#what if i changed all my graphics because i

[miwsolovely]

—THE WEIGHT OF BLOOD.

pairing: outlaw!farmer!141 x fem!reader

series masterlist taglist (closed.) next

contains: pov change, graphic violence, gore, reader’s husband insults her, mentions + use of knife in this chapter, reader is called a whore, implications of kidnapping, drugs.

summary: slippery floors.

wc: 4.7k

a/n: oh…

You always felt as if you were walking on eggshells with him.

It’s how you used to feel with him. When the sun was barely shining on your life and peppering your face with light, guilty, kisses.

Now that the sun is hidden by the horizon, no longer are the kisses light and guilt ridden, but they are harsh and forceful. No more are the rays hitting your skin with a warm embrace, but its replaced with a chill so unforgiving it’s like a whip against your skin.

No longer are the eggshells digging into your skin, because glass shards are piercing into your feet, digging into the flesh and staying there so that every time your once delicate, soft feet hit the floor, a wave of pain and realization washes over you.

Every step is a reminder; you’re never going to be free of him.

You let out a shaky breath and wince at your husband’s booming voice. Pointing fingers and yelling curses.

Johnny and Simon are doing little to nothing to stop him, in fact, they seem to be holding back.

Why?

Why are they holding back when your husband, James Fitzroy, is insulting their mothers? Their sisters, brothers? Them?

“We didnae do nothin’ to ye,” Johnny starts, standing in front of Simon when James gets too close for his liking. “So back the hell off.”

James scoffs with a sick smile on his face. “You didn’t do anything to me?” He spits. “Of course not, you just came into my house, and fucked my wife, is that it? Hm? Had your fill already?” He taunts, his hair flying wild.

You always loved his hair. His golden, rich dark hair, suggestive of the precious metal, mimics the beauty and luxury of his picture perfect world; compared to you however, your soul hides what’s really behind closed doors.

You shake your head to rid your mind of those thoughts. He’s not shining gold anymore, the secrets in this house are slowly coming to light. He resembles something that seems kind, but hurts you when you actually expect it, when you know it can hurt you. Like the sun.

“We didn’t do anythin’ to your wife.” Simon defends. He steps forward so he’s now side by side next to Johnny, the kitchen looking too small for them. “We just came here to deliver the meat she ordered, is all.”

“Oh really?” James says. He shoves an accusing finger in Simons shoulder.

He’s going to hurt them. He’s going to hurt them and you’re just standing there.

Like the pliant little housewife he made you to be.

What are you doing just standing there?

When you let the heavy coat drop from your arms onto the floor and you take a singular step in their direction, you can feel the glass digging deeper into your skin.

Every step is a reminder.

As you near your husband, you shudder. His wrath is like a toxic air that’s slowly killing you from the inside out. Taking and taking until there’s nothing left of you to take.

You reach your James, scared to meet the questioning gazes of Johnny and Simon, and reach a trembling hand to touch his shoulder. “James—”

He whips his body around to face you. You can see, feel, his anger as it burns everything it touches. Hungry for more. He grabs your outstretched hand and squeezes. Ignoring the whimpers of pain that fall from your lips and the tears that blur your vision and fall down to meet at your chin.

“You.” He says it with so much, loathe dripping from his voice, painting his lips, his chin, neck, black with anger.

“You fucking whore, playing around with these, little boys, getting their dicks wet while I slave away at work and provide for you?”

His face is too close. So close, you can smell the stink of alcohol on his breath, recoil as you feel the spit flying out of his mouth land on your face. You feel your tears falling fatter and faster as you see the hickeys and lipstick prints on his neck.

“You let go of ‘er—”

Your free hand feels like lead as you raise it to bring it down with such force it leaves a red mark on his face the moment your skin touches his, his face forced to the side, facing the wall.

You feel your soul getting doused in gasoline and set on fire.

You see James’s body turning rigid and stiff as his face turns a canvas of anger.

You blink away your tears.

He stiffens as if he endures the horrors you have to watch him do at night. He stiffens as if his body is constantly being clawed, dragged, down by hands that burn. He stiffens as if he has glass stuck in the soles of his feet, spilling his blood onto the floor and staining the wood, the walls, you. You, you, you.

He turns his head back to its original position to at you, but he’s stopped. Stopped by a scared hand deep his hair wrenching back so his body topples to the floor with a reverberating thud. You almost fall with him with his tight grip on your wrist, but you feel Johnny’s hand pluck yours out of his and cradle it, cradle you, to his chest.

But you can’t focus. You see your vision blurring and a ringing, your soul screaming, in your ears is blocking out the noise of Simon’s fists connecting with James’s face.

You watch with horror gleaming in your eyes as you see your husband’s face and body grow more and more unrecognizable by the second.

Why are you just standing there?

“Get—” Simon’s fist interrupts his slurred cries. “—th’ fuck off ‘f me you d’rty bast’rd . . .”

Your husband is getting beaten, and you’re standing in the arms of another? A stranger?

Simon’s eyes. They’re burnt a charcoal black and only seemed to be getting darker by each blow he landed on your husband’s face. It scares you to no end.

“You stain your wife’s skin with that mouth?” A sharp sound, a slap echos throughout the room. Right where your hand hit his face. Right where your hand can be seen on his face as a bright red gone darker by Simon’s force.

Your eyes catch a gleam in the light, a gleam of something sharp, of something used to kill.

A pocket knife.

James struggles to fully pull it out of his pocket but when he does, he grips it with a shaking hand and stabs blindly at Simon’s arm.

You suck in a breath and can only watch as silence consumes the room with Johnnys arms tightening around you.

He didn’t even flinch as the knife was forced into his skin, didn’t even react as he gripped the handle and yanked the knife out of his arm, his blood following the knife like a lost dog before splattering on the ground like abstract art.

Noises of pain and fear escape the opened mouth of your husband, noises that you’ve never heard him make. Only noises of power and rage.

Simon rises to his full height and takes a handful of James’s hair, dragging him up with him add dropping the knife on the floor

“Simon—” You beg, but it’s too late. With the grip Simon has on James’s hair, he pulls his arm back and swings it, swings James, towards the kitchen counter at full force.

His head ricochets off of the counter and he lands back on the floor, right in front of your shaking form.

He lays there sideways and still as the long gash running straight across his forehead leaks blood onto his clothes and floor at a rapid pace. You stare at it as the blood slowly runs towards you.

You’re staring at your husband’s bleeding body.

Simon grabs James’s pant leg, pants that you bought for him, and yanks his body towards him to resume what he hadn’t finished.

When the blows continue, you find yourself wincing at each one, unconsciously sinking deeper into Johnny’s warm body.

A man you just met that day is beating the life out of your husband.

You feel like cold water is raining down on your body.

“Stop—” Your cry escapes your lips broken. “stop, please! Simon please—you’re hurting him!”

You try to push Johnny off of you, try to yank your limbs out of his strong grip but that’s just it. His strong grip is like a snake that captured its prey, rolling its body around it and holding onto it until it dies, until it can’t feel anymore, until you can’t breathe anymore.

“Let me go—Johnny let me go!”

He shushes your cries and doesn’t even bat an eye when you turn to bang your fists on his chest and run your nails down his skin. He just cradles your head to his chest right where his heart is so you can hear his heartbeat and be soothed.

But how can you be soothed when—

“Simon.” You hear him say. “That’s enough.”

Like changing tides; Johnny’s voice sweeps into his mind and altered his landscape of emotions. Changing from the beast in a story to a soft bear.

A bear with blood dripping from its mouth.

Simon stops the torture that he inflicted upon your husband and keeps his back turned to you and Johnny as he stands. Blood, James’s blood, dripping from his clenched fists and escaping into the crevices in your tile floor.

He turns at the waist to you and Johnny. You, who’s still struggling to escape his arms, you whose tears are never ending on your damp cheeks, you who’s watching your husband struggle to breathe, blood exiting his mouth in bubbles, popping and splattering the red mess everywhere.

And Johnny, who watched with a satisfied smile growing on his face.

Bells were ringing in your ears, stars were dotting your vision, your hands were shaking, you can’t breathe. “James . .?” You whisper. Your voice coming out so broken that Johnny almost felt sorry.

He still has his arms around you, still feels your beating heart pound against the cage around it, against his chest, still feels the sting of the bruises and scratches you left on him, the latter leaving blood trailing down his arms, dripping and dripping until they bleed into your dress, bleed into you. He still feels, you.

“What . . . No . . . no, no!” Your wail runs deep and escapes raw from your soul. You wail and it breaks Johnny’s heart, breaks it into tiny pieces scattered all around this cruel world you all live in. This world filled with cruel people.

“You killed him! You killed him!” You struggle, and Johnny grunts out curses as you elbow his stomach, slipping in blood and failing to the floor, your dress pooling at your feet, shaking in the blood staining the floor and dying the front of your once blue dress red. You fall right in front of Simon. Right in front of your husband’s still warm body. Still bleeding. Still breathing.

You burn the part of you that feels disappointed in that fact.

“James,” You whisper, cradling his face, his broken face, his face that is broken and bleeding, in your hands. You know it will haunt you for life. “Please, please, wake up. . . wake up . . .”

Blood was everywhere.

Your cries are silent except for the horror filled gasps you let out in between breaths. Your hands shake and you feel as if the coldest of waters were dumped on you. Hoping there would want you up from this dream, this nightmare.

“Why . . ? Why did you do this . . ?”

Your face is drenched in your tears running down your face, some fleeing into your mouth, making you taste your own sweet nectar tears. A nectar that is sticky and leaves a bitter rather than sweet taste in your mouth, a nectar that clings to things that aren’t theirs and never lets go. A nectar like Simon and Johnny.

“He was hurtin’ ye lass,” Johnny says. “We couldnae let ‘im hurt ye like tha’” He walks towards you, the squelch sound coming from his boots walking on blood make you flinch and cover your mouth in terror with your shaking hands, spreading blood, your husband’s blood, all over your tear stained cheeks.

Johnny squats down next to you, his thighs brushing over yours as he watches you. Watches you process that your husband might as well be dead to you, and he’s not coming back no matter how hard you pray.

You feel Johnnys hand, his warm hand, his soft hand, his dry hand, guide your face to lock your eyes with his.

“Ye know we had to do tha’.” He says. His eyes aren’t bright anymore. Now they’re dark waves at night. Luring innocents into its waters and taking, drowning, keeping. “Right, love?”

Your eyes shift back to James’s body in your peripheral, still feeling the cold gaze of the two men on your face.

His eyes are swollen shut; but if they were open, you could imagine they’d be looking at you, piercing you with that gaze you used to love so much, The gaze you find yourself missing; back when things were good, not burnt and soaked in blood.

His skin is pale. It turns as white as the pure clouds that once blocked the heat of the sun. But now the clouds are dark, they’re dark and they obscure the warmth of the sun to let the cold chill of death sink its claws into the fertile earth.

His chest barely rises with the painful breaths he’s taking.

He’s still alive.

Your shaking eyes peel away from James and they lock with Johnnys’ again.

And you know, with a heavy and pained heart, that he can see the tiny part of you that agrees with him.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, your eyes burned and your head is pounding. All you can hear is ringing. Ringing, screaming, crying, all the same to you in this moment.

You hear someone call your name, you feel a wet hand touch your shoulder, you feel something sharp sink into the fragile skin of your neck.

You feel the cold shadow of darkness embrace you.

Your body feels heavy.

Heavy with guilt, fear, and an overwhelming sadness.

Heavy with whatever drug was forced into you.

In your milky haze, your eyes open slightly and the sun burns your eyes even through the thick curtains blocking it.

You think they’re curtains. They could very well be something else; but they move with such a fluidity in them that you can’t think otherwise.

This room you’re in moves as if it’s a vehicle on a bumpy road, your ears pick up the sound of an animal trotting on the rough road.

Someone moves, blocking the shining sun with their body as they move to learn towards you.

“Sh, Bonnie lass.” A voice coos at you, brushing their—his—hand over your temple to gently move the hair that rested there. “Yer alrigh’, we’re gonnae get ye someplace safe.”

When you let out a hoarse moan in protest to his action, another hand, a bigger hand, pets your hair and plants a chaste kiss on your sweating forehead.

You let out a dry cry and try to move your head in another direction, any direction, but the poison burning your veins and warming your skin is making you a limp doll.

Your lips are cracked and your throat is raw. When you try to speak, the sentence gets lost on the way out of your mouth and only one word escapes.

“. . . home . . .”

The soft voice, the first voice, shushes you again, moving your body and placing it sideways in a laying position so your head rests on his lap and your legs dangle on something else. Someone else.

“It’s gonnae be okay hen, don’ worry that pretty head. We’ll get ye home safe with us.”

You last see the curtains move after going over a particular bump in the road, revealing dancing trees and a large sign; though you only see the last part of it before your body succumbs to sleep:

—POPULATION: TWO HUNDRED SEVENTEEN.

In the murky shadows of the dimly illuminated room, wisps of smoke curled and danced around the man seated amidst the gloom like a dragon.

With each inhale, the ember of the cigar flared, casting fleeting glimpses of their features into the obscurity.

The apple of his cheeks, his beard shining auburn, his eyes that reflected an angry sea.

“She sleepin’?” He asks into the shadows. His voice is rough and deep, his words escape him in a cloud of smoke as dark as his eyes.

“Yes. Brought ‘er in an hour or so ago. A ripe peach she is.” The shadow answers, stepping away from the window that covered an entire wall adjacent to the grand desk. The shadow walks the length of the room to stand in front of the desk, he picks up a random trinket from the desk and starts twirling it between his fingers repeatedly.

“And the husband? Tell me the bastards’ gone.”

The smell of smoke and ash covered the room. But nothing could cover the smell of blood coating the shadows fingers, staining the trinket, the knife, in his hand.

“He’ll never hurt her again.”

- please do not plagiarize, copy, or repost my works to other platforms !

- likes, comments, and reblogs are very appreciated <3 !!

©miwsolovely

TAGLIST.

@the-faceless-bride @chickennn-soupp @starabigail @drenix004 @dogboyfoe @lostintro @tonylagsagne @sobasicallyimpoppee @ahervyn @ghostlythots @flowerloversthings @sugar-brains @midnights-song @poohkie90 @minecraftflowerpots @cand1c @mortallydelicatedinosaur @coffinfae @wiotas @missinghosty @rataaaaail759 @crazy-phan-girl13 @riw3 @dmitriene @coy2u @storxii @uglycoyote @idioticsqu1d @iloveramensm @starluv @darling006 @ivuravix @mitoad @miss-mistinguett @totallynot-mac @tallicaside @imagine-valhalla @deputy-videogamer @ggpayer44 @yellow-paper-duck @sharkient @kaoyamamegami @kariiiel @chaoticla @lovelydays2night @lostintro @tonylagsagne

#♡﹒⇅﹒cod masterlist—﹒📁 #﹒ ✧ ichor #x reader #cod x reader #fem!reader #simon ghost riley #tf 141 x reader #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #john bravo six price #johnny mactavish #poly!task force 141 x reader #poly141 x reader #poly!task force 141 #poly tf141 #codmw x reader #soap cod #ghost cod #gaz cod #price cod

[man-down-in-hatchet-town]

So I Spied Another Day...

You know it was a good show when you can’t decide whether your heart is so full from all the love and joy, or so empty because it's over.

Really do buckle up, because this is a long one.

So the show went a little like this. They played the Spies pro-shoot on a giant movie screen, but any time a song started, the audio changed to the instrumental track, the video typically faded to simple background graphics, and the cast came out to perform the number live in concert style. There were also a series of audience participation prompts up on the movie screen, such as standing to deliver a line in unison, giving Lauren a standing ovation for the Pay Attention! Reprise, enthusiastically booing Dr. Baron von Nazi and the still infuriatingly catchy Not So Bad (for anyone who’s curious, in addition to encouraging boos and yelled disagreements with von Nazi, they also cut the audience participation bit from the song).

The energy in the room was so electric and full of joy and warmth. People shouted out iconic lines, went wild for everyone’s entrances, and absolutely lost their damn minds over Curtwen at pretty much every opportunity. And the cast were clearly having just as much fun. Doing This has always been my favorite, and there was something so sweet about them singing it again all these years later. We finally got Joey performing Spies Are Forever (Evil Reprise) again and it was just as chilling and beautiful as you’d expect. And One Step Ahead was just on a whole new level. I don’t want to give anything away, but the details in that performance were INCREDIBLE.

It was simply so special seeing most of the original gang come back while also bringing some new friends along. Shout out to Mariah for coming out at the top of the show so ready to play, setting the tone for the whole evening. Shout out to James for putting his comedy chops on full display (LET JAMES BE FUNNY MORE) and dancing the hell out of One More Shot (another favorite number). And shoutout to Carlos Alazraqui (taking over the roles of Sergio and Vladimir Poopin) and Tommy Link for coming into this crazy part of our world with such enthusiasm and silliness. Brian deserves a medal for agreeing to once again play the most cringe-worthy character in all of Pulp-StarCanWrecked history, and for sounding so fucking good while doing it. Tessa was having a blast in full unhinged glory and I gladly worship at her altar. Lauren is maybe the funniest person alive and deserved her standing ovation, prompted or not. Seeing Joe Walker perform live has been Item Number One on my fandom bucket list since I moved to LA a couple of years ago, and I still can’t quite believe I managed it. I’d wondered if he’d be rusty, but honestly he sounded great; it was like no time had passed. Mary Kate still has one of my all-time favorite voices and her Tatiana remains forever engaging. Joey showed up dressed to slay as a gay evil genius Bond-movie supervillain and proceeded to thoroughly deliver on that promise. And Curt… every time I watch Spies I am increasingly blown away by what he does with this arrogant, broken mess of a character. He clearly loves Agent Mega as much as any of us, and to see a performance refined and powered by such clear and thoughtful passion is just a huge treat.

(And while he wasn’t in the cast, I can’t not mention Corey. Between his roles as director and co-writer, so much of what Spies is comes directly from him and we don’t appreciate that nearly enough. And shout out to Esther Fallick for her wonderful work as Susan and the Informant. She might not have been there in person, but her incredible performance was with us the whole time.)

I know this is preaching to the choir, but Spies Are Forever really is such a special show. It’s a story about recovery, and devastating as it can be, I think there’s also something deeply healing about it at its core. For one thing, I know it played a huge role in mending my relationship with my asexuality. I will forever be grateful to it for existing, to TCB, Talkfine, and the original cast for creating it, and to those same people for maintaining its legacy with the amount of love and care it deserves. It was a privilege to be in the room as so many people came to celebrate this miraculous little musical. There were a couple of minor tech glitches (I wonder if they’ll even include the “big one”—the projector jumping over most of the staircase scene before getting fixed—in the digital ticket version), but nothing that could even begin to damper the magic of the night.

We all know that spies never die (except for Owen and the Informant, oops). And at times like this concert, I think this special little show with its short run in 2016 will prove to be just as immortal.

#anyways I just had the best time #and it took a couple of days because I've been so busy but I had to write down how special it all really was #so grateful #spies are forever #spy another day #tin can bros #tcb #tinlightenment #agent curt mega #curt mega #owen carvour #tatiana slozhno #cynthia houston #the deadliest man alive #doctor baron von nazi #the informant #joey richter #lauren lopez #brian rosenthal #corey lubowich #mary kate wiles #mariah rose faith casillas #james tolbert #joe walker #tessa netting #tom lenk #Carlos Alazraqui

[mcuamerica]

The Shadowsinger: Five

Warnings: 18+. Minors DNI. Angst, implied SA, Tamlin and Amarantha are mentioned, ACOTAR series spoilers. If I forgot anything, please let me know!

Pairings: Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary: Azriel’s off on a mission, so you train with Cassian. Upon returning, the Spymaster doesn’t like seeing you with his brother.

Disclaimer: I do not own SJM’s characters or plot lines, only the ones I create for the purpose of this story. This is a work of fiction. I do not give permission to repost my work on any other platform or medium. Please be respectful.

My graphics are my own. If you wish to use them, please give credit!

Series Masterlist

Prologue - One - Two - Three - Four

The next morning, you were up early but no one was there for breakfast with you. And instead of Azriel, Cassian was in the training ring. “Oh… is Azriel not here today?” You asked.

“He’s got some spying to do, so I’ll keep up with your training.” He said.

Of course Azriel wouldn’t want to keep training you along with his spying. He had so many more important things to do than babysit an amateur Shadowsinger. And it was very apparent from the training session yesterday that you didn’t know nearly as much as him.

“You ready? Or do you need to stare off into the distance for a little longer?” Cassian said and you narrowed your eyes at him.

“I’m ready, Commander.” You teased, getting in the position he started with the warm ups.

Cassian was more brutal than Azriel was, enough so that you were thinking Azriel was going easy on you. The prick. Cass made you sit in squats for longer, balance with your wings stretched out or tucked in more. It was all you could do by the end of it to not fall down the stairs to the House.

“Az said to give you these.” Cassian said and handed you a basket, your muscles groaning at the extra weight. “Said something about an owing you a massage when he got back.”

Your eyes widened and face flushed before you heard Cassian let out a loud chuckle. “You’re almost as bad as him.” He said and laughed. “For spies, you sure don’t hold back when you get embarrassed.” Cass said and winked at you before going to the dining room.

You set the basket in your room, opting to take a bath first before you went to the dining room to dig into the roast that was waiting for you. Then, you went to the library to start on your research into the Cauldron.

You never saw Gwyn. Though Rhys told you that the new priestesses normally took a while to adjust before being out of their dorms. What happened to her just yesterday made your stomach turn… and you couldn’t imagine how horrible it must have been for her to wake up today in a new place. You’d have to ask Clotho how she was doing when you got the chance.

You didn’t learn anything new about the Cauldron, but you brought more books up to the personal library to read more.

You still wondered how Feyre was doing with Tamlin. You remember when Rhys told you the story of what Tamlin’s family did to Rhys’s mother and sister. And how Tamlin himself had killed Rhys’s father. Hearing about the rage that Tamlin held that day… you’d hope it had changed. You’d hoped that Feyre was happy with him, and that he would treat her well. Still, the thought of Feyre with him was unsettling to you. You couldn’t figure it out, and your shadows seemed to be just as disturbed by it whenever it came to your mind.

As you read into the night, waiting to see if you heard Azriel come back, you couldn’t help as your mind wander to how lucky you were that you ended up here after Amarantha died. How you found friends that seemed to care about you, and a High Lord that didn’t just want to use you for his own bidding, but wanted you around because he trusted you. You could get used to calling Velaris, in all its beauty, your home. And these new friends your family.

Azriel didn’t come back to the House of Wind for two weeks. Cassian had taken up your training, and you were already learning how to handle a sword (with the wooden practice ones) when Azriel watched you both from the steps.

