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peachesofteal · 8 months

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Which Witch

Part 2 of 2 / Faerie masterlist

Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish/witch!reader 13.3k words - AO3 - Part 1 Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI. Explicit sex. Fae!AU. Blood magic. Faerie magic. Angst. Tenderness. Comfort. Pining. Sex magic. Praise kink, light breeding kink. Magical dubious consent. Possessive Johnny, Protective Johnny. "I'm not beat up by this yet, you can't tell me to regret, Been in the dark since the day we met, Fire, help me to forget." - F + TM

Johnny has never experienced a headache before.

The feeling is surprisingly uncomfortable, and has been blooming behind his eyes since the other day, when you advanced on him outside the pub in the mortal realm, when you caught him off guard with your fury, your heartbreak.

He tries not to think about that part, too much.

Tries not to think about the torment he saw in your eyes.

Tries not to think about his plans, laid to waste, to ruin. A dream, crumbled into a nightmare.

He tries not to think about the ache that’s settled beneath his ribs since the second you snatched your hand from his grasp and stomped away, the pressure of your magic making the stitching of the mortal realm feel too thin, too fragile.

He tries not to think about the extra weight of something that’s been added to him, nestled there in his side, the heavy feel of a magic that feels not unfamiliar, but alien at the same time.

“Bloody hell.” Gaz whispered. “No wonder ‘uve been keepin’ her a secret.” He whistled, low and sharp, as they watched you cross the street and slowly disappear from view, red and purple magic angrily arcing off from your body and tainting the air with a tart, burnt aftertaste.

You were the only being on the street, besides them. All the mortals had gone off, pushed by you, sent scurrying by your power. “That’s one powerful little wi-“

“That’s enough.” Johnny snarled in his face, the ferocity, intensity of his tone, the words spat at his own brother surprising them both, signaling Kyle to step back, out of precaution, with a gentle hand raised. Johnny panted harshly, while his magic thrashed inside of him, desperate to get out, wild and nearly out of control, fully brimming with the chaos that he knows so well.

It yearned for something, desperately.

“Easy, Soap.” Price had been on them then, appearing from where he had been inside the bar, inserting himself between their two bodies, like he needed to protect Kyle, a ridiculous sentiment by any of their standards.

“Sorry.” Johnny drew the word long, shaking his head from the pressure beating inside his skull. “’m sorry, Gaz. I dinnae- I-”

“It’s alright mate.” He assured, reaching out, clasping a hand on Johnny’s shoulder. It was warm, and comforting, and he nodded in response.

“I think you should probably get home. You’ve been here… too long.” Price follows up, and Johnny couldn’t argue. He felt drained, suddenly. Tired. A feeling that happens for them, from time to time. Especially when they’ve been in the mortal realm for an extended period.

“Alright.”

He thinks this discomfort, this ailment, whatever it may be, will pass, once he’s been home for more than a few days. He imagines it’s just a side effect of being in the mortal realm too long, and he can practically hear Price telling him he needs to stay put, stay in Faerie for a while, or at least until his magic settles and his body adjusts to its rightful plane.

After all… his kind doesn’t take sick. They can suffer magical ailments, wounds from weapons or other Fae, but to fall ill is incredibly rare.

And usually only happens to those of them who are incredibly stupid.

Still, the headache rots and spreads throughout his brain, festering in his magic until it becomes an unruly, ungovernable thing that barely recognizes him, and his muscles become excruciatingly sore, useless in his body when he tries to exert himself in any way.

The Isle itself seems restless, the sea raging tumultuously beneath the bluffs, the forests shielding themselves from the light of the sun. Johnny can feel her magic, biting and gnawing against him, yearning and screaming, the wind whistling through the oldest trees with a shriek that hurts his ears.

All the while, something else aches within him. An unbearable longing that builds and builds like a dark grey cloud growing heavy with rain.

“It’s your soul.” The Nereid, Ce, tells him softly. “You’re soul sick.”

“What?”

“Someone has bound themselves to you. Your soul, your magic, is woven together. When you’re separated, your soul will mourn for theirs.” The image of you pointing at him flashes through his mind, your gaze enraged, haunted, while you cursed him up and down.

Surely, you did not mean for this?

Simon watches him knowingly, before pulling her into his arms, rubbing his hand over the swell of her belly where their child sleeps, blissfully unaware.

“Do you know, who it could be?” She questions, and he grimaces, eyes flicking to Simon who betrays nothing, only gives him a subtle nod.

“A… witch. From the mortal realm.” She stiffens in Simon’s lap, and then shakes her head in disbelief.

“A mortal witch could not cast a binding such as this, nor survive it.”

“Well, ah… dinnae believe she’s entirely mortal.” She turns, looking between them, before glaring openly at her husband.

“The only immortal witches who still live in the mortal realm are the elemental witches…” she trails off, looking out the window to where the sea crashes on the shore, something distant flickering in her gaze, realization settling heavily upon her. “What have you done?”

“You were my priority.” Simon utters, face shuttering, eyes going grim. Johnny shifts nervously in the chair. Ce is sharp, intelligent, and it doesn’t take too long before she’s whispering her confirmation of the truth.

“The song. She’s a blood witch.” He nods, unable to break the eye contact. Simon holds her hip firmly, but she doesn’t look away from Johnny, and before he even realizes, he’s spilling more secrets.

“Blood spinner.” Her eyes widen, and then rips Simon’s hand free from her body, standing unsteadily on her two legs. Her balance has gotten better in her time here, but she still struggles with managing her new walking appendages, something that always keeps Simon hovering near by, just in case he needs to catch her.

“You must find her.” She implores Johnny, while turning on her heel to poke a finger into Simon’s chest. “You’ve no idea what you’ve done.”

“Little huntress-“ He begins, but is swiftly cut off.

“No. Do not use your sweet words to try to placate me.” She turns her nose up from him, while facing Johnny. “You must, she’s in danger. Blood witches aren’t meant to be bound to others. The effects could be catastrophic, the binding could kill her.” His heart speeds to a halt. The binding could kill you.

The feeling Johnny had a few days ago outside the pub compounds inside of him, the yearning infused with his chaos, the wild piece of his magic surging in his blood, eager to be set loose. He closes his eyes and reaches inside himself to settle his power, to soothe the uncontrolled pieces that are climbing closer to the top.

When he looks back to them, he realizes Simon is standing more than a few paces away, Ce shielded behind his body.

“It’s the binding! It can drive you mad, control your magic if you're separated too long.” She calls from around his shoulder, trying to peek out even though there is a formidable mass blocking her.

“Perhaps she planned this, Johnny.” Simon proposes, a sentiment that Johnny balks at. Were you capable of such a thing? His wife shakes her head reverently, and mouths a no.

Danger.

Catastrophic.

When he thinks about the way you looked when you thrust your finger into his face, fiery and full of rage, he realizes it’s much, much more than what he thinks he knows, or what he believes.

You tricked me, you Fae bastard.

Had you tricked him in return?

The lock on your flat’s front door is not complex. It’s not even spelled for intruders, or unwanted guests, something that’s always sat uneasily within Johnny, even when he was taking full advantage of it. His magic knows this lock well, is intimately familiar with it, and plies the deadbolt free with ease, door swinging wide like it’s been expecting him, just like every other time before.

You tossed in your sleep, brow furrowed, distress written across your face as you shook your head back and forth, trapped in your own dreams, your memories, your nightmares.

Your body, still battered and bruised, slowly healing from whatever had happened to you on Samhain, trembled beneath the sheets, and you made small, terrified mouth sounds against your pillow.

“You’re safe now, dove, you’re safe.” He stroked a thumb across your temple, down the apple of your cheek, whispering to you softly, sweetly. His own magic worked quickly, dragging you under, lulling you into a deep sleep, a near coma. He had hoped it would be enough, to keep you from waking while he worked, while he healed you from whatever ordeal you had been put through, whatever torture you had been subjected to.

He built you the sweetest dreams he could conjure, images of his own realm, lush forests and sparkling aquamarine seas, the moss-covered stone bluffs of the Isle, the three moons when they’re full, the sparkle of the night sky, webs of worlds and starlight stretching out as far as any being could see.

He had tried, so desperately, to burn the image of you from the previous night out of his mind, when you first answered his knocking with your broken soul and tearful eyes, abused body halfway hidden by the door.

What happened to you? Who could mistreat you in such a way?

He hadn’t known then, but he wanted to, urgently. Wanted you to tell him everything, wanted you to make him your tool, your harbinger of revenge. He wanted to kill for you, destroy for you, burn this entire realm for you. He wanted to lay all his promises at your feet, wanted to tell you that no one would ever touch you again, that no one would ever harm you if he was here.

He cursed himself. Cursed the truth. Cursed the spell that you put him under, the one that didn’t even exist.

He had gotten so lost in thought, lost in staring down at your now relaxed face, that he almost didn’t realize the sun was rising, the soft rays of light seeping across your room from under the curtain startling him into withdrawing his magic so he could allow you to wake and return with a coffee, maybe a pastry, some sort of breakfast sweet that mortals seemed to be overly fond of.

He leaned over you for a quick moment, unable to help himself, breathing in the scent of your hair, your skin, your very soul. It intoxicated him, the sweet citrus and balsam mixing with the minerality of blood, of earth, creating something that seeped through his own being, pulling him closer and closer until he grazed his lips across your temple so gently, he’s not sure he’s even made contact.

“I’ll be back soon.” He whispered above your ear, even though he knew you couldn’t hear him. “Have a good morning, sweet Fern.”

“Fern.” He calls, before stepping across the threshold, but there’s no answer. There’s no sound or sign of movement, no echo of your voice down the hall. “Fern!” He tries again. His blood feels hot under his skin, and he’s nearly feverish, off balance and unsteady, while the spot beneath his ribs throbs in pain.

He expects to see Jet, or hear her hiss, considering how much the little creature loathes him, but when there’s no sign of her either, something prickles along the back of his neck.

“Do not hide from me, little witch. I know what’s happened.” He calls, raising his voice, projecting it with a touch of magic so it rings down the hall, through every room, into your personal library, and beyond.

When there’s still no answer, his sense of discomfort grows, and like there is a hook in him, in his very soul, he can feel his magic being tugged along, down the hall to your bedroom.

When pushes the door open, his heart slams to a halt. Fear is the foreign sensation that pours through him, paralyzes him. It’s fear that anesthetizes him as he stares at you, crumpled on the floor, surrounded by books, ancient grimoires and other texts, your magic drained from your body like someone has bled you dry, eyes wide in agony and a rasping breath on your lips. The room smells like mineral, like clay rich soil, like earth, and he chokes on it when he realizes the stain that darkens the carpet beneath you is your blood.

“Oh, little witch.” He murmurs, kneeling by your side, wide palm slipping behind your neck gently. “What have ye done?” He tucks you into his chest, and you mumble something as he carries you to your bed, trying to lay you flat, propping your face up so he can look into your eyes.

“N-no.” you push against him weakly.

“Shhh, Fern. It’s okay.”

“Don’t.” you hiss, and blood leaks from your lips. His magic thrashes, barely contained, bubbling up and trying to break free.

“Tell me what to do.” He pleads, desperation rising in him like the swell of high tide, threatening to tip him over into fathomless depths, places where he cannot swim, or survive.

“Lea… leave.” You moan, and he shakes his head. “Leave. I don’t… I don’t need your ‘elp.”

“No.” He refuses, cradling your face between his hands, and you blink at him slowly, eyelids heavy, expression disorientated. Long seconds pass and you look… confused suddenly, like you don’t recognize him, like all the vitriol and venom that you were spitting a moment ago has suddenly disappeared, and he feels a surge of your magic, the snapping of something, the binding, twisting, and tugging at the two of you.

“Johnny?” You mumble, and a smile breaks across his face, a small one, an encouraging one, something he hopes brings you comfort.

“Aye. It’s me, dove. It’s me. ’m here.” You tremble in his grasp, and more blood drips from your mouth. The sight of it is enough to loosen the hold on his power, and the room floods with bright light, illuminating every corner in the flat, and every detail on your face.

You need help. You need help, now. Badly.

He’s never wanted to have your name as frantically as he does in this moment. He wants to force you to tell him what to do, how to fix whatever this is, he wants to reach inside your magic and your mind and root around in your soul until he can pull the answer free from your lips.

A terrible thought forms in his mind. It’s wrong, and one he is sure you will hate him for, one he knows you will punish him for.

If you live.

Danger. Catastrophic.

Blood witches aren’t meant to be bound to others.

The binding could kill her.

Ce’s warning plays over and over in his mind, and when you cough again, blood splattering on his forearm, his magic makes his mind up for him, spreading forward to try to soothe you, cocooning you in a soft, twilight embrace that tries to lull you to sleep.

He pulls you back into his arms, tucking you against his body and concentrating his power on the thrum of your heartbeat, the power in your veins. He needs to blink the two of you to the closest door, and the only one that’s remotely doable is in Sherwood Forest, nestled among a ring of birch trees that all lean suspiciously inward.

“Fern.” He tries to get your eyes to focus on him, jostling you slightly as he strides away from your room. “Fern, I need… I have to take ye away.” Your brow furrows, and somewhere in the very back of his mind, he remembers how cute you are when you look at him like this, when you’re well, and not suffering.

He comes to halt in the kitchen, where Jet sits on her haunches atop the table, watching him with her head cocked.

“She’s dying.” He explains to her, and Jet scowls before she answers him, disdain dripping from her words.

“Because of you.”

“What happened?”

“The binding was an accident. She lost control.”

“She needs help. Is there anyone?”

“Not here… she’s been shunned. Thanks to you.” She glares at him, and he shoves down his urge to scream. Jet slinks towards him, eyes wise and wandering, sizing him before she sits down next to where he’s got you hovering above the table in his grip. “You’ll have to take her.”

“I cannae. I need her name.” She flicks her gaze to you before hopping from the table, walking to where the door creaks open on its own.

“You need to get it on your own.”

“She’s dying, Jet.”

“I know you won’t let that happen. After all, this was your plan, was it not?” She says before slipping outside, into the night.

You shiver against him, and he tightens his arms around you instinctively, lowering his nose into your hair, trying to find the sweet balsam and citrus scent under the sour smell of scorched earth and black blood. It’s there, but barely. There’s hope.

“Little witch.” He taps your cheek, trying to get you to concentrate on him, to look at him. “Fern, will you give me your name?” He coos sweetly, sugaring his voice with honey, dropping his glamour to pull your focus. It’s wrong, he knows this, so wrong, a true violation, but what choice does he have?

He won’t leave you to die.

You lick your lips, and he smiles, fully aware that he’s probably partially blinding you, scrambling the signals in your magic and mind, his own power pulling desperately at the binding to get you to comply.

Come on, sweet Fern.

Give me your name, dove.

He grips your hand, twisting your wrist until your palm is facing him, and for the first time without his glamour, he lets himself kiss you there, right on the heel below your thumb, dabbing his magic into the veins that vibrate just beneath your skin. He pushes, and then for good measure, pushes again, until your lips are cracking on an intake of breath, and your free hand is reaching for his, bloodied fingers smearing your ichor across his skin as you slowly speak, mouth forming the one thing he’s needed all along, the thing he’s wanted more than anything since the day he’s met you.

Your name. Given to him. By you.

It sinks into him, heating his own blood with the power of your admission, pulsing through his magic until it’s settling in that spot behind his ribs, the same spot that’s been aching since the last time he saw you, the place where the binding is nestled.

“Okay.” He coos, and then repeats your name, while you nod. “Okay, hold on to me.” He whispers, and then pulls everything in the flat tight, all the magic that’s spilled from your body, all the magic that he’s let run wild since he got here. He moves himself, and you, into the blink, and then the ground shifts, room tilting and splitting until the walls are fading into trees, the tile of your kitchen becoming grass under his feet, and your ceiling is a night sky. You squeeze your eyes shut and bury your face in his chest, and he knows it’s because the blink is uncomfortable, disorientating for those who are not Fae. Lesser creatures usually don’t even survive it.

But you are no lesser creature.

This fact, this truth, is the thing he takes comfort in as he barrels towards the door, his magic breaking through the threshold and crashing through the planes until he’s stumbling into Faerie with a blood covered witch curled against his chest.

“Are ye hungry?” Eilean asks from the threshold of the room, not willing to cross inside, but eager to see if she can help at all.

“No.”

“Should I bring some wine?” She tries, voice dipped in hopeful inflection. He rubs a palm over his face in part exasperation, part exhaustion.

“Please. Wine would be lovely, thank ye Eilean.” He placates her, and he doesn’t need to turn to know she’s smiling with approval.

He wouldn’t turn, regardless. He doesn’t dare look away from where you lay against the pillows in a bed that seems far too big. Where you lay, alone. Sleeping. Unconscious now, for far too many days. You’re weak, so weak, from travelling here, from trying to exist in this realm, a realm that you were not made for, a realm that no one seems to know if you can even persist in.

The Isle cradles you, fosters your survival. She holds you firm, holds you as he would, a casket of stone and sea weaving around your body, protecting you from anything. Everything.

Sometimes he fears she may be protecting you from him.

The waves crash against the rocks far below where he sits and you lay, sea ravaging against the rock, water pounding against stone over and over, the repetition enough to carve out caves and patterns in the walls, to change the physical manifestation of the Isle, to alter the very ground he lives on, walks on. The ground that he had hoped, one day, you may walk on with him. Beside him. The place he had hoped you might embrace with all her horror and secrets, that you might accept as a place of your own.

His hope fades with every breath you draw. It flickers like a flame being doused out.

Every now and then, you fidget beneath the blankets, body shivering and shaking, subdued whimpers escaping your lips as you twitch. He fears the binding may not need to drive him mad, because watching you suffer, watching you sleep endlessly, may do it regardless, in the end.

However, the bleeding has stopped, a small thing that Johnny is immensely grateful for, even though no one knows why.

“She needs time.” The healer tried to tell him, their effervescent magic embracing you in a halo while they worked to stop the blood that had started leaking from your eyes and nose, as well as your mouth. “Her magic is overloaded by the binding. The best thing you can do for her is stay close by. She will wake on her own time.”

