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veltana · 4 months

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Realization - Mafia AU prequels - Stucky

✦ Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Stucky/Fem!Reader ✦ Word count: ~1.6k ✦ Rating: Explicit ✦ Warnings/tags: smut, top!bucky, bottom!steve, hurt/comfort, unrequited love/crush, angst, lots of fluff and feels, blow job, anal sex. ✦ Summary: There is a strange sting in Steve's chest, it began burning when you skipped in the door, showing off the diamond on your finger. It feels unreal. Not that someone would want to marry you, because you’re lovely, but that you’re getting married to someone else. ✦ Note: This is a prequel to No one as sweet as you set while they were living together in college, which focuses on their growing relationship and how Bucky and Steve started to develop feelings for Sweets as more than just their best friend. You don't need to read No one as sweet as you to get this but I recommend it. (Also posted on AO3) Series masterlist

Main masterlist | AO3

Steve waves goodbye with a smile and closes the door softly behind you, then leans his head against it and lets out a breath. Bucky's hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing it. "She's happy," Bucky whispers, trying to hide the pain in his voice. Pushing away from the door, Steve nods but he can’t help but feel like half of his heart just left.

"She's engaged," Steve mumbles as he walks back to the living room and sits down on the couch, grabbing what’s left of the whiskey and downing it.

There is a strange sting in Steve's chest, it began burning when you skipped in the door, showing off the diamond on your finger. It feels unreal. Not that someone would want to marry you, because you’re lovely, but that you’re getting married to someone else.

Confused, he turns to Bucky and without a word the other man reaches for him, pulling him into a tight hug meant for comfort and support. They rarely say anything out loud, but all of Bucky’s love is in the hug.

Steve might not have realized it sooner but Bucky has known for years that there would only be two people for him and that is you and Steve, but he's kept it to himself, mainly because you've been in a long-term relationship since right after college and because Steve has always seemed happy for you.

Bucky is happy for you too, of course. He's happy when you're happy and tonight you glowed, proudly displaying the ring your boyfriend had placed on your finger two nights before. You beamed as you described the candles, petals, and wonderful words he'd told you.

The happiness and bottomless despair had mixed in Bucky's chest like a vortex, threatening to cause a scene where he would spew out all of his doubts and he didn't want that for you. He is your best friend and will support you through the whole marriage, just so he can stay by your side.

Steve's fingers grip Bucky's shirt. "Why am I not happy for her?" he questions loudly and Bucky can only say, "Because you love her," gently. "Of course I love her,” Steve pulls away, raking his fingers through his hair. “She's our best friend, she's like the most amazing person I know and she's getting married and I'm not happy…" he trails off, meeting Bucky's knowing eyes.

"Oh," Steve just says and Bucky nods, leaning back against the cushions. "How long have you…?" He doesn't say the words but Bucky knows what he means. "Remember when she dated Loki?" Steve nods and Bucky shrugs. "Right around that time.”

Steve feels like Bucky has grown two heads. He is so casual about the whole thing while it feels like Steve's insides are drowning in black tar. "How do you…?" "Bare it?" Bucky raises an eyebrow and when Steve nods he continues. "Well, I just tried to be there for her when she needed me. I didn’t want to push anything since she clearly said she wanted to stay away from relationships after Loki. And then you know, dad passed, and I started down this line of work together with you, and she met him," he shrugs again. "I would rather live with the pain than without the two of you in my life."

Steve's eyes search Bucky's for a moment. "You'll always have me," he states, making Bucky smile. "And every day I am grateful for that," he says in a low voice, gently grabbing Steve's chin and kissing him.

Steve loves kissing Bucky, it's like coming home to a warm fire after wading through cold mud. The kiss quickly turns heavy and Steve starts pulling on Bucky’s clothes. Withdrawing, Bucky strokes his cheek. “What do you need?” “I don’t know,” Steve confesses.

Bucky nods and moves his hand to the back of Steve’s head, fisting the hair and pulling his head back slightly. “You just do as I say, okay?” “Okay,” Steve answers, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, eyes already calmer.