He had been searching for the other parts of the Cauldron, ordering his spies to find out anything they could about what Hybern planned to do with it. And he only figured out that Hybern had Jurian’s eye and finger bone. Someone had snuck it off of Amarantha’s body before Tamlin killed her. He still couldn’t find out how, or who.

Seeing you work with Cassian strained something in him. A desire to be around you, or the jealousy that Cass was training you and he wasn’t. Azriel couldn’t tell what it was. Either way, he was almost proud to see you doing so well. What took most young Illyrian’s years to master, you had seem to do it in two weeks. All while taking flying lessons with Cassian as well. Cass told him that you were doing great with all of it. Better than any male he’s trained, actually. And you took it in stride too. Doing everything that Cassian threw at you. He even loaded a pack on your chest two days ago and had you fly up and down the mountain for two hours. You were almost ready to throw the pack at him by the end of it. But you knew it was to build up your strength. If you were going to be carrying Illyrian blades and a bow, you would need it.

Azriel knew you could do good. From the moment you agreed to train, he knew you had the motivation in you to do it. Whether it be from hate of what your family did to you, or from dedication to not let it happen again, he knew you would do it. He wanted to be the one to train you. He wanted to see that dedication every day. He hadn't seen an Illyrian learn so fast in a long time, and he knew it was a testament to an underlying power that brewed within you. That his shadows whispered to him about.

And yet, he took the first mission Rhys offered. There was something about you that pulled his attention every time you were in the room. And he couldn’t place it. His shadows wouldn’t tell him anything. And your few shadows that danced around his ankles up to his hands and neck whenever he was close to you drove him crazy. It’s like he couldn’t get enough of you but also didn’t want to get too close. He couldn’t handle getting close and you pushing him away. Or going for another male like Rhys or Cass. Like Mor had done when she chose Cassian over him. And then never acknowledged him more than a close friend. Family. Nothing like he wanted. He may have given up on her a long time ago, but sometimes it still stung.

So he took the mission to keep his distance. No matter the tug he felt when he was around you. He fought it. And kept his thoughts and emotions about you to himself.

“Azriel!” He heard your voice say, followed by a yelp when Cassian hit your stomach with the butt of the sword.

“Really, Cass?” You growled and nudged him away before jogging over to Azriel. “I haven’t seen you in weeks. Where have you been?” You asked, catching your breath.

“We’re not done!” Cassian yelled at you, but you simply stared at Azriel, waiting for an answer.

All Azriel could do was trail his eyes up the leathers you were wearing. The way they clung to your curves. The way they were already filled out much more than they were that first training day. Your hair was in a braid, but little wisps if it were out, clinging to your forehead with sweat.

“Azriel?” You asked again, not shifting under his stare like you had before. Training like this with Cassian had made you much more confident. Like you were before Amarantha came and tore your life apart. You still didn’t want to admit how much those 50 years effected you. Even if they were still recent. You wanted to put them in the past and not think about them any more that you were required. And luckily, no one had asked you much after the first day of telling them your story.

Cassian bounded over, patted Azriel on the shoulder in a way of greeting, and then picked you up over his shoulder.

“Cassian!” You yelled and clenched your fists. “Put me down,” you ground out.

“No chance, you are still training. And no pretty boy is going to distract you. Got it?” He asked and you grumbled. “Got it?” He asked again.

“Yes! Cauldron… Now put me down before I start clawing your wings.” You said firmly. He set you down back in the middle of the training ring and handed you the sword you discarded.

“What’s the number one rule I taught you about your weapon?” He asked.

“The pointy end goes away from you?” You remarked, earning a swipe of his own sword, which you blocked. “Don’t drop it in the middle of a fight without a purpose.” You said and knocked his sword back.

Azriel watched as you bantered with Cassian almost as seamlessly as you fought. At one point, you had Cassian so speechless and stunned that you were able to knock his sword from his hand. It was at that point that Cassian knocked you from your feet, your sword clattering much farther away from you than his. Cass always did want to be the one to win the battle.

It was everything Azriel could do to not go and help you out. Or coach you on how to get out from under him. Especially since Cassian was much larger than you. Not to mention better trained.

He must have been feeling generous, or you got the drop on him (probably the former) because you were able to use his weight against him and flip the two of you over so you were on top. Straddling his hips, your hands mere inches from the tips of his wings. Panting.

“Rhys wants us in the dining room for lunch.” Azriel called out, knowing that Rhys would wait. And if he really wanted you all to meet, he could speak mind-to-mind easily. But Azriel couldn’t stand to see you in that position with Cassian. And he couldn’t stop himself for imagining him under you instead. He quickly turned on his heel and vanished with his shadows back to his room.

“Just when it was getting fun.” You joked as you stood up and held out a hand for Cassian, who let out a booming laugh.

“Keep saying things like that and Az might slice me to bloody ribbons.” He joked and you shrugged.

“I doubt it. He doesn’t seem too interested in me.” You said as you grabbed a glass of water and downed it. “And if he is, he sure has a weird way of showing it. He ignored me the whole first month, trained me one day, and then disappeared on a two week mission. And he’s still ignoring me.” You muttered and downed another glass of water.

“Hmm… let’s show him what he’s missing, then,” Cass said and slung an arm around your shoulder, avoiding your wings. Your shadows curled away slightly from his touch. Not in a bad way, but in a way that didn’t happen with Azriel. They always curled around him. Even if he wasn’t touching you, but in the same room. You always tacked it up to him being a Shadowsinger himself, and maybe it was comforting for your shadows to have someone else to cling to. You still barely knew how the things worked. Even after having them around for a hundred years.

You knew how to hide in them, how to listen and talk to them, how to winnow with them. But not much else. It was still a hassle most of the time when you wanted to control them. So if a few of your shadows wanted a more experienced singer to cling to, you were more than willing to let them. For a little while. You still liked your shadows. If you ever had to go without them, you wouldn’t know what to do. Wouldn’t have the comforting feel of them whirling your ankles and wings. Throughout your hair.

“Come out with us tonight.” Cassian said once you made it down the stairs.

You looked up at his towering form and rose your eyebrows. “Where?” You asked. Even the first month of you here, you didn’t go out with them. You didn’t go into the city much either, barely even visited the town home. You didn’t want to impose on it just yet. And it was too many people who would be watching your every move. Like they did when you worked for her. So you stayed in the House. And you liked it. Plus, you started to see Gywn around the library, not speaking to anyone, but at least she was out of her dorm.

“To Rita’s. I know Mor would love it. She’s been complaining that you didn’t come last week.” He said and you smiled a bit. You quite liked the female. She was bright and full of energy. And she didn’t take shit from the boys. And barely took it from Amren, who still scared you enough to not meet her eye.

“I don’t have much to wear.” You said, Cassian cringing as you both heard a yelp from down the stairs to the dining room.

“Did I hear that we’re going shopping?” Mor said and bounded over to the bottom of the stairs, bouncing on her heels.

“I didn’t say that.” You teased as you stepped down beside her.

“Oh, please? I’ll help you pick out the perfect outfit.” She said and nudged you. You winced a bit, still sore from the training. Your braid was still a mess. But you didn’t care, you were starving and just wanted to eat. Even if you looked ridiculous.

As if reading your thoughts, your shadows swirled around your head, either covering or smoothing your hair, you couldn’t tell. Either way, you silently thanked them.

“Hmm.. fine. But I would prefer to go when it’s not too crowded…” you said and she gave you a knowing look. As if she too knew what it was like to want to hide away. You weren’t sure how she would ever feel like that. You figured she got more energy from being around people, new people, than anyone else. Where as for you… well you learned to like your solitude. Probably from the years you spent locked in your cabin while your family went to train. And then the years following that was spent in a village with no more than 50 inhabitants.

“So you’ll come out with us tonight?” Cassian asked as you entered the dining room with them.

Shrugging again, you answered, “Sure. Though if people start asking me to do party tricks with my shadows, I’m leaving.” You said and rolled your shoulders back, tucking in your wings.

“Trust us, they won’t. Not when Az is the only Shadowsinger they knew and he once stabbed someone for looking at him the wrong way.” Mor joked and you furrowed your eyebrows. Even though Azriel was a little cold to you, you could tell he was kind. Especially with the way this family acted with him.

“He was 38 and we were recovering from the war, remember?” Rhys added from his spot at the table. “And that was in Hewn. Everyone in Hewn would be stabbed if they looked at Az the way that male did.” He mentioned and then leaned back. He didn’t have his wings out today, so you figured this was a business lunch more than a formal one. They had all mainly been away, or you’d been I’m your room burying your nose in the books on the Cauldron. Or they had been meeting in the town home. Definitely not around you.

Soon you were all settled, Azriel appearing before the meal was served and sitting next to Rhys and Amren. Cassian was on your right, and Mor on your left. That left the other three across from you. It felt like someone was missing from the table, but as you counted around, you knew that was everyone.

After you had all ate a couple bites (Amren pushing her food around like always), Rhys looked up, setting his utensils down. “Cassian, I need you to go to Windhaven.” Rhys said. “See how the army is coming along. And if the females are being trained properly.” He said, then looked at you. “And I would prefer if you went along.” He said.

“Just with Cassian? Don’t you need to introduce me as emissary?” You asked and Rhys shook his head.

“Cass is the commander of my armies. If he says they’re to listen to you, they will.” Rhys said and you rose your eyebrows. You knew Illyrians. And you knew that wasn’t true. You also knew that Rhys knew it too. But you weren’t going to push, so you nodded.

“How long do you want me there?” Cassian asked.

“Two weeks, and then you can come back in time for the Solstice.” He said. “We’ll spend it in the townhome.”

“You think Devlon is ready for another Shadowsinger?” Azriel piped in.

“The question is, do you think Devlon is ready for the first female Shadowsinger?” Cassian asked.

You hummed. “I think you all need to be asking if Devlon is ready for me. I’m not just a Shadowsinger, you know.” You said, crossing your arms. “And I think the answer is no. Devlon used to be a friend of my father’s. He very might well faint when he recognizes me to be the daughter of Rechard Vash.” You stated and smirked.

“I like how you think, girl.” Amren said and leaned back in her chair, her arm draped over the arm of it. “I say Devlon has whatever is coming to him from her,” she said as she looked at Rhys.

He only chuckled as he went back to eating. “Was that it?” You asked and leaned forward. “Or should I leave so you can discuss what Azriel learned on that mission?” You asked.

None of them stiffened at your tone, or the implication that they didn’t trust you.

“I merely wanted to finish my food,” Rhys said with an easy smile. “But if you’re eager to learn about what the Spymaster learned, go ahead Az.” He said and took another bite of the roast.

“I didn’t learn anything useful,” Azriel said. “Well, other than that there are two pieces of the Cauldron missing and I still have no clue where the third one is. Though, it’s probably in a temple.” He said. “Hopefully here. If it’s in another Court… that’ll be harder to detect.” He finished.

“I never thought you’d be one to be down on yourself,” you said, taking a bite of vegetables. “Sounds like you learned quite a lot.”

Once again, he ignored you and looked at Rhys. “Any chance I can go back to Sangravagh and examine it again?” He asked and Rhys waved his hand. “Go where you need to, but I still have one more thing to ask of you when we’re done with lunch.” He said.

As much as you wanted to slump into your chair, you stayed still as you ate. You didn’t know what you did wrong to have Azriel act so indifferent towards you. Of all the Inner Circle, you thought you would bond with him the most. Being a Shadowsinger… it wasn’t easy. It was rare and the looks that you got. The burdens that you had to carry. You figured only he would understand. But he didn’t even try to speak to you.

And it continued into the night, after you went shopping with Mor. She even had Rhys’s in-house tailor fix all the clothing so your wings would fit seamlessly around them. All in time to go to Rita’s.

A/N: This is a fun little chapter with some of Az’s pov - a little longer than the rest. When the IC + our reader goes to Rita's in the next chapter... I think you'll enjoy it!!

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[twstthing]

[Yuu joined the game.]

Minecraft Single Player! Yuu AU

Game logic and all carried with them. That is what is about to go down.

Has their entire inventory with them, and has no clue at to what bendable legs are

“Why do I have these weird moving thingies at the end of my arms?” they’re fingers.

There’s not a lot of time to ponder the sudden addition of fingers and toes and stuff when Grim very warmly greets Yuu with some good ol blue fire and a demand for clothing.

Yuu is just so confused. What kind of mob is this??? Can mobs speak??? Did they suddenly go on a modded server in the middle of their sleep?????

Yuu looks down.

THEY HAVE A NEW SKIN??? Where is their other skin??? They didn’t change skins in their sleep, that’s weird as hell!!

Regardless of their very, very befuddled state, Yuu decides what’s best for them and immediately takes Grim as a hostile mob.

“I don’t know what kind of mob you are, but if you can speak you must have some loot!”

Rather than Yuu getting chased by Grim, it’s Grim being chased by Yuu. Yuu has no time to waste on waiting around for a mob to attack them, they need drops and EXP levels. ("When did hostile mobs learn to run?")

Grim gets caught by the clown headmage's whip, and Yuu heeds absolutely no attention to Crowley's scolding words as they marvel at the utterly insane graphics and physics of the whip. It can curve! Curve!! In the air!!!

Dragging Yuu and Grim by the hood and scruff, they enter the ever fabled hall where bad things go down

This entrance ceremony is about to get 1000x more wacky than it should be

“Go on child, tell the mirror your name so you can get sorted properly."

Upon the mirror going, "State thy name." Yuu briefly wonders for a moment if the mirror is a really modded player or a mob.

It wasn't as brief as they thought, because the mirror states once more: "State thy name."

".. Yuurmom."

Crowley and Riddle are about to throw a fit at the utter lack of decorum until the mirror continues on with its analysis of Yuu rather than berating them for being immature and—good Sevens Yuurmom is actually their name

“The shape of thy soul is… shaped as squarely as the earth. Thy soul is solidified and firm in its position, bending to none other than itself. Therefore, they are suited for no dormitory.”

When Grim comes up and starts spewing fire everywhere and gets Kalim's butt on fire, Yuu prioritizes helping a fellow player by utilizing the beautifully named mlg waterbucket

Things only get crazier because the water source from the bucket is only a foot high which isn’t tall enough to put out Kalim, the water is spreading causing several other Scarabia students in a 8ft square radius to get their feet wet, someone is questioning what kind of magic this is to have a seemingly endless flow of water, and Grim is still wreaking havoc

As soon as they dump that water, Yuu has their sights set on Grim. They want his loot so bad, and their ever-trusty enchanted axe will surely do the job within two hits if one is critical.

Was it mentioned that handheld, sharp weapons are not allowed on campus grounds unless given special permission?

Crowley does not know who he should worry about more, the raging fire-spewing cat or the axe-swinging first year student(?) who’s somehow running and jumping around without bending their knees

The orderly Riddle Rosehearts and opportunistic Azul hardly hesitate to begin trying to settle the issue, as they always do

Current issue: Riddle Rosehearts cannot restrain a weapon if it is not created from magic, so even as he goes, “Off With Your Head!” to Yuu and Grim, Yuu’s axe isn’t gone and they’re still swinging

Grim would have met a grim fate had it not been for Crowley’s infuriated intervention with his Love Whip yanking him out of the axe’s path

“WHAT do you think you are doing to this familiar?!” ("I ain't no familiar!")

The Entrance Ceremony has gone terribly. A student(?) woke up late, disrupted the ceremony only for them to NOT be sorted into any dorm with an extremely abnormal analysis of their soul, the Headmage brought in a flame-throwing cat that set everything on fire, Kalim's ass is burnt, there is solid square water spread around Scarabia's standing place soaking the students around it, and said late-waking student(?) is recklessly swinging an axe at the fire-throwing cat

Also the student(?) is jumping. Without bending their legs. They are jumping and running without bending their legs, they also are swinging an axe without bending their arms. Their entire body is a rigid as a pole and at some point it is questioned if this student is even human

At this point, Yuu has presented themselves as enough of a threat that Housewardens Vil and Leona are forced to intervene. Handheld weapons, regardless of user, are not to be equipped or carried on campus for student safety (though one of the two might not be ready to admit that they care for their students’ safety)

Leona knocks Yuu(rmom) out. One firm uppercut, an oddly masculine, "OOF!", the whole body of the student(?) flashing red, and they are down for the next few hours. In the meantime, NRC staff and Housewardens have to figure out what to do with an unyielding soul, their axe, and the seemingly infinite water that they've put down.

#twst yuu #disney twst #twst #twst grim #mcsingleplayer yuu au #twst au #disney twisted wonderland

[nikethestatue]

Chapter XVI

You Are the One

One time, Elain Marie Paige Archeron had everything she ever wanted. She had love. A love that was pure and clean and genuine. A love that did not ask for anything in return. The kind of love that was true, and kind, and forgiving, and protective. She couldn’t remember a time when she laughed as much as she did in the last three months. She recalled waking up every morning for the past three months and feeling lighter, like there was joy and a promise of good things. Now, in hindsight, she realised that it was because she was in love. But also because she was loved. No one’s ever loved her like that before. No one looked at her in the same way, like she was precious. Like she mattered. Like she was someone’s favourite thing in the world.

Only Elain Archeron did not hold on to that love.

She took it for granted.

She took the man who offered her his devotion and his loyalty and his unconditional, undeniable and passionate love for granted, never thinking that she’d ever lose him.

But she did.

She lost Azriel. 

“Remember, darling, that’s nature…simple biology,”

“Daddy, you aren’t going to be talking about how babies are made?” Elain sniffled, half amused, half horrified.

Her father smiled a sad smile and shook his head no.

“You have to remember that it’s the sperm that chases the egg. It’s the man who pursues the woman. Not the other way around. A man will chase and will not give up until he gets that sperm into the egg.”

“Ew, dad!”

“You are a big girl, my pretty rose. You know what I mean.”

Elain considered his words, and as graphic as they were, they also made sense. He was correct. 

“Love was invented to make nature more palatable,” he continued, “but biology never changed. It’s still about the sperm and the egg. Therefore, let him chase you. And if he doesn’t, then you’ll know the answer. But never chase a man, sweetheart. It’s his nature, his responsibility and his destiny to chase after a woman.”

She sighed and looked out the window.

It's been almost two weeks and Azriel hasn’t sought her out. The sperm hasn’t chased the egg. Azriel hasn’t chased her at all.

At first, it was just…silence.

For four days, it was silent. 

Her texts went unanswered. There were no call backs. She even went old school and sent Azriel an email! And that didn’t get a response either. 

She was ready to go all the way to Canary Wharf and be the weird girlfriend who busts into her boyfriend’s home and starts to demand answers. 

But he finally messaged her with a one word text: ‘training’. That’s all it said. No apology and no explanation. Not an ‘I am sorry for ignoring you’ or ‘I’ve been swamped with the team stuff’. No, she didn’t get anything other than ‘training’.

And so, Elain had changed her mind about trekking to Canary Wharf and waited. Training would eventually be over and he would be back. He'd return to her. Elain wanted to be an understanding girlfriend, who was going to support her man. She realised that he needed to get back into the groove of the game after his injury and get his body back in playing shape. Therefore, when Saturday came about and Arsenal was playing Luton Town, she dutifully turned on the telly and listened to the pre-game broadcast while Piglet raced upstairs and then came back with his red jersey, tossing it to her and urging her to dress him in it. He already knew what he needed to wear when Azriel was playing, and even though he made a mess in his cubby, turning it out and tossing all the other things on the floor, Elain thought that it was too cute how he got so excited and was behaving like a proper little fan. 

They watched the game, with Piglet sitting there, enraptured, and howling happily every time Azriel appeared on the screen. How Piglet recognised him, Elain didn’t know–she once hid under a blanket for 10 minutes, and her pug was wandering around in confusion, looking for her, never thinking to pull the blanket off. But here, he somehow was eagle-eyed and was spotting Azriel among the tiny players on the screen.

While Piglet was innocently happy to watch the game, hopping and rolling around, Elain’s mood was more subdued. She did take a photo of the pug and sent it to Azriel. When the game concluded, and Arsenal had won, she messaged him and said ‘Congratulations! Brilliant game’.

Thanks.

That’s what Eain got in response to her message from Azriel.

Thanks.

Angrily, she waited for more, but nothing else came.

Because if he’d responded, she’d confront him and give him a piece of her mind. What did she do to him?? She was a somewhat reluctant girlfriend, but she had the right to be reluctant. He moved like a freight train, but she was more cautious. Besides, she’s lived through many heartbreaks before and every single man that she’s been with has broken up with her. She never broke up with anyone–all the breakups were initiated by the men. And it looked like the pattern was continuing, unbroken. Azriel was also fed up with her and was breaking up.

That night, after the terse ‘thanks’ Elain closed her bedroom door, so Piglet wouldn’t hear her, and wept.

She wept for herself, for her lost love, for her stupidity.

She cried tears of anger, feeling rage sweep over her, cursing Azriel under her breath, calling him names. She was so angry. Angry at him for making her fall in love with him. Angry at him for making her feel. For having hope. Feelings and hope were things that she long ago placed in a place that she did not access and longed to forget. She hated Azriel Night for making her think that she could be loved, with a passion and devotion that Rhys offered her sister Feyre. She hated him for being even worse than Eris. At least Eris never offered her false hopes–he was what he was and she knew that going in. There would be no sweeping her off her feet by Eris. But Azriel…No, Azriel was gallant and strange. He courted her with ferocious intent and was not shy about showing her, and everyone around them, how much he wanted her. He loved her dog. He cooked for her. He cared for her. He cherished her. He joked, but he never pushed her into an uncomfortable place. She didn’t expect to find him and somehow, he landed on her doorstep. Literally. The old saying ‘it will happen when you least expect it’--well, it happened to her. She didn't expect him to sweep into her life and just overtake her whole existence. Because he did. And she hated him and herself, for allowing him so much power over her. She’d given him everything–her heart, first and foremost, but also access to her home, to her sanctuary and to her family. Even her father had accepted Azriel as an appropriate match for his beloved Elain. Elain was her father’s princess. She was the one he loved the most, and the one who gave him the most worry. He’d been lukewarm on Eris, despite Eris’s title and background. But Azriel–Azriel’d wormed his way into Sir Charles’s heart and Elain’s father came to like Azriel quite a bit.

But he never called. 

At some point, while operating like a zombie day in and day out, Elain couldn’t stand it anymore and swallowed her pride and messaged Gwyn Berdara.

