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the-lonelybarricade · 10 months

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A Blaze in the Dark - (1/7)

Chapter Title: A Faith Forgotten Land

Summary: On the eve of her wedding, knowing nothing about her husband besides his apparent disinterest in his soon-to-be wife, Elain uses a spell to meet her true love in her dreams.

A contribution to @elucienweekofficial Day 1: Mates. This chapter gets very spicy 🌶️🌶️

Read on AO3 ・Series Masterlist

Elain, I’m afraid I have a favor I must ask you. Do you recall the magic spell I told you about, the night I tried to run away? The one where you place a butterfly wing beneath your tongue so that you will meet your true love in your dreams? I’m afraid the context has become too complex and confusing to divulge to you in its entirety over letter, but I suspect that my husband is, in a strange turn of events, my true love. I know it is a gruesome task, but I desperately need you to send me a butterfly wing so that I can confirm it. Once you have a butterfly wing, I believe you will be able to send it to me by folding it into this letter. Add a lock of your hair and a trinket that reminds you of me, then burn them all, and this letter, after sundown. Don’t give up on true love, Elain. It’s still there, waiting for you. -Feyre

Elain twisted an aster stem between her thumb and forefinger, watching the petals blur into a circle as they twirled. It had arrived with the letter from Feyre—the trinket, presumably, that had reminded Feyre of Elain. An aster flower, a symbol of afterthought, or the wish that things had ended differently.

It was a fitting gift, Elain supposed, though she doubted Feyre was aware of its meaning.

She was happy for her sister, truly. After spending so many days in grief, fearing for what was to become of her sister after Prince Rhysand stole her away to the cruel and oppressive North, it was a relief to discover her sister had potentially found a life with her true love, after all.

It was also difficult not to be consumed with envy.

The lone butterfly wing taunted her from where she’d left it, hastily discarded, atop the drawing table. She’d gagged through the entire ordeal of ripping it from the poor insect, and now that she’d sent one of the wings to Feyre, Elain was uncertain what to do with the second one. It seemed cruel to rip them from a living creature only to discard them, but the prospect of putting it beneath her tongue… Elain’s skin pimpled with disgust at just the thought.

It wouldn’t be practical, besides. Tomorrow, Elain would be marrying the youngest son of the Eastern Kingdom’s royal family. So really, she had no use for the folly of magic and supposed true loves. Even if she met her true love in her dreams, there would be no backing out of tomorrow’s ceremony. It was for the best to leave her fated other half unknown—it would be less painful that way.

Still, the wing rested on that table, just to the side of Feyre’s letter and the words that jumped out towards Elain.

Don’t give up on true love.

It was an easy assurance for someone to make once they had found themselves conveniently married to their true love. But Elain knew, with decided certainty, that such a fate would not apply to her own marriage. Not that she had ever met her soon to be husband.

From what she had heard, Lucien Vanserra was as cruel and miserable as the six brothers before him. Elain hadn’t yet decided what to make of the rumors surrounding the Vanserra men, but what she did find offensive was that Lucien hadn’t had the decency to so much as write her a letter since their engagement was announced. And given he’d made no effort to know her before their marriage, Elain had the sinking suspicion that she was merely the byproduct of a far more interesting transaction.

“You’ll be marrying a prince,” her father had told her proudly. “Just like Feyre. I wouldn’t expect anything less for my beautiful Elain.”

It hadn’t occurred to him to ask if she wanted to marry a prince, but why would it? Before Prince Rhysand had stormed into the manor, the best their father had hoped for was a Duke from their own Kingdom. Now he had letters spanning not just the Kingdoms of Prythian, but even from the distant shores of the continent. And with the abundance of interest in the unwedded Archeron sisters, it had become rapidly clear that their father had no intention of seeking his daughter’s input on their potential matches.

Nesta continued to rage against it, but Elain had been resigned to their father’s will. Despite his less than complimentary reputation, Elain hadn’t exactly loathed the idea of being married to a prince. But when she asked her father when Lucien would be visiting the manor to begin their courtship and he had frowned in response, Elain realized Lucien Vanserra had no interest in romancing his betrothed.

On the eve of her wedding, knowing nothing about her husband besides his apparent disinterest in his soon-to-be wife, the butterfly wing was inviting in ways Elain shouldn’t allow. She was not Feyre. She would never be brave enough to pack a bag and run away in the pursuit of true love. She was good, obedient Elain, who only ever stirred trouble for the sake of gardening. But this... this was not being scolded for “forgetting” to wear gardening gloves, this was magic. Magic that would only cause her heartache. It would only make tomorrow that much more unbearable.

Except the butterfly wing would go to waste otherwise. And it was easier to pretend she was a victim of her empathy than her curiosity.

When she went to bed that night, she did so with the butterfly wing placed under her tongue. And when she woke up, it was to darkness.

She sat up, feeling the slide of silk sheets and blankets that certainly did not belong to the bed she’d fallen asleep in. It was too dark to see anything. Even when she held her hand in front of her face, Elain could not distinguish her fingers from the gaps between. She frowned, thinking it was odd that Feyre had not mentioned this part of the spell. Had she done something wrong?

After a bout of blindly patting the mattress, she determined there was no one else in the bed with her. A relief, she supposed, though she was crestfallen to think her true love had decided he wanted nothing to do with her, too.

Then, the sound of footsteps. Light. Curious.

“Who’s there?” she called.

The footsteps paused.

“Who are you?” he answered, with an accent that was certainly not from the Southern Kingdom.

She wished she’d encountered more people beyond the walls of the manor, if only so she was better equipped to place where he was from. Even so, she could admire the richness of his voice. Warm, honeyed, but with a rasp that made her skin feel heated.

“I’m your true love,” she said.

He took a single step forward. Cautious. “Is that so?”

“Do you know anything of magic?”

“Yes, lady.” There was a lightness to his tone. A humor. “One could say I’m familiar.”

“I placed a butterfly wing under my tongue,” she said. “Apparently doing so will cause you to dream of your true love, and here you are.”

“Here I am,” he echoed.

“And you are?”

He hesitated. Which Elain could not blame him, seeing as she had no intention of providing her own name.

“Are you married?” she asked, seeing no other reason for his reluctance to tell her.

“Betrothed.”

Her heart sank, despite knowing that even if he wasn’t, it would not change the fact that she was to be married tomorrow.

“It is not the sort of engagement I can easily break,” he added.

Elain mulled that over. “But you want to?”

It was a dangerous question. She could tell by the way he laughed. There was an edge to it that sliced through the dark space between them. “It’s not often I encounter a lady so direct,” he commented. “What’s your name?”

Direct was not how she would usually be described—that was for Nesta. Elain was the sister who was always polite, always poised. Always swallowing her tongue, so that every would-be sharp word cut its way down her throat instead. She imagined each bladed thought was slowly slicing away the undesirable pieces of herself and, one day, she would fit effortlessly into the mold of perfect Elain Archeron without needing to swallow anything at all.

Evidently, today would not be good practice.

If governess could see her, she would surely have a fit. Elain had already broken convention by simply being present. She’d used magic to be in the lone company of a man when she was to be wed tomorrow. What was being a little more direct, for an evening? Being someone other than perfect Elain.

“My name?” She asked innocently. “When you won’t tell me yours? That hardly seems equitable.”

He was getting closer to the bed, and she felt her pulse echo each step as the distance closed between them.

“Names are meaningless, anyhow,” he said, with a sort of wry amusement that she would hardly encounter in the stiff social circles of the Southern Kingdom. She found a smile drawing to her lips, leaning towards the open darkness like if she concentrated hard enough, his face would suddenly appear. “They describe nothing of ourselves, besides the people we are related to. A name carries too much prejudice. Instead, tell me about the person your name belongs to.”

Elain could agree on that much. Being an Archeron was wearisome on the best of days, and it was not helped by their father’s insistence of keeping his daughters shut inside the walls of the manor. It left the rest of society much too curious—a fact which Elain had only truly discovered on their societal debut, the night of the Solstice Ball, which had been spent seeking potential suitors just as much as it had been dodging a slew of prying questions. It didn’t help that a foreign Prince had stormed into the ballroom, magic aflare, demanding that he dance with Feyre. Nor did it help that King Beron of the East had taken an interest in the remaining two sisters once word of Feyre’s marriage had spread.

Regardless of where he was from, the name Archeron would be recognizable to her true love. And then he would know not only that she was to be married, but precisely who she was to be married to. If he was spiteful, he could inform her betrothed of their clandestine meeting and disrupt the ceremony, ruining her family’s name in the process. Elain could practically hear Nesta whispering in her ear, reminding her that was dangerous information to hand over to a man, even one that was allegedly her true love.

So she lied.

“I’m from a poor village,” she said. “The only daughter of a farmer—”

“That’s not who you are.”

Elain reeled back from the interruption. It was firm, though not unkind. She tightened her grip on the bed sheets, thumb absently working over the wrinkles to smooth them out, trying to decide what about her lie had given her away. “Wh—what do you mean?”

“Those things don’t define a person, not really.” She could hear a frown in his voice. “What I’m asking is, what drives you? What makes you happy?”

In polite society, one’s occupation and financial status seemed to be all that defined a person. She blinked into the darkness, wishing she could glimpse his expression. If only so she could measure how much space she was permitted to take up in her answer. Should she answer like a lady ought to, the way she had been primed by her governess, so that she sounded desirable and interesting? She could feign an affinity for playing the harpsichord, or something quieter, like sewing.

But his interest sounded sincere.

“Gardening,” she said. “I like feeling the sun on my face and the earth beneath my fingers.”

“Gardening,” he repeated, softly. Elain listened carefully, searching for the usual traces of disapproval. “Is that something you do in your leisure? Or do you help your father plant crops?”

Of course. Elain smothered a laugh at the mental image of her father lowering himself on his cane to plant crops into the dirt. He wasn’t a man well suited to manual labor.

“In my leisure,” she answered, feeling a smile tug at the corners of her lips. “I like to plant flowers.”

“Do you have a favorite?”

Elain gave the question more consideration than it was likely owed. The Archeron manor was nestled in a region of the Southern Kingdom where spring bloomed eternal, and she was cautious not to choose a flower that grew exclusively in their lands. In reality, she had many favorites, depending on the quality she was using to assess them. Did she select a flower for its appearance, its meaning, or the ease with which she could care for it?

Don’t overcomplicate things, she chided herself. He was asking to be polite, and though she sensed the question was genuine, his interest in the answer would be surface level at best. Flowers did little to serve men outside of being a pretty, quiet object they could cast their eyes upon. Perhaps that’s why Elain felt such a kinship in them.

Perhaps that’s why she answered, “sweet alyssum.”

Worth beyond beauty. He wouldn’t recognise the flower’s meaning, she was certain, but he made a noise like he was familiar with the name.

“And why’s that one your favorite?” He asked, voice so close now that Elain was certain he was standing just in front of her. She couldn’t quite summon the courage to reach her hand out to confirm.

“Wherever they grow, the garden looks like it’s been covered in lace,” she said. “They’re also thought to preserve the sweetness of the soul. The ladies in our family are known for a wicked temper, so I used to dry the blossoms to brew them into a calming tea.”

“Is that so?” He must have leaned in, because the next words were so close to her ear that she jumped. “So which do you have then, a wicked temper or a sweet soul?”

“Can I not have both?”

She asked for the sake of the game, because she could tell that it intrigued him, but deep down Elain knew that the wicked temper belonged only to her sisters. The Archeron spirit must have skipped over her entirely, because she lacked the wildness of Feyre and the unbreakable rage of Nesta. Maybe she’d been spending too much time tending the sweet alyssum and the flowers had cured her of a temper—as well as any courage it provides.

“Certainly,” he said. She felt the softest tug at her scalp and thought he must have snagged a lock of her hair. “In fact, for a lady who enjoys gardening, I would expect nothing less.”

Elain cocked her head. “Why’s that?”

“Because,” he murmured thoughtfully, “plants often have hidden dangers, don’t they? Thorns and thistles and poisons. A foolish man gets cut by a rose for choosing to only see its beauty.”

For a moment, Elain was stunned into silence. Then she asked, “and do you consider yourself a foolish man?”

“Not often,” he said wryly. “Though I have been cut by a rose or two. In the nature of learning.”

She found herself laughing at the unexpected candor. “It’s a hard lesson learned.”

“An important one,” he agreed. The hand at her hair dropped. She felt the lock fall back to her shoulder, a moment before warm fingers found her jaw. It was a light, barely there touch that raised her chin until her neck angled upwards, giving her the impression that her true love was tall. She wondered how far away he was from her face, if in the light she would be able to count his number of eyelashes.

In a low voice, he murmured, “Now I know how to handle a rose, should I ever come across one again.”

Elain was so caught off guard by the slight touch, that the implication of his words hardly registered until several heartbeats later, leaving her floundering for a response as she realized that he was flirting with her. It was an effort to smother the fluttering in her chest, reminding herself that he was betrothed and so was she.

“How fortunate for your wife to be,” she said primly.

He dropped his hand like she’d scalded him.

It should have been enough to leave it there, but the accusation fled from her lips before she could clamp down her anger, “Does she know that she’s marrying a rake?”

Elain knew it was unfair. She had summoned him, despite being betrothed herself.

He laughed. Dryly. “Wicked temper, indeed.”

“Tell me more about her,” she pressed.

A heavy sigh, strong enough that she felt it ghost over her scalp.

“It’s an arranged marriage. A means for my father to punish and control his unruly son.”

The bitterness in his voice surprised her. Elain straightened. “What did you do to warrant such a punishment?”

A sudden dip in the bed caused Elain’s weight to lurch sideways, pulling a gasp from her as their shoulders brushed and the entire side of her body prickled with heat. Painfully aware that she was in nothing but a nightgown, Elain quickly scrambled to the side, grateful to the dark for obscuring her reddening cheeks.

“Nothing heinous,” he soothed. “I became too comfortable in my liberties, set my sights on a lover that he didn’t approve of, and now he’s stepped in to remind me that he’s the one in control.”

Elain’s stomach dropped. She could relate all too well to the pain of having her liberties suddenly striped away.

In a quiet voice, she asked, “is your betrothed kind, at least?”

“So I’m told.” His voice was flat. “I’ll be amicable with her, of course, but I’m not certain I could ever love her. Doing so would mean submitting to my father’s will, and I’ll never allow him to have that control over my heart.”

Just as much as Elain was envious of his betrothed, she found herself pitying the woman, as well. How painful would it be to have a husband so disinterested in their life together? It was the very thing she feared, and she wouldn’t wish it on anyone—not even the woman marrying the love of her life.

“What about you?” he prompted, once silence had fallen in the space of her melancholy. “Any plans for marriage?”

After he had been so honest with her, it seemed unfair not to return the favor.

“I’m betrothed as well,” she answered, tangling her hands together in her lap. “My wedding is tomorrow, in fact.”

Another dry laugh, like the sound of cracking branches. “You’re kidding.”

“I also don’t want to marry him. It was all my father’s arrangement, and I’m expected to simply be grateful that I’m marrying so high above my station.”

“Ah.” There was scathing judgment cast in that sound. “A poor farmer using his pretty, weddable daughter to pay off debts?”

Elain squeezed her fingers tightly together, trying to contrast the sensation to the tension building in her chest, behind her eyes. But when worded like that… it was too late. She was rapidly blinking back tears as she sniffled, “Exactly that.”

A hand fell to her back, zapping her again with his heat as he traced a slow circle through the thin fabric of her nightgown. “Is he kind, at least?”

She shrugged. “I know nothing about him, besides that he is older than me. I am… I am terrified, really. Of who he is, and how he might treat a wife that he purchased as if her opinion—as if she—didn’t matter at all.”

The fingers at her back flexed. “Do you know the nature of your father’s debt? I could arrange for—“

“No.” Elain shook her head, though he couldn’t see. “No, that’s not—that’s not why I called you here. I don’t expect you to pay my fathers debts. Nor do I want you to.”

“So then… why did you call me here?”

A question she should be asking herself, really. What was there to take from this meeting besides hopelessness, besides misery? Besides his hand against the back of her nightgown, warm and soothing and much too indecent for a woman about to be married.

“I don’t know why,” she admitted. “I guess I just… wanted to see what the alternative could have been. All my life I’d fantasized about marrying for love. Now I fear that—” she could hear her voice shaking. She forced herself to swallow. Tried not to let it break, but the words crumbled anyway. “Now I fear that is no longer possible.”

The hand at her back slid to her shoulder, coaxing her into his side. Elain took a sharp breath as she leaned in, inhaling the scent of woodsmoke and warmed apples. It was comforting to her, in addition to the circles he smoothed against her bare shoulder, down her arm.

He took a deep breath, and she was relieved to hear it was shaky, too. “That is precisely how I feel.”

“I suppose I can see how we’re compatible,” she said, a touch dryly.

He snorted. “I’ve never known fate to deal its hand kindly.”

Elain wondered what hidden pain lived beneath such a statement, but thought better of prying. Instead, she murmured, “Curious how in a world filled with butterflies, so many love stories are plagued by tragedy.”

He said, softly, “Your story doesn’t have to be a tragedy.”

It was echo enough to the pacifications made by her father and governess that Elain turned her head away. They had asserted that love matches were rare, that she should make the most out of the arrangement and be grateful to have obtained a match so favorable. Perhaps even to her true love, she sounded like a horrid pessimist in assuming her married life would be miserable.

When she said nothing, her true love added, “What I mean to say is, I could help you, if it came to it. If he is unkind, you do not have to suffer through life with him.”

But he didn’t know. In his mind, she was a poor farmer’s daughter, marrying a Lord’s son at best, someone he clearly expected he was capable of buying off. In reality, her husband was a prince and whatever resources her true love possessed, she doubted they exceeded Lucien Vanserra’s.

“Thank you.”

It was all she could think to say. It must not have been a convincing show of gratitude, because he sighed like he was hollowing all the air in his chest.

“Of course,” he said, a gentleman resigned to her polite rejection. “If you need anything, anything at all, you know how to find me.”

Elain had the sense that it bothered him, the inability to help both himself and his true love out of their unfortunate circumstances. Guilt stirred in her chest, feeling like she had added to both their emotional burdens by summoning him here.

In the interest of searching for something to offer him, one request did cross her mind. An impropriety that was Feyre levels of bold and reckless. Elain faltered, uncertain if she was willing to risk offending him by asking. Or worse, that she would find the courage to ask and he might lack the sense to deny her.

“What is it?” he asked, picking up on the tension underlying her silence.

Elain played through all the possible variations in her head and only once she was certain that the choice to not ask him would be the most painful of, she murmured, coyly, “When you say anything at all, do you mean it?”

There was an allure to her voice that belonged to another woman, one Elain had never met until this moment, when his hand stilled midway down her arm and he asked, too carefully to be casual, “Are you insinuating that I am not a man of my word?”

A dangerous question. A promise that whatever she asked would be fulfilled.

“Certainly not,” she breathed.

“Then tell me, lady.” He moved closer, so that the next time he spoke, each of his words brushed the shell of her ear. “What is it that you’re after?”

His hand was searing where he still held it against her arm, unmoving. And as he waited for her response, she could feel every breath skitter over her neck, prickling her skin in its wake.

It was all a trick of some kind, to convince her to screw her eyes shut and blurt, “I want you to kiss me.”

Likely not the most sensual invitation he’d ever received. But her voice didn’t waver, and she counted that a victory. Again, Elain cursed the dark for preventing her from seeing his expression. Her sight could have prepared her for the hand that raised to her jaw, so startling in its heat that she gasped.

His fingers guided her gently, tilting her face to the side, then up.

She could feel him lean in, voice low and lovely, “Tell me what this means to you, and I’ll oblige.”

“I’ve never been kissed before,” she said, resolute. “I want the first time to be with someone of my choosing.”

She thought she heard him swallow.

“I can understand that,” he said. Then, “It’s a shame it wasn’t my irresistible charms that persuaded you.”

If he was trying to ease her nerves, it only worked so far as to coax a curve at the corner of her lips. “Was this you being irresistibly charming?”

“Well, I’m in the company of a betrothed woman, so I’ve been more restrained than usual.”

“Than usual?” She hummed, feeling the warmth of each spoken word, her lips tingling with the promise of their proximity. “Do you use your irresistible charms on every woman?”

“Only those with sweet souls and wicked tempers,” he said with a small, tantalizing laugh that made her long to seize the game entirely so she could savor the sound against her mouth. “Tell me, lady, which will you taste like?”

“Find out,” she challenged, breathy and utterly unrecognizable to her ears.

Just as he promised, her true love obliged. His lips were soft and plush, warmed like he’d been lounging beside a fire before coming here. Or conversely, as if the fire lived beneath his skin, and now seeped into her body as the kiss deepened.

She tasted the smoke on his tongue, but it was countered by a sweetness that reminded her of burnt sugar. The taste made her feel dizzy, just as she had felt at the ball after one too many glasses of sparkling wine. Like the world was spinning, threatening that she might topple over or bubble right up to the sky if she didn’t grab hold of something.

His hair seemed like a good choice.

It was long, spun silk at his back, parting easily for her fingers to grab hold. She wondered absently what color it was, but the thought was abandoned once he groaned into her mouth in response to a curious tug.

Elain tugged again, to see what would happen.

He broke away, murmuring, “Is a kiss all that you seek this evening, lady?”

If her entire body hadn’t already been set aflame, the implication would have been enough to color her cheeks. Was a kiss all she sought?

“I—I—”

“I’ll pass no judgment on my part,” her true love was quick to say. “The Mother knows I haven’t saved myself for marriage. I expect regardless of what your future husband expects of you, he has not paid you that courtesy either.”

The idea of being touched for the first time here, where it was safe and lovely and tranquil… It had not occurred to her to betray her husband this way, but now the thought of seizing that small piece of control for herself felt comforting.

“Will—will he be able to tell?”

“Certainly not. I doubt a dream will leave any physical evidence. So long as you play the part of a timid, blushing bride on your wedding night, he will be nonethewiser.”

It would not be hard to play that role, since she was certain to be cowering beneath her husband’s touch. And that was precisely why she found she couldn’t turn her true love’s offer away, when his touch was so gentle, so inviting.

“Will it hurt?”

His mouth found hers again, and his tongue parted her lips open for an obscene taste that kindled a moan in the back of her throat, before he broke away. “You have my word, lady, that it will be nothing but pleasurable to you. And should my advances prove me wrong, you’ll have license to ensure I never receive a peaceful night’s rest again.”

“What about—what about your wife?”

He seemed to falter at that. She could feel him searching for an answer that was honest, but would still please her.

“I am not married yet,” he said finally. “And once I am, I’ll be discussing with my wife my intention to live separate lives. She’ll be well looked after and encouraged to take on lovers, and I think that will be agreeable for both of us.”

Elain, once again, was struck with sorrow for his soon-to-be wife, even as she agreed that his plan was considerate—generous, even, given that most men took mistresses while expecting their wives to continue to be faithful. She supposed she should be envious. No such consideration would be extended towards her. But then again, it wasn’t his wife that her true love grabbed at the hips and settled into his lap. This connection to him—this dreamworld—was something that would only ever belong to Elain.

It was perhaps the only thing in the world that was uniquely hers. The only thing that she had full dominion over. Not even her body was fully hers. It belonged partially to another man, but she still used it to slide her hands over her true love’s chest, feeling the strong, solid muscle obscured beneath his clothes.

“Tell me what to do,” she said. “I know the mechanics, vaguely. I’m to lie on my back and you’re to put—“

He chuckled.

Elain’s cheeks burned. Her voice came out sharper as she asked, “Am I wrong?”

“That’s one way it can be done, certainly.”

“And I’ve amused you because?”

“Because of course that’s all they’d tell you.” One of his broad hands found her hip, his steady fingers curling intimately towards her backside. The other hand reached up, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Lie on your back. Be still. Try not to cry. Sound familiar?”

Elain flinched. Her governess hadn’t told her not to cry—but Nesta had. She wished she could deny it, but the silence was condemning, and her true love clicked his tongue in response.

“It’s shameful to tell you that there’s pleasure to be had in it. You’re meant to be afraid, to discourage you from seeking it elsewhere. They don’t want you seizing that control for yourself.”

His fingers brushed over the curve of her ear, sliding forward into her hair at the base of her skull, where he gathered the loose curls into a fist and gave it a deliciously slow tug. Elain allowed him to arch her head backwards, exposing her throat so he could leave an open mouthed kiss at her hammering pulse.

He said roughly against her skin, “But I want you to take that control. I want you writhing in pleasure. I want you desperate for it.”

Already, she was trembling. And he hadn’t even touched her yet.

“Tell me what to do,” she said again.

“You’re doing it. You stay exactly as you are. Well—”

Using the hand at her hip, he tugged her forward until their torsos were completely flush. He was so solid, so shockingly warm. But what was worse than the heat seeping insistently through her flimsy nightgown was what she felt herself sitting on top of, pressing insistently against her cotton underthings. She could guess what it was and tried her best not to squirm in response as she shifted through all the new emotions that washed over her. Some she recognized—like shame and uncertainty and exhilaration—and others were harder to decipher, like the strange ache that was slowly coursing through her.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now you stay as you are.”

Elain knew if she opened her mouth, only stuttered nonsense would escape, so she elected to nod. With the fist in her hair, her true love would be able to feel it.

“I can’t see your expression,” he said to her. “So while we do this, I’m going to need you to use your words. Okay?”

Her mouth had gone so dry that her tongue was stuck to the roof. She had to swallow before she managed, “Okay.”

“I’m going to touch you. I need you to tell me if you don’t like it, or if you want me to stop. And if you’re enjoying it—” she could imagine the smug smile that crossed his face— “then I want you to tell me that, too. Loudly.”

“W-wait.” He completely froze, his touch on her relaxing, though he did not withdraw. Elain trusted that if she asked him to, he would, and that comforted her enough to ask, “What should I call you?”

The silence turned considerate. “Whatever you want,” he said. “Love, my lord, sir.”

His voice lowered on the last word, and Elain filed that information away for a later time. There would no names, then. It was for the best, truly, though Elain still wished selfishly to know who he was.

“Okay,” she said, steadying herself. “Then please, touch me, my lord.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Elain expected it all to happen suddenly. For him to pull her hair and crash their lips together as he ravished her with his body. Instead, it was slow as dripping honey. He kept his hands tangled in her hair, with just enough tension to keep her arched against him while the other settled back in its place at her hips, creeping ever-so-slowly downwards.