“Her temperature-“

“We do not know. There are some things at work here, even we do not understand.” They explained, sympathy pooling across their face.

They wished him well after that, instructing him to call for them should they be needed further.

He didn’t know how to ask them to stay. He didn’t know how to tell them that for the first time in his eternally too long life, he was truly scared.

“How is she?” This voice, this one that calls to him from the threshold, speaking to him in his mind, startles him in the armchair, even though he knows it belongs to his brother. He turns to see Gaz, who watches him through lowered lashes. He’s keeping his distance, as every other being has, unsure about how Johnny will react with another coming so close to his… witch. “Price says ya’ve been holed up in here for days. Thought I’d come check, see if anything was needed.”

“Come in.” Johnny implores, out loud, and Gaz does, hesitantly, watching his brother for any changes, any indication he may lose control. Once he gets about two meters away, Johnny holds his hand up, a signal to stop, and Gaz conjures a chair, brimming at the seams with sun kissed light, a neat trick that benefits him when he plops down in it, like he too, is exhausted and weary.

“Well?”

“She’s… ‘m not sure. She still hasn’t woken, and her temperature, her body is hot to the touch. Too hot. But she’s stopped bleeding, which I take as a good thing.” He hasn’t left your side, constantly feeding the binding his own magic in hopes it would help give you some strength or help heal you.

“She’ll be alright.” Kyle encourages lowly, smiling at him. “She has you to look out for her, after all.” Johnny nods, even if he doesn’t believe it.

“Thank ye, for comin’.” He whispers, clearing his throat.

“We’re family, Johnny. Even when you run away to this damn Isle with a blood witch that you’ve stolen from the mortal realm.” He laughs with a wink, and Johnny’s lips curl into a very subtle grin.

“Not much better than Simon, am I?”

“Well, you didn’t drag us all around the mortal realm for nearly a decade so, that’s something.” He sighs, leaning back, slinging his feet over the arm of the chair. “Besides. I’m not exactly exempt either now.” Johnny nods, and he watches the flicker of discontent that washes over his brother, the way his magic pulses through him and the chair before returning to stasis.

Now, it’s his turn to ask.

“How is she?” Gaz shakes his head.

“Violent.” The word gives Johnny pause, and he feels his sympathy grow. His brother is the gentlest of them, the most kind. The one who others seek out, for comfort, for care. The one who wields the sun’s light itself. “Won’t let me near ‘er. Won’t eat. Won’t open the door, only yells at me through it. Hardly even speaks to her sister.” He pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose with graceful fingers. “She wants me to let her die.”

“And will ye?” He doesn’t respond right away, and they both just watch where you lay in the bed, silent.

“Don’t think I can. I feel… something for her. It’s different, from anything I’ve felt before. It’s-“

“Frightening.” Johnny finishes for him, and some tension leaks from his body. It is unlike them both, to feel fear. To feel fear and acknowledge it.

You twitch, eyes moving behind closed lids, and Gaz gives him a nod as he rises.

“See you soon?”

“Aye.”

It’s late, two days later, when you start to wake. Your temperature has gone down, and you’ve finally slept peacefully through an entire night. The moons have already risen, and Johnny has the drapes tucked open, so the room is illuminated in a silvery purple glow that shimmers across the floor and onto the bed. Your lashes flutter, and he feels the influx of magic in the room, ebbing and flowing, growing stronger and stronger, spilling from you as you swim closer and closer to consciousness, your eyes slowly opening, brow furrowed, discontent pulling your lips downwards in a frown. The wild yearning cries out inside of him, chaos beating in his heart, and he struggles to contain it.

“What’s…” your voice trails off as you look around, and Johnny waits for the moment when you find him in the chair by your bedside.

It happens fast. Your expression goes from confused, maybe a little contrite, but still curious, to rage filled, and startled. Fear reflects in your gaze, and his stomach drops.

“Fern.” He tries to calm you, and you hold your hand in front of your body like you’re trying to ward him off.

“Stay away from me.” You hiss. You try to sit up, try to move away from him, but your body is too weak, physically, and you sink down to your elbows in a second while you press yourself against the headboard. “What did you do to me? Where am I?” He stands, casting a little bit of magic out, trying to relax you, but you beat him back with your own before you’re yelling as loud as you can. “Help! Help! HELP ME!” you scream, voice drenched in horror, and a piece of his heart chips away in an instant.

You’re terrified of him.

There’s a noise, behind him, like a soft chiming of bells, and then he feels the shadow of Eilean’s magic, her presence unmistakable. He holds a hand out to stop her in the doorway, and you gasp aloud, palm covering your mouth, eyes round with shock when you see her.

“Oh. My gods.” You look from her, back to him, and then around the room, tracking out the window to where the three moons glow, bathing the sea below in silky shades of lilac, before you try even harder to shuffle yourself away from the edge of the bed, your hands fully shaking. “You stole me.” You whisper it between your fingers. “You took me. We’re… we’re in Faerie.” Tears are coursing down your cheeks, breaths coming in frantic little puffs that grate at his soul, the spot beneath his ribs aching as you cry.

“I thought… ah thought I was goin’ lose ye.” He croaks. “I dinnae- I had no other choice.” You’re breathing too fast, too short, and he wants to tear at the unfathomable distance between you and him that seems to be widening by the moment.

“Get away from me.” You half yell, half cry at him, tone dripping in disdain, in fear. “Get away!” you scream, and the demand physically pains him, like you’re ripping him apart, like you’re taking a knife and jamming it up underneath his ribs, hollowing him out, destroying him from the inside.

He stumbles from the room, clutching his side like he’s been wounded, and your magic lashes forward to slam the door shut behind his back with a finality that hits like a killing blow.

“Well, she’s scared. And rightfully so.” Ce says with a hand on her hip, leveling Johnny with a look that he can feel burning through his skin. “I managed to get her to listen to me long enough so I could… explain everything.” He straightens.

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth.” She sighs, and shifts her weight, reaching for where Simon stands. He takes her outstretched hand and brings her into his body, wrapping her up with a supportive arm around her waist. Johnny eyes the doors of the bedroom, clearly overeager, and she shakes her head immediately. “She doesn’t want to see you.”

“But-“

“She’s traumatized. She was used by you, betrayed by you. And then you kidnapped her from the only home she’s ever known.” At that, she gives Simon a healthy glare, and he has the good sense to look at least, somewhat ashamed. “It gets worse, I’m afraid.” Simon watches closely, and Ce looks at Johnny with a face full of sadness. “The binding… she may not be able to undo it.”

“What?”

“It is powerful magic. Magic that she did not intend to cast. It came… from the heart.” Johnny lets his eyes slip shut at her words, jaw clenching tight. “You need to prepare for what is to come, if she cannot reverse it.” She ghosts a hand over her belly and implores him with a meaningful look, one that cannot be understated or misunderstood.

The magic that feels like you, the fibers that he believes are the binding, seem to flex within his power, like it’s being pulled, and he involuntarily takes a step towards the door.

“Soap.” Simon beseeches, and Johnny stops short. “You must give her some space for now.”

They’re right. He knows, they’re right. He’s violated you, forced your name from you, stole you from your home, betrayed you in every way.

But the binding, the burning ache in his side, cries out to him. Begs him to go to you. Begs him to take you into his arms, complete the binding right then and there, and steal you away forever.

He grits his teeth.

“Alright.”

Days pass, and Johnny fights himself every step of the way. He fights his magic, which has grown unruly and uncomfortable again, fights the gaping hole that seems to be forming in that spot behind his ribs, fights what he is sure now is the binding, the incessant pull that tries to drag him into your orbit. He fights how he feels, the deep-laid emotions that he’s spent months trying to bury, and the feelings of discontent, of missing something. Someone.

The estate is heavy with your ghost. Eilean keeps him informed of your comings and goings, your visits with Simon’s wife, your days spent locked in his library. She says you’re physically better, but tire easily. You only sleep for short moments at a time, like him. Johnny tries to tell himself he does not care that you refuse to see him. He tells himself that it does not bother him, that you were so willing to shut him out completely, so eager to escape him. He tells himself that the sound of your fear, of your cries for help are not burning into his memory, that they are not entrenching themselves into his soul, driving him mad. He tells himself it’s just the binding. That the binding is driving him to the brink, that the binding is to blame for his near descent into madness.

But he knows, it’s not responsible for everything, It’s not responsible for the yearning in his soul, his heart, his magic. For the wild edged chaos that brews out of control in his veins.

It's love. His heart bleats in the quiet hours of the night, when he holds his breath and feels for you through the estate, when he catches the barely-there scent of citrus and blood in a hallway where you must have recently lingered. It’s love. His mind screams when he closes his eyes to rest for a few precious moments, and all he can see is your face, smiling at him, giggling in the golden light of your kitchen at dusk. It’s love. His magic shrieks at him to go to you, to hold you, to tell you everything. To tell you about the way his power rioted in his blood the moment he saw you, the way his magic exploded in his chest the first time you shared your heart, your mind, your life with him, the way he knew after that very first day, that no other being would ever possess him, except you.

Eilean walks with you in the garden. He tries not to watch too closely, warily waiting for something to happen, for a decision to be made that he will not be able to fight, no matter how hard he tries. She delights you, when she shows you how to sow your magic into the fabric of Faerie, how to connect with Isle as you connect with the earth of your home realm.

Johnny does not allow himself the hope that lights in his soul, when she looks up at where he stands in the window, and nods. An approval. A yes. A piece of herself, given to you.

As time crawls by, he cannot stop himself from thinking about you, every waking moment. He cannot stop himself from wondering how you’re faring, if you need him, if you’re feeling well. His magic never lets him sleep, never lets him come, keeps him on the edge eternally, pacing, tossing, and turning while his mind is invaded by thoughts of you.

It is one of these nights, when he’s drowning in too many feelings, along with two bottles of wine, pacing fruitlessly, that Gaz blinks into the kitchen with an irritated huff.

“Look sharp. Been callin’ ya for hours.” Gaz spits, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. “Bloody hell, Soap. Get yourself together. Simon sent for us.”

The meeting is a long one.

Simon outlines recent inquiries, payloads for work, demands of their presence in places across the realm, old contracts that have long laid dormant being renewed with a fresh round bloodshed.

It is the same song and dance. The same battle cry of blood and victory.

Fae and mortals are not as different in their hearts as they seem, he muses, reading over a potential contract, a high paying job for the removal of a seated power. It comes with a catch, a royal child who requires protection, and he places it on the top of the list for consideration. Children cost extra.

He is not surprised, when both Simon and Gaz seem hesitant to agree to anything, especially work that will take them away from extended periods of time.

Johnny says nothing but shares their feelings. The idea of leaving the Isle for any amount of time makes his magic churn in his veins. Even now, anxiety builds like a storm inside him, and he agonizes about returning.

“It’s not optimal.” Simon declares, while Price smirks from where he sits with his arms crossed.

“Ye going soft, Riley?” Johnny ribs him, and Simon scowls.

“I’ll show you soft, Soap.” He shoots back, while Gaz chuckles.

“I’m not opposed to taking it easy, for a bit.” Price offers something, an inquiry that caught his eye, a short engagement, not very far away, while Simon counters it with a different one that’s even less time. They bicker, back and forth, back and forth, and Gaz slowly becomes more interested in a half open book laying on Simon’s desk than he does the conversation.

Johnny loses interest completely. The spot beneath his ribs is pounding like his heart, and his magic is swelling violently in time with the binding. When he says his goodbyes, no one is surprised.

“I want to know.”

“Witch business is no business of the Fae.”

“Fern is my business.” She laughed at his demand, the echo of it scraping across the front his mind like he had been scratched by her claws.

“So possessive.” She murmured. “Over a witch who does not even know the truth of who you are.”

“Jet.” He warned, and she growled a sigh.

“Divination is not practiced here as it practiced in your realm. It requires a sacrifice, and the visions are not easy, even for a powerful witch like Fern. It extracts a higher toll.” His blood curdled in his veins, and her tail whipped back and forth, green eyes watchful from where she sat in the kitchen. “Her participation is not voluntary.”

“They force her?”

“They’ve forced her since she was a child. The coven only cares for their power, their vanity, their immortality, and without the blood spinner, without the Divination, they would have none of it.” He pictured you, a small girl, alone, defenseless, victim to practices of your coven, your magic and mind a tool for them to use, to take advantage of, to torture. She licked her paw before rising to all fours, casting an underhanded glance at him. “The way they see it, Fern belongs to them. The blood spinner is not a being with a soul, but a thing to be used as the coven sees fit.” Outside, the wind howled, spurred on by the tethers of magic that spun from Johnny, the chaos that reveled in his distress, ropes and ropes of rage and desperation twisting together with the force of his power, sowing down deep into the earth, and expelling into the sky. “Should one protest… well.” She didn’t finish, just fixed her gaze beyond him, out through the window where the sky swirled with violent hues of black and purple.

“Her parents.” Jet refused him a response, but he didn’t need one to know the truth. “She doesn’t know.” He continued, and she slunk from her perch to the corner of the table.

“Have you considered what will happen, after your damage is done? What the coven will do when they discover her betrayal? Or worse…. you and your brothers are not the only ones who go bump in the night here. Fern is a magnet for creatures. Without the protection of her coven, she will be a target. She will be vulnerable.” She studied him, and he felt the shadowed point of her power, probing along his own, trying to peer into his mind.

He let a swirl of chaos break free, pushed out into the open.

He let a sentiment slip through, into her sight.

He had considered it, had planned for it. Anticipated it.

She met his eyes with her own, and understanding, recognition occurred between them.

“You plan to take her.”

He blinks onto the veranda of his own home, eager to escape the argument, rubbing his neck in exasperation when he catches the scent of balsam and citrus, mineral and blood, coming from the garden.

It’s you. You’re in the garden.

“Hello.” Johnny calls, stepping into the grass but no further, allowing you to see him, to recognize him as a non-threat. The light from the moons spills down your back and across your skin, making you shimmer under their glow, illuminating you in the brisk night air. The flowers around you are all in bloom, even in the middle of the night, and his lips quirk to the side with a smile when he realizes it’s your doing, velvety petals blossoming across the grounds in large swatches, vibrating with the signature of your magic.

You’re sitting amongst a variety of plants, long vines that stretch and strain towards where your fingers dance to entice them into reaching for you.

“Hi.” You don’t bother to lift your eyes, and it stings a little, disappointment settling heavy in his stomach. He takes a deep breath.

“I was hoping we could talk.”

“About what?” you bristle, and he grinds his teeth. About us? About the binding? About what happened? About how sorry I am? About how I cannot stop thinking about ye? Worrying about ye? Obsessing? He settles on, what happened, hoping that will ease you open to talking.

“About what happened.”

“About what happened, which time? The time when you used me to get information so your brother could abduct a Nereid, or the time you stole my name from me and then stole me from my own realm."

Well. Fuck.

“What’s wrong, Johnny? Cat got your tongue?” You latch onto his silence and dig in, not sparing him from your venom. His temper flares, needled on by the discomfort that is restless in his magic, and he pushes back at you.

“I will not apologize for doing what needed to be done to save ye, dove.” He snaps, drawing to his full height, and you glare at him, fury twisting your face into something that’s a little scary, and a little enthralling.

“Save me?” you hiss, incredulous. “Save me? You didn’t care much about saving me when you used me to get what you needed.” You stand, forgoing your plants to face him, fingers pointed to the ground, a hot flare of magic stretching across the space between him and you.

“I never wanted to hurt ye, I wanted to bring ye with me, but it was too late before ye knew the truth and I had no chance to explain.” He counters, and you laugh, the sound all sour and wrong, harsh, and unforgiving.

“You thought I would just go with you? You tricked me. You took advantage of me.” He feels the ground shifting, feels the earth growing under his feet, and your magic pulsing around him, strong and eager, pushing and pulling at something he cannot see. What is this? “You lied to me. You betrayed me.” The forest at your back groans, like the Isle herself is protesting this battle of wills, like she objects to the clash of power. The pressure in the air rises, and then something is tightening around his feet, restricting his boots, and tying him to the ground.

Roots.

There are tree roots, crisscrossed across his toes, snaking up his ankles.

“Fern.” He warns.

“Johnny.” You mock, and the magic crests, more gnarled plant life coming to sprout from the ground, lashing across his wrists, tying them tight to his sides wrapping him up like rope. “You won’t fight back?” you taunt, mouth curving into a wicked little smile. Another tendril of green binds around his forearm, and he grunts with effort to stay calm.

“No.” he grits out.

“No? No?” you hiss and step closer, bare feet pressing the grass down between your toes. You look like a predator in this moment, eyes sharp and narrowed, stalking closer to your prey. You’re enchanting, and unsettling, and the binding hums inside of him.

The plants twist past his forearms, tightening against his circulation, curling up his biceps and stroking the skin of his shoulders.

His power flares, distressed, confused.

In battle, if you were a foe, he’d already have struck you down, dealt you a killing blow.

“Fern. Stop this.” The vines squeeze him, and then crawl up his neck, holding firm beneath his jaw.

“Do you know what they wanted to do to me, Johnny? After they found out what I did?” He chews on the inside of his cheek, trying to wait you out, trying to see if you’ll draw back. “Answer me!” your voice cracks, and so does his heart.

“No.”

“They wanted to burn me at the stake.” You whisper, the words enough to take his breath. His magic thrashes. The spot underneath his ribs aches. “It wasn’t enough to shun me. They wanted to kill me.” He shakes his head furiously.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I-“

“No, don’t say that. You’re not.”

“Ah wouldn’t have let them. No one will ever touch ye again Fern, I swear it.”

“Why even bother with more of these lies? You just needed to help your brother, and you didn’t care who was collateral damage. You used me.” You break, and a tear glitters on your cheek, refracting the light of the moons. “Just… just like them.” Oh, dove.

“No, no. That’s not… It’s not true. Ah care for ye, ye’ve meant something to me since the first day I laid-“

“Stop.” The plants squeeze him, and any tighter they’ll probably be strangling him. Cutting off his air. He fights against them, just marginally, enough to give himself some breathing room, and is surprised when they don’t loosen so easily. “I’m stronger here. Eilean taught me, how to feel this earth. How to hear it breathing, find its water, its blood.” You explain, tone bitter, and he nods a slow agreement.

