong. But there was no denying it now; Oberyn was the wolf. Oberyn shrugged a bit. "I couldn’t have a pack of unruly wolves and I didn't have time to train them all to control it. So yes, I hunted them down and carted them off. I was protecting the villages, as I have always done."

"Protecting them?! You've slaughtered dozens of women!" Oberyn shook his head with a sigh. "Slaughtered is a rather harsh term, Flower. As I said, they would have harmed those that aren't wolves deep down. As the Alpha wolf, it my job to keep them in line." You licked your lips. "And what about me? Where do I fit in all of this? The cloak doesn't really protect me from wolves like you, does it?"

Oberyn blinked in surprise for a moment before throwing back his head in laughter. You crossed your arms over your chest and waited for his fit to be done. You didn't appreciate being laughed at at a time like this. "Oh my dear Flower. The cloak was never meant to protect you from me. Once you came of age, it was meant to protect everyone…from you." It was your turn to laugh.

"Right. So you're saying that I'm-" Oberyn's lips were still turned up in a sly grin as your brain struggled to make the connection. It wasn't possible. Absolutely impossible. Oberyn continued on, his fingers playing the edge of your cloak. "Your grandmother was smart, I'll give her that. But she read the wrong information. The red cloak doesn't protect against the wolf's attack. It prevents the wolf from changing at all. Except you, my naughty Little Red, never seem to remember your grandmother's most important rule. Never," he began, taking a step closer to you, "Take. Off. The. Hood."

Your back was pressed up against a tree now. Your heart raced a mile a minute as did your brain. One look in Oberyn's eyes told you that he was absolutely telling you the truth. You were a wolf too. And it made sense. The insistence of your grandmother to where the cloak. The fact that you weren't afraid of the wolf. The fact that your grandmother always lost a few sheep whenever you stayed overnight with her.

But that meant you were still in danger from him. For the first time, you were actually afraid of what would happen next. "W-What are you going to do?" you asked. Your voice was barely above a whisper. Oberyn chuckled darkly, his mouth hovering just by your ear as one hand supported him against the tree and the other moved your throat. "Oh, Flower, haven't you guessed? I'm going to make you mine. Forever."

The End??

(a/n: I hope you enjoyed our first tale! Come back next week for tale #2! Tag lists for Meg's Game of Tales are open and separate from my normal taglists!)

#meg's game of tales #game of thrones #fairytale au #little red riding hood au #oberyn martell #oberyn martell x reader #oberyn x reader

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imnotrevealingmyname · 4 years

Text

When A God Gets Lost

Chapter 1

Summary: There are bad ways to travel; then, there are terrible ways to travel. Teleporting to another dimension through the Æther is the latter, apparently. But as the old Bengali adage goes, even tigers will eat grass when they're starving.

Maybe a Midgardian from a different dimension isn't such a bad travel companion after all.

Author's note: This is my submission for the @allaboardthereadingrailroad 's Marvel Diversity Challenge. The OFC is an Indian- a Bengali, more specifically.

Tags: @what-just-happened-bro @is-it-madness @myraiswack @green-valkyrie @teenagereadersciencenerd @ohdearhiddles @whatafuckingdumbass @poetic-fiasco @mrs-wolfhard @your-favourite-skittles @lehuka123 @kellatron55 @shiningloki @latent-thoughts @outlawangel2020 @loki-yoursaviourishere

Warnings: Gore, mild violence, mentions of death.

Loki had known this would come to pass. He had known what he had signed up for, when he'd agreed to accompany Thor to Svartalfheim.

He'd even welcomed his own death.

At the time, the sweet prospect of release had seemed to be a gift from Valhalla.

So he hadn't tried to stop it from happening.

Except, he had.

Blood dripping from his mouth, Loki struggled to let go of strings of seiðr desperately anchoring him to his body.

Dust settled on his mottled blue skin. His ears were ringing, and blacks spots seemed to have been tattooed into his retinas.

If not for the pain, Loki would've laughed at the irony of the situation. Once again, despite all his orchestrations, he was a helpless spectator, strung tight while instincts battled brain.

White hot pain seared his entire body, radiating from the wound to his extremities, as he fought to make the tendrils of seiðr retreat. Unfortunately, it was tied to his genes, bound intricately to the essence of his consciousness. It kept him from slipping into the much anticipated slumber, tightening its hold exponentially.

Numbly, Loki thought of all the times he had heard people talk about life flashing before one's eyes before the final rest settled in.

Loki saw nothing, however. The only thing that passed before his eyes was the dreaded vision of violet sparks of seiðr curling around his own, slowly drawing his life force from him.

The salt of his tears mixed with the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. This helplessness was something he had vowed to never fall into, ever again. But here he lay, defeated yet victorious, in a veritable stream of his own blood, fighting the very instincts that had brought him thus far in life.

Odin, Frigga, Thor… Asgard. They had all taken everything from him, everything he had ever treasured. Self worth, family, his very identity…

Loki had hoped that he could find it in death. Who he really was.

But no, he had been stripped of that luxury, too. Not once, not twice… several times. Twice at his behest, and several times at another's, humiliated and agonized.

Maybe I should stop fighting.

But that wasn't who he was. Loki may not have known who he truly was, but he knew what he wasn't. He had never been one to stop fighting.

But what am I fighting for? Will this right my transgressions? Their transgressions?

Maybe sometimes… to stop fighting was to land the ultimate blow.

Gasping for breath, pain ripping his innards to shreds, he looked down at his midriff. There it was; his seiðr. The only measure of identity he had left. It was flowing from his fingers, from his mouth, weaving between his wounds, holding him together in every sense.

Loki's head fell back as he gave in to it, letting his instincts take over.

He didn't know how much effect his seiðr would have, but seeing as he couldn't do anything about it, apparently…

Unfortunately, he had underestimated the power of his own magicks. Seiðr, in every form, was sentient in its own right. Unbeknownst to Loki, continuous exposure to two infinity stones had affected his own magic in several subtle ways. Seiðr learns from itself and grows- he had learnt this even before he knew how to speak complete sentences.

Never had he thought that magic of such cosmic levels could mingle with his own.

Until he saw a few straggling fragments of the Æther hovering around his limp form.

In its urgency to revive him, his seiðr had drawn the Æther to itself, having turned into something resembling a magnet for cosmic powers.

To his horror, the bloodred fragments of the Æther clustered around him, forming a small tornado of dust and seiðr, swooping in to throw an eerie light over him.

The light only grew in intensity. The pain was lessening- his body was almost completely numb now. Wind howled in his ears, and flashes of green and red blinded him.

Satisfied with its work, his seiðr rose to greet the Æther.

Loki had been completely pinned to the ground. He struggled to look down, and saw that the wound had healed almost all the way through- enough to let him survive.

Immediately, he tried to draw back the seiðr. Enough damage had been done, he didn't need any more adventures.

The seiðr had other ideas, apparently.

Green and red danced together, shimmering and singing a shrill, haunting tune that rattled Loki to the core, producing a stab of pain in his gut.

Oh. His seiðr could only do so much. The spear that had impaled him must've been poisoned…

Which meant that his control over his seiðr was limited, and it knew it.

And thus, it was trying to regain strength by sapping it off the one of the most dangerous entities in all of the Realms.

Unlike normal seiðr, the Æther- as well as the other Infinity Stones- needn't be bound to an individual. They had their own separate existence.

Loki didn't even want to know what might happen if it bound itself to him.

Unfortunately, the velocity of the mingling magicks was growing, forming a pitch black void above him.

Fuck.

A sound of surprise and shock was the last thing that left his mouth before he was sucked into the vortex.

A deep rumble ran through the entirety of Svartalfheim when the dust settled- almost as though the Realm heaved a sigh of relief.

----

Aakshya's head hurt. Half an hour on the Arambagh local train with two three year olds bawling their lungs out less than two metres away could do that to anyone.

The last few days weighed down on her. It was all so surreal. Her last living relative- the last one she had been on good terms with, anyway- was gone.

Aakshya sighed softly, adjusting her glasses as her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them away. It wasn't surprising, not really. Her great aunt had been quite aged, but losing her was still a blow she wasn't quite prepared to deal with.

At least here, she could mourn in peace.

The Chandur forest had always been her happy place. After very long weeks at work, she had a habit of spending the weekend in a small resort here, sometimes. It was just quiet enough to help her recuperate.

The resort was still half an hour away. She decided to take her time today.

The sky was darkening, and she could see the moon through the spaces between the canopies of the trees.

The moon seemed larger today. Or maybe that was just the tears in her eyes.

She sped up a little, a prickly feeling spreading over her nape.

Were the trees rustling a bit more than usual? No, that must've been the wind… right?

Aakshya stopped dead in her tracks, clutching her bag tightly.

To her right, someone stumbled in the dark, groaning deeply and uttering a string of incoherent words in a language she couldn't recognize.

Maybe it was just the owner of the resort... Though why would she be here? Wouldn't she be at the resort itself?

"Sukanya Di, tumi?"she called out timidly. "Tumi ekhane ki korcho?" Is that you, Sukanya? What are you doing here?

She whipped around, frightened.

The sight that greeted her eyes was unnerving.

A blue-skinned, armour-clad man, covered in blood, was half sprawled on the ground, chest heaving as he struggled to rise.

The weirdest thing was that he was surrounded by red and green light that seemed to be trying to enter his body.

Aakshya stumbled backwards- but then she yelped when the man's hand shot forward and grabbed her upper arm, preventing her from fleeing.

"What is this place?"he rasped, using her as support to pull himself up to full height. Aakshya's eyes widened- he was over a foot taller than her, and he seemed to have been impaled clean through his chest.

Judging from the blood, the wound was fresh; but it was already closing in front of her eyes.