They don’t use titles like sir or master or anything like that, it’s never been their thing, but Bucky knows just what Steve needs at a time like this. And if it was the other way around, Steve would do the same for him.

“Good, who do you belong to Steve?” “You, Bucky,” he quickly answers. “And?” “Sweets,” his voice is pained. "Good Steve," Bucky praises and sees Steve’s shoulders relax more. “Now get on the floor and suck my dick.”

Steve goes and it feels so good to not have to make any decisions and just focus on Bucky. In the back of his head, he knows he’s going to have to deal with his feelings for you later, but right now he just wants any relief he can get.

He opens up Bucky’s pants and takes his cock out, not hesitating a second before swallowing him down. Bucky’s fingers tangles in Steve’s hair, moving his head up and down, his own tipped back against the couch, moaning. "Just like that. Your mouth feels so good, Steve. Fuck, you’re so good at this."

He hums in appreciation, taking Bucky as deep as he can, letting his tongue caress the length, focusing on giving him all the pleasure he can. Steve's own dick is painfully hard but he knows better than to do anything about it, and he knows Bucky will take care of him.

"I'm going to come down your throat," Bucky warns, giving him the option to stop, but he doesn't. A few deep swallows later and Bucky is shooting down his throat, a groan of Steve's name leaving his mouth in the process.

Steve pulls off and swallows dutifully. Bucky's hand strokes the side of his face. "Clothes off," he demands quietly and in moments Steve is naked, kneeling on the floor. Bucky stands up, slowly losing his clothing, revealing the body Steve has seen hundreds of times but never gets tired of looking at.

It's hard to keep himself going slow. Steve looks so pretty and helpless on the floor in front of him, Bucky wants to push him down and fuck him hard and fast. But he knows he needs to drag this out for Steve's sake, let him out of his head as long as Bucky can manage.

That's why he holds Steve's gaze as he undresses, keeping him right in the moment. He sits back down when he's done, his cock not yet hard again, but he knows how to remedy that.

"Get the lube and get up here," he commands and Steve scrambles, still on his knees to get the lube hidden in a drawer in the coffee table, before crawling onto the couch and straddling Bucky.

Steve's not a small man and Bucky has to crane his neck to look up at him. He takes the lube in one hand, coating his fingers generously before reaching back behind Steve. "Ah, Buck!" Steve's voice is honey and Bucky can't help but smile as he slowly starts to work Steve open.

"Hold onto me," he instructs and Steve's hands grasp his shoulders. Bucky's other hand goes to Steve's cock, lazily stroking it.

"So good for me. Always so good," he murmurs as Steve takes another finger. Trembles start going through his body and Bucky lets his cock go, knowing that keeping Steve on edge will only help him. The grip Steve has is bruising, his mouth hanging open, and small pants fall continuously from his lips. It makes Bucky smile, knowing he is making him feel better. Feel good even.

"Buck," Steve pleads in a whisper, eyes tightly closed. "I don't know if you're ready Stevie," Bucky teases and works the third finger in. With a growl, Steve grabs the lube and reaches down to Bucky's cock, which is hard once again. As soon as Steve's slick fist grabs him he moans loudly.

"Yes, fuck, you’re ready. Only teasing, dammit," Bucky groans and withdraws his fingers, wiping them on a blanket nearby. Before he is done Steve has positioned himself and starts sinking down.

Their moans fill the room quickly. It's a pleasure to watch Steve's muscled body move, in any way, but especially like this. The sweat is making him shine, looking like a god.

"You're taking me so well. So perfect. Fuck you're beautiful," Bucky tells him and grabs his cock. He needs Steve to finish first and his own orgasm is approaching too quickly. "Gonna need you to come for me Steve," he says. "Paint us with your cum and let me fill you up."

Steve lets Bucky's voice carry him, doing as he's told and angling his hips, getting the thick cock just right. "That's it," Bucky praises. Steve tips his head back as the feeling climbs until he finally reaches the peak. Bucky is seconds behind him.