She was mentally exhausted, thinking nonstop about Azriel and why he was acting the way he was acting. Unable to bring herself to reach out to him yet again, and receive yet another awful, one word answer, she opted for contacting Gwyn. She had no feelings about Gwyn either way–she’d only met her twice in person, and Gwyn wasn’t memorable enough for Elain to develop a strong opinion about her. But Gwyn didn’t respond to her either. Elain had sent a nonchalant sort of message of: Good morning! How are you? Just checking in to see how things are going with Azriel Night? I didn’t want to bother him as he is training and playing right now, but I am curious about your progress with him?

The message remained unread.

-

However, Elain Archeron did not need to wait for long to get answers to her questions. They came a day later, courtesy of the Daily Mail.

Another Mystery Woman for the Rackish Lothario?

Azriel Night,  Captain of Arsenal, never one wanting for female company, has been spotted at The Devonshire with a new companion. 

It seems that only a few months had passed since he was photographed on the streets of London carrying another woman in his arms following an attempted robbery. He’d been previously seen with the beautiful partner, now identified as Lady Elain Archeron, on more than one occasion. Hello Magazine even published a holiday spread of the lovely Archeron sisters and their partners in their Christmas edition. London society is still buzzing over the surprise marriage of Lady Feyre Archeron and Lord Rhysand Darling back in December, and over the budding romance between Lady Nesta Archeron, the Duchess of Velaris and Mr. Cassian Night (Azriel Night’s brother). 

By all accounts, the romance between the gorgeous aristocrat and Mr. Azriel Night was going splendidly and he’d been seen leaving her luxurious Russell Square townhouse, and even walking her pug, all through the month of December. However, it seems that their relationship is now on pause.

Mr. Night had been spotted dining at the upstairs restaurant at The Devonshire in the company of another woman. The yet to be named companion and Mr. Night enjoyed Sunday lunch at the Soho hotspot, dining on Roast Rib of Beef, all the trimmings and sticky toffee pudding. 

After so many trials and errors, will this one be the one to capture Azriel Night’s heart forever?

He was at The Devonshire on Sunday–the Sunday when it was Elain’s turn to cook Sunday roast. When everyone had come to her house for lunch. And by everyone, she meant–everyone. Rhys. Feyre. Her father. Nesta. CASSIAN. Cassian Night, who introduced her and Azriel, was at her dinner table, eating roast chicken and buttery peas. But his brother, Elain’s boyfriend, was on a date with someone else. 

A more awkward lunch couldn’t be imagined into existence, even by a talented writer.

Nesta was seething, smoke coming out of her ears. Cassian looked pained and uncomfortable. Rhys didn’t fare much better. 

But it was Piglet who broke everyone’s hearts. He sat by the front door for three hours–waiting for Azriel to arrive. He didn’t move. He didn’t eat. He waited. 

And waited.

And waited.

The whole family was here, and surely his dad would come as well. So he waited. He paced and then he lay on the floor, and he looked at the door, blinking his big brown buggy eyes.

Only Azriel never came.

-

It was a few days later, when Elain on on break between meetings and arranging dates that her phone lit up with a message. She looked at it and her face dropped. 

Gwyneth Berdara

Hi Elain! Things are going well, thank you for asking. How are you?

Elain Archeron

I am well, thanks! Forgive me for bothering you,

Gwyneth Berdara

It’s no bother! I apologise for not responding sooner. I had a presentation to create and it took all my energy and time! 😀

Elain Archeron

I can only imagine. I was just wondering how things are with Mr. Night? 

Gwyneth Berdara

We made the Daily Mail. Can you imagine? The one time we had lunch together. I can’t imagine spending all my life being hounded by journos

Elain Archeron

Oh, have you? I wasn’t aware that you were in the paper!

Gwyneth Berdara

😂 😂 I am suddenly a mini celebrity. Haha. I am only joking. But honestly? Don’t laugh, but we are mostly talking about football and working out. And hand to hand combat.

Elain Archeron

You are interested in hand to hand combat??

Gwyneth Berdara

I’ve been studying. Self-defence first, and then I got interested in other things. He is showing me some sicke moves! 

Elain Archeron

? Okay. I guess thank you for getting back to me. Let me know how it progresses.

Gwyneth Berdara

Will do. Also I didn’t realise the two of you were so close. He talks about you a lot. I know you were his matchmaker too but it’s like you are his GF or something.

Elain Archeron

Well, no worries. I am not. Thanks. Bye.

Elain was even more confused and upset about things after that bizarre exchange. Also, who used the expression ‘sicke moves’?

Professor Gwyn was into hand-to-hand combat? And Azriel was teaching her ‘sicke’ moves? Elain knew that Azriel was a fighter and grew up rough, but…what? 

There was no clarity around what was actually happening between Azriel and Gwyn after all that, and Elain only grew more and more anxious.

-

Another Sunday.

It was Nesta’s turn to cook and host, however, Sir Charles insisted that his daughters come to his house instead. And for that, Elain was grateful.

She was even more grateful to her sisters, who’d arrived without their men. She knew that they were lying when they said that both Rhys and Cassian were ‘busy’ on Sunday, but nevertheless, she was grateful to them. She didn’t think that she could handle another painfully awkward lunch with the handsome brothers who looked entirely too much like Azriel, and with her grieving pug. 

She was seated on the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her, her chin resting on her folded hands, as she looked out the window. It was raining. Rain. Rain. Rain. Endless fucking rain. 

She barely bothered today–her appearance was sallow and unkempt. She tied her hair in a messy bun, wore a beige jumper and a pair of yoga trousers–attire which was entirely inappropriate for Sunday lunch and not something she’d ever dare leave the house in. But she just couldn't bring herself to care. When the butler opened the door, he stepped back, lack of recognition evident on his face, before he quickly gathered himself and said, “Lady Elain, good afternoon. Please come in.”

Her father, and neither of her sisters comment on her appearance and the maudlin way that she moved around the house, with Piglet trailing behind her, his nose to the ground. No one was surprised when she went to her father’s study and curled up on the sofa, like she did when she was little.

“He’s lost weight,” Sir Charles noted, as he stroked Piglet’s back, while the pug lay unmoving in his lap.

“Two kilos,” Elain said, looking out the window. Expensive cars rolled down the street, taxis and stray pedestrians huddled under their umbrellas. Late January was miserable. Even the warmth of the fire in the marble fireplace didn’t make a difference. 

“That’s a lot for a pug,” her father commended. “Is he not eating?”

“He eats, but he doesn’t ask for snacks and mostly he just sits by the door,” Elain answered and wiped the tears that rolled down her cheeks. 

“Elain,” he began saying, but she rose up swiftly and rubbed her eyes vigorously.

“I am okay, daddy,”

“No you aren’t,” he said sadly. “No you aren’t”.

She shrugged, like it didn’t matter. And maybe it didn’t. Nothing much mattered.

“Let’s go eat.”

Just then, a knock on the door informed them that lunch was indeed served.

At least life was predictable. Pleasantly predictable here, with her family. There were no treacherous men and no disloyalty.

Feyre and Nesta were already at the table, their expressions worried, even though they tried really hard to act normal. 

“Hi Piggy, come here little boy,” Feyre tried to summon the pug, but Piglet didn’t even look at her and just went to his bowl, sniffing disinterestedly at the chicken and rice offering. 

Once the wine was poured and the soup was served and the butler left the dining room, Nesta, who’s been clutching at her spoon like she was going to lunge at someone with it, snarled,

“I have to say something,”

“Don’t say anything,” Feyre warned. “Nesta. Don’t.”

“That utter arsehole,” Nesta ignored her youngest sister and clutched at her napkin until her knuckles were white.

Sir Charles winced, knowing that the lunch was about to descend into chaos.

“Girls,” he began with a sigh, but suddenly was interrupted by Elain.

Her voice was monotone and she spoke without inflection, staring straight ahead.

“If I die before Piglet,” she said calmly, while the rest of her family tensed and stared at her with apprehension, “show him my body.”

“Elain,” Feyre gasped. But Elain ignored her and continued,

“Bring him over to my deathbed. Allow him to smell me. He will understand death. He will understand that I was gone and that I would not be coming back. Allow him to mourn me. But do not attempt to spare him the sight of me and my death. He should know that he was not abandoned. He must know that I died, but that I did not leave him. He must understand that unlike others, I did not abandon him. Not like his first family and not like Azriel. He should not be waiting by the door for me to come back. Take him to the funeral and allow him to watch me be lowered into the ground so he understands the finality of it all. He must know that Elain loved him and did not leave him on his own. She was not like Azriel. She never lied to him.” 

-

What Elain had missed the most was the casual intimacy.

As another week passed and January was coming to a close, Elain’s life returned to its natural, if boring routine. 

She worked, taking on more clients–thank god for January and ‘resolutions’ and people wanting to couple up–and that took a lot of her time. She was grateful for the distraction, but the nights and the weekends were tough.

Most evenings, she cried herself to sleep, while remembering all the good things that she’d lived through with Azriel. He wasn’t dead, yet the fissure of emptiness inside her chest that was created by his absence really felt like he had died. There was something unsaid and unfinished about them, which bothered her like a toothache. It was a wound which she kept irritating every time she remembered something about him.

How he was so effortlessly sexual with her, and how his relaxed sensuality allowed her to feel free with her own sexuality for the first time in her life. To Azriel, she was beautiful. Always beautiful. Never awkward or chubby or clumsy or strange.

The way he would habitually slap her bum, every time he passed by her. Or pinch it. Or caress it. Or cup it in his large hand. At first it scandalised her. And then, she grew to love it. She grew to expect it. 

The way he strutted around after a shower in only a towel wrapped around his hips, showing off his incredible body…goodness gracious! That was something to behold! The way she learned all the details of his form, no matter how insignificant–his tattoos, the shape of his shoulders, the thickness of his biceps, how his neck was a touch too long for his body, but how that made him appear more graceful. She knew exactly how many abdominal muscles he packed–more than six, and definitely eight, and she knew the shape of his long strong fingers. His hair curled slightly in the back of her neck. His hazel eyes had more green in them than brown, and were peppered with black specks. He had perfect toes. The V of his hips could only be called vicious, because it was so sharp and pointed right at his…The one thing Elain never got to see. She never saw his member. Felt it, knew that it was worryingly large and thick, but she never saw it.

She supposed that she always thought that they’d have more time. 

She recalled how one time, they were in a restaurant. It was moderately busy and they were seated by the window. It so happened that there was no one at the table in front of them, or by their side. So what did he do? He parted her shirt on her chest, and when she thought that he’d just cop a feel–something he did often and without hesitation–he bared her breast completely and tugged on her nipple, while kissing her lips. She sat there, completely delirious with love and arousal, while he pinched and rolled her nipple in his fingers, while squeezing her bare tit in his palm. Just as the waiter approached, he tucked her back in and acted like nothing happened. 

She missed him.

Sometimes, she screamed into her pillow, a long, tortured scream because she…well, she missed him. There was nothing that could replace him in her life. 

She loved him. Loved him when they were together, and loved him now–perhaps even more than before. 

-

He rang her. 

Once.

It was a day like any other. A blustery wintry afternoon, only 5 pm and already pitch black outside. Though slowly, but surely the days were getting a bit longer. Just a little. It was early February and Elain just changed into her comfy joggers and a sweatshirt having just come back from walking Piglet. He hated being outside, especially when it was cold and drizzling, and thankfully, it was a quick walk and he did his business in record time.

For some reason, it didn’t register with Elain that it was Azriel’s name on the Caller ID. 

She’d become so used to his calls and messages that it seemed normal that he’d be ringing her. 

“Hello,” she said.

He seemed surprised when he said, “Hi Elain”.

Everything stopped. 

The moment she heard that voice, that achingly familiar, smooth, deep voice she felt her hands shake, and her heart beat wildly in her chest.

She threw her phone on the counter as if it burned her and then, with her finger trembling, pressed the ‘speaker’ button.

“Why are you calling me?” she demanded, her voice barely a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away.

“Why?” she asked again, and to her horror her voice was already hoarse and weak, and she sounded strangled. Because there were tears in her eyes and she was hyperventilating.

“How are you?” he asked softly instead.

How was she?

How dare he?

How was she?

She howled like an animal in her sorrow over losing him.

She cried.

She screamed.

She wondered what she'd done and why he just left her without an explanation? 

She didn’t eat.

She didn’t sleep or she slept too much.

“Fine. Brilliant. All good,” she laughed a dry, angry laugh. “I am sure you are doing well too, right? How’s Gwyn?”

He sighed, like the sound of her voice pained him.

“I didn’t like the way things ended between us,” he told her somberly, ignoring her question.

“Well, it was your choice, wasn’t it?” she reminded him. 

“I suppose?”

It sounded like he wasn't sure.

“What do you want, Azriel?” she demanded.

“How’s Pink?” he asked instead.

“What do you want to hear exactly?”

Did he want to hear about Piglet crying by the door?

Did he want to hear about Piglet avoiding any football on TV and barking violently for her to change the channel if he saw anyone running on a green field?

Did he want to hear about Piglet sitting and waiting for him for hours, day after day, hoping that his dad would show up?

“You abandoned him,” she accused him savagely. “I told you not to make him fall in love with you. I told you not to allow him to get attached to you. I explicitly told you that this would happen if he thought of you as his own.”

“I am sorry,” he whispered brokenly.

“You did it all. You hurt us, Azriel. What do you expect to happen now?” she questioned him, feeling her voice becoming hysterical. “Two brothers and two sisters together at Christmas. A third sister alone. A third brother who used to date the third sister is now with some random woman. Is this your vision? For all of us to play happy families? Like nothing’s happened. Like we didn’t exist. Like what we had didn’t matter??”

“He did matter,” he argued. “It does.”

She ignored him.

“Cassian and Nesta are dating now. Feyre and Rhys are married. Instead of leaving me alone–like I requested, over and over again–you made me fall for you. Fall in love with you. And then you tossed me aside.”

“You love me?” he breathed a shocked gasp.

“What?” 

“You said you fell in love with me,”

“You are unbelievable,” she cried out. He was always deranged, but now he was even more incomprehensible. What was wrong with him?

“My dog is screaming any time he sees Arsenal signage. My heart is shuttered. Is that what you wanted?” Elain broke down in tears. “Is that what you wanted?

“I never wanted that,” he argued quietly. “I never,”

“What did you think would happen?” she insisted, sobbing. “That I can just walk away?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice devastated. “It all spiralled out of control…I didn’t want any of this.”

She wasn’t listening to him. 

She cried.

Cried for her lost love. Cried for the children she’d never have with him. Cried for the future they’d never have. Cried for not knowing what his perfect day consisted of. Cried for the Christmases they’d never celebrate together again. Cried for his touch and for his kisses and for him next to her in bed. Cried for the games she’d never cheer at. Cried for knowing that she’d never see him snuggling together with Piglet. 

She cried and Azriel listened.

She didn’t know how long it lasted–felt like an hour–and he didn’t say anything. He didn’t comfort her, but he didn’t ask her to stop either. 

At some point, Piglet came over. He looked up at her, watching her weep, and whimpered sadly, before curling himself at her feet.

“I am sorry, Elain,” Azriel whispered at last.

She quieted down, before telling him,

“I wanted to be your wife, you know. I wanted to build a family with you. I wanted to have your children.”

“I understand. And I am sorry.”

“I wish you happiness, Azriel. Even if you robbed me of mine.”

#elriel #elain archeron #azriel #azriel and elain #pro elriel #elain #elain x azriel #my fanfiction #A Match Baked In Heaven #my writing #Elriel fanfic #elain and azriel #azriel x elain #new chapter #acotar fanfiction #modern au

[anika-ann]

Back and Forth - part 6.2

Part 6 - Back-Up 2/2

Type: series; agent!reader, inhuman!reader

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader    Word Count: 14500 (cough-)

Chapter summary:  In which it's your turn to look back at the events at the Hydra base and have a revelation or two. And some of these involve a certain Captain.

Series masterlist

Warnings: blood, mentions of canon-typical violence and injuries and possible death, unhealthy relationship with pain, mentions of chronic illness, issues with self-worth as a courtesy of a completely shitty parenting, language, feels and fluff ✨ Please, let me know any time if you think I missed any!

A/N: ALWAYS MIND THE WARNINGS; dividers by @firefly-graphics 💕; moodboard is for the vibes and does not necessarily reflect reader’s appearance

A/N2: hello, loves, thank you for your patience and enjoy nearly 15k worth of words. Ehm. If you want to break it into two parts, I recommend you to do so at the change in POV (but know that it's in like 2/3 of this part 🥲) Enjoy ✨

The swirl of delicate fabric around your ankles came with a soft swooshing sound, a faint glimmer catching your eye as the light reflected off the sparkles peppering your dress. Warm hand between your shoulder blades holding you securely to a firm body, the other cradling your hand gently. Gaze trailing from the bowtie over the faintest hint of stubble and plush lips curled in a barely-there warm smile, bright eyes soft with affection that still sent butterflies flipping their wings like mad in your stomach. The subtle caress of his thumb over the silver of skin revealed by the tiny opening of the dress on your back causing you to shudder, heat pooling in your abdomen.

He noticed the effect his minute touch had on you. He must have, the loveable bastard, because his smile earned the familiar innocently wicked edge, his pupils dilating just a fraction, his thigh slipping between yours further with the next step, firm muscle feeling like a teasing taste of heaven against your centre.

“Steve-“

“I’m right here, sweetheart,” he whispered, lips at your ear, brushing down the sensitive skin of the column of your throat, the masculine scent of him enveloping your senses, your head tipping back to make space for his demanding lips. The graze of his teeth had you whimper, hips rocking against him, a soft menacing ‘oh doll’ rolling off his tongue before all pretence of what used to be a dance was gone, hand slipping to your lower back, encouraging you to press into him further, his other hand releasing yours in favour of cradling your jaw and leading your parted lips to his hungry ones. “My beautiful doll… I’ve got you.”

You sighed as you could already almost taste his lips, a tingle burning on your own, instinctively chasing after the pleasure they could provide when you felt their warmth retreat.

You winced when the touch of his hands disappeared too, all but a brush of fingertips remaining, wet and sticky; flash of crimson on his skin, startled gaze, sharp orders followed by words of soft reassurance whispered between heavy breaths, intrusive acrid smell of copper and chemicals causing you to scrunch your nose. Blue and purple of your gown turning black, pristine white shirt torn and drowned in terrifying red; a flash of glowing symbols, an absurdly evil smile replacing Steve’s face in your vision. Gunshot. Body flying backwards. Gun going off twice more. The world tilting to side. Heavy, painless crash. Beeping. That goddamn fluorescent lamp.

A gasp.

You blinked your eyes open, acutely aware of the twitch of your fingers feeling uncertain and heavy.

A dimly-lit room with a few bright points.

A flicker of grey and rust-like red on your right, flash of white on your left. A lab coat.

You drew in another sharp breath, startled, pulse hammering in your temples in fright; Doctor Barret. You were still-

“Well good afternoon, Spectre. You with us for a while this time?” a familiar voice asked, causing you to snap your head from the white coat worn by a doctor who was most definitely not Doctor Barret when you actually looked at him. Even as the menacing glint in Hydra’s doctor eye still flickered in your mind, your brain registered you got a glimpse the pleasant neutral face of a man you vaguely recognized as one belonging to the AI medical team, before you turned your eye to the right.

There, you were met with a subtle smirk on the face of a redhead; Natasha Romanoff, the world’s deadliest spy, a title she was perhaps sharing with Agent May.

Uncomfortably vivid flashes of memories flooded your brain as you were coming to, your heart racing; but upon seeing Natasha, you felt your body relax into the bed. Because you were in a bed – and you were most definitely not in a Hydra facility, but at the Tower’s med bay.

They had come to the rescue. Daisy had come. And probably many other too; you recalled voices, shouting, hissing, whimpering, a glow behind your closed eyelids-

You shot up on your bed, biting back the dull but very intense tug of pain in your thighs as you sat up with a startle. The glow.

“The artifact! Natasha, they can’t touch it, we don’t know-“

A gentle hand landed on your arm; you didn’t realize how close she was standing until she touched you, your heart, having jumped in fright at the mere idea of someone else getting tangled in the mess Kree artifacts tended to stir, pounding wildly at what was probably meant to be a soothing gesture.

Was that even safe, touching you? What if she got involved by merely doing that? What if the power somehow transferred---

--alright, that didn’t make any sense, because the brainless sadistic Hydra jerks had touched you as well, probably with no consequence, but-

“Relax. Breathe. The artifact is taken care off, locked up as of now,” Natasha stated calmly, her eyes roaming your face with what you were pretty certain was concern, even as she retreated her hand. “Doc, could you-“

The doctor – you were quite sure his name was Doctor Cuesta – excused himself in an instant, promising to check on you later and left without protest. Such was the power of Natasha Romanoff’s words; no questioning an order or even a request, just following it.

Some might find it odd, but to you, such behaviour was nothing new – you’d expect nothing less.

The baffling part of the scene would be the presence of Natasha by your bedside. That itself made for a peculiar but warm feeling in your gut, the only plausible reason for that being that she had come to check up on you; but it was another thing entirely to allow yourself to realize that the probability of you waking up the one moment she was here before she’d move on to tend to other things was almost absurdly low.

Which meant she wasn’t only checking up on you, but actually was spending some time here. And that was a hard thing to swallow, even as it tasted a little sweet.

The rational part of you was very firm in its reasoning that perhaps she and other Avengers took turns in your room just in case a new side effect of the power switch appeared and needed to be tackled, and now it was simply Natasha’s time.

The reckless part of you, the sentimental fraction of that part of you, shyly suggested that she was simply here because she cared. It wasn’t entirely unheard of that she was capable of feeling, naturally. Ater all, she had let a few people peek behind the hard shell of the Black Widow, Bucky Barnes making the top of the list.

It was just rather strange that you were included in that group of people at all.

And yet.

It still wasn’t the strangest thing about the whole scene.

As relief flooded your veins, the most acute fear having been soothed for the moment since you were no longer in Hydra’s clutches, you noticed that the already surreal scene – with all your senses in overdrive and dulled at once, probably due to whatever meds they were pumping into you through the i.v., which you had only just noticed – was a full fever dream. Because as the doctor left, your gaze caught on another person in the room. One that had had to been there the whole time, silent, only an echo of his harsher breaths having been reaching your ears, too quiet for you to notice before. And his cerulean eyes were firmly set on you, a tired minute smile on his lips.

The one person whom your very next words would have concerned, because your thoughts were consumed by him as well.

He was wearing a sling on his right arm and shoulder, a butterfly band-aid over what was probably a cut over his brow, a dark shiner on his cheek. Dressed in a simple grey hoodie and black sweats, he seemed as hulk-like as usual, even if worn to a bone and slightly hunched in his chair; but intent as he rose to his feet, stepping closer to your bed.