What in the world-

"I asked you something, mortal,"he snapped, shaking her a little. It affected his balance, apparently, because he swayed dangerously, catching himself by steadying himself against a nearby tree.

"Are you- is this some kind of a prank?"she squeaked, trying to pry his fingers off of her.

The man growled, and then coughed up a little more blood. "Answer the bloody question, girl."

"Earth, we're on Earth,"Aakshya managed, now fighting to get out of his hold. "Unhand me, you-"

If the fact that a man who had been impaled quite recently was stronger than her was a matter of concern, it didn't strike her then, as she attempted to scratch and bite him. The man merely grunted in annoyance, retaliating by giving her another shake.

"You're lying,"he snarled. "This cannot be Midgard."

"I don't know what's going on, but-"

"Unless… no…" He seemed to be speaking to himself now, though his scarlet eyes were on her.

It was completely dark now, and Aakshya was in the hold of some creep in a forest.

Well, I'm fucked.

----

Loki couldn't believe how bad his luck was. His chest stung with every laboured breath, and the Æther was still swirling around him, and now he had been transported to a different dimension.

He could feel it.

Which meant…

There were two of him in this dimension alone.

Oh, fuck.

Meanwhile, the girl was still trying to free herself from his grasp.

Loki gave her a crooked grin. "Looks like you're stuck with me now."

She gave him a look of outrage. "No, I-"

"What's your name?"

She seemed to quell under his gaze. "Aakshya."

"Pretty name. I'm Loki, God of Mischief and Father of Magick."

Aakshya scowled, trying to hit him. "Look, if this is some weird cosplay thing, I'm really not in the mood-"

Loki sighed, using the dredges of his seiðr to still her. "Girl, I've been impaled with a poison tipped spear and thrown into a different dimension, so I'm not in the mood for your tantrums."

Her eyes bulged with rage and she tried in vain to bite him.

"How about you and I go on a nice little walk, hmm? I can sense your loneliness and heartache, girl. I am very perceptive,"Loki said with a small smirk. "I can help you, if you help me. What say you?"

"I say you're a dangerous, senile man who's a bit too obsessed with mythology,"Aakshya spat, struggling to move.

Loki laughed softly. "Oh, but a little danger never hurt."

#loki #imnotrevealingmyname #loki (marvel)#loki fanfic #loki smut #fanfic #fanfiction #tw death #gore #blood #fix it fic #marveldiversitychallenge

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hookedonapirate · 4 years

Text

Trick or Treat

A/N: It feels so great to post again. I've been in a writing slump for several weeks now, so I wanted to write something short and sweet to get the writing juices flowing. Thank you @hollyethecurious for your ideas for the premise and @darkcolinodonorgasm for Killian’s costume!

Rated: Teen and up for mature language

“Well, that’s disturbing.” Emma grimaces at the zombie gnome with gnarly teeth, reaching out with dirt and blood covered hands like he's coming out of the ground to get them. Even though it's not real, the graphics are enough to give a kid nightmares.

“That’s so cool, Mommy!”

Well, any kid who’s not her seven-year-old son that is. Henry runs down the sidewalk, his oversized hat falling off his head. He’s a ball of energy most days, but tonight, he’s extra energetic, and he hasn’t even had any candy yet.

“Kid, your hat!” She follows after him, picking up his hat from the winding walkway which is lined with jack-o'-lanterns on each side. But as she passes each one, she’s surprised when she realizes these aren’t just typical jack-o'-lanterns with a mouth, nose and eyes carved into them. No, these are intricately crafted jack-o'-lanterns. One is carved into a haunted house, one is a graveyard full of ghosts, another looks like a skull from afar, but up close, it appears to be carved into long stem mushrooms and grass. Her favorite is the pumpkin carving that mimics a scene from the Nightmare Before Christmas.

Like seriously, who has time to carve out all these pumpkins? And why weren’t the Jack-o'-lanterns on display as she had seen at the Night of 1,000 Jack-o'-lanterns at the Chicago Botanic Garden? Whoever carved these has some ridiculous artistic talent. They are also way too into Halloween, because their yard is all decked out. There are games set up on tables in the yard, skeletons and ghosts hanging from the trees and tombstone yard signs all over.

As she walks up the steps to the house, fake fog sweeps around her feet, the porch is covered in fake cobwebs with large spiders and the porch railing is lined with decorated jars, “potions”, skulls and other Halloween themed knickknacks. She laughs at the potion bottle labeled, “love potion.” When she reaches the door, which is wide open, a group of kids in cute costumes gathered around waiting for treats, she’s expecting the three looney witches from Hocus Pocus to emerge from the house.

When a man in a black top hat, tailcoat and a cane appears through the door with a bowl full of candy, she realizes how wrong she is.

Boy, is she wrong.

Holy shit, he’s gorgeous. His skin looks ghostly white from the makeup on his face and he's wearing a brown curly mustache, but those vivid blue eyes are so very blue, even in the dark and under the hat he’s wearing. She’s afraid those eyes will set her on fire when he looks at her.

“Trick or treat!” the children chorus.

Emma can’t take her eyes off the man as he excitedly hands out candy.

“I love your costume, lassie,” he compliments a little girl who's wearing an Elsa costume.

He has an accent? Holy hell.

The little girl frowns, clearly not understanding what he meant by lassie. “I’m not a dog, I’m Elsa.”

He chuckles, dropping a candy bar into her pumpkin bucket. “My apologies, Elsa. Please don’t blast me with ice.”

“Thank you, mister,” she says cheerfully before scurrying down the steps to meet her parents at the end of the walkway.

“Trick or treat!”

The man looks toward the small voice, seeing Henry approaching him. He grins big and wide, which makes him look much creepier than he already looks in his costume. Creepy, but sexy. “Well, hi there. Captain Hook, I presume?”

Henry nods his head and opens his Halloween sack, using his plastic hook to hold one of the straps.

“Very nice costume, lad. My favorite one so far.”

“Thank you. I made it,” Emma boasts with a smile as she steps behind her son, placing the hat on his head. She’s not normally one to brag, but then again bragging doesn’t normally afford her the opportunity to talk to ridiculously handsome strangers.

The man looks up, and when his eyes finally connect with hers, he completely steals her breath. She was wrong. His smoldering blue eyes don’t set her on fire, but they do make her melt.

And his heavy stare makes her skin tingle.

“You made this lovely costume?”

She waves her hand nonchalantly. “It was easy. Just took a red, long-sleeved shirt, some ribbon and slapped some red felt and white feathers on a straw hat and voila.”

“Very impressive, lass.” He glances at her shirt briefly before returning his eyes to hers. “Did you also make your costume?” he asks, his eyes dancing with mirth. He must have been referring to her red leather jacket and white t-shirt that reads, “This IS my Halloween costume.”

Emma laughs. “No, I bought it on Amazon.”

“Wow, Mom, check this out! Full-size candy bars!” Henry shouts excitedly when the stranger deposits the candy bar into his sack.

Emma tears her eyes from this man’s mesmerizing blue ones to see the full-size Snickers bar Henry’s holding out to show her. “Huh, people actually do give out full-size candy bars.” She looks up at the man. “I’m impressed. Let me guess, you also carved those pumpkins, too?” she asks, pointing to the pumpkins in his yard.

He nods with a small smile. “I did. You’d be amazed by what I can do with these hands,” he says smugly.

Emma wants to roll her eyes, but she can’t deny she very much wishes to find out exactly what he can do with those hands. Instead, she flashes a sarcastic smirk. “So who are you supposed to be, Jack the Ripper?”

He chuckles. “Not quite. I’m a gentleman from the Victorian Era. A devilishly handsome gentleman, may I add.”

She cocks a brow, laughter bubbling in her throat. “If by a devilishly handsome gentleman, you mean creepy.”

He sets down the candy bowl and surprises her when he takes her hand in his and lowers his head, murmuring softly as he looks up at her. “The name’s Killian Jones. And it just so happens, I’m always a gentleman. Not just on Halloween.” His touch sears her skin, then he presses his lips to the back of her hand and it feels like electrical currents are surging through her. Her breath catches, and she’s worried he will notice. Judging by the smirk spreading across her skin, he definitely noticed.

Emma turns her head, looking for her son, whom she spots in the yard playing games with the other kids, their parents supervising them. “I should get back to my son.”

This man actually pouts as he releases her hand. And it’s freaking adorable. “I told you my name and yet you haven't told me yours?”

She bites her bottom lip, contemplating whether she should or not. But then again, what’s the harm? It is a small town, so they’ll probably end up running into each other again at some point. “It’s Emma.”

He grins, making her heart melt. “Nice to meet you, Emma.”

“Likewise.”

He scratches behind his ear, which makes him look less creepy and even more adorable. “I’ve never seen you before. Are you new in town?”

“I’m from Chicago.”

“Well, love, welcome to Storybrooke.”

Oh. Now he’s calling her love? Can this man get any sexier? Jesus Christ. “Thank you.” She gives him a shy smile and turns to head down the steps.

“Wait. Before you go, I have a treat for you, too.”

She spins around, arching her brow. “Oh, that’s okay. Henry will share some of his candy with me.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “This treat is not for kids.”

Emma gulps. “What kind of treat did you have in mind?” Something salty? Her mind definitely did not go into the gutter there. Okay, it totally did.

He heads inside, then returns not a moment later with a caramel apple.

“A caramel apple?” She almost sounds disappointed. But she’s definitely not.

“Aye, but not just any caramel apple. It’s an adult caramel apple. So make sure you don’t share this with your lad.”

She eyes it suspiciously. “It’s not laced with love potion, is it?”

He chuckles and leans closer, whispering in her ear. “No. But it is laced with cannabis-infused butter.”