The only downside to Steve being just as tall and broad as Bucky is that Bucky can’t pick him up and carry him. Instead, he settles on pulling Steve into him, holding him tightly, and kissing the skin where he can reach. Steve’s hammering heart and panting breath slow after a while and he sags into Bucky.

"I am so fucking stupid," he murmurs. The reprieve Bucky created for him is over and now it’s all coming back quickly. "How did I not understand this earlier?" "Feelings are complicated, Steve. But we’re going to get through this, I promise.” “I love you, Bucky.” It’s not something they tell each other often, but it feels important to say it now, more than ever. “I love you, Steve. And Sweets do too.”

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thursdayygrrrl · 12 days

Text

from the sidelines

⌦ .｡.:*♡

characters: natasha romanoff, wanda maximoff (wandanat)

genre: fluff, slight angst

warnings: swearing, mentions of blood & guns, breakdowns/crying

summary: When Wanda comes into Natasha’s life, she gives the widow something to lose.

word count: 3,859

a/n: this is my first time writing for nat/something nat-centric and, technically, wandanat too! this was inspired by sidelines by phoebe bridgers because i think that song is suuuuper underappreciated and that it was a good fit for them (lyrics are in bold and italics). it’s been a while since i last wrote anything for fun and not for uni, so please be kind. i also don’t know much about gardening so some of the language might not be accurate. you can read it on ao3 (here) or under the cut. i hope you enjoy :>

I’m not afraid of anything at all

If there was one thing constant about Natasha, it was the lack of fear. It wasn’t inherent, but was a habit developed essential for her survival. She learned that pretty quickly. One moment of hesitance, no matter how short, could mean life or death.

There were other times she felt brave without risking her life though. Like when she first dyed her hair. She chose the color blue because it reminded her of the sky. The horizon always looked limitless, a reminder that there could be more to life than what she had already experienced. She remembers making that choice and following through with it. It made her feel in control of something, amidst all the other things she had no power over.

───── ⴵ⋅ᗢ⋅ⴵ ─────

‘Cause nothing ever shakes me, nothing makes me cry

Not a plane going down in the ocean and drowning

One of her most vivid memories is flying the plane with Melina. The night was normal at first. She was playing tag with her younger sister until she fell and hurt her knee. Then, they watched the fireflies and went inside to help with dinner. Alexei arrived and they started eating. It all felt so nice, so normal until he said they were going on a big adventure. Her appetite disappeared. Yelena was excited, oblivious to what it actually meant. She didn’t have the heart or the chance to tell her.

The drive out was tense and quiet, save for American Pie playing in the background. She watched the scenes change outside her window from the suburbs to highways. They had to move fast, but she felt sluggish, overwhelmed with everything going on. She remembers holding on to a photobooth strip of her and Yelena before finally running to get on the plane after being urged by Alexei. The sound of sirens and the whirring of engines, her heartbeat hammering in her chest, filled her ears. Gunshots started sounding off. One hit Melina’s shoulder.

“I need you up here,” She said through gritted teeth. Natasha clambered beside her.

She was wincing in pain while giving instructions to pull right.

“Mom, you’ve got blood on you,” Her voice came out strangled, and that tight feeling came along with tears forming in her eyes. She didn’t cry often but she knew she hated the physiological sensations that came with it.

“It’s okay, baby.” Two more cars directly in front of them appeared in the distance. “Hit the accelerator there.”

She did as she was told, speeding the plane up. She faltered when a few more shots were fired at them.

“Hold it steady, hold it steady.” More shots, the headlights ahead were blindingly bright. “You’re gonna pull back at 55 knots.” They started counting in unison. Alexei popped one of the cars’ tires with a bullet, causing them to crash into each other.

“Pull back, you can do it! Pull back, all your strength...” Part of the plane grazes with the bottom of the now-upturned car. But they were finally off the ground. Flying. A sense of relief washes over her.