“Of course.” Of course, she did. Because she likes you, dove. She accepts you. She wishes for you to make your home here. With me. With us.

He doesn’t try again, doesn’t flex in the web of plants that you’ve wrapped him in, just stands completely still, waiting. He urges his power to settle, to resist the call of blood and battle, to stand down as you seethe.

If he tried, only a little harder, he could shred the vines and roots in an instant. He could break free.

But a large part of him, spurred on by the gaping hole that’s been left by your absence, the pain that’s nestled in his diaphragm, doesn’t want to.

Most of him wants to stand here and take it, take everything from you.

It’s no more than he deserves, and he knows it.

Your hands are shaking, fingernails gleaming in the moonslight when you hastily wipe your cheek, and he wants so badly to reach for you. To hold you. To tell you how sorry he is. How he wishes he could take it all back. How he never wanted to hurt you.

“I trusted you.” It’s a whisper on the wind, spoken to the earth, to the sky, to anywhere but him. The words are hollow, like there’s nothing left there for him, like you’ve written your story, and his pages are long over.

“Ah know.” He murmurs. Your tears drip onto the grass, and he watches each one splash while dread swallows his heart whole. The ache in his ribs burns, magic howling through his limbs, tugging and digging against him to act, to move.

In the end, he doesn’t move at all. He stands trapped in the vines you’ve grown around him, stands trapped in time as you walk past him and up the veranda into the estate. The wind shrieks through the trees, whipping around where he stands immobile, and he watches the light in your room on the second-floor flick on, a warm yellow glow seeping out from behind the curtains as you peek around them, gazing down to where he stands, still like a statue in the garden below.

He stands there until your room goes dark.

The light sparkled across your skin, your hair, your eyes. He had never been fond of the mortal realm’s sun, always finding it too harsh, too abrasive, but the way it shone on you in that moment, he wasn’t sure he had loved anything more.

“Which was your favorite, then?” You extended the thing in your hand towards him, the fragrant, sweet ice cream treat, and he politely shook his head to decline.

“Ah dinnae care much for it, if ‘m being honest.”

“What?” Your other arm stayed looped in his, allowing him to subtly press his hip against yours, feel the warmth of your skin through the fabric of your skirt as the two of you took long, loping steps down the park’s path. “How can you not like ice cream?” You frowned. “We sampled so many. You didn’t like any of them?” He considered explaining he only sampled them because it allowed him to stand to so close you in that tiny shop. That he liked it because he was able to wrap his fingers around yours when you passed him the tiny spoons.

“The mint was alright.” He told you instead, and you huffed. “The lavender one too.” You gave him a curious look, and he couldn’t help himself, too eager to see you smile, too weak to resist the promise of your laughter. “It seems, I am overly fond of plants.”

The sea roars beneath grassy knoll where he hides. He swears it’s screaming your name, calling to you, crying about you.

He tries to clear his mind.

It’s why he comes here. To think. To be alone. To be unbothered. The hill is tucked away from his home, and he sits in the shadow of an ash tree, staring at the sky, waiting to settle, waiting to feel at peace.

A fool’s errand.

His mind is incapable of rest. It can only dwell on one thing, his desperation, his desire, his longing for you. The yearning in his heart that now works in tandem with the binding, trying to drag him towards you every waking moment of the day, trying to force him into your path.

You’re in the hallway when he returns, stack of books clutched to your body.

“Fern.” He chokes out, dumbstruck. He had planned a speech, for this, after what happened in the garden. A plea. A desperate sonnet of sadness and guilt. But in this moment, with you standing in front of him like a wild animal that may dart away at any moment, everything escapes him. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, his brain feels blank.

You’re frozen, looking back at him, eyes wide, and a tiny sliver of relief fractures through his heart when he doesn’t smell any fear on you.

“Hi.” You whisper, and like a magnet, he cannot stop himself from stepping closer.

You do not flinch, or move, or even look away. You just… stare at him.

“Are ye well?” He tries, and you swallow so loud he can hear it rattling in his brain.

“I… am. Are you?”

“As well as I can be.” I’m in love with ye. I’ve been in love with ye. I’m sorry. All of these things echo in his mind, circling his consciousness but none of them come to the forefront. Instead, he stammers out a: “Ye look… beautiful.” Bleedin’ gods. It’s a massacre. He tries to smother his grimace and you give him a funny look.

“Thank you.”

“Are ye, getting on well here?” He motions to the too long, too wide hallway that seems to stretch farther and farther every second, and you nod slowly.

“Yes, you have… a lot of books.”

“Ah… ‘ve always been fond of them. The books.” He agrees, and your lips flick upwards in a polite smile. His heart races.

He takes another step.

It’s too much. You shrink away, moving backwards, and he curses himself.

“Sorry-“

“I should go.” You gesture the leather-bound volumes in your grasp.

“Of course.” He concedes, and you incline your head to him before turning around.

His magic screams through his body the entire time he watches you walk away.

You’ve made yourself at home in the library. He tries to push away the glee that it brings him, the fire that it stokes within him, the urge that it encourages. The binding warbles inside his magic, his soul, as he passes the door every day, tugging and dragging him until he’s trying the handle one morning, ignoring his prior commitments, opting to slide inside the heavy wooden doors just for a chance to see your face.

“You have books from my ho- from the mortal realm.” He winces, when you cut your words off abruptly and reroute them, all while staring at him from the desk in the library. Your fingers stroke the corner of a volume that lays open in front of you, and he takes a step closer, slowly, hesitantly, waiting to see if you’ll spook.

You don’t. You don’t even fidget, or flinch, just gently turn the pages as if everything is normal.

“Would ye like to see something special?” He cannot help it, this desire to impress you, to tempt you. He wants to catch you, keep you, hold you in a thrall like you hold him in yours. He thinks he should probably feel guilty, for using the things he knows you love so dear to entice you, to gentle you to him and draw you out, but he can’t find it in himself to feel poorly for it. He’s worried sick. He wants to see you smile again. Wants the life to come back to your eyes.

He wants his sweet Fern. His little witch.

He gestures to a book, one that sits in a glass case on a table next to his side, black binding shiny and perfect as if it were brand new and not thousands of years old.

“What is it?” You cannot help yourself, brushing past him to lean over the glass, eyes wide and curious.

“It’s a grimoire.” You inspect it with a frown, and he threads his magic through the air and into the glass, evaporating it into its original form, tiny spheres of sand that disappear before your eyes. You startle, and he smirks when you look up at him.

“Doesn’t look like any grimoire I’ve ever seen.” Your hand cautiously hovers above the spell book, and he can feel your magic probing along the edges, testing, seeking.

“It’s from a Netherworld.”

“Which?” you blurt, and then look half embarrassed, before tacking on a soft spoken, “And how?” He’s not surprised that you know of them, but it feels uneasy, knowing you may have been exposed to something from those realms, some sort of monster or creature, a Demon or worse, an Angel.

“The Below. I travel there, sometimes.” Your jaw goes slack, and you study him closer, something foreign flickering across your features before they turn doleful.

“I have seen them.” What? You turn a page with your magic, being careful not to let your fingers directly touch the pages. “Through Divination. I’ve seen both the Below, and Above.” You shudder, and his heart thunders, blood rushing through his ears.

A mortal witch, who’s not a mortal at all. Who spins blood and can see through realms, into the Below and Above. Places not even Gaz or Price dare travel to.

Formidable indeed.

“Dove, that’s… that must have been frightening.” Another page turns beneath your fingers, and you shrug.

“I have been Divining since I was a child. I’ve seen many things. It’s how I knew where we were, when I woke up,” Rage rips through him, unbridled and coarse, rousing his magic into a whirlwind of anger, the feel of it as violent as when he first learned the truth. It makes his blood boil in his veins, makes the shelves in the library vibrate in anticipation, his magic bouncing around the room, seeking to destroy, to sow chaos, to obliterate.

“Johnny.” Simon’s voice calls, echoing inside his skull, and he tenses, muscles turning to stone as he feels for his brother, locating him and Gaz outside, in the hall.

“Not now.” He grits in response, but he hasn’t forgotten his prior engagement, and knows trying to put it off is pointless.

When they come closer, when Simon pulls the doors wide, he bares his teeth, tension filling the air of the library. They stand at a respectful distance, not stepping inside, leagues away at the opposite end of the room, but he still feels overly exposed, can feel the pull of possession as he instinctually positions himself between your body and theirs.

You frown at his brothers before stepping into the shadow of his body, close enough that you brush against him, your fingers tracing a barely-there circle on the inside of his wrist.

“Why did you do it?” You break the silence, whispering to the ceiling, and he frowns.

“Do what?”

“Make me fall in love with you.” You still do not look at him, but he cannot tear his eyes from you, mouth wide with shock, the space beneath his ribs pulsing with chaotic magic, his heart beating too fast to count. “You could have just… used your magic. You could have taken what I knew, by force. Why did you spend all that time with me?” The confession slowly takes shape across his tongue, heavy and raw, ready to drip like honey from his mouth to yours.

“I- are ye in love with me, Fern?”

“Answer the question.”

“I knew what I had to do, to help my brother but ye were unexpected. The worst, and most wonderful surprise of my eternal existence.”

“Johnny.” Simon’s insistence echoes across his mind and he feels the urge to turn on them both, to banish them from the estate, from the Isle, from his life, just to keep his time with you from being interrupted.

‘Bloody terrible timing.”

“Clearly. But this cannot be delayed.” He clenches his jaw, and pulls your hand into his, smoothing a palm over your knuckles.

“I’ll be back later, if ye want to talk more.” It’s a hopeful thing, this sentence. Something that carries so much weight, without even being a question. Something that has the power to crush him, without a mere thought.

“Okay.” You whisper.

“Okay?” your head bobs, and you look down at the book with mock interest.

“I do not forgive you but, I’d like to… talk. Yes.” Yes. Yes. The word rings between his ears. He can work for your forgiveness, he can spend the rest of his existence earning it, if this means you’ll let him. If you’ll speak to him.

“Later then?” He manages to get out, and then squeezes your hand in a goodbye after you nod.

He does not see the way you stare at your own fingers after he leaves, does not see the way your magic explodes throughout the library, before settling back against your skin like a warm embrace, your side of the binding fluttering in your heart.

“My home is alive.” He told your sleeping form, words quiet as he watched for any sign of you waking. “The place where my home is built, where I was born. The Isle. She chooses, who can stay, who can make their life there. She is a complex thing, a wild thing. Like you.” You twitched, and he paused, holding still as he waited.

When you didn’t rouse, he pushed a small spark of chaos into your sleeping mind, drawing you in deeper, settling you into your wildest dreams. “Jet told me, about what ye’ve been through. About what the coven has done to ye, forced ye to do… and I think, the Isle would accept ye. Ah think she would like ye, and welcome ye, Fern. With me.” You shivered, and he instinctually warmed the room, raising the temperature until you settled.

“Johnny.” Price called inside his mind, insistent, but patient. “We have business.” He sighed.

He had already been here too long tonight, and his brothers waited for him.

The kiss to your hair was fleeting. Gentle. Sweet. Punctuated with a whisper lost on the breeze from the open window.

“Gods, what have ye done to me little witch?”

“Ye come out here often.” He says quietly from the door, standing just beyond it after spotting you on the veranda, and you nod slowly in response, eyes dragging away from the sky to his, before returning upwards. The night is soft. Calm edged and serene, the breeze carrying a hint of sea spray from the foam below.

“I’ve never seen so many.”

“Stars?”

“Planets.”

“Surely there are other planets besides your own?” He knows there are, he’s seen them in sky, in the mortal realm.

“Yes, but not like this. There’s… there’s nothing, like this.” Your lips part, throat bobbing with a breath and he feels a strange tightening his chest as he watches you take it in. You look so amazed, so enchanted, so captivated by something he views so ordinary, that he too, tilts his head back to look up at the dizzying number of planets. Hundreds of worlds swirl in the inky darkness above them, their colors so vibrant they shine like gemstones, blinking in and out of the velvet backdrop that is the night sky. “There are so many worlds. So many places.” you whisper to him, a smile full of awe sloping across your lips. “Do you go to them? These worlds?”

“Some.”

“Some.” you parrot. “Some.” you laugh, like the notion is absurd, which it probably is, to you. Something inconceivable, improbable. “They’re beautiful.” Your hand raises to reach for them, as if you could pluck one right out of the night and hold it in your palm. He watches, entranced by the way the three moon’s light shimmers across your face, bathing you in a purple silver glow, spilling over your shoulders and across your skin graciously, framing you like a star, a celestial being. His throat feels dry.

“Aye. They are.” You lapse into silence, and he enjoys the feeling of being near you, his magic humming happily in his being, peace settling over him while you watch the stars, transfixed.

“Johnny.” You breathe his name, sweet and syrupy, magic dripping from each syllable. You look a little dazed, exhaustion pulling at your features, and he indulges in a daydream where he kisses your forehead, pressing a hint of power against your skin, wrapping you in a soft cocoon of his magic to comfort you. “I… I’d like to kiss you.” The words break him from his imaginations, and he jerks, pulling away to inspect your face, to see if were alright. Or if you were reading his mind. Or if you had become possessed by some Demon, some evil creature appearing here to make him suffer more than he already was.

But all he sees is his dove. His Fern. His little witch, face soft and open, expectant.

“Would you deny me, Johnny? After everything you’ve done?” You raise an eyebrow, and his heart sings, magic humming along happily, binding trilling in his body. You’re teasing him.

“Ye never have to ask.” The words are the same ones he said on Samhain, and he restrains his movements, keeping his body slow and steady while he leans into you, lowering his mouth to yours, the warmth of your lips against him sending his heart soaring, the intoxicating scent of you, the feel of your magic, the light caress of your fingers against his hip all amplified in this realm, and by the binding that seems to be stitching the two of you together by every moment.

He follows your lead, giving you space when you begin to ease off from him, and explosions rattle his soul as he stares down at you and your cautious smile.

“I love ye, Fern.” Your eyes go wide, and you startle, stepping a half pace away. “I dinnae how to tell ye, after everything. Ah ken, ah… there’s nothing that can be said, to make up for my treachery, for what I did to you.” He can feel the binding, the sailor’s knot tightening around the two of you, dragging you into one another, can feel the distinct signature of your magic, swirling around him, can smell the sweet citrus and blood dipped in balsam that floods his dreams. It’s enough to make his head spin.

“Johnny, this- this is the binding, it’s...” He shakes his head in rebuttal and reaches for your hand.

“I’ve loved ye since the first day I set foot in the shop. I’d burn the realms for ye, Fern.”

“You used me.”

“And ye will never know how I regret it, how I wish I could change it.” Let me love you. Let me hold you. Let me have you. The swell of the tide within him crests, magic churning into an excessive force, the binding burning, screaming, yearning against his lungs, and he pushes and pulls at it, twisting it up into something he struggles to contain. “Break the binding or leave it intact. It won’t change the way I feel.”

“I-“ Your words are snatched from your mouth when you draw a quick breath, bending at the waist, flat of your palm pressed to your belly with a soft groan.

“Fern?” His hand hovers at the small of your back, just above your skin.

“Sorry, I- I just had a cramp, is all.” You straighten, faint grimace sunken into your expression, and he frowns.

“What do ye need?”

“Nothing, I’m just gonna go lay down, I think.” You’re still holding your stomach, and worry froths in his heart, his mind as he watches you wince.

“Ye sure? Do you need-“

“I’m sure.” You wave him off, already turning away. “Goodnight, Johnny.” You murmur over your shoulder.

“Sleep well, little witch.”

The shockwave that ripples through his home in the small hours of the morning startles him from restless sleep. It jolts him into a panic, the binding clawing at his mind, his magic, tugging and pulling him towards something.

Towards you.

“Fern?” He calls, body teetering at the threshold of your room.

Are you dreaming?

Are you ill?

He can smell you from the doorway, balsam and citrus tinged with the scent of sour fruit, distress permeating through the air to where he stands, waiting. Holding his breath for answer.

“Fern.” He tries again, firmly, but you don’t respond, only moan into your pillow, the sound of your pain tearing at his heart until he’s blinkingacross the room, coming to lean over your trembling form, panic hammering inside his skull. “Hey, dove. Are ye with me?” He pulls you towards him, holding your face between his palms. Your eyes are nearly black, pupils so large they dot out your irises, and you thrash in his grip, nails digging into his skin while you cry out.

“Jo-Johnny. Johnny.” You’re sweating, sheets soaked beneath you, and the heat that’s blaring from your skin curdles his stomach.

The binding. The magic. It’s burning you from the inside.

You whimper, and his heart breaks for you, bleeds for you while you bury your nose in his neck, panting heavily.

“I’m here.” He tries to hold you steady, cradling the back of your head in his hand, the sear of your skin far too warm to be comfortable, the effect of the binding boiling in your blood.

You’re suffering. You’re suffering, and it’s his fault. He did this. He caused this.

Ce’s warning echoes sharply in his mind.

“You need to prepare for what is to come, if she cannot reverse it.”

The guilt fissures his heart in two.

“It hurts.” You try to tell him, weakly, and his frustration builds, the magic inside of him compounding, yearning to lash out.

“Ah know, Ah know it does.” The words are little comfort.

“Please. Pl-please make it stop.”

He can’t. He shouldn’t.

“It hu-hurts Johnny. Please. It burns.” You’re breaking apart in front of him. Inconsolable. Desperate. Dying.

“Shhh. ‘ve got ye.” He tries to calm you, holds you tight against him, pressing your body to his but all it does it make you squirm more, make you cry out against him, your voice broken with distress.

“Please! Please-“ you beg, and he slams his eyes shut.

He shouldn’t. He can’t.

But you’re in pain.

You could die.

The binding is heating your body past any measurable sense. You were not made to survive such a thing.

When he looks at you now, he knows his insistence on refusing this is pointless. He is too weak to give you up. He is not strong enough to say no. He has loved you since the day he first laid eyes on you. He would do anything to save you, to keep you alive.