Now his presence was truly puzzling, even as it shouldn’t be, you supposed. Despite that, however, confusion was a feeling firmly pushed out by a very different sentiment, a whole sea of it.

Your shoulders sagged as you felt tension you hadn’t been aware of melt off your body; because he was okay. Well, as okay as one could be after what you had been through.

Steve was okay.

You were alive. Both of you.

And you were home.

Safe.

Despite the raging storm of sensations and emotions that seeing him stirred, it was relief that crashed into you with enough force to turn your eyes uncomfortably glassy.

It was over. It really was over.

There must have been so much mess to sort through; you had no idea where you stood with the powers exchange, had even less of an idea about where you stood with Steve, Captain Rogers, The Mighty Captain, the jerk, the kindest soul – but the horror was over.

Hydra would not shoot you in the head; Hydra would not cut you open and dig around in your body with glee, discovery that required experimentation. Not today.

And Steve was okay.

“Hey,” you whispered, the single word slipping off your lips unwittingly, causing his smile to widen, his eyes lighting up with life – and with a speckle of concern. Because of course he had noticed your tears welling up a bit.

The flash of a memory of his eyes, truly glowing with something, affection and desire, had your cheeks burn and your stomach flip in as much excitement as shame; that had been just a dream. A very, very nice dream that you could surely blame on medication just in case you had been making any embarrassing noises.

However, if you had, Steve didn’t mention it. Instead, he greeted you with a ‘hey’ in return, with a gentle sound of your name.

The feeling in your belly stirred by that had nothing to do with shame this time; the corners of your lips turned upwards without conscious effort. You felt fresh wave of heat rise to your cheeks; it was no doll or sweetheart, but it wasn’t Spectre either, nor Agent.

Wherever you stood with him now, it wasn’t at a distance; and it wasn’t on a battlefield where you’d face each other either.

The sound of someone clearing their throat snapped you from what probably looked like embarrassing gazing, Natasha’s lips curling up further in concerningly knowing amusement.

“As I was saying. No need to worry about the artifact now. Between the glowing, live feed, Steve telling us and Johnson being able to recover the draft of the message you were trying to send from the auction, we knew enough to keep our hands off,” she explained. “And if that wouldn’t have done it, Johnson had a few colourful curses for us when she saw the symbols, mostly about all things Kree, so that was quite a dead giveaway.”

For all the new information, the corners of your lips twitched at the last piece of it. Of course. You could imagine that after everything that happened especially to Daisy, she would have had a plethora of swearwords at her disposal for such situations.

It wasn’t like your last shared Kree escapade had been kind to you either; you might have not been mind-controlled by an ancient Inhuman named Hive to turn against your team like she had been, but you had sort of been the person who turned out to be the SHIELD agent from a vision of the future Daisy had once been offered; stuck on a quinjet aimlessly flowing through space right before the craft exploded. The memory of body-wrenching invasion, Hive’s clutches having been slowly seeping into your spectre even as you had been snapping back from the quinjet so your spectre wouldn’t end scattered all over the Milky Way, still made you shudder and had made for recurring nightmares.

For a single alien race, Kree sure had messed with your life enough for ten lifetimes already.

Chasing away the dark memories, you latched onto another piece of information; Steve had told them about the artifact. That meant he had been conscious when they had picked him up, or at least hadn’t been unconscious for long. Certainly not longer than you. Which meant that even though he looked a little worse for wear – he was beautiful still, it truly was unfair, you’d bet you looked like an utter mess, while he looked like a warrior demi-god who needed a little nap – he truly was mostly fine.

You couldn’t but wonder if the serum was the reason for that.

“Fair enough,” you hummed absently before your gaze turned back to Steve, drawn to him like a magnet.

He was still smiling a bit, the concern evident on his face; it reminded you of the way he had watched you back in the cell and despite the cold fear that had gripped you several times back there, all you felt now was warmth; because the flash of dreadful memory of blood and pain digging into your mind came with a soft memory of his tender touch. Unfairly, beautifully tender touch of his hands that had not been strictly limited to treating your wounds.

You cleared your throat, attempting to snap your mind back to the present and much more business-like reality. “So… the artifact is safe, locked away. Does that mean we’re back to normal? We’ve got our abilities back?”

You should probably be able to tell on your own; but with no doubt generous dose of medication in your system, evaluating the intensity of stimuli to your senses was… rather difficult.  

Steve’s smile grew an even more tired note when Natasha shot him a meaningful look at your question and he shook his head, causing your lips to part in surprise.

“Not yet,” he said simply, returning Natasha’s glare before he fully turned his attention to you, moving to the left side of your bed. It felt like you had an angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other; and despite their looks, Steve’s hair always resembling a halo and Natasha’s being distinctly devilish red, you weren’t sure who was which. Why weren’t you back to normal? Why- “First, we’re not sure how exactly the artifact works and we’re not risking anything before Agent Campbell goes through the archives and Jiaying’s notes. Secondly… frankly, we think we should stay like this a little longer. We agreed you could definitely benefit from more time with accelerated healing. What do you say?”

You opened your mouth and then closed it again, no sound coming out. Your gaze flickered back to Natasha – it seemed she had quite a lot to say about that, but she didn’t make a sound. At least not here, not in front of you.

Guilt instantly bit into your stomach.

The longer you benefited from the effects of the serum, free of pain, the longer Steve suffered, caught in completely unnecessary pain. The latter was simply unacceptable and the former… well. That was always a dangerous thing for you to trifle with. Painless days – even as you were not completely pain-free now – were a thing of dreams you’d easily grow used to. You never had tried heavy drugs for the fear of having your performance messed up, but ever since you had gained your powers and discovered what they entailed, you imagined painless days as a mixture of heroin and morphine; euphoria and relief.

You’d soon start craving that cocktail once you wouldn’t be able to get your hands on it. The sudden absence would cause absolute havoc in your life.

But even if you accepted that; it wasn’t fair at all. It wasn’t fair at all that Steve should suffer consequences of your abilities and its faults. You understood the concerns about unpredictability of using the artifact, but besides that, it shouldn’t even be a subject to discussion.

So you couldn’t say you didn’t understand Natasha’s meaningful look at Steve or her stance; except perhaps you didn’t. Because when you dared to meet her gaze, fully expecting reproach, she was smiling instead, perhaps a little exasperatedly; and while you had misjudged her behaviour before, she appeared genuine in her concern. She might not like seeing her friend in pain in the slightest, but she heard the argument loud and clear. And perhaps, whether one could call you something akin to friendly colleagues or not, she didn’t revel in seeing you in pain either.

Yet, Steve saying they had agreed, whoever the ‘we’ was supposed entail, felt like a farce.

You might be on pain medication, the world slightly hazier than normal, but it was abundantly clear that Stevewas the one who had decided and accepted no counter-arguments. He could get like that sometimes. The infamous ‘everyone’s input counts, don’t be afraid to say your piece, we are a team’ of his flew out of the window if he felt strongly about something.

And he apparently felt very strongly about this.

You gulped as you gathered courage to look at him again, a not-so-quiet voice whispering sleazily about how pathetic you were and about that being the reason why he wanted to wait with the exchange. About how he had seen you at such a low point he could never believe you were good enough for any mission ever again, deciding that you were weak and needed all the support you could get to even survive, to even-

-but the emotions playing on his face, even as you couldn’t decipher them all, didn’t speak of contempt or pity. His smile remained nothing but soft, without a single hint of perceived or believed superiority of his own being. And without as much as a hint of him minding being in pain and taking longer to heal, not when it helped someone else, not when-

God, how that lit up fire in you, how that drove you up the wall. That stupid perfect ultimate good guy with a hero complex, his absurdly big heart larger than his already impressive body, so irritatingly kind, wrapped in a flag of self-sacrifice for good of others--- god, how you despised him for being that good. How you admired him for the very same reasons.

“But you-“

“I have one fully patched-up gunshot wound, mostly just a scratch, a few cuts and bruises, and a transfusion and some quality painkillers in my system,” Steve listed evenly, clearly having expecting your protest.

Those don’t work on the chest however, you reminded yourself, your gaze probably conveying the message even as you hadn’t said it, because Steve’s eyebrow arched slightly. “I’ll sleep it off. And I will heal the rest once I have my abilities back… we think. So truly. Your body needs the serum a lot more than mine.”

The lump that had started growing in your throat under Steve’s watchful gaze expanded further, suffocating and warming at once.

His choice of words felt like everything but accidental: your body. Not ‘you’.

Because that bastard, that infuriatingly observant sweet bastard, even without his serum momentarily but with about a hundred of injuries big and small, remembered and understood that feeling like less, being called less especiallyby someone like him andhim in particular, even if not intentionally, set off your attitude. He knew that now; because you had put almost all your cards on the table back in the Hydra facility. The fact it hadn’t been all cards clearly meant nothing; because when Steve had chosen the words, when he had seen, you might have been under at least two covers and in a hospital gown, but you’d be damned if you didn’t feel completely naked and exposed.

And the absolutely scariest part was… that it wasn’t as scary as you’d have expected it to be.

Not in front of him. Not when he had seen you at the bottom of the pit already. If anything, this was progress; after all, you were fully conscious and he wasn’t tearing your thigh-highs to shreds for the sole reason of treating two bullet wounds. But still. He was watching you with such a knowing gaze and yet, you weren’t bolting and it had nothing to do with your momentary inability to do about a single step. The tidal wave of emotions washing over you at that realization was… baffling and disconcerting to say at least. And rather difficult to process.

And his eyes… that gaze, so damn inquiring, caring and soft. It made your skin prickle and your fingers tingle and not all of it was entirely unpleasant.

“And before you ask, I admit I don’t like it, seeing either of you in pain, but I second that,” Natasha said, snapping you from your thoughts even as her voice was quiet, no doubt sensing this was a lot. And perhaps she was feeling a bit like an intruder. An intruder to what exactly? You would not dare to give it a name or ponder about it too much; it would only bring you a headache. Worse, a heartache. “You need to heal and we have no clue about the risks yet. So. I’m going to call Agent Campbell to check on his progress… Excuse me. And in the meantime, rest. Both of you. Feel better.”

She sweetened her last words with a smile and another meaningful look at Steve, whatever that was about; your best guess was that she was calling him out on not resting properly and being here in your room instead. Then, she cleared the space, the door sliding close behind her quietly.

Why was Steve here in your room instead of resting?

The question was silly really – you already had your answer. You would have known even before he had admitted to you back in the cell just how profoundly responsible he felt for his team and their wellbeing. He felt responsible for his subordinates and equals alike. He cared; though depriving himself of accelerating healing for your benefit seemed like an overkill.

And it certainly felt like a lot more than should be done for you.

You already had the best medical team in the country if not in the world at your disposal, one that could accommodate you and your Inhuman mutation, more than well-equipped to deal with the fact that it now somehow combined with the effects of Steve’s serum. It was already a lot more privilege than an average agent should have. Using the accelerating healing felt like an unfair profit and you wanted to protest despite being grateful and despite the valid argument Steve made.

But one single look at Steve told you arguing was useless. One look at the faint flame of determination in his eye and you heard the echo of his words from the cell clear as day.

You’re a person first, an asset to the team next.

You deserve to rest, you deserve having your needs met, you deserve to be treated like a damn human being.

You deserve better than that.  And you are sure as hell going to get that when you’re with us.

The lump in your throat grew another three times bigger, the burn of tears in your eyes intensified; but you spilled none, swallowing heavily instead. There was a faint buzzing in your temples, but you tried to ignore that. Because this was important. If you weren’t about to try and argue Steve out of doing something stupid as you usually did and should, because you’d have about as much success as trying to move a mountain, you might as well express your gratitude at least.

“Thank you for checking up on me,” you rasped, clearing your throat; your tongue felt a little heavy too, especially when he smiled and you did not want to think about why. “For agreeing… for deciding about the… postponing the switch. I’m sorry, I don’t—it’s hard to form words, I-...”

It’s hard to say ‘thank you’ when you look at me like there’s no reason for that gratitude.

When you look like it’s all as easy and matter-of-course courtesy as holding a door open for a woman.

When you look at me, now, without an imminent threat to our lives, and the things we talked about still hang in the air, exposing so many things that I never wanted to see the light of the day.

When you’re doing me an enormous favour and you look like it’s not just because of believing it’s the right thing to do, but maybe, just a little, because it’s for me.

“Of course. And don’t worry, they did mention they have a bit of trouble to balance our dosages of medication, unsure about the serum effects or the lack of it,” he said, so casually kindly again.

“Right,” was all you managed to muster.

Medication miscalculation was most definitely not the only reason why you had trouble speaking; if Steve realized that and he was giving you an out, you couldn’t tell, but didn’t want to investigate. You were simply grateful for not having to explain what might have been written all over your face despite trying your damnest to look mostly neutral and probably failing epically.

The silence that settled tasted a little awkward; as you tried, in the subtlest way possible, to assess Steve’s body language, mulling over his words again, you felt a fresh stab of guilt. He was hunched over a little – and he had mentioned that the med team had issues managing his pain too. They didn’t know how to deal with his natural pain, because his metabolism changed too; as if it wasn’t enough there was nothing they could do for the extra pain in his chest.

And you could easily rid of that, probably of both.

He'd deserve that. More than anyone you had ever met.

What kind of a person were you to deny him that? You shouldn’t. You couldn’t. You didn’t ant to argue with him, not when whatever progress you had made in your relationship was so fragile, but… you couldn’t let him do that.

“Steve, about that switching, I don’t think it’s the best idea to wa-“

“I do,” he said firmly, straightening his posture a bit. Whether that was to establish dominance – as if he wasn’t already standing while you were semi-lying – or to cover up for the fact his chest was no doubt hurting like son of a bitch still, you weren’t sure. But he did; and when he spoke again, you had to admit it was probably the latter. “I’m fine. How are you feeling?”

God, that stubborn son of a-

You bit down the curse, mildly, very mildly mollified by the warm smile – with the subtlesthint of mischief – he charmed up as he tilted his head, waiting.

So you sighed instead.

He gave you time as you allowed yourself to feel your body, the muscles of your legs stiff and relaxed at once, a significantly duller ache than you’d expect, exhaustion seeping deep in your bones despite having barely just woken up. As you kept assessing, pondering about the right balance of honesty and propriety, Steve’s eyes flickered to a nearby chair standing barely a few feet from him, then back to you with an unspoken but clear question.

Despite your better judgement, you nodded, belly warm at the idea of him staying a little longer when you were indeed not in imminent danger and he was still being amicable with you.

He wanted to stay.

He wanted to know how you felt; he considered you a one of the people he felt truly responsible for.

He cared.

You shouldn’t be so content, shouldn’t give in, certainly shouldn’t be feeling like you were slowly melting on the inside. Your heart shouldn’t be fluttering. But you had already established your judgement was impaired at best, didn’t you?

And again, despite your better judgement, you also told Steve the truth. There was simply something in his eyes as he watched you with concern but a small smile, clearly content you had granted him his wish to sit down and stay a little longer instead of screaming your disagreement to his face, that just made you actually want to tell the truth. To be on honest terms.

“I’m… a little less than fine, I guess,” you admitted reluctantly, only to see his smile slip, gaze instantly drawn to the nurse button by your bed. But a nurse would not help you with this; not with feeling rather lost in all the sensations and emotions and feeling like you were losing your last defences to the all-kinds-of-gorgeous man by your bedside. “But I… I would have been dead without you.”

Steve shook his head in dismissal.

The sudden urge – to make him seethat dismissing all he had done as if it was some kind of a common courtesy was utter nonsense –flared up in your chest with intensity, shooting straight into your veins even before he spoke up.

“You removed the bullets yourself-“

“And you took care of me. You--- you protected me. With everything you had and caught a bullet for that, because I needed-“

“I needed to do at least something,” he interrupted you in turn, your mouth falling shut at the urgency of his tone, the atmosphere suddenly heavier and thicker than just a moment ago with something you couldn’t quite grasp except for feeling the gravity and passion behind Steve’s words. “The fact that I, at least partly, got us into that situation was just one of many reasons why. And you, you warned us that that might happen, and yet when it came, you didn’t throw it in my face, not really, but instead fought tooth and nail, suffering the consequences of a mistake that was not your own and tried you damnest to help even when you were fighting for your life. Healing a little faster than usual is the least you deserve and me having done what I did and enabling that healing now is the least I can do.”

You swallowed heavily, not daring to move otherwise, not ready to make a sound; too stunned. His words were heavy with guilt, bright with sincerity and laced with the echo of those in the cell again.

You deserve better than that. And you are sure as hell going to get that when you’re with us.

And you understood. You understood that the guilt he had revealed might have been a strong motivator of his, but not the only one. He wanted to do that for you. Because he cared.

The thought was dizzying still, but with that, you supposed you could live. You could live, even though with heavy conscience, with him choosing to wait if it eased his conscience. It wasn’t written anywhere that the switch couldn’t happen right tomorrow – just not right now. Whenever that might occur, however, the delay was still an enormous sacrifice; one worthy of Captain America. One worthy of Steve Rogers.

It would enrage you to no end that he was willing to do that, if it only didn’t make your heart flutter.

You licked your lips, mouth having gone dry as you found yourself under his burning gaze the whole time you pondered your answer.

“I--- thank you, Steve. And not just for that. I am still grateful for what you did for me back there too… and how.”

And you meant that too.

Because you did remember with painful and startling quality. Remembered how tender and careful his hands had been, how soothing his voice had sounded, how sincere his words had been. You hadn’t really deserved such softness; and certainly, when looking back, hadn’t expected it either – used to a cold shoulder, drills and words that couldn’t be farther from the endearments Steve’s lips spilled – even as you had known Steve was simply a unique kind of man.

You’d always be grateful for all of it, even as his actions had been a double-edged sword.

Thank you for what you did and how; even if it ruined me forever. Even if it crushed most if not all the walls I had built so meticulously so I wouldn’t jump into the void of allowing myself to feel anything but caution, irritation and insanely bothersome admiration when it came to you.

The memory of his soft touch would haunt you forever; it had already haunted your dream, after all, the endearments whispered by his lips in a context and situation imagined, but fed by a real memory.

At your words, Steve smiled a bit, concern and determination replaced by sheer warmth that felt like a fluffy blanket caressing your skin, inviting you to sink into its softness.

“Anytime, doll.”

The conviction in the single word strummed your heartstrings gently; the endearment, falling from his lips so effortlessly again, tugged at them violently and made you shiver.

Your chuckle sounded foreign and nervous, the heat blooming in your chest a little heavy.

“Is that going to be a thing now?”

Steve sat up straighter in an instant, only reminding you of how close he had leaned forward to you before; he appeared a little flushed, a tinge of pink in his cheeks, expression one of a boy caught with a hand in the cookie jar. It took away five years of his handsome face and it was beautiful.

It was such an awfully sweet picture that the nerves melted away, giving into the gentle fire instead.

“Oh. Sorry, I-“

“No, I-… I like it…” you admitted unwittingly, slowly, feeling your cheeks burn with heat and your lungs with panic, because what were you doing? What were you thinking, not only feeling it, but confessing to that, no matter how true it was. You couldn’t--- you shouldn’t- “I think,” you added quickly.

You fooled no one.

But oh, that brilliant smile Steve’s lips split into and his fingertips brushing over your hand laxly laid on the bed, before his hand gently enveloped yours, made that admission damn well worth it. Even if your chest felt paper-thin, with your pounding heart threatening to burst right through.

God, you were glad you only had the oximeter on your other hand and were not attached to the kind of ECG that was hooked to a beeping monitor. You’d die of embarrassment if Steve could actually hear the somersaults your heart was doing; you were set on the course of committing ritualistic suicide by allowing yourself to feel that way already, there was no need to add to it, really, no need to let him hear-

And yet you couldn’t imagine you truly would care if he heard. Not when his warm hand carefully squeezed yours, a flicker of apprehension in his gaze when he did so, almost as if he was – arguably rightfully – worried it would make you pull your hand back.

But you did no such thing; like a fool. Like a fool in lo- no. That was so not a wise direction for your thoughts.

“Yeah,” Steve hummed, his shoulders sagging a bit when you not only hadn’t yanked your hand free, but instinctively – yes, certainly, it was pure reflex, not a conscious decision at all, right? – briefly squeezed back. “Me too.”

There was something setting off all alarm bells inside you at the direction you were both steering towards; but there was also something chasing tears of relief and affection into your eyes.

Because what you were experiencing, what you were seeing, was precious on so many levels.

Sweet. Vulnerable. Less than confident.

Stubborn. In pain not entirely hidden. Slipping. Soft.

New layers of Steve uncovered, revealed voluntarily for you to see. You had willed yourself to be a little more honest and accept, however reluctantly, his kindness; and in return, he took your words to heart too, letting you see more of him than what he was used to showing.

He had admitted back in the cell that what the agents could of him, a drastically uncomplete image with virtues having painted all of it, was what he believed was necessary. Ironically, you had never found yourself admiring him more – steering faster towards the very dangerous territory of liking him and allowing yourself to feel it and giving into it – than right now.

You were not blind to the opportunity; you were not blind to the fact it cost him something too, because letting go of masks and tearing down walls was a painful and often impossible process. You appreciated it; and he deserved know that.

“And, I-“

His smile grew a little curious, intent, so genuinely interested in whatever you wanted to say that you couldn’t bear his gaze anymore, your eyes focusing on his hand on yours instead; it only stirred emotion in you further, because the sight was all kinds of peculiar. Not only because of the simple insane fact that he was holding your hand – Jesus, you needed to get a grip and not on his hand, no matter how nice that would have felt – but because of his scraped knuckles and two tiny cuts. An image unparalleled; you had never seen that. Either you weren’t shown, obviously, or the small injuries hadn’t stuck for long enough, the serum coursing his veins working its miracles and healing.

And he wanted you to have that kind of miraculous luxury for now, giving it up for your benefit. For you. It might be unfathomable, but that made it no less touching, the feeling blooming in your chest no less consuming.

That large warm pawn of his might have as well be pulling directly at your heartstrings with every second he spent in your company, with every step forward you felt he was taking.

“I… it might be just painkillers talking, but I like you better like this. I mean-- better than the perfect Captain America. Not hurt, obviously,” you said, mentally cursing your choice of words.

And cursing the confession itself. The moment you said it out loud, you realized it revealed too much. You didn’t dare to look up for the very reason; but it felt like Steve’s smile widened, your mind supplying you with an image of his eyes crinkling for some reason.

The barely-there twitch of his hand felt self-deprecating, looking back at his own behaviour critically; that made you feel a touch braver. And a bit more confident that he truly wondered what was on your mind and wanted to hear and see what you thought and who you were; bad humour included.

It only felt right to show it.

“I also liked it when you told me to tell you what to do for a change.”