“You’re so soft,” he murmured, once his fingers slipped past the nightgown and found the bare skin of her thigh. He stroked his palm in rhythmic circles, the breadth of his fingers spanning the entire width of her thigh, and then some. “How does this feel?”

It was nice. Soothing, even.

Elain released her breath in one short burst. “It feels good.”

“Yeah?” He leaned in, nose skimming across the slant of her shoulder. “I could feel you tense, but you’ve seemed to relax now.”

“It’s... I suppose I thought you would be doing more all at once.”

He released a small, breathy laugh. Like that was exactly what he’d expected her to say.

“The anticipation is half the fun.”

Actually, the anticipation was driving her mad. His hands were creeping up, pulling the hem of her nightgown with it, but it was far from where she felt all the ache and tension building, where she was beginning to realize she needed him to touch her.

“I feel…” she hesitated, not certain how to describe the sensation. The fluttering heat concentrated between her thighs.

“Go on.”

She settled on, “Flushed. Like I have a fever.”

“Feverish for me. Hmm.” His hands curved into her inner thigh, still leaving those idle strokes as they crept painfully higher. “That’s not what I expected you to say.”

“What did you expect me to say?”

Then his fingers stopped, just as his thumb brushed the seem where her underthings met her thigh. Then, he hooked his thumb beneath the fabric and slipped two of his fingers beneath the cotton.

She gasped at the same time he hissed, “This.” He swore under his breath. “I was expecting you to tell me how wet you feel.”

Elain hadn’t realized it, until he said it. Until he had his fingers there, slipping against more lubrication than she was ever used to feeling. Before she’d even gotten a chance to relish being touched so intimately, he withdrew his hand.

“Have I done something wrong?” She asked into the dark, feeling the way his chest had begun rising and falling more rapidly.

“Wrong?” he echoed. “You’re soaked and I haven’t even touched you yet. Believe me, lady, I am insufferably pleased.”

“Then—” she paused when his thumb found her jaw, tracing its shape until it arrived at the peak of her chin.

“Open your mouth.”

His voice was low, heated, and it made her feel as though someone had placed a glowing ember deep in her stomach. She obeyed with a breathless, “Yes, my lord.”

Fingertips brushed against her lips, slick with the arousal he’d found between her thighs. Elain’s eyes widened as she realized his intentions, but she kept herself still—and her mouth open—as he slipped those two fingers into her mouth.

“Close,” he said, resting them against her tongue. She did as she was told, and was rewarded with an exhaled, “Good girl.”

The words surprised her. How they made her body feel tight and hot at the same time, how she instinctively swallowed against his fingers and slanted her hips forward to writhe against the erection straining in his trousers. The relief was almost instant—and addictive. She rolled her hips forward again, shutting her eyes as the ache ebbed into pleasure.

His laugh was rasped. “I’ll remember that you enjoy being praised. Now suck on my fingers, sweet soul. Taste how wet you are for me.”

Elain lapped her tongue against his fingers curiously, finding that the taste of her own arousal wasn’t offensive—not nearly so much as the action itself, of having his fingers in her mouth at all. Just the thought of what they were doing, how lewd it was to be tasting her own arousal as drool collected at the corners of her lips, caused a moan to build in the back of her throat. Was this what it felt like to be bold, to be reckless?

“Do you taste good?” he prompted.

She nodded.

“Am I allowed to have a taste, too?”

Thinking it would mean he’d put his fingers back between her legs—where she was physically aching for him to touch—Elain nodded again. Slowly, he pulled his fingers out of her mouth, and she smothered the urge to apologize for the string of saliva that fell against her chin.

If he noticed, he was far too occupied with the task of lowering himself onto his back. His hands settled on her hips, keeping her steady as she balanced on his lap, where his erection continued to press into her. The urge to grind against it was quickly becoming insurmountable.

She was stopped by the hands at her hips tightening. “Come here,” he said, nudging her forward. “Crawl up my body.”

When her governess, who functioned more as a surrogate for their mother than Elain would have cared for, had given her a brief and nondescript overview of what she could expect on her wedding night, she had not mentioned anything about the man lying on his back. Nesta had attempted to fill in the gaps, afterwards, but even her explanations had lacked anything resembling crawling up the bed until Elain was half sitting on a man’s chest.

She paused uncertainly when the tops of her knees brushed the underside of his arms. His broad hands were still encouraging her forward, but Elain had nowhere else to go—unless she was to crawl over his head.

“You’re almost there,” he said, lifting her hips to guide her the rest of the way. Until she was kneeling over his face, trembling slightly at the anticipation of what he might do. “Good,” he murmured. His fingers teased under the lace at her hip bone. ”Stay exactly where you are.”

“W-when you said taste…”

He was tugging the lace down, now, working it slowly down her thigh. “Yeah?”

“Did… did you mean—”

His next laugh cut through the darkness, scraping her raw. “I think you know exactly what I mean.”

“I didn’t,” she protested.

Now that he was wearing her underthings like a necklace, and she could feel him ducking his head beneath her nightgown, his jaw scratching along her inner thigh, she had a better idea. When the heat of his breath caressed her, it was all Elain could do to keep her knees from collapsing on top of him.

“But you’re a clever girl, aren’t you?” He crooned. “What do you think I’m about to do now?”

Elain thought of his tongue slipping into her mouth, the way he’d stroked her like a promise for this moment. She fought a shiver. “You’re going to—” she struggled for a way to phrase it, all of the verbiage of polite society suddenly failing her.

“I’m going to pleasure you with my tongue,” he said. “And if that doesn’t sound agreeable, tell me to stop now.”

She couldn’t. Not as he angled his head up and, slowly, took that first lick of her.

Elain felt like she was on fire. Her hands flew into his hair, gripping tightly out of fear that she would come untethered right then and there.

His tongue explored her leisurely, parting her folds like he truly was doing so out of enjoyment of the taste. She wished she could see his expression to gauge how much of this he was doing for her pleasure—all of it, she would have expected, but from the way his hands flew to her hips to rock her body against his mouth, she thought better of it.

Maybe he did enjoy this.

And so did Elain. She had been warned to expect pain, but there wasn’t an ounce of it to be found here. It was only pleasure—pure, hot pleasure—building with every stroke of his tongue. Her fingers wound in his hair, yanking him closer as she was overcome with the sudden, unbridled impulse to chase it, to demand more.

His responding grunt was gargled by her arousal, but from the way he squeezed her thighs tighter and sucked her clit into his mouth, she thought that maybe he was telling her what his words couldn’t: Good girl.

“I—my lord—”

She wished, desperately, that she had the words to communicate how he was making her feel. What she wanted him to do.

A broken moan erupted past her lips. She settled with, “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

Stomach tightening, Elain felt distinctly like a candle lit from within, her body slowly warming, slowly melting from the center, while the threat of collapsing became more and more imminent.

The motions of his tongue became hurried. He kissed her with urgent, open-mouthed strokes against her clit, before he sucked on her with such abandon that she keened, falling forward onto her hands.

His grip remained iron tight, sealing her bottom half to his mouth, even as she began panting, a hot flush spreading through body. She gasped, “I—I—” she didn’t know what she wanted. Her entire body was trembling and still he kept fucking her with his tongue. An embarrassing whimper built in her throat.

She managed a splintered, “Please.”

Blinding, white hot pleasure overtook her. Elain cried out as she half collapsed into the bed, fingers grappling aimlessly in the blankets like it might do anything to counteract the wave after wave of soul-shattering euphoria that crashed over her.

Ignoring the way her body twitched, now oversensitive, he continued licking her through the release. Sweat broke out on her body, now foreignly too-hot, and with her face buried in the mattress she pleaded, “My lord. It’s too much. It’s—”

He slowed, then stopped altogether. Briefly, she wondered what would have happened if she’d let him keep going. Would he have licked her to delirium, until she was sobbing beneath him? Though the idea wasn’t unwelcome to her, it seemed a curiosity for another day. Reality felt frayed enough as it was.

He lowered her gently off his face, allowing her to collapse on her stomach atop the bed. A moment later, a weight settled beside her, and a warm hand fell against her back.

“How did you find that?”

Beyond description. Beyond, certainly, any words that she could muster in that moment. She mumbled something unintelligible against the blankets.

“Was it too much?” He asked, and she could hear the frown—the doubt—in his voice.

Elain lifted her head. “No! Not at all. I’m just—” her breathing was still ragged. She needed to take a moment to catch her breath before she said, “I’m just recovering.”

That must have been the right thing to say, because he hummed, climbing over her to lavish kisses along the path of her spine.

“This worn out from just my tongue?” His laughter brushed against her back. The lightest, most decadent touch. “We can stop for now, then. I’ll let you rest before your wedding.”

Despite the promise of leaving her, his lips continue their path, now between her shoulder blades. Elain, having grown up in a house full of women, was well versed in the meaning disguised behind words. She recognized the question, as well as the challenge.

Do you want to leave? Are you brave enough to keep going?

His lips were at her neck now. She could feel his erection pressing into her backside. Elain wasn’t quite yet brave enough to tell him that she wanted to stay and find out what happens next, but she did find the courage to lift her hips, pressing into his with a stunted breath at how hard he was.

“Show me,” she breathed. “I want you to… to…”

“Fuck you?” He whispered in her ear, grinding his hips against her ass for emphasis.

Elain’s mouth went dry.

“Say it,” he murmured.

“I want you to fuck me, my lord. Please.”

He groaned. “How am I to deny a lady with such nice manners?” He said, before pushing her nightgown up her back, exposing her backside to the cool air.

Buttons whispered against fabric as he quickly scrambled to free himself from his trousers. Elain thought it was likely for the better that she couldn’t see it. Better not to be intimidated before he’d even had a chance to touch her with it.

She knew when he’d finished unlacing his trousers because the next moment, something hard and smooth and warm was resting against her bare ass.

“Fuck.” He used a hand to direct himself between her thighs, thrusting forward so the length of him could slide through her arousal. His forehead fell against her shoulder. She could hear him breathing heavily in her ear. “Though you have the loveliest ass I’ve ever had the pleasure of grinding my cock against, maybe it is for the better that you lie on your back.”

In response, Elain raised her hips higher, begging, “Why?”

He must not have expected the movement, because the head of his cock nudged against her entrance and he swore. “Because if I’m going to steal the honor from your husband, I should at least do it like a gentleman.”

Elain couldn’t help laughing. “Do you often fuck other men’s wives like a gentleman?”

She yelped at the resulting swat he laid against her ass, though it wasn't remotely hard enough to sting.

“Is this the famed wicked temper, then? What happened to my stuttering sweet soul?”

Truthfully, Elain didn’t know where that girl had gone, but she had certainly left far before the dream began. She would never have ended up here, in bed with another man on the eve of her wedding. She ought to be ashamed, but then her true love thrust his hips forward until his cock bumped against her clit, and she didn’t at all mind not being that girl for a night.

“If you’ve abandoned your modesty, then why don’t you ask me to give you my cock?”

Elain had never once uttered that word out loud. Indignantly, she said, “I’ve already asked you to fuck me.”

“Very well.” He slipped a hand between her thighs and teased her entrance with his forefinger. “I’ll fuck you on my fingers then. Or better yet, I’ll put you back on my tongue.”

“My lord—”

“Ask me.”

With a small, exasperated huff, she said, “Please give me your cock.”

“Good girl.” She could hear the smile in his voice.

Elain’s heart fluttered. She lifted her hips higher, grinding back against his fingers in the hope that he would hurry with whatever preparation he needed. But just as she felt him adjust his body over hers, like he might proceed in earnest, the edges of the dream began splitting into fragments.

“W—what’s happening?”

“I think one of us is waking up,” he said.

“No.” No, no, no. She wasn’t ready. It couldn’t possibly be morning. “No, please—”

“Hey.” A hand smoothed down the back of her head. “Hey, it’s going to be okay. No matter what happens, you can find me here, and I’ll help you. Okay? No matter who he is. I promise.”

Elain pressed a hand to her mouth to smother a sob.

“Sweetheart, please. I can’t leave you like this. Please tell me your—”

Even if she had decided to reveal herself to him, it was too late.

Dawn had come. And the morning of Elain’s wedding had arrived.

#Elucienweek2023 #Elucien #Elucien fic #Elain x Lucien #Lucien x Elain #Elucien fanfiction

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letsquestjess · 6 months

Text

Protective Measures - Part 2 (Howzer x GN!Reader)

Summary: After an assassination attempt, you and Howzer face your feelings for each other before you must inevitably part ways.

Word count: 1.8K

Warnings: Minor details of injury. Bit of angst. Very suggestive content so there is a huge 18+ and an MDNI on this one. Just to clarify, the assassination attempt is not on Reader or Howzer.

Part 1 | Part 3

Fic Masterlist

-- -- -- -- --

Two laughter-filled peals broke the stillness of the corridor and mirthful tones decorated the otherwise dull hush.

“Truly,” you exhaled between chuckles, your shoulders settling from their amused judders. “It was the most bizarre exchange I have ever seen, but somehow, it worked. Both sides were satisfied with the trade and an alliance was formed.”

Howzer’s teal pauldron swayed as he let out another muffled snicker. The few politicians and officers you both passed spared you disapproving glances, but he didn’t care. He would withstand every chiding stare, every scoff and derision, just to hear you laugh again. “If anybody else had told me that story, I may not have believed them,” he admitted.

“Sometimes, I wonder whether I believe it myself, but it’s all there in the reports. Down to the finest detail.”

Your cheeks ached from the uncontrollable laughter, and a soreness overtook your sides, but never had you experienced such a profound sense of ease. In Howzer’s company, relaxation came naturally, and you had spent numerous nights talking into the small hours. It saddened you to think that the moment the negotiations concluded, you would be shipped back to Coruscant, uncertain if your path would bring you and the charming captain together again.

“Senator?”

A faint jolt shivered through your chest as his voice returned you from your musing. “Sorry, did you say something?”

“No. You seemed a bit preoccupied.”

“I was just mulling over the discussions,” you fibbed, disguising your true thoughts as you neared the council chamber. “A lot is riding on today.”

“You are stronger than you realise,” Howzer assured you.

“While I appreciate the sentiment, if I leave that hall with anything half-decent, it will be a miracle.” By the heavy double doors, you hesitated, thumbs kneading at your palms. You had never been this nervous about a meeting before, but this one was imperative. A single blunder, a mere slip, and all the progress you made with the other senators would topple before you could catch the falling pieces.

“Wish me luck,” you said, hoping for a distraction to postpone the conference, even if just for a couple of hours.

“Having witnessed the previous meetings,” Howzer replied, “I am positive you don’t need my luck. You’ll hold your own perfectly fine.”

His certainty ignited a flicker of confidence within you and quelled some of the anxiety. “Spoil sport,” you mumbled, playfully jabbing his arm and relishing the half-smile that illuminated his face at your antics.

“You ready?” he asked. His grip tightened on the rounded handles of the doors as he glanced back at you.

For a brief second, his eyes softened, whispering that you would be okay, that no matter what happened, your courage had not been in vain. You briefly met his encouraging gaze and smoothed your attire. Chin up, you nodded. “As I’ll ever be.”

* * *

Unlike the last meetings, the senators around the table remained in their seats, lacing their carefully crafted remarks with poison before they spat them out but keeping the volume to an appropriate level. Your words flowed smoothly and serenely as you expressed your ideas, responding to any queries and incorporating wise suggestions.

Time lulled you into a sense of triumph. The advocate of the negotiations diligently removed any insults from the conversation and seasoned ego gave way to compromise. It hadn’t been a simple task, but you and a few other reasonable senators had found a solution to overcome the stubbornness of a select few and achieve your desired outcome: a successful conclusion to the discussions which would provide a stable future for all.

“If these deals are signed today,” Senator Kel sighed, “I expect everything to be upheld within the thirty rotations promised. If they are not, all arrangements will be suspended.”

“That is a fair proposal,” the advocate said. Her golden scrutiny swept the gathering, scanning for any traces of disagreement, but the room motioned their approval. “Fantastic. Now, there is the matter of trade routes and supply points. How would we like to solve that?”

Several senators presented solutions, and ideas quickly circulated. While a few disputes arose, they were sternly put to rest and suitable options agreed upon.

You could hardly believe it. You had convinced yourself that this meeting would be an utter disaster, with the fear that the inability to agree on these crucial matters would provoke the intervention of outside parties. But you were delighted that your anxieties had proven false.

Shifting in your seat, your attention landed on Howzer, and a smile of relief broke across your face. With a gentle bow of his head, he returned the gesture as though to say ‘I told you it would be fine’.

“Senator Kel, that simply would not work for the majority here,” the Lothal representative asserted. “I cannot agree to that.”

“That is what I’m offering,” Kel replied firmly. “Your quickest route would take you into my airspace, and by the laws of my planet, a toll must be paid.”

“Then our previous agreements will be cut.”

Just as Kel was about to sneer a remark, a bullet tore through his right shoulder and a spray of blood shot from the wound. Chaos exploded in seconds and as the injured senator tumbled, so did you.

Your chair knocked from beneath you by Kel’s, your palms smacked onto the floor. Howzer closed in on you in a blur of motion and his protective arms held you close while you sought shelter behind the toppled, high-backed seat.

“Are you hurt?” he asked in a frantic voice, scanning the rafters for a hint of danger, but his brothers were already climbing up to apprehend the culprit.

“No, no, I’m okay,” you assured him, your grip tight on his armour as he lifted you to your feet.

His hand stayed rigidly clamped around yours as you both ran. Shots erupted in the hall behind you to mingle with the frantic footsteps of the other clones guiding their designated senators to safety.

With each turn, you became more aware of Howzer’s intended destination and matched his hurried pace, giving his fingers a reassuring squeeze to let him know you were still right beside him.

Inside your apartment, he locked the doors and the windows and flung the curtains shut on the darkening evening outside. He meticulously combed every nook and cranny, his senses alert for any signs of hidden danger. Finding no threats, he returned to you in the open plan living room.

“All clear,” he announced, holstering his gun. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” you replied. You hadn’t realised until that moment, but your body shuddered and your breaths came out in shallow flutters. Nothing that time wouldn’t settle.

Your eyes locked onto his worried features as the comforting weight of his hands gently tilted your head to check for injuries, calloused thumbs caressing your jaw and the heavy rise and fall of his chest plate easing once he found no lasting harm. One hand over his and the other on his shoulder, you leaned your forehead on his. “I’m all right,” you whispered. “See. I’m right here.”

“I’m sorry.” Howzer’s voice emerged as a tired, creaking sigh. Broken. Shivering. A whole galaxy away from the captain who confidently made you laugh and shared stories about the war. He didn’t feel like the trained soldier he was supposed to be, but rather a panicked man, hopelessly grasping onto a love he knew he couldn’t have.

“I thought it was you,” he confessed, barely a touch upon the silence between you. “When your chair fell, I thought the shot had hit you.”

You hushed his fears with soothing touches and tender words of comfort. All the while he held you as though to anchor you both in that private moment. “Howzer,” you uttered like an intimate confession. His eyebrows knitted together, wrinkling his forehead, and the tip of his nose brushed your cheek.

“Say the word and I am yours,” he breathed. Throughout his entire existence, he had been defined by his creators, told what he was, who he was. A clone. A replica. Nothing but a replaceable cog in the mighty machine that was the Republic.

But his love and loyalty for you was all his. Something he felt. Something real he could hold.

Instead of speaking, you sealed the final few inches. His slightly dry lips beckoned you in with promise and warmth, and you surrendered to him without hesitation.

Forbidden kisses passed between you, caresses roaming, bringing closer, nearer, pulling, teasing, until the need for breath parted you. You kept your fingers nestled in his midnight locks as your rib cage heaved, afraid to break the bliss by talking.

With a nervous swallow, Howzer unclipped his chest plate and laid it down on the sofa. As you began helping him, his initially restricted movements blossomed into a newfound confidence, and in a whirlwind of teal and white, he stood before you in his under armour.

“If at any point you want to stop, we stop,” he insisted, pausing inches from your lips. After receiving your explicit confirmation, he kissed you with an unbridled fervour and steered you to the bedroom.

While darkness drowned the city outside, you spent the night in a tangle of limbs and love, indulging in a slow exploration and drawing out every drop of pleasure. You bathed yourself in the devoted captain and submitted to the intoxicating fog of desire he lavished upon your body, until, perspiring and breathless, you found peace in each other’s embrace.

* * *

The spaceport reverberated with chatter as officers hurried to escort the senators to the shuttle. Senator Kel silently climbed down from his private speeder onto the sanded stone, his injured arm supported by a sling and dark smudges circling his violet eyes.

Walking side by side with Howzer, you wanted to slow your steps to savour those last minutes with the captain, but you drove yourself to keep pace. Sheltered within the shade of the craft waiting to take you to Coruscant, you fidgeted your thumbs. You racked your brain for a plausible excuse to prolong your visit, just for a few more days, but considering the situation, you doubted anything would convince the senate.

“I should have known they’d call us straight back after what happened to Senator Kel,” you said. “I had hoped we’d be allowed to stay just a little longer.”

“As did I,” Howzer agreed, “but your safety is paramount.”

You could see the crestfallen ache in his eyes, swimming in the flecks of golden brown, and it took all your strength to swallow down the tears, if only to make the impending parting less painful for you both. “I will miss you, Captain Howzer,” you whispered, brushing your fingers over his for a fleeting second. “Thank you for keeping me safe.”

“It has been my honour, senator.” The captain’s hand shot up in a salute, and as he lowered it, he scanned his surroundings to confirm there were no prying eyes. “I wish I could kiss you, say goodbye properly.”

“That is something we can both look forward to when I next visit,” you told him. “With any luck, sometime soon.” This was not a goodbye, but a farewell for now, a promise you would see him again one day. At least that much, you were adamant on.

TAGLIST (Message if you’d like to be added for future reader fics, 18+ only)

@skellymom @freesia-writes @the-hexfiles @theeyesofasoldier @multi-fan-dom-madness @savebytheodoresnonjosestuff @tech-aficionado @techsriduur @dangraccoon @starrylothcat @jediknightjana

#tbb #the bad batch #tbb fanfic #tbb fanfiction #sw tbb fanfic #sw tbb fanfiction #the bad batch fanfiction #the bad batch fanfic #sw tbb #sw the bad batch #star wars the bad batch #tbb howzer #tbb howzer x reader #tbb howzer x you #captain howzer #captain howzer x reader #captain howzer x you

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suhnshinehaos · 2 years

Text

growing pains : act one, part three

series synopsis : people say that you’ll experience three kinds of love in your lifetime. the first is an idealistic love, the kind that feels straight out of a fairy tale. the second is the hard love, the kind that will leave you with lessons about yourself and the love you want and need to experience. finally, the love you never see coming. this is the story of your three loves. pairing : svt 97 line x gn!reader genre/s : non-idol au, coming of age, angst, fluff, my attempts at humor act one, part three wc : ~1k

act one : the idealistic love ➤ part 03 : be okay

after three years of being in a relationship, and even more of knowing each other, it was supposed to be yn and seokmin forever. yn and seokmin until the end. what changed? how did all their plans for the future become more and more uncertain with each passing day?

previous ➤ act one, part two next ➤ act one, part four growing pains ➤ masterlist

the second you enter his room, you practically throw yourself onto the bed, snuggling deeper and deeper into the pillows. seokmin can’t help the small smile that made its way on his face; you were comfortable there, the action all-too familiar as a testament to the years that you’ve spend knowing each other. in a way, it was like you were in your own room too.

“well, you look at home.”

there’s a lightness, an almost teasing tone to his voice, but you knew him too well. just enough to recognize the slightest hint of nervousness that coated his words.

“home is where you are, seokmin.”

and though you say it with a wink and the intent to make his heart flutter, it doesn’t make it any less true. the two of you have made plans around the certainty that you were each other’s homes : applying for the same university, looking for places to live together, scouting out potential jobs for when you graduated.

there’s a light pink tint in his cheeks and a slight shift in his demeanor as seokmin makes his way to where you are, sitting on the edge of the bed with his hands neatly folded on his lap. he asked you to come over because he wanted to talk about something, and the way he looked gave you everything you needed to know.

from where you were lying, you could only see the profile of his face. but you caught the distant look in his eyes and the way the corner of his mouth turned downwards. you sit up and move next to him, your shoulder brushing against his own.

“what’s wrong, baby? you know you can talk to me about anything.”

seokmin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, knowing that he would chicken out if he didn’t say what he needed to say in the next three seconds.

one,

two,

three.

“i auditioned for a role in a musical and i got a callback, i’m sorry!”

he says it all in one giant breath, eyes still screwed shut for fear of seeing your reaction. but they slowly open when he feels your arms around him, your warmth enveloping the entirety of his system.

“you’re not mad?”

he’s breathless when you pull away, even more so when you chuckle and run a hand through his hair and pat the top of his head.

“mad? i’m so proud of you.”

and you mean it. seokmin has always mentioned his dream of being an actor and a singer, but he’s always considered it to be a pipe dream. unattainable. you always knew he could be something greater, and you can’t help the guilt that creeped into your veins when you realize that you weren’t able to support him in that audition. he was too afraid, or rather, nervous to tell you.

he shouldn’t have to feel that way. he should be able to tell you anything. you should be able to tell him anything.

“you’re proud of me?”

you tilt your head to the side, “of course i am, why wouldn’t i be proud of you? that’s the first step to reaching your dream!”

“but it ruins all our plans.” he frowns, resting his head on your shoulder.

you sigh, glancing around the room until it lands on a framed picture by the bedside table. one of you and him. the widest grins on your faces, cheeks smushed against the other’s, and unbelievably close to the camera.

“i’m the one who messed up our plans,” you mumble.

seokmin lifts his head and looks at you, the furrow in his brows returning and growing deeper, “what do you mean?”

now or never. you could practically hear joshua’s voice in your head, pleading with you to tell seokmin. well, maybe that was just your conscience.

“do you know hybe institute of the arts? i applied there…i know it’s not pledis uni, but i’ve dreamed of going there and i know it wasn’t in our plan and i never thought i’d get in so i didn’t think applying would do anything-”

“do you want to go?”

seokmin cuts off your rambling with a question, his voice the softest you have ever heard it.

“i do.”

“then you should go.”