Considering the past few hours, the rest of the flight went smoothly. They landed somewhere remote, it felt like the middle of nowhere. Alexei carried Melina to a stretcher held by some soldiers she and Yelena ran after. After a short exchange of words with the older woman, she remembers wrangling a gun from someone, unwanted tears threatening to fall from her eyes again, and Yelena’s small form hiding behind her.

“I don’t wanna go back there.”

A needle was buried deep into her neck. She was then thrown into a shipping container with other girls. Masked people were pointing rifles at them, shouting and violently wrenching Yelena from her hold. There was a man, he knelt to meet her eyes. Rough and calloused hands held her face.

“The Red Room is your home now.”

───── ⴵ⋅ᗢ⋅ⴵ ─────

Watched the world from the sidelines

Had nothing to prove

Natasha had just started getting used to being “normal,” just another child in midwestern America. She was going to school, being around other kids, having a family until it was all ripped away. Even though it was all a lie, she couldn’t say it wasn’t important to her.

Being back in the Red Room was a regimented, isolating existence. No one was able to speak to each other for long. Schedules were planned down to the minute. Excruciating physical training, including hand-to-hand combat, ballet, acrobatics, and weapons training, pushed them to their limits, sometimes even beyond.

The mutilation, both psychological and physical, was the worst of all. They broke down each girl’s hope and willpower if any were even left. They were treated like objects, mere faceless weapons they could manipulate as a means to an evil end. The ones who survived were considered lucky, the prime of their batches, and given an operation. They called it “graduation,” but everyone knew what that meant.

At some point, she was able to get out. Her time with the KGB, then in S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers was filled with twists and turns. It was a lot of battles, moral disputes, and political agendas. There was even a time when she had to expose her own seedy past, much to her discomfort, but it was for the greater good. She didn’t mind as long as it was for the well-being of others.

───── ⴵ⋅ᗢ⋅ⴵ ─────

‘Til you came into my life

Gave me something to lose

Now that she thinks of it, the first time she interacted with Wanda was horrible. The witch inflicted a vision, memories that she was trying to bury and leave behind, when she was weakened and vulnerable. There were snippets of a conversation with Madame B. The graduation ceremony. It made her feel like a monster all over again.

The next time they interacted was in the Battle of Sokovia. She remembers regrouping with Steve, but not expecting the very same witch to make an appearance. Despite all the chaos, the jacket she wore looked familiar.

“Is that my jacket?” Natasha gestured at the younger woman, frowning slightly.

“She’s with us,” Steve said.

“That still doesn’t explain the jacket.”

Natasha was persistent. She didn’t shop for clothes often, never dressing up unless she wanted or had to, so this red jacket was special. It was one of the first few things she bought for herself. Wanda, now awkward and unsure of what to do, ran off. The rest of the battle felt like a blur of robots and rubble.

Since then, Wanda joined the Avengers. The younger woman mostly kept to herself when not on missions, watching sitcoms in her room. Vision would talk to her sometimes. Other times, the widow herself would do so. Natasha understood she needed space and time to cope with everything she’d been through but didn’t want to leave her fully isolated.

Their conversations, if you could even call them that, were awkward at first. Natasha would ramble on about whatever, trying to fill the silence.

“There’s breakfast in the kitchen.”

Wanda looks up from her book only to be met with a small, warm smile on the assassin’s face.

“It’s the usual American stuff. Eggs, bacon, sugary cereal, some fruit. Pretty sure Clint’s making waffles too,” Natasha points to the door with her thumb. “You should eat with us. Bond with the team, all that stuff that Steve goes on about. We’ll have training after.”

Wanda hums in contemplation. Then, she nods. It’s the slightest motion that one would miss if they didn’t pay enough attention. Natasha nods back and turns to leave the room. The witch’s voice catches her off-guard, though.

“I’ll come with you.”

It’s raspy in the best way possible, with a hint of her Sokovian accent lingering. It’s a sound that Natasha decides she would like to hear more often. Her smile grows ever so slightly as she gestures for her to walk together.