Emma smirks as she takes the caramel apple. “Wow, you really go all out on Halloween, don’t you?”

He shrugs. “You should come back around Christmas.”

“Oh God, you’re not one of those people who goes completely crazy with the Christmas lights and the decorations and Santa and his reindeer on the roof, are you?”

He shrugs again, donning a smirk. “Guess you’ll have to wait and find out.”

“Is that an invitation?” Because she's definitely not thinking about inviting him to get high and engage in hot, sweaty sex with her. Not at all.

“Perhaps. Do you and your son enjoy hot cocoa and watching Christmas movies in front of a cozy fireplace?”

She eyes the caramel apple and then glances up at him. “Does Santa enjoy adult cookies with his milk?”

His grin widens, making her heartbeat skyrocket out of her chest. “Aye, then it’s a date.”

Emma rolls her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips. “Not a date.” She doesn’t like the idea of waiting until Christmas to see him again, though.

His face clouds with guilt. Sorry, love, I just didn't see a wedding ring on your finger so I assumed-”

“I'm not married,” she clarifies, her cheeks flushing because of the fact that he was curious enough to check her hand for a ring. “Nor do I have a boyfriend. I'm single.” Very single. She's never been so glad to be single before.

He sighs in relief, which gives her the courage to say what's on her mind and to thankfully change the subject.

“You know, adult cookies aren’t just for Christmas...”

He cocks his brow, and good Lord, she really needs him to stop doing that, because it’s doing things to her breathing and her heart. “No? What other special occasions are they for?”

She shrugs. “Like a Saturday night, say next week when my parents are taking Henry for the weekend.”

His eyes flash with something she can only describe as excitement. Or anticipation, maybe? “But still not a date, right?”

She shakes her head. “Nope, just two adults enjoying their adult cookies.”

He laughs. “Okay, I’ll bring the apple cider.”

“Sounds like a date,” she says accidentally when she had meant to say Sounds like a plan. But she doesn't even bother correcting herself as her cheeks warm with blush. She backs away and manages to rip her eyes from him to turn around and head down the steps. She finds Henry playing a game with the kids and takes his hand, telling him it’s getting late. He leaves with a groan but doesn't make a fuss.

As they leave the yard, Emma turns around, getting one last glimpse of the devilishly handsome Victorian gentleman. He winks and smiles at her, making her heart stutter, and she blushes and walks away as she leaves with her son.

She had doubts when she moved to this small town to start over, but the warm feeling in her chest is telling her perhaps coming to Storybrooke wasn't a bad idea after all.

Tagging a few people who might be interested in reading:

@kmomof4 @teamhook @ilovemesomekillianjones @onceuponaprincessworld @artistic-writer @nikkiemms @snowbellewells @donteattheappleshook @itsfabianadocarmo @searchingwardrobes @melly326

#cs ff #captain swan #halloween

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yhs-silly · 4 years

Text

Match

Grian had a brother once, no one seemed to believe him. Not even his own mother seemed to believe him. But Grian had a brother, one that others couldn't see. He was soft to touch, sometimes he couldn't even hold Grian, but when he could it was soft and almost not there. His movements where janky and unnatural, he'd only learnt from copying Grian.

His name was Grian too, they were twins. They never got confused by this, the differences between them was obvious they thought; Grian was the physical one, and Grian was the one with the scars.

But Grian didn't want to be the only twin with scars, so every morning, Grian woke up with an extra scar, just like one of his brother's many scars. By the time he was ten, Grian had every scar his brother had- and neither of them would have it any other way.

Then the rabbit came along.

Grian got a brand new scar, right across his throat. It wasn't lethal but that wasn't the point, it was a scar- one that Grian had and his brother didn't.

Grian was crying, he sat on his brothers bed and sobbed. Grian watched him with a frown, not liking to see his brother in such distress. "What's wrong?"

Grian didn't even answer his brother's question, he just leant over and gently ran his finger along Grian's new scar.

Grian didn't need an answer, he just sighed. "I don't match..."

Grian nodded sadly, sighing quietly as tears fell down his face and twinkled into light. "The rabbit...he ruined everything..."

There was a pause, silence between the brothers before Grian pulled his brother into a gentle hug. "It's ok Grian, it's ok..."

"No!" Grian was crying. "No it's not! The stupid rabbit! He ruined everything! We don't match!"

Grian frowned and sighs. "What if...we made him match?"

Grian paused and tilted his head, looking at his brother courioisly. "We make him match..?" He was confused, it was always him that suggested hurting others, getting revenge and breaking rules. He never expected Grian to suggest something like that. His expression slowly grew into a grin.

Sam woke up to a strange sensation, he was being straddled. His hands are being held down above his head by a smaller, softer hand then his own. He blinked up in confusion only to be met with the glittering ocean eyes of his friend. "Grian..?"

Grian nodded and stayed silent, looking to his side for a moment before nodding again.

Sam raises his eyebrow and looks at the position they were in, chuckling a little. "Oooh, someone's needy huh?" He looks up at Grian with a smirk.

Grian slowly took a knife from his pocket and gazed at it carefully. "You're such a scumbag..."

Sam chuckled and licks his lips. "Says the guy that's doing all this, what's the knife for baby?"

Grian's expression is one of disgust and pure hatred, he took the knife and placed the tip to the side of Sam's throat. His lips tug into a little smile as he slowly breaks skin.

Sam gasps and winces a little from the pain, his expression reads confusion, his brows furrow a little. "Careful there, you're gonna make me bleed."

Grian rolls his eyes, then glances to the side, nodding slightly. "Yes I know, I didn't expect this kind of reaction either. No grian, no we can't *kill* him, that's *murder*."

Sam's blood ran cold, any thoughts of good times vanished as he heard Grian speaking...to himself? Sam had never once considered that Grian would actually be crazy...but now there was no doubt in his mind. "Grian...who are you talking to..?"

Grian looked back at him. "I'm talking to Grian? Duh?" By his face, you'd think Sam was the crazy one.

Sam frowned even more and tried to shuffle back but he was being held in place by Grian's surprigingly strong legs, but now wasn't the time to think about them. "But, you're Grian..."

Grian rolled his eyes. "my *brother*, idiot. I'm talking to my damn brother."

"We're the only people here..?" Sam wasn't sure now if Grian was messing with him or if Grian truly believed this... Either way it terrified him.

"Just get the job done and be done with it Grian, this is more annoying then we bargained for." Grian frowned, watching the rabbit his brother had pinned down with great irritation. The rabbit didn't deserve to match, but it was Grian's idea and he supposed he should support his darling twin's ideas.

Grian sighs and nods before turning back to Sam and slowly dragging the knife along Sam's throat, drawing blood and watching with fasinated eyes.

The pain was searing, unlike anything Sam had felt before. He had a moment of clarity when he realised...was this pain what Grian felt? When Sam had hurt him.... Sam wasn't sure if this was pain or guilt, but there were tears streaming down his face.

Grian cracked a small smile at that, he didn't know why he was enjoying this so much be he was. He gently removed his hand from holding Sam down and placed it gently on the rabbits cheek. He smiles and tilts his head a little, going over the scar again. "You're going to match... aren't you excited?"

Sam just blinked up at him, eyes burning from the tears. He didn't dare move his arms from their position, he just stared. "Wh-what..?"

Grian gestured to his own scar. "See? Like mine, we're going to match Sammy, aren't you excited?"

Sam's eyes went wide, he never once thought his actions could come back to haunt him like this...was this his fault? This really was the wake-up call Sam didn't know he needed. He silently vowed never to hurt someone like this again, the pain was unbearable.

Grian frowned at his brother, he was getting a little worried. "Grian? Grian? Bro I think you're getting too carried away, you don't want the rabbit to die." He reached out and put a gentle hand on his twin's arm.

Grian nodded and put the knife down. "Alright... I'll go back to bed..." He left the room and Sam slowly moved his arms down, still shaking.

He glanced over to his phone, an old screensaver of Yuki showed the time. Sam sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He used to think he was crazy, maybe he was...but his type seemed to be entirely insane cuties and he really didn't know what to do...

But hey, Grian seemed very sentimental about them matching...that has to be good right?

#yhs #yhs grian #yhs sam #yhs taurtis #match

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shipersanonymous · 4 years

Text

One Hit West

Chapter 2/?

Note:

Apologies for the delay. I'm trying to develop different works simultaneously and things slip from my grasp at times but I'm working on a schedule so hopefully I'll be able to update more regularly from now on.

This is a very subtle chapter (emotion wise) cause I'm planing on packing quite a bit of information into the next one. Hope we're all fans of dramatic irony cause this fic is about to have you hating me. 😂💜

Enjoy 😍

XOXO

****** Cliffhanger Warning ******

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

[Barry]

“Mind if I join you Mr. Allen?”

Her breath caresses his ear and Barry freezes mid twiddle. The chip he had been playing with slips from his grasp and clatters onto the table just as the ball bounces into its final destination on the wheel. The crowd around cheers, celebrating yet another of his victories but Barry is much too shocked to react.

“What luck,” She mewls, settling down on the chair beside him. The ghostly voice of affairs past sends shivers down his spine and he suddenly loses track of where he is. As he looks over at the lean legs crossed beside him he swallows down the knot forming in his throat, a distant memory fluttering to the surface.

Those same legs wrapped around his naked body as he looked up into brown cesspool eyes that burned with a lust filled glow. His surroundings grow hot as his body comes to life with the memory of the silk smoothness of her skin. The gentle teasing of her touch. The searing hunger of her kiss.