“even if it’s in new york?”

it’s quiet. a little too quiet for either of your liking. you being thousands of miles away from him was definitely not in the plan. while him getting the role might mean most of his time is spent in rehearsals, at least he wouldn’t have to leave the country.

seokmin freezes. the selfish part of his brain is screaming, begging you to stay with him. by his side. but he knew better than to listen to that side of himself.

“even if it’s in new york.”

he responds after a couple of minutes, but there was a slight waver in his voice.

“you’re not going to ask me to stay?” you’re surprised to say the least. eyes growing wide, unable to stop the gasp that escaped your lips.

seokmin purses his lips, taking a few seconds to himself to try and process everything he was feeling. he grabs your hand, giving it a tight squeeze before his gaze meets yours, “yn, my angel… you have no idea how much i want you to stay, but i don’t want you to hate me for it. if i ask you to stay…and you miss out on this opportunity, you’re going to resent me for it. i don’t want you to hate me, yn. i don’t want to be the person that holds you back.”

“i could never hate you, seokmin.” you reply, your tone firm as you squeeze his hand back, “never.”

“i don’t want to take that risk.” he whispers, voice just loud enough for you to hear, “that’s the last thing i want.”

silence once again falls between the two of you. the air is heavy and thick with tension. though it feels like the weight has left your shoulders, it still felt like it was getting harder and harder to breathe. a single question plaguing both your minds.

you break the silence, deciding that it was better to bite the bullet sooner than later. you were already having this conversation anyway.

“what happens to us?”

“i love you. we’ll be okay.”

seokmin says it with such conviction that it makes you want to believe it too. he loves you, and you love him.

that was enough, right?

you rest your head on his shoulder and he rests his head on top of yours. bringing his hand to your lips, you mumble into his knuckles, “we’ll be okay.”

from reese, with love <3 they finally talked !! but we’re only on part three and this act still has a very long way to go >_< thank you sm for reading !! as always, id love to know what you think :)) hope you are all doing well and taking care of yourselves :))

#🎐 — growing pains!#seventeen x reader #seokmin x reader #mingyu x reader #minghao x reader #seventeen imagines #seventeen fluff #seventeen smau #seventeen series #svt x reader #svt imagines #svt fluff #svt smau #svt series #seokmin imagines #seokmin fluff #seokmin smau

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totheseok · 7 days

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home is where the heart is

Jung Sungchan x reader

synopsis: Sungchan and y/n are family friends but y/n moved abroad and they lost touch, now y/n is back in Korea for uni and it's just so happens sungchan is attending too and now he's helping her readjust and navigate through life in Korea. What could possibly go wrong?

stage three: fuck.......it, we ball

(written + smau)

prev ☆ masterlist ☆ next

warnings: swearing

After the acceptances came in summer went by relatively fast and now y/n found herself packing for Korea. She found it ironic how her parents moved to Canada from Korea for new opportunities, yet here she was, packing to go back.

Most of her stuff was packed, minus her toothbrush and other essentials that she would need in the morning before her flight, and a small worn-out puppy plushie, sitting on her bed waiting for her to get ready for bed.

It's interesting how attached she is to the stuffed toy her childhood friend gave her, despite the fact that she barely thought about him. Yet, she couldn't sleep without this plushie. She's tried. Multiple times.

Maybe it's the circumstances that she got it under, the way it was a moment of selflessness from two seven year old kids about to be separated for who's how long. Maybe the two stuffed toys exchanged that night were the physical manifestation of a promise made to each other.

"I promise someday we'll meet again." tears threatening to fall from Sungchan's eyes.

"Pinky promise?"

"Pinky promise."

And maybe that's why Y/N found the little mound of polyester and cotton ao comforting, maybe it provided certainty in uncertain times. And it might just help her reunite with her friend.

Truth be told. Y/N lied when she said she didn't try finding Sungchan on social media. The first name she looked up on Instagram the day she made her account was "Jung Sungchan".

At one point, when she was around sixteen, she also successfully found him, but she decided it would be weird if someone you haven't seen or spoken to in nine years suddenly followed you on Instagram. So she decided against it and moved on.

Her flight to Korea was the next morning, and if there's one thing she knew it's that sleep would not be sleeping before it.

So for the first time in years she allowed herself to ponder on the what ifs. What if she never moved to Canada. What if she ran into Sungchan in Seoul.

Wait, he used to like movies and his dad went to snu which made it his dream university. So what if he was doing something creative media related at snu too.

No that would be crazy. Right?

Right?!

a/n: this one's more of a filler chapter and I can't say I like it very much but... fuck it we ball.(I'm so funny)

taglist (open): @seungzzzz @wccycc @syupakingcowbaby @billiondollarbby

comment ask or message to be added to the taglist :))

#riize #riize x reader #riize imagines #riize fluff #riize fake texts #riize fanfic #riize fics #sungchan fluff #nct sungchan #sungchan #sungchan x reader #sungchan fanfic #riize smau #jsc #nct u

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midnightsunnyday · 3 months

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Say It With Your Chest *.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

[Masterlist] [AO3]

➼ parings: Barbatos & Black Fem!OC, Diavolo/Black Fem!OC, implied Lucifer/Black Fem!OC ➼ content warnings: none that I see, yet still read at your own discretion. ➼ summary: there's something about the new exchange student, Vivica, that Barbatos doesn't like. Diavolo is clearly smitten, and for the sake of his lord, Barbatos tries his best to keep said discrepancies hidden, until he can't. Fortunately, the feeling is mutual.

(Chapter Two)

There was nothing particularly celebratory about this evening's summons, yet Diavolo insisted that the typical arrangements regarding guests wouldn't suffice. Not even his outfit was enough, having tossed aside the royal red uniform in want of something more… "sensual."

"Tonight is of special consideration, so everything must be perfect," Diavolo said, a pair of slacks in each hand. He eyed them both and groaned, tossing them to the growing pile of rejected outfits that crowded his bed. "Why is everything I own so…formal?" He stomped towards his wooden wardrobe, frowning at his apparent lack of choices. "There must be something here I can wear."

Barbatos stood in stunned silence, dogging the occasional haphazardly thrown shirt or belt. He'd demanded, pleaded, to allow his usual habit of laying out his master's clothing lest he destroy the entire castle.

"Nonsense. I'm perfectly capable of dressing myself," Diavolo said as he tumbled over the various buttons of his dress shirt, face tightened in concentration.

"As you wish, My Lord." Barbatos sighed, narrowly avoiding a popped button.

The prince was a demon obsessed, spending hours contemplating the moral dilemma of whether "a day scent was appropriate for an evening dinner?" A phrase that Barbatos would find less haunting coming from Asmodeus whom--as fate would have it--Diavolo was in close contact in recent weeks, his newly formed bond being less in part of any actual interest in the sixth born and more so for his closeness with a particular human.

"There," Diavolo turned to view himself in the mirror. "Does this look alright?" he asked, the usual confidence in his voice unfounded.

Barbatos clenched his breath, a slight vein pulsating on the side of his forehead. He would've accepted it all: the hours-long fashion show, the clothes that would need refolding and ironing, the bombing of his senses from spraying cologne after cologne…

…if only he'd chosen anything other than a red suit, the same red of his uniform, a uniform in which he cried was "not enough." Still, he smiled. "Upstanding as always, my lord," and it was the truth. Despite the growing urge to toss his entire wardrobe from his bedroom window, it had always been the truth.

Diavolo frowned, apparently not convinced. "Yes, but…does it look…cool?"

Demon King help him.

Through his conversations, Diavolo learned that his precious human possessed a fondness for suave, self-assured gentlemen types, whatever that meant.

"Sounds a bit like Lucifer, doesn't it?" Diavolo laughed, though there was little humor behind it. It's true the human spent time around the firstborn more often than most, and their apparent closeness only stroked at the prince's insecurities.

"My Lord, I am uncertain as to where this lack of confidence is coming from, yet there is not a day that goes by where I ever thought of you as being less than impeccable. Certainty not next to any demon, and certainly not now."

Ah. That seems to have done it. A better sight than the slacking posture before. Diavolo straightened his shoulders, standing with the poise expected of a future king.

"Thank you, Barbatos. Also, I'd like to apologize to you. This is all…well," he turned to look about his room, giving a nervous chuckle. "Let's just say that such afflictions are new to me."

Barbatos nodded in response. "I understand, my Lord. Though please try to calm yourself. Tis only supper, not a marriage proposal."

Diavolo's eyes widened as if he heard the word "marriage" and nothing else. "Right, yes…definitely not."

Barbatos sighed. A man who held the world in his hands was still a man, and plagued with all the insecurities that most lonely men had. The prince was starved, so to speak. And while not entirely ignorant of the world, remained unfamiliar with the many wiles of human social and sexual communication.

Indeed, the young master had fallen in love. To put it lightly, he never stood a chance.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos #obey me black oc #obey me oc #obey me fanfic #midnightsunnyday writes #clearly self indulgent

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lunarmoonanons · 1 year

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“Honor”

🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕

How precious a man’s honor is to him. He goes practically mad when he thinks his honor is tainted.

🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕

Masterlist

YN stomped her way to her room. Furious at her situation, the people around her, and the pathetic display of a kingsguard who followed her. Ser Criston postured on and on about his honor and decency, but YN knew the truth of who he was. A liar, a man who couldn’t get over the fact that a woman would choose the certainty of a heirship for the throne over an uncertain future of orange ships in Essos. And to top it off, he claims to love her more than he claimed to love Rhaenyra. The opening of her door made the princess turn with a fury to the armor cladded idiot.

“You have audacity to barge into my rooms, Ser Criston. Just as you have the audacity to sling slanderous insults to the heir to the throne.” YN hissed.

“I’ve not said slander. Each woman is a representation of the mother-” He tried to excuse.

“Except my sister, right?” YN bit. “She’s just, oh what did you call her; oh that’s right a ‘spoiled cunt.’ Is that not what you said?”

“Please. I never meant to hurt you.” He stood a height above her, but YN’s anger made him feel quite short.

“Perhaps, as you mean to not hurt me, you’ll do better to remember and hold your tongue when speaking of your betters.” YN snapped. “You go on and on about your honor, but I find more honor in a thief.”

“I do not wish to make you angry. But I had to tell you of my feelings. I cannot go on to see you betrothed and sent away when I had the chance to tell you I love you.”

“You don’t love me! You hate the Rhaenyra rightfully rejected you!” You shouted. “You can’t fathom that a woman would be happy being with anyone else! You wish to have me because you can’t have her!”

“She took my honor!” He shouted back.

“It must’ve been a pathetic excuse for honor then! If you could lose it so easily to a girl 16 years your junior!” YN laughed at him.

Criston clenched his fist, eyebrows closely knit in frustration. Why did she not see? Why wouldn’t she listen?

“I loved her.”

“You didn’t love her!” YN snapped, purple eyes furious and cold. “You just wanted to salvage what little honor you had! Or maybe you felt entitled! Or maybe you convinced yourself you were in love!”

YN shoved him away from her when he reached out for her arm. Her silver hair loosened from her braids, eyes red with anger and tears.

“You didn’t love her because you don’t betray the person that you love!” YN eyes were red with anger. Remembering his betrayal to her sister when he chose to scheme with Alicent. Recently hearing them talk about Rhaenyra’s children and the succession. How her sister was unfit to have the throne.

Criston bit his tongue. He wished he could grab her shoulders and shake his sense into her, but that would be treason and would most likely have her betrothed in the north. A Stark was not someone you wanted to cross. He was upset she was being sent away to marry, just as Rhaenyra had chosen to marry the Velaryon YN had decided to stay in her arranged marriage instead of fighting it.

The 17 year old girl pushed him away from her. “Leave! I am going to the North, I will marry Cregan, and I would never choose you over that!” He stood dumbfounded, trying to find the words to say before YN interrupted him. “NOW! Or I will scream for my guard and have you hanged for assaulting me!”

Ser Criston left shortly after that, furious with himself and her. YN breathed heavily in her room, anger cooling down after he finally left her alone. She had to calm herself, the dragon does not allow their lesser to bring them to anger.

“Soon.” YN promised herself. “Soon you will be free from here and with Cregan.” She picked up the letter he had sent her. Words of love and promises sang in her heart. Though they had only met a few times, Cregan had proven to be an honorable man. One that promised he would gain YN’s love before he gained her children.

He was an honorable man.

YN is Rhaenyra’s younger sister, by 10-11 years. I aged up Cregan so he’s her age. This is taking place around the time Joffery is born.

#ser crispin #ser criston cole #criston cole x reader #criston cole #fire and blood #house of the dragon #house of the dragon x reader #hotd #hotd x reader #cregan stark

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i-am-a-bad-influence-writes · 3 years

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Uncertain Certainties

Summary: Wanda has a rough night and goes to sit out on the rooftop with you, her brother’s girlfriend. The next morning you wake up in a strange house.

Pairing: Pietro x Fem!Reader / Wanda x Vision

Warning: Mention of character death.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

#uncertain certainties masterlist #pietro masterlist #pietro maximoff masterlist

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im-a-wonderling · 2 years

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Bruises, Part 13 ~ Peter Pevensie

Y’all should be very proud of me because writing this part was SO HARD. It was like pulling out teeth every step of the way. Many thanks to @writing-on-the-wahl for encouraging me and reminding me that flawed stories are better than stories that don’t exist at all.

Warnings: sleazy encounter, there’s a slap, and some threats? I never know what to put for warnings

Word count: 6.5k of the most painful words of my life

Bruises Masterlist

Anger was such an ugly thing.

Partly so because of the way it wormed and twisted its way through the gut, weighing down the lungs and making it nearly impossible to breathe.

And partly because of what people did to get rid of it.

Some people shoved it far down until it blew up and then mashed it back down again. Others used it as fuel and did terrible acts in its name. Still more seemed to be subject to it at every turn, never cautious or patient, but always detrimentally rash.

Part of me wondered where Gonin fell on that spectrum.

Me?

I glowered at Peter’s bookshelves as I used a dirty rag to wipe them down, more thoroughly than I ever had before. My anger simmered underneath my skin just outside of reach while the comments I’d hurled at the high king last night played over and over in my head.

I could recount every detail of Peter’s shocked and angry expressions, the way he’d asked if I’d ever killed anyone. He couldn’t truly have believed that I was going to stay completely on the sidelines when Gonin was concerned, like some helpless damsel in distress.

Maybe once upon a time, I would’ve, but not anymore.

After all, I still have to clean your study in the morning.

I pursed my lips as I moved the papers from the top drawer of Peter’s desk to wipe the inside of the drawer. By the time I finished with Peter’s study, it was going to be the cleanest it had ever been in its entire existence.

********

I kneeled on the floor of the White Witch’s throne room, my kneecaps freezing against the icy floor, and my arms secured behind my back with what felt like rope.

“Choose,” said a heartless voice.

Twisting to look, I saw Jadis on my right, sitting on her throne and clutching her wand, and on the other side of her was an unconscious King Edmund.

“Choose.”

“I can’t,” said a second voice, familiar in every way except the despair woven within it. “Please don’t make me.”

“Choose!”

Peter stood on the other end of the throne room, his outstretched sword shaking slightly in his hands. “I will save them both!”

The Witch brandished her wand, and I cried out as Peter’s sword flew out of his hand and clattered onto the floor, too far away to be of any use to Peter. The ripples of the magical force from the wand hit me, powerful enough to bowl me over despite not being aimed directly at me. “You can only save one,” the Witch said. “Will you save the woman you love or your brother?”

“I can’t choose!” Peter insisted.

Jadis rose to her full height, her crimson lips stretching into an inhumane smile. “Then I will kill them both.”

“No!” Peter roared, running forward, but he was too far away.

The White Witch stepped towards me, the dagger in her hand glinting in the limited light. Her fingers grabbed my hair, jerking my head back and exposing my throat.

“Y/N!!”

I woke with a loud gasp, my hands flying up to my neck. I couldn’t feel anything except my rapid heart rate.

I knew with absolute certainty that dream was not my own, but I couldn’t dismiss it.

Not when the echoes of Peter’s panic still thrashed in my chest.

I tossed and turned, uncertain what awaited me if I closed my eyes and drifted off. The moment the sky outside the window started to lighten, I rolled out of bed and started to change.

I needed to put myself to work.

********

While the rest of the palace ate lunch, Peter and I faced each other in the library with King Edmund watching. King Edmund had summoned me before I could sit down to lunch, and from the grumbling of stomachs I could hear, the kings hadn’t eaten either, and weren’t happy about it.

My anger, however, had stolen my appetite completely.

I couldn’t even look at Peter, choosing to keep my arms crossed and stare at the carpet between us. We both seemed to be waiting for the other to say something, but neither of us did, so the silence stretched on.

King Edmund sat behind the desk, his hands nervously shifting between straightening the already straight papers and dipping the already wet quill into the inkwell. “Well,” he said, obviously uncomfortable. “Shall we try and trade?”

I stepped closer to Peter, only able to look as high as his chest as we inched closer to each other.

The closer we got, the more I wanted to pull away, but I forced myself to stay still, despite the uncomfortable clenching in my stomach. I tried not to flinch when I felt his breath on my face, keeping my face smooth and impassive as our foreheads touched.

Nothing happened.

Not a single image flashed before my eyes, not a single emotion felt beyond my own, still twisting in my gut.

Peter pulled away and then pressed his forehead against mine again.

Still nothing happened.

Peter stepped back, yet I couldn’t be glad for the space between us because his confused look at his brother spoke of deep displeasure. “What’s going on? Why isn’t it working?”

King Edmund was clearly taken aback. “I-I don’t know, none of my research said anything about the trading not working anymore!” He started shuffling the papers on the desk. Peter strode over to the desk to join him in studying the papers, leaving me standing all alone in the center of the room.

“It can’t stop working,” I heard Peter mutter frustratedly. “Not now.”

What did that mean? What memory did Peter desperately want to see?

Peter and his brother continued to ruffle through the parchment, King Edmund methodic, Peter frantic. Their muttering wasn’t loud enough for me to decipher.

I was tempted to just inch out the door, wondering how long it would take them to notice if I left. I could return to my work, a place where I could be useful instead of idly standing around, waiting for the moment where I was asked to weigh in.

But for all the rights Peter told me I had when it came to our relationship, I couldn’t leave without the permission of my king.

So I just wrapped my arms around my body protectively, trying to be patient as I watched them both search with an almost delirious fervor.

My upper arms were sore from all the chutzpah I’d put into cleaning the study. In the hopes of easing some of my overall discomfort, I slowly massaged the muscles.

“Maybe we should call it a day,” King Edmund finally suggested, sitting back in his chair with defeat written all over his face. “See if the trading works tomorrow.”

“No!” Peter barked, slamming a fist down on the desk so abruptly that I jumped. “We have to fix this!”

“Maybe King Edmund and I should try to trade,” I suggested, causing both of the men to look up at me questioningly. “I mean, we were always going to try that, so let’s do it now.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peter squint at me slightly, and I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

King Edmund’s thoughts, however, were crystal clear as he uneasily glanced at his brother. “Maybe now isn’t the best time for that,” he said.

“Why not?” I pushed. “If it’s no longer working with Peter and I, maybe that’s a sign.”

“A sign of what?” Peter asked quietly. I made eye contact with him for the first time and suddenly noticed the bruise-like shadows under his eyes. They were even worse than mine. Did the dream last night affect him that much? Or did the conundrum of who to save still plague him?

From the way he’d been mumbling with his brother a moment ago, not acknowledging me at all, I wondered if the conundrum wasn’t a conundrum at all, and if all that plagued him was guilt.

A lump grew in my throat, but my voice was steady as I replied: “A sign that maybe the trading has nothing to do with soulmates.” Peter’s shoulders seemed to sag, and the pricks of guilt started in my stomach, but I ignored them. “Look, whether it works or doesn’t work, we’ll learn more.”

“Are you sure you’re ready for that, though?” King Edmund asked. “A few weeks ago, you weren’t.”

“Well, now I am.”

King Edmund glanced at Peter, who was still staring at me. I met Peter’s gaze, unable to tell what he was thinking and unsure if that was a blessing or a curse.

Peter nodded slowly. “Let’s try it.”

King Edmund seemed taken aback. “Pete, are you sure–”

“Let’s try it,” Peter interrupted, in his kingly voice that left no room for argument.

King Edmund looked quite like he wanted to argue, but pushed his chair back and got to his feet. He edged closer to me, constantly looking back at Peter for his reaction.

When he stood close enough to touch me, my breathing began to get shallow, but I forced myself to breathe in and out slowly, not wanting either king to see any sign of cold feet.

“Are you sure you want to–” the Just King asked, but before he could finish, I stepped forward, pushing my forehead up to his.

The sight of the icy throne room again made me frantically search the room for Peter, but he was nowhere to be found.

Jadis wasn’t sitting on her throne, but merely standing in front of it, glowering at the small, dark-haired boy who stood in front of her, shaking in clothes that were nowhere near warm enough.

“I don’t–” the younger version of King Edmumd began to say, but Jadis backhanded him so suddenly, I jumped. The boy yelped, covering the hurt with his hand.

“Don’t disobey me!” Jadis shrieked, not unlike an eagle, and a greatly angered eagle at that.

As I watched, a drop of blood grew on King Edmund’s trembling lip, and I looked away, a strange aching guilt growing in my chest.

King Edmund reeled away from me, reaching up a hand to cover his face. “Ouch!” he said, sounding more surprised than hurt. He pulled his hand away to look at it, but of course, there was nothing there. “That’s bizarre,” he muttered.

“Did you see a memory?” Peter asked immediately. When neither of us answered, Peter came closer. “What did you see?” he insisted, grabbing his brother’s shoulder a little too roughly.

“I didn’t see anything,” King Edmund rubbed his face, “but I felt something.”

I quickly tried to master my confused expression before either of the kings looked my way. Why had I seen a memory when he hadn’t? I’d assumed it was his memory. “What did you feel?” I asked, trying to sound genuinely curious instead of terrified.

“My face hurts,” King Edmund traced a finger across his lower lip over where the wound had been in the memory I’d seen, “and I feel…scared. A bit nauseous too.”

He’d felt his emotions and pain—I’d seen his memory. How was that possible? When I’d accidentally traded with Gonin, we’d only felt emotions. Did trading with Peter completely open up my trading capability?

Then, my heart sank as another theory presented itself.

What if the reason I’d seen that memory was because it was my own?

“What about you, Lady Y/N?” King Edmund asked.

Peter’s attention shifted to me, his face grimly tense as his eyes continuously shifted in between myself and his brother.

Over and over, I’d seen examples of Peter’s allegiance to his family. Even in the dream last night, I’d seen him torn between King Edmund and myself, and he hadn’t been able to make a choice. If I told them I’d seen a memory when King Edmund hadn’t, Peter might assume what I feared. That I might’ve been there when King Edmund was held captive.

And then what would he think of me?

“Y/N?” Peter prompted.

I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t bear to see the look on his face, and if it resembled the way he’d looked at me last night…

“I-I feel hungry,” I lied, the churning of my stomach anything but hunger. “Maybe a little bit stressed?”

Peter eyed me. “Why would Ed’s face hurt?”

“I bumped into one of the shelves in your study,” I said hesitantly, “when I was cleaning it yesterday. I was in a hurry.”

Peter’s formerly detached expression was suddenly weighed down with skepticism. “What? Why? You’ve cleaned that study a bunch of times before.”

“I…” My words petered out as I tried to figure out what to say. “I…”

But before a proper excuse could form, he beat me to it. “It was because of me, wasn’t it?” Peter lowered his eyes, looking pained. “You were worried I’d come in, and you didn’t want to see me.”

I couldn’t even be pleased that he’d provided me a reason. At that moment, I couldn’t figure out which was worse: telling Peter I may have been there for one of his little brother’s lowest moments or letting him think I’d been trying to avoid him.

Peter took my silence as confirmation, turning back to face his brother. “So the two of you don’t see memories either.” Considering this preserved the theory of the special connection Peter and I shared, I would’ve expected him to sound more excited.

But when Peter looked back at me, his sad eyes intensified the heaviness of my heart in my chest.

“Lady Y/N and Pete remain the only combination that leads to memory trading,” King Edmund returned to his seat at the desk, “so we have to do whatever we can to get back to where you two can trade again.”

Peter and I glanced at each other at the same time and quickly looked away when we saw the other was looking.

Nobody said anything, and the awkward silence pained me more than anything else.

Someone rapped on the library door.

“Enter,” Peter said easily, schooling his features into a neutral expression.

A footman poked his head inside. “Your majesties, the advisors are waiting for you to discuss the blind spots in the watchtowers.”

“Thank you, we’ll be there momentarily.”

I blinked as the footman bowed and retreated.

There was a time when Peter would’ve told the footman to inform the advisors that he was busy and reassured me that none of us were going to leave the library until everything had been sorted out.

Was he giving up?

Peter turned to me, poised to say something, but as soon as he met my eyes, he just stopped, lips parted, eyebrows corrugated, and eyes resembling that of a talking squirrel who’d just been kicked.

My fingers twitched, my body begging me to go and comfort him, but Peter squeezed his eyes shut, letting out an uncharacteristically shaky breath before swiveling to leave the library.

King Edmund shot me an apologetic look and followed his brother.

For a three count, I just stared at the closed door.

Was that it? Was I dismissed? Did they want me to wait? They hadn’t told me anything.

I put my back to the door, bracing a hand on the wall. When did our relationship get so complicated? Was it possible for everything to change so much in a few weeks that a relationship went from meant-to-be to a complete and utter disaster?

The memory trading was making everything more difficult. Was the pursuit of the truth really worth this? Or was I just making everything worse by wanting more than a servant was allowed to reach for?

Maybe being no longer able to trade really was a sign.

But a sign of what?

A sign to immediately cease all trading activities?

The door behind me creaked open, and I paused, closing my eyes for a moment, wishing I’d just left as soon as Peter had gone. “Peter, I really don’t want to talk about it right now,” I warned.

“Talk about what?” said a voice that was too sordid to belong to Peter.

I whirled around, heart racing, certain Gonin had cornered me at last and wondering if King Edmund had any weapons in his drawer.

But it was Prince Relalo.

I quickly curtsied. “Your Highness, I apologize, I thought you were someone else.”

“I was looking for High King Peter.” Prince Relalo came through the door, shutting it behind him as he smiled a little too widely for my liking. “But I don’t mind running into you.”