Even if it meant this.

Even if it meant completing the bond the only way he knew how.

“I’m here, I’m here.” He kisses your breastbone, trails his lips down between your breasts, sucking marks into your skin, tasting the salt of your sweat like a dying mortal. “I’m going to make it okay.” He wants to take his time, wants to savor you, wants to have you the way he’s always dreamed about, slow and sweet, taking you apart piece by piece like you deserved.

There’s no time for that now.

“Johnny.” You whimper, something broken in your voice, a desperation unlike he’s ever heard before and it stings.

“Shhh. I’m going to take care of ye.”

A broken moan rises from your throat when he moves your body, shifting you underneath his weight, pinning your hips and teasing his tongue around one your nipples, nipping across you with his teeth just enough to sting your skin, to jolt you.

“I- I need- I want-“ You try to explain it, to direct him, and your magic flourishes forward, your hands gripping onto his shoulders for salvation.

“I know what ye need, Fern. Ah know.” His fingertips stroke over your navel, over where your lower belly tenses under his touch, and then to your cunt, where scorching heat mixes with liquid fire, your body wet and ready for him, desperate for him, magic burning you with arousal, with an undeniable need for him.

“Touch me.” You plead, and his lips find the inside of your thigh, dragging towards where you’re dripping, citrus and blood flooding his senses.

You taste like everything he’s ever dreamed of. Pressure builds up his spine, magic and desire burning like a fuse as he presses his tongue against your clit, and you shiver in his grasp when he lavishes you there.

His palm presses against your belly, holding you firm, muscles and sinew rippling under his touch, your voice peaking with a cry when he swirls around your swollen bud, over and over, working you relentlessly.

“Come for me, come on. Let me make it better, dove.” It won’t, and he knows it, knows only one thing will, but he hopes to the gods it will stave off some of your pain. He rasps against your skin and you keen, rocketing into an orgasm within a moment’s time, sharp and fiery, but only a balm for the burn of the binding, the incessant tugging beneath his ribs humming with miserable bliss over the moan of his name on your lips.

You’re still strung taut, seizing, the heat of your skin blazing against him. You tug fruitlessly at his clothes, fingers knotted up in his shirt, his pants, and he swipes a hand across your cheek to press his thumb against your tongue as he divests himself with one hand and a snap of magic.

His fingers are wet with you, with your spit, your arousal, and he coats himself with it, stroking the length of his cock, kissing the crown to your opening while he stares down at you indulgently.

His Fern. His dove. His little witch.

“Please.” You breathe your plea into him, into his mouth, his skin. “Please, it’s- I need you.” You choke and he pushes, your eyes going wide as he batters his way into your body, the tight clench of your walls strangling him as he moves. “Gods-“ you gasp, and he strokes some hair from your face, lips pressing sweetly to your cheek, your jaw to soothe you, to quiet the discomfort from the stretch.

“I know, I know.” He murmurs, keeping his movements slow and steady, watching how your expression eases, how your body adjusts, how your brows unknit with each passing moment. You relax around him finally, face going slack with bliss as he folds one of your knees back towards your shoulder. “That’s it, good… good girl.” He hums over your ear, before pressing a gentle kiss there. “Take me so well. So perfect.” He needs to fill you, own you, fuck you full and possess every inch of your being. It’s the only way, the only way to soothe your soul, to soothe his own. It’s always been the only way, since the day he saw you. Since the first time he kissed you, in the shadow of Samhain.

His heart flutters, the binding clawing at his power, wrapping itself around your heart, stitching across the bridge between your bodies to reach the other side, encasing itself and him in the warmth of blood magic, of your magic. It only grows stronger as his hips stroke, his body moving inside of yours, gasps of pleasure falling from your lips.

Your muscles clench around him, desperate, and it feels right. Everything feels right, it feels fated, it feels meant to be. Like you were made for him, born for him. You, his equal. You, his balance. He pads over your clit with a press of his fingers, moving against you in time with his thrusts and your power surges to meet his, interweaving until it’s impossible to discern your beginning and his ending.

“I’ve always wanted ye here with me.” He nips along your collarbone, tracing a bead of sweat up the skin of your neck to your jaw. “I broke into the flat, just to watch ye sleep, every night after Samhain.” He punches his sentence with thrust of his cock, brushing against your cervix, and you keen. “I’ve loved ye. Dreamt of ye. I have betrayed ye,” you mumble something, lashes fluttering, and he swallows your words with his mouth before continuing. “and will spend the rest of my existence, our existence, apologizing for my transgressions.” Your body shifts with him, the rhythm he set upon your clit forcing you forward, spine curling you into him, his name a whisper on your lips.

“Johnny, Johnny.”

He fucks into you harder, wild, primal, full of ferocity and you cry out, shuddering beneath him, squeezing around his cock. The urge to fill you, to breed you, is too strong to fight, and the binding croons to him in your voice, spurring him onwards.

“Gods, dove.” His voice is broken song, a plea, and you respond with a melody of your own. “Ye belong to me.” You nod in a daze, lips forming a word that sounds like please. “Going to give ye my come. Keep ye forever.”

“Ye-es.”

“Sweet Fern.” He coos when he feels it, the build of your climax, ushering you along with the press of his body. “My good girl, coming all over my cock. Like ye were made for it.” You hiss, and then your orgasm is washing you away, your voice shouting his name as you come. Your eyes spark, celestial light glittering beneath the black pools that have expanded across your irises, and your fingernails dig into the skin of his shoulder, blood trickling down his chest, slicking between your bodies. It spills and spills, running like a river over the two of you, tracking across your breasts, down his abdomen, across your belly, down your thighs. It flows wildly, freely, rushing from him and towards you, spurred on by your mastery of it, your mastery of him.

You’re spinning him. You’re taking and taking, the binding drinking his magic in greedily, digging and scratching beneath the surface of his chaos, sowing vines that sprout and flourish, that tie him to you. His side of the binding shrieks in glee, in elation, and bends for you, arcing between your bodies to imbue you with cosmic pieces of chaos, a blend of blood and bedlam, boiling in your veins. In his.

Blood continues to gush from his body, his mouth full of you, of citrus and blood, of earth and balsam. You inhale him, pushing your tongue past his teeth, swirling in the mess there, and when you pull away, he can see the stains of ichor on your teeth under the curve your half-moon smile.

Your magic strangles him, strengthening itself, solidifying your power, absorbing what it can of his mayhem. The binding purrs, it sings to him, it sings to you, the sound chiming through his mind, echoing off the hollowed-out coves of the Isle, vibrating through its dark forest. He shouts against it, with it, orgasm just on the peak, both his body and yours trembling violently.

“Mine.” He snaps, and you answer easily.

“Yours.” You nod, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He cradles you there, back of your head in his palm, and then he thrusts up into your body as hard as he can, overcome with need, with the burn of the binding, with love. It’s so much, the pull of the magic, the wildness of your heart seeping into his own, and he spills as deep as he can into your body, filling you with himself, plugging his come deep, your own body sucking him in desperately while you cry and shake in his arms.

His Fern. His dove. His little witch.

Ancient celestial light streams through the curtains, the proof of an entire day passing, the rising of the moons stirring you from where you have slept for the last few hours, body and binding finally sated, skin scrubbed clean from the stain of his blood.

You blink, heavily with exhaustion, and he pulls you into his body, unable to resist cuddling you close, breathing you in and wrapping an arm around your back to still you when you start to fidget. You smell different now, like a swirling storm of him and you, and his free hand drifts to your navel possessively.

“Johnny.” You murmur, and he answers by pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“I’m here.” He whispers. “Ye can rest dove. It’s okay.” You settle against him, and just as he’s starting to drift into his own star lit slumber, you sigh.

“You should start makin’ a list.”

“Of what?” You kiss his chest, lips soft against his skin.

“Of all the things,” you yawn, breath hot and sweet, and he wants to drag his tongue over your skin again, take you apart while he savors every tremble, every moan that leaves your body. “you’re going to do over the next hundred years to make it up to me.”

“One hundred years?” he chuckles in jest, but his heart soars.

He knows, there is more hardship to come. He knows, the pain, the suffering, that you will experience, that you will unleash on the mortal realm, on him, when you learn the truth about your parents, about your coven. He knows the challenge ahead.

But in this quiet moment, with you in his arms, nothing about it feels like the end.

Only the beginning.

“Careful." you breathe into him. "Or I’ll make it two.”

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zer0pm · 1 year

Text

Imagine Luis at a loss when you get back at him for every time he’s made you blush.

Response to @lilchickie’s genius request with a little twist :3 a flustered husband you shall have

He warns, “This might hurt a little.”

“Promises, promises.”

A deep chuckle followed by a comforting squeeze…

And he gently pushes in.

You wince upon the intrusion as the needle pierces your skin. Cool liquid pours into your veins, feeling like a breeze washing over you. Luis is mindful as he pulls the needle out and bandages your arm. Once he finishes, you give him a curt thanks and roll down your sleeve.

“Good news, that should prevent most plaga eggs from entering your system.” he explained clinically, throwing away the used items into an empty oil barrel nearby before returning his attention wholly to you. “The bad news, this is only a temporary solution and will do nothing against direct contact from stronger variants.”

“So basically, don’t start kissing any locals,” you remark in jest. “Got it.”

The man winks playfully, “Well- Unless it’s me, of course.”

You cheeks burn red. There he goes again.

The man is a serial flirt. You’ve known that since the moment you met him and he candidly asked you for a smoke. Confirmed when you said that you didn’t and he proceeded to ask for your number. You didn’t mind this, of course. Luis Serra was ruggedly handsome and possessed a witty charm that effortlessly drew you in like a magnet. However, as sexually charismatic as he made himself appear, Luis was above all a gentleman that never pushes the envelope in his advances. At worst, he leaves you a flustered mess with no say in the matter. As he’s currently doing now…

Taking your silence as a sign that he won over you yet again, Luis begins to back away from your seated form. He doesn’t go very far, however, as he’s stopped by deft fingers clutching at him by the zipper of his leather jacket. The Spaniard glances at you with mild curiosity.

No way you’re going to let him get away with it this time. You meet his questioning gaze, a coy grin tugged at the end of your lips.

“I might just take you up on that… Dr. Serra.”

His eyes widen at your words and the suggestive undertone within them, mouth hanging open but no words come out. You steal this opportunity to pull him closer to you and was met with no resistance. Bringing him into your space until he was caged between your legs, you use your other hand to toy with the lapel of his jacket. Again he says nothing, eyes following your hands intently.

“What’s the matter, Luis?” you drawl coquettishly. “Plaga got your tongue?”

Your question hardly brings him back to his senses, heart pumping and mind racing so heavily that all he managed was a simple-

“¿Qué?”

Got him.

“What was that?” you feign deafness. “You’re going to have to come closer. Can barely hear you.”

Your mischievous hand leaves the flap to slowly glide up his chest, deliberately feeling along the strong muscle hiding beneath the finely stitched patterns. You can practically feel the man purr under your touch and nearly laugh when he tried to disguise it by clearing his throat.

Eventually, your hand reaches his shoulder. A suggestive squeeze and Luis leans toward you like a moth to a flame. His hands rest on either side of you upon the flat surface of the crate, mindful not to touch you although you can tell he desperately wanted to. Grey eyes constantly switch between your eyes and lips, a palpable hunger in his gaze. He leans until his lips hover over yours, open and inviting but never catching. The heat of his body radiates warmth yet you can feel him shiver under your hands in anticipation.

“How’s, uh- this?” His words fumbled in a low whisper, voice dripping with want.

You hum, appearing to ponder deeply. “Not quite. A little closer.”

Your ears pick up the sound of his nails scratching against the wood as he balled his hands into fists. His chest heaves with a deep, shaky sigh. Luis complies with your command slowly until you can barely feel the softness of his mouth and the taste of his warm breath upon your tongue. His musky scent nearly makes you dizzy but you hold firm.

“There. That’s… better,” you say slowly, purposely drawing out your words so that your lips gently brushed his. His lust-driven mind turned to mush, Luis mindlessly mimics your mouth’s movement in a clumsy attempt to capture them. “Now what was it…you wanted…to say… Luis?”

At the sound and feel of his name, he muttered yours without thought under a desperate groan. The man was absolutely drunk off of you. And thirsty for more. You breathe in deeply, the sound from your mouth coming off like a wanting gasp and Luis tilts his head to align with your tempting lips. He moves to dive in and devour you-

Zzzp!

The sharp sound breaks the man from the spell and he pulls back to look down and see you’ve done up his jacket. The man catches your gaze once more and is met with a victorious glint in your eyes. Your bottom lip caught in between your teeth in restrained giddy humor. Luis blinks in realization that he has been had, ears and cheeks burning red. But his expression wasn’t that of anger nor embarrassment. If anything at all, he had a look of newfound respect. A tiny bit of disappointment. And desire burning still.

The dashing man attempts to save face with a short chuckle. “Good one.”

You faux innocence. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Cuidado, my friend.” The man growls, his tone thick with daring. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

It was both a warning and an invitation all in one. And you were all for it- Eager to see how much and how long it would take for you both to drive each other insane. The idea pumped you with excitement, mind already coming up with new scenarios to play with him.

You push him back gently until you’re back on your feet, facing him head-on. Already were you missing his warmth, but the sly smile never leaves when you respond back. Another shrug, “Seems pretty tame to me.”

The confounded look on his handsome face was priceless. Without a second glance, you brush past him, making sure that your hand slithered along his body with promising intent until your reach no longer touched him. You barely hear Luis curse softly in his native tongue and can feel the heavy weight of his wanting eyes locked onto your retreating form.

Challenge accepted.

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randomshyperson · 3 months

Text

Fluorescent Adolescent - Heart Shaped Series

Chapter Summary: Layla's presence brings back some ghosts from your past and for the first time, you want to include Wanda in everything.

Warnings: Typical canon violence, mentions of blood, stitches, and pregnancy nausea, talking about abusive environments (innuendo of different forms of exploration), mild angsty with a bit of comedy as well, some Blackhill drama too | Words: 6.935k

A/N-> This chapter is a bit longer but I tried to put more characters background on it. I know it's late, I've been struggling with my writer's block, but it's finally here. I'm also sorry there's no smut on this one, but the chapter mood was not a sexy one. We will be back to our normal schedule I promise. Also, the extra chapter with their first kiss is almost ready as well! So hopefully, the next update won't take that long.

General Masterlist | Wattpad | AO3 | Series Masterlist

-&-

“Do you really have to do that?”

The question drew a confused laugh from you. With your hands busy with a first aid kit borrowed from Natasha, you can only offer a look to your girlfriend.

"Yes?"

But Wanda snorted stubbornly, crossing her arms before stopping in the doorway of the bathroom in Black Widow's room, who was standing outside with the rest of the team. You were supposed to go back outside right away before Layla had a nervous breakdown at being left with the entire Avengers team while you grabbed the kit to fix your own reaction to seeing her and ending up hurting her.

"I just don't understand why you have to do the bandage. Can't you ask Nat or any of them?" Wanda insisted, sounding very irritated and you had no idea why.

"Well, Layla only trusts me of all the people present and I'm the one who threw her against a snack machine." You half-heartedly explain the whole thing. "If you'll excuse me, sweetheart."

Wanda gave you the room but did so with a grimace that you would probably try to understand later. She's been acting so weird ever since your partner arrived, but Layla's presence is making you worried enough. You'd talk to Wanda after you understood exactly what the other woman was doing here.

Outside, and in the outer courtyard that was more isolated from the rest of the motel, Layla was sitting at one of the tables with the Avengers doing a poor job of disguising the fact that they were on alert for her. Sitting down, her jacket was laid beside her, and she was wearing a tank top that exposed the redness of her new bruise and made you groan low in guilt. Wanda, who hadn't left your trail since Layla appeared, glared at you as soon as she caught the sound.

For the witch, she didn't see the bruise but the beautiful woman with well-defined muscles, a tight tank top and curls that made her look even more attractive than before. And you, who apparently had a long-term relationship with the curly woman and were friendly enough for her to come looking for you.

You didn't even notice the look Wanda gave you, busy opening the kit and mumbling apologies to Layla in Arabic that made Wanda spend the next few minutes imagining you learning another language just to talk to your friend.

She was so distracted by her own neuroses that she didn't notice Natasha approaching, and leaning on the pillar she was also resting on.

"Wow, if looks could kill..." teased the widow, but Wanda snorted lowly, ignoring the phrase and trying to pretend she wasn't watching you pull whatever piece of glass the machine left behind in Layla's back, while you whispered apologies to her for it.

Natasha chuckled at the witch's expression and wasn't intimidated by her aggressive attitude. It surprised her that Wanda, a moment later, was the one who started the conversation.

"Do you think they seem close?"

You had just pressed a cotton pad with alcohol on Layla's wound, and because you were sitting next to her, the woman, grunting in pain, instinctively grabbed your thigh.

Nat raised an eyebrow.

"I bet you ten bucks they've slept together." Replied the widow, and Wanda grunted in disgust before turning away from the scene. Natasha giggled. "Hey, I'm joking."

"Whatever, I'd better get out of here before I blow something up." Muttered the witch in a frown, practically running away from the scene.

Natasha sighed, regretting having taken the provocation too far. She took one last look at you and Layla before turning back to Steve and Sam on the other side of the courtyard.

You were just finishing sewing the few stitches on Layla's shoulder when she called your attention.

"Sorry, I promise I'm almost done-"

"It's not that, يا حلو (sweetie)." She interrupts gently. "I don't think your girlfriend likes me."

You smile, unable to take your eyes off the stitches you're closing. "Don't be silly, Wanda doesn't know you well enough." You retort. " She'll need at least a few days not to like you."

Layla chuckles, pinching you gently for the joke. You finish the stitches next, and as you assess the work to make sure they won't open, she speaks again.

"I've been looking for you." Layla's tone is a little upset, and it surprises you. You look at her, but she continues to stare at the team from a distance. "I thought you might have been kidnapped. Or even killed. I almost went to Valentina to ask." You swallow, ready to apologize when Layla finally looks at you. "And all this time you've been playing superhero with your new friends?"