Barry tries, to no avail, to find the courage to look up at her face as a subtle pang begins to prick at his heart. It burns from a distance hurting more and more the closer it gets. Just before it breaks through and consumes him completely, she rests her dainty hand over his heart and the burn seems to die out, replaced with a fire of a different kind. Somehow it doesn’t come as a surprise that after all this time his body still has this strong a reaction to her. He’s been faithful to her despite the fact that they are no longer an item. He can’t bring himself to find love in another woman’s arms. To lose himself in eyes that aren’t hers. To explore the secrets of a body that doesn’t belong to her. Heartache or not, he loves her and the distance has only made his heart (and other body parts) grow fonder.

“Wanna get out of here?” she whispers into his ear and his heart nearly leaps out of his chest. The sound of her voice drips like water on his deserted body, reviving a part of him that died in his youth. He thought he’d never hear her voice again and now he doesn’t want it to go away. It’s all he can do to close his eyes and nod. His nose recognises the scent of her perfume, further reactivating a part of him that has been dormant for almost six years. A kiss lands on his cheek, the feel of her soft lips on his skin resembling the feeling of returning home.

“Iris,” her name rolls off his tongue for the first time in six years. It feels like singing to an old song he used to love.

“Come with me – Barry,” She whispers and a chill runs through him at the sound of his name on her voice. He nods, unable to speak but just before he stands he feels a sharp pain on his cheek. His hand flies to his face instinctively and his fingers come back bloody.

“Shit,” Iris curses under her breath before slipping off her heels and grabbing onto his hand.

“We need to go! Now!”

Before Barry can register what’s happening her arm is interlocked with his and she’s pulling him up from his seat.

“Wha-wha. What’s going on?” he stutters as she holds him tightly and leans in to him.

“Get ready to run,” She whispers but before he can ask her why she unearths a pistol from her clutch bag and fires one warning shot into the air. A stampede ensues and she yells:

“Run!”

Her hand finds his in the scuffle and they take off, heading for the exits.

“West!” A familiar voice behind them yells but Iris barely flinches as she leads them through the hysteric crowd. They make it into the parking lot and she looks around frantic then announces:

“I think we lost them.” She zips her head towards him and demands:

“Where’s your car?”

“Iris, what’s going on?” he asks between breaths. His emotions are running from nervous to happy to scared shitless, all within the same space of time.

“Barry we have no time for this right now. Where is your car?!” She insists with urgency and he takes out his keys and presses one of the three buttons on the remote. The sound of a car alarm being deactivated rings out through the space and seconds later a red Audi in mint condition breaks in front of them. She eye’s the vehicle in shock and a prideful grin spreads over Barry’s lips as he opens the passenger’s side door for her and says:

“After you.”

The shock melts from her features and the rigid determination takes over so naturally that he finds it almost disconcerting. Quick as a humming bird, she snatches the keys from him and walks around to the other side declaring:

“I’m driving.”

This time it’s Barry’s eyes that widen, though less in shock and more in fear.

“I – I’m not sure that’s s-such a good idea.” He advises but she gets in anyway and starts adjusting the seat.

“Iris, I really think you should let me…”

“Iris!” the same voice from before cuts his statement short and this time he recognises it all too well.

“Joe?” he asks dumbfounded, turning around to make sure his ears aren’t deceiving him. Low and behold Joe West is running towards them with a gun aimed straight at Barry’s head.

“Get in!” Iris yells as she starts the car and Barry obeys without hesitation. As soon as he slams his door shut she puts the car into drive and steps on the gas. She manoeuvres her way around the parking lot with the ease of a professional racer and Barry has to close his eyes to concentrate on not letting his heart jump out of his mouth. As soon as they reach the road she increases her velocity, meandering through the late night city traffic without breaking a sweat, the only sign of her effort being the crease of concentration on her brow.

Iris drives on like a speed demon till they turn off into the highway where she slows it down an insignificant notch.

“You can open your eyes now,” She says but Barry shakes his head in refusal.

“I’m not ready to look death in the eyes just yet.” He breathes out tremulously and she chuckles, almost disdainfully. Despite the stand-offish nature of the sound, it seems soft on his ears and excites him enough that he opens his eyes and stares at her, his fear completely forgotten.

“Hate to break it to yah Allen, but you just did.” She points out with an unconvincing smile.

“Um, yeah come to think of it… Why was your dad trying to kill me?” he asks, confusion making his voice climb a few octaves.

“I don’t know.” She responds curtly, the tension noticeable in her posture.

“But you knew that he was coming to kill me?” he asks the obvious.

“Yes.” Is her cold reply.

“Then how do you not know why?” he presses.

“I just don’t.” She responds, her tone still even.

“So…” he swallows, afraid of what he has to ask next.

“Why did you save me?”

Silence.

“I mean not that I’m not grateful or anything. But what if he had a motive? What if I were like a really bad guy and put a lot of people in danger?” he hurries to fill the sound gap, tripping over his words that sound unconvincing even to his own ears. Still, she doesn’t answer.

Iris keeps her eyes trained on the road ahead, her lips pressed into a thin line almost as if she’s containing herself. Trying to keep a restless secret in. Barry’s heart sinks. Hopeless as it may be, he still held on to a sliver of hope that a reunion was underway. That she would pull up someplace in the middle of no where and tell him that she made a mistake six years ago.

That she still loves him.

It might seem pathetic but he’d hold her then. He’d take her into his arms and kiss her so deeply he’d take away every thought and memory of time having passed. It would be like she never left, like she’d always been right there. Because truth be told she never did.

She haunted his head and weighed down his heart every second of every day since she said goodbye. Every moment he had to himself was spent turning over the leaves of their relationship, searching (in vain) for some clue to explain her sudden and rash action. It still doesn’t make sense, and now here she is, an arm’s stretch away from him. Every answer he’s been searching for all this time imprisoned behind her sealed red lips.

He wants to push but he fears that might make her even more guarded than she already is so he simply sighs and leans back into his seat.

“Can you at least tell me where you’re taking me?” he asks dully.

“Freeland.” She answers, short but not so sweet.

“Wait what? That’s, that’s like a three hour drive away. Why so far? Why not Star City? Or, or Keystone?” he asks worried.

“None of those cities include a place I can keep you safe in and I can’t have you bunking with people you know,” She answers, her tone matter-of-fact.

“Why the hell not?” he asks confused.

“Because at the moment your life is in danger and the people in your life are probably the reason why.” She answers her tone still steady.

“The people in my life? Are we forgetting the part where your father is the one that wanted to splatter my brain matter on the casino parking lot floor?” he asks incredulous, growing frustrated with all the confusion. Without waiting for a response he adds:

“And, I know you. I mean, how do I know you’re not taking me straight to him? That you’re not driving me to my death right this second?” She whispers

He bites into the inside of his lip, drawing blood, as she suddenly comes to a halt in the middle of the road. To their luck, the highway is practically deserted. She turns on the hazard lights and shifts in her seat to face him, her glare murderous.

“Allen? Are you or are you not a genius?” She asks and he diverts his gaze as his cheeks heat up at the compliment hidden in her question.

“Well I wouldn’t say I’m a genius exactly…” he bashfully stumbles over his words and she cuts him off with a:

“Just answer the question!”

“Yes,” he answers wide eyed.

“So does your genius brain think that there is a rational explanation as to why I would waltz into a casino and cause a full on public panic to get you out of my dad’s range of fire just to drive you two towns away to him?” She asks, her attitude biting away at his ego.

“Well when you put it like that…” he hangs his head.

“Allen!”

“No, there is no rational explanation.”

“Now that, that’s out of the way let me tell you something about myself. I’m not an irrational person. I don’t have time to make irrational decisions. So please don’t ever question my actions again.” She instructs and he keeps his head down as a silent,

“I’m sorry,” escapes his lips.

Iris readjusts her seating position and puts the car back into drive, leaving Barry feeling like a little kid in the principals office. The barely there purr of the car’s engine is the only sound between them as they take on the open road. In an attempt to make small talk he asks:

“Why are you calling me Allen all of a sudden? I preferred it when you called me by my name.”

“That was just a strategy to get you out of there. I knew that, considering our history, if I approached you under the guise of friendship it would be easier to lure you to safety. But you’re aware of the danger you face now so theirs no need for me to be gentle or manipulative. Barry’s too personal and Bartholomew’s too long. So Allen it is.” She responds, once again shutting down his attempt at starting a conversation with her precise answers. All the while her face remains stern, not even a twitch to betray her inner most thoughts.

“Too personal?” he asks in disbelief and an incredulous scoff rattles his chest, only barely hiding the sting her alienating words have caused.

“Wow. Six years apart and suddenly we’re strangers, huh?” he asks.

“Six years is a long time. People change.” She responds, and he blinks unable to formulate words as the sting turns into a full blown stab in his heart. Suddenly, his greatest fear is confirmed.

*She doesn’t love me anymore.*

The thought hits him like a slap to the face, crashing him back into reality. In to the pain he felt six years ago as he watched her run away from him.

“Nothing’s changed for me,” he whispers under his breath wondering if she heard it but too heartbroken to make sure. Instead he leans back and rests his head on the head rest, turning it so as to look at the rapidly changing scenery through the window. Silence takes over once more and this time he makes no attempt to fill it.

With no adrenaline left in his body, and the weight of his heavy heart seeming like an anchor trying to pull him under, Barry gives in to the physical exhaustion that seeps into his bones and drifts off too sleep.

…

“Barry? Barry, honey wake up you’re home.” She shakes him gently and he opens one groggy eye, then closes it again, a sleepy smile crossing his lips. Iris chuckles. After the late practise he’s just had he really is that tired but hearing Iris laugh is a much better reason to pretend to sleep, in his book.

“Are you finally awake?” She asks playfully, poking his side and Barry tries to snuff out a ticklish giggle.

“No,” he responds instead.