A bad feeling started to grow in my gut, and I knew with certainty that this was a bad situation, but the prince was standing in between me and the door. “You’re very kind, but I’m afraid I have work I must get to.” I made to walk around him, but he shifted to block my way.

“I didn’t know you were a maid,” he stepped closer, making me step back, “I thought the king said you were a lady.”

I narrowed my eyes slightly, wondering what the proper response was to that. “What difference does it make?”

“A big difference.” Prince Relalo tilted his head slightly. “Of course, it makes more sense why you were so keen on talking to me last night.”

“No–I wasn’t–I didn’t–” I fumbled for words as he stepped closer.

“I have to say, my lady, I like the way you think.” He gestured to himself, and my stomach churned.

“I wasn’t–” My words cut off as he stepped even closer. I instinctively retreated from his advance. My legs bumped into King Edmund’s desk, and I realized too late that the movement left me with nowhere to go.

“Peter may be a king, but there’s already four kings and queens, so what does that make you?”

“It doesn’t matter, I don’t want to be–”

“But back in Calormen, there’s only one Tisroc, may he live forever, at a time.”

When Prince Relalo lifted a hand, like he was going to stroke my cheek, I slid away to stand behind the desk, trying to keep the desk in between us, but he moved quickly to stay on the same side of the desk.

“With me, you’d be the only one.”

“Please don’t! Please, just leave me alone–”

“Everyone would have to adore you.”

“I don’t want to be adored!”

Prince Relalo laughed. “Everyone wants to be adored.” His hand closed around my wrist.

I couldn’t explain what it was, only what it felt like.

And what it felt like was a miniature explosion that radiated from somewhere in my chest out past the confines of my own body. And the split second of fear on Prince Relalo’s face before he was blasted backwards was sweeter than anything I could ever remember experiencing before.

Distantly I heard the sound of impact and a bunch of crashing noises, but I couldn’t really focus on anything other than the violent thrumming in my shaking hands.

By Aslan.

The sheer power that vibrated underneath my skin, awaiting my command, reminded me of the anger I’d been trying to expel. I felt more alive than I could remember feeling in my life. Would it ever be possible for me to wrap my head around feeling this powerful? This almighty?

I stared at my trembling fingers. How did something like that come from me?

I heard yelling, and I looked up from my hands to see Prince Relalo on the floor, among what used to be King Edmund’s desk.

The desk was broken in pieces, the chunks of wooden pieces that would now only be useful as firewood. The meticulously ordered papers were scattered everywhere, and puddles of ink steadily grew on the beautiful, wine-colored carpet.

“Sorcery!” Prince Relalo cried, raising an accusing finger in my direction from his place on the floor. “You’re a witch!”

Before I could say or do anything, the door opened, and a host of soldiers poured into the library, faces alert and weapons ready.

“She’s a sorceress!” Prince Relalo cried, raising one hand to point an accusing finger in my direction and the other to hold pressure on a bloody cut on his forehead.

The soldiers looked from Relalo to me, their grip shifting on their weapons, clearly conflicted about what to do.

“I’ll go get the king!” one of the soldiers shouted and ran out the library door.

I didn’t know to which king he was referring to, but it apparently didn’t matter, because both came much quicker than I would’ve thought possible.

King Edmund was slightly hunched over and out of breath, but Peter walked into the library with his posture straighter than I’d ever seen it. “What’s going on?” he asked the room, taking the time to survey the scene.

“She assaulted me with dark magic!” Prince Relalo shouted, finally getting to his feet to come closer, and I quickly backed away.

Peter didn’t spare me a glance, but he slyly walked forward, masterfully placing himself in between me and the prince as he asked: “Prince Relalo, what were you doing in here? This library is for the personal use of the Narnian monarchs.”

“I came across her cleaning in here when I was in search of you, high king, and as soon as she saw me, she flung herself at me and proceeded to proposition me!” Prince Relalo raised his voice to be heard over the muttering that tore through the room. “When I turned her away, she proceeded to attack me with her dark magic!” The soldiers started exchanging looks of alarm. “She’s a promiscuous witch!”

Witch.

The worst possible thing to be called in Narnia.

An object having magic was acceptable. Queen Lucy’s cordial, Queen Susan’s bow and horn, and Peter’s sword had done unimaginable good, and the kings and queens’ generosity with their magical gifts was greatly admired by all their people.

But a living being having magic…a human having magic? And the human involved with the high king, no less?

It seemed so many people disapproved of our relationship already, but news of this development would spark a witch hunt that would chase me from Narnia’s borders, from the one place I’d ever been safe from Gonin.

“False accusations will do you no good,” Peter said in his king voice, and I wished I had a fraction of his self-control to keep myself from showing fear. But my knees were quaking when Peter put his back to the prince and turned to me. “How did this happen?” he asked, gesturing at the mess on the floor, his formal voice not changing.

I felt my shoulders cave in as I wished more than anything that I could come up with some feasible lie. But there was none. There was no way an ordinary woman could push a man bigger than her so violently that it could break furniture.

“You’d believe the word of a maid over the word of a prince?” Prince Relalo shrieked, clearly offended to the highest degree.

“Here in Narnia, Prince Relalo,” King Edmund said quietly, “I think you’ll find that one’s station means nothing if one is discovered to be lacking in integrity.”

Peter’s face was completely businesslike, still waiting for me to say something, to explain away this peculiar circumstance. “What happened?” he pressed.

“He wanted to take me back to Calormen with him and marry me.” I fought the shudder then ran down my body. “He…he grabbed me.”

Peter knew better than anyone how that would make me feel. The muscles in his neck tensed, and for a moment, such nausea crossed his face, I wondered if he was going to be sick.

Before Peter could say anything, from behind him, Prince Relalo lunged. Whether he was attempting to persuade his point with Peter or silence me, I didn’t know, but the power simmering in me responded.

A second blast of power even stronger than the first surged from me, exploding out into the room.

Cries of distress came from all around me as the soldiers and monarchs struggled to stay upright against the force like a strong wind.

I felt their distress feed straight into the absolute power.

Prince Relalo, the clear target, went flying into the bookshelves behind him.

I stared at my hands again, and this time, I could faintly see it.

The magic.

It was a slight, white shimmer, curling and twisting around my fingers like tiny, boneless snakes.

This beautiful power was mine, it lived in me.

And it felt glorious.

“Y/N,” Peter gasped, making me look up.

He’d been knocked to the ground by the blast, same as everyone else. And like everyone else, he wore a look of absolute horror.

“I told you!” Prince Relalo crowed, getting up again, clutching his arm. “She’s a witch!”

Peter’s face became stony as he slowly rotated to face the prince. “Prince Relalo,” Peter stepped closer to the prince, his pace slow and threatening, “I’m afraid your visit here is over.”

“What?! She’s the one who attacked me!” The soldiers closest to Prince Relalo—a centaur and a satyr—seized his upper arms, tightly it seemed for Prince Relalo cried out. “I’m a prince of Calormen, my father is the Tisroc, may he live forever! You can’t do this to me!” the prince shouted as the soldiers started to drag him away.

King Edmund glowered at the prince, the other side of Peter’s emotionless coin. “We hold everyone to a standard of which you’ve fallen short, and you and your sister are no longer welcome here.”

“My father will hear about this!” the prince cried as the soldiers escorted him away.

The remaining soldiers stared at me, their expressions lodged somewhere between wonder and terror. I averted my stare, my eyes instead falling on the mess where Prince Relalo had fallen.

The ink still dripped out of the inkwells, staining the deep, regal red of the carpet and the tatters of the desk. Whatever high I’d been feeling from that mysterious force was gone.

In it’s place was merciless shame.

“Thank you for sending for me,” Peter told the soldiers, clearly dismissing them. But there was a conspicuous lack of movement, the soldiers clearly uncertain about their king’s safety. “Return to your posts, please.” A direct order that none of them could disobey.

The soldiers started to troop out of the library, casting many glances over their shoulders as they went. The door closed behind them, leaving the two kings alone with me.

I immediately strode over to the remnants of the desk, setting the ink wells upright. The crimson carpet was beyond repair, but I used my skirts to start dabbing at it. “I’ll clean it all up!” I could feel the ink staining my fingers, but I didn’t stop. “I’ll-I’ll tell the household mistress, and s-she can talk to someone about replacing the desk-”

“Y/N,” said Peter softly.

“I’ll scrub the ink from the carpet, you’ll never know it was there-”

“Y/N.”

I could hear the frustration in Peter’s voice, and I scrambled to collect the pages that had flown every which way. “I’ll pick this all up, I swear!”

“Y/N, leave it, it’s okay.”

I shook my head jerkily. I had to do something, I had to compensate, I had to prove my usefulness, something to get rid of the shame curling like pure evil in my gut–

“I’ll go inform the princess of their departure,” I heard King Edmund say.

“Clear the hallway while you’re at it, Ed, I’m sure there are some busybodies lingering to find out more.”

King Edmund must’ve given some non-verbal answer, for I heard him walk to the door and leave.

“Y/N.”

“There must be something that can get this ink stain out of the carpet,” I told him, starting to pick up the feather quills. “I’m sure there’s something I can–”

Peter’s hand came into my view, gently squeezing mine. “Y/N, it’s okay, just leave it.”

“I can pay for the damages!” I burst out. “You can take the cost of the rug and the desk out of my wages–”

“Y/N, stop!” he said sharply.

All the energy went out of me in a rush, and I collapsed backwards, sinking into the thick rug as the pile of papers spilled from my hands. It wasn't until I drew my fingers up to cover my flushed cheeks that I realized my hands were shaking.

“Y/N.” Warm hands tugged at my wrists until my face was exposed.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t even know I could do that–"

"Shhhhhh.” One of Peter's arms moved around my back, his hand was a hair's breadth from touching my shoulder when he pulled back.

"Are you ok? Can I–" The heart wrenching trepidation in his voice was the only thing strong enough to get me to meet his gaze. Whatever bitterness I still carried around my heart from our argument shattered at the expression on his face. “Can I carry you?”

“Wha-what? Where are we going?”

“I just want to get you somewhere safe where I can clean you up. If you walk, you might track ink.” Peter gestured to my feet, and I looked down to see the ink soaking my feet.

“What will people think if they see you carrying me? When word travels about what happened–”

“I don’t care about anyone else just now.”

As shaken as I felt, the bleakness of Peter’s face worried me. I recognized the mirror of what I felt—the desire to do something, to be able to control something.

I could allow him to do something, to make him feel better.

“Okay.”

Peter came closer, bending down and guiding my arms around him before easily picking me up.

My hands shook from their place around his neck, and I buried my head in his chest, trying to even out my breathing. “What is everyone going to do?” I whimpered, holding myself closer to him. “He’s going to tell everyone, and everyone knows about us. What will they do?”

Peter didn’t say anything, he just pressed a kiss to my forehead as he walked down the corridor.

But when we reached the fork in the corridor, instead of going right towards the servant's quarters and the kitchen, he turned left and made a beeline for the monarch’s bedchambers.

His bedchamber? Why was he taking me to his bedchamber? I instinctively tensed up, and then froze, praying the magic wouldn’t sense my distress, come out of me again, and hurt Peter.

If I hurt Peter, I’d never forgive myself.

When Peter managed to open the door, he walked straight through the room to the bathroom.

He set me on the edge of the tub and left my view for a moment.

I caught sight of myself in the mirror on the wall, noticing the ink that covered my shoes, my clothes, my hands, and even my face.

How fitting it was that my outsides matched how filthy my insides felt.

Peter came back with some supplies in his hands, setting them down before kneeling down and reaching for my shoes. Before I could comprehend what he was doing, Peter untied the laces of one of my stained, worn shoes and slipped it off.

“What are you doing?” I hissed. “This is beneath your station!” Peter ignored me, moving to untie my second shoe. I shuddered to think about the consequences if his people knew what he was doing, that he was kneeling before a witch. “You shouldn’t do this, Peter, I can clean myself up, you have more important things to do–”

My voice died as Peter’s fingers started to wander past the hem of my dirty skirts to find the top of my stocking. So gingerly it tickled, his long fingers peeled the stocking away, leaving my foot bare as he moved to the other foot.

I unconsciously held my breath when his calloused fingers scraped against my skin, trying to hold still.

The ink had bleed clean through my shoes and stockings, blemishing my toes with black.

Wordlessly, Peter filled a fancy cream-colored china basin with water and then set it down by my ink-stained feet. He gently lifted my feet to slide the basin underneath and set my feet inside.

“What are you doing?” I asked again. Peter didn’t answer, instead grabbing an expensive bar of soap that I could never afford at my highest wage. “Don’t!” I squeaked. “Don’t use that on me!”

He ignored me, working up a lather on a washcloth with the bar of soap before lifting my right foot and starting to delicately rub the cloth against my skin, the water quickly turning a murky gray.

“Peter–” I began, starting to pull my feet away from him.

But my sudden movement jolted the water in the basin, sending inky water spraying in every direction. Mortified, I felt the blood drain from my face as I saw the dark drops splattered across the floor.

“No! Oh, Peter, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“Y/N,” Peter said, his voice breaking.

I couldn’t look up from the floor, noticing the wet patches that were growing in the knees of Peter’s pants. “I’m so, so sorry, I’ll clean it up–”

Peter used one of his wet fingers to lift my chin up. “I don’t care about the floor. Just…” He took a shuddering breath. “Just let me do this,” he said, his voice breaking. “Please?”

When I didn’t say anything, his hand gently caught my ankle, guiding my foot down and submerging it in the water. A protesting whine broke through my lips, but I didn’t dare fight him for fear of making an even greater mess and damaging further luxurious things that were too pristine for me.

There was no sound but the quiet dip and splash of the warm cloth and the soothing rub against my feet.

Once my feet were clean, Peter moved to my face.

I closed my eyes, hating how comforting a sensation the washcloth was against my cheek. I didn’t deserve such gentle care, not with what was living inside me. What had been living in me this whole time.

The washcloth left my cheek, and I heard the sound of it being dunked in water and rung out before Peter started wiping down my right hand.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, which startled me enough to crack open my eyes. “I foolishly believed that there would be no consequences for having you at the ball. Instead, my actions put you in danger.”

“Peter-”

“If I hadn’t cornered you into accompanying me to the ball, he wouldn’t have known what you mean to me.” Both my hands were completely clean now, and still Peter gently attended to my left hand, as if there was something other than ink he was trying to wipe away. “And I’m sorry for the fight we had afterwards.”

The fingers of my right hand curled and uncurled in my lap, plucking nervously at the fabric of my skirts.

“I’m terrified of you getting hurt, and I can’t forget about what Gonin has done to you in the past, and I would never forgive myself if I lost you to him.” Peter bit down on his lower lip. “Now I know that my fears were making me lose you anyway.”

I wanted to tell him he was wrong, that he was never in danger of losing me either way, but I couldn’t. Normally, hearing him open up this way would’ve made my heart melt, but now we had bigger problems.

“Peter, what are we going to do?” I covered my face with my hands, incapable of watching how gently he took care of me. “What if I have to leave Narnia?”

“Hey, we’ll figure it out.”

“There’s nothing to figure out, Peter!” I burst out, and Peter’s hands paused in their lathering. “Once word spreads, they’ll call for a witch hunt and run me out of the country!”

“They would have no right to do so,” Peter said firmly. His resolve should’ve been comforting, but now it just seemed naïve.

“No, you don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?”

“Today, with King Edmund, I did see a memory.”

Peter pulled back slightly, and I wanted nothing more than to pull him closer again. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I was scared.”

“What were you scared of?” Peter gently laid a hand on my knee. “Baby, look at me.” When I didn’t move, I felt his fingers gently encircle my wrist, pulling my hands away from my face. “Talk to me.”

“I saw King Edmund in the White Witch’s throne room.” Peter’s eyes grew, and I could practically see the images of his dream passing behind them. “She struck him.”

Peter’s face whitened. “But…how could you see his memory without him seeing it too?”

My heart leapt into my throat, and I tried very hard not to cry as I said: “I don’t think it was his memory. I think it was mine.”

Peter’s mouth fell open, his eyes growing wide.

“That’s why I would have to leave. Because if someone were to discover my past in addition to the inevitable rumors of magic?” I bit my lip. “It wouldn’t take a genius to realize that I’m not a suitable match for a king.”

Peter shook his head. “The rumors will eventually die, and we don’t know anything for sure about your past.”

“Peter, my mother worked for the Witch. I have a memory of being there when the Witch hurt your brother.”

“I could never blame you for what the Witch did. What did you tell me the other day?” Peter cupped my face, the sweetness of the gesture undermined by how tense his fingers were. “ You are responsible for your actions and no one else’s. Not Jadis’s, not your mom’s, not Gonin’s, yours.”

I started to pull away. “But the magic–”

“Just because the Witch was evil doesn’t mean all magic is. Aslan uses magic, and he’s not evil.”

“But Peter, what if I am?” My breathing grew strained under the weight of my true fear. “What if these memories are revealing that I truly am not good enough for you?”

“You are good enough for me,” Peter said fiercely. “You could never be evil, and the more we trade, the more you’ll realize that, you just have to have faith.”

“Faith,” I said hopelessly. “Faith in what?”

“In you, in me, in Narnia, in Aslan, in whatever it takes.”

“I hurt the prince from Calormen. What if a war arises between Calormen and Narnia because of me, because I couldn’t keep the magic contained, because I couldn’t–”

Peter shook his head. “You protected yourself from injustice, there’s nothing I’d rather you do.”

“You have too much faith in me–”

“Let me prove it to you,” Peter interrupted. And before I realized what he meant, he leaned forward, touching his forehead to mine.

I stood in the courtyard of creatures turned to stone, surrounded by the hags, ogres, minotaurs, dwarves, wolves, and other creatures that made up Jadis’s people.

And in the center stood a man twice my size on his knees, gasping for breath. “Spare me!” the man cried, a river of tears and snot on his face. “Spare me!”

I looked around to see whom he was addressing, but I didn’t see the Witch anywhere. Who was he begging?

Jeers arose from the creatures around me, howling and throwing insults.

“You know your orders,” said a voice from beside me, and I turned to see the white wolf standing there, looking at me. “Carry them out.”

I felt my mouth curl into a smile with enough ice to rival the Witch. “With pleasure.”

I lifted my hand, feeling the same vibrating power in my fingertips.

“No!” the man cried. “I have useful information! I’ll tell you everything I know!” But it was too late.

I laughed, the sound high and heartless. “Her majesty has no interest in information.” And with that, my fingers flexed, and the man’s head separated from his body.

Peter lurched away from me, and I collapsed onto the floor, my hands shaking. The man’s final moments played over and over, the inescapable images of the man’s head coming clean of the rest of him branded into my mind.

“Y/N,” Peter gasped. “What have you done?”

********

Part 14

Reblog/leave a comment about your favorite part to give me motivation to finish the next part soon!

Overall tag list:

@thelastpyle

Bruises tag list:

@itsnottilly @sadgirlnumber92899 @sunny-theartist @fortheloveofaqueenfan @emala @leafsmindpalace @thepolywrites @janesofia7 @sunshine-and-riverwater @valiantlytransparentwhispers

Accounts it wouldn’t let me tag:

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#peter pevensie #high king peter #high king peter the magnificent #peter pevensie x reader #peter pevensie fanfiction #peter pevensie fanfic #peter pevensie imagine #narnia #chronicles of narnia #narnia fanfiction #narnia fanfic #Queen Lucy #Queen Susan #King Edmund #queen susan the gentle #king edmund the just #queen lucy the valiant #bruises

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theesteemedladydebourgh · 3 years

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latest updates

~ AO3 Account || FFN Account ~

Everyone but You

Rating: M

“If I have to spend one more minute with your stupid face I’m going to—” “Fall in love with me?” Part-time bartender, full-time oncoming trainwreck Lily Evans sleeps with famous actor James Potter. Love (?) and shenanigans ensue. (Starstruck AU).

Complete (1/1 chapters, 15,458 words)

Vermillion and Firecrackers

Rating: M (violence and brief smut)

War is a tale of despair, but also of hope. (Lily and James, across the war years 1978-1979). Complete (1/1 chapters, 15,441 words)

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The First Time Divorcees Club

Rating: E (language and smut)

“We should start a club.”

“Of what, failed relationships and questionable life choices?”

One’s in love. One’s in denial. 12 months of marriage, go. [sequel to Jingle—Holy F*ck] WIP (currently 7/17 chapters, 214,133 words)

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fic masterlist

but what if i told you i loved you in october

Rating: M

It’s an odd story, how Lily buys a house with her illustrator.

London, 6 Years Ago. Lily Evans is the rising star on the bestseller list with her new acclaimed murder mystery series. If only the public knew that she was on the verge of a mental and financial breakdown four months before. And if only her newfound business partner, the infuriatingly gifted, Cambridge-educated artist, James Potter, who is now inextricably linked to her success, didn’t know so much.

Normandy, The Summer Of. She’s in love with her best friend. It is both less of and more of a problem than it should be.

WIP. COMING AT SOME POINT.

witness me, like fire weeping from a cedar tree

Rating: T (language, some violence)

It’s the summers of roses and falling for the sun. Some things are different. Some things are the same. The chosen ones of the gods are molten gold, in every lifetime. Blistering, burning, trickling from the cupped palm of someone else’s will, to be molded and hardened in freezing water into a cast. A weapon, a blade, something that aims true. Even the beautiful things are sharp. But what happens when the droplets of gold spill into water…and shape something hollow?

(what if jily were percabeth and the world was breaking a little bit).

WIP (currently 1/2 chapters, 18,263 words)

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dear lily evans...i love you

Rating: T

1978, without the war. Lily Evans and the soft, uncertain stumble towards love. James Potter, who fell long ago. Winter. Summer. I love you. WIP (currently 1/2 chapters, 11,591 words)

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to love, softly

Rating: E (language and smut)

1439 days. Carnival lights. Sea breezes. Summers spent together, summers spent apart. To the lover that got away. Childhood-friends-to-lovers. Normal People AU. WIP (currently 3/9 chapters, 29,737 words)

playlist || moodboards

When You Kiss Me

Rating: M (smut)

they’re seeing each other, but they’re not. they’re friends, but they’re definitely more. the falling is not so hard, amongst all of that. summer of jily prompt #3. Complete (1/1 chapters, 3,624 words)

we should just kiss like real people do

Rating: T

acceptance and the lack of it. certainty and the lack of it. love and the lack of it. love and the tender inevitability of it all. (a character study in one shade of lily evans) bi!lily fic with lots of pining. Complete (1/1 chapters, 7,404 words)

romancing the miscommunication line (or, don’t you know what they say?)

Rating: M (language)

misplaced text messages and drunken flirting. in-depth discussions about the proper sort of erotica and when or when not it is appropriate to send it to football stars. Complete (1/1 chapters, 5,887 words)

take a quest, pull a witch…or something

Rating: T

Lily is a witch. James isn’t. A great deal of trouble stems from that fact.

Complete (1/1 chapters, 11,543 words)

Jingle—Holy F*ck

Rating: E (language and smut)

Lily Evans and James Potter fell in love, broke apart and graduated Hogwarts. Ten years later, one failed engagement (her), a prestigious career as an Auror (him), and a diverted flight that lands them both in the middle of Muggle Ireland right before Christmas might be the thing to bring them back together. An unreliable car is procured, emotional baggage is tossed in the boot, snow is forecast and it’s jingle all the—oh look, a detour. Complete (24/24 chapters, 131,764 words)

teaser || playlist || moodboards by the lovely, incredible @raissassampaio

Love Is Complicated

Rating: M (suggestive language)

Three years. Longing. Academic shenanigans in Egypt. Almost-kisses. A snowed-in office on Christmas Eve. Or, the one time James Potter’s (who is not Indiana Jones, no matter what he thinks) spur of the moment passion quest isn’t for an ancient artifact. [Potterverse Gift Exchange 202] Complete (1/1 chapters, 12,186 words)

new year's eve don't fuck around

Rating: E (language, drinking and smut)

Sparkly dresses. Champagne fountains. Kissing. All this and more at Sirius’s Black’s annual themed New Year’s Eve party! Complete (1/1 chapters, 9,843 words) [December Jily Challenge]

this love left a permanent mark

Rating: M (language, drinking and minor smut)

In early January, James contemplates letter writing, love, and the past. [companion to Jingle—Holy F*ck & The First Time Divorcees Club] Complete (1/1 chapters, 7,082 words)

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Good Old Fashioned Love Letters

Rating: M (language, drinking, smut)

Summer in Diagon Alley is hot and the tension between Lily and her flatmate’s aggravating brother is hotter. Smutty/funny modern AU. Complete (7/7 chapters, 96,854 words)

playlist || the months after

The Tale of You & I

Rating: M (language and smut)

Museum Curator!James meets faerie land of Elfhame escapee!Lily in Florence, Italy. Forbidden romance and magic ensues. Faerie AU. WIP (currently 3/5 chapters, 34,200 words)

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The Last Sad Love Story Ever Told

Rating: T

1971 to 1981. It was aggravating, it was heartbreaking, it was messy, it was hilarious, it was imperfect and somewhere along the way, Lily Evans and James Potter fell in love. [a collection of chronological drabbles for Jilytober Fest 2021 Bingo + 31 Prompts] WIP (currently 9/17 chapters, 6,410 words)

When We Lost One Another

Rating: E (language and smut)

At seventeen, Lily fell in love in secret. At eighteen, she said no to a marriage proposal from a man she loved. At nineteen, things that were always meant to be come back together. (How Lily and James fought a war, lost each other, and fell in love a second-first time). [Jilytober Fest 2021 Bittersweet Challenge] Complete (1/1 chapters, 19,006 words)

I Want It to Be Us in the End

Rating: M (language and smut)

"You sneak out the window and into my arms Tell me where we’re going baby" // London, 1979. West End actors and former classmates James Potter and Lily Evans enter into a secret love affair. Complete (2/2 chapters, 22,932 words

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ladamedusoif · 4 months

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Tempered in the Fire - Part Three

See the Series Masterlist for complete content warnings, historical event information, and series notes.

Cross-posted to AO3. Follow my writing blog @ladameecrit and turn on notifications for updates.

Pairing: Blacksmith!Din Djarin x F! Reader

Summary: Ireland, almost a decade after the rebellion of 1798. You are an unusual woman: married, but alone; a widow, with no certainty her husband is dead. When your local blacksmith is badly injured in an accident and unable to work, you have no choice but to travel to the next forge, run by a man of few words whose uncertain origins and dark complexion make him stand out among the locals. You are immediately intrigued by this mysterious, taciturn figure - and the striking little boy he’s taken as his apprentice.