───

When Natasha started helping in Wanda’s hand-to-hand combat training, the two became closer literally and figuratively. In one memorable session, from when Wanda still wasn’t as skilled at combat as she is now, Natasha was able to pin her down. Her lithe fingers wrapped around the other woman’s wrists while she used her thighs to straddle. All to restrict movement, of course. The flustered expression on the witch’s face could not be more obvious.

Their sessions consisted of a warm-up, some rounds of sparring, and a cooldown. After barely surviving this particularly challenging one, Wanda lands on the bench with a sigh. “Fuck… You kicked my ass today, Tasha. No fair,” She says through heavy breaths, leaning back and wiping the sweat from her brow.

Natasha shrugs and smiles as she sits beside her, reaching for a bottle of water across from the younger woman. Her torso brushes with her thigh, making the Sokovian lose her breath all over again.

“Please. I went easy on you. Besides, it’s revenge for taking my jacket,” Natasha says as she sits back up and takes a sip of water.

Wanda stands on slightly wobbly legs while a breathy laugh escapes her lips. “You’re really still holding that grudge?” She raises her hands playfully, “In my defense, Steve threw it at me and told me to put it on. It was a hectic time, you know.”

Natasha smirks and shakes her head as they both move to gather their bags and leave. The assassin offers her hand.

“Let me carry your stuff. It’s the least I can do. Look, you can barely stand.”

“It’s okay, Tasha. I go—”

“Come on,” The widow urges. A knowing look is on her face.

Wanda’s face becomes flushed, more so than it already was. It looks like she hopes Natasha won’t notice, but she does anyway. She raises her eyebrow teasingly.

“Did the workout take you out that bad, Wands?”

The nickname doesn’t help at all. Wanda rolls her eyes playfully as she hands her duffel bag over. Natasha slings both bags over her shoulder and they start walking together.

“Remind me again why I have to keep doing the hand-to-hand stuff? I literally move things with my mind.”

“If you use your mind, why do you do the thing with your hands then?” Natasha tries to mimic the witch’s signature hand movements with her free hand. This earns her a lighthearted push.

“Oh, you know I’m just kidding. We both know you can’t just rely on your magic all the time. I want you to be able to fend for yourself if anything happens. Yeah?”

Wanda groans exaggeratedly, “Ugh. Okay, yes, you have a point.”

She chuckles at this. The pair, now embraced by a comfortable silence, walks to the elevator of the compound. As they enter, Natasha wraps her free arm around Wanda’s shoulder. She squeezes slightly, firm muscles under her touch, bringing her closer and looking into her eyes.

“Wanna have lunch with me today?”

Wanda raises her eyebrow, “Can we watch I Love Lucy while we eat?”

Natasha nods and hands over her bag. “Of course.”

They smile warmly at each other, parting ways to freshen up before meeting again later.

───

Natasha and Wanda have seen each other at different points in their lives. Happy, sad, and everything else in between. But the Lagos Incident was a whole other thing. Natasha herself was a witness to how Wanda had been doing so well before it. To watch the immense guilt, self-loathing, and depression come over the witch after the incident, after slowly building herself back up, was heartbreaking for the widow.

Old habits die hard. Wanda becomes a recluse again. However, instead of sitcoms accompanying her, it was the news. She couldn’t help but keep watching coverage of it as if being constantly reminded of this tragedy was helping anyone.

Steve already spoke with her, Natasha knows this, but she decides to give a different type of comfort to the person she’s grown to love. A silent one, one that speaks through actions.

On days Wanda doesn’t leave her room, Natasha knows she isn’t eating so she goes up and brings food. Nine times out of ten, it’s a peanut butter sandwich because it’s all she can make without setting the kitchen on fire. Ten times out of ten, it’s returned with just a few bites taken out. It doesn’t matter, Natasha is just happy to provide her with even the littlest bit of sustenance.