“Oh really?” She asks, her tone changing to sound a little more dangerous. Barry hears the sound of his seat belt being unbuckled before he feels the strap return to its place by the door. A rustle follows that peaks his curiosity but he stubbornly keeps his eyes closed.

The warmth of her body envelopes him suddenly and he feels her straddle his lap.

“If you’re so asleep you won’t feel me doing this then,” She whispers then her lips close over his. Instinctively he plants his hands around her waist and is surprised when he’s met with bare skin.

“Ah, ah, ah. You’re asleep remember? You’re not supposed to react.” She says, pulling his hands from her waist and keeping them at his sides. Iris trails kisses down his jaw to his neck, teasing him in a devilish way only she knows how.

“Iris,” he hisses, when she grazes his sensitive skin with her teeth. In one swift motion he frees himself from her hold and wraps his arms around her, pressing her to him as he attacks her lips. She laughs against his lips, planting her hands on his chest and applying enough force to pull herself from his embrace.

“Look who’s awake?” She says breathlessly, a triumphant grin playing on her lips. Barry finally opens his eyes and takes in the sight in front of him (or rather on top of him). Iris is sitting on his lap, completely shirtless save for her bright yellow, lace bra that compliments the chocolate of her skin. For a while he simply looks at her, mesmerised by the brilliance of her smile and the way her long locks fall to the side as she tilts her head ever so slightly. The street lights bathe her skin in orange rays that stream in from the windshield behind her. It all seems like a dream.

“What’s on your mind?” She asks, bringing his focus back into the real world and he does his best to offer her, his most charming smile but can’t manoeuvre his facial muscles to express anything but awe.

“That I wish I could wake up to you everyday.” He answers and her smile broadens.

“Let’s get through high school first then maybe we can arrange that.” She suggests while leaning into him and kissing him, soft and lingering.

Barry closes his eyes, losing himself in the feeling of her on him…

“Hey, wake up. We’re here.” Iris wakes him suddenly, her voice familiar but her tone far colder. Yet, still under the fog of sleep Barry blinks his eyes open and finds her hovering above him. She’s standing by his door, leaning over him, half in the car half out. The slightly orange tint, courtesy of the lights take him back to his dream and still shrouded in a cloud of incoherence Barry places his hand around the back of her neck and pulls her down for a kiss.

#westallen #barry and iris #iris west #the flash #the gold standard #flash fan #fanfic #flash fiction #barry allen #joe west #hitwoman

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thatswhatwaterslidesoff · 5 years

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ok since I have literal no chill here's a prompt ('cause I'm a mood for comfort + smoochy protective bf): something about that post with Zira nursing an old First-War injury to the leg that was borderline lethal, and Crowley finding out about it? Maybe it keeps bothering once he gets his body back after the Apocalypse That Wasn't, and Crowley comes to realize that one, he nearly lost /his/ angel before even meeting him and two, some of the despicable Hell gang Downstairs is responsible?

know what? i have absolutely no fucking chill either so here’s an accidental 4k+ long ficlet about aziraphale’s war wound and two traumatized old war veterans trying to cope in the aftermath of The First War and Armagedidn’t.

… i have nothing to say for myself

@coffeesugarcream

Aziraphale was many things. He was a lover of ancient books, prophecies of Armageddon (none of which turned out to be more hideous than what actually happened, despite the fervent imagination of humans, but that may simply be because he lived through it); he was a connoisseur of food and desserts and of wine. His skills in accounting were unparalleled. He was lovely and soft, by nature as well as by choice. However, under that initial softness, covered by tartan and too many layers of clothing, could be felt (and often would be, at every given opportunity, by Crowley) a steely pane of brawn that gave away his history as one of Heaven’s foot soldiers. That simmering warrior would always burn underneath, forever only to be brought out when the people he cared for were in dire need of it. This being said, the angel was also other things. A bit of a bastard, mischievous eyes, and secret smiles. He engaged in sin, which Crowley actively indulged in a benevolent way. The worst aspect of himself would probably be that he tended to keep things he should confide in Crowley to himself. Maybe it was pride or fear. His desire to protect Crowley, at all costs. He preferred not to look too closely. There were many things that had happened to Aziraphale that he kept to himself. His part in The First War was the main one, but neither of them talked about that with each other, ever unable to face the realities of that traumatizing battle despite eons of padding between then and now.

In the aftermath of the Armageddon-that-wasn’t, there was too much of an adrenaline high for Aziraphale to think about the phantom pain in his leg whenever he took a step. Delirium overtook him once they arrived at Crowley’s flat. Everything was a blur of touch and skin contact, the demon’s soft hisses and desperate writhing under his influence, that too pale skin flushed against the backdrop of silk sheets.. There was a far more pressing matter consider, such as saving Crowley and himself from the wrath of the combined forces of Heaven and Hell. That sort of fell into place on its own, from their union. Then he had to beat the pain back with a huge stick because he needed to be flawless while impersonating Crowley. Once that was taken care of, both of them back in their own bodies, the rush of it all bleeding out of him, there was nothing left to distract him, and his mind cast back to when he was first placed in this plump and comforting vessel. It had taken him nearly a century for the old war wound to settle into an insusceptible hum at the back of his mind, something that bothered him very rarely when he was feeling particularly lonely or on those occasional days when he felt outside of himself.

He almost felt guilty realizing that Madame Tracy must have felt the wound brush against her soul, too, and didn’t wonder why she was so ecstatic to be rid of him (Okay, that may have had to do with the fact that he was going to kill Adam, but really. People are complex and Aziraphale was certain that the soul searing pain within the area of his corporeal thigh was one of the reasons, too.) The angel resolved to send her and Shadwell wine every New Year and cards of their holiday choice for the rest of their lives for all the inconveniences he put them through. But Madame Tracy and Shadwell weren’t the problem. The problem was keeping up face in front of Crowley. Well, it wasn’t a problem, per say. More of a dilemma. Oh, Aziraphale knew the charade couldn’t last long. He was simply hoping he could hide his pain for at least a decade. His reasoning was that while Crowley hadn’t explicitly said, Aziraphale could connect the dots. The only way Crowley could have had Agnes Nutter’s Book of Prophecies was if he had gone into the bookshop during the fire. Aziraphale couldn’t see Crowley in the pub that day, yet Crowley’s broken, wet voice told the angel everything he needed to know. I lost my best friend would haunt him into eternity. Yes, telling Crowley would definitely have to wait.

As it was, Crowley- wonderful, attentive, intelligent, observant Crowley- picked up something was wrong the night they went home on the First Day of the Rest of Their Lives.

Everything had been going so perfectly. They had eaten a glorious lunch at the Ritz, which turned into wine, and eventually into dinner. Life around them was cast in the deep oranges and purples of the sunset when they left the building. Instead of their usual postures, hands in front or in pockets, never touching, they allowed their hands find each others half way. They returned, hand in hand, to the Bentley, and Crowley took them for a drive with absolutely no destination in mind. The soft old serpent actually had the courtesy to obey the speed limits for him until they were in deserted streets, where he allowed himself to speed along winding roads. Aziraphale couldn’t complain, channeling anxiety into exhilaration that pulsed through his human veins. He wanted to feel it. Both of them did. What Aziraphale most definitely did not want to feel was the pain, blossoming slowly and all-encompassing down his leg and reaching to grip just under his hip. Unfortunately, in this case, he did not get what he wanted. By the time they rolled into Soho, Crowley parking in his usual space in front of the bookshop, Aziraphale had to make a concerted effort to ignore his soul enduring agony.

Crowley popped out first, eager, to open the door for Aziraphale and the angel smiled politely, crows-feet at his eyes tightening when he lifted out of the car. Crowley’s easy smile faded. Damn.

“Anything wrong?”

“No, no, course not. What would give you that idea? I’m quite fine. Thank you.”

Not for one second did either of them think Crowley believed that. They were too smart, knew each other too well. Crowley’s jaw twitched, clearly trying to control a deep-seated heartache.

“Really, m’dear. It’s alright.” Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand, quickly. His free hand lifted to brush the backs of his fingers along Crowley’s jaw, take his lean cheek into its warm palm. Soft whisper, full of conviction, he continued, “It will be. I am on Our Side now.”

The Truth of that statement rang through them both on a spiritual level. Something calmed in the demon, his face softening in a way that always made Aziraphale’s breath hitch, and his head instantly tilted into Aziraphale’s hand to nuzzle, pushing the angel’s palm away with his nose to steal a quick, chaste kiss to the sensitive flesh right in the center. His own sinewy hand caught Aziraphale’s to twine their fingers together.

Aziraphale swallowed the pain in his soul and in his heart. “This is simply something I need bear for myself. For a time.”

“‘Course, if you’re sure.”

So Crowley let it slide. Six-thousand years of history told him that Aziraphale wouldn’t tell him until he was ready, and Crowley had built up six-thousand years worth of patience set aside only for him. He was simply happy that Aziraphale was no longer pushing him away. These thoughts made Aziraphale’s heart ache, almost tempted to tell but he couldn’t, unsure why. To protect Crowley, maybe, or maybe to protect himself from memories long since buried away in an antique chest at the back of his mind.

While Aziraphale fiddled with the keys to the door, unwilling to use a miracle to open it, Crowley suddenly caught his wrist. Something just occurred to him, something that couldn’t wait after all.

“Wait, angel.”

Aziraphale paused. He looked up at Crowley’s face with fluttering lashes. “Yes?”

“You would tell me, if whatever is going on with you had to do with..” He flapped his free hand. “Downstairs. Right?”

“Oh. Yes, of course. It has nothing to do with that. I would have told you.”

Part of Crowley doubted that, but he believed him. Being a demon, he could usually sense lies- that sense was a lot stronger with Aziraphale, if mostly because the angel was a terrible liar. “Yes, alright. Fine. Good.” He slid his hand back into Aziraphale’s to entwine their fingers.