Word Count: 7.1k

Rating: Explicit; 18+ MDNI (chapter; series)

Content (chapter specific): Blacksmith!Din AU; historical setting; references to violence; references to infertility; references to spousal abandonment; strong language; period-typical misogyny; references to and non-explicit descriptions of past experiences of psychological abuse, sexual assault and non-consensual sex, and of domestic violence; abusive and derogatory language; smut; PiV sex; fingering; technical infidelity; angst.

Use of the Irish language with translations as needed.

Important A/N: In one section of this chapter, Reader recalls exactly how badly treated she was by her husband before he left. This means brief discussion of psychological, physical, and sexual abuse. I have tried to handle these issues as sensitively as possible and without gratuitous detail or description. (I am writing as a survivor of emotional abuse, and I want to express my gratitude for the vital advice and support of other incredible survivors, including of other forms of abuse experienced by Reader in this story).

Further A/N at the end of this chapter.

Taglist: @grogusmum, @insomniamamma, @yourcoolauntie, @tessa-quayle, @julesonrecord, @agentjackdaniels, @iamskyereads, @trulybetty, @pedrostories, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @katareyoudrilling, @perennialdoll247, @joeldjarin, @sunnywithachanceofjavi, @tieronecrush, @javierisms, @readingiskeepingmegoing, @rhoorl, @red-red-rogue, @survivingandenduring, @khindahra, @love-the-abyss, @fictionismyreality, @imaswellkid, @gracie7209, @lahoozaherr, @s-u-t, @its-nebuleuse, @novemberrain221, @schnarfer

(FYI taglists haven't really been working for me of late so please do follow my writing blog if you want to stay up to date!)

Réaltín snickers as you tie her up hastily outside your little cottage, adrenaline coursing through your body. It doesn’t take long to throw a few things in your leather saddle bags: some clothes, your sewing kit and a supply of fabric, the money tucked under your mattress. It’s not much, but it might be enough to get you out of here before he comes looking.

You wrap your best shawl around your shoulders and go outside to check on your little milk cow, safe in her stall. She blinks her big brown eyes at you, kind and trusting, and you rub her muzzle affectionately.

Cáit, your nearest neighbour, peers through the window when she hears Réaltín trotting up the lane. She’s waiting at the door before you’ve pulled up, sensing all is not well. You spill out your excuses.

“It’s family matters. All happened very suddenly. I can’t say more, but I’ll be back as soon as I can - will you look in on my cow, make sure she’s fed? You can have whatever milk she’ll give you, of course.”

Cáit nods, though she seems a little sceptical. “You’re sure you’re alright, a stór [sweetheart/treasure]?”

You bring the shawl around your head and mount Réaltín again. “I am. Thanks, Cáit. I’ll see you soon.”

It’s only when you’re halfway to your parents’ smallholding that you realise you can’t stay there, either. In your panic and haste you hadn’t thought it through. If Searlas wanted to find you, it would be the first place he came looking.

Dusk closes in, and slate grey clouds gather overhead. The heavens open and your tears start to fall as you bring Réaltín to a halt on a quiet lane.

Gró stirs his little bowl of vegetable and barley stew, lifting out pieces of carrot on his wooden spoon before dropping them back in the bowl and giggling at the satisfying plop they make.

His father shakes his head. “Ná bí ag súgradh le do bhéile.” [Don’t play with your meal.]

The little boy is the first to spot the horse arriving out of the darkness, pointing to the window. Din looks out cautiously, dark eyes surveying the small area outside the cottage illuminated by the candlelight coming from within.

Nothing.

The knock on the door is hesitant, and Din silently gestures to his son to stay put as he answers.

She’s soaked to the skin, red woollen shawl weighed down with rain, eyes reddened and fear written all over her face.

It is all Din can do to stop himself reaching out and pulling her close to him, to comfort and reassure her, to make sure she is alright. Instead, he simply stands back and beckons her inside.

She babbles her explanation: the errant husband returned, in the army, her worry that he would seek her out.

“I’m so sorry, Din, I… I just didn’t know where else to go.”

She’s shaking, and he doesn’t know if it’s the cold rain or her panic that’s doing it.

Before Din can speak, Gró has materialised at her side, and reaches up for her hand. His big eyes look up at her with the kind of affection Din has only ever seen the boy show to him, and at times to Peigí.

She looks from Gró to his father and back again. And then she breaks down.

“There isn’t much left, I’m afraid. But you’re welcome to it.”

Din looks from the cooking pot to you, sitting in a chair by the hearth with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders as your shawl and outer bodice dry out.

“If you’re sure?”

He nods and ladles the stew into a bowl. You accept it gratefully, realising that it had been many hours since you last ate. It is a simple meal and all the better for it, the steaming broth warming your bones and the vegetables and barley filling your empty stomach.

Din sits in the other chair and scoops Gró up into his lap. The little boy smiles in your direction as you eat, and you notice he’s wearing the little shirt you made for him. You summon up the words, speaking hesitantly.

“An mhaith leat do léine, Gró?” [Do you like your shirt, Gró?]

His enormous eyes light up and he nods enthusiastically, turning round to look up at his father and laughing delightedly at hearing you speak his language. Din ruffles his son’s fair hair and smiles at you.

“Thank you for mine, too. You didn’t have to. I’ll make sure you’re properly paid.”

You nod towards the bowl of stew. “This is payment enough. Once my things are dry I’ll get going. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to put you out. I panicked, and -“

Gró sighs and nestles in against Din’s broad chest, trying to keep his eyes open but losing the battle against sleep. Din stands, carefully shifting the little boy in his arms and gesturing with a tilt of his head towards the loft.

“Stay.”

“I’ve already outstayed my welcome, Din, I don’t know what I was -“

“Stay.” He repeats the word, half-order, half-plea, as he stands at the foot of the makeshift wooden ladder leading up into the loft.

You nod, watching as the blacksmith expertly ascends with his son in his strong arms, a lantern in one hand. Din is wearing a sort of woollen jumper over his old shirt, and you can’t help but notice the stretch of the knitted fabric across his broad back and shoulders, the way it draws the eye to the muscles of his chest.

An unexpected wave of pleasure ripples through you. You shake your head, as if trying to rid your body of the feeling.

While Din tucks Gró in, quietly humming to him, you rinse the bowls from dinner and tidy up the main room of the cottage. There’s what looks like a settle bed against one wall, and what you presume is Din’s bed against the other, near the back window: a basic frame, simple bedclothes, a trunk at the foot of the bed.

“So you’ll stay?”

You turn to face Din, speaking in hushed tones as he descends the ladder. “I will stay for tonight.”

He looks at you, dark eyes hooded and serious. “You should stay as long as you need to. You are afraid of him, and I presume with good reason.”

“He might not even come looking for me. He’s gone so long, after all. But -“ You pause as the traumatic memories of the past swirl in your mind. “But him reappearing like this, and in uniform… He is not a good man.”

Din tilts his head and looks at you. You are grateful that he doesn’t pry further. “I can keep you safe here. He’ll never know.”

Before you can protest, he’s crossing the room and pulling out the rectangular, boxy bed frame from underneath the settle and rummaging in a small cupboard for blankets and pillows. “You can sleep here, if you’d like. Or in my bed, over there. Either way, I’ll sleep in the back store, or the forge.”

“Absolutely not. That back little room is too cold, too small. And the forge is no fit place for someone to sleep.” You help him arrange the bedding for the settle bed. “I grew up sharing a one-roomed cottage with my entire family, Din. This is no hardship at all, nothing irregular, as long as you don’t mind.”

He shakes his head and retrieves a half-burned candle from the mantle above the hearth, lighting it from the small lantern before handing you the lamp. Din leaves you to get ready for bed, taking the candle and going to change in the back store so that you have privacy. He calls out to you, checking that he can come back into the main room.

“Come ahead, Din.”

Tucked into the settle bed, you can barely make out his silhouette as he comes into the room. His solitary candle illuminates his strong profile as he gets into his own, wooden-framed bed across the room.

“Are you comfortable? Warm enough?” His voice, soft and low, carries in the quiet.

“I am. Thank you for this. I am so grateful.”

“Sleep well.”

Lights extinguished, you can hear Din shift in his bed and his breathing enter a slower, steady rhythm as sleep descends.

You lie awake in the dark, thoughts racing. So Searlas had fought for something - for his king’s shilling, no doubt, and they were only too desperate for men to fight in the wars against France. Searlas had spat bile and vitriol in ‘98 about the United Irishmen and the Defenders, the groups that had led the rebellion, blaming dangerous French ideas of liberty, equality and fraternity for poisoning people’s minds.

It made sense, now, that he’d have abandoned you to take up arms against those ideas. But you knew Searlas too well for it to be a moral crusade, or a stand taken on principle. Most likely, he’d spent the intervening five years doing as little as possible for as much reward, and probably whoring his way around Europe.

You try to push him out of your mind as you seek sleep, your brain seeking comforting thoughts and images until it settles on the recent memory of a pair of sparkling brown eyes, looking at you in the firelight.

Searlas’s hand is rough around your arm, and you know you’ll have a bruise there tomorrow. He drags you away from the fair and along the back road from the village, muttering abuse as you jog along trying to keep up with him.

“I saw you talking to him. The way you looked at him, the way you whored yourself around him. Filthy slut that you are.”

“Searlas, he’s my second cousin, I haven’t seen him in years…he’s family, I was talking to family!”

He pulls you harder to him before knocking you, deliberately, into the thorny hedgerow that runs along the dirt road.

“Watch yourself. You should be more careful of your footing. Stupid bitch.” He hauls you up and pushes you roughly along the road.

“When we get home, I’ll show you what happens when you act like a common whore in front of the whole place.”

“Searlas, please, please don’t, not again…”

“You’re a fat, useless, barren slut.” He spits the word at you. “And you’ll take your punishment from your husband.”

You have learned since the first time he “punished” you this way that crying out, or crying at all, only prolongs the agony. So you try to will your mind out of your body as your husband pulls your legs apart and pins down your arms, spitting insults as he forces himself on you.

You are not really here. You are in the back field, in springtime, with wildflowers in bloom. You are looking at the slate-grey sea, wind whipping at your face and hair. You are not really here, not really at the mercy of this cruel and violent man.

Sometimes, you try to focus on the words of the songs of liberty you know, the poems that sing of a dream of freedom.

You are not really here. You are free.

You wake with a start and for an instant you can’t remember where you are. A sickening panic thrums through your body and the sides of the settle bed feel like they’re closing in on you.

You sit up and turn your head only to be greeted by a pair of big dark eyes, staring intently at you over the edge of the bed. Gró smiles widely and begins chattering away, unaware that your addled brain is unable to keep up.

Din’s broad figure emerges from the back room, carrying a pot that he places on the metal crane over the fire, to warm its contents. He tuts when he realises that Gró is by your bed.

“Ná bac léi,” he says, somewhat sternly. “Tá sí an-tuirseach.” [Don’t disturb her, she’s very tired.]

Gró turns and reveals your head and shoulders, visible over the edge of the settle bed.

“You’re awake. I’m sorry, I hope he didn’t wake you. He’s young, he is curious.”

You shake your head and reach for your shawl, wrapping it about you. “Not at all. I… I woke by myself.”

Din beckons to his son and leads him by the hand in the direction of the door that opens onto the forge. “We’ll leave you for a bit. There’s some warm water in that pot over the hearth, if you want to wash. And a basin and rags, on the table.”

“Thank you, Din. I’ll be glad to make some breakfast once I’m dressed.”

He inclines his head towards you and carries the little boy into the forge.

While Din works and Gró helps out around the forge, you busy yourself with cleaning, mending, and preparing meals for your hosts, by way of a thank you for their kindness. The cottage is well-kept and tidy - an indicator of Din’s meticulous nature, you muse - and doesn’t require more than a little dusting and sweeping to get it ship-shape again once you’ve pushed the settle bed back under the seat.

The midday meal is simple - floury potatoes, piled high in a bowl, and served with butter, milk, and a little salt for Din. Gró eyes up the fresh pot of jam you had brought in your saddle bags, but his father’s wagging finger dissuades him as he eats his own little bowl of potatoes. Sitting at the wooden table, sharing the meal with them and listening to the chatter between father and son, you feel that familiar pang of loss, of yearning for what might have been.

You distract yourself by thinking about the evening meal.

“I can stay and make something for the supper, later,” you announce, as Din lifts his head and meets your gaze with those penetrating dark eyes. “And then I’ll leave you. I can’t abuse your hospitality any more than I already have.”

The blacksmith shakes his head as he peels another potato and dips it in the golden-white liquid in his bowl. “At least wait until you know it’s safe to return.”

You know, deep down, that it’s still too soon to know. But you also know that the smith and his son are already just about able to feed two people, let alone three.

Din turns to his son and ruffles his hair as Gró closes his eyes in delight. He whispers to him and the little boy grins before hopping off his chair and racing out to the back field, whooping and laughing to himself.

His father stands up and begins to help you clear away the empty dishes.

“You - you were unsettled in your sleep, last night.”

You keep wiping down the table. “Was I?”

You can feel Din looking at you. “You were. And this morning. You sounded upset.”

“Probably just a bad dream.”

Din sighs and hesitates before asking the obvious question. “Was it about him?”

“It was.”

Tension crackles in the turf-scented air of the cottage. For an instant you think about telling him everything: every fist, every bruise, every torn garment, every time your husband used and violated you in spite of your protests.

The image of Din wrapping you up in his strong, protective embrace floats into your mind, unbidden.

He breathes deeply. “He hurt you.”

“He did.” You finally look at the blacksmith, whose soft, compassionate expression comes as a surprise. “I felt more of his fist than his lips, I suppose you might say. But that was better than -”

You inhale sharply, summoning as much courage as you can bear. It is difficult to know how Din will react. But there’s something in your gut that tells you he can be trusted, unquestioningly.

“It was better than the alternative. When he…forced himself. On…on me.”

You stare down at the floor and feel heat rising in your cheeks. You have never told another soul about this, and are unsure why you’ve unexpectedly chosen this stoic man to be the first to know.

The silence hangs heavy between you, broken only by the sounds of your breathing and the crackle of the hearth.

When he eventually speaks, Din chooses his words carefully. “You have to stay out of reach of a man like that. If you could even call him a man.”

He picks up his leather apron and the grey fabric he uses to cover his nose and mouth while he works, and opens the door into the forge, pausing for a moment as he looks back at you.

“Stay. Please. Until you know you’re safe from harm.”

You wake before him the next morning, stealing out of the settle bed to dress in the back room, before quietly putting on water to boil for breakfast and freshening up. There is still some milk in its heavy, lidded container and you pour it into an earthenware jug before setting it on the table.

You hear a stirring from the other side of the room as Din lifts his head from the pillow and yawns, somewhat startled at the sight of you. You bite back a giggle at his skew-whiff bed head, the wavy brown strands sticking up this way and that as his eyes adjust to the light.

He smiles and shakes his head when he realises you’ve prepared breakfast.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I was awake, and I wanted to. I have to find some way to return your hospitality, after all.”

Din discreetly reaches for the pair of breeches folded neatly near the end of the bed, and you instinctively turn away as he slips them on before getting out of bed and climbing the ladder to the room above, where Gró is already happily babbling away to himself.

The blacksmith and his son head to the forge after eating, after you refused their offers of help with clearing up after the meal. As you wash the dishes in a stoneware basin, using some of the leftover hot water, you find yourself slipping, once again, into a fantasy of this being your life: this happy, safe domesticity, away from harm and mistreatment.

The memory of the soft smile that had appeared on Din’s face that morning, when he saw you preparing their meal, enters your mind. You close your eyes, a rush of warmth and something like desire coursing through you.

“No.”

His eyes, now, warm and kind and so inviting as they looked at you. The glimpse of tanned skin under his nightshirt.

“No. It cannot be. No.”

You open your eyes and delve deeper into the tepid water, scrubbing the plates and mugs clean and resolving to leave today - just as soon as you could be certain no danger awaited you at home.

At mid-morning, the sudden sound of a woman’s voice inside the cottage is almost enough to make you drop the bundle of clothes you’re carrying inside from the washing line.

She’s small, with an unruly mop of wild auburn curls, and a demeanour that indicates her wiles and toughness.

Peigí. It seems strange to see her here, away from her yard full of half-mended carts and spares.

She doesn’t spot you at first, too busy hauling in a milk can and a couple of baskets filled with random packages wrapped in brown paper. Food, you guessed.

“Only me, lads! Came by with milk and a few bits and pieces I have going spare after calling into the village, I know a growing little chap who’ll eat them right up, so he will. D’you know they changed the coterie of redcoat bastards at the barracks, Din? And one of them’s a local lad, fecked off and left his wife there a few years ago and now he’s back and he’s going mad looking for her and -"

The woman finally looks up and sees you standing near the hearth.

“Oh. Oh, lord bless us and save us!”

“Hello, Peigí. I’m sorry, did I give you a fright?”

She rounds the table to get a closer look at you. “God almighty, girleen, it is you!” She pauses and takes a step back, concern written on her expressive face. “Did… did you know about, er, him? Reappearing, that is?”

You nod. “That’s why I’m here. And by the sounds of it, that was the right thing to do.”

She turns her head quickly towards the door that leads to the forge, as if half-considering whether to summon Din to find out what, exactly, the wife of the prodigal soldier is doing lying low in his house.

“You’re not… ye aren’t… you and himself, are you…”

It’s pretty clear what Peigí is thinking, and you can’t exactly blame her. An anxious wave crashes through you, as you realise that your choice of hideout may well lead the community at large to suspect impropriety - on your part, of course.

“No. And if anyone else suggests that, kindly correct them on my behalf.” You put the bundle of clothes on the table and fold your arms. “I had nowhere else to go that he wouldn’t suspect. I came here in a panic. Din and Gró took me in and fed me.”

Peigí lifts the baskets onto the table, a sympathetic expression on her face. “Well, your instincts were right. Your husband - not that he should really claim the title, given how long he’s been gone - has been out to your smallholding looking for you, and to your parents’ place, and he’s been asking around for you.”

She takes a few of the packages out and arranges them into little piles. “Look, I don’t know your business but I’m guessing you have a good reason not to want to see him again, for being so frightened that you’d flee your own home. So you can trust me, I won’t say a word.” The earnestness of her expression and the kindness in her eyes tells you that she means it.

“Thank you, Peigí. I’d intended to go home later today, I can’t outstay my welcome, but…”

“But I’d give it another little while,” she finishes. “Until he decides you’re not worth the bother.”

The door from the forge opens and Din’s broad silhouette appears, face still covered with the grey cloth. “Peigí?”

“The one and same, Din. Brought you and that lovely little lad some bits and pieces. Now, where’s my darling boy?”

On cue, Gró tears in from the forge, little bare feet racing across the flagstone floor to greet Peigí with a tight hug as she sweeps him up into her arms. He immediately starts chattering away to her, pointing from his shirt to you excitedly.

“Well, aren’t you a lucky little chap, having new friends to make you clothes and everything!” She swivels around to face Din, his son playing with Peigí’s curls. “You don’t need to explain why she’s here, the poor girl. And she should stay put, in my opinion. Provided that’s alright with her hosts, of course.”

“What have you heard?” Din’s voice is cautious.

“Only that he’s been sniffing around the place and asking questions. Nobody knows she’s out here, though.” She ruffles Gró’s mop of fair hair. “You know me, Din, I know everyone and I hear everything. And I’ll be out here quick as anything, the minute I know it’s alright for her to go home. That alright with you, girleen?”

“If it’s alright with Din.”

His dark eyes meet yours. “It’s fine with us. We will keep you safe.”

Peigí looks from you to Din and back again, eyes narrowed and one eyebrow arched, before setting Gró back down on the ground.

“Right so, I’ll be off. See you next week, Din - if not before.”

You keep telling yourself that you’ll soon be able to go home. But, with every day that passes over the course of the next week without a visit from Peigí, a new, more uncomfortable feeling grows inside you.

I don’t want to leave here.

You settle into a comforting, reassuring routine: a little housekeeping and cooking, mending and sewing, playing with Gró, occasionally helping Din with checking the list of items left for repair. Gró alerts you if anyone comes down the lane to the forge, giving you time to scramble up the ladder to the attic and hide. It’s not that you expect Searlas himself - more that you fear he’ll find out if anyone from the locality spots you in the cottage.

You notice Din smiling more, these last few days. Sometimes, you catch him looking at you, eyes kind and warm. And he, in turn, has caught you looking at him.

By night, you sit by the fire together for a little while: you with your mending or knitting, talking, sometimes - and more you than him - but sometimes simply being in a companionable silence that doesn’t demand interruption.

This evening, he descends the ladder from Gró’s sleeping attic, candlestick in hand, and sets the light back on the mantel. The flickering flame throws shadows here and there, the brighter light of the fire illuminating Din’s profile against the whitewashed walls.

He joins you, sitting in one of the sugán chairs in front of the fire. He silently watches you, taking in your nimble fingers as you darn a pair of socks by firelight.

“You have a nice voice,” you say quietly, not even looking up from your work.

“I…” He seems a little taken aback. “Are you making fun of me?”

You look up, surprised and a little hurt that he’d think that of you. “Of course not! I heard you singing to the little lad and it was nice. It’s a compliment, Din.”

He looks sullenly into the fire. You reach over to pat his arm, to offer a little more reassurance and kindness, but he pulls away suddenly as if your fingertips were aflame. You jerk back your hand just as quickly. Had you broken some sort of rule?

“I’m sorry, Din, I didn’t mean to - I meant no harm.” You cast your eyes down again towards the stockings.

“It’s only that I’m not used to it.”

You look up quizzically. “Not used to compliments?”

He meets your eyes and huffs a laugh. “Well, that’s true too. But I mean I am not used to being touched. At least, not by anyone other than my boy.” He looks away again. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

“Let’s call it evens, then, will we?” You yawn softly and let the darning rest in your lap. “I think it might be time for bed.”

You go through the evening routine established with quiet ease over the past few days: packing away your darning while Din smothers the fire and pulls out the box-like bed frame of the settle bed for you, setting out the few meagre cups and plates for breakfast on the sturdy wooden table while he retrieves pillow and blankets for your bed.

“There might just be enough jam for Gró to have for breakfast,” you tell him, peering into the bottom of the last jar you’d given them. Din stands beside you at the table and smiles.

“He makes light work of it, I’m afraid.”

You shrug and place the jar on the table, resting your hands lightly on the edge. “I’m glad. It’s nice to make a child so happy in this world.”

For a moment, there’s no sound except the occasional crackle of the candles and the rain beating its steady rhythm against the walls and windows of the little cottage.

Din rests his own broad, calloused hands on the table. With trembling fingers, he places his right hand gently on the back of your left.

He doesn’t look directly at you, instead stealing the odd glance as he tries to gauge your reaction. You turn your hand over so that your palm is touching his, letting your fingers intertwine with his long, thick digits as you softly squeeze his hand and turn to look at him.

His hands are still shaking a little, but his impossibly dark eyes are warm and wanting as they look intently into yours.

He moves a step closer. He brings the back of your hand to his lips. You exhale a little, a breath tinged with pleasure and surprise, and your fingers seek out the rough stubble on his jaw. He lets go of your hand, gently, and traces his fingertips across your cheek with surprising delicateness.

His kiss is a little awkward, at first, as if he’s afraid you might disappear entirely as soon as your lips meet. When you lean in and reciprocate, though, he responds in kind: strong arms pulling you close as he kisses you hungrily, moaning into your mouth as you wrap your arms around him.

And then it’s over.

He breaks away, breathing shaky, body almost trembling, face turned away from you.

“No. We can’t. You’re… you’re married, it’s not the way to - I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have laid a finger on you.”

You walk quickly to the settle bed, keeping your back turned to Din. “I’ll go in the morning. I’ve exploited your kindness for far too long as it is.”

His own bed creaks a little as Din sits on it and sighs. “You won’t be safe. I can protect you, here.”

“I’m a married woman, Din, remember?” You fling a pillow down onto the straw-filled mattress in frustration. “So I shouldn’t need you to protect me. And I’d obviously only be a temptation. A harlot.”

You pick up your nightshirt and shawl and cross to the door that leads to the tiny back room, so that you can change for bed. You keep your face turned away and your eyes trained on the flagstone floor. That way, at least, he won’t see your tears.

“The thing is, Din,” you say quietly, as you pause in front of the simple wooden door, “over the last few days - in all the time I’ve known you, indeed - you’ve been more husband to me than he ever was, in the ways that really mattered.”

“Mo chuisle.” [My darling]

His voice, soft but pleading, cuts through the stillness like a prayer. When you turn to face him, he’s standing by the side of his bed, big dark eyes threatening tears of his own, beautiful hands twisting and rubbing nervously together. You’ve never seen him like this.

“Say it again.” You move towards him, shawl wrapped around your upper body.

“Mo chuisle.” He takes your hand and you instinctively move closer, leaning in to feel the warmth of his broad chest. Slowly, cautiously, Din’s strong arms reach around your body to hold you to him.

You stay like that for a few moments, listening to his heart beating, learning the notes of his scent: fire and metal. His large hand caresses the back of your head, his lips find your cheek with soft, lingering kisses.

“Let me keep you safe, mo chuisle. Here, with us.”

You look into his dark eyes, mapping the laughter lines around them and the contours of his nose, his mouth, his strong jaw.

When you first met Din, you weren’t sure if he was a handsome man or a striking one. You were wrong on both counts.

He was a beautiful one.

He holds your gaze for a few seconds, before your lips meet his again. Slow caresses give way to more urgent, hungry kisses, your hands holding Din’s face as he holds you tight, feeling the softness and contours of your body under the layers of wool and cotton in your garments.

You stay like that for a little while, lips and tongues blissfully moving together and hands roaming over each other’s body, exploring these strange and enticing new territories.

Din trembles under your gentle touches, the feeling of someone else’s tender caresses almost overwhelming after so long alone. For the first time in your life, you know what it is to be held and cherished with care as he holds you, seeks out your softness and your warmth, presses his lips experimentally to the fragile skin of your neck and décolletage, and sighs with pleasure.