You were rewarded for speaking up; with a gorgeous sound of his chuckle sending tingles down your veins, a sight of his absurdly handsome face lighting up and him leaning a bit closer, brighter, but with serious note to his cerulean eyes, the faintest hint of hesitance as his laugh faded out, only his smile remaining

“Well. I’ll deny it and will never speak of it again if you just say the word, but I just… I just like you.”

Lightning.

It struck you like a lightning, electrifying, burning and icy cold all at once. Paralysing.

If holding his hand had seemed like a risk, now he figuratively took your other hand too and led you straight into the minefield. And you might have trusted him to do that, but reached for even more humour anyway, because the feeling coiling inside you expanded with the first breath you dared to take and then further with every other and you had no clue how to contain it.

He liked you.

“Such flattery.”

It did not come out as snarky as intended; in fact, it came out just as touched as you felt, the echo of his words resonating in your very bones, the marrow crumbling and rebuilding anew. You suspected your expression revealed a little too much of how profoundly that single statement seemed to change what might be a little piece of you, but changed you fundamentally. Your voice came out a touch too vulnerable – but you supposed that was only fair. He had been vulnerable first. Right?

So why did it feel like so much? Too much.

You half-expected Steve to take it back, if not for anything, than for the very magnitude of such statement; but he kept watching you, painfully gentle and unable to take it anymore, your gaze slid lower to his chest.

The flash of a terrifying image – a ghastly memory – had you wince, the bubble Steve had seemed to create bursting, reality crashing in.

“How’s… how bad is the chest pain?”

Steve didn’t call you out on the change of topic; but his smile earned a tense edge, the briefest flash of a grimace telling you the pain was, unsurprisingly and unfortunately, barely bearable. As it tended to be when a person got shot.

But he didn’t say a word about that pain, stubborn; and perhaps he was purposely letting you get a taste your own medicine, showing you another piece of the only almost-perfect puzzle he was – a tiny bit vindictive, proving a point when given the chance. You supposed you couldn’t exactly argue that you didn’t deserve that behaviour.

Or maybe he simply didn’t want to fight, didn’t want to disturb the nice warm moment by digging into a very painful spot. Literally.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said simply.

And yet, there was an undertone to his voice, one that had your breath catch and took you all too long to figure out, only knocking the remnants of air from your lungs when you did realize what his patient gaze spoke of as well.

This was not only his answer to you.

This was his answer to anyone who asked.

And you wanted to be mad at him, for being a hypocrite, for hiding pain, no doubt telling people he was fine, as he had told you too-

-but the motivation behind that action was not as simple and straightforward as him putting on the face he always believed was necessary. Because it was so much more complicated than. Because it was about you too.

That was what he was telling you.

You did not believe that it would last. There was no universe in which Steve Rogers would make a discovery of such nature and kept it for himself, or would keep it but let it slide without any consequence, good or bad; but for now, he did. He hadn’t revealed your secret to anyone.

Your choked ‘thank you’, when you finally gathered enough air and wits to speak, was barely audible.

And that infuriatingly good bastard just smiled, a little conspiratory, as if he had a secret you now knew, even if it was the other way around.

“I should let you rest,” he said lowly, brushing over your gratitude – because of course he did. “Rest well. Feel better.”

Despite his words, he did not move an inch away from you; he didn’t let go either, the only movement being a painfully soft sweep of his thumb over the back of your hand, over your wrist.

The minuscule, seemingly instinctual caress made something warm hum in your chest, loud.

So unlike two weeks ago with the parting words after your fight – god, did it feel like a lifetime ago, and maybe it was, the experience of the past hours changing you, leaving you alive but reborn – you allowed yourself to respond in kind, consciously letting sincerity slip into your voice.

“You too.”  

Steve smiled wide, eyes crinkling – and this time, you did see it, the image much prettier and vivid than your mind had conjured before. The feeling in your chest hummed even louder and fluttered its wings, an echo of a sweet melody and his words in your head.

I just like you.

He had exposed his heart, shared a good thing with you. That was another thing you should reciprocate, for it might be a dangerous truth, but one Steve would deserve to hear. Yet, you found yourself unable to do it.

You were no hero – not like him. There was not enough courage left to say those words – but that didn’t mean you weren’t willing to put in an effort, to hint at least. Because one thing needed to be made crystal clear; that reckless, beautiful thing, blossoming around your heart, pulling at the seams of your ribcage.

“And I… think I will want you to speak of… that again. Later?” you suggested quietly, half-expecting him to burst out with a laughter, a ‘ha gotcha!’ coming at last,; half-hoping he would do no such thing.

Sure, men being interested in your person might not be a foreign concept to you, be it your status, skills or abilities, but neither were the bets and conquests of the one with higher status and skills than their own – which for sure would not be Steve’s case. It couldn’t be. He would never.

Yet, you felt apprehension creep up your spine as you confessed; one quickly dissolved in his velvety voice. 

“I’d like that too.”

You squeezed his hand back at that, vainly shushing the overly giddy sensation awoken. You really, really needed to get a grip on yourself. But you didn’t take your indirect confession back – which meant your judgement was most definitely impaired. And funnily enough, you didn’t mind one bit.

For a long moment, neither of you said a word; neither of you commented on the minute physical affection you showed, this time entirely consciously. Steve didn’t tease you about it, didn’t turn it against you in any way, nor exploited it, his smile only turning a tad warmer, without pressure.

It occurred to you it was no wonder you had been unable to say ‘I like you’ back to him; it would have been a lie. ‘Liking’ him just might be too weak of a word at the moment.

“Good,” you whispered simply, earning another caress on your hand, this time surer, firmer, but no less gentle.

Then, one last squeeze of a hand and Steve was rising to his feet at last. The way you missed the warmth of his touch instantly was downright criminal; you just weren’t sure whether it was you or him who should get arrested. 

“See you soon, doll.”

Him. He was the one who should be locked up and with a warning.

Over the power of his words, a very faint sound of the door sliding open reached your ears but not your brain – so you responded in kind again.

“See you soon, stranger.”

He grinned – that criminal grinned – as if he could remember you calling him that back at the charity auction, and made his way to the door where he turned back to you just to spare you one more smile. As a consequence, he nearly collided with one Daisy Johnson before he disappeared from your sight completely.

But not before you witnessed Daisy’s appreciative onceover, a firm dutiful ‘Captain Rogers’ on her lips. Once the door slid shut, her gaze found yours, mutely, but very exaggeratingly mouthing a ‘wow’.

And you kinda wished she would have stayed in the mute mode when she actually spoke.

“Well, lucky you, doll.”

“Shut up.”

Despite your harsh words, you were smiling, feeling heat rising in your cheeks – and realizing there was a dull ache in them too. Given the fact you hadn’t been punched there, as far as you knew, it meant that your cheeks hurt from smiling too long. And you couldn’t seem to make it stop, trying, but failing as your lips instantly curled up again.

Daisy’s unoffended chuckle sounded like it was coming from an enormous distance.

What was wrong with you? What were you, a teenager? A kid?So Steve had said he liked you and held you hand for a bit, gee, yeah, a big deal. Except it was. And definitely not just because you couldn’t have stood each other – or acted like it – barely two weeks ago, which was just another thing that should make you freak out and in a way it did, because this was insane and dangerous, but--- god. The way he just casually swept his thumb over the back of your hand was doing visceral things to you; and your brain might have been screaming at you because of that, but heaven help you, you still liked it.

It was a good thing that Daisy, the closest thing you had to a friend, was here now, to bring your feet back to Earth.

Except she was about to do no such thing, naturally – damn her pure hopeful heart and dirty mouth.

“You know, I know I once said I’d like to get my hands on Thor,” she hummed, grinning, spying the chair by your bed and plopped down into it without bothering asking permission, “but I’m not picky about my Avengers… like, at all.”

You couldn’t help it; you snorted, even as an irrational growl of mine seemed to echo in your skull.

“Yeah, right, tell that to Lincoln.”

“What? I can appreciate a handsome beefcake of a man still, I have eyes!”

“Yeah, for Lincoln Campbell, your boyfriend,” you reminded her with amusement, even as she most definitely needed no reminder; the two were sickeningly, beautifully in love.

Only when she raised her eyebrow, you noticed the butterfly band aid on her forehead – it truly spoke of how out of it you were to notice it only now despite the injury literally staring into your face.

You sat up straighter, frowning. “Hey, what happened? How are you doing?”

Daisy’s right eyebrow joined the left one, her hand subtly pointing towards her – and then you.

“Me? I’m fine. You, however, have two gunshot wounds, Ms. Avenger. What the hell?”

Your smile slipped at the addressing making a return, instinct taking over. “I’m not… that, not really.”

Daisy tilted her head, her face speaking volumes.

Here was a thing about Daisy Johnson; even long before she was an agent, from what you heard, she could show very clearly when she was done with someone’s bullshit. And she was clearly expressing that she thought you were sprawling nonsense now.

You spoke quickly before she could, forcing your smile back as you remembered: “I met a girl recently, she was a fan of yours.”

“Oh? Cool! Tell me all about that,” Daisy took the bait easily, grinning with a mischief that should have clued you on something, but didn’t. “When was that? Was that during the Avengers’ Day, Ms. Avenger?”

You shot her an unimpressed glare; but the corners of your lips twitched up involuntarily at her shenanigans. Damn her. This woman. She was on a roll.

“And then, you’d better tell me all the juicy and mundane details you can about the blond beefcake… that calls you doll, apparently? You know, Coulson’s either gonna fistfight you for him or dry his tears of pride and joy for like a week.”

There was absolutely no containing the snort of laughter this time. Your cheeks burned; your belly tingled, warmth and nausea at once – but you snorted again, because that was a visual that should not be so plausible. Bless Phil Coulson and his heart. You admired him greatly, but the imagery Daisy painted should have felt much more absurd.

“You’re awful,” you accused her, giggling, not blind to her pride at her joke.

“Please, you love me.”

God help you, you did indeed. The insistent tug on the corners of your lips gave it away, as did the incredibly soothing bright feeling in your chest. Your giggles turned into a gentle smile, the gratitude you felt hopefully seeping into every word.

Because you were grateful to her – for a lot of things. You didn’t think you could put it into words; you didn’t think you truly wanted to put it into words. You just hoped that she understood. She always had.

“Thank you for checking up on me, Daisy. And for coming to the rescue in the first place,” you said, the sudden hoarseness of your voice and the burn in your eyes taking you by surprise – and with shame.

But she just smiled; because of course she did. She was a lot more than a kickass hero with a sense of humour. Most of all, she was a kind precious soul fighting the odds no one would have guessed she had to face.

She leaned closer, her expression speaking of sincerity you weren’t sure you’d ever get used to.

“Hey. Always. But please, do not test that again. You scared me… scared us. If it weren’t for another three fires that needed to be put out around the world, you’d have the full cavalry here, and I don’t mean just May,” she informed you, not giving you time to process the bombshell she just dropped and caused absolute havoc in your head. Surely, she was exaggerating- “Next gala, just get drunk and do something embarrassing, yeah? Nothing life-threatening.”

You just smiled weakly, latching onto the mischief appearing in her face again, the air feeling considerably lighter in your lungs at that.

“Now. What’s the word? Who was the girl? And… how’s the guy?”

She wiggled her eyebrows – actually wiggled her eyebrows – and you opened your mouth mutely, barely containing your smile at the sheer force of her enthusiasm. It had nothing to do that the memory of Steve’s hand on yours made you melt into the pillow again. Nothing.

Get a grip-

“He’s… it’s—complicated,” you stammered, having to admit that it was actually be the most accurate word ever to describe whatever you and Steve were. Were trying to be. Could be in some utopia land. Whatever.

Daisy grinned in return. “Riiiight, so right up your alley then, eh?”

Mentally, you scoffed. Figures, you supposed. And still – you couldn’t wipe the smile off your face.

I just like you.

Steve Rogers was most definitely entirely out of your league – a war hero who had literally fought the original Nazis, a hero of today, a demi-god in a barely human form, the gentlest man with a heart of gold and mind sharp like a knife that he only used to protect others – but as far as types of men went, he was certainly up there for you. You knew you shouldn’t reach so high, because you weren’t able to, but damn him, he made you want to try, even as the fall would hurt like son of a bitch.

“Yeah... I suppose it is.”

“Well, just so you know, there was not a single complicated thing about the way that guy was looking at ya’,” Daisy drawled confidently, crossing hr arms on her chest, watching you expectantly.

Your heart fluttered and started racing, stomach doing a funny flip-flop.

Get a grip, get a grip, he’s just--- he’s just a guy, just a guy, and you shouldn’t get your hopes up so much, you---

You pushed the burning giddy feeling away, catching yourself before you could grin and giggle and scream like a lunatic, and cleared your throat.

Daisy’s face told you that you fooled no one – or at least not her. Oh for god’s sake-

“Ehm… thanks. Duly noted. Now, about Daisy…”

“Oooh I like this girl already. Spill!”

And so you did, eternally grateful your Daisy didn’t push further. At least for now.

And if the ache in your cheeks persisted, maybe, just maybe, you only welcomed it with a wider smile.

As Steve walked down the hall, he felt the tips of his ears burning, even as what had happened between you to in your hospital room was hardly scandalous.

What was rather scandalous was the look Agent Johnson gave him when he nearly collided with her in the doorway. That woman conveyed a plethora of emotion in a single gaze; respect, curiosity, a wordless threat not to hurt her friend and somewhat platonic objectification, the reason for the flush to his skin.

True, the last part was significantly aided by his interaction with you – entirely pleasant, sweet, warm even, your hand in his certainly had been, and you had said you would like to talk about that. ‘That’ being Steve liking you. And while his choice of words was a little too simple, it clearly didn’t affect the result – and the warmth remained both on his face and in his chest.  

Unfortunately, the droplets of sweat he could feel in his hairline and the rest of the flush to his face had much more to do with pain. Brutal, unrelenting pain which didn’t react to medication unlike the one coming from his actual injuries.

Now that he felt but a slight dull ache in his shoulder and arm and face, and he didn’t have other sensations to focus on, no little smiles, surprising honesty, no touch, no ‘I like you better like this’, the pain in his ribcage was nothing short of stabbing. He slouched a bit, allowing himself a few moments of reprieve since there were no witnesses momentarily; but as the ache didn’t subdue, Steve seriously questioned his decision to not bring it up not only with you, but no one at all.

The Avengers didn’t know about the issue yet – he had requested to postpone anyone watching the rest of the records from the Hydra facility until he’d review it, not even having to make up the worry he expressed about revealing too personal information or his concern about the action of showing the video to others appearing like dangling the less-than-completely-stellar moments you had shared in front of the team. While Steve held nothing but admiration for you and your strength in those moments and he was sure anyone would feel the same, he’d rather if you decided about what you wanted the team to see; the majority of what had happened at the two cells brought no useful intel anyway. However, the issue of your abilities, now that was something that needed to be shared with at least a few other people, but should be done so completely on your terms.

Which was also the reason why Steve hadn’t been interrogating and hurting the bastards who had tortured you – and it had been torture, inflicting not only pain, but fear, all for the goal of breaking you and him alike – leaving that to Natasha and Bucky instead. The Hydra operatives who were still able to speak – Steve admittedly found a little too much gratification in the fact not all of them could – might try to get a rise out of him. Or directly ask about how his chest was doing and thus steering attention to questions Steve did not want to answer since you didn’t either.

That was why he had opted for siting in your room, watching Natasha’s and Bucky’s impeccable and incredibly satisfactory work on his tablet, alternating with watching over the steadily drawn lines on your heart monitor and your calm breaths; an acceptable compromise of keeping your secret safer, keeping an eye on you, technically resting as he the doctor had ordered, and witnessing the men who revelled in hurting others metaphorically weave the rope to hang themselves on as either of Steve’s closest friends got them worked up.

Admittedly, Steve had nodded off at some point between all this, probably due to the amount of pain medication he was on and exhaustion from the pain that never left, but that wasn’t the point.

And sure – Steve didn’t plan on sitting on the information about your lingering pain forever, chest almost bursting at the seams with the need to discuss it with someone already and put a plan in motion so you’d suffer less in the future, preferably not at all, but he needed to be careful about it. Strategic. Take his time.

And process it fully himself first.

Because that was a hard, bitter pill to swallow and Steve wasn’t sure he ever would. Not the part about him not having known. Not the part about him having assumed. Not the part about feeling the extent of it on his own body. And most definitely not the part that this was how your powers worked and always had. His blood was boiling at not having known, but anger was not the only emotion stirred.

The mere idea you had suffered a pain like this, multiple times without a single soul knowing – or a single person who could have decided you wouldn’t be going on mission or even to training in such state – was horrifying and almost as paralyzing as the pain itself. And it wasn’t that Steve didn’t understand the need to push one’s self, swallow pain in order to function, to help, or didn’t admire those who could do it. He himself had bit through a fair amount of pain, more than he’d care for. But he had suffered through it only when it was absolutely necessary and lives were at stake, and you’d just--

…alright, perhaps that was a lie and he was a damn hypocrite, but that was different. You must have been suffering constantly and that was wrong and simply inacceptable.

Steve’s brain was in a slight haze, both physical and mental exhaustion catching up with him as did the suddenly lacking effects of the serum he had got used to, but he tried to strain his memory anyway. How many missions had you handled with pain not unlike the one he was feeling now? Without a single complaint, because you apparently believed complaining was notwithin your rights, because you were an agent, and pain was a part of life? Occupational hazard, easier on you than on other agents, because it was ‘only’ pain? How many of your missions had you taken on after having got hurt in your spectral form? A quarter of them? A third? He’d have to go through the records. He was going to read on every single one of them, remind you of all of them and make sure you’d never do that again. Because goddamnit you mattered.

He really thought you had believed him back at the base, but he was not so certain you’d stay in that headspace after you’d heal; he might be a hypocrite, but he was beginning to see similarities he was not appreciative of and he was more than aware that that was what he would have probably done too. But that was a problem for the future you and him and whoever would get involved.

Athe door to the communal kitchen came into focus, Steve sighed, trying to concentrate on the insistent twitch in the corners of his lips instead; because besides the persistent agony and burning, there a sweet warmth that lingered in his chest as well. A distraction, a soft painkiller that didn’t do much, but was still doing plenty.

He grasped at that straw, gripping hard as he reached the door, back straightening. He could handle the pain like this too; it wasn’t completely unbearable. It only hurt when he moved.

Or breathed.

And keeping your secret for now, keeping it safe, mattered. Because no matter whether he agreed or not, you hadconsidered your circumstance as one not allowing you to share how your abilities worked; not with him or any other Avenger, or even Coulson, since Steve hadn’t got any information of that kind when they had recruited you. Your heartbreaking ‘thank you’ back in the room had spoken volumes, nails of an invisible hand digging into Steve’s heart.

For that, hiding his momentary pain and not saying anything was worth it. For the trust you had showed him when you had confessed, it was worth it, because he couldn’t afford to break that. Not only it would feel like an utter betrayal even to him, let alone you, but because they’d lose you. Already having been so reluctant to fully lean into being an Avenger in any other but professional – and bleeding – capacity, caring but keeping your distance, you’d cut them off completely. Or left the team; even as in the past few minutes, Steve had not got the impression of you planning on that.

Hopefully.

Right before he entered, Steve took a deep agonizing breath. It reminded him of his asthma, only with the pain dialled up to eleven, the kind of hurting he was no longer used to fighting, not when not running on more adrenalin than blood. He granted himself the luxury of not straitening to his full height – he was about to meet friends, after all. He did not have to hide everything.

He could afford showing just a bit more, blaming it on bruised ribs he hadn’t want to admit to – if anything, that would make his charade more believable.  

He allowed for the smile tugging on his lips to spread fully. 

You had said yes. You hadn’t exactly said you liked him too, he wasn’t blind to that fact, but it was implied for certain that you did – and he’d take it, because he wasn’t blind to the enormous progress you had gone through compared to what you two had been two weeks ago when the major fight had occurred.

I’d like to talk about that…. Later?

Steve could wait. It wasn’t like he didn’t have other things to sort through, some pleasant, some less so.

Three faces with various levels of amusement and concern welcomed him as he walked in, Bucky, Natasha and Sam sitting at the table, taking a break in between digging into the sick minds of Hydra operatives.

They all watched him expectantly, no doubt having spied the smile on his face – but it was Bucky who spoke, the one teasingly prolonged word only causing Steve’s smile to widen.

“Soooo…?”

“Not a word.”

“Oh I think a lot of words probably happened, punk. Communication, huh? The wonders of simply talking...” Bucky continued, earning an unimpressed glare as Steve moved to the still fresh pot of coffee. He had a mission report to write, then another report as two AI high-ranking operatives had been hurt, he had the videos to review, a therapy session planned… he needed the caffeine.

Especially since he was to deal with his friends first; the snicker that escaped Sam and the smirk settling on Natasha’s face spoke volumes.

Clearly, Steve was friends with children. And as children he should treat them.

“I hate you all,” he uttered, his grin somehow only widening.

“Oooooh, careful! Careful, you guys,” Sam teased, extending his hand in front of Bucky and Natasha as if to protect them from Steve. “He might have caught more than her powers. He’s cranky now.”

A bit of indignation lit up in Steve’s chest at that mocking remark – you weren’t that cranky. In fact, you could be quite doting on others when you weren’t isolating yourself. Which, now that he looked back, might have been for a large part caused by the fact that when you were alone, it was your reprieve from pretending you were not in pain. For another, he was staring to understand that you felt like you didn’t belong – and so your exits could have seemed harsher than intended.

He wasn’t sure which was worse; but either way, making fun of you for it was incredibly unfair.

But before he could rise to our defence, Bucky was pushing Sam’s hand away with a shit-eating grin.

“Nah, he could always be cranky, especially when he knew others had been right the whole time. He’s just finally embraced the fact they are two peas in the pod with our resident lady Spectre. Didn’t you?”

“Har-har, jerk,” Steve commented, unimpressed.

But yes, that was true. The fact he had refused to admit that your similarities were one of the reasons why you occasionally clashed so hard was certainly among the list of his recent revelations, of which most sucked, but he was still glad for having made them.

Something must have shown in his face, or perhaps his voice had earned a bitterer note as his thoughts had, because Sam’s features lost a fair share of humour, sincerity shining through instead, as he made more space for him at the table, letting him sit among them.

“No, Steve, seriously… we’re glad to have you back. Both of you… cranky or smiling.”

Steve’s lips automatically mimicked the latter, especially when Sam very carefully reached out to briefly squeeze his unharmed shoulder.

“Thanks, Sam.”

“And happy to see you two idiots are making progress…” Bucky added, hiding his ever-present grin behind his cup as he sipped his coffee.