"Layla, it's nothing like that."

"So what's it like?" She demands with a hard stare. You sigh, hesitating about taking it all in like that, and Layla studies you intently. When she speaks again, it's in another language that she hopes no prying ears can understand. "هل هي مهمة أخرى؟ (Is it another assignment)?"

You look back at Natasha talking to Sam and of course she would know Arabic, but she didn't really seem to be paying attention to the conversation.

Either way, you face Layla and and denies it with your head. You sigh once more before forcing a smile at her. "I'm not here on business."

Layla doesn't seem to believe your words. "Come on, I'm not going to torment you if your girlfriend asked you to steal something for them." She shrugged. "I even heard that they're being treated like criminals now. Decided to act on their own, huh?"

You don't answer right away. You occupy your hands with the bloodstained cotton and the needle thread, saving what can be reused, like the alcohol, and throwing away the rest.

When you return to the table where Layla is still exchanging hard looks in the direction of the Avengers, you lean over to talk to her.

"Valentina didn't send me here." You say. "Like I said, it's not about work. Me and Wanda, we're together for real."

Despite the tense exchange between her and the rest of the team, excitement shines through her irises and she looks at you with wide, surprised eyes, a smile playing on her lips.

"Oh, you didn't say."

You chuckle shyly, looking away from your colleague. "Shut up."

"No, I mean it." She giggles. "Damn, I think I owe Xu Xialing some money." You frown in confusion, and Layla sighs. "She bet you'd put a ring on it before the end of the year, and here we are."

Your ears heat up, but you roll your eyes. "I can't believe you bet on me."

Layla chuckles, gently bumping her good shoulder against yours. "Come on, what do you expect from the founder of the Golden Daggers? She breathes gambling. You got really drunk after the last championship and started whining about how much you missed your little Sokovian witch. I wasn't expecting to owe Xialing 20,000 Yuan either, but here we are."

It's your turn to laugh, covering your face for a moment. "And how is she? Xu Xialing?"

Layla snorts softly, shrugging. "Honestly, I have no idea. But if the club is still standing, then she must be fine."

"You should visit her."

"Funny, I was going to say the same thing to you." Layla retorts somewhat ironically, and you hesitate, looking away. "What? Why are you acting so weird?"

You chuckled weakly, trying to gather your courage. Finally, you take a deep breath and say. "I'm not going to do these things anymore, Layla. Nothing we did together. Robberies, fights, the club. None of it. I want out."

But it doesn't take Layla by surprise. She remains silent before looking away.

"I guess I expected that."

You frown. "Really?"

Layla chuckles, looking at you again. "Yeah. Since the day you arrived from Italy, acting so... quirky."

"I wouldn't use that word."

"I thought it would be rude to call you a simp."

You chuckle, shaking your head. Layla laughs too, before leaning her good shoulder against yours. It's an affectionate gesture, which she used to do a lot when you were on long robberies and so exhausted that the world would stop making sense. The touch was a way of anchoring each other back to reality.

"You could have told me." She says gently, even if the words hide a certain disappointment.

You swallow, looking down at your shoes. "I was afraid, I guess." You mumble, and she frowns in confusion. You sigh sadly. "I'm not good with these things, Layla. You're my work partner. I thought, if I'm not working anymore, I'll lose you. I just... didn't want that. It was easier not saying anything."

Layla reaches over to entwine her arm in yours and take your hand. "You're an idiot."

"Thanks." You mumble, but she chuckles, squeezing your fingers for a moment.

"I'm sorry, Y/N." She says and you look at her curiously. She sighs. "For giving you the impression that we were just work colleagues. You're my friend. You've always been my friend."

You smile, ignoring the sudden urge to cry.

"I'm sorry I didn't call." You mumble. "I didn't want to worry you."

"Nah, it's fine." She assures you with a smile. "It's like Bulgaria all over again. I should have waited for backup, but all I ended up doing was calling you for help. I don't think I'll ever get over the fact that you got me out of that basement wearing the Chief of Government's face." You chuckle nostalgically at the story of what was probably the moment when your friendship and partnership with Layla was settled.

"You want to get even? Tell Valentina about me." It's supposed to be a joke, but it immediately makes Layla tense up.

She opens her mouth to say something, but suddenly there's a backpack slamming into her lap.

"Your things are in one piece again." It's Wanda, angry and with red eyes that make Layla frown with some concern. The remnants of her magic leaving the backpack also signal that Wanda has repaired anything broken by the impact earlier. "You can leave now."

You only realized you were still holding Layla's hand because Wanda was looking directly at it. It was your friend who let go first, chuckling weakly at the whole thing while you tried to understand exactly why Wanda seemed about to murder someone.

"Thanks for fixing my stuff, but I still have a few things to discuss with my partner." Layla replies with a shrug, her backpack in her hands. "I'll get something to eat first, I'm starving."

But Wanda steps forward. "There are some great restaurants on the road."

The curly gives a confused snort at the hostility, but you get to your feet before your friend ends up giving a rude answer to a witch who could do a lot worse than push her against a snack machine.

You enter Wanda's field of vision, and much of the fury disappears from her gaze.

"Hey, can we talk?" You ask, and the witch gives the thief one last angry look before allowing herself to be taken to a far corner of the courtyard. You sigh softly as soon as you're alone with her. "What was that all about, Wanda?"

She crosses her arms, her jaw clenched. It's so unfair that Wanda always finds ways to make herself more attractive.

"You told me you didn't have any friends, but you seem very close to that woman."

You hesitate, and that doesn't help your situation. Wanda narrows her eyes at you, and you try not to look intimidated under her red irises.

"It's complicated."

" It's better not to be, darling, because if she touches you again I swear I'll-"

"Wow, you're jealous." You interrupt her sentence as you realize it, a laugh escaping you. "Holy shit, you really are."

Wanda doesn't reply, rolling her eyes and looking away, but you stare at her with a certain intensity.

"No one's ever been jealous of me before." You confess quietly, and despite the color in her cheeks, she looks at you with irritation.

"Stop it." She retorts. "That's not a good thing. You shouldn't try to look on the bright side, I'm not… “ She takes a deep breath, as if trying to calm her nerves. Then, she tries to smile. “I'm just being silly. You should say that."

You chuckle. One of your hands moves up to brush the rebellious strands of hair out of front of her eyes.

"Alright, I'll try. Wanda, you're being silly. There's no reason to be jealous. Better? I kinda sound like those movie characters."

Wanda grunted in frustration, hiding her face in your chest afterward. "It's not fair." She mutters, her voice muffled in your clothes as your hands wrap around her shoulders. "She was all over you, and I can't even be mad at you for being clueless."

You sigh, without breaking the embrace, trying to explain further:

"It was a friendly gesture, I promise. It's nothing like when we hold hands. When Layla and I would go on missions together, sometimes we'd spend so long hiding, rationing food while injured, that we'd start to get a little crazy. The touch would ground us again. She reached out to my hand because I told her I wasn't going to work with her anymore."

Wanda breaks the embrace to look at you. "Because you're staying with me."

You smile and nod. "That's right, darling. Just like I promised."

The witch sighs, sinking her face into your chest again for a long moment. You don't mind and stroke her hair until Wanda ignores the insecurities that have arisen and relies only on you.

She's still hugging you when she mutters: "I'm sorry for snapping at your friend. I'll apologize to her too."

"It's okay, I doubt Layla took it to heart." You mutter, and Wanda breaks the hug to look you in the eye.

"What does she still have to discuss with you?" The witch asked more seriously, with a different kind of concern rather than jealousy now.

You force a smile. "Let's find out."

The new information you passed on to Layla about running away seemed to have some kind of effect on her because when you and Wanda found her again, she was chatting amiably with the rest of the Avengers. Wanda had the impression that Sam was actually flirting with her and felt some weight leave her shoulders even though you had assured her that there was nothing between you.

With the most sympathetic exchange between Layla and the rest of the team, she was invited to stay - Of course, she didn't miss the opportunity to make a few jokes on earth mighty heroes having lunch with criminals, but everyone took it as a joke. And shortly after eating, Wanda noticed that the two of you exchanged a look that meant it was time to talk.

She was ready to deal with her own jealous insecurities when you, who had been by her side all lunch, leaned over to kiss her cheek.

"Come on, love, let's go for a walk with Layla." It's an invitation, not just to talk, but to a part of your life that Wanda has never seen. She has to bite the inside of her cheek to control her anxiety, and it helps a little by the look of reassurance that Natasha throws her from across the table.

Layla, now with the bandage securely sewn up, is wearing a jacket again and dark glasses that make her look too cool even for the fugitive Avengers.

Wanda wishes she wasn't so nice and clever in her jokes and comments during lunch either, so it would be easier to hate her.

So far, she has only been able to understand exactly why you were friends.

"I gotta catch a bus, come on." Layla says as soon as you're on your feet. There's no bigger goodbye for the Avengers than a nod, and it makes sense since despite the polite exchange, they're not friends and Layla is still on the wanted list.

You keep your hand intertwined with Wanda's, and at a slow pace, you accompany Layla to the nearest bus stop.

"It's quite of sad you couln't get a car, my friend." You tease, earning a short laugh from Layla. Even though you can't see behind her glasses, you're sure she rolled her eyes.

"I couldn't bring my bike straight here from across the globe, and I wasn't going to attract unwanted attention by stealing a new one." She explains casually. "Besides, there's decent public transportation around here." She winks at you and Wanda. "I will survive."

You reach the bus stop on the corner, it's completely empty but that's not atypical for a corner motel in an isolated place.

Wanda decides to sit on one of the benches, and even though you're standing, you don't occupy her view or try to exclude her from the conversation. You lean against one of the railings and cross your arms, offering Wanda a small smile before facing Layla.

"So, Miss El-Faouly, how fucked am I?"

She chuckles, shaking her head.

"I told you, Valentina doesn't know you ran away." She retorts. "Not yet."

You sigh, and Wanda bites the inside of your cheek. She has so many questions, but you think it's best not to interrupt.

"What does she know?"

Layla shrugs. "She probably thinks you're having another morality crisis." The woman retorts, stealing a few glances down the street. "You've been away before. A few times on vacation, yes? But she'll know what you're up to if you don't come back soon."

You look down to check the watch on your wrist. You laugh humorlessly. "Actually, I've just missed the deadline. It's Tuesday, which means that officially, this is my longest period without contact after a mission. I guess she hadn't come to me yet because what I picked up in Greece arrived in the mail."

Wanda doesn't ask - not about what you were stealing before you joined her. The connection, the freshly healed bullet wound you had when you arrived. She knew you were working.

Layla steals a glance at the witch before clearing her throat.

"What if... you came back?" Your expression hardens immediately, but Layla clarifies; "Just to talk to Valentina, Y/N."

"No, Layla."

"She'll make things more difficult if she knows you've just left. You know that. If only-"

"It's out of the question."

"God, why are you being so stubborn?" Layla replies a little impatiently, her eyes studying you. "Your superhero girlfriend will be fine for a few days without you!"

"Layla." You cut in more seriously, and the girl snorts angrily but doesn't insist. Exchanging a glance with Wanda, you soften your tone. "I'm not leaving her, Layla. I can't, it's not right. Wanda, she... she's pregnant."

Layla widens her eyes, looking between the two of you in shock. "What? Really? And it's yours?"

You and Wanda choke at the same time. With her ears slightly reddened, she gives your friend a deadly stare. "Of course it is!"

The thief shakes her head quickly. "I didn't mean it like that!" She tries quickly. "I just... I didn't know you could, Y/N."

You sigh wearily. "I can transform into any Caborn-based form and you think I'm unlikely to have children?"

But Layla rolls her eyes, suddenly a little hesitant. "That's not what I meant either." She mutters. "I just assumed... you couldn't. Not after all they've done to you..."

But you clear your throat, get to your feet and Layla falls silent. Wanda frowns in curiosity at the interaction, but you're delivering something to your friend.

"Here, for Lagaro. For all the trouble." You hand over your watch and Layla grimaces.

"And my trouble?"

You chuckle. "Af if you weren't dying to see me."

Wanda clears her throat, and you take a step away from Layla before your girlfriend loses her temper again. The curly doesn't notice, busy putting your watch back in her pocket and checking the street again.

"Lagaro will be happy to know you're not dead, Y/N. Not just with the watch." Your friend comments and you nod, moving closer to Wanda to rest one of your arms on her shoulder. You're trying to relax the tension that has arisen there. When Layla looks at you again, her expression is more serious. "Think about what I said. I understand why you can't leave her, I really do. I guess it's the same idea with Marc disappearing to protect me."

You smile. "Marc disappears because he's an idiot, you should have married someone more... present." Layla raises her middle finger at you, but Wanda suddenly feels very silly knowing that all this time, your friend was married.

There's a bus approaching on the corner, Layla sighs as she sees it stop at a red light. She then offers you two a smile.

"Despite the circumstances, I'm really happy for you both." She assures you with sparkling eyes. "Just... be safe, darling. Okay?"

As she hugs you, she whispers something that Wanda doesn't hear and has to ignore the instinct to ask. She doesn't want to pry, but she feels so curious that she almost uses her powers to find out.

Instead, she also says goodbye to Layla and the two of you watch the woman get on the bus and leave.

Once you're alone, you entwine your hands together again and give Wanda a small smile.

"I can almost hear the gears in your mind working, baby." You tell her gently, and Wanda sighs. "You know you can ask me anything, don't you?

She nods, before looking around to see the growing number of lunchtime passers-by. With another sigh, she faces you.

"Let's go back inside."

It's a silent, tense walk back. You can sense that Wanda is nervous, and you fear that she's insecure again, about trusting you, about feeling left out.

The Avengers are no longer outside, whether they're back in their own rooms or out for a walk, you don't need to give any excuses about Layla's quick farewell.

Wanda enters first, and as you close the door, she crosses her arms and waits in the center of the room.

With a sigh, you speak first. "Come on, darling, ask me anything you want." You try to sound as gentle as you can, yet Wanda seems very nervous.

"I've spent so much time studying you. Your missions, your deeds, your disguises." She begins. "Still, I feel like I don't know anything."

"Well, that's because I'm good at what I do." Wanda looks at you seriously and you sigh, forcing yourself to act more serious about the whole thing. "Sweetheart, you know me. You know me more than anyone else."

You try to touch her cheek, but Wanda pulls away. "You say that, but I don't think it's true." She fights back annoyed. "I didn't even know about Layla. What else are you hiding?"

You frown in surprise at the accusation. But instead of starting a fight, you swallow dry. "I wasn't hiding. This is hard for me. I can't just dump my life on you. Sharing... doesn't come naturally to someone like me."

Wanda looks down, a little uncertain. "I just want you to trust me."

"And I do." You assure her, stepping forward to touch her shoulders. This time, she almost melts into your touch. "Look at me, I've been an wanted criminal for as long as I can remember, but I'm here, in a hotel surrounded by avengers, just to be with you. I want to be with you, no matter the risk, no matter what. Not only do I trust you, but I love you. Do you understand what I'm saying? You not knowing all the details of my past, of my work, doesn't make it any less true."

Wanda takes a deep breath and lets her forehead fall to yours. You stroke her shoulders, thinking about breaking the distance when suddely she moves away.

"You really have to go, don't you?" She asks with tears in her eyes, and you feel your stomach sink. You shake your head immediately, but something in your gaze makes Wanda's tears start to fall.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Y/N."

"I'll find another way." You assure her, but she turns her back, wiping her face and sitting down on the bed. Wanda hugs her own body and you let your arms fall by your sides. Seeing her cry is always the worst, and for a second, you let your anger get the better of you. "What? Do you want me to leave by any chance?"

Wanda lets out a tearful laugh. "Don't do that."

You snort angrily. "I'm telling you that I want to stay, that I am going to stay. And you're crying, as if you're sure I'm going to leave. I don't like being called a liar, Wanda."

She shakes her head. "Stop."

"No, you stop. I'm telling you something, but you're acting as if I'm going to abandon you. As if you were sure. Do you really think so little of me?"

Wanda chokes, raising pleading eyes to you.

"Of course not!" she retorts. "Don't say that."

The seriousness in her gaze makes you feel ashamed that you'd even considered such a thing. You prepare to apologize, but Wanda speaks again.

"It's your thoughts." She mutters, now she's the one who looks ashamed as she gazes at the floor. "Your mind is screaming that. You're so worried, I can easily hear it."

"Wanda, I...

"It's okay." She cuts in with a tearful voice. "I'm not angry, I think I get it. You don't want to put me in danger, but I'd like you to understand that you don't have to worry about it. I can protect us both."

You chuckle weakly, looking down at your feet. "That sounds lovely, but the last time I left you, you ended up in the Raft, darling. I don't want that to happen ever again."

"And it won't."

"You don't know that." You retort, moving closer to kneel in front of her. Your hands search for hers. "I won't leave you again, Wanda. Not like I used to do to get back to work. We're in this together. Can you please believe me?"

Wanda lets go of one of her hands to stroke the loose strands of hair away from your face. "Why is it so hard for you to get away from Valentina?" She asks, and the red irises explain why she can read the insecurities in your mind. You hesitate, but when you make a move to pull away, the grip on your hand tightens. "What's different between escaping her and escaping Hydra?"

But the hesitation in your eyes turned to confusion. "Escape Hydra? Wanda, I've never escaped them."

It was then her turn to be confused. "B-but I thought... your records. You haven't worked with Strucker for years. I assume-"

"That I just left them? Like you did?" You add, suddenly upset. Wanda says nothing and allows you to let go of her hand to sit down next to her on the bed. You sigh before speaking again. "I never ran away from Hydra, Wanda. My program was a success. And because of that fact, Strucker was allowed to command yours." You say, without meeting her gaze, your hands fiddling with the loose threads of your jeans. "Even if he made mistakes, even if volunteers kept dying, he could still be in charge. Because it worked for me, so it would work for others."

"What happened to you?" she risks asking and you sniffle.