His mouth moves gradually lower, and you loosen the neck of your blouse and undo your light wool bodice to grant him greater access. Those long, thick fingers, marked and calloused by his trade, trace the line of your breasts under your short linen stays.

“Oh.” He exhales the word, closing his eyes as his fingertips press lightly into the soft flesh.

“Din…”

Din’s dark eyes flick open and meet yours, his sadness palpable. “I’m sorry, mo chuisle, I’ll stop.”

You murmur a silent prayer that he won’t think less of you for what you say next.

“Din…don’t stop. I - I want to. I want you. I want you to have me. Please.”

He flushes and looks away, still holding you close.

You speak softly but firmly. “I know that’s very forward of me, Din, but…” You run your fingers idly through his hair and he leans into your touch. “Why did you turn away?”

“Because I’ll be a disappointment to you.” His eyes meet yours again, dark and sad.

“It has been a…long time.” He looks embarrassed, colour flushing his cheeks. “I…I’ve lain with, well…once or twice…but I…It wasn’t like this. It wasn’t -”

“If you don’t want to, you know that’s perfectly fine.”

“I want to. I want you.” He pulls you tight to him once more, and brings his hand to your breasts, gently kneading the flesh and slipping a fingertip here and there under your light stays as he sucks your neck and pulls your bodice open all the more.

“I won’t hurt you, my darling,” he murmurs.

“Oh, Din, I know. You never could. Let me undress for you, a stór, hmmm?”

Din looks on as you discard your bodice and your skirts, followed by your woollen stockings. You undo your short stays, leaving you as naked as you’ve ever been in front of another human being for a very long time: just your pale, light shift, undone over the décolletage and stopping just at mid-calf, the outline of your body entirely evident in the simple, thin undergarment.

His dark eyes appraise you, mouth slightly open. The width and curve of your hips. The thickness of your thighs. The little protruding pooch of your belly. The line of your shoulders. The gorgeous weight of your heavy bosom.

“Oh, mo Dhia.” [My god]

Din hastily takes off his knitted pullover and undoes his breeches and stockings, and soon he, like you, is standing barefoot on the flagstone floor, dressed in just the creamy-coloured linen of his undershirt. He closes the short distance between you, caresses your cheek with one hand and reaches for the other, holding it gently.

“Please take me to bed, Din.”

It’s strange, at first, to nestle beside him in his bed, to smile at each other and giggle quietly as you map each other’s bodies with roving fingers, curious lips, and wandering eyes.

You are no virgin. But this has some of the sweetness and curiosity of a first time, or at least how you had once hoped a first time would be. On your wedding night, Searlas took your virginity and shattered your romantic delusions, adding insult to injury by checking the sheets to see if you’d bled.

It’s different tonight, here in the blacksmith’s bed. You are both a little awkward, a bit hesitant from your years alone, the time spent seeking a kind of release in your own hands, the years that passed without as much as a loving touch from someone else.

The feel of another now, at last, sets you trembling. Din’s breath hitches when you caress him through the thin linen of his undershirt, and when you reach under his shirt and wrap your fingers around his cock he moans so loudly that you have to put a hand over his mouth, for fear of waking the little boy soundly asleep on the floor above.

You stroke him for a little while, hand still gently pressed over his lips to stem the flow of grunts and moans that threaten to spill out.

“I’ll stay quiet if I’m kissing you, mo chuisle,” he whispers against your hand.

You smile and move your palm away, and Din swiftly finds your mouth again as his hands grope your breasts. It’s exquisite torment - the sheer pleasure of his strong, broad hands being on you, his soft, warm mouth meeting yours, while the ache between your legs grows more and more insistent.

You take his hand and gently guide it under your chemise and between your folds. Din’s eyes widen.

“Ever touched a woman here?”

He shakes his head.

“Would you like me to teach you?”

A slow, entranced nod of agreement.

You bring his long, thick pointer and middle fingers to the sensitive little nub you’ve learned to massage when you needed release in your years alone, guiding Din’s motions as you teach him what you like. What you need.

He’s a quick learner, enraptured by the little whines his fingers start to pull out of you and the way your hips buck in response to the careful touch of his hand. He reaches for your breasts with his free hand, fondling them with endearingly clumsy enthusiasm while he continues to finger you.

“You’re wet,” he grunts into the side of your neck, fingers now tracing around your entrance as he explores you for the first time.

“For you,” you whisper, close to coming. “Because I want you to have me.”

Din’s kiss tips you over the edge and you whine against his broad chest as pleasure courses through your body. He looks astonished.

“Good?”

“So good, Din,” and you return his kiss, still stroking his cock. “You learn fast, a stór.”

His eyes are dark with desire and want as he plays with the hem of your chemise, hitching it up over your thighs.

“Can I have you, mo chuisle?” His voice is hushed, reverent, almost; his face open and genuine as he gazes into your eyes.

You nod and sit up, casting off your shift before helping him out of his shirt. Your fingers trace over the marks and scars on his body, lips pressing lightly to them, to the strong, beautiful muscles of his arms and torso, to the side of his neck.

With his pointer finger, Din draws soft lines and circles down your breasts and around your nipples, before gently bringing his warm, plush lips to each one in turn. Strong arms wrap around you and ease you down onto your back as his mouth continues to explore your body. He strokes his cock and moans softly as your hips buck up towards him, marvelling at the way you are responding to his touch.

He is a beautiful sight, nestled between your legs: broad body above yours, hands and lips exploring you, eyes blown completely dark with desire, and hard cock pressing against your core. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down for a long, deep kiss.

There is no moment of doubt in your mind, no worry about how this lovemaking is “wrong”, by virtue of the legal status that still binds you to a man who never held up his end of the bargain, nor had any intention of doing so.

Nothing in your life, you realise as you reach down to help guide Din inside you, has ever felt so right.

He takes you slowly, gently, biting his lip as he sinks into you and bottoms out with a groan he desperately tries to suppress as he adjusts to the feel of your wet, warm pussy.

He opens his eyes and caresses your cheek, smiling softly. “Mo cailín álainn. [My lovely girl.] Is this - do you like this?”

The feeling of his heavy cock pressing, filling, stretching you so beautifully is a revelation, a far cry from the pain and abuse that characterised your previous experiences. Suddenly, you understand why other young couples you’d known had been so desperate to go to bed together.

“It’s just perfect, a stór. And for you, is this - does it feel good for you?”

Din breathes your name and closes his eyes for a moment. “So very, very good, mo chuisle.” With a gentle kiss, he begins to move his hips as you whine softly at the gorgeous sensation. He moves slowly, at first, his sheer pleasure as he drags his cock in and out of you written all over his face and in every pant and whispered gasp of your name that issues from his soft lips.

Your knees hitch instinctively, your body acting on your innate need to take him even deeper inside of you. Din’s broad, calloused right hand finds its way to your hip, making you cry out as his fingers sink into the soft flesh, while his left eagerly gropes and massages your tits.

“That’s it, darling,” you purr into his ear, urging him on as he starts to fuck you harder and faster. “Yes - yes, Din, there - that’s…oh, god…” His eyes widen as he watches your head rolling back in ecstasy. He buries his face against the velvet skin of your neck, kissing and licking and nipping you until you’re stifling your moans against his dark, wavy locks.

“My good, good girl,” he whispers, moving his lips to your tits and muffling his grunts and groans against your body as his rhythm starts to stutter and falter. He’s close. “Where, love?”

“Inside me,” you hiss, “finish inside me.”

He comes hard, moaning into his pillow as he spills his release deep within you. You trail your fingers through Din’s damp, mussed-up hair and kiss the side of his head, over and over, until he pulls out and flops back beside you.

You turn to face him, chuckling softly at how wrecked he looks. “You’re very good at that, you know. Not bad for a man who thought he was going to disappoint me.”

Din grins, wraps an arm around you, and pulls you in for a long, slow kiss.

Dawn reaches its gentle rays into the little cottage and finds two lovers still tangled together, naked beneath the blankets.

Din wakes you with kisses: to your lips, your forehead, your cheeks, your neck. You nuzzle against him, still basking in the warm glow created the night before.

There’s a certain sadness in his kind eyes. Regret?

“What is it, Din?”

He looks at you, reluctant. “I just wish you were mine, mo chuisle.”

In that instant the warm glow is gone, replaced by stark cold. He’s right. You’re not really his. You can’t be.

But, says a little voice inside you, you are. What else are you, if not his?

You kiss his cheek and reach for his hand. “I am yours, Din. Don’t you remember what I said last night? I’m yours - and you are mine - in all the ways that truly matter.”

Further A/N: With thanks to @agentjackdaniels for her astute observation a long time back about the similarity between mo chuisle and mesh'la!

A settle bed was a common piece of furniture in eighteenth and nineteenth-century Ireland. Essentially, it was a kind of high-backed bench with a deep base that could be pulled out to act as a spare bed. A sugán chair is a traditional Irish form of domestic chair with a woven straw seat and wooden frame.

#tempered in the fire fic #din djarin au #blacksmith!din djarin #blacksmith!din djarin x f!reader #din djarin fanfiction #historical AU #the mandalorian AU #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedrostories

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tokoyamisstuff · 3 years

Text

Tender Ch. 2 - Loki x Mute! Reader

Summary: Winning the favour of the God of Mischief is not an easy task - even if he has already fallen for you.

Warnings: None.

Words: ~1600

A/N: Since I am writing several Series at once, together with Oneshots in between, the chapters are gonna be a bit shorter so I keep no one waiting. Hope that is alright!

[Story Masterlist] [All of my Works]

Taglist: @austynparksandpizza @queenariesofnarnia @commonintrest @buckylokisimp @just-someone-who-likes-to-write @lxdyred @frostay

The first weeks after your arrival at the Avengers Compound passed by rather uneventful.

Due to the fact that you neither had a family you could be attached to, nor many belongings ever since HYDRA had kidnapped you and destroyed your home, Tony insisted on you living at the tower - like many of the other members as well.

Everything was just so new and exciting, not even Loki’s gleeful mockery could bring you down from that high.

Little did you know that all of his pep talks about those ‘inferior heros’, the ‘illusion of power’ or how no one was ever truly good or evil had a completely different reason:

An attempt to get you to leave, for your own good. After everything that had happened to you, the god was worried how another fight would affect you.

Anyway, it was a luxurious life compared to your old one, with so many kind persons and new perspectives. And you were sure to return that favor once you’d learn to control your powers!

So until then, you would train as hard as possible and care for your new friends through little acts of service. Caring for others came quite natural to you, may it be listening to their problems or simply complimenting them to see their faces brighten up.

And for some reason, that particular character trait was the one thing Loki found the most annoying.

How could a person so naive and pure think they could actually join in battles against evil? You’ll only end up getting yourself killed - and to be honest, Loki thought this to be a waste.

And even though he’d never admit it, but jealousy was starting to get the better of him the more he observed you getting along with everyone.

They adored you - and they were very right in doing so!

But that would mean that you were just nice to everyone, not especially to him, right?

Every time you’d help Bucky through a panic attack, braided Thor’s hair or helped Banner in the laboratory, Loki only wished you’d be with him instead - and if he had to burn this whole place to the ground for this to happen.

Yet his pride kept him from voicing that desire.

For you on the other hand, it was frustratingly hard to get through to the God of Mischief. In comparison to how he treated the other Avengers, he was always reserved and courteous towards you, yet also unreachable distanced.

Only on a weekend where the other Avengers were on a mission, the two of you found a way to actually bond with each other, if only a little.

Loki had once again read every book he borrowed from Stark’s library, now having a reason to leave his room again. At least those subhumans won’t be there to drain on his nerves...

When he crossed the living room on his way to the elevator, he blinked heavily as he saw you plainly chilling on the sofa. He was just about to turn around and leave, when you hectically gestured for him to stay.

“Hey, Loki! 😊” you wrote on a notepad, holding it up for him to read.

“Greetings...” he spoke between gritted teeth, but your smile wouldn’t falter, so he stood rooted in the middle of the room.

“Do you want to watch a movie together?” How blunt could you be to ask a literal god directly, just like that?!

“Actually, I-” When your eyes met, Loki cut himself off, the words being caught in his throat. “Well, if you’re in dire need of my sublime company...”

You were quick to sit up straight, offering a bowl with popcorn to the Odinson which he curiously accepted. When he answered your question about what sweets they eat on Asgard, he wouldn’t understand why you’d laugh. Apparently ‘nuts and grapes’ are not considered treats on earth. Got it.

Yet that little huff you blew out of your nose instead of making an actual laughing sound came somewhat endearing to him, especially in contrast to your other noisy companions. “Adorable...”

Without even asking first, you’d wrap the other half of the blanket around Loki, effectively closing the gap between you two.

“Wha- I’m not cold!” he blurted out, visibly overchallenged by the sudden closeness. “I’m a Jotun, hel!”

What was he even so worked up about? Geeze...

“But the weather on Asgard is rather humid, right?” you wrote down, with him nodding approvingly. "It allows all kinds of flowers to blossom, other than this metal brick” he explained, your excited look not failing to keep him talking. “You should see it some time.”

Loki’s eyes were now locked on the screen, and you could basically grasp his homesicknes, very well aware that a failure and war criminal like him would never be tolerated in those holy grounds ever again.

Great...now you had achieved the exact opposite of what you wanted.

You tugged on his arm so he’d shift your attention to you again, quickly writing something with a barely there sulk on your face:

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make you sad.”

Tears were already forming on the rim of your eyes, making Loki’s insides churn. “So sensitive...gods. Keep yourself together, would you.”

The Odinson instinctively wrapped an arm around you, his free hand petting your head as he pulled it to his chest. He was awfully warm for a frost giant, and his heart was hammering against his chest in a fastened pace - maybe just your imagination, though.

“Well, it’s winter...” he uttered, acting as if he actually cared about the plot of the movie. “I may not freeze, but you seemed cold. That’s all.”

You let your hand run across his collarbone, making him look down to you once again. He bit his lip as his icy glare met your warm one, eyes shimmering with earnest affection while you formed silent words with your lips:

“T-h-a-n-k y-o-u.”

“N-no need to thank me.” Just now Loki wondered what kind of spell you were using on him, being reduced to a shaking and stuttering mess.

No curse, no beauty ever before had bewitched him so much that he would lose his cool, let anyone peek under his confident mask, after all.

Not so long ago, when he was still considered the handsome Prince of Asgard, he would bed a different lover on each night, though never settling for anyone.

And after the revelation of his true heritage, even those fleeting encounters to ease his loneliness would falter - all that’s left was certainty that the theory he had ever since his childhood had proven to be true:

That everyone had always secretly despised him, the failure of the family and disgrace to all of Asgard. Only through his Jotun blood they had found a reason to not play along with the royal courtesy anymore, showing their resentment up in the open.

But you...you looked at him with completely different eyes than anyone ever did.

Maybe he had become softer, weaker over time - or simply more mature. His mother once told him to seize the moment when someone truly special would cross his way, and to never let them go.

“We could do this more often.” You shoved the notepad in his line of sight, and just now he noticed that two hours had sure passed in an incredible speed.

Just the two of you, cuddled up on the sofa, enjoying each other’s presence instead of dealing with the troublesome past.

“Well...” Loki clawed into your upper arm softly, no intention of letting you out of his grasp already. “I am sure your other companions are more fun to be around. As you most likely already noticed, I am known for ruining the mood.”

Loki had a habit of talking ill about himself, and letting himself down as well. Yet as he saw you eagerly scribble on the notepad, he knit his brows together, impatient to what you’d say next.

“But I want to see you.” The word ‘you’ was written in a thicker font, underlined several times.

“Why?”, that was the first and only thing crossing his mind. And yet there you sat, shoving the notepad into his face with a stern look on your face.

Loki was rooted on spot as you put the notepad on the table, instead laying your hands on his cheeks and softly tugging on the edge of his lips. “S-m-i-l-e!”

“E-enough!” he carefully pushed your hands away, afraid you’d detect the mild blush on his face. “Then it shall be. What did you have in mind?”

“Whatever you want.”

Loki finally arrived at the library to return his books, even though with a few hours delay. Realizing just how much he had enjoyed that spontaneous meeting with you, he began to panic.

Was it really a good idea to repeat this?

He was almost 100% certain that it would only end in him ruining your trust in anyone completely, if he’d ever allow you to come close to his core.

Due to him having saved you back then, you probably see him as something better than he actually was - and gods, how disappointed you’ll be once you’d find out what he really is like...

It was probably for the best if this would never happen, with him just keeping on to admire you from afar...

After a while of just staring into the void, mentally debating about your offer, he couldn’t help the fact that he was already looking forwards to meeting you again.

Uncertain how to approach the matter, Loki was at least eager to show you his goodwill.

For you have been the first person who - despite everything he had done - was willing to give him another chance.

"Greetings. I need every available book about sign language.”

#Loki #Loki x Reader #Loki x You #Loki / Reader #Loki x Y/N #Loki / You #Loki Odinson #Loki Laufeyson #Loki Friggason #God of Mischief #Marvel #Disney #Writing #Fanfiction #Self Insert

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marvels-writings · 3 years

Text

World Turned Upside Down

Prequel: Used To

Sequel: My Forever

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow) Masterlist

Yelena Belova Masterlist

Requested by @stephanieromanoff and (Kind of) @venablemayfairgoode: Hi!! I absolutely LOVED ‘Used To’, and I definitely felt the reader’s pain. Could you write a part 2? Like, maybe while going away from everything, reader finds Yelena and they start a relationship?

Word Count: 7.4k (long but a masterpiece of angst and fluff)

A/N: Two whole weeks of effort, literally, so worth it. I hope you feel the same after reading it.

Edit: The post seems to have deleted itself so I’m reposting it

Golden light filtered through the windows, illuminating the quiet of your apartment; the light fell on your eyes. You opened them slowly and looked around the room. The windows showed the rest of the world slowly waking up, the cars whirring by as other people's lives took their normal turn.

Breathing in slowly, you turned around slowly. The sheets shuffled underneath you, tangling your legs further into them. Turning to face the blonde in front of you, a small smile graced your lips. Fingertips grazed over her cheek as you moved the hair away from her face.

Shuffling closer to your sleeping girlfriend, your smile broadened as you noticed she was still sleeping. It wasn’t frequent that you woke up before Yelena, but you loved every second of it. Your fingers ran across her relaxed features before settling around her cheek.

Your fingertips trailed down her cheekbone onto her shoulder, till your hand was ghosting across her chest. Her heartbeat sounded just underneath your fingers, bringing a sense of comfort to you. Toying with a strand of hair on her neck, her eyes began to flutter open slowly.

Taking in a breath, her eyes opened to see you watching her. Your eyes held open affection, a gaze she found herself seeking comfort in. Hazel eyes scanned your features, she shifted to see you better. Legs tangled with yours over the sheets, the touch bringing you back to her.

“Morning,” Yelena whispered, her voice raspy from waking up. You hummed in response, fingers gently toying with her hair as a comfortable silence blanketed it you.

Soft breaths resounding in your ears as thoughts continued to run through your mind. Thoughts of a certain redhead. She had called you, more than once, more than you had expected. Even after five years, you found it hard not to pick up.

The voicemails remained on your phone. Her voice asking you to come back, telling you that it had been long enough. You could barely stop thinking about it.

Yelena saw that something was bothering you, but she never asked. She knew you would tell her once you thought it over. Her trust made you comfortable enough to think about going back. But the thought of seeing her again made you stop.

“Breakfast?” Yelena asked, a small smile as your fingertips ran across her skin. Taking your fingers away from her hair, you gave her a small nod. Mirroring her smile, you moved to get off the bed.

Untangling your legs from the sheets, you smoothened out your clothes. Though, it hardly made a difference. The clothes were all Yelena’s, not that she minded. Everything she wore was yours, even the oversized sweatpants.

Moving your hair away from your face, you followed the blonde into the kitchen. You knew she didn’t eat much for breakfast, but she insisted on trying to make you something anyway. Taking a seat on the kitchen island, you fidgeted with your hands as your girlfriend started on breakfast.

Bread in the toaster, two cups of coffee brewing, eggs cooking on the stove. Yelena put the eggs on a plate and sighed as she turned around. You were still staring at your hands, refusing to disturb the silence surrounding both of you.

“Something on your mind?” Yelena asked softly, setting your plate in front of you along with your coffee.

You didn’t seem to hear her, snapping out of your daze as you looked up to face her. A smile formed on your face before you noticed she had asked you something.

“Sorry?” You asked, tilting your head to the side.

Yelena chuckled, picking up her toast and setting it down next to her coffee. Taking a seat in front of you, she set one hand down in the middle of the table. Her foot bumped yours gently as she sat down.

“I asked what was going on in this beautiful head of yours.” She asked, her hand gesturing to your head.

You smiled at the compliment, the expression disappearing as you looked down at your food. Your fork prodded the eggs, playing with them. Another silence settled around the room as she waited for you to speak. You set down your fork and let out a sigh, gaining the courage to finally tell her.

“She called me.” You stated, your voice strained and tight as the words left your lips.

The blonde frowned for a moment until she understood who you were referring to. To you, her name would never be mentioned, when you talked about it, it was always ‘she’ and ‘her’. Her hand gently came onto yours, thumb running across your knuckles to show she was listening.

“She wants me to come back,” You continued, breath shaky as you spoke. “she says it’s been long enough.”

Yelena nodded at your words, letting them sink in. A squeeze to your hand brought your eyes up to hers. You looked uncertain of what you wanted to do next. The blonde tilted her head to the side as she resumed running her thumb over the skin of your hand.

“Do you want to go back?” She asked gently.

Her question was what you’d been asking yourself since the first time she called you. Were you ready to see her again? Should you let your absence remain for longer? A part of you wanted to go back to where you used to call home.

But this was home, this huge apartment you’d bought with Yelena.

“I’m not sure,” You admitted, sighing. “do you want to go there?”

The blonde considered it, licking her lips slowly. She seemed to weigh her words carefully, to tell you what she wanted, and if she wanted to see her sister again.

“I would like to see Natalia again,” Yelena confessed, watching your expression falter. “, but only if you’re okay with it.”

“You know I won’t keep you from your family.” You found yourself answering before you could process her words.

Natalia, you’d never called her by her true name, scared it was too close to her. it was the first time you’d heard her name in years. The last time being when you told Yelena about what happened between her and you.

“Then why should she keep you from yours?” Yelena asked, breaking you out of your thoughts.

You nodded, considering her words. A light chuckle left you as you recalled the last words you’d said to her.

‘If the entire world turns upside down’. It was so distant now, the realization, the arguing, the day you left.

“I did tell her I’d come back if the world turned upside down.” You recalled, nostalgia in your words as you turned to look out the window. Breathing in slowly, you took a moment to analyze how different your life was now.

It’s been almost four years you’ve been together, each day you spent with her you seemed to forget your life without her. Funny, it was a coincidence she showed up in your life just a month after you left Natasha. Going on a trip around Europe was an impulse decision, one of your best ones at that.

It was what you’d wanted to do with Natasha, but you ended up by yourself. Until you met Yelena at a bar. The memories of how you began seemed to fade the longer you were with her. But everything in between felt like yesterday.

Yelena had been the one to take things slow. It matched you better than you had expected. It was perfect. You needed to take things slow after everything that happened. The blonde didn’t want to rush into anything.

Sometimes, you thought maybe you were with Yelena only because she reminded you of someone you used to love. It was hardly that, being with Natasha had been something you wanted to do. With Yelena, you were surprised your life hadn’t been this way all along.

A smile crossed your face as you remembered starting to trust her. It was slow, just starting with trusting her with your nightmares, even your fears if you were sure about it. She never pushed you, never held back a secret if she thought you’d want to know.

“In a way, it did.” You commented, making your decision to return.

Yelena watched you turn back to face her, your eyes meeting hers with certainty. Your decision was made, she could change it if she wanted to. But this could be good for you, maybe it would benefit both of you. After all, there were plans you had that needed a family watching you.

“You’re sure about going back?” She asked, just to make sure. You nodded your head, palm turning upwards to take her hand into yours. Skin brushed together as your fingers ran over her skin.

“Maybe not permanently,” You gave a half shrug. “but they are my family.”

Yelena smiled at you, her other hand slowly coming up to cup yours. Her fingers toyed with yours, letting the rings on your fingers clink together softly. Wedding bands had not come in their place, not yet anyway.

“So are you.” You smiled, lacing your fingers with hers. Her smile broadened at your words, eyes glancing down to where her ring met yours. She promised you forever when you weren’t sure you could find one.

————

Your phone buzzed lightly in your hand on the drive to the compound. After messaging the rest of the team about your surprise arrival, they hadn’t stopped messaging you. The first year was the only year they tried to keep in contact with you before giving up on you.

Wanda was the only one who never gave up on it. Every holiday, every birthday, she’d send you a text and try to call you. There were never any voicemails, but the texts were there, year after year. She didn’t know if you’d read them or not but still kept sending them.

Now, there were more messages than you could count.

The only ones you paid attention to were the ones from Tony. He told you that he could get you your room back. The one you had before you moved in with a certain redhead. No one had touched it.

Scrolling through the notifications, you noticed one text from Natasha thanking you. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Stark can give me my old room back,” You said, tucking your phone in your back pocket and turning towards Yelena. She nodded, looking outside the window as the compound started to come into view.

“The one I had before moving in with her.” You continued, to try to occupy the silence in the car. The taxi driver didn’t seem to care much about who he was driving or where. Though, you supposed he expected a large tip since you mentioned Tony Stark.

“Though I don’t know how long we’ll be staying.” You continued, licking your lips dryly. Your fingers reached to fidget with your engagement ring. Twisting the ring around your finger, you clenched your jaw and turned to look out the window.

The sound of the radio the only sound filling the taxi for a few moments. Fingers laced through yours, squeezing to bring your attention to her. Turning to face her, you gave her a half-hearted smile. Yelena gave you a reassuring grin before squeezing your fingers again.

“We’ll stay as long as you want.” She whispered, bringing your hand up to meet it to her lips softly. You smiled at the comforting feeling.

Chuckling, you remembered how Yelena hadn’t been one to show affection at the starting of your relationship. You had always been one to initiate any sort of physical contact. It was only after she told you how she wanted to make sure you were comfortable did it become commonplace.

“I love you.” You whispered, a smile turning up the corners of your lips. The blonde mirrored your smile as she turned around to face you. Hazel eyes radiated warmth as she squeezed your hand again.

“I love you too,” Yelena said.