“…even if it took an alien artifact, a kidnapping, three gunshot wounds and walking a mile in each other’s’ shoes,” Natasha finished, causing Steve to sigh, the creeping unease they had called crankiness growing as she listed it all.

Natasha certainly had a point, because it had taken a lot indeed – and they didn’t even know half of it… or at least about one gunshot wound. And as much as Steve shared their sentiment, grateful – delighted, in fact – that your relationship with him was beginning not only to settle, but might actually grow into something more than pleasant collegiality or friendship, he couldn’t help feeling that the price for that was a little too high.

“Sure, laugh it up.”

“Oh, we will,” Sam agreed instantly, showing his pearly whites in a wide grin, the very moment Natasha’s quiet hum told Steve that he was never going to live that down and Bucky blurted out “Absolutely, we will, yeah.”

Yeah, I don’t think I will, Steve thought darkly, biting his tongue and resolving to drown the words in the hot drink instead, gaze lowering to the counter as not to reveal his musings, hoping to come across as flustered if not embarrassed a bit.

But he should have known better.

Between two deadly spies and a man who knew a human soul and trauma well-enough to volunteer at a VA, and with all of those being his close friends, there was no hiding.

He could feel the humour melt away from the room completely as concern filled the space instead.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asked, setting his cup down; and at that, Steve almost laughed, but sighed instead, reluctantly looking up.

A whole lot is wrong.

“Besides the obvious, he means,” Sam added quickly.

What was Steve supposed to say to that? He knew about the one thing he couldn’t reveal, but the rest… that he hated what had happened, that to a large point, he did hate learning all the things about you and revealing his own fears and insecurities, some of them healed and soothed, loving it all the same? That he wasn’t sure that if given the chance to come back and undo all the pain, not only the one you were put through in the past days, but all of it, there was a part of him, significant one, that would not have taken that chance, because it let you right here and may lead to something beautiful? How selfish was that? For the paragon of virtue you considered him, he sure felt like the opposite. And the fact you likely still thought you weren’t enough, hadn’t been enough, didn’t—

He cherished all he learned about you, but there was a part of him that simply wanted to scream and now he couldn’t. And he had no idea at all what he was going to tell not only to his friends, but to his therapist; because not telling anyone as he had promised himself and indirectly to you for now, surely included her as well.

So much for a fearless reckless leader, eh?

“It’s not… it is just that a lot has happened, that’s all,” Steve said at least, carefully choosing his words. It was the farthest thing from a lie. It just wasn’t a complete truth; and it wasn’t enough. His friends could tell; he could feel all of their gazes burning through his skull, even as they remained silent, waiting patiently. There was no doubt telling them would make his breathing easier, shared burden and shared indignation lifting some of the weight from his chest; but he bit his cheek, gripping the weight tighter, because he couldn’t. Not yet. “I just-“

“I swear to god, punk, if you’re gonna say again that it was your fault…”

Steve huffed a humourless chuckle, regretting it instantly as his ribcage protested with a sharp stab of pain. Okay, fuck, how did you even-

“It’s not that. Not only. I just… I wish that sudden understanding of each other’s perspective came in a different circumstance than getting hurt and nearly getting killed, that’s all.”

He forced a tight smile, rewarded with Sam’s compassionate gaze.

“That’s pretty understandable. Just like wishing we somehow did better despite having done our best and doing everything right,” Sam said, one corner of his lips rising as he knew he hit the one nail sticking out directly on the head, self-deprecating leading Steve’s brows to rise briefly – as did his satisfaction for getting them off his back without being insincere and revealing too much.

However, as soon as he glanced at Bucky and Natasha, he realized he hadn’t fooled them. Not all of them.

Natasha in particular was watching him like a hawk, not even trying to be subtle about it.

Seconds ticked by. Bucky cocked his head to side, suspicious, but resigning.

Natsha’s eyes, on the other hand, lit up with recognition.

With recognition that was not supposed to be there.

The flash of hurt burned hotter than his invisible bullet wound; and it ignited the same rage Steve had felt when you had confessed to him; the same rage that consumed him upon hearing your whisper of ‘not where I come from’; the same rage that whited his vision out back in the cell when he heard you scream in agony and he could do nothing.

Natasha knew.

Whether you had told her – and dammit did that made him feel inadequate and downright useless as the Captain that was supposed to protect his team, because you were supposed to trust him with that – or whether she had figured it out, his blood might have as well burst in flames at the mere fact she had kept it to herself.

How could have she just let you suffer, standing by watching him assign you to mission after mission when you were supposed to rest and heal, when-

The wave of nausea swinging his stomach and the new suffocating pressure in his ribcage made him doubt whether he wanted to yell or throw up; but either way, he was going to have a very strict and possibly very loud conversation with Natasha.

Right fucking now.

And she knew that – Steve could tell, because she still held his gaze, unrelenting, not appearing intimidated a fraction by the anger that must have shown on his face. Clearly, for some sick reason, she didn’t regret her actions – or the lack of it – one bit. Of course she didn’t.

But she should.

Steve didn’t look away from her face when he spoke into the suddenly chilling silence.

“Guys… can we have a minute?”

Steve asked, but he didn’t.

It wasn’t even a request.

His voice slipped into the mode of a Captain, one that despite valuing his comrades’ opinions, permitted no protests; he gave an order and they almost automatically followed, because they trusted him.

Now, Steve could feel their startled and baffled eyes flickering between Natasha and him, trying to decipher what on Earth had caused the sudden shift in atmosphere. Steve noticed from the corner of his eye that Bucky looked at Natasha questioningly, but she simply nodded minutely, causing Steve’s jaw to tense further. If Bucky knew as well-

When Steve’s gaze snapped to him, however, he appeared reigned but no less confused than before.

Good. Had Natasha told Bucky but had kept it secret from him, both of them, Steve would throw fucking hands – they would be balled in fists.

“…sure?” Sam hummed uncertainly, grabbing his coffee and walking away alongside Bucky, gaze flickering between the trio with an almost laughably puzzled expression.

Except laughing was the last thing on Steve’s mind, and the pain in his chest had nothing and everything to do with that.

Before he could as much as gather his thoughts and figure out where to even start with giving Natasha a piece of his mind, she propped her hip on the counter leisurely, lowly but very firmly requesting a privacy protocol from FRIDAY with her authorisation code. Only then, she looked at Steve, compassionate but no less apologetic.

“You got hurt when you managed to project, didn’t you?” she stated rather than asked and Steve could scoff. Because of course she knew. She knew everything.

“Yeah. Shot in the chest. Snapped back right away. Imagine my surprise,” he said, by some miracle keeping his voice even and matter-of-fact despite the explosive cocktail of emotions threatened to burst any second.

“I’m sorry.”

“And you should be,” Steve said, all too aware it was not the sorry he wanted to hear and his anger only spiked further. She was sorry he had got hurt. She was sorry he had not been prepared for the pain lingering. Sorry about him learning about it this way. But she was not at all regretting standing idly why you had suffered. And to think she called herself your friend. “What were you thinking? How could you-“

“It was not my secret to tell-”

“The hell it wasn’t!” Steve exploded at last, rising to his feet so fast he nearly knocked over the chair he had been sitting on. And Natasha, goddamn her, watched him steadily, not even flinching. How the hell was she so calm?! So indifferent? Did she not give a single damn- “Natasha, she’s in enormous amount of pain on daily basis! How the hell could you not share that?!”

Natasha only arched her eyebrow, a wordless comeback: so you are admitting to being in ‘an enormous amount of pain’ despite having told the doctor your pain was at 2 after the meds you had got?

Steve just scowled, heart thundering in his ribcage as his blood felt so hot it might actually start evaporating. What the-

“I’m pretty sure it’s not daily, but even if it was, it still wouldn’t be my secret to tell,” she said evenly, crossing her arms on her chest. “How did you feel back in the day when you still had chronic health issues? When they took one look at you, they knewsomething wasn’t quite right, and so they immediately started underestimating you?”

Steve just gritted his teeth, glaring. What the hell did that have got to do with that?

“And I’m sorry, what is it that you’re doing now?” she asked, a tinge of sarcasm to her voice. “I don’t hear you telling the team-“

Steve felt his hands curl into fists, the arm in his sling protesting against the move – but honestly, the flame of spite burned it away, taking over any sign of pain at the moment.

Was she serious?!

“The team isn’t assigning her to missions! They don’t need to know everything, they aren’t the ones unknowingly sending her to the field injured and it pain-“

“Oh, so it’s not the fact I didn’t tell you, it’s that you’re feeling guilty-“

“She could get herself killed, Natasha!” Steve snapped, fist hitting the table, droplets of coffee staining the surface just like the breathiness stained his voice, the nausea hitting him anew, his head spinning. “Did you think of that?! I can’t protect her—I can’t protect this team if I don’t have all the information! The pain doesn’t seem to affect functionality, but what do I know? I’m safe, not being hunted for sport. It might affect her range one of those days and it can get her hurt and killed! A second of hesitation, a second of not being at absolute best and she can catch a knife, a bullet, be kicked down the stairs or off a damn cliff, too weakened to hold on a railing and fall to her damn death, she can be taken and tortured-"

He didn’t register the burn in his chest intensifying until it was too late; images flickering in his mind, the blood staining his shirt and his hands dripping with it and yours, the stupid thigh-highs that would have driven him mad except they were soaked with your blood, your voice feeble, your shaking slippery hands suddenly appearing around a metal bar, cold wind slapping his face, biting into his skin, hand reaching out just a second too late, your screams, Bucky’s scream, like a hive in his skull-

Small warm hands on his shoulders, one barely laid there, the other squeezing hard, a harsh inhale through his burning windpipe.

“Steve. Look at me.”

Steve obliged, blinking the images away even as they persisted stubbornly, Natasha’s face, now softer, filling his vision, his chest rising and falling a little too fast, a stab of pain with every breath, dark spots dancing around Natasha’s concerned features.

Great.

Just great.

Fuck.

“Sorry.”

She just smiled, shaking her head and slowly letting go, stepping back to the counter and leaning on it, propping up on both palms. Steve’s face burned with embarrassment and too much oxygen, but he could not let that distract him from his point. And apparently, neither could Natasha.

“I hear you, Steve. I do. But you know me better than to think that I haven’t consider that,” she reminded him softly, and as much as Steve hated it, he had to admit that it was the truth. She did care about you too. She wouldn’t willingly gamble with your life.

God his chest and his throat was on fire.

“But she’s an adult, Steve. She’s an agent, a damn near perfect one. She knows best what she can and cannot handle. Whatever she’s facing… she’s working through it the best way she can at any given moment and she is at her best. We might not approve of her methods, but as long as it doesn’t affect her performance during missions, not approving and trying to convince her to change her ways is all we can do, especially if we don’t want to lose her – professionally or otherwise.”

Steve gulped, pointedly choosing to ignore the last bit as he considered Natasha’s words, however reluctantly. “We sure as well do not approve-“

“Shocking,” Natasha uttered dryly, one corner of her lips rising in a smirk despite her sincerity, as she kept advocating for her decisions as much as yours, now that Steve thought about it, remaining. “But it’s still her choice. Her body – her choice. Her methods. Careful, Steve, or you might end up sounding patronizing and controlling.”

Now against that, Steve had to protest.

“Hey, I don’t—”

Natasha only arched her eyebrows, lifting one hand to demonstrate a tiny space between her thumb and forefinger.

Steve’s shoulders sagged as he ran his hand down his face, the pain in his cheek at the action, and the insistent pain in his chest reminding him mockingly he was being a bit of a hypocrite and not being controlling and patronizing was exactly what he had been trying to do until he found out that Natasha… knew.

He sighed, glancing at her again, met with her smile, surprisingly inviting, considering he was practically yelling just a moment ago. It was a smile that felt familiar; laced with affection for her dumbass overbearing friend. Because she was his friend – and yours too. Perhaps better than he had thought.

“Did… did she tell you?”

“Does it matter?”

He remained silent, knowing she’d understand without him saying a single word.

It does to me.

And he wanted to know. Needed it. Even if the answer being yes was just going to hurt him more – not because you trusting Natasha with this wasn’t a good thing, but because that would mean you had trusted Natasha and not him. Which would be completely understandable, given your track record with him until recently, but it still stung like son of a bitch, because goddamnit he should have known.

“She didn’t. I’m not that special,” Natasha stated, her smile turning a tad sad and ironic. “Her methods are pretty universal, keeping it secret from the whole team. No exceptions.”

It might have been rather mean of him – and he did not like how isolated you truly were and had been – but that actually made him feel a little better.

Especially since after today, it seemed that might change.

“Well, hopefully those methods will change,” Steve hinted, feeing tension melting off his body, lips once again spreading into a smile, even if a little shy one, warmth blossoming again where the rage had been turning his insides into a wasteland.

Natasha smirked a bit, mischief and amusement glimmering in her irises. “Got the Cap speech, did she?”

“…something like that, yeah.”

At that, she smiled wider; way too knowing to Steve’s liking. And yet, he felt his cheeks ache with how wide he was smiling now, a ghost of your touch caressing his hand.

“I see. Well. A piece of advice?” Natasha offered, not waiting for a confirmation of Steve actually wanting it. “Do try to remember she is a big girl – ties her own shoes, does her taxes and all that, okay? Do not screw it up by acting like you need to sweep in and save her from everything including herself. Please. You both deserve a win.”

At that, Steve sighed, but genuinely tried to etch her words into his brain, because he had been told before – and had to admit it was not an incorrect assessment – he could get rather overbearing, even as his intentions were good.

So yes, he’d try. If there was one thing he knew for sure, it was that as fragile as the bond you had begun to build was, you were everything but. He fully agreed with Natasha’s point; he had even told you so. You were meeting his perhaps too high standard a little too well. That was one of the reasons why you captivated him. He just needed to remember that when he’d feel like locking you in the tower and never sending you to another mission again in order to keep you safe.

Not that you wouldn’t be able to escape, be in in physical or spectral form, because you were simple that capable.

“Duly noted,” he grumbled.

Natasha grinned, lightly tapping his shoulder.

“Good boy. Now, this had better be the only cup of coffee you get,” she pointed at the half-drunk cup, her voice allowing protests. “You need to rest for god’s sake. You’ve got shot. Twice, apparently. Jesus, Steve. Talk about hypocrisy.”

“Alright, alright. Quit being bossy. I’m still the Captain, you know.”

“Oh boooo. Trembling in my shoes, Captain,” she retorted cheekily.

Steve mirrored her smirk, knowing she wasn’t actually undermining his authority. Only calling him out… which was rather fair. And he needed that sort of people in his life, he had enough self-awareness to know that.

And he’d listen to her too. Once he’d complete all the tasks he had planned, especially the report; because while there were things he wished to remember, there was still the majority of the mission that he’d rather put it behind him forever.

But since his watch just vibrated with a high-priority message from an operative of the highest-level, he had to add meeting them to the list.

The fact that operative was Coulson – the current director of SHIELD and your former boss – was both rather soothing, and worrisome.

Next chapter

Series masterlist // S.R. masterlist

HA. Not me having to pokerface hard when some of you told me that Daisy would be the number one shipper or that Coulson would weep and I already had a line about it three full chapters ahead (so like five chapters ahead) 🤭

Thank you for reading! Feedback, as always, is appreciated, and keep me inspired when I'm in the pit of despair, thinking I will never finish another chapter (which is shocking right, when I write them 15k long... well). May your days be sweet to you as Steve was to Spectre 💗

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #steve rogers x you #steve rogers imagine #captain america x reader #captain america imagine #captain america x you #captain america #agent reader #inhuman reader #avenger reader #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #back and forth #anika ann

[hoothalcyon]

Ruthari + Nonsexual Kink

After reading this post by vaspider about nonsexual kink in a romantic dynamic, the wheels of my brain began to turn before finally landing on Ruthari, and not only Ruthari, but the fact that they already demonstrate some signs of nonsexual kink in their relationship.

note: I don't think they were intentionally written this way, I'm just having fun :)

The most easily noticeable instances take place in the graphic novel Bloodmoon Huntress, but it also represents their entire dynamic as a couple, so I will go through both.

Firstly, it's easy to see how well this dynamic would fit the both of them. Runaan has an incredibly stressful life or death job where he has to take the lead and do very difficult, fatal things. He can maintain this pressure for the amount of time needed for the mission to be completed, but he can't carry that weight forever, everyday. It's been said that he is the most emotionally open he possibly could be when he's with Ethari.

Which brings me to why it fits Ethari. He is a misfit in Moonshadow society, or at least in the Silvergrove. He's "not as strong as the others", he's a creator and inventor in a friend group full of assassins. I bet he would want to feel some control and power, even if only behind closed doors, but not so specific as to only in the bedroom. And what better way to feel control than consensually dominating the leader of the assassins, am I right?

In borrowing from the original post, I will highlight these key parts: "surrender[ing] control to someone whom they can trust...because in their everyday life, they have a lot of responsibilities and stress, and going into that space where nobody can ask anything from them, where they have no responsibility to make any decisions at all, is a relief to them."

And, vice versa, "for some of us, that kind of service allows us access to a feeling of power that can be hard to access in our daily life, and that feels really good."

So, now onto canon examples...

The way Runaan goes from lightly ribbing Ethari for his over the top welcoming party for Rayla before quickly changing his attitude when Ethari gets serious and says darling...

I'm 100% imagining that the use of "darling" with a serious demeanour is one way Ethari signals to Runaan that he needs him to behave/follow his lead without question 😈

2. The market scene where Runaan is all petty and acts up, causing dysfunction between him and Rayla. Ethari swiftly puts him in his place and Runaan doesn't challenge him. He knows he's overstepped, and his dom is putting him in his place. He literally shuts up and goes all doe eyed at him.

Ok, but consider that for a second. Runaan is singlehandedly the most stubborn character in the entire show, and yet, Ethari can boss him around with no questions asked. Kinky.

3. Ethari bringing Runaan his weapons. To me, this indicates, again, that they both enjoy when Ethari wields control over Runaan's actions. He is the stepping stone his sub needs to complete tasks, he needs Ethari's care and attention. Runaan could just grab his weapons himself and head out, but he waits until Ethari has prepared them, put them in a sack, and handed them to him with a kiss.

4. Ethari instantly getting authoritative and grumpy when Runaan is badly injured, and investigating with his hands before Runaan gently lets him down.

When Runaan is injured, all of Ethari's emotions come rushing to the surface: grumpiness, protectiveness, worry, affection, etc. All the ingredients that make him a good dom. He wants to protect Runaan from danger and angst. He feels helpless watching Runaan fling himself into battle, so the moment it stops, he rushes over to inspect him for injuries and tow him away somewhere safe. He is the caretaker. It's his responsibility to keep his sub safe and healthy, and he doesn't take that lightly.

But the fact that Runaan is insisting it's 'nothing' is frustrating. He needs Runaan's yellow light signals--the soft smile, holding his hand--and also Rayla distracting them, to help him cool off.

And so I'm picturing that when Runaan is injured, Ethari has him kneel (if he can), bow his horns, and take off any clothes that are covering the injury and reveal it to him before he can begin to tend to him. It's his act of submission, of showing Ethari he is ready to relinquish control to him.

And that type of dynamic, of Runaan admitting his vulnerabilities to Ethari, who will only use this information to help him heal, is immensely beneficial to them both. Runaan gets to vocalize where and how he feels wounded, and Ethari gets to have control over healing him and being the only one who knows about these wounds.

Other, smaller canon findings:

Runaan being covered in different things Ethari has made, which have his signature swirlies on them (i.e: his bow, hair cuffs, horn cuffs). Yes, the other members of the moon fam have smatterings of these on their bodies and weapons as well, but Runaan's design features them most frequently. He's literally COVERED in them. This is a visual representation of how he belongs to Ethari.

One major exception to this dynamic is when it comes to assassin stuff (unrelated to injuries).

The way Runaan doesn't mention it when Ethari stealthily steals a sip from his tea (nor when he mentions that said tea is bad, lmao).

Headcanons:

When Runaan comes back from a mission and doesn't know what to do with himself, Ethari tells him different things he can do for him, and that helps put him in the mindset of things different than constantly training, and reminds him that he wants quality time

slightly silly hc where Ethari in his workshop and he whistles for Runaan to come down and Runaan is there in a flash to model something for him or give input on a weapon lmao

#runaan #ethari #ruthari #this is MY self indulgent headcanon UwU

[bookwyrminspiration]

i really want to be nice about it but I am. simply not fucking with the faces on this graphic novel art. it’s a hit or miss and it’s missing more than it’s hitting and I just!! Wish I liked it! because everything else seems fine it’s just all the faces are slightly off and not laid out proportionally (the mouths are too high), but also the faces are. pretty important. like it’s so close but just not quite and it’s the smallest adjustment to make it look so much better and yet!!

#kotlc #kotlc graphic novel #kotlc discourse #it’s just. the features aren’t where they should be #I’ve rearranged Fitz from the cover and someone else rearranged Keefe today #and it’s literally the SMALLEST change #like legit the mouth and nose are just slightly too high that’s all it is #but it makes SUCH an impact #and it’s so. discomfiting? mildly upsetting? #distressing? #because once you rearrange the features and lower the mouth #the arts pretty cute! #but it just!! I don’t want to say ruins it because it’s not /bad/ #adulterates it? taints it? mars it? #do you get what i mean #i really want to be excited for this but I’m dreading all the faces and all the chin on all the characters #i hope the novel itself isn’t like that but I won’t get my hopes up </4

[hopeinthebox]

tagged by the effervescent @cordiallyfuturedwight and @jiminsproof for the november receipt <33 thanks lovelies!!

just a touch late to the party, but if you haven't already: @dearedwardteach @pauls-mccharmly @thvinyl @btscontentenjoyer @kimchokejin @jihopesjoint @eoieopda @monismochi 💜 MWAH

#and now for my various unsolicited ramblings: #unknown - still up there!!! and deserves it!!! #change pt.2 - back to streaming indigo <33 it's just magnificent #sunrise - perhaps one of my favourite songs ever and lovely to see her here #de selby pt.2 - does domhnall gleeson know that i would die for him and if not how can i let him know? #does anyone know someone who knows someone #the parting glass - absolutely devastating. would not recommend. quite frankly. traumatic. #bad boys - polar opposite of the previous track. Exceptional Vibes. #made the mistake of curating a noughties playlist and now it's all i'm listening to!! though now i fear that we as a species peaked in 2006 #say you'll be there - still here two months later... can you blame me? #no.2 - me streaming indigo with tears also streaming down my face!! mainly due to the beauty of the music #but also the trauma of graphic design (see my title cards) #love to keep me warm - good GOD the xmas crept in already please forgive me #(but also please add all the laufey christmas stuff to your festive playlists because she's exceptional) #stick season - what can i say? it was the season of the sticks.. saw noah live mid-november and i may never be the same again #you have never seen such a gathering of people who are spending what should really be therapy money on gigs #okay that's enough from me!! sending love to you all this december <3 i know it can be a rough one #tag #receiptify #MWAH

[castielmacleod]

You are a reaper, and every day you harvest the souls of the unwilling. Those who have died of illness or in accidents or otherwise had their lives woefully cut short—these are your duty. You reach for their souls even as their bitterness and sorrow and fury rolls off of them in waves. Even as they direct said bitterness and sorrow and fury at you. Some of them scream and cry and beg you not to take them. Some of them scream that they hate you. And at first you tried to explain it, tried to help them see that it wasn’t you who dealt them this blow. “For what reason would you hate me?” you would ask them. “I am merely a reaper. I have done nothing.”