Aziraphale beamed, squeezed Crowley’s hand, and popped the door to the shop open with a shove.

Once inside, the door closed and locked itself. Ambient luster from street lights poured in through the windows. Crowley took off his sunglasses, hid them away in his coat pocket, shining eyes vulnerable to Aziraphale in the semi-dark of the shop. It made the angel’s heart overcome with untold happiness, desirous to close what little physical distance was left between them. They crashed onto the couch, it feeling far more intimate than the idea of the barely used bedroom upstairs, their hands held together. Lazily, the pair of them touched, fingers sliding up each other’s sleeves, bodies leaning heavily together, soft kisses to foreheads and cheeks, never going too far. They were too tired and that could wait. They had all the time in the world. For now. Eventually, they let their exhausted souls rest, and Aziraphale never slept so easily as he did when his body was fit up against Crowley’s, warm and safe. It wasn’t a heavy sleep. His incorporeal form throbbed, fire and ice in a war that would never be won. But he could push it away, focus on the steady, snuffling breaths of the demon beneath him.

In the next few days, Crowley hung around the bookshop. The steadiness of him made Aziraphale all smiles, caused him to be decent to some customers even! (Not that he was ever mean… never mean. Terse, at best. “Yes, Crowley, terse.” “Whatever you say, angel.”) Much to Crowley’s amusement. Crowley always made sure to cause enough distractions and haze the minds of those who got too close to the books the demon knew to be off-limits. His hardened occult heart melted at the telling delight on Aziraphale’s face that let him know these deeds were not going unnoticed.

Daily, Crowley would leave to care for his plants. Aziraphale would let his guard down, allow himself to grimace and work through the damage permanently etched into his being. There were no real pain killers for this sort of thing so he suffered quietly, just like in the Beginning. He would limp around the bookshop, taking inventory, occasionally needing to lean against a wall. Then Crowley would be back, hours later, with divine, expensive chocolates or a bottle of fine wine with a selection of cheeses from their favorite delicatessen down the street in Soho. Tonight was no different. The foul fiend slithered up behind him in one of the many isles of shelves, grinning face instantly meeting Aziraphale’s neck, as he held out a package, with a rich Devil’s Food Cake, wrapped in a small bow. Aziraphale nearly swooned. Whether it was from the sight of the dessert or from Crowley’s warm lips pressing a tender kiss to the curve of his throat, he wasn’t sure. “Oh, oh my- that seems scrumptious.” Quickly, he took the box from Crowley’s hand, placed it on the shelf in front of him and wheeled around to Crowley’s stunned face. Aziraphale placed his fingers delicately on Crowley’s sunglasses. “May I?” he asked.

Crowley nodded, “Mmhmm.”

With reverence, Aziraphale took the sunglasses off, folded them and placed them safely by the cake (The cake would keep fresh until it was ready to be eaten). He faced Crowley, stopping for a few moments to admire his luminous yellow eyes. Adoration hammered Aziraphale’s chest at the playful, loving look from within them, and he lurched forward. Their kisses were sloppy, full of tongue. Aziraphale’s hands slid up Crowley’s chest, hands mussing Crowley’s short but perfectly stylized hair. He gasped when Crowley’s sharp teeth bit his bottom lip, dragging away with a soft pop, immediately taking advantage of Aziraphale’s parted lips again.

Alright, it was Aziraphale’s own fault in the end that Crowley found out so soon. He just.. simply could not stop himself from touching Crowley now. Not now that it was okay. Now that it was safe. He was drunk from the mere thought. Memories of their closeness at Tadfield Manor and their heated night in Crowley’s flat after the world didn’t end caused his head to swim.

Right now, they had clumsily found their way onto the couch. Aziraphale’s grin was mad between their clashing lips, fingers of one hand curled into Crowley’s jacket, fingers of the other curled into the back of Crowley’s neck, desperate for him to be closer. He may have gotten overly enthusiastic when he swung his bad leg over Crowley’s thighs and he winced with a tight intake of breath.

Everything came to a halt. Crowley’s hands stilled at Aziraphale’s hips, face taking on the stiff expression he always got when he was being serious, careful with Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale. What-”

“No, no. It’s fine.”

“No. It isn’t.”

“Hush, dear.” Aziraphale tried to kiss Crowley’s lips again, desperate to move past what just happened but Crowley actually turned his face away, tilted his head back a bit, to keep his eyes on the angel’s face. Cold sweat was beading under the blond curls resting over his forehead. His normally steady body was trembling. Frustration settled deep in Aziraphale’s chest, and he growled. “Fuck.”

A series of emotions crossed over Crowley’s bared face, eyes naked to imprint the full depth of what the demon felt. First and foremost was anger- anger that Aziraphale had lied to him about this- the lying wasn’t even the problem (although in hindsight it probably should have been, but Crowley knew what he was getting into), it was what he had lied about- and Aziraphale felt a rush of shame. The next was deep, unabashed concern, his yellow-slit eyes widening a fraction, and he quickly shifted Aziraphale off of him, much to both of their discontent. Crowley snapped a comfortable leg rest into existence underneath the leg Aziraphale was clutching.

“Oh, thank you.” Aziraphale’s blush and small, pleased smile was almost enough to distract him. Almost.

Sympathy was next, as Crowley reached over to Aziraphale to cup his cheeks. He pressed their foreheads together. Something manic bubbled in Aziraphale’s chest, but he couldn’t push Crowley away.

“This wound isn’t physical. I would have noticed.” Crowley’s voice was a deep, hollow murmur.

“Yes,” Aziraphale shakily answered.

“Let me see?” It was a gentle request.

They both knew if Aziraphale said no, Crowley would back off. Suddenly, Aziraphale couldn’t deny him anymore. He swallowed and nodded, imperceptibly, brushing his nose against Crowley’s. Crowley took a shaky breath himself and reached out with his essence. Aziraphale shivered as he felt the occult quintessence of Crowley brush against his ethereal soul, allowing himself to bask in the scalding heat of it, foreign yet so strangely familiar to the undulating warmth of his own holy light. They both gasped, one laden with desire, the other marred with anxiety, and one of Crowley’s hands covered Aziraphale’s thigh. The link between them snapped shut, unceremoniously, neither sure who was responsible. Crowley hissed.

“Angel,” Crowley’s husky tone was strangled by a semi-furious growl. “That wound was near lethal. Had that been any different- Yu-you could.. have.. have been. Gone.” Ghosts of flames seemed to burst to life in the room around them in Crowley’s mind. He could smell smoke that was no longer there, hadn’t been for nearly a week. “How- why- you should have told me. I could have hurt you. Just now. What were you thinking?”

So Aziraphale told the truth, through a desperate, distressed giggle, “Frankly, my dear, I wasn’t.”

Crowley fixed him with an intense glower. He took a deep breath as he schooled himself, eyes closing for the first time in days when it didn’t involve kissing, then his eyelids flew open, yellow covering the whites of his eyes, in a fit of panic, mouth moving, incomplete noises tripping from his throat until he could muster up real words. “Did I hurt you? That night. In my flat? When we-”

“What, no!”

“Aziraphale-” Crowley hissed, body coiled, all anxious trepidation.

“No, my dear. You genuinely didn’t.” The angel hurriedly cut him off, then spoke calmer; “My mind was rather preoccupied.” And Aziraphale switched on his most innocent look.

The anxiety didn’t leave Crowley completely, but he did manage a snort. His jaw moved, teeth gritting under tight skin. “When?” he demanded. “Who?” Oh, someone was going to pay. Hell may be ignoring him but Satan help anyone who got in the way of him destroying whoever it was that did this to his angel.

“Oh, it was so long ago, really,” Aziraphale giggled again, nervous, worried, and Crowley swallowed.

“The War.”

There was a drawn out silence.

“Yes.” Aziraphale placed his hand on Crowley’s, who tried pulling it away, but the angel kept it steady, flattened the palm against his thigh. “The War.”

They were both trembling now, keeping eye contact. This was something they had once agreed never to talk about, long ago, when they nearly came close during one of their many drinking sessions that occurred after Rome. For six millennia, they had seen humans torture and maim each other. The two of them had actively participated in the Crusades. They had passively participated in the World Wars. None of those experiences would ever compare to the innocence they lost during The First War. Through the haunted fogs of his own memories, the wave of freezing cold realization crashed into Crowley’s mind, splashing unceremoniously to soak into the core of his heart and trickling the rest of the way down his spine.

“Y-you almos- We may not have-” The slits of Crowley’s eyes thinned into barely visible strips, heart pounding in his chest.

“But I didn’t!” Aziraphale hastily replied, brave in the face of Crowley’s mounting panic attack. He released Crowley’s hand, shifted in a way careful of his leg. Strong hands rested on Crowley’s chest, slid up to Crowley’s shoulders, and he pressed a chaste kiss to Crowley’s lips. He brushed his fingers into the candy-apple red locks of the demon’s hair to gently rest Crowley’s head against his chest. “I’m here, Crowley.” Crowley’s shoulders shook, breathing erratic, and Aziraphale stroked his hair and kissed his head, patiently waited the several long minutes for Crowley to calm. “I’m right here. Everything’s okay.” He continued to murmur reassurances until Crowley’s breathing steadied.

When Crowley’s voice came again, it was hoarse and wet. “I always wondered why you were posted to the Eastern Gate. Guess that answers that question.”

Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s head, wiping tears with his thumbs, “I was wounded. Wasn’t much use in Heaven, because of it, I’m afraid. Rather desperate to get away, actually. Not that I wanted to leave forever. Simply. Wanted to forget.”