With her, it didn’t feel like you were living a lie. You didn’t have to ask her if she meant it. To her, telling you that she loved you was a promise on its own.

Smiling to yourself as she squeezed your fingers the same way as you walked towards the entrance of the compound. You were about an hour earlier than you had promised to arrive. Hardly anyone was at the front.

You began to walk inside, taking in the sight of the compound. The smell of coffee wafted through the air, music probably picked by Stark created the atmosphere as you walked inside. It was like you’d never left.

Wanda sat on the couches, talking to Clint. A fond smile twisted the corners of your lips as you made eye contact with the witch. Her eyes seemed to widen almost three times their size as she caught sight of you. Jumping out of her seat, a large grin crossed her face.

“Y/N!” Wanda exclaimed, running forwards to you.

You stumbled backward with the force of her hug, hand slipping from Yelena’s. Laughing, you hugged her back tightly. Her hands pulled you closer to her, scared you might leave if she let go of you. You smiled as her grip tightened, burrowing your face into her neck.

Her hair still smelt of the almond oil she used, along with the coconut shampoo you’d suggested to her many years ago. Some things never really change.

Clint shouted that you’d returned. You paid little to no heed to his screaming, until you heard rapid footsteps approaching you. Wanda didn’t seem to want to let go of you, despite the rest of your family coming to crowd around her.

Tapping her back lightly, she let you slip from her hold. Turning to face the team, your face grew into a huge grin. Bucky stood in the back, giving you a curt nod before moving to sit on one of the couches. Hugging the rest of the team, tears began to form in your eyes. It had been too long you were away from them.

Five years just felt like a number when you said it. But the weight of it settled on your shoulders as you talked to your family. Five was just a number, it truly had been too long.

Jokes and teasing circled in the room, Steve patted you on the shoulder with a light threat never to do this again. A part of you assumed he was joking, but he seemed too serious for you to laugh it off easily. They dragged you over to the couches.

The grin on your face grew as the compliments flew through the room. The way you looked now was far too different from when you left for them not to notice. You’d left looking as a corpse of who they used to know. Now, you were glowing with laughter and jokes as you talked with them.

Moments you knew you’d treasure flew by until they noticed Yelena standing to the side. She tried not to look awkward, her hands tucked into her jacket pockets as she watched you. You reached out a hand for her. She took it and sat down next to you, squeezing herself between you and Tony.

“Who is she?” Wanda asked, tilting her head to the side curiously. Her arm hooked around yours protectively, she rested her head on your shoulder.

“Yelena?” A voice sounded behind you before you could answer.

The voice was familiar, almost too familiar. Turning around your eyes caught onto the reason you’d been avoiding your family. She wasn’t the same person you’d remembered. Her hair was blonde, she still walked with confidence, but that stride broke once she saw you.

Your jaw clenched subtly, you turned back around to Wanda who looked at you in concern. Giving her a tight nod, you glanced towards Yelena. She looked from you towards her sister, uncertain if she should greet her.

Giving her a nod and a small smile, you squeezed her hand to let her know you’d be alright. Without any words exchanged, she went up to greet her.

“Natalia,” Yelena spoke, a smile slowly growing on her face at the sight of her sister. Both of them grinned at each other before hugging tightly.

Yelena was a bit stiff as she hugged her, Natasha’s unspoken mistake still loomed in the air. She hugged her tightly before letting her go. She talked to her in Russian for a bit, you couldn’t understand any of the words.

The rest of the team stared at them curiously, wondering who she was. It wasn’t until they rejoined you on the couches was it they asked. Yelena returned to your side, her hand sliding into yours by habit.

“Who is she?” Steve asked you, a frown ghosting his face. You could only assume he wanted to be protective of you again. Bucky sat at his side quietly, scared of ruining anything again.

“I’m Yelena Belova,” Yelena answered for herself, winking at you when you glanced towards her.

Another smile twisted the corner of your lips at the gesture as you looked around the rest of the team. Natasha’s features flickered for a moment, into hurt, maybe even fear. You couldn’t tell, she put up her mask again.

“How do you know y/n?” Tony asked, leaning forwards and letting his elbows rest on his knees. He looked at her as if he was judging her. You chuckled and patted Yelena’s thigh comfortingly before speaking.

“Guys stop interrogating her.” You chided, watching Tony chuckle before leaning back into the couch.

You weren’t sure why you were protective of Yelena. They were your family. After all, you doubted they were going to chase her away. Even if they could, you weren’t sure they would want to.

Starting a conversation with them, you joked around for a bit before roping Yelena into the conversation. It flowed easily; she added to the stories you told and the comments you made. The stories you told weaved together flawlessly.

Natasha wasn’t paying any attention to the story, her eyes staring at the engagement ring on your finger. Yelena’s hand was intertwined with yours, denying her view to see the ring she was sure was there. She wanted to say something, maybe congratulate you, lie that she was happy for you.

The words were already dry in her mouth as she stared. She was the first to notice the engagement, but the last to comment on it.

“Y/n/n you’re engaged?!” Wanda exclaimed, noticing the ring when you made a gesture with your left hand.

She took your hand in hers, jaw almost dropping over the size of the ring. Gorgeous was hardly the word to describe it. It was a rose gold solitaire adorned with diamonds on the band. The diamonds looked like they were woven into the band itself.

A grin plastered itself onto your face as the rest of the team started to fawn over your ring. Before any of them could ask who you were engaged to, Yelena put her hand next to yours. A ring was placed on her finger as well.

“We are,” Yelena stated, her grin matching yours as you turned to face her.

Neither of you seemed to notice Natasha sitting frozen on the couches. The ring on Yelena’s finger wasn’t just any ring. It was your mother's ring, the one you’d talked about proposing with. The same ring you swore would bring luck to any wedding.

The ring she had been so sure she would wear someday.

“When?” Natasha croaked, clearing her throat after she spoke. The attention turned to her, the team glaring at her. It was as if her speaking could somehow take you away again. Maybe it could if she wasn’t careful.

“Nat,” Wanda whispered angrily, a red wisp forming on Natasha’s elbow. Natasha winced, glaring at the witch before turning back to face you. The question hung in the air for a few seconds, but you didn’t fill the silence.

“A few months ago,” Yelena answered for you. You gave her a grateful smile before turning towards the rest of the team.

Nervousness showed in your eyes as you glanced around the room. Your fiance squeezed your thigh gently, helping build up your courage for the request she knew you wanted to say. Biting your lip tightly, you took in a breath.

“We um,” You glanced at Yelena who gave you a soft smile you sought comfort in. “we wanted you to come to our wedding.”

A moment of quiet passed over your words before happiness and laughter quickly filled the room. The rings continued to be fawned over as new wedding plans were made. Your wedding plans, even your savings for them hardly seemed to matter as Tony announced he would be paying for it. You knew you couldn’t talk him out of it, despite how you might try to.

The team talked about the kind of wedding you should have, a spring wedding, a grand ball, anything. Plans and ideas flew around the room, the only person never offering any being Natasha. She sat silently on the couch, staring at the ground.

Your eyes glanced towards her before flitting back to Yelena, smiling brightly at your fiance. The same smile you used to wear around her, the one she thought she could never get enough of. The same lovesick grin the rest of the team made fun of you for. It was for someone who wasn’t her.

Natasha got up quietly, offering Yelena a tight smile of congratulations before padding out of the room. Her footsteps hardly made any sound as she made the effort to leave your life the way it is.

The conversation flowed on behind her, your laughter floating through the room. The wedding date wasn’t fixed yet, you weren’t sure when you should have it. Better sooner than later, you never knew how long something might last.

This, your family, you hoped this would last forever.

————

The TV played on in the background as you talked to Wanda about wedding plans. She had long since agreed to become your maid of honor. The witch was adamant about making this wedding perfect, you smiled as you talked to her about the flowers for the wedding.

Yelena was still unsure about who should be her best man/woman. Natasha was her first choice for it, but she wasn’t sure if you were comfortable with it. You’d told her you’d be alright with it, still, she waited in case.

The popcorn seemed to be taking a little longer than it should have. You’d offered to help her with it, but the blonde declined your offer, adamant she could do it on her own. You continued talking to Wanda about your wedding plans, unsure what kind of flowers you should have.

Wanda began saying that roses were a better idea, you weren’t paying much attention as you saw Natasha enter the room. Your eyes flitted over to her, your expression faltering for an instant. Bringing your mask back up, you nodded to Wanda to show you were listening. She didn’t buy it, glancing behind her. Noticing Natasha, she turned back to you, continuing her conversation.

“Hey, y/n…” Natasha trailed off, fidgeting with her fingers as she stood behind the couch. You turned to face her, giving her a tight nod. Wanda stopped talking, turning around to face the assassin.

“Hello.” You greeted, turning back to the movie. Even you weren’t willing to pretend everything was okay with her. The witch glanced between both of you before locking her gaze onto Natasha.

“Can I talk to you?” She asked, her weight shuffling on her feet. She glanced from you to Wanda, the witch glared at her angrily. Ignoring her gaze, she turned back to face you. You weren’t looking at her, your eyes looking at Yelena.

Your fiance gave you a supportive nod, the popcorn still in her hands. The look of concern on her face told you she would be here for you if things went south. You nodded at her, smiling gratefully then turning towards Natasha.

Your smile dissipated the instant you looked at her, your eyes which were full of adoration only moments ago were empty, too empty.

“Alright.” You nodded.

Natasha smiled at you, hoping you would return it. Your face remained blank, prompting her to lead you to somewhere more private. The assassin sighed softly, hoping you wouldn’t hear her disappointment but wanting you to.

She walked towards her room, the same room you called home before leaving. Looking inside, you saw that not much had changed. It seemed all too familiar. Everything from the decorations, to the way the bed was made, even some of the pictures were your own.

Bile rose to your throat when you looked at a picture of the two of you on your anniversary. A glass of champagne was in your hand, your lips on her cheek, the corner of your mouth quirked into a grin. A grin plastered on Natasha’s face, her arm wrapped around your waist.

You picked up the frame from her bedside, aware of Natasha’s eyes watching your movements. A sigh left your lips as you looked at it.

The moment frozen in time. You let yourself fall back into time, experiencing that night over again. How ecstatic you were about spending 3 years with Natasha, three whole years. The nervousness about the party. The emotions were still frozen in the picture, you wished you could rid yourself of them.

“What do you need to talk about?” You croaked, swallowing as you set down the picture frame. Standing awkwardly on the edge of the bed, you fidgeted with your fingers as Natasha took a seat on the bed.

“Why did you come back?” She asked, her voice betraying no emotion. You swallowed, eyes flitting towards the ground instead.

“You and I both know it’s not just because I asked you to.” She continued, eyes watching you carefully. You sighed and looked up at her, shuffling back slightly. Natasha patted the spot on the bed for you to sit, you stepped forwards, then stopped.

It was the same bed she had broken you in. The same bed you’d sworn to be by each other’s side forever. The broken promises still lingered in the air like smoke. Breathing it in, you clenched your jaw tightly. Shaking your head, you shuffled backward and leaned against the wall.

Why did you come back?

It wasn’t because she asked you to. You weren’t sure it was because you wanted your family at your wedding. maybe it was to see her again, to prove how much better you were without her.

To show her what she lost.

“Remember what I told you then?” You asked, tilting your head to the side as you looked up at her. The words were a bit hazy in your mind, somewhat like a nightmare you had a long time ago.

“Will I, will I ever see you again?” Natasha asked timidly, hope underlining her tone. She couldn’t stop you from leaving her with her mistakes. All she could do was hope for your return. Upon seeing your expression, that seemed unlikely.

“If the entire world turns upside down, you might.” You said a halfhearted joke as you turned towards the door.

Leaving your things behind, leaving your entire family behind. There wasn’t anything here for you anymore.

“I don’t think I can forget,” Natasha murmured, the words as clear as day in her mind. The day you’d left, she couldn’t forget it. Your broken smile when walked out of her life haunted her, despite the pictures of your happiness she surrounded herself with.

“I told you that you might see me again if the world turns upside down.” You repeated, voice shaking. You cleared your throat, chuckling lightly as you leaned back against the wall. Your eyes roamed the room, taking in every detail before meeting Natasha’s eyes.

“It kind of did, didn’t it?” You chuckled, tilting your head.

Your life didn’t take the turn you’d expected. The plan was to marry Natasha, hopefully, grow old with her. Maybe get a house by the beach and have twins. That was what the plan had always been. It was still there, the house by the beach, the playground for your kids.

Natasha was the only change.

“I found everything I wanted in someone you consider your family.” You continued, hands moving to rest behind your back.

A smile crossed your face as you thought of Yelena. The way her lips quirked up into a smile, even at your bad jokes, the comfort of how her skin felt against yours, the sound of her voice when she’d just woken up.

She was all yours, you had the pride of calling her your fiance.

“You found something in someone I considered my brother.” You muttered, your thoughts turning towards Bucky.

Hurt flashed across your features before you masked it quickly, turning to look up at her. The blonde fidgeted at your words, nibbling her lip and looking away from you.

“Bucky and I,” Natasha began, licking her lips. “we aren’t, we aren’t together.”

Your eyebrows raised, you’d thought Bucky was who she’d be running to for comfort after you. It had only made sense that she should leave you for another relationship. But just for sex, that was lower than even you thought she could stoop.

“That’s a surprise.” You mused, turning to look away from her and the bed.

An uncomfortable silence shrouded the room, suffocating you. You didn’t know how to break it. Small talk was the last thing on your mind. Thinking you should leave, you shifted your weight and put one foot forwards before the blonde spoke.

“I’m surprised if you remember my name,” Natasha whispered, almost too quiet for you to hear. A frown etched into her face as tears began to line her eyes.

“What?” You asked, hoping you heard her wrong. Her voice was rarely quiet, only taking a lower stance when she was scared. It hurt a little she was scared, or even upset because of you.

“The way you look at me,” She continued, knowing you heard her. “it’s like you don’t even remember me.”

You hesitated, letting her words take their place. Your mask dropped, eyes looking down at the ground as a sad smile twisted your lips. Of course, she would bring this up, you had never looked at her this way like she never meant anything to you.

“I used to look at you like you were my world.” You muttered, shaking your head lightly. You wished you were lying. You wished you hadn’t made her your world just to let her take it away from you.

“It’s almost ironic you took it away from me.” You whispered, looking up to face her. The mask you made just for her began to shatter. A tear slipped down your face, sliding across your face until it dropped onto the floor.

“I never meant to,” Natasha whispered, voice shaking as she saw you cry because of her, again. Her hand reached out towards your face, stopping she realized it wasn’t her place. Her words made you snap, your head whipping up to face her.

“It doesn’t matter what you meant to do Na-” You stopped yourself before you could say her name.

You didn’t know why you couldn’t say her name. You’d called her everything from Tasha to Nattie, you didn’t know why it was so hard for you. It was hardly a surprise when you couldn’t even think of her without hurting.

“Say it,” Natasha demanded, head snapping up to yours. Tears grew in her waterline, her voice breaking as she moved forwards. You swallowed thickly, pushing yourself further into the wall.

“Say my name, please.” She begged, looking up at you pleadingly. A tear slipped out of her eye, she retreated as her hands moved to wipe it away hastily.

You took in a shaky breath, wanting nothing more than to leave things the way they were. Closure was a gift you never got. The wounds were still torn open no matter how much you tried to stitch them shut. Saying her name would tear you apart, all over again.

“Does it still hurt you to think about me?” Natasha asked when you stayed silent. Her eyes looked at you imploringly, almost begging you for an answer.

How could it not hurt?

Thinking about her always brought back memories, always the good memories. The best of what you were, never the worst. The memories showed you everything you were, how she brought out the best part of you.

It also showed you what she took away.

“Yes.” You answered, just when Natasha was beginning to think you might stay silent.

Natasha flinched back as if you’d physically hurt her. Her mask was in pieces, she didn’t care about the emotions she was showing. Every attempt she made to try to calm herself, to stop feeling, it never worked.

“Do you have any idea what you did to me?” You asked, incredulous she had even asked you if it still hurt. The blonde didn’t respond, staying silent in fear she might hurt you more.

“You took away everything I gave you, and then more.” You said, breath leaving you in harsh pants. your hand ran through your hair as you began pacing in the room. Natasha’s eyes never left you, even as her vision grew blurry with tears.

“The peace I felt around you, the home you’d made for me,” You shouted, tears slipping down your face. “all of it.”

You wiped your face hastily with your hands, watching them come away wet with tears and mascara. All your pain was out in the open for her to see. The pain was caused by her mistakes. You cowered into yourself, leaning back against the closet.

Trying desperately to slow your breathing, you rested your head on the door. Staring up at the ceiling, you let the lights blind you for a treasured few seconds. Blinking rapidly, you looked back at Natasha. She watched you with emerald eyes you’d let yourself get lost in too many times.

“It still hurts when I think of you.” You whispered, looking her in the eyes.

Natasha’s jaw clenched, blinking to try to stop her tears. She turned around to look at the rest of the room. The pictures of you still decorated the walls the way they used to when you were still here. The decorations you’d bought for the room, even some of your clothes were in her closet.

Never could she let you go.

“I never stopped thinking of you.” She admitted, turning slowly to look back at you. It was still somewhat like a dream, to have you here with her. A dream she was too scared to wake up from to let you go.

“You should.” You said, sighing after. You backed up slightly, wiping away the remaining tears on your face.

Mascara stained your hands and your sleeves. You didn’t know what Natasha wanted from you, you could only assume she wanted you back in her life, even after you’d been adamant about keeping away.

“I’m not giving you my heart again,” You stated, glancing away from her. “it doesn’t matter what you promise me.”

Some truth remained in your words. Even if she promised you the world, or for her to be better, you wouldn’t give up your world for her again. Your heart was once something you gave away carelessly to her. You didn’t want to repeat your mistake.

“I don’t want that from you,” Natasha said, catching your attention. Your gaze flitted back to her as a confused frown ghosted your features. The frown etched itself onto your face as she let the silence slowly drag on.

“What do you want from me?” You asked, watching her wince back slightly. She straightened her stance as if she was preparing herself for something. Silence dragged on as she prepared herself for pain before finally speaking.

“I want you to forgive me.”

Your mouth opened to yell at her, to scream that what she did was near unforgivable. For her to even think that you could forgive her after everything. You’d told her what she had taken away from you, and she still thought she could be forgiven.

“I’m sorry, y/n,” Natasha stated before you could speak. Her hand lifted in a plead for you to hear her out.

Your mouth closed but opened again as you considered keeping your silence. The blonde didn’t care for your silence, wanting you to hear the apology she had ran over thousands of times in her head.

“Please, I never meant to hurt you.” She repeated, knowing it wasn’t the apology you wanted to hear.

She swore she could not have prepared more for this moment. For having you in front of her so she could apologize to you. Even practicing in the mirror, over and over again didn’t help her. Seeing you in front of her, breaking all over again because she couldn’t be who you wanted her to.

It wasn’t something she had prepared for.

“Maybe it was unfair for me to fall in love with you in the first place when I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep you. I’m sorry.” She apologized, guiltily shifting her feet under her. Her legs dangled over the edge of the bed, she looked at them thoughtfully.

It wasn’t fair for her to try to be in a relationship when she couldn’t keep one. Maybe with you, she thought it would be different. But even you couldn’t change the mistakes she would make. Even at the start of your relationship, she knew she would hurt you somehow. You assured her that she couldn’t.

In the end, her mistakes would always come to haunt her.

“Falling in love wasn’t your mistake,” You spoke, bringing her attention up to you. “it was unfair of you to try to treasure something you knew you couldn’t keep.”

It was unfair of her, so unfair to lead you on for years, give you everything you knew you wanted. To make plans for the future, you could see yourself spending the rest of your life with her, so clearly. Then to take it all away again, just because she knew she couldn’t keep you.

“I’m sorry,” Natasha repeated, trying to make you stay. You could see her hand reach out for you before stopping herself.

A sigh left your lips as you moved down to kneel in front of her. Your fingertips hovered over hers before moving away. You whispered to try to get her attention, it didn’t work. Your hands slid into hers, squeezing gently.

She opened her eyes in surprise, looking at your hands in hers, the engagement ring adorning your finger. Her hands gripped yours tightly as if you were a lifeline.

Tears began to fall on your hands. You wanted to try to comfort her more, but this was all you could do. It was almost as if you were leaving her all over again, promising to say out of her life.

“Natasha,” You whispered, smiling when she looked up at you. Her eyes were so soft, so vulnerable in this moment.

Your thumbs slid over the skin of her hand, you looked at her carefully. She was still the woman you’d fallen head over heels for. But Natasha couldn’t be the person you spent the rest of your life with.

“Our time is over.” You said softly, wincing when she turned away from you. More tears dropped onto your palms. Her hands held onto yours tightly, you slipped one out of her grip to turn her face towards yours.

“We had our time together,” You continued, smiling at the fond memories of her. “and yeah it was beautiful.”

This is what you’d been missing all of these years.

Letting go.

It wasn’t as easy as moving to the other side of the world. It was looking her in the eye and saying that your time was over. It was letting both of you heal from the mistakes.

“I just wish we could have lasted longer,” Natasha whispered, clinging onto your hands tightly. She’d told you before that you were the best thing that ever happened to her. You were, it was foolish of her to cut your time so short.

“Maybe, but we weren’t beautiful because we lasted.” You said, tugging her attention back up to you.

A light frown ghosted her face at your words. Your eyes gazed over her features, committing them to memory. The emerald eyes, soft cheekbones, the features you had grown to love.

“It was beautiful because it happened.” You whispered, your thumb tracing over her cheekbone gently.

A smile graced your lips, a tear falling from your eye onto your hands. A sigh left your lips as you moved up, leaning down you closed your eyes. Your lips met her forehead gently, her hands tugged you closer. You smiled, as she let go of you, letting you pull away.

A knock sounded on the door, you turned to face it, knowing it was Yelena.

“Come in.” You said, slowly wiping the tears away from your eyes. Yelena stepped into the room, taking in the scene in front of her. She glanced towards her sister wiping her face on her sleeves, giving her a sympathetic smile before turning towards you.

“Hey,” Yelena greeted, moving to slide her hand into yours. You smiled as her shoulder bumped against yours. “everything alright?”

“Yeah just,” You glanced towards Natasha. The blonde looked up at the two of you, no longer looking hurt. Instead, she looked at you with a gentle smile, finding herself finally letting go of you.

“Just catching up.” You answered, smiling up at Yelena.

She looked from you to Natasha, nodding at her sister. She would want to talk to her later, you were sure of it, but now wasn’t the time. Nodding towards the door, silently asking if you wanted to leave. You nodded letting her walk you out.

“wait.” You said, stopping in your tracks. A confused look showed on her face as your hand slipped out of hers, heading back to Natasha. Your fiance followed you back, leaning against the doorframe.

“I, I want you to come to our wedding.” You stuttered, shifting your weight. Wringing your hands together, you looked to face her. She looked unsure, her eyes glancing from your ring to her sister.

“Are you sure you want me there?” She asked, tilting her head to the side curiously. You nodded, looking back at Yelena. The blonde smiled at you, knowing it was hard for you to do this. You sought comfort in her smile, nodding again at Natasha.

“Lena considers you as her family,” You said, shrugging easily. “it’s only fair.”

Lena, the nickname was so familiar coming from you. Natasha raised an eyebrow, seeing as you didn’t answer her question. You chuckled softly at the action. She could always tell you had a different answer than what you said.

“I want you there,” You stated, watching her features light up into a smile. She nodded, looking from you to your fiance. Yelena looked certain she wanted Natasha to be there. She smiled and nodded.

“I’ll be there,” Natasha said.

You smiled in relief, waving at her as you walked out of the room. Yelena’s arm slid around your waist, her fingers reaching towards the ring you wore. Her fingers twisted them around your finger thoughtfully.

She didn’t know what you’d talked about with Natasha. But you were in a lighter mood, easily walking around the compound, telling more stories. You were more at ease, the closure bringing you in a different state of mind.

Years ago, you wouldn’t have even considered coming back here. The memories near painful for you. Now, the memories seemed like a story you told a long time ago. You thought the story had ended when you left.

But now, you’d finally let go.

In a way, it was a good thing the world turned upside down.

A/N: Please for the sake of my sanity reblog and comment and tell me what you think!!

Tag List: @capcarolsdanver, @versdan, @lesbian-girls-wayhaught, @lovebotlarson, @dhengkt, @hstoria, @natasha-danvers, @veryfunnyal, @xxxtwilightaxelxxx , @ophelias-heart , @never-didbefore , @justarandomhumanhere, @the-most-unicorn-of-them-all , @thatssocamryn , @lesbian-x-blackwidow , @marvelbbyx , @wlw-imaginesss , @hcartbyheart , @summergeezburr , @imnotasuperhero , @a-stressedstudent , @aaron-despair , @rooskaya-yelena , @dynnealberto , @thewitchandtheassassin , @wannabe-fic-reader , @izalesbean, @higherfurther-romanova , @natalia-quinzel , @stephanieromanoff , @fayhar , @darkangelxoxo-blog let me know if you’d like to be in any of my tag lists!

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knchins · 2 years

Text

Kuroshiro - Chapter Four

Summary: Hayami and Suguru were teenagers in love until the day came when he decided to turn his back on the sorcery world and become a curse user, which left his best friend Satoru to pick up the pieces.

Pairing: Geto x Fem OC x Gojo

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: Major manga spoilers, (Adult) Child abuse - physical/verbal, Mentions of parent death, Mild violence, Slut shaming, Suicidal ideation, Mentions of blood, Mentions of PTSD, Hurt/Comfort

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Chapter Four: Twisted Roots

Haya sat next to Utahime, still feeling the drain from using so much cursed energy as Ijichi listed the casualties of the attack on Jujutsu High. She could hardly pay attention until the name of her best friend was mentioned. Ijichi explained that the current theory was that the cursed spirit Nanami had fought was the one who had killed the deceased.

She had some sense of the danger Nanami had been in when he fought the spirit one on one. He had even become injured during the fight and had her fussing over him like an annoyed older sister even though he was older than her by a few weeks.

“Do you think we should share this information with the students or the other sorcerers?” Utahime asked, looking at her boss, Principal Gakuganji. Haya huffed angrily, already knowing what his answer would be. Gojo was looking at her, though his head was turned as if he wasn’t. It was impossible for anyone to tell what he was looking at due to his blindfold being back on.