“You have come to take me away from here,” they would answer, inevitably. “That is why I would hate you.”

Thus it did not take long before you realised that it truly didn’t matter to humans whether you’d done something or not—they’d hate you still. You may not be the Pale Rider, the String-Cutter, the Ultimate Arbiter, but you are their implement. You are the Hand of Death, the Keeper of their Order, and you are received as such.

So you deal with it. You do your job. You shoulder their hatred, you drag their souls to heaven or hell, and then you do it all over again. You are a reaper, and you are thankless.

There comes a day where you receive your latest assignment, and already something is different. There’s some poor miserable bastard, Death tells you, about to take his own life. And of course, you knew this day would come. There were only so many reapers, after all. Eventually, you were going to receive an assignment for a death that you could not understand.

Sudden deaths, accidents, terminal illness—these you recognise. Such is simply fate, the order of things. And when your memories swirl with so many agonised faces, souls who would have done anything, anything not to leave their world behind, it is nearly impossible to conceive of a soul that wished for death enough to deliberately hurry it to them.

You ask Death why a human would ever want such a thing, but they cannot tell you. All they can tell you is his name, his location, and that his soul is bound for hell.

You find him sitting at a desk in a workshop, surrounded by sheets of fabric and half-finished dresses. He’s pale-skinned, fairly dressed, and his flame-coloured hair is pulled back into a low ponytail that falls between his shoulder blades. His face is emotionless. The flickering lantern-light glints across his glasses, obscuring his eyes. He’s spinning a flintlock on the surface of the desk with one finger. 

You watch him. You don’t know for how long. You’re not sure how much time it takes before the spinning stops. You watch him lift the flintlock from the desk and you watch him fall from his chair afterward.

His soul sees you, then, as his spectral form sits up from the floor. He doesn’t ask who you are, or what’s happened. He doesn’t gawk at his corpse. He doesn’t panic or shout or beg. And so things are unusually silent as you reach out your hand. Things are usually calm as he gives you his. And he looks up at you from his knees with his misery-stricken face and death-shattered gaze, and it’s nothing you haven’t seen before until you place his broken expression as not misery, but relief. A relief so palpable you swear you can feel it too. You stare at him as though he were some alien creature as he breathes two words: “Tapadh leibh.” Thank you.

He’s thanking you.

For a moment you can’t even react, even as he rises from his knees. In theory you knew of these words, of this sentiment, but not once have you ever heard them yourself. Not once, not ever, have they been spoken to you, much less in absolute sincerity.

“For what reason would you thank me?” you finally ask. “I am merely a reaper. I have done nothing.”

“You have come to take me away from here,” he answers simply. “That is why I would thank you.”

Such a statement only brings you more questions than it does answer the one you asked. Should you ask why he wished so badly for death? Does he not know where he is headed? You aren’t sure if such inquiries are even appropriate—you have never had cause to wonder before. Never have you met a human soul quite so perplexing as this one.

“You are not saved, Fergus MacLeod,” you remind him. “I am have come to take your soul to hell.”

“Tha fios ’am,” he replies. I know.

And so you lead his soul from the mortal plane toward the Gates of Hell, and he goes willingly alongside you. The further you get him from his old life, the more he starts to open up—and talk. (“Do you fancy yourself a lad or a lass?” he asks. “I am a reaper,” you tell him. “What’s it like, hell?” he asks. “Worse than you could ever hope to comprehend,” you tell him. “Hell won’t make me into a demon, will it?” he asks. “Only if they break you,” you tell him. “Who’s they?” he asks. “The demons,” you tell him. He sets his jaw at that, and falls silent thereafter.)

When the Gates come into sight is when he starts to balk somewhat. That’s something you’re not surprised by. The mere sight of the Gates did this to every hell-bound soul you ever reaped, and even he was no exception.

“This is where I leave you,” you explain. “I will not enter the Gates. You must proceed by your own will, or the demons will come and drag you in—whichever happens first.”

“Aye, alright,” he answers with what sounds like barely restrained horror. You watch him face the gates and visibly steel himself for just a moment, before falling back to his initial posture and turning to you. “Just—before I go. I didn’t catch your name.”

“I am a reaper,” you answer plainly. “I have no name.”

“Well, that won’t do. I need at least a name to give you a proper farewell,” he insists. “Er… what about Agnes? That’s something of a nice name.” He squints at you from behind the spectral manifestation of the glasses he’d been wearing. “If you don’t happen to mind a lass’s name, that is. Maybe you’d prefer… I don’t know, William…?”

You stare at him. Once again you have no idea what he’s doing or why he’s doing it.

“Is it too formal for you? William, I mean,” he adds. “Billy? How’s Billy? I kind of like the sound of that—Billy. I could see you as a Billy.”

Could you see yourself as a Billy?

The thought comes before you can stop it, but you effectively push it from your mind before you can say something unbecoming about it. “I am a reaper,” you reiterate. “But… you may call me whatever you’d like.”

“Then… until next time, Billy,” he says, with something of a smile.

“We will not meet again,” you point out. “You will never leave hell, and I will never enter.”

“…I see,” he replies. “Well then.” He glances into hell and back to you again. He keeps his smile on. “Let’s just hope they torture me so senseless I start to enjoy it.”

You don’t particularly know how he can say that while smiling. You don’t particularly know why he came here willingly at all. Why he did what he did. Why he would ever give up what all those souls before him would have killed for. He starts to walk away and finally you can’t take the confusion anymore.

“Fergus MacLeod,” you say, and he turns back to you. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“This was not the order of things,” you say. “You would always end up here, that much was written, but you had time left. Years. I want to know why you did what you did.”

He looks you dead in the eye, backlit by the flames of the pit, and says, “Because least in hell, I’ll feel something other than my own misery. At least in hell, maybe the new pain can distract me from the old pain. At least in hell, I can simply let myself wither away until I’m nothing, and dear god—” He gives a harsh laugh. “The sooner the better.”

With that he turns away and vanishes into the Gates and for a moment all you do is stand there. You are a reaper, and you are not created to feel. But you would swear his words had chilled you to the bone.

And you didn’t know it then, but this was not the end of something. It was a beginning. 

#Billie spn #Crowley spn #??? This came literally out of nowhere #Well not strictly nowhere because this is just more or less what would form the prologue of my Billie and Crowley besties fic #I just didn’t mean to sit down and spew it all out in like 2 hours #So like. This is VERY much a rough draft but whatever send post #My posts #My writing #Tw suicide #<— please mind that. It isn’t graphic but it happens #Obviously this is a VERY young version of Billie. She’s missing 300 years of character development here #And of learning to be more comfortable with her own budding identity and interacting with humans in other ways than just reaping their souls #And of course changing the spelling of their name

[fceriestcrdst]

does my sw oc have a ship name with cass & one with poe you ask?....yes...yes he does...

#sephicaptain & sephipilot respectively <3 #i've taken some uh--creative liberties (not many tho) with sephi lore bc i do what i want #its all mostly canon tho--the changes made are like very very very minor!! #just had to tweak bc transmasc sephi <3 <3 <3 + i went the palelavamder skin & pale sky blue eyes <3 #may actually start writing fics of my oc x cass & my oc x poe #there is potential for my oc x cass c poe as like a poly collective but we shall see if i wannt break timelines that badly #that may just remain a selfship thing day & i yell about in discordfor hours <3 #& of course my marvel oc will always have content bc the star to their moon is full my oc x the boys just without saying their name #but it'salso kit bc both these ocs are me & i regret nothing!! #he /was/ ranni but i renamed him & worked him a teensy bit so he's kit spector (grant/lockley as well but legally spector) #even tho in my series you marry steven but thats bc i went a very specific route with it & not my self-ship route that alters canon a #teensy bit (mainly with the marc & layla marriage but that was bc i didnt wanna feel like i was ruining something. yk? its why even in my #-series they are implied to never have dated essentially!!) #i'm rambling bc im excited & content in what i've done for myself---i just!! i dunno!!! #the sephicaptain fic is making me so excited because like--it really /is/ for me & i helped co-write a good chunk of it so i just!!! am so #so so excited for it! #i'll probablypost these fics on tumblr just bc i like posting to tumblr but i'm also gonna post on ao3 & idrc if no one read sit--or cares #--about it bc these are for me & me alone. #i just idk. i feel at peace with how i made graphics for myself. i'm writing for myself & my friends. i'm not longer trapped in a hyperfem #space anymore. my dash feels safe. i feel safe. i feel safe with my friendships for onc ein several years. i just feel safe & feel like me. #i'm truly starting to think th oscar isaac fandom & mk may have genuinely saved me from myself because i don't feel selfish- #-buying stuff anymore or writing for myself anymore. for the firts time in years i'm hanving fun in fandom & it's so refreshing & #comforting. anyways--i'm going to offically shut the fuck up now <3 i just wanted to gush!! gonna go back to dming my bf now <3 #kit rambles

[cervidsunrise]

Whenever I start a new book I can never tell if I don't like it because I actually don't like it or because it's not a continuation of the last book I was listening to

#op #90% of the time its because it's not a continuation of the last book I was listening to #perks of repetitive lab work: listen to audiobooks all day #L's of repetitive lab work: not all audiobooks are exactly 1 work day long and I have to finish and start books back to back #(no i couldn't think of the antonym of 'perk' in this context why do you ask?) #I went from Dracula to Cinderella is Dead which was a huge author-voice change as well as a tone change #then I went from Cinderella is Dead to A Court of Thorns and Roses and all I could think was #'what do you mean your throwing me straight into the narrative with little explanation?' #oh another L of repetitive lab work: when the book you chose to listen to turns out to not only be a romance #but also includes semi-graphic sex scenes #Ma'am I need to ask my supervisor about how to prep this sample what do you MEAN they're doing it on the kitchen table??????? #......I've been choosing books somewhat at random #based on what's available on Libby

[secondbeatsongs]

as a bi person, the bisexual flag brings me infinite joy and always puts a smile on my face, however as a person who has a Passion for Graphic Design, that undersaturated shade of purple infuriates me when it's used digitally

like, on an actual flag - which was its original purpose - it looks great!

those look fine! lovely, even! with the semi-transparent fabric, the way it catches the sunlight, it looks beautiful!

but now look at how it looks digitally

the pink and blue are so vibrant compared to the sad, lonely lavender!

and let's look at this statement from Michael Page, the creator of the bi flag:

(sidenote: he created this flag in 1998, so if his takes on bisexuality is different from yours, it's okay to notice that! a lot has changed since the 90s when it comes to lived experiences and the way we describe them. but, it's also important to respect his thoughts about this and the way he presented them, even if today, we'd probably not say that bi people "blend unnoticeably into both the gay/lesbian and straight communities.")

so in pantone colors, the pink is 226 C, the blue is 286 C, and the purple of the flag is 258 C.

but...here's the deal

Michael talks here about how the key to understanding the symbolism is to know that the purple blends into both the pink and blue. and on a physical flag, I think you can see that!

but digitally, it absolutely does not blend. it clashes badly, and looks oddly separate from the other two colors.

which got me wondering...what purple do you get if you actually blend 226 C and 286 C?

oh! oh, my god.

look at that! look at how nicely it fits between those colors!

look at it next to the original color scheme! look at how much more vibrant the purple is!

and friends. this is just blending through rgb! you get even more purple variations when you use other color spaces!

let's compare all of them:

(top: original, lab. middle: lrgb, lch. bottom: rgb, hsl)

look at all of the different purple options you can get just by combining these two colors!

if you want almost too-vibrant saturation, you can go hsl, if you want something more relaxed that's closer to the original, you can go lab or lrgb. and if you want to split the difference, lch is bright and violet, while rgb is there with its saturated but darker purple.

anyway, I guess I don't really have a point here? this isn't so much an informational post as it is Me Getting Weird About Colors, but I think it is a useful lesson about how colors look very different on screens compared to how they look on objects in real life.

and sometimes, I think it's okay to compensate for that.

out of all of these, this is my favorite bi flag:

it's the one where the colors were blended in lab color space. for me, the lighter, softer purple is close enough to the original bi flag purple, while also feeling like a smoother blend of the blue and pink

but that's just me! and it might not even look the same to you, since every screen is different, because technology is a nightmare!

anyway, thank you for coming with me on this colorful journey! I will now retreat back to inkscape and make pained sounds about inkstitch gradients until something tangible pulls me back into reality

#bi #bisexual #bisexuality #bi flag #bisexual flag #sbs rambles #graphic design is my passion #id in alt text #but #the ids are probably deeply unhelpful for the different variations of flags #in the alt text of the six flags all grouped together #I just put what method the purples were blended with #and then tried to describe them more in the paragraph below #but this is an inherently visual post #so if you're reading it with a screen reader I am sorry :(

[transsexual-ghost]

oh boy course registration :) i sure hope i'm not GONNA GET PUT IN FUCJING BUSINESS AGAIN.

#local man rambles #I DON'T WANT TO BE IN BUSINESS. I WAS PUNTED INTO BUSINESS AND WAS LIKE 'Well #it's my junior year i should stick with it at keast' #BUT THEN I WAS LIKE. OH WAIT. I *PUT IN A REQUEST TO CHANGE CLASSES BACK IN FUCKING JANUARY* AND THE COUNSELORS WERE LIKE 'we do not see' #so i am doing comp sci because i am bored and it also sounds p cool #even though i know literally nothing about programming #we'll see how that goes ig #but in the other hand the graphic design courses do be looking nice #haha ce bio go brr #man i love biology it's so cool #and since i'm a senior next year i can have off periods #which is. a little weird that it's only extended to seniors of next year and not the other grades but i can't go the principle and go #hey yeah it's a little weirdchamp that only the seniors get to have off periods and not the other grades what is up with that?? #but hey it's FINE everything is FINE #it's also absolute bullshit that we need to have two years worth of language credits just to graduate?? like bro. i chose spanish because i #like learning but some people don't wanna learn a language and i have friends who aren't exactly interested in that kind of stuff #a good majority of my classes for next year are college classes so i hope i can get a ffucking associates ?? maybe?? because man i Do Not #want to go to college #i'm still gonna do robotics next year because it has (almost) all of my friends and i've been having a lot of fun doin it. #also because it's kept me afloat so like. ueah #man i am having Thoughts today huh

[sundrop-writes]

Careful - Chapter One

(Dad)Spencer Reid x (Mom)Fem!Reader

Chapter One: Over Yet

We can go farther, beyond the end.

Summary:

You and Spencer broke up more than four years ago. Since then, he has tried his best to forget about you. He has pushed all of his feelings down - locked them away into a little box that he never touches.

That is, until he sees your name on a list of potential victims being stalked and killed by a man who kills single mothers. (And he quickly realizes that your son could be his.)

Dad!Spencer Reid x Mom!Fem!Reader. Exes to Lovers. Angst.

Word Count: 5,900

Criminal Minds Masterlist | AO3 Link | Series Masterlist

Please keep in mind - I am not doing a taglist for this series, so please do not ask to be tagged in future parts. I do not do taglists. If you want to be notified when future parts of this fic are posted, you can follow this blog and turn on notifications here - I don't make personal posts on this blog, it is just pure posts of my fanfiction. Or you can subcribe on AO3 to get email notifications when this series is posted. You can also view the posting schedule on the series materlist and check @tenpintsof-sundrop for any information about possible changes to that schedule.

Detailed warnings and author's notes below the cut.

Warnings: general warnings for a Criminal Minds episode - mentions of murder/killing, somewhat graphic descriptions of killing, somewhat graphic descriptions of dead bodies, the underlying misogyny that comes with a man killing women, mentions of children being orphaned due to their mothers being killed (though there is no mentions of other living family members taking care of those children - you can imaging that they still have nice families to take care of them if you want, I didn’t fill in that detail), mentions of children being in proximity of a serial killer; exes to lovers - the reader and Spencer broke up and the reason why will be revealed later; mentions of pregnancy/mentions of the reader having a child; mentions of sex that resulted in a child/pregnancy (there is no detailed sex scenes/detailed smut in this chapter, but there will be in other chapters); mentions of JJ x Will; the reader’s looks are described as vaguely as possible; passing mention of incest (in the context of a historical figure); all statements that Spencer makes toward the end of this chapter were heavily researched and are factual; I think that’s about it?

A/N: The reader and Spencer originally dated around Season 1/Season 2 - I state at some point during the fic that they dated for 3 years before breaking up, so they started dating when he was very early Season 1 baby Spence (or even before Season 1) and they broke up around Season 2. So technically this fic takes place around Season 6 - but because I didn't want to distract from the plot, I didn't mention any of the stuff going on with Emily or any of those major canon plot points, and I am using pictures of later versions of Spencer just because that's who I was picturing in my head while writing this. But that's how the math works out. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the fic!! This chapter is more of an introduction before we really get into the meat of things, but I still hope that you guys like it.

...

The team had been in Portland for three days.

No leads, a confusing, inconsistent profile - huge pieces missing that would likely give them the real answers. 

A patient killer with an extended timeline who likely wouldn’t kill again for months - leaving them chasing their tails, looking for answers. 

“Okay, so, let’s take a step back.” Hotch sighed. “What do we know so far?” 

He leaned against a nearby table, looking at everyone with the hope of reassessing the case from a different angle. The hope of talking it out to get some answers. 

Another woman’s body had been found just before they arrived, and that would mean that the UnSub would be out hunting again soon. This was both good and bad. 

Good, because the UnSub clearly had to spend a lot of time stalking his victims - he knew a lot of details of their lives, and he had spent a lot of time developing an intimate fantasy of being a part of their family in his mind. So he wouldn’t be killing again the next day. No woman was in immediate danger. It gave the team more time to find viable suspects. 

Bad because they had no physical evidence, no good leads. And thus far, the profile was leading them nowhere. It felt incomplete. 

They could find no real connections between the victims - their gyms, their banks, their childcare, their grocery stores. Somehow, the victims didn’t seem to have any crossover in their lives. There was no real way to say how the UnSub had met them. And someone like this - he would have interacted with them at least once in order to become obsessed and stalk them to this degree. 

“Five women dead within the last three years.” Prentiss announced, starting to round up the facts that the team knew for certain. “All of them mothers, all with children under the age of five. All within the same ten square mile radius of Oregon, around Portland’s suburban neighborhoods.” 

She slumped back into her chair with a tired huff, and then continued. 

“The UnSub breaks into their homes through a backdoor or a back window, and somehow goes undetected in such an upscale neighborhood.” She sighed. “He kills the mothers, but he leaves their children alive. And then he calls 9-1-1 to report the death as a case of child neglect.” 

“So he was likely neglected by his own mother in his childhood.” Morgan easily theorized. 

“All of the victims upper-middle class, single mothers to one child with good jobs. All of them are of the same physical type.” Rossi added on. “They’re the same race, they have the hair color, they’re the same body type - all in their late twenties to early thirties. So the UnSub definitely has a type. He’s most definitely recreating a fantasy of some kind - perhaps taking out revenge on his own mother, but protecting himself. Which is why he never hurts the children.” 

“Yeah, but the children are different.” Morgan replied. “Sometimes boys, sometimes girls. Some of them are biracial - he doesn’t look for a specific type in the father. He doesn’t necessarily need to see himself in the children.” 

Then, as another thought occurred to him, Morgan continued on: 

“Plus, the children’s ages vary from barely a year old all the way up to five - if he was looking to seek revenge on his mother, looking to protect a younger version of himself, then he would have locked in on a critical event that he needs to protect himself from. The age of the children would be more consistent, at least, because he would be looking to protect himself as he hits the age that he was most traumatized by a specific event.” 

“That’s good.” Hotch nodded. “Then we know that it’s more about the mothers. He hates women at his core. Protecting the children is just a byproduct of his obsession over these women.” 

“But we still have no clue how these women could be connected or how they met the UnSub.” Morgan replied, jaw stiff with frustration. 

“Focus on what we do know.” Hotch reminded him. 

“All of the women were killed via stabbing. They all had over a dozen stab wounds to their stomachs and genital areas.” Rossi replied. “So, he is an aggressive sexual sadist.” 

“But if he hates women so much, why spend so much time in the house?” Morgan argued gently. “Every single one of these scenes has evidence that the UnSub spent hours - possibly up to a day in the house before he killed them. He cooked dinner, set the table, and made the women eat it before he killed them. Including a second place setting for a child. Some of the kids even said that ‘the scary man’ tucked them into bed and read them a story.” 

He held up one of the crime scene photos that depicted the scene of the family’s place settings - a haunting scene of plates not cleaned up from dinner, with a flower vase sitting in the middle of the table with a few white flowers wilting inside of it. 

“He’s right - why bother to show them the kindness of a last meal if he shows so much aggression toward them during the killing?” Prentiss added on. 

“It’s a routine.” Hotch said, the thought suddenly occurring to him. “It’s likely that he chooses single mothers because he gets to play the role of the father. With the real father figure absent from the picture, it makes it easier for him to impose himself into that role. At least for a temporary amount of time.” 

“It is strange.” Reid added on, clearly swimming in thought. “It’s almost like he’s courting them? Sending them gifts, showing what a good father he could be. Each of the women were sent white carnations sometime in the days before they were killed, and after the killing, he lays the flowers around their head in a halo-like fashion. It is said that carnations represent motherhood, and the white shade could depict an angelic innocence that he’s projecting onto these women.” 

“So he views these women as angelic figures, yet he kills them so brutally?” Prentiss scoffed. “It just doesn’t add up.” 

“Maybe he views the killing itself as a type of purification.” Reid theorized. “It’s not uncommon for killers to emotionally fetishize dead bodies and consider them more ‘pure’ than their living counterparts.” 

Prentiss visibly cringed at this. 

“Wait.” JJ said, looking at one of the crime scene photos with a sharp line pulling her brows together. 

Everyone looked to her, waiting for her to finish this thought. 

“I don’t think that the mothers were the only ones sent gifts.” 