Crowley nodded, swallowed, and instantly his anger resurfaced, full force, in the wake of his wrecked emotions. His eyes burned red at the edges, and Aziraphale tried desperately not to be hopelessly aroused by that feral countenance but decided he didn’t care. Holy Hell that look was hot on Crowley’s face, especially when it was displayed in the palms of his hands this way.

“Crowley, dear-”

“Ssspill it, angel. Who did thissss to you?”

“Dear-”

“Who?”

“Darling.” Aziraphale exerted some of his angelic will. He needn’t have bothered. The use of that term of endearment was enough to momentarily distract Crowley until he was narrowing his eyes again.

“Aziraphale. I am going to find who almost took you away from me.”

“It’s not like you would have know- Shit.” That was entirely the wrong thing to say.

Fresh tears sizzled at the edges of Crowley’s burning eyes. “No. I wouldn’t. That’sss the point, angel. Don’t ssssay that. Ever again.”

“Crowley, listen to me. It was a war. It’s not like it was personal-”

Crowley hissed. “That whole War was persssonal.”

“But that demon’s actions weren’t personal against me. I don’t even know who they were.”

The idea that he may have worked with the demon, maybe demons, who had done this made Crowley sick. He found himself running through every contact he had ever had with any and all other demons, tried to remember if any of them had ever taunted him about Aziraphale specifically. “Would you recognize them?”

Aziraphale’s silence was a hard tell, but he persisted. “Crowley. It was six-thousand years ago. If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else-”

“Would have been better if it had.”

With a patient look, worn from many years of use, Aziraphale let a smirk show. “My dear, while I find your usual show of gallantry to be very romantic-”

“Not meant to be romantic,” Crowley muttered, in a weak argument.

That made Aziraphale smile more. He couldn’t help it, he leaned over and kissed the corner of Crowley’s rouge lips. Crowley returned it briefly before Aziraphale could keep talking. “I would rather us not immediately start another fight with either Heaven or Hell this soon into our freedom.”

Thankfully, the angel’s logic pierced the veil of Crowley’s righteous fury and seemed to placate him into half-hearted mulishness. The rage would take some time calm, but he would make a concerted effort for Aziraphale. Anything, for his angel.

Crowley sighed, voiced a concern he’d been letting rest in the back of his own dusty mind. “They will come for us again, eventually, you know.”

“No, my dear. We don’t. Even so, it will be some time before then.”

Crowley gave Aziraphale a sharp look. Sure, okay, it may be some vague point on the future horizon. Still. They needed to be ready. But this was a conversation that could wait for another day. Maybe.

Waves of sadness washed into the places abandoned by the demon’s slowly receding rage. It threatened to consume him. He knelt down between Aziraphale’s legs and pressed his fingers hesitantly to the corporeal leg, where the wound ached beneath. Again, Crowley extended his soul to tickle against Aziraphale’s, waiting for consent.

“Yes?”

Aziraphale hummed, and Crowley laid his head on the leg. He felt Aziraphale’s essence become pliant, allowing Crowley to tenderly tend to the pain in Aziraphale’s leg at the source. An indecent noise escaped the angel, one hand instantly seeking purchase in Crowley’s hair.

“It feels like.. what I suppose muscle damage would be to a human, in this body. Much easier to handle, of course, than out of it.” Aziraphale speculated, out loud, needing to chatter. He carded a set of plump fingers through Crowley’s deflated hair. The demon sighed. His eyes scrunched closed, as he realized Aziraphale dealt with this in silence and he hadn’t noticed. He hadn’t noticed a damn thing. Crowley knew it was irrational, but he hated that he hadn’t been able to help somehow. Can’t entirely help now. He listened as Aziraphale slowly began again. “It,” he paused. “It struck me rather violently when I was discorporated. I hadn’t felt it full force in so long.” A weak laugh. Then silence.

Crowley worriedly opened his eyes and tilted his head to look at Aziraphale, whose eyes were wet, tears threatening to leave him.

“Oh, Crowley, I was so.. so terrified, back then. When it happened. During the whole fight. And then.. then.. I was faced with having to ki..ll-” Aziraphale’s voice broke around that last word, and the angel put his own fist to his mouth, biting down on the knuckles. “It hurt. So badly. But who was I to complain? Others were wounded worse. Gone.” The angel was biting down so hard to keep his emotions at bay, his knuckles were beginning to bruise. “I am so sorry, Crowley. I know we promised never to speak of this, but-”

Crowley sprung to Aziraphale’s side on the couch. “Shh, shh, shh.” He softly hushed. Very carefully, he lifted the angel into his lap, a cushion for Aziraphale’s leg surprised to find itself come into being out of Crowley’s sheer force of will. “Shh.” The demon intercepted the angel’s blemished hand and tenderly touched his thin lips to each knuckle. Sensitive, damaged skin healed itself in the wake of each peck. “Listen, Aziraphale. I don’t want you to ever feel frightened of talking to me, about anything, or to be frightened of me at all if being candid is what we’re doing right now.”

Quivery laughter twinkled through barely contained sobs, and Aziraphale gratefully hooked onto the change in subject. “My dearest Crowley. If your Hellish fury moments ago wasn’t enough to send me running hastily for the hills, then I’m sure nothing you do ever could.”

“Well, that ire wasn’t aimed at you, now was it?” Crowley nipped playfully at Aziraphale’s ear, hands rubbing the angel’s sides and back.

“One might still find such expressions frightening when faced in their direction.”

Crowley’s grin resembled a shark’s, fully pressed into Aziraphale’s soft cheek. He kissed it.

“I’m not afraid of you, my dear.” Aziraphale paused, sighed, when Crowley’s lips peppered kisses over the apples of the angel’s cheeks, nuzzling his nose into the soft skin as he went. When Aziraphale’s voice returned, it was steadier. “I don’t think I ever have been. I’m-mm-” He stole a kiss. “I’m afraid for you.”

“I’m more than afraid enough for the both of us, thanks.”

That reply made Aziraphale sniffle. One of Crowley’s hands snaked lazily up the back of the angel’s neck, pads of his fingers smoothing over and into Aziraphale’s downy, blond curls, twirled and bounced individual locks. The other hand, strong and slender, rubbed up and down Aziraphale’s injured thigh. Hazy warmth radiated from Crowley’s soul to keep Aziraphale’s pain at bay, continuous in his spiritual massage. Moments of this gentle comfort passed and the swell that was building within the angel was coming to a head. Aziraphale tilted his head back, screwing his eyes shut, continuing to thwart the swell until heated lips pressed openly onto the hollow of his throat. Something about that intimate touch caused his last defenses to crumble, a broken cry wrenched from the angel’s throat, and his tears fell freely. Aziraphale clung to Crowley’s lithe form, and the demon felt tears sting at the corners of his own eyes while the angel wept against his shoulder. They were both due for a good cry, he supposed, but the tears wouldn’t come for him, still too wrung out from all the crying he did last week. He forced himself to focus on the very real weight of Aziraphale’s corporeal form shuddering in his arms, to breathe in the scent of Aziraphale’s books, safe and sound, not a flame among them, the feel of Aziraphale’s angelic warmth through the skin of his vessel.

They had both survived. Somehow. They were alive and safe. Best of all, they had each other, with no one standing between them any longer.

Neither of them were sure how much time passed. It didn’t really matter. Not to eternal beings such as themselves. But eventually Aziraphale’s shudders calmed into trembles then, slowly, pacified altogether. He sniffed, using one thumb to rub at one of his own cheeks, used a minor miracle to clean the rest of his face.

“I rather feel I ruined the mood. So sorry, my dear.”

Crowley couldn’t help but smirk, huff. The smirk relaxed into a soft, fond smile and he shifted underneath Aziraphale so he could cup the angel’s face with both of his hands, long thumbs firmly smoothing over Aziraphale’s cheeks, under his eyes, along the soft curves of his jaw. He ghosted their lips together, breathy, “We’ll find it again.” His amber eyes, no longer red at the edges with rage or full with the threat of panic, met Aziraphale’s too bright, too blue irises before he caught the angel’s full lips half way in a deep kiss. Their essences remained intrinsically linked, bright red inferno and shining blue holy light blending into a beautiful burst of purple nebula within the aether.

Days later, when they were ready to be up and about again, Aziraphale found a well crafted, hardwood cane with a sharp metal dove on the handle. A sweet little smile tugged his lips and he looked at very coy Crowley, who lurked about the books, pretending to all the world as if he hadn’t spent the better part of the afternoon trollying around London to find it.

“I love it, my dear, thank you.” Aziraphale tightened his grip, possessively, on the length of the cane.

“Yeah, well, seemed your style.” Crowley spoke, voice gravelly to save face, and he wiggled his body. He slunk over and pressed a chaste kiss to Aziraphale’s lips. “Fresh air?”

“Yes. That would be lovely.”

They stepped out onto the pavement in tandem, grasped for each other’s hand, decided without speaking to take a stroll through St. James’ Park. They would take the Bentley, and Crowley would obey the speed limit again. For now. Aziraphale secretly hoped Crowley’s newfound respect for the laws of the road wouldn’t last, despite appreciating the sentiment. He needn’t have worried. Of course, it wouldn’t.

Aziraphale was many things. Book lover, food and wine connoisseur. Soft and lovely. Unflappable. Manipulative bastard. Warrior. However, there were two things that he took the most pride in over all of these other aspects:

Aziraphale was desperately, emphatically, irrevocably in love with Crowley. He had always been. Knew he was meant to be. Knew he always would be.

And Crowley loved him too.