On nights Wanda can’t sleep, evident by the faint light escaping from her room, Natasha stays up with her. She takes it upon herself to change the channels on Wanda’s television or switch it off. She puts on some music instead, knowing that noise is a welcome distraction to her spiraling thoughts. Other times, Wanda motions for Natasha to her bed. The contact of skin on skin, the physical reminder that she isn’t alone helps Wanda relax even if it’s only for a few hours. Most nights, the feeling of Natasha’s body pressed up against Wanda’s is enough to lull her to sleep.

And when it’s not, when she falls into that spiral once more, Natasha’s always there to wipe away her tears and pull her out of it.

“So many people… All those lives lost because I-I couldn’t—” Wanda sobs, breaking down in the familiar hold of strong arms.

Natasha squeezes just a little bit tighter. She speaks softly, interrupting the younger woman, “I know, Wands. I know. But you have to stop blaming yourself, okay? We’ve all hurt people and we’ve all made mistakes. Even if we mean well. And you did mean well. It’s just sometimes things work out in ways we don’t anticipate.”

The consoling words fall on deaf ears. Wanda shakes her head and cries even harder while burying herself deeper into the embrace. Her voice is muffled, repeated pleas of repentance, “It’s my fault, it’s my fault, it’s all my fault… T-tasha, it’s all my fault…” Unsure what to say now, Natasha resorts to her instinct instead. It has never failed her. She starts to rock Wanda gently, pressing a soothing kiss to the top of the younger woman’s head. A quiet, melodic hum resonates from her lips. She continues until Wanda’s breathing evens out and until sleep takes over both of them.

───

A soft stream of sunlight seeps into the room, awakening the Russian. She looks down at the sleeping figure in her arms. Wanda looks so peaceful right now, Natasha thinks. She would do anything to conserve this moment, this feeling of serenity for her. To take away all her pain, heartache, and afflictions. Realistically, she knows she can’t accomplish that. The best she can do is just be there for her.

It’s been a few minutes since and she feels Wanda stir slightly, who immediately snuggles closer and remains asleep. A warm feeling settles in her body, first in her chest then it spreads all over. She recalls feeling this way many times before, but only ever with Wanda. It’s at this exact instance she finally fully realizes what this is.

I’m in love.

She bites her lip in contemplation, quiet realization, as Wanda’s eyes flutter open. Hazy green eyes look into clear ones and a mumbled phrase reaches her ears. “Your thoughts are getting loud, Tasha. Are you okay?”

Broken from her trance, she looks down at Wanda. “Yeah, I am. Um. I just… I have something to tell you.” She shifts to lean against the headboard. Now is as perfect a time as any, she thinks.

Wanda’s eyebrows stitch together in a frown as she rubs the sleep from her eyes. She sits up, mostly leaning her weight on the other woman, while trying to decipher the look on her face. The Russian waits for a sign of approval from the Sokovian. Wanda nods and hums.

“I’m going to be direct about this, Wands.”

She takes a deep breath in.

“I like that we’ve grown close, that we consider each other as friends. I like doing things for you and with you and I like helping you, giving you what I have. Time, insight, comfort, whatever. Watching sitcoms with you, sleeping next to you, and waking up in your bed. I like your voice and your ringed hands, how graceful they look when you use your powers. The way your nose scrunches up and your bunny teeth show when you smile. How your accent slips when you say certain words and how you say my name. The way you carry yourself. How you care so much about others… If you let me, I would care for you for the rest of time.”

Natasha finishes with a sharp exhale, only now realizing her rambling. Losing control was one of the things she never wanted to experience again, but this time was different. Finally letting these thoughts flow through and out of her felt cathartic.

Wanda’s voice is quiet, “You would?”

Natasha nods, “Always.”

She says it without hesitation. Because she is wholly certain that she has no other answer. Why would there be?

Wanda becomes silent. An unreadable expression appears on her face as she takes in Natasha’s words. Her posture straightens slightly. Tension is now in the air and a silence begins to settle.