She held up the photo, showing a picture of a colorful child’s play mat in the living room. Everyone stared at the photo in confusion, and JJ sighed and began to explain. 

“Look at this toy truck in the middle.” She said, pointing at something that almost blended into the background of the photo. The true focus was a large handprint - one that belonged to the killer, but he had worn gloves. “It’s wooden, it’s hand-carved, it’s old fashioned. All the other toys are plastic, brightly coloured. Remember what the UnSub said in the second 9-1-1 call?” 

“‘She pretends to have her son’s best interests at heart, but she was going to let him get cancer from sucking on those cheap plastic toys.’” Reid said, repeating it word-for-word, using his impeccable memory. 

“Exactly.” JJ confirmed with a nod. “Clearly the UnSub believes that he would be a good father because he can gift his child something hand-made instead of something mass produced.” 

“Alright, get the crime scene techs back over there to pick up the truck, maybe he wasn’t wearing gloves when he made it and there is some slim chance he left a print on it.” Hotch said, and JJ left to call the crime scene unit. 

This left the team sitting in silence for a few more moments until Reid spoke up again. 

“What about preschools?” He said, suddenly coming out of a wave of thought to announce this to the room. 

“What?” Prentiss prompted, wondering what on earth he was talking about. 

“Preschools.” Spencer confirmed, looking across the table at her. 

“We checked already, none of the victims’ children went to the same preschool.” Morgan reminded him. “Two of the kids didn’t even go to preschool.” 

“Yeah, but preschools typically have large waitlists.” Spencer argued. 

Naturally, all eyes in the room fell on him, waiting for him to explain. 

“In the first 9-1-1 call, the UnSub said that the victim ‘shipped her son off to be cared for by strangers half the time’.” He explained, once again perfectly reciting this from memory. “What if the UnSub resents preschools and the schooling system for taking these children away from their mothers, so he’s choosing his victims off of a preschool waitlist? What if that’s where his obsession stems from because that’s where his rage stems from?” 

Reid jumped up, pointing to the map he had been using to make a geographical profile. 

“All of the victims live within the same school district.” He added on. “So they would be applying to the same group of preschools.” 

“I’ll call Garcia.” Morgan announced. 

A few minutes later, Morgan connected Garcia’s call to the comm on the center of the conference table they were working from. 

“Hey, pumpkin pies.” She greeted them sweetly, as usual. “So it turns out, the preschool that Tommy Laird, and Emily Ashton, the third and the fourth victim had in common, does have a waitlist. But none of the other victims’ names were on it.” 

“Come on, babygirl. I know you’re holding out on me.” Morgan said, giving a small smirk. 

“Oh, my Adonis, if I don’t have your trembling anticipation, I have nothing.” Garcia giggled. “The school’s waitlist, and their applications, are handled by a firm called Gordon & Stanheight. And it turns out, they handle the applications and waitlisting for five other preschools in the area.” 

“Which gives the UnSub a perfect way to pick his victims.” Morgan sighed. “The first interaction that gets him hooked might not even be in person-” 

“Unless he’s picking them out of the line-up on paper and then waiting to meet them in person?” Prentiss replied. “With this type of guy, the smallest smile, a nod in his direction - that could be consent in his mind to play father to a household that’s missing one.” 

“You said they handle forms for five different schools? That just widened the victim pool.” Rossi groaned. 

“And the suspect pool.” Garcia added on. “The firm has thirty male employees. And I did a bit more digging - the preschool applications have ten ‘optional’ questions on the bottom that are definitely not marked as such. Questions directed at the parent filling out the form, rather than vital information about the child. Things such as: ‘what’s your favorite food?’, ‘when is your birthday?’, ‘what’s your favorite color?’, ‘do you plan on having more children?’ - typical survey schlock,” 

“That would explain why the UnSub served Lisa Laird a birthday cake.” Reid sighed. “He knew it was her birthday two days before he killed her.”

“I have a feeling I’m not gonna like where this is going.” Emily sighed. 

“Oh, sugar. You probably won’t.” Penelope easily agreed. “The ‘optional’ part of the forms is sold off to other companies as survey data. And those forms are seen and handled by over a thousand male employees of Gordon & Stanheight’s larger ‘data processing’ sector.” 

“Well the UnSub has to be local to Portland. So narrow down the suspect list based on his last known address and go from there.” Hotch said. “Also, it would be someone who has a criminal record. Someone committing this level of violence wouldn’t be a first time offender.” 

“Gotcha.” Penelope said. “Penny G, out.” 

… 

The team ended up raiding Gordon & Stanheight’s Portland based office. 

After some pointless conversation, some threats of lawsuits, and some even larger threats of being detained for impeding an FBI investigation, the team was able to get their hands on the preschool applications. Over two-dozen boxes worth, that they would have to sort through. 

So this left JJ, Reid, Hotch, Rossi, Morgan, and Prentiss knee deep in paper, looking for anyone who fit the UnSub’s victimology - praying that they would be able to pick out the next victim and get to her before the UnSub did. 

“We’re never gonna get through these fast enough, are we?” Prentiss sighed, continuing to sift through the papers. 

“We just have to go as fast as we can, and hope the UnSub sticks to his schedule.” Morgan replied. “He has to spend time stalking them, learning their routine. Even if he has chosen his victim by now, he won’t break into the house until he’s fully confident that he won’t be disrupted.” 

“And the stalking helps build up the fantasy.” Reid added on. “He romanticizes them from afar, sends them gifts. It adds to his delusions of grandeur and forbidden love. The idea that he’s swooping in to become the perfect father figure for these ‘broken’ families.” 

“So we’re hanging all our hopes on the idea that this psychopath needs time to ‘fall in love’ with his next victim before he kills her?” Prentiss groaned. 

“Sadly, yes.” Rossi confirmed. 

“It helps that most of these applications are from two-parent households.” JJ pointed out. “We can throw out anything with a second applicant on the form, because he’s only targeting single mothers.” 

The rest of the conversation easily became quiet in Spencer’s ears when he saw it. 

It should have been just another page among the sea of paper in his hands, but when he saw those words on the page - that name - it was like a punch to the gut. It pushed all the air out of him in seconds, it made him dizzy, made him struggle to breathe. Like a reel flashing through his mind, it brought back a flood of memories he thought he had locked away forever. 

It was you. 

What the hell were you doing applying for preschools? 

Spencer rushed to tear this paper away from the others in order to read it more carefully. 

Surely enough, the application was filled out in your handwriting. Something that had barely changed over the years. And it was all right there, laid out in front of his eyes, clear as day - 

You had a son. 

A son named Sebastian, who was three years old. Spencer checked the date on the form, eagerly looking for a birth date for your son. His birthday had just recently passed, actually, so he was four years old now. 

And his birth date was… fuck. 

He had been born eight and a half months, almost nine months exactly after the two of you had broken up. Your son had been born eight and a half months after the day you had left and Spencer had never seen you again. 

One thousand, seven hundred and two days. 

Four years, eight months, and two days. 

It wasn’t difficult math. 

Your son was the perfect age to be Spencer’s child. Was this Spencer’s child? 

His hands began to shake at the very thought of it.  

Is that why you had disappeared from his life with such haste? Because you knew that you were pregnant and you didn’t want Spencer to be a part of your child’s life? 

Had you been keeping this from him intentionally? 

He hadn’t thought about you in four long years, he had tried so hard not to. He had spent so long forcing himself not to miss you, and now he was struck with the realization that he might have a child out there with the woman he considered to be his regrettable lost love. A child he didn’t know - a child who he had missed four whole years with. 

What the fuck was going on? 

There were no pictures included with the application, and suddenly, Spencer found himself dying to see the boy. He wanted to know if there was any physical resemblance to himself, or if he was jumping to conclusions. 

Maybe you had cheated on him. Maybe that was why you had left town and never contacted him again. Maybe the kid wasn’t his at all, maybe- 

“Reid.” JJ called out gently, getting his attention. 

Spencer suddenly realized that he was hyperventilating, staring down at the application with your name on it in his hand, wrinkling the paper as he squeezed it more frantically. 

“Did you find something?” 

… 

All in all, the team found four different women who fit the victim pattern in the files - you being one of them. 

So the team split up, ready to knock on each of the womens’ doors, preparing to warn them that if they received any gifts or saw any suspicious men lingering around them in the next few days, they should call. They had to hope that the UnSub wouldn’t move on from this victim pool if he saw the FBI around. But he was overly confident, he had contacted police before. 

It could definitely work. 

When Hotch found out that Spencer had known you, he said that Spencer should be the one to knock on your door. That you might find it comforting to hear that you and your child could possibly be in danger if it were coming from ‘an old friend’. Spencer stuttered over himself and didn’t have the words to explain that you weren’t just a good friend to him, but a romantic flame. He didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of the team by telling everyone that the break-up had been messy, and sudden, and Spencer still wasn’t even completely sure what had caused it. He didn’t want to rip open his old wounds in front of everyone. 

So he simply shut his mouth and got in the car with JJ, and they made their way toward your house. 

…

“So…” JJ’s voice broke through the undulating silence of the car ride - filled by nothing but the sound of the car’s motor running and gears grinding inside Spencer’s mind as he tried to figure all of this out. “I do have to ask the obvious question,” 

“What is that?” Spencer probed, slightly glad to be relieved of his own thoughts. 

He wasn’t so glad when JJ pried those thoughts out of his mind and spilled them to the open air. 

“Is the kid yours?” She wondered aloud. “I mean - when did you and Y/N break up?” 

JJ had known you as Spencer’s girlfriend. 

Come to think of it, she was probably the only person on the current field team who had some kind of a relationship with you back when you and Spencer dated. 

Initially, it had been by accident. JJ had driven him home one night after a particularly long and sleepless case, and you had been coming to his apartment to drop off some books he had asked for (shortly after he had given you a key). When JJ saw you, her natural curiosity got the better of her - even more so when you stuck out your hand and introduced yourself as ‘Spencer’s girlfriend’ without hesitation. 

The two of you got to talking, and JJ invited you to ‘girls night’. You met Elle and Penelope shortly after. You had become pretty good friends with the three of them before the break-up. 

But Spencer had always felt secretive…. well, protective of you. He didn’t want Morgan teasing him about you, or him wanting to have ‘guy talk’ about things that occurred in the bedroom. Not when it might mean talking about intimate moments with you. Spencer had only introduced you to Gideon over coffee about three weeks before the break-up, and that felt like a lifetime ago. 

Back then, having you, Elle, and Gideon leave his life all in a matter of a few months felt like hell on earth. It felt like being grabbed by his ankles and shaken for all he was worth. He really wasn’t sure that he was ready to see you again. 

It had been four years. 

JJ was someone he could lean on right now. 

“Four years ago.” He told her, completely honest. 

“And how old is the kid?” JJ asked. 

“Four - four years old.” Spencer stuttered out, realizing that now as he was speaking about this very real possibility, he might be breathing more life into it. 

“Oh my god.” JJ sighed. “Well… could it-? I mean…? Did the two of you?” 

It took Spencer a moment to clue into what JJ was talking about. He gave her a sideways glance and she took her eyes off the road for a moment, raising her brows and giving him a pointed look. 

“Please tell me you know what does and what doesn’t make a baby,” JJ groaned. 

“Oh!” Spencer huffed, a small wave of embarrassment flooding him. “Yes! God, yes. I know.” 

There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Spencer felt the need to clarify his answer. 

“We - I mean. We…” He trailed off for a moment, clearing his throat. “We didn’t always use… protection. We were together for three years, at the time, it was on the table.” 

“Kids were on the table for you back then?” JJ asked, clearly shocked by this. “I could not imagine little twenty-four year old Spence with a baby.” 

“Well… it’s something I’ve always wanted.” He mumbled quietly in reply. 

It was true. At the time, Spencer easily imagined himself getting married to you, having multiple kids with you. These days, seeing JJ with Henry and Will brought him the occasional underlying pang of jealousy - but since breaking up with you, there hadn’t been anyone else in Spencer’s life that he could have imagined having kids with. He thought that he was going to be alone and childless for the rest of his life. That the dream was long dead for him. 

“Hey - then, maybe this is a blessing in disguise?” JJ posed. “If we hadn’t been looking through those forms because of this UnSub, you never would have found Y/N again. You wouldn’t even know this baby exists.” 

There was another thing that JJ was dying to ask - something she held back because she felt like it was a touch too personal. (Even if ‘too personal’ was basically how the BAU team lived - knee deep in each other’s business, all the time). 

She wanted to know why you had a baby, a baby that Spencer had very likely fathered, and you hadn’t contacted him about it. Spencer seemed entirely clueless about the child’s existence before now, and JJ knew that because of what his own father had been like, he wouldn’t just blow off a kid that was his if he knew that one was out there in the world. 

So why hadn’t you told Spencer about the baby? 

“What if the kid isn’t yours?” JJ wondered aloud. 

Maybe that would unburden him. She knew that either way, Spencer would fight to protect you from the UnSub. But if the kid wasn’t his - he would walk away again, and he wouldn’t have to be hung up on the heartbreak of dealing with his ex just to parent a child together. 

“Honestly… I think I’ll be more heartbroken if I find out that he’s not even mine.” Spencer told her, his voice quiet and already lulling with that disappointment. 

That was not something JJ had considered. She frowned as she saw the sadness paint across Spencer’s face. 

“One thing at a time, alright?” 

…

When they pulled into your driveway, Spencer’s mind immediately began churning. 

It was a nice house. It was a beautiful, quiet neighborhood. The front yard was clean and trimmed and there was a silver SUV in the driveway with a ‘baby on board’ sticker in the rear window. There was a rocking chair on the porch, but he didn’t see many children’s toys out front on the lawn. He guessed that was a good thing. Letting children play in the front where they could run into the street and potentially get hit by a car was too dangerous. He was glad to already see signs that you were a good mother. 

Spencer felt like he was opening up a book halfway, desperately wanting to be filled in on the previous chapters while having missed so much. Still wanting to read ahead and see more. 

He had already missed so much of your son’s life. He had missed you. That was something forming the biggest knot in his gut. He had truly missed you. The times he had allowed himself to think of you over these past few years - he had missed you so dearly. 

And now the two of you likely had a child together. 

Craning his neck to get a better look, desperately trying to take in more information, Spencer’s eyes were wide and hungry as JJ put the car in park by the curb in front of your house. As Spencer reached for the passenger side door handle, JJ’s phone rang. 

“I have to take this.” She sighed. “You go ahead.” 

She gave Spencer a distinct look that said ‘I know you need a minute alone with Y/N’, and he nodded, stepping out of the vehicle while she greeted whoever was on the other line. He smoothed down his tie - for once in his whole life, he was actually worried about how he looked. Only because he knew that he was going to see you. Perhaps he had only ever felt like this before going on his first date with you. 

He had such a strange lashing of emotions going through him as he approached the door. Fear, anxiety, anticipation. Longing. 

He truly had tried so hard to lock away his feelings for you when you had left. He had tried to move on. He had considered, briefly, in passing, dating other women. There had been times when someone else caught his eye, and he considered asking her out on a date. Morgan had offered to ‘set him up’. Penelope had offered too, telling him that he deserved to ‘get back out there’. 

Whenever she asked about you, his heart freshly cracked open. 

At one point, she had advised him to write a long, Shakespearian letter, pouring out his heart to you in an effort to get you back - one which she would mail. (Because of course, she could get your new address in a heartbeat.) But he didn’t want to experience the heartbreak all over again if you ignored him. He didn’t want to sit, waiting by the mailbox every single day like a lost dog, waiting for you to write him back in return. 

You had disappeared from his life for a reason. Just like everyone else had. For a long time, Spencer convinced himself that he was simply meant to end up alone. 

Perhaps if he had known about your son - a child that could very well be his - then he might have felt differently about getting Penelope to contact you. 

But now he was standing at your front door, his fist shaking as he raised his hand to knock. 

He let out a sharp breath and steadied himself, giving three swift, firm knocks against the door and then trying to wait patiently. His heart thumped inside of his throat, and it felt like forever. 

“Sorry!” Your voice called out from behind the door, muffled. “Sorry, I almost didn’t hear you. I was-” 

You cut off your own words as you opened the door - the moment you caught Spencer’s eye and recognized it was him, pure shock fell across your features, and you froze on the spot. 

You were just as stunning as ever. You had barely aged at all - your hair was different than the last time he had seen you, of course. And you were dressed casually - wearing a simple hooded sweatshirt with a drawstring and a pair of jeans with some fuzzy slipper boots on. But pale blue looked so good on you.

So much like the pale blue dress you had worn on your first date with him. 

You were breath-taking. 

“Y/N.” He greeted you, his throat dry already. 

You didn’t say anything, simply continuing to stare him down with wide-eyed shock. 

Seeing you again, Spencer couldn’t help but to think back to that first date. 

The first night that he knew he was in love with you. 

… 

He had taken you to see the Virginia Symphony Orchestra. 

It was Spencer’s idea of a good time - and it ended up being one of the most beautiful, most romantic, most unique first dates that you had ever been on. 

It was difficult not to fall for him with the beautiful music in the air and his glossy eyes, so sickeningly thick with affection, staring you down all night. 

Afterwards, the two of you stopped to get ice cream at a small shop that was a short walk down from the orchestra. And now you were both enjoying your ice cream as you walked along in the cool night air - enjoying the peace and quiet and the gentle breeze in the darkness. 

It was a perfect night. 

Spencer could think of no better way to spend it than with you. The yellow bulbs of the street lights practically cast a glow onto your skin, the mulberry lipstick now worn off your lips as you brought the pink spoon to your mouth and licked up your sweet treat. 

His stomach was churning with nerves. Joyous nerves. 

And as per usual, when he was nervous - he rambled. 

“You know, Bach actually married his cousin.” He said, spouting off the first thing that came to mind. 

You told him that Bach was one of your favorite composers - it’s why he had thought to bring you to the orchestra on a date in the first place. 

“I did not know that.” You giggled. “So what? Was it like a ‘third cousin twice removed’ type situation?” 

Spencer found himself grinning at the fact that you actually engaged him in the conversation, rather than staring at him with an odd look for bringing up such a strange topic. 

“Not quite.” He replied. “They had the same surname before marriage.” 

“Oh, ew.” You chuckled again, giving a shudder at the thought of this. 

Spencer knew it was an odd topic to discuss on a date, and if he rambled on too much, it might freak you out - but he couldn’t stop himself. His mouth ran away with him, and he continued. 

“He married Maria Barbara Bach, and they had seven children together.” He told you. “His sons, Wilhelm Friedemann and Carl Philipp Emanuel became composers and musicians much like their father, which was actually carrying on a legacy started by Bach’s father himself - who was a seventh generation musician. He was the one who taught Bach the organ from a very young age.” 

“Why don’t people play the organ anymore?” You wondered aloud. “Except in churches, I guess. The organ rocks.” 

Spencer’s brain began rocketing off at the fact that you had asked him a question. A question he could answer. 

“The organ has actually long been associated with divinity.” He replied. “The instrument rose in popularity alongside Catholicism throughout the eighteenth century, and in a sense, that was part of what made Bach a sort of ‘rockstar’ of his time. The religious references in his work, and his mastery of the organ - all of it made him incredibly popular at the time because it caused him to be favored by the church and by royal figures associated with the church.” 

Spencer gleamed a large smile, heavily enjoying that he could share these facts with you. He thought for certain that any moment, you would change the subject or imply that he should stop talking. But instead, you engaged the conversation more. 

“Religious references?” You questioned, wondering what he meant by this. 

“Yes!” Spencer grinned, suddenly very excited by the explanation behind this. “Even in his secular music, Bach would often incorporate the acronym ‘INJ’, a Latin abbreviation that means ‘In Nomine Jesu’, or ‘in the name of Jesus’. It was something he put on all of his manuscripts.” 

You grinned back. You found it fascinating that being around Spencer for such short periods of time caused you to learn so many things. It easily made you want to be around him more. 

“Interesting.” You replied. 

“And his talent on the organ was seen as something that made him ‘divine’ at the time. Divine enough to be worthy of performing for royalty.” Spencer added on. “In 1708, Bach got a position as the court organist in Weimer for Duke Wilhelm. And later when he requested early release from this position, desiring to go work for Prince Leopold of Koethen, the Duke actually had him arrested and put in jail for several weeks in 1716.” 

Spencer laughed at this mental image - the composer being put in jail. 

“Ooh, harsh.” You sighed. “But I guess Dukes have too much power.” 

Spencer let out another bright laugh at this. 

“And see, the interesting thing is, Bach later became the conductor of the court orchestra, in which Prince Leopold played.” 

“So he got his wish,” You replied with a smile. 

“And see-” 

Spencer set off on another rant again, and you couldn’t help yourself. You put your spoon into the cup of ice cream and then you used your now free hand to reach out and grab Spencer by his tie - you pulled him toward you before he could get anymore words out, and he let out a shocked, choked-off sound when you pressed your mouth into his. 

He sighed gently against your lips, and unconsciously dropped his own melting chocolate cone on the ground by his feet as his limp hands drifted toward your waist. He was dizzy, and now every single fact he had ever known about any composer had vanished from his head. In that moment, standing under a random street lamp on a random sidewalk somewhere - all he knew was the soft, pillowy feeling of your lips and the cool night breeze against his skin. 

It was perfect. You were perfect. 

You found his intelligence and the enthusiasm with which he spoke to be so utterly irresistible. You had been on so many dates with men before where they had acted like talking about their interests was a chore. Where they had made it seem like the whole thing was simply a routine, waiting for the end of the night so they could get into your pants. And for them, that’s what it probably was. 

But Spencer was nothing like that. 

He spoke about everything with such intense passion - and you couldn’t resist the urge to try and suck that very passion off his lips. 

When you were forced to pull back slightly, your lungs crying out for oxygen, Spencer let out a gentle moan and began puffing out sweet little pants across your chin as he tried to catch his breath. You kept a hold of his tie, wanting to keep him close, and he stayed there, gently pressing his forehead against yours. 

“That was… wow.” He sighed. 

“I didn’t think I would ever find you at a loss for words, Doctor Reid.” You replied with a giggle. 

“Well, I - you - wow.” 

It was all he could muster, causing you both to break down into laughter. 

Back then - everything had been perfect. 

He had no clue where it all went so wrong.

...

Continue reading: Chapter Two - Liar

#sundrop writes #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #dad!spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x you #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic

[princess-lou]

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#god i hate technology when i can't fix it #trying to use my monitor as a second screen for my laptop #so i can play sims on a bigger screen #and now its running worse? #like its so jittery even though the game is on the lowest graphic settings #all i did was change the screen resolution #so i could actually see the icons #and if that's whats causing it ill scream #because with it all on recommended settings i cannot see shit