She could sense it, however. She always could tell when he was looking at her even if she couldn’t see it to prove it. She made a point of looking at Principal Yaga instead of him. Despite the fact that he had saved her from being obliterated by hollow purple, she was still very upset at the deception of Yuuji being alive for all this time.

“It’s probably better to keep this among the higher-ups,” Yaga said, looking down with a thoughtful expression on his face. “We don’t want to give curse users certainty that special-grade objects were stolen. Has the curse user we captured spilled anything?”

Ijichi looked at his clipboard with sheer exasperation. “Well it’s not hard to get him to talk but most of what he says is irrelevant nonsense. However, he claims that he only participated in the attack because he was ordered to as part of a deal.”

Haya’s gaze moved to Ijichi then, curious about who had really pulled the strings with the attack. Certainly, a curse didn’t orchestrate the entire thing? Ijichi went on to explain verbatim what the curse user had said. Though the person they described did not ring any bells for Haya, she still wondered if perhaps this was remnants of the curse users that followed Geto back when he was still alive.

“Is there any sorcerer skilled at getting confessions?” Gojo asked though he knew the answer.

“I am,” Haya replied simply, but her methods were a little…unorthodox.

“He’s too injured for you to question, Kuroishi.” Principal Yaga said. “We will find another way.”

Haya scoffed, her fists clenching angrily at being told she couldn’t do something. The problem was Haya had a tendency to ask questions with her fists and while that worked for some people, everyone in the room doubted it would work for their prisoner.

Utahime asked how they got through Master Tengen’s barrier in the first place and Gojo explained his theory on how. Haya only half-listened as she thought about the six fingers that were taken. If given to Itadori, then he would become all the more powerful. She was certain she’d be unable to kill him if had eaten that many.

Though she was uncertain if she could kill him regardless. She had never actually killed anyone before, though she had no doubt that she could if the situation call for it. But what situation ever called for killing a child? On top of that, she was certain Miyu would never forgive her if she found out. The idea of losing Miyu made her heart ache and Gojo wondered why she looked so forlorn as she stared into her lap.

It was then decided that the students would decide if the goodwill games would be canceled or not. Haya had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach, not so much about the games but about the call she received from her father earlier. She excused herself, giving a small bow to the principals before leaving to go find Miyu to again make sure she was alright.

Instead of going to the baseball game that was held the following day, Haya went to her family’s estate to deal with her father. She knew Miyu would be upset that she was not there to watch her play, but the gravity of the situation with her father was more pressing. She had to find a way to stall the kill order on Itadori’s head for as long as possible. That or get a firm idea of what the consequences would be if she could not complete the task.

So she sat, forehead on the tatami mat beneath her in a bow as her father entered the room. Haya was frowning, a mixed expression of anger and fear that she was thankful he could not see. Her brows slackened as she raised up once she was addressed.

“Sukuna’s vessel is alive,” Daiki said plainly and Haya merely nodded.

A hand collided with the side of her face, his ring catching her eyelid just enough to make it bleed. “Gojo Satoru hid this child and you want me to believe that you had no idea what he was up to?”

Haya cursed Gojo inwardly as a thin trail of blood oozed down her cheek. She shut the one eye, praying it wouldn’t swell too much. “We are not together. I didn’t know.” She replied in the calmest voice she could muster. It was only a half-truth. They had been together during the time but they weren’t currently. At least, Haya said they weren’t. Somewhere inside her, she knew the breakup wouldn’t last. They’d get back together like always. History was doomed to repeat itself indefinitely.

“Of course you were.” His voice was like venom as he spoke, “probably because you open your legs for anyone.” It worked its way into her ears and blood and heart. “Maybe if you were faithful like your mother had been, he wouldn’t keep leaving you.”

She closed the eye that had been open, knowing she shouldn’t say what she was about to say. “Gojo Satoru is a bigger slut than me, father. Maybe you should take it up with him.”

He grabbed her tight bun in his fist, yanking it back so hard that she saw blinding white stars speckle her inside of her eyelids. Maybe if she was lucky he’d finally kill her. No, that’d mean he’d have to face the consequences of his actions for once. While she could conceal his bruises and keep a very angry Gojo away, if she were dead then there would be no stopping the six eyes from getting his revenge.

And Revenge, Gojo Satoru would certainly get for the loss of his love. Even if it wasn’t a healthy love, it was still real.

Haya felt something crack as he hit her sides repeatedly with the wooden cane he kept by his side, not for support for walking but to punish his brat children whenever they stepped out of line. Maybe if she had been born under a different sun, like her brother, she would be able to keep her mouth shut. She could be subservient. She could just ignore the looks of ill-will and snide remarks of her appearance or personality.

But Haya was more like fire than water. All fury and rage and contempt. Her tongue was sharp and holding it only made her taste blood. He had tried many times to beat the flame from her soul but it would never work. It could never be snuffed out by the likes of him.

She only wished she had the nerve to fight back. While he was her abuser, her attacker, her torturer, he was still her father. A father that had once loved her very dearly when she was so tiny that she could hardly remember it. What changed, she asked herself over and over. The accident hadn’t been her fault. Her mother protecting her only daughter from a curse, her mother who had always been frail and not meant for the sorcerer world, her mother who had truly been her father’s soulmate gone at the hands of a thing she could barely understand the existence of at the time.

Haya thought back to the happy times as his hits continued. His anger was unjust yet somehow she felt deserving of it. Somehow it had been her fault. Somehow she had destroyed his world like she continued to destroy her own. So many things she wished she could be but she simply was not. Life could be so cruel sometimes.

When he was done, when his anger had been quelled by the sheer exertion of force onto his youngest child, Daiki stood straight, tapping his cane on the ground in a single for Haya to right herself from her hunched over position. Blood dripped down her face and she was certain she had broken a rib or two. She longed for Gojo more than anything. There was no place on Earth safer than by his side or in his arms. She wanted to cry.

“Exterminate Sukuna’s vessel or I’ll exterminate you.” Her father whispered darkly into her ear and the coldness she felt from both shock and pain made her shiver. Then her suspicions had all been confirmed. Haya wasn’t meant to complete this mission. She wasn’t meant to survive.

She was meant to die.

Gojo knew something was up with his ex-girlfriend. She had made the clear that night that they were broken up due to his deception and while he couldn’t really blame her for being upset he also thought she was being a tad bit ridiculous. Even Miyu had already forgiven Itadori for not telling her he had been alive this whole time.

When she didn’t come to the game, he actually became worried. While he put on a smile and joked around with the students, it still pestered him that she was not there for Miyu like she normally was. When he asked the teen about it, Miyu simply said that her mother had a mission and couldn’t make it. He knew that to be untrue. Principal Yaga wouldn’t have given her an assignment until the goodwill games were over. If it was something that pressing then he just could have sent Nanami or another first-grade sorcerer.

The game had finished by the time he felt her enter through Master Tengen’s barrier. He forced a smile at his students who were celebrating their win and made a flimsy excuse about needing to leave.

Once he was gone, Itadori asked where they thought he was really going. To which Fushiguro replied that it probably had something to do with Hayami. He had been used to their ups and downs, having witnessed them for years now.

“Haya-sensei seemed really upset that I was still alive.” Itadori mumbled, “Do you think she wants me dead too?”

Miyu was quiet but the thought of Haya wanting Yuji dead deeply upset her. He was, after all, still a very good friend despite what he had done. Could her new mom really be hiding something like that from her?

“It’s not like that.” Fushiguro replied simply, “her family specialized in vessels at one time before they were outlawed. Her father probably wants you dead but she never agrees with anything he says.” He chose to leave out the part where Haya typically paid for those disagreements. “She’s probably just mad at Gojo for not telling her.”

Yuji nodded, hoping that that was indeed the case. He still didn’t quite understand why everyone wanted him dead. He could so far control Sukuna, though he knew things would get more dangerous the more fingers he consumed.

Panda called the three over to a celebratory lunch that the school was going to host and with that, the conversation died.

Ijichi had picked Haya up from her childhood home and driven her back to the school as she laid a broken mess on the back seat. She just wanted to sleep. For hours, days, weeks, the rest of eternity. Her head and torso hurt the most, and she was sure that she had already started to swell grotesquely. She had mumbled something to him about not telling Gojo when she had collapsed into the back of his car, but Ijichi had no intentions of keeping this from him.

Ijichi saw Gojo waiting for them as he parked the car, wondering how he knew they had arrived. He kept a finger to his lips, signaling Ijichi not to say anything and Haya was too out of it to sense his presence. As soon as the car door was unlocked, the back door by Haya’s feet was opening and Gojo looked over at her with a deep frown.

He didn’t have to ask who did it, because he already knew. As gently as he possibly could, he pulled her into his arms and picked her up to carry her to Shoko. Luckily the medical wing wasn’t far from the entrance of the school and he could avoid the students getting there.

Haya’s small hand came up to clutch his shirt, finding comfort in the familiar uniform fabric. Her eyes were closed but she still knew that it was him. She finally felt like she could safely relax and was thankful that he wasn’t bombarding her with questions. There was a pang in her chest of wanting to remain close to him. It was hard to tell him to fuck off when she needed him most.

Rage flowed through him as he held her small, trembling body in his arms. He hadn’t expected her to be in such bad shape when he saw her and it was taking all of him not to demand answers. Though obviously, the only one she’d let do this to her was her piece of shit father, he wanted to know why. What had caused her father to be so outraged this time? Was it really over Itadori?

He’d have to wait until she was somewhat healed before he could probe for more information. She looked so small, so defeated, so vulnerable, and it reminded him of the time he found her after Geto had his way with her, only with more blood and less heartbreak.

Why hadn’t she just told him? He would have gone with her. He would have protected her. He would have made her father answer for all the horrible shit he’s done in the past. Though he knew their relationship was the cause of a lot of their arguments, he couldn’t imagine that Daiki would go this hard over them breaking up again.

He wondered if Haya had said anything to provoke him. He knew how hard it was for her to keep her mouth shut sometimes. As angry as it sometimes made him, he’d never have the heart to physically hurt her.

He laid her down on one of the hospital-style beds and fetched the good doctor who had been in her office going over some paperwork. Shoko didn’t seem too surprised when she saw Haya looking worse for wear. She had been forewarned that her services would be needed by Haya herself. Shoko began some basic healing as she asked Gojo if he knew what had happened.

“No. She didn’t even tell me she was going over there.” He muttered with aggravation. He hated feeling like he couldn’t protect her, especially when he so easily could have.

Haya’s family life was a terribly kept secret. Everyone knew how her father treated her but no one said anything either. It was a clan matter and they were all outsiders. Haya even said she didn’t want help when it came to him. She wanted to handle it all on her own, though she never found the nerve to actually do that.

Shoko managed to heal the lacerations and the bruises and even fixed the cracked ribs. She was talented at what she did and was slowly passing that on to her little cousin who had been a quick learner. When she was finished, she stepped away. “So, I heard you two broke up again.” She added, obviously playful and not believing it to be true. Everyone knew they couldn’t resist the magnetic pull to one another. It was a running gag whenever they called it quits. No one believed it except the women that had been lusting after Gojo in the first place.

While none were stupid enough to square off with the well-muscled Haya, they waited like vultures for the love to die so that they could sweep in and hopefully make Gojo see the error of his ways. Unfortunately for them, he never did. As much pain as she brought him, he still loved her deeply. Sometimes he feared that he always would.

“She’s mad I didn’t tell her about Itadori.” He said with a shrug. “She’ll get over it.”

Shoko merely snorted. It seemed the two of them could get through anything, which was apparent after Geto’s death. She had been sure that they were done for good that time. Maybe they had a pesky red string of fate connecting them and that’s what brought them back again and again.

Haya let out a soft groan as she brought a hand up to her head to hold her still-swollen face. She recognized the stiff mattress of the bed almost immediately and knew that she was in the infirmary. She heard the voices of Gojo and Shoko and immediately regretted not pretending to be still unconscious.

“Hey beautiful,” Gojo said with a smirk, and Haya knew he was being sarcastic. She was sure she looked anything but right now with the swelling that was yet to go down. She knew that she probably looked like an ugly mess right now.

She opened one eye to glare at him, the other she was unable to open just yet. Though Shoko had healed her, it would take a few hours for her appearance to go back to normal. She’d still be sore for a while until the initial shock of her physical trauma was gone. “What are you doing here, Gojo?” She asked though she knew the answer already.

He tutted, “so ungrateful. I’m the one that carried you here.” He replied playfully and a sour expression crossed her face. She should have known he’d figure out that something was up. He could always tell when she was lying and sense when she was in danger. Though he was acting more joyfully than she thought he would. Probably because Shoko was present.

“I’ll leave you two kids to it. Haya, you’re staying the night here so don’t think about leaving.” the doctor said pointedly before walking back into her adjacent office. Gojo’s jovial expression dropped once he was sure she was out of earshot.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going over there? I would have gone with you.” He asked in a hushed tone, his aggravation with her showing now. Haya gave him an equally annoyed look, not really wanting to talk to him. When she didn’t answer he continued, “are you going to at least tell me what happened?”

Haya huffed, but she knew it would help her feel better to get it off her chest. “He thinks I knew about Itadori being alive.” She said, “And that you left me because I’m a slut. You know, the usual.”

He didn’t seem any more pleased that she had answered him, mostly because he was thinking of all the ways he could just kill Kuroishi Daiki in his head. “You should just get back together with me then and he’ll have nothing to complain about.”

Of course, Daiki would always be able to find something to complain about. Though overall he was more lenient when she and Gojo were together. Still, she didn’t look like she thought he deserved her back just yet. “No, Gojo.” He nearly flinched at her not using his first name, “I’m still very much mad at you for not telling me that he was alive. You had every opportunity and you know you can trust me to keep something like that secret. You chose to deceive me, and that not only hurt me but it hurt my daughter too.”

He let out a long sigh, hating how she wouldn’t just see reason. Didn’t she know by now that he was always right? How troublesome. “You said yourself if he was alive then you’d have to kill him. How was I supposed to tell you?”

She was quiet then, finally seeing his side of things. It still didn’t quell her anger and hurt. “You know as well as I do that I am not capable of that.”

“Desperate people are capable of things they wouldn’t normally do,” Gojo replied. Haya frowned more, not liking to consider herself desperate. But, again he was right, she was desperate. Desperate for parental love and acceptance. Desperate for approval and a pat on the back. Desperate for a job well done. Gojo knew all of this because he sometimes knew her better than she knew herself.

As she tried to think of a response to that, Gojo decided to ask another question. “Did you receive any orders while you were there?”

Haya thought back to the words her father had whispered into her ear before she stumbled outside and into the car. It was only right that Gojo knew. “Yes.” She said, deciding to be forthright. “Exterminate Sukuna’s vessel or I’ll exterminate you.” She specified.

His hands twitched as they threatened to ball up into fists. He didn’t care if Haya wasn’t his girlfriend, she was still the one person on the planet alive that he was closest to. No matter how furious she made him or how much she hurt him, he doubted he could ever willingly let anything bad happen to her.

“What are you going to do then?” He asked, his tone forced. She could tell he was upset. It wasn’t as if a breakup meant that your feelings were suddenly turned off. Though things would be much easier if they were. Maybe then they’d be allowed to live separate lives.

“Let him kill me, I guess.” She said, and he could tell she was being facetious. Her flippant attitude annoyed him more than calmed him. He wanted to shake her until she acted appropriately for the situation at hand. Gojo was normally one to play around, I mean he could handle the world if he needed to, but sometimes the situation called for seriousness. This was one of them.

“Hayami.” Gojo said, and she nearly flinched. An angry Gojo could be quite frightening, not that he’d ever hurt her in that way but it was a reaction she had picked up while growing up in an abusive household. An angry man usually meant a swinging hand. Although the only person who knew her that had ever dared to throw a fist at her was her own father. Still, humans were fragile things, it didn’t take much to condition them to fear emotion.

He noticed her reaction and immediately felt guilty, but not guilty enough to stop. “I know you won’t harm a child. Definitely not Sukuna’s vessel. Let me protect you.”

Since her second year of high school, Haya had been physically strong. She had done an obscene amount of strength training after she chose to use a cursed tool that was heavily reliant on physical strength. The harder she hit a curse, the more of its energy her tekko would take away. This meant that her build had gone from petite to muscular pretty fast.

She received plenty of comments from her family on how she had made herself undesirable, at least until she began formally dating Gojo. If a Gojo wanted to be with her, then certainly she was doing something right. Though her father would just say she was a seductress that got him by spreading her legs.

What a charming man.

Haya felt like she was going to cry. She didn’t necessarily want to, but the stress had been weighing down more heavily as of late. Gojo grabbed her hand gently and squeezed it. “You can be mad at me about Yuuji, that’s fine. You don’t have to forgive me for lying to you. But I’m not going to lose someone else. I’m not going to let you die.”

She rubbed at her good eye with her free hand before nodding, “Okay…okay.” She muttered, feeling embarrassed that she wasn’t strong enough to handle it herself in the first place. At least he wasn’t making her forgive him in repayment.

There was a short comfortable silence as Haya managed to gather her emotions back together. “Who won the game?”

Gojo smirked, “We did, of course. You know, your daughter was pretty good out there. She definitely takes after her mom in the athletic department.”

Haya cracked a smile, “of course, I’ve been training her since the day we met. How to pick up boys and how to knock them out when they misbehave. The first part she’s not so good at yet.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her, “if she dresses like you then she’ll have no problem.” He teased, referring to her typically revealing attire. He knew she stopped being modest as a stab at Geto, but it became quite becoming of her. He rather liked being able to stare at her exposed skin whenever he pleased, even when they were off again.

She laughed, though he had half expected her to get angry. “She has a better sense of style than me, to be honest.”

“You mean, she likes to wear actual clothes?” He corrected her.

“I wear real clothes!” Haya protested and he just chuckled in response.

He propped his head upon his hand, his elbow on her bed. “You know you’re a MILF now, right?” He said with a shit-eating grin.

Haya stared at him, unsure of how to respond to that. “Just say you want to fuck me, Satoru, don’t make it weird.”

“If you’re Miyu’s mom, does this make me the dad?” He asked, his smile growing.

“Absolutely not, you’re the weird uncle. Nanami can be the dad.” She said with a huff.

“Oh? You’re leaving me for Nanamin now?” He replied, pretending to be hurt. “How could you?”

Haya tried not to laugh at the expression he was making. “Easily, you’re a jerk.”

“I’m your jerk.” He replied, a little more serious now.

She let out a sigh of defeat, “yes, you’re my jerk.”

Interlude Four coming Sunday, March 20th Geto and Gojo lay their eyes on Haya for the very first time. A/N: I'm taking next weekend off. I know I'm going to need the mental break <3

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teletraan-meets-jarvis · 3 years

Text

Darkest Part

AO3 Link

Pairing: Crosshair x fem!Jedi Reader

Summary: The war was drawing to a close as you and The Bad Batch provided reinforcements on Kaller. However, the end of the war came in a way none of you could've predicted, as Order 66 is executed. Set during the episode Aftermath.

Warnings: 12+, Character death, slight violence, it's an angsty one peeps

Word Count: 1.5k

Author’s Notes: As always, feedback is really appreciated, along with reblogs! Thanks so much for taking the time to read, have a lovely day!

Depa’s screams echoed across the open plane, causing the group to stop in their tracks. You couldn’t believe your eyes, sure that this must be some kind of Force trick as you all witnessed Commander Grey and his troops firing on Master Billaba, her Lightsaber protecting her with everything she had. You hadn’t realised you were already running until you overtook Caleb, desperate to try and help. Both you and the Padawan had your Lightsabers drawn as you raced to the General’s aid.

With her last bit of strength, Depa Force pushed you both back and screamed for you to run, for you to get Caleb away from the Clones before one final shot sang through her chest. In her last moments, Depa’s beautiful face was tainted with the agony of betrayal from her closest allies.

An overwhelming pain suddenly smacked you in the chest. You didn’t realise pain could be blinding, but it took over every sense in your body until there was only a bright light. Screams could be heard, Lightsabers swinging for one final time, ships being shot down. It was the Jedi. They were dying. The Council. The Knights. The younglings. All of them. And just like that it was over. You were back, Caleb pulling on your sleeve as the Bad Batch caught up with you both. You’d fallen to your knees from the impact of the deaths of your kind.

You looked at the Bad Batch and your already emotionally battered chest tightened like a vice. Would they turn on you as well? After everything. Would Crosshair turn on you? You’d seen it, you’d felt it. You’d felt Master Plo’s despair as the Wolfpack shot him from the sky, you felt Obi-Wan’s disbelief as Cody ordered his execution, Aayla’s heartbreak as the man she loved gunned her down.

Your eyes stung with unshed tears as you met Crosshair’s visor. Could he hurt you? Love hadn’t saved Aayla, it hadn’t prevented Commander Bly from executing her with no remorse. What would stop Crosshair?

“Stay back” Caleb shouted at them, holding his weapon in a defensive position in front of you. Finally coming back to yourself, you grabbed his wrist and took off running. Hunter’s voice following after you, trying to reason with you.

Tears finally fell down your face as you focused everything you had on running. Focused on keeping the Padawan safe from certain death. There was nothing else that mattered now, this kid had to live. You couldn’t lose anyone else. You just couldn’t.

You struggled to keep up with what had just transpired, your conscious mind not processing the events as your body went into survival mode. Keeping Caleb safe was all that mattered, and you clutched to the one sane thought with everything you could muster otherwise you’d crumble.

With an initiative beyond his years, the young Padawan started climbing the trees to remain off the path where Hunter could track them. The child’s tactical mind caused the sobering realisation in your mind that, of his short life so far, most of Caleb’s years of innocence and learning had been tainted by war, forcing him to grow up beyond his years.

You followed his lead and supported yourself in an adjacent tree, out of sight from the ground. Your eyes were locked onto Caleb as he steadied himself on his snow dusted tree, you pushed a wave of support over the Force to wash over him, hoping it would calm his nerves.

In the distance, two sets of footfalls crunched against the white blanket of the forest floor. As quickly as it came into range, the sound suddenly stopped below your trees and Caleb’s wild eyes found yours. His fear was evident and bone deep. It was breaking your heart. He was just a kid; he didn’t deserve this.

Hunter and Crosshair’s modulated voices broke the silence in the air as they debated the way you’d both went. Hunter sounded distressed while Crosshair sounded determined, the same way he sounded when hunting a target. Your body shivered at the thought that you had suddenly become the enemy in his eyes.

The sound of a blaster bolt snapped your attention to Caleb. The branch he’d been perched on shattered beneath him and he fell very ungracefully at the base of the tree, with Hunter and Crosshair staring straight at him.

Without thought, you leaped down in front of the young Padawan, your brown cloak trailing behind you as you descended. You landed on one knee, a hand out to your side with you Lightsaber lit and at the ready.

Bringing yourself to your feet, you peered at your men from beneath the darkness of your hood. Hunter was stood in a defensive stance, hands out and unarmed. Crosshair however was aiming his deadly sniper directly at Caleb behind you. He was ready to take the shot, every inch of his body screamed his intent to kill.

“Caleb run” Your words were strong. Stronger than you felt.

“But-”

“GO!” You demanded the young child, if you could just buy him some time, there’s a chance he could get out of this.

Crosshair’s rifle was still pointed in the direction of the young Padawan. You stepped forward into the firing line and disabled your weapon, meeting the soldier’s gaze through his visor. You listened out as Caleb’s running feet sounded further and further away. Good.

“Crosshair, this isn’t you. Don’t hurt the kid.” you spoke with a calm you didn’t feel, like you were trying to soothe a feral creature.

“Good soldiers, follow orders” his hands were shaking as he bit out the words. That strange certainty he had while aiming at the young Jedi, now wavering while his weapon was trained on you.

“Well, if that’s the case.” You walked forward until the barrel of his rifle was aligned with the centre of your chest. “Take the shot, Crosshair.” your voice was void of emotion. You’re sure you heard Hunter screaming at you two in the background. Not even commanding as Sergeant, but as a brother, begging Crosshair to stop this.

A shot rang out.

You’d visibly flinched at the sound, such a contrast to the eery silence that fell over you all in the forests of Kaller. You opened your eyes, unsure as to when you’d closed them. You were met with the sight of the Sniper’s barrel smoking. Hunter’s arm beneath the weapon, having pushed the shot up over your shoulder. You met Crosshair’s visor again and your heart finally shattered.

Crosshair’s shaking hands threw his weapon onto the ground, almost in disbelief, moving to clutch the side of his helmet in pain. Despite the bucket covering his face, you could read every emotion he went through like a book.

More tears made their way down your face as you used the Force to launch the man you loved into a tree, effectively knocking him out for a short period. Hunter tore off his helmet and grabbed you by the shoulders as you sank to your knees. You were sure your face mirrored Depa’s as she died. After all these years, how could the Clones do this to the Jedi? How could Crosshair do this to you?

“General, I’m here. Whatever’s going on, I don’t understand it, but I won’t hurt you. I swear.” You studied his features, the equal amount of confusion and despair in his gaze. You believed him.

“Hunter, you’ve got regs incoming” Wrecker’s voice sounded from the Sergeant’s helmet. The Clone wasted no time pulling a spare comm from the back of his armour, one Tech had tampered with it seemed. He pressed it into your hands and looked you dead in the eye.

“Go, get the kid to safety. We’ll contact you when we figure out what this order sixty-six is, and what’s happened to Crosshair. We’ll rendezvous somewhere safe.”

“Hunter I-”

“You have to do this, and we can’t lose you, General. Go, I’ll look after the boys. I promise to keep them safe” I promise to keep Crosshair safe.

With a nod, you scrounged up one final bout of resolve before getting to your feet, ready to take off in search of Caleb.

Before you left, you spared another look at the man you loved, still sitting unconscious below a tree. His body was limp as the chin of his helmet sat against his chest. You hated that it had come to this. That you had actually hurt him in some way.

Putting all your trust in Hunter, you mentally said goodbye to Crosshair and the rest of the Batch before you finally departed among the trees. Unsure as to when you’d next hear Wrecker’s boisterous laugh, Echo’s kind words, Tech’s rambling, or Hunter’s terrible jokes. Not knowing when you’d next feel Crosshair’s soft breathes against your neck as you slept surrounded by everything that he was. Uncertain for your future and with a shattered heart, you kept running.

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