"What happens to valuable merchandise, of course." You reply darkly. "I was sold." Wanda chokes softly, but you force a sad smile and keep talking. "I was 10, maybe younger. The program was complete, Strucker decided it was time to show off his new triumph. At his request, I created my first fixed identity at that time, to make it easier to find clients. To have a trademark, I guess. But with each buyer, they wanted something different. The Slayer, Mighty Samuel, Scorpion, Dark Diamond, any weird name they wanted. Any face they needed. For any service they paid for." The way your jaw tenses makes Wanda understand what is hidden between your words. Everything that was left out of the Shield and Avengers files, simply because they didn't know you were all those people.

Wanda reaches for your hand, interlacing your fingers together. "If it's too painful, you don't have to talk about it."

You squeeze back, shaking your head. "No, it's fine. I can talk about it, it's been a while. And Val, hm, she put me in therapy for a while. So I could talk about the program, my past, for her records."

"Tell me about her." Wanda asks because this doesn't just sound like a contractor and employee relationship. You sigh, nodding.

"I was 16 when the CIA caught up with me. It was no challenge, of course. But the agent who found me, Valentina Fontaine, had intel on me. At the time, Hydra and Shield shared the same name, so I couldn't tell who was a friend so easily. But Valentina? Oh, she knew a lot. She didn't care about the coats of arms one would wear, she just had a particular interest in special individuals. But she didn't approve of the way I was being enslaved. Barbaric she called. She charmed me, so, so easily. She was always very good with words. Manipulative. She got me to take her to my owner at the time, said she would give me my freedom." You sighed tiredly. "But when I took her to him, the rest of her team revealed themselves. They killed anyone who tried to fight and imprisoned the rest. My master, my boss." You correct yourself as you feel Wanda complains about the title. "He swore he was going to kill me for the betrayal. So Val shot him in front of me, and said that from then on, I owed her my life."

"You don't owe her anything. You know that, don't you?" Wanda retorts immediately, but you move uncomfortably as if the idea was already craved in your mind, and remind Wanda of how Bucky feels about the Winter Soldier and everything Hydra has put him through.

"I can think about it rationally, but practically? No, it's not that simple." You murmur, adjusting yourself to turn your whole body towards Wanda, your fingers playing with hers. "Valentina didn't use me, not like the others did. She bought me a place, gave me a name." You laugh weakly. "Of course, she couldn't say she'd got me in a dirty shed in Madripoor. No, she had to lie. She let me be Lady Fontaine, a distant relative of hers. She paid me very well for any service. I could travel wherever I wanted, have my own teams. I was free."

"As long as you kept working for her."

You swallow, agreeing. "Yeah, as long as I kept doing the job." You mutter. "But for someone like me, the life I had before, the deal was not bad, not at all. The whole sense of freedom. But then... I met you. Suddenly all those expensive things I could buy, all the adrenaline of a new robbery, everything stopped making sense if I didn't have you by my side.”

Wanda smiles tenderly, leaning in to steal a kiss from you. It's quick, but deep enough to make you sigh against her lips.

"Nothing and no one will ever keep us apart again, detka. I promise." Wanda whispers, her arms going to your shoulders so she can hug you and sit on your lap. You melt into the warm sensation, hugging her back with the same intensity.

It takes you by surprise, of course, and a moment later, Wanda hurries away.

"Is something wrong?" But she's already stumbling out of bed, running for the bathroom. "Wanda?" You barely get to your feet and hear her throwing up. First, your body goes into full alert, and then you sigh and relax as you remember: Pregnant girlfriend.

When you reach the door, it slams shut in your face, still shining with red magic. You chuckle.

"Don't come in here. It's disgusting." Wanda grumbles from inside, but you shake your head in disbelief and open the door, reaching up to hold her hair, calming any protests with a caress on her back as Wanda flushes all her lunch down the toilet.

"Can I run you a hot bath?" you suggest, still holding her hair. Wanda nods weakly, and you smile briefly.

You walk away to the bathtub while hoping that her state is enough for her not to notice your racing thoughts about keeping a pregnant woman in those conditions.

-&-

Wanda gets shot in the stomach. You wake up with a jolt.

The motel room is poorly lit, and you realize you've fallen asleep sitting up. Wanda sleeps deeply beside you, and you sigh before leaving the bed.

The bathroom light is the only one on in the room and gives away the previous activities - Wanda's nauseated state for almost the entire night. Perhaps the events were the reason for your nightmares.

Knowing that your girlfriend would easily notice your discomfort and end up waking up due to the nature of her powers, you left the room to get some air, and maybe push those thoughts away.

Given the time of night, the motel was quiet. But the figure smoking on the balcony made you take a deep breath.

"Hi, Nat."

The widow wasn't startled, she'd probably heard you coming out. She mumbled the greeting back, taking a long drag before offering the item to you. Your response was a dismissive nod.

"Sorry about the smoke." She says, and you scratch your eyes for a moment, shrugging in a sign that you weren't really bothered by it.

The next moment, you ask: "Rough night?"

Natasha gives a small laugh. "You have no idea." She retorts, attracting your curiosity. But the concern in her eyes is for Wanda's safety, she realizes, and quickly clarifies: "Nothing affecting your little witch, relax."

Despite feeling a weight leave your shoulders, you adjust your body towards the widow. "I know we're not friends and that this is a situation of necessity, but I'm grateful for the way you're keeping us safe. If there's anything I can do to help you with your problem, please don't hesitate to ask."

The sincerity of the words surprised her for a moment. And then, after another swallow, Nat laughs lightly and comments: "If you have any solution for a broken heart, I'll take it."

You frown, absorbing her words for a moment. Nat almost immediately looks away, busy smoking as if hoping that the cigarette would take away all the pain she was feeling. Your mind is racing with all the things you've been entrusted with about the widow, be it work-related or the little socializing of the last few months.

You don't have enough to know exactly what Natasha is saying, but it occurs to you that she must really need to speak to someone about it, at least enough to mention it to you.

"What happened?"

The next laugh that escapes her is a sad one. "Nothing you can fix it."

"I wasn't intending to anyway." You respond gently, offering her a smile. "I'm just here to listen. If you need to talk to someone."

"I have people to listen to me, thank you." She snaps back, and you sigh tiredly before stepping away from the edge.

You nod and retort; "All right, Romanoff, sorry for intruding." And you turn away, heading for the stairs.

But from the balcony, Nat only lets you go down two steps before saying; "I was engaged. Past tense." And you raise a frown in surprise at her, only for Nat to sigh, looking like she's going to burst into tears at any moment. "Like I said, it's nothing you can help me with."

But you rest your waist on the railing and keep looking up. "I'm sorry, the Captain is an asshole-"

"What?" Nat cuts you off with a grimace. "I wasn't talking about Steve!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I assumed you two-" But Nat bursts into laughter, and you shut up. It's better that she's laughing than crying anyway.

Wiping away tears of laughter, she shakes her head. "I understand why Wanda likes you. Your cluelessness is hilarious."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Nat chuckles briefly, taking one last drag before putting out her cigarette. She rests her elbows on the edge and looks down at you.

"Agent Hill was my fiancée." She explains, more gently than before. "We had a plan. One that didn't involve me switching sides and ending up fleeing across Europe."

You offer Nat a look of understanding. She sighs, looking away so you don't see her tears.

"Let me guess, Miss Hill believes you prioritized the Avengers over the life you planned together?"

Nat chuckles humorlessly, humming in agreement. She looks at you again with watery eyes. "Don't you think she's right?"

You sigh. "I think things are more complicated than that."

"They certainly are." Nat mutters tiredly. She swallows dryly, pushing her own emotions away before looking at you with a certain determination. It's going to be about you now. "How long are you going to keep this up, Y/N?"

It's your turn to sigh and cross your arms. Your gaze wanders away. Natasha decides to press.

"There are hundreds of bounties on you." She says. "You've annoyed too many people."

"I know."

"And Wanda needs to see a doctor-"

"Natalia." You cut her off, and her given name catches her off guard. She falls silent, staring at you intently. You sigh. “"I'll go where Wanda goes. No more leaving. I'm tired of running away."

Natasha remains quiet and thoughtful for a long moment. When she suddenly laughs dryly and offers you the cigarette again, you think it's best to accept.

"I think I just got Maria's point." She mumbles in annoyance, and you're a little taken aback by the tears in her eyes. But you try to take a drag on the cigarette, and start coughing, and it works to make Nat laugh and help you instead of crying. She takes the cigarette back, and gives you one last pat on the back, her hand staying in place instead of moving away. "That girl loves you with all her heart, Y/N. She'll follow you if you ask her to, so I beg you, make your decisions with your head, not your heart. Don't put her in danger that you can't protect her from."

You look at Nat. "Do you think that's what you're doing for Maria? Protecting her?"

"This isn't about Maria and me."

But you pull away from Nat's touch, looking at her hard. "I think it is." You insist seriously. "I can't protect Wanda from anything, and I don't need to. She's infinitely more powerful than I am. And I certainly won't be plotting decisions without her. If she decides to leave with me, that's her choice. Not any of yours, and maybe that's the problem with the Avengers, huh? You have a bad habit of putting your members in no-win situations."

Nat forces a smile. "Yes, we're the ones who are wrong not to want Wanda running around with a thief." She ironizes it, and you swallow, your gaze tired and disappointed. Nat is upset, and well, you're the easiest target here. That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. "Excuse me, for not wanting her in Madripoor, surrounded by the Chinese Mob!"

You sniffle lightly, shaking your head. "Do you know who's in Madripoor, Natalia? Your old colleague, Sharon Carter. The one who sacrificed her career for what you and Steve did. The one who was abandoned by you two without hesitation. Just like Clint did it, for whom Wanda's twin brother died and for whom she accepted this position. He abandoned her without looking back. Because that's what the Avengers do for each other, isn't it?" you retort angrily. "But I am the villain. I'm the one who stays and takes care of Wanda no matter what and makes her my priority, and I'm still the wrong one. Even though I'm not the one who let her end up in a fucking straitjacket, locked up like an animal!"

You don't realize you're screaming, but for a whole moment, all you can see is that damn newspaper photo of how Wanda looked, how she was captured. Nat's cheeks are wet, but she doesn't lose her posture.

You chuckle humorlessly. "You've got a damn nerve acting like you're better than me, Romanoff. Especially you."

"Don't go there." She warns with a dangerous look, but you shake your head.

"What would be the point?" You retort. "I'm over the past, but I can't say the same for you. You're pushing Agent Hill away because you're afraid of who you were, you're afraid that anger is still there. You're not giving Maria the choice to love you completely. And I'm not going to make the same mistake with Wanda."

With one last hard look at Nat, you turn to leave. Deciding that you need to take a walk and calm your nerves before going back to your room.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #heart shaped series #wanda maximoff series

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unicyclehippo · 6 months

Note

sad kiss imodna?

imogen looked for laudna in the reading nook where they’d first met the kid. she’s almost certain she’d find her there—laudna had a habit of poking bruises, and this one was going to sting for a while.

the room was roughly square. a few desks lined the walls; one of those round lights was ensconced above each of them but were dimmed now. beyond the desks was a small maze of bookshelves. imogen moved past them. she did nothing to disguise her approach, the click of her boots against stone, swish of her dress, the mental crackle of her searching mind. the far wall of the room curved slightly—they must be in the base of the tower—and cut out from the grey stone was a door leading to a small balcony. there, just as imogen suspected, stood laudna. hands resting on the balustrade, she stared out across the rapidly darkening city. imogen joined her. they watched together, enraptured, as an energy seemed to flow through the city streets and, one by one, glowing streetlights began to stir like stars in their infancy.

‘she’s alright,’ imogen said eventually. ‘fearne stayed a bit longer to see if she could lure her out but i think she’s done for today.’

‘that’s good,’ laudna said, very quietly. ‘fearne is fun—gwendolyn will feel comfortable with her.’

‘you’re fun too.’

it didn’t reassure as imogen hoped it would. laudna’s smile trembled like the last leaf of autumn, its drop imminent. she said nothing.

it might have been wise to look around for any of their friends, but imogen wasn’t all that bothered if they saw. soon enough, they were going to leave the planet and she had no bets on what would happen after that. here and now, she found she wasn’t that concerned with their friends finding out what they’d suspected since meeting her—that she was in love with laudna, that they were an item, that given half the chance and a moment of peace imogen would give into the urge to step closer to laudna and, hand against her cheek, turn her eyes ever so gently away from the city.

‘can i kiss you?’ she asked.

laudna lifted a hand to press imogen’s, to keep it where it was.

‘you’re trying to distract me.’

‘yeah, i am. is that okay?’

laudna nodded. there was a smudge beneath her eyes where she had wiped black tears. imogen leaned in, touched her lips to laudna’s cheek. it warmed beneath her attention, part blush, part the singe of her own power.

‘imogen…’ disappointment - hope - crept over her name.

she smiled. ‘it’s alright, honey. properly now, i promise.’

imogen stepped closer—close enough that laudna had to retreat, though she seemed disinclined, happy to lean into imogen and wrap around her like ivy. when imogen had her crowded against the corner of the railing, though, laudna tensed. imogen pulled and turned, slotted herself against the stone guard, and drew laudna into her.

laudna came willingly, sweetly. she touched imogen’s face and brought their lips together. the kiss was achingly soft. careful. with every shift—the tremble of her own hands, the press of laudna’s lips against her own, tiny testing kisses—imogen could almost sense the repairs. each kiss a stitch in the rip, a brick in the wall. laudna’s taut strings started to relax. she leaned more heavily into imogen and the cautious fingers on her cheek and shoulder warmed, grew a little more brave.

laudna slid a hand around imogen’s waist. the other buried itself in her hair, stroked at her hairline. it was making imogen shiver—the tickle of it, but also the maddening closeness, laudna wrapped all around her, the dual throb of their minds that agreed close wasn’t close enough, the way her nail scraped against the fine hairs of her neck every few touches and imogen let herself imagine it as she kissed laudna more deeply. imagined a sharp nail cutting her, the wet glide of a finger through blood, laudna’s mouth, sharp teeth, how it would feel to be consumed by her, soul and all.

‘imogen,’ laudna gasped. ‘please—‘

‘anything, anything you want,’

hunger lit in laudna’s eyes, bright and wonderful. it worked as the streetlamps did to illuminate her—the sadness, the relief, the love—and the shadows that lingered were less than they were, but darker for all the light.

‘you were remarkable today,’ laudna said, lips dragging against the corner of imogen’s mouth. she kissed her very sweetly and softly, every ounce of it filled with admiration. ‘you are always remarkable but today—that storm—and flying with you—‘ she scratched gently at imogen’s neck. imogen made a sound high in her throat, a breathy whimper; laudna paused, withdrew. ‘did i do that?’

imogen flushed. ‘you - you’re scratching my neck. it’s nice.’

laudna flexed the hand on the back of imogen’s neck, eyes darting there as if only just realising its placement. ‘oh. may i—kiss you there?’

‘oh fuck. yeah, please.’ imogen gripped onto laudna’s waist and hoped to every god there was that she didn’t seem to bloody desperate, tilting her neck to the side. actually, fuck that, she could be desperate if she wanted. so long as laudna didn’t mind. she didn’t seem to mind. laudna inched closer. she was nearly—but not quite—weightless and the slight pressure pushed imogen further against the railing. the stone pushed into her spine, uncomfortable enough to keep imogen in the here and now, which she hoped would be sufficient to keep her from embarrassing herself. all bets were off as laudna leaned in and, without fanfare, kissed imogen’s neck.

imogen groaned, a funny hitched noise. laudna hummed, intrigued, and swiped her tongue against the same spot. imogen swore.

‘oh gods, laud—‘

‘sorry, should i—‘

‘please, keep goin’. if you want.’ when laudna only kissed her neck again in reply, imogen trembled with relief. she gripped the railing with one hand, leaning heavily to give her girlfriend more space to work, and lost her mind a little to the rising shiver working through her body and laudna’s unending attention, the drag of her lips against her skin, sighs getting warmer almost hot as laudna began to warm up, and she cried out, eyes darting open, when laudna scraped sharp teeth across her pulse. imogen’s knees buckled. her gloves creaked as she grabbed the railing hard. head swimming, she shook in laudna’s embrace, whimpered again.

‘you’re so beautiful,’ laudna whispered. ‘so capable, so powerful, gorgeous,’ she insisted, hungry rasp catching in the back of her throat. ‘imogen, my imogen.’ she mouthed at the taut column of imogen’s neck, down, down to the cracks that split her skin. not many made their way past her neckline but there was one scar that splintered past her clavicle. laudna dipped her head and, arm tightening around Imogen’s waist, dragged her tongue along the line of it.

‘oh fuck!’ a bolt of heat shot through imogen. she groaned low, the sound loud enough that laudna drew back, looking faintly surprised. imogen couldn’t meet her eyes just yet—instead pressing her mind out to make sure no one was close enough to witness their private conversation.

‘imogen? darling?’

‘i- that was -‘ imogen laughed a little. ‘if you keep doing that, i’m gonna lose my mind a bit and we’re gonna need to find a room.’ laudna’s mouth shifted to an understanding oh. ‘yeah. and,’ past her own excitement, imogen could see laudna’s hesitation. ‘i don’t think we’re ready for that just yet.’

laudna flushed prettily. ‘perhaps not,’ she agreed. ‘but that was—‘

‘perfect.’

laudna preened a little, pleased. then her attention turned thoughtful, and amused at the edges. ‘you’re a very good distraction,’ she said, almost laughing. very sweetly, adding, ‘and very kind. thank you, imogen.’

imogen wanted to tell her rather fervently that laudna was welcome to ravish her at any time, but withheld. instead, she reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind laudna’s ear. brushed the golden cuff with a gentle finger.