#i'm too terrified to actually tag this as ineffable husbands so uh #this is just for you dear #coffeesugarcream #ask #ngk #okay this ended up being long #it also got really emotional #i'm so sorry #my fic #i hope i didn't fuck up their characterizations too much oh my god #i know it's a bit shallow because what they went through is going to years for them to work out but there it is #i'm gonna flee to a cave on a deserted isle somewhere now #also may i tempt you to imagine crowley having aziraphale take a hot bubble bath with him to ease the leg pain

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ohemgeeitscoley · 6 years

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I'm alive... I can tell because of the pain wyatt/Lucy

This got long. Big shout out to @acheaptrickandacheesyoneline for looking it over and cheering it on. Read below or on AO3

The first time Lucy begins to wake up she’s only aware of three things.

The first is that her eyelids are really heavy, and even though she is trying, she can’t seem to make her eyes open. It’s beyond frustrating. She has no idea where she is or if she’s safe and her body is failing her when she needs it to respond.

She waits, begins counting backwards from ten before trying to open her eyes again. Only, she gets lost somewhere after seven. It’s pointless, she realizes, she can’t keep her thoughts straight long enough.

She tries to remember what happened, tries to imagine why she would be injured. But it’s just another thing she can’t do. She knows they were on a mission. The 1860s. The details are fuzzy though, tucked somewhere in her mind that she can’t access, and she hopes that they aren’t still there. That she didn’t compromise the mission by getting hurt.

It isn’t long before the second thing she becomes aware of demands her attention. A searing pain shoots down her side, she moans, wanting to scream, to somehow move away from the pain. Only she isn’t able to do any of that. She isn’t able to do anything.

She thinks she’s been shot. How does she not remember being shot?

She tries again to remember, tries to push herself to figure out what happened. It doesn’t work. She remembers everything being okay. She remembers being safe. And then, nothing. She remembers nothing.

The third thing she becomes aware of is the hand holding hers, squeezing gently. There is some noise in the background and then warmth rushes through her veins. At first, she panics. She doesn’t know where she is, she doesn’t know if she’s safe, and she has no idea who is holding her hand or what she is being given.

She tries harder to open her eyes, to pull her hand away, to do anything. It’s useless and she already feels the small ties she had to reality slipping away from her. Then she hears Wyatt’s voice telling her to go back asleep. That she’s safe and okay.

That he loves her.

It’s one hell of a dream.

The second time she wakes up, it’s only for a few moments. She slowly blinks her eyes open, squinting at the intrusion of the fluorescent light that is directly above her head. Groaning, she slams her eyes shut as she turns her head to the side and away from the light. When she manages to open her eyes again, the greyness of the walls surprises her. She’s in the bunker, or at least, she’s fairly positive that she’s in the bunker.

She doesn’t want to think about what that means for her injuries. Because she was definitely shot. She doesn’t need to move her hand to feel the lines of the bandage pressed over her ribs. She still doesn’t remember what happened and as hard as she is trying, she can’t seem to focus long enough to even try to remember.

Her throat is on fire, every attempt she makes to talk is futile. Her eyes feel heavy, and she can feel the pull of sleep tugging at her again.

Wyatt is still by her side. He is sitting in a too small chair that it looks like he pulled over from the corner of the room so he was right next to the bed. His knees are pulled up into the chair, and his head is propped up on his elbows. It looks painful. Judging by his appearance, a wrinkled white shirt meant for a different time, and unshaven face, it doesn’t look like he’s left her side.

But that’s ridiculous. She’s not even sure how much time has passed.

Maybe this is a dream, she thinks, before falling back asleep.

The next time she wakes up, everything is more solid. She hasn’t opened her eyes, but her mind feels more intact than it had before. The pain in her stomach is still there, she has a feeling it won’t be going away anytime soon, but she’s expecting it, and somehow that helps. Wyatt is humming, but it’s not a tune that she is familiar with. It’s comforting all the same, and for a minute she lets herself relax and just listen.

She squeezes his hand, slowly opening her eyes to allow them time to adjust to the light. Wyatt stops humming, and Lucy opens her eyes in time to see Wyatt look down at their hands, a small, but still worried, smile on his face.

“Hey,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. He uses his free hand to push a stray piece of hair from the side of her face back behind her ear. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m alive,” Lucy says, her voice hoarse. “I can tell by the pain.”

Wyatt’s face twists into a grimace, his hand tightening around hers. “Lucy, I’m so, I am sorry. I should have–”

“Stop,” Lucy interrupts, shaking her head. She winces from the movement, realizing then that moving her head that much is a terrible, terrible idea. “Water?”

Wyatt nods, briefly hesitating before letting go of her hand and walking to the other side of the room. Lucy watches as Wyatt turns on the faucet, running his hand under the water before placing a small plastic cup under the stream of water. Almost no time passes before he’s standing next to her again, his thumb brushing over her hand as he holds it again.

“Let me help,” he says, holding the cup up to her lips.

Lucy lets him, thankful for the small relief the cool water provides her throat. She gives Wyatt a small smile as he places the cup on the makeshift desk next to the bed.

She waits for Wyatt to say something, to begin filling in the blanks. Only he doesn’t. Instead, he stands still, his hand in hers, and just looks at her. Which, under normal circumstances, would probably feel strange. But he looks haunted, and if staring at her is going to help ease that tension, she doesn’t want to deny him that comfort.

Things have been off between them since Hollywoodland and Jessica’s return. It’s not that she blames him, his wife literally came back from the dead. Of course he needed time. She would never fault him for that. But, of course, with the way their lives worked, there wasn’t enough time between finding out Jessica was alive to finding out Jessica was a part of Rittenhouse.

There was never enough time.

“What happened?” Lucy finally asks, biting down on her cracked bottom lip.

“You don’t remember?” He’s worried. Lucy can tell by the way he furls his eyebrows, and begins tapping his thumb against the inside of her wrist. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“General mission stuff,” Lucy admits, looking down at the sheet covering her as she tried to remember details. “We were in Illinois, had to make sure Lincoln was voted in as president. Which we did. I remember that. We were on our way back to the Lifeboat…” she pauses, sighing in frustration. “I don’t remember,” she looks up at Wyatt, her cheeks reddening in embarrassment. “I don’t remember. Some historian I am.”

“Stop,” Wyatt directs, his voice soft in his determination. “You were shot, Lucy. You hit your head when you… when you fell. It makes sense that you don’t remember everything. I’m going to go get the doctor. I should have done that when you woke up.”

He sounds guilty. As if it’s his fault that her memory is fucked up. As if going to get a doctor when she woke up was going to make any difference.

“Hey, hey,” Lucy starts, lifting their intertwined hands to her lips. Her ribs protest the movement, but she doesn’t let that stop her. She’s okay with regretting it later. She presses her lips to his skin, not sure who she’s trying to comfort with the act. She’s not sure she should do that, but she’s also not sure that she cares.

She was shot. She deserves to be a little selfish.

“I’m okay,” she continues, lowering their hands back to her side. “I don’t think a doctor is going to be any help right now. Just, can you fill in the blanks?”

“Yeah,” Wyatt sighs, moving Lucy’s legs so he has room to sit on the edge of the bed. “There really isn’t a lot more. We were on our way back to the lifeboat when Emma showed up. She didn’t,” he paused, slowly shaking his head, “I didn’t, I didn’t hear her. I didn’t see her before… God, Lucy, I should have been able to stop her. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Stop,” Lucy demands, letting go of Wyatt’s hand to place her hand on his face. She uses her hand as leverage to make him look at her. “Stop. Wyatt. You can’t, you can’t always protect me.”

“It’s my job,” he replies automatically and Lucy hates the conviction she can see on his face. She hates how she knows that he won’t let her convince him otherwise. “And I failed.”

“How long,” she nods toward the door. “How long has it been?”

“A week,” Wyatt responds, reaching up for her hand again. “It’s been a week.”

Lucy scrunches her nose, taking in Wyatt’s appearance. “Have you… have you left since we’ve gotten back?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “I didn’t want you to wake up alone.”

Lucy nods, a ghost of a laugh on her lips as she tilts her head down. If he hadn’t left, then maybe… maybe him saying he loved her hadn’t been a dream.

She isn’t going to ask. She doesn’t need to know. She had been shot. Obviously emotions were going to run high at a time like that, that didn’t mean she needed to push. But…

“Did you,” she slams her eyes shut, regretting the question before she’s even finished asking it. “Did you say you loved me? Before? I mean, when I was asleep.”

He’s silent.

“If you didn’t, it’s okay. I just, I remember waking up, or starting to wake up? And I thought… I thought you said,” she trails off, shrugging slightly at him. “It’s fine. Can we forget I said anything? It’s probably all of this medicine anyway and I–“

“Lucy,” Wyatt interrupts, and there’s a humor in his eyes that takes Lucy by surprise. “I did.”

“You did,” Lucy repeats, trying to determine if he’s saying what she thinks he’s saying. What she wants him to he saying.

“Yes,” he confirms, dragging out the syllable and nodding at the end. Almost as if that movement solidified the statement, or somehow made it more clear.

“You do?” she asks, unsure if what she was asking came across.

“Yes ma'am” he replies. It’s the slow, easy smile that spreads across his face that sells it. The way his hand cups her face, the distance between them growing smaller.

She doesn’t need to hear him say it. She already knows

“I love you,” he says anyway, his breath a ghost on her lips before he’s kissing her.

It’s gentle and slow. He’s careful to keep it light, probably to avoid hurting her. A part of her wants to fight against that, to pull him down and kiss him harder. But her body is already protesting her arm being held up for so long, and her eyes are growing tired.

She breaks the kiss. His breath is warm as it brushes against her cheek.

“I love you too,” she whispers.

They have more that they need to talk about, things that need to figure out if they want any hope to work. But for now, it’s enough.

They have time.

#lyatt #lyatt fic #timeless #timeless fic #lucy preston #wyatt logan #my fic

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