‘everything good in me, you gave me. you know that?’ laudna looked like she would argue. imogen shook her head. ‘when we met, i was so tired. i saw the worst in everyone and it hurt, all the time. the things i woulda done for a little peace…’ her voice shook. ‘don’t you for a minute think fun scary laudna isn’t the most important person in the world to me. you let me laugh for the first time in years. you made the world feel like a good place again. you - you saved me, laud,’ she said, as she had the last time they were here in Whitestone, though that time the confession had fallen on dead ears. ‘i’m so lucky. to get to have you with me. no matter what happens,’ she said, and drew laudna in for a kiss.

after their activities here, and the heated feeling in her gut and her words, it was not the most gentle kiss they had shared. part of imogen wanted to burn this knowledge into laudna and she kissed like that, hot and fierce. after a moment, laudna made a noise, a low moan, that shot right through her to her core. imogen pulled back, reluctantly. ‘we should - we should find the others.’

laudna frowned severely. ‘i hate them,’ she muttered, lips twitching upwards when imogen burst into laughter. ‘fine.’ laudna’s fingers skittered over imogen’s face, her smile. ‘i shall follow anywhere you lead, my darling.’

#tagging my stories #prompt fill #cr fic #imodna my beloveds #a tiny bit steamy which is not where i meant for it to go but hooray!

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whumpdoyoumean · 1 month

Note

Imagine Caretaker drawing a nice hot bath for Whumpee, complete with lavender scented epsom salts…

You are so correct, Anon. Here, have this (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

"Hey," Carer says gently. "I drew you a bath."

Whumpee looks up from the couch, their hand draped over their forehead, and grimaces. "I'm gonna be honest with you, I don't really feel like getting up."

Looking at Whumpee, Carer can't say they're surprised. Whumpee is in rough shape, the evidence of their run-in the previous evening displayed on their face in the form of a split lip and black eye. They'd rinsed most of the blood away last night, but some of the stuff is still visible at one temple and down their neck and matting their hair. Carer sighs, stepping further into the room.

"Water's hot, but it won't be for long. Come on, I'll help you."

Whumpee closes their eyes. "I really appreciate the thought, but--"

"I added Epsom salts," Carer interrupts. They'd thought this might happen, and had prepared accordingly. "Lavender."

Whumpee pops one eye open. Lavender is their favorite. Carer smiles inwardly, and goes for the jugular.

"Come on, Whumpee. Please. For me."

Whumpee lets out a loud sigh. "Fine."

Carer doesn't say anything at how slow Whumpee is in getting to their feet, and politely ignores every stifled groan and poorly hidden wince. It isn't until they're in the bathroom, helping Whumpee get their shirt off, that Carer lets out a sharp gasp. They can't help it. Whumpee's back is a canvas of red that's starting to take on dark blues and purples. One particularly nasty bruise wraps around their rib cage, stretching onto their torso. Whumpee notices Carer's reaction and glances over their shoulder.

"That bad?"

"I mean...it's not great. Why didn't you say anything?"

"Didn't wanna worry you."

Carer bites back a sigh. "I'm going to worry either way, I would rather know what's going on. Come on, get in the bath."

Whumpee moves stiffly, holding onto Carer for balance as they step over the edge of the bathtub.

"There you go," Carer murmurs, helping Whumpee lower themselves into the tub. Whumpee's eyes close as they slowly ease into the hot water and they let out a low, contented hum. Carer can practically see the tension draining from their no-doubt aching muscles.

"That feels...amazing."

"Good," Carer says. They grab a washcloth and move to the sink, running it under the tap for a second before kneeling next to the tub. "You missed some blood. You mind if I...?"

Whumpee doesn't open their eyes, just nods once. "Please."

Both are quiet as Carer starts wiping away the dried blood, water running down Whumpee's bruised body in thin pink ribbons. Carer can't help but think about the gentle intimacy of the act, a stark contrast to the brutality and violence that had led to this moment happening in the first place. A small, pained sound from Whumpee interrupts Carer's thoughts and they quickly pull their hand back.

"Shit, sorry!"

"'t'sokay," Whumpee says, though their eyes are a little wrinkled at the corners from the pain. "I'm okay. You can keep going."

Carer is more gentle as they dab at the cut at Whumpee's hairline again. "This probably could have used stitches, you know."

"It's not that bad...Thank you, for--for all of this."

"I don't mind," Carer says quietly. "Just, do one thing for me in return?"

"Anything."

"Be more careful. Please."

"I will," Whumpee says. "I promise."

And the thing is, they mean it. Carer can tell that they mean it, in this moment. But Carer also knows that, in all likelihood, it'll only be a matter of time before Whumpee gets into trouble again. And when they do, Carer will be here, with hot water and lavender Epsom salts.

xxx

#anon ask #answered ask #whump scenario #caretaker #my writing #whump #care

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thewritingbeforesunrise · 1 year

Text

Confession.

18+ ONLY. MINORS DNI

______________________________________

A/N: This has been sitting in my drafts for a bit and I finally decided to post it. I hope you like it.

This entire fic was inspired by this picture, but you can really imagine Josh how you prefer in this one. I also drew inspiration from that cursed audio of him whimpering that was circulating a while ago.

Word count: 7K

Pairing: Josh x female!reader

Warnings: NSFW 18+ONLY, graphic sexual content, language, sexual tension, oral (m!receiving).

Link to Part 2

Summary: An unexpected turn of events leads Josh to make an embarrassing confession.

_____________________________________

A sharp knock on your door made you jump out of your skin as you were tidying up the green room you were occupying.

"Y/N! Open the fucking door!" You heard a very familiar voice shout from the other side.

You thought the boys were already on stage by now, you thought you heard the last call at least five minutes ago.

What is he doing here?

The knocking continued, even harder than before, so you quickly ran to the door.

As soon as the lock clicked, Josh stormed inside and started rambling, words going at miles a minute.

He was already wearing his golden cape over the white jumpsuit with golden marine embroidery that you had designed just for him a couple of months prior, following his directions.

After a second, you stopped his ramblings, grasping his shoulders and shaking him slightly.

"JOSH!" You shouted over his words and he finally stopped.

"What's wrong? Why is your jumpsuit half unbuttoned? And why are you not on stage right now?" You fired these questions rapidly, to better understand the situation and he groaned.

"Well, that's clearly the fucking problem here!" He said, hands stroking his hair nervously as he gestured to the zipper.

"This damn zipper isn't working. And I can't go on stage in front of twenty thousand people like this, right? So that's why I am here." He whined.

He was standing next to the door, his exposed chest was glistening with sweat and rising and falling rapidly as he panted, stressed and nervous.

The zipper was blocked down past his navel, under the little belt that circled his waist, his happy trail was exposed.

You started to blush.

"I need your help, I tried everything. I can't pull it up or down. I thought about using candle wax but I am afraid to stain the fabric and the more I try to open or close it, the more I am afraid to break it. I tried to untangle the fabric from the inside but I couldn't. And I can't even change because it WON'T GO DOWN." He sounded really frustrated and said this while tugging at the zipper to prove his point.

"I am trapped, Y/N! I need your help" He whined in defeat leaning against the wall and squeezing his eyes shut.

You couldn't help but look at his chest and feel a little tingle run down your spine.

I have to stay professional.

You thought, your eyes following his rising and falling chest.

You quickly recovered and tried to reassure him.

"Let's see what I can do to help you. If I can't do anything I am going to cut the zipper and I am going to stitch it again. You can wear another jumpsuit tonight." You said matter of factly, coming closer to where he was standing.

"Oh fuck" He exclaimed and he grasped his head between his hands.

"What?" You said, a confused expression slowly made its way on your face.

"I can't wear another one, they are all to the cleaners. This is the only one I have" he said in an apologetic tone and you panicked.

"I am in charge of the wardrobe. Who did allow that? I am sure I didn't." You replied confused and a bit angry.

"I did" he said with a guilty smile.

You glared at him and he giggled. That stupid giggle you loved in other contexts. Now, you positively hated him.

"I should make you go on stage like this, troublemaker" you hissed through clenched teeth.

"Please don't, help me, please" he was begging you now. You watched how he had his hands joined, bottom lip pushed out and puppy eyes.

As if it was really a problem for him. You knew that he didn't have any qualms about showing way too much of himself to the crowd, sometimes.

You glared at him, but you began to think about what you could do to help.

You grabbed the zipper and tried to push upwards and downwards delicately. Obviously it didn't work.

You knew what you had to do. The zipper probably wasn't working because some fabric had caught into it from the inside.

"Maybe the fabric of your boxers got caught inside the zipper, that's why it's not working" you said and he giggled again.

"That's impossible, mama" he said playfully and when he understood you didn't get it, he worded it for you.

"It's impossible because I'm not wearing any" he said in a whisper and you blushed.

Oh God

To make it work you had to stick your hands inside it and try to untangle it.

And there was no way you could do that without pushing your hands really close to his private parts.

Just when you were thinking of another solution, a voice sounded from the hallway.

"Three minutes to the stage, you are already late!" Someone shouted and he panicked.

"C'mon Y/N! Do something" he pleaded and you knew you had no other option.

You grabbed the zipper again and leaned closer to him. Your fingers slowly made their way on the fabric, around it and slowly dipped inside.

You noticed how his breathing stopped as your fingertips slowly grazed the hot skin of his tummy, his hair there tickling you lightly.

You tried to suppress the deep blush that was creeping onto your cheeks as your fingertips slowly traced the zipper on the inside, till you located the problem.

You were tracing your finger on the little bump of fabric that was causing the tangle when the door flew open and Jake pranced into the room.

He stopped dead in his tracks as he assessed the scene in front of his eyes, mistaking it completely.

You saw the smirk growing on his lips, his eyes never leaving your hand literally down his brother's pants as you quickly pulled it away.

"Well well well, have I interrupted something, here?" He said, in a playful mocking tone.

It was Josh's turn to speak now.

"Fuck off, Jacob. Y/N is helping me unstuck this damn zipper" he said harshly, panting slightly.

"Yes, of course, whatever you say, brother. And I am going to believe this, right? I am not stupid, Joshua." Jake replied, his smirk still beaming.

The deep blush covering your cheeks wasn't helping the singer prove his point. You knew you looked very guilty right now.

"Y/N, you have to make it quick, you have two minutes left to fix the "help my brother with the zipper" thing that 's going on here." Jake said and winked towards you, grabbing a water bottle.

You cleared your throat and crossed your arms.

"Look, Jake, it really is stuck like that" you said, tugging uselessly at the zipper to prove your point.

"And, unless you want to be the one with a hand inside your brother's pants, you better let me do my job or he is coming on stage like this, OK? You threatened him by pointing your finger at him.

He quickly raised his hands and made a retching sound at the idea you just suggested.

"Well, I think I am going to give you some privacy." Jake said while chuckling and wiggling his eyebrows towards you. He left quickly before Josh could hit him.

As Jake opened the door a voice shouted "One minute to the stage!"

Your eyes widened and so did Josh's. You quickly resumed your position in front of him and you slowly traced the zipper with your fingers.

You slipped them inside the jumpsuit and found the problem.

You tried to tug lightly a few times but it didn't work. You felt how his breath hitched in his throat as the fabric slowly shifted against his bare skin and you blushed.

Your blush intensified as you noticed how the situation was affecting him.

Your hands were so close to his crotch that you knew he couldn't keep his mind from wondering what could happen if you pushed your hand lower.

Actually, you could see very well the effect those thoughts were having on him, in the growing erection he was sporting. You could also feel his gaze burning on your face, but you couldn't bring yourself to meet his eyes.

You grabbed the zipper with your other hand and tugged upwards. At the same time the hand that was tucked in his pants tugged downwards and the zipper unlatched.

The force with which you tugged at it caused your hand to dip lower in his pants and you both gasped at the same time.

Oh, fuck.

You were almost sure you had touched him in the process and, rapid as a lightning you pulled your hand out of the jumpsuit.

You couldn't look him in the eyes so you turned around to get a bottle of water for yourself.

You couldn't see his shocked and slightly aroused expression as he thought about what had just happened.

After a few seconds you heard him move and you heard the sound of the jumpsuit zipping up.

"Y/N, how do I look?" He asked you, admiring himself in the full length mirror and checking his hair.

You turned around to properly look at him and he looked ravishing, as always.

You were really proud of the work you had done while tailoring this jumpsuit. It was your favourite because it looked divine on him, it suited him perfectly. This meant that you could easily see every detail of his body. And, right now, the fabric was clinging to the very prominent bulge between his legs, making it impossible for you to focus properly on anything else.

You quickly averted your gaze and told him he looked great, ushering him out of the room to join his bandmates there.

In the hallway, the moment Jake made eye contact with you, he smirked and winked, making you blush with embarrassment and anger.

You didn't have time to tell him off because the moment Josh set foot in the hallway, they were quickly ushered to the stage.

You went back to the green room and leaned against the wall, trying to process the last ten minutes.

Thinking about what had just happened caused your heartbeat to quicken. You tidied the room and then sat on the couch, trying to calm down a bit.

After a while, you managed to regain your composure and decided to go check from the side of the stage if Josh had finally managed to destroy the only jumpsuit he had left and flash twenty thousand people with a visual of his bare dick.

Not that he minded, you knew that very well.

You walked along the same corridor the boys had been ushered from less than an hour ago and you reached the side of the stage where Jake was.

He was prancing around absolutely smashing it with his Gibson, as always.

As he spotted you, he winked and a menacing smug smirk twisted his features.

You knew he had something in mind, you had seen the very thought develop in his beautiful talented brain.

He kept eye contact with you as his hand moved a few times up and down the fretboard of his guitar, very suggestively, producing a moaning sound.

You knew he was mimicking the actions he thought he had seen his brother and you partake in inside the green room.

To put the cherry on top, you blushed wildly at his action, from embarrassment, but he mistook it for guilt and laughed at your expenses.

Smug bastard.

You decided to avert your eyes from his whoring demeanor only to land on his twin, who was already watching you.

He was still clothed, thank God, but the white fabric of his jumpsuit didn't conceal much. You could see, and so could everybody else, that the bulge was still there, and it was even more prominent than before.

You were about to go back to the green room when you noticed an imperceptible movement from Josh. The crowd in front of them didn't catch it, but you, standing there at the side of the stage, very much could.

He was grinding the tip of his erection against the mic stand, while singing.

It was almost non-existent at first, but he became more and more impatient as the time passed and his movements couldn't be mistaken from your point of view.

The moment his eyes landed on you, he did it again, but this time he let his head dangle backwards, exposing his sweaty throat and neck and keeping his mouth open in a display of a silent moan.

He swallowed and you had to forcefully avert your eyes from the indecent bobbing of his Adam apple.

He even brought his hands up and arched his back with a little satisfied smirk on his beautiful face.

You turned around and almost sprinted towards your green room, heartbeat going a mile a minute.

The concert was phantasmagorical as always.

When you heard the last pounds of Danny's drums you knew they were almost done.

But this time you knew you wouldn't leave the venue soon, like you always did, following the boys in hotels or on the tour bus.

This time the owners of the venue had organised an afterparty for the band and the crew and everyone was invited. The boys had previously asked you if you were going to come and you didn't want to tell them no. So, even if you didn't like afterparties very much you agreed.

After a while, you heard the boys approach your door in the corridor and you went to open it to tell them how incredible they had been on stage.

When you opened the door, Sam and Danny passed by quickly and waved to you, heading to their respective green rooms.

Behind them you spotted the twins and, when they saw you waving at them too, they winked to you in sinc.

Oh God. If alone they were trouble, together those two were an absolute menace.

You blushed and they snickered. Before you could hide into your green room, a black boot stopped the door from closing.

You knew who it was even before he entered.

Jake strutted inside, followed by Josh, still clad in the tight white jumpsuit. They were both sweaty. Jake's hair was clinging to his neck and throat and Josh curls were disheveled and damp from the exertion of performing.

"Are you coming to the afterparty, Y/N, right?" Jake said before gulping down half a water bottle in one go.

"You promised you would, so don't make up excuses or we are dragging you there by force" Josh said puffing his sweaty chest out, acting like a macho.

"Well, macho man, you are not dragging me anywhere, and remember that, even if you wanted to, you would have to catch me first." You told him playfully, making him and Jake laugh.

"Just kidding Y/N, I wouldn't drag you anywhere. I would never force you to do something you don't want to." He said truthfully.

"Plus, I am a bit afraid of you, if I have to be honest. You are always so calm and collected, you can hide very well what goes on in that little beautiful head of yours." He said, smirking.

"Still waters run deep, brother" you heard Jake utter with a knowing tone, smug smirk plastered on his plump pouty lips.

They exchanged a look you didn't understand, their twin telepathy was working at its finest.

"C'mon boys, you have ten minutes to shower and clean up before the party" you said looking at your watch.

They thanked you and headed to their green rooms.

You started to get ready, checking your almost non-existent make-up, your outfit and your hair.

You were about to exit when you heard a scream from the other side of the wall.

It was Josh.

You exited the room and simultaneously, his door flew open.

You could see very well that he was angry. You could also see very well that he was having the same problem with the jumpsuit as before. The zipper was stuck in the same spot as before, if possible even a little lower, exposing a whole lot of skin.

"Y/N!" He whined like a toddler.

"Didn't I told you that you had to be extra careful with this zipper?" You questioned him, already knowing that your multiple warnings had fallen on deaf ears, as always.

"Yes, but…" he started but was interrupted by another crew member.

"Guys, c'mon let's go. The party has started, you are the only people that are still missing" he said.

In the meanwhile, Jake had sauntered out of his room and was leaning against the wall across from you and his brother, smirking, with his hair still wet from the shower.

"Are you coming to the party like that, big brother?" Jake snickered pointing at his brother's state of undress.

"Not yet, Jakey, you go first and then we will join you as soon as Y/N fixes this damn zipper once and for all." The singer told him.

Jake's eyes landed on you, and he winked, coming closer, like a tiger stalking his prey.

You stayed frozen on the spot as he approached you.

The smell of his body wash was clouding your senses.

"Don't be late, it won't take much anyway, '' he said in a sultry manner, sounding cryptic as always. You pinpointed a bit of irony towards his brother state and you blushed.

"Fuck off, Jakey" Josh said grasping your wrist and leading you towards his room.

Jake left you two alone, but before leaving, he waved and winked.

Once you were inside the room, you closed the door and he groaned, fed up with the jumpsuit.

"I am not going to this party like this" he said, nothing but deadpanning.

"Josh, don't be dramatic, I am going to fix this zipper, I prosise, then you can go have fun" you tried to reassure him, but you understood there was something else bothering him.

You approached him and guided him against the wall to keep him still while you worked on the zipper.

The moment his back touched the wall with a low thud, he exhaled a little breathy whimper that could have gone almost unnoticed if the room wasn't so silent.

This time, having a bit more time to work on it, you crouched down on your knees to be eye-level with the problem.

He closed his eyes and leant his head back on the wall, squeezing his eyes and his fists at his sides.

As soon as your fingers skimmed on the zipper, he bit his lips, with his eyes still closed.

You decided to pay no mind to him and traced your fingers on the inside of the zipper noticing the problem immediately. In doing so you brushed your fingers timidly on his flushed skin.

He couldn't take it anymore.

He grasped your wrist and stopped you.

You gasped and searched his eyes. He drew a shuddering breath, then looked at you and regretted it immediately.

Seeing you like that, on your knees and with your big doe eyes looking up at him was worsening his state.

You tried to pay no mind to the prominent bulge in his pants, but you were falling miserably.

"Josh" you whispered "Are you ok? Did I do something wrong?"

"No, absolutely not, it's not that…" he said and trailed off.

"What is it then? I am going to help you if I can" you reassured him and he laughed.

"Well it wouldn't be really professional from me" he said, hardly looking you in the eyes.

"Give it a try. The worst that can happen is that I am going to slap your pretty face, Joshua" you said playfully and he snorted out a laugh.

"What if that's something I'm into, Y/N?" He said with a glint in his eyes, resembling his carefree everyday self.

"Well, that's good for you I suppose. C'mon, spit it out, what's bothering you?" You asked him still on your knees, with his fingers wrapped around your wrist.

He didn't say anything at first, but his face was portraying his inner struggle very well.

You were about to continue fixing his zipper when he spoke.

"It's just that…" he stopped and shook his head.

Then he tried to go on, but shut up again.

You decided not to push him, letting him organize his ideas.

Then he spoke, looking directly at you.

"It's just that it's been a while" he said and you could see a little blush spread on the apples of his cheek.

A meek smile was adorning his beautiful lips.

You wanted to punch yourself because of the enormous amount of time it took you to really understand what he meant.

He mistook your embarrassment with confusion and decided to explain himself better.

"It's been a while since I had a beautiful girl with her hands inside my jumpsuit, let alone on her knees in front of me like you are now." He said, finally meeting your gaze.

You blushed wildly at his confession.

"And believe me, it's not that I didn't try to take the matter into my own hands, literally, but it just doesn't work anymore, I don't know why" he pointed out with a humorless laugh.

"What do you mean it doesn't work, Josh?" You asked him before you could stop yourself.

He opened and closed his mouth. For once in his life he didn't know what to say.

"In the sense that you do it and after it feels like you didn't and you feel the need to do it again or…" you voiced in a whisper trying to understand more.

He shook his head.

"I can't even finish Y/N. I feel like I am too wound up for it. I am anxious about it and anxiety worsens my state. To really enjoy it I should be relaxed, and right now I am absolutely not. I don't know what to do and I don't know who I should talk to about it. Telling my mother is absolutely out of the question.

Sam would make fun of me and Danny would be too embarrassed to speak." He said almost without breathing.

"Have you tried talking about it to your twin?" You suggested and he scoffed.

"I have tried but you won't like the answer." He said with a tired smile.

"What did he say?" You pressed him.

"He told me… never mind… forget about it. Just help me with this zipper so we can go have fun at the party." He said, yanking uselessly at the zipper, without meeting your gaze.

You straightened up to be eye level with him pointing a finger in his face.

"You are not going anywhere until you tell me what your brother suggested" you threatened him and he smirked.

"You won't like it" he said in a defiant manner trying to discourage you.

"Well, let me at least think for myself, Joshua," you retorted.

"Ok, but don't tell me I didn't warn you. He told me to ask for your help, Y/N." He said and you blushed under his fiery gaze.

You already knew that probably Jake's advice would involve something dirty and yourself, but hearing Josh say it caused a shiver to run down your spine.

Now you understood all the little jokes, winks and sneers Jake kept sending your way for a while.

"Just drop it Y/N, it doesn't matter, let's go to the party, I don't care if people see me like this. Already twenty thousand people have, I am not afraid of thirty more" He said grabbing your wrist and starting to walk towards the door

You resisted him.

You couldn't believe you were really considering it, but he was your friend and you couldn't just ignore his suffering and go on like it was nothing.

He had the courage to confess it to you so you wanted to help him.

He let go of your wrist and watched you closely, not understanding.

You turned towards the door and reached it.

Once you were in front of it, you heard his breath leave his lungs in a defeated huff. It was an almost imperceptible sound and you knew he didn't want you to hear it, but you did.

He thought you were going to leave.

Your hand reached for the key and, without a word, you turned it, closing the door.

You could feel his stare burning on the back of your head.

You didn't immediately turn around. You tried to heaven out your breath and stop the trembling of your hands, first.

When you turned, he was already watching you.

You moved and he backed away from you, until he was again with his back against the wall.

You were in front of him now.

You couldn't believe you were about to do this.

It's not that your mind had never indulged in such thoughts. How could you not. You had eyes, you couldn't deny that he was astonishingly beautiful.

But thinking about really touching him was making you nervous. What if you couldn't help him? What if that ruined your friendship and your working relationship with him?

He was staring at you, not even blinking, but his breathing was becoming ragged. A little whimpery noise escaped his lips and you couldn't think straight anymore.

Your hand pressed on his chest, delicately but firmly pinning him to the wall.

"Please" he whispered and you couldn't deny him.

Two of your fingers touched his chin and traced further down the hollow of his throat, his toned flushed chest painfully slow and you swore you saw him twitch in his pants.

You continued till his navel then stopped.

He swallowed, looking directly into your eyes but didn't say anything.

You were the one leading the game and you could decide everything.

Your fingers inched downwards and he whimpered softly into his throat.

You circled his navel and then began tracing his soft happy trail.

His eyes never left the movement of your fingers.

As you reached the zipper you felt him quiver.

You slowly dipped them inside and his lips parted with a silent gasp.

His skin was scorching hot and so soft underneath your cold fingertips.

You went further down and traced them on the edge of the patch of coarse pubic hair there.

You were about to dip your hand further down his pants when a thundering knock threatened to send the poor door to the ground.

"JOSHUA, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? YOU ARE NEEDED AT THE PARTY RIGHT ABOUT NOW. SO STOP ADMIRING YOURSELF IN THE MIRROR AND GET YOUR ASS DOWN THERE" a booming voice you recognised as their manager's snarled from the other side.

You jumped away from him with both your hands on your mouth trying to cover any kind of sound.

"I AM ALMOST READY, GIVE ME A MINUTE" Josh shouted from the inside.

"You have thirty seconds, or I am bringing you down myself" you heard the other man threaten before running away.

Josh huffed, defeated.

"Let's go" He said without meeting your eyes

"You don't want to change? I can unstitch the zipper…" you tried to say but he interrupted you.

"No Y/N, let's go, don't worry" he motioned you outside and you followed him.

Thankfully, the party ended pretty quickly so it wasn't too late when the crew, the boys and you retreated back to the hotel that fortunately was on the other side of the road.

As you checked in, you noticed that your key number was different from the one of the other crew members. You understood that the hotel concierge had assigned you a room on the same floor as the guys.

As you reached your floor with the fastest lift you had ever seen, Sam, Danny and Jake went right, wishing you good night, while you and Josh, who was wearing a tshirt that he had borrowed from Danny to cover his modesty, headed left, following the numbers on the walls.

As you entered your room, you jumped face first on the bed, exhausted.

After a while a knock on your door startled you.

"Sorry, Y/N. It's me again" you heard Josh mumble from the other side of the door.

You opened it and ushered him inside.

He was still wearing the damaged jumpsuit.

"Right, let me grab my scissors so I can try to unstitch this without tearing up the fabric." You said, rummaging through your bag.

"Stay there" you said and approached him.

He was still nervous and fidgety, but once you came closer to him he tried to calm down.

You pushed him lightly to lean against the wall and his breathing picked up slightly.

The situation of the zipper was the same as before and so was the situation in his pants. He was positively straining against them.

You tried to concentrate on freeing him from the constriction of the jumpsuit.

Unceremoniously, you knelt down and stuck your fingers in the jumpsuit, bringing the white fabric away from his skin and closer to your face, to be able to work without cutting him.

Inevitably this caused the fabric to drag on his flushed skin, eliciting a strangled sound from deep in his chest.

"Sorry" you mumbled and then started working.

You managed to cut some threads and then you slowly moved downwards to unstitch the bottom of the zipper.

The break of a particular tight thread you were carefully yanking caused your wrist to brush inadvertently against his bulge and he almost doubled over with a pained groan.

He needs help, he can't relax like this, you thought blushing.

"I think you can free yourself from this burden now" you said referring to the damned jumpsuit, straightening up to look him in the eyes, with the torn half of the zipper in hand.

He looked even more handsome against that dark wooden wall. His tanned skin was very exposed thanks to the missing zipper and gleaming in contrast with the stark white of the jumpsuit.

You knew he wanted to say something, anything to convince you to help him, but he couldn't find the courage.

You could see the battle between feeling good at last and staying professional behind his soft deep brown eyes.

You decided to ease his stress and help him.

"Thank you Y/N, you are the only one who can put up with me without freaking out. Thank you for your patience with this thing" he said sheepishly, pointing at the jumpsuit.

He was about to turn around and go when you stopped him.

"Josh" you said and the hand he had on the door handle dropped.

"Hmm?" He said turning around slowly.

You were the fidgety one now, wringing your hands in front of you.

You both started talking at the same time.

"For what I said earlier…" he started

"Earlier in the green room…" your voices overlapped and you both blushed.

"Y/N, forget about it, it was absolutely unprofessional on my part, even rude. I am really sorry if I have upset you" he said genuinely concerned looking down at the floor.

"Josh, it's ok, don't worry, I am not upset at all" you said and he smiled.

He thanked you, wished you goodnight and was about to exit when you stopped him with a hand on his bicep.

"Josh, wait…" you whispered.

He slowly turned around and smiled at you. His usual beaming smile was blinding you now, and intimidating you at the same time.

"Let me…" you tried to say but you stopped, embarrassed

You exhaled and then went on.

"Let me help you, you can't stay like that" you whispered without meeting his eyes.

"You don't have to, I will figure something out, you have already done enough for me tonight." He said truthfully.

"Ok, bye Josh, have a goodnight" you waved at him and he exited.

You got ready for bed, but you couldn't sleep. You kept tossing and turning around uselessly thinking very unholy things about the man sharing your wall right now, who, to make matters worse, happened to be your boss.

You were about to stand and make a cup of tea, to help you calm down, when you heard the water running and a muffled groan on the other side of the wall.

Then nothing.

After a few seconds, you heard it again, this time it was a curse and a long drawn out whimper.

You couldn't mistake what he was doing, or at least, trying to do.

Those noises erased even the last bit of sleep that your brain possessed and turned you on beyond belief.

Your panties were sticking to your skin now and you almost slipped one hand into them for a quick needed solo session, but you stopped.

He sounded like he was in pain. He wasn't having fun doing that, like he should be. You couldn't let him feel like that. You wanted to help him, or at least try to.

You stood and, without a thought, a second later you were knocking softly at his door.

Nothing

You knocked again and you heard some commotion coming from the other side.

You heard the peep-hole open then close and he finally opened the door.

"Y/N? Is everything ok?" He asked. He had only a towel on, his curls damp and unruly.

"Yes…well, no. I couldn't sleep and I heard you were awake too and I wanted to know if you wanted to watch a film with me" you blatantly lied to him, but what else could you do? Or say?

"Hi Josh, I heard you were trying to masturbate in the shower and I wanted to help you?" No way, you really couldn't tell him that.

He smiled softly and let you in.

"Of course, go sit on the bed, I am going to change and I'll join you in a minute" he said softly, going to the bathroom to change.

You sat against the headboard and waited for him, wringing your hands together and torturing your bottom lip with your teeth, until it was almost bleeding.

After a while, he came back clad into a soft worn white tshirt and grey shorts. He climbed on the bed and sat, mirroring your position.

"Do you have any idea on which film you want to see, Y/N?" He said, patting your bare thigh.

This made you shiver, but you masked it with a shrug.

"No, Josh, I trust you with the choice" you said, feeling his hand burn on your bare skin.

You two set on a movie that was already playing on some channel. He had already seen it and granted you it was good.

You watched it in silence for a while.

You were slowly drifting off to sleep, with your head on his shoulder, but a sex scene came on the screen and, suddenly, you were wide awake again.

You felt him tense but you didn't say anything.

You heard him shift as the scene progressed and an imperceptible whine left his lips because his movement caused the cotton of his shorts to caress his still strained cock.

He thought you were sleeping so he slowly lowered you on the pillow and stood. He started to pad towards the bathroom but you stopped him with a call of his name.

"Josh" you whispered and he stopped but didn't turn.

You stood and reached him.

He turned and leant against the wall, head in his hands, panting.

You couldn't wait anymore.

You wanted to make him feel good.

You grabbed his wrists and lowered them to his sides. He looked at you then, with big shiny eyes. He looked so young and tired. His expression was painful and conflicted.

"Stop me if this is something you don't want." You whispered into his ear, placing a trembling hand on his chest and meeting his nervous gaze.

"Y/N, I don't want you to do this" he tried to say but, as you pressed him a bit more against the wall, he shivered and a breathy impatient whine left his lips.

"Shh Josh, just tell me what you need, nobody will know about this" you whispered.

"Please…" he whispered back.

You slowly lifted his tshirt exposing his tanned chest and then you discarded it on the floor.

His gaze was smoldering.

"Please what, Joshua?" You whispered, encouraging.

He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again, locking gazes with you. You saw a new fervor inside them.

"Please, touch me" he huffed out.

You repeated the same actions that their manager had interrupted before into the green room.

You placed two fingers on his chin, and slowly dragged them down, on his neck, between his pecs and on his tummy. You swirled them slowly around his navel and trailed them even lower, following his happy trail and stopping against the hem of his shorts.

He was panting now, his heavy breathing was the only sound filling the room.

You moved even closer to him to whisper into his ear. In doing so you placed a trembling hand on his chest, right on his heart. It was beating furiously underneath your palm and it only spurred you on.

"Is it ok if I take these off?" You asked, tracing your finger on the waistband of his shorts.

"Please" he whispered.

You knelt down and started kissing the flushed skin right above the waistband. You sucked a faint mark there and he rewarded you with a breathy moan of your name.

You hooked a finger into the waistband and started to pull his shorts down, slowly.

"Fuck" he groaned as the fabric touched his sensitive skin.

As your fingers moved the cotton downwards, you felt him shiver, goosebumps rising on the soft skin of his hips.

The grey fabric pooled at his feet and a relieved moan left his lips as his erection was freed from that constriction.

Your eyes were trained on him and your mouth watered.

He was rock hard and twitching against his tummy, the skin was flushed and the head was an angry shade of red and already leaking.

White drops of precum were adorning his sensitive tip. He was beautiful.

The mere contact with the slightly cooler air of the room, caused his hips to buck forward, in search of friction.

"Hand or mouth, Josh?" You asked and he groaned.

"Whatever you want, Y/N, whatever" he all but sobbed, and you couldn't take it anymore. You needed to taste him.

You decided for a combination of both and you went to work.

You slowly wetted your lips and swirled the hot tip of your tongue on his head, wrapping your hand slowly around him.

He moaned, loudly, and you whimpered. His skin was scorching hot and his salty taste was heavenly.

The sudden contact with your warm tongue caused him to almost lose his balance. You spotted an armchair, close to where you were kneeling and motioned for him to take a seat.

"Josh, sit down" you said and he nodded.

When he sat down, you resumed your position between his legs and he twitched.

"Lay back and relax" you told him and he obliged without a single word.

You took the tip between your lips and slowly made out with it, swirling your tongue around the foreskin, paying extra attention to the little spot under his head that had his hands claw at the arm rests.

"Oh my… fuck, Y/N" he whined and you stopped, letting him regain his breath.

"When was the last time you came, Josh?" You asked and he blushed.

"Fuck, almost a month ago, I think" he confessed.

In response, you placed your hands on his thighs and took him into your mouth. He doubled over with a loud curse.

With every sucking motion, he was letting out a whimper, signaling to you that he was close.

As you kept pleasuring him, his hips started bucking upwards every time you took him deeper into your mouth.

You tried to fight your gag reflex as he hit the back of your throat a few times. Tears were starting to prickle at the corners of your eyes but you didn't care.

You locked gazes with him and he warned you through gritted teeth.

"Y/N, you better stop if you don't want me to…" he started but trailed off when he felt you swallow around him, the muscles of your throat clenching around him.

"Shit, Y/N, I am cumming." He groaned and a second later you felt his hot release trickle down your throat.

His taste made you feel hazy and lightheaded.

He kept moaning and whining low in his chest as your mouth stayed on him through his entire orgasm.

He let out a shuddering breath but was still hard inside your mouth.

His eyes were shiny and watery, his expression was completely fucked out as he met your gaze.

You kept your mouth on him, despite the soreness of your jaw and started sucking again, gently.

"Fuckfuckfuck" he whispered as both his hands grasped your hair.

You kept swirling your tongue around his shaft, tracing every ridge and vein and sucking relentlessly but gently, positively making him lose his mind.

He couldn't keep quiet, choruses of pleas filled the room and, when your hand started kneading softly at his balls, he came again suddenly without warning and with a wailing satisfied scream.

You swallowed his warm release again without a second thought, savouring every last drop of him.

This time you released him slowly and he shivered at the loss of the warmth that your mouth was providing him.

Without a word, you straightened up, wiped your chin with the back of your hand and left him there, still twitching, naked and bewildered, wondering if what happened was real or a figment of his wicked imagination.

#greta van fleet #greta van fic #greta van smut #gvf fic #josh gvf #josh kiszka smut #josh kiszka x reader #josh kiszka

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