Natasha screws her eyes shut, willing the tears in her eyes to stop forming. She was just about to take everything back, apologize for even saying anything, before getting interrupted. She feels slim fingers gently hold her face. Wanda strokes Natasha’s cheek, her thumb moving in slow, circular motions while she speaks.

“Tasha, hey, please don’t cry,” Wanda looks at her pleadingly, leaning in closer.

Natasha blinks rapidly, brows furrowing together. “I’m sorry. I got nervous because you weren’t saying anything and I… I don’t want to lose you.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. I just had to take a minute because I didn’t realize you felt this way. Trust you won’t lose me, please.” She looks away. Her touch slows down and ceases as her hands fall to her lap. “I just don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“You didn’t have to do anything, moya lyubov.” Natasha holds Wanda’s hands, “I mean everything I just said. I love you, Wanda.”

She waits for a response with bated breath. Before she knows it, she feels supple lips capture her own.

It’s tender yet electric. It’s everything she’s ever imagined and more. It’s simply perfect.

Natasha closes her eyes and deepens the kiss. She cradles Wanda’s jaw and feels the brunette melt into her touch. They pull away seconds later, foreheads touching as they catch their breath. Wanda says softly, “I love you too, Natasha. You don’t know how long I have been wanting to say that.”

───── ⴵ⋅ᗢ⋅ⴵ ─────

Now I know what it feels like

To wanna go outside

It was a calm morning, both women following a routine established over the past few months. Natasha would wake up early and then proceed to training, leaving Wanda to sleep in. By the time she’d be back, Wanda was up and just finishing preparing breakfast. They’d eat together, talk about their plans for the day, and decide what to do from there. Some days they’d spend together while, on others, they’d have separate activities.

“Detka! Come here, please!”

Natasha was working on some reports when she heard Wanda call out. She looks at the clock and decides now is a perfect time to take a break anyway. She hums as she stands up and stretches her limbs before leaving the room.

Wanda had been tending to the garden in the compound for some time now. She started with small pots of herbs and then moved to random vegetables after discovering she had a gift for raising plants. Lately, she also added flowers and various houseplants to her catalog. Being out in the sun, getting her hands dirty, and nurturing these plants was hard work, but it was work Wanda loved.

Natasha makes a couple of peanut butter sandwiches and pours two glasses of cold water on a tray, then carries it over to the sliding door leading to the garden. She places it down on a table outside and her eyes immediately search for Wanda. It’s an irresistible sight, her beloved’s face beaming and surrounded by greenery. She even thinks she sees her talking to the plants.

She smiles to herself while appreciating the view until Wanda realizes she’s arrived. She gets waved over, “Tasha!” The excitement in the witch’s voice is barely contained as Natasha walks towards her.

She wraps an arm around Wanda, bringing her closer and kissing her forehead, “Hi, kotenok. I brought over some snacks and water if you wanted them. What is it you wanted me to see?”

Wanda pulls off her gardening gloves, places them in her pocket, and brushes her hands over her pants. She mumbles a quick thank you before taking Natasha’s hand in one of her own and using the other to cover her eyes.

“Close your eyes. I want this to be a surprise.”

Natasha plays along, using her free hand to help cover her eyes. “Okay. Just make sure I don’t trip, yeah?”

Wanda giggles as she leads Natasha by the hand, “Don’t worry, detka, I got you.”

They walk slowly, up a few steps, and stop. Wanda takes a deep breath, “Okay, now.”

When their hands uncover Natasha’s eyes, she is met with vibrant blooms of various colors against a green background of bushes. It’s a masterful arrangement of asters, marigolds, hydrangeas, wildflowers, and many more. She gasps, breath taken away by the gorgeous sight.

“You did all this by yourself?”

The Sokovian nods sheepishly, “Yeah. I read somewhere that getting them all to bloom like this would be challenging, but I think I did decently.”

Natasha squeezes her hand, “It’s more than decent. It looks stunning, Wands. You did an amazing job.”

Wanda’s arm wraps around Natasha’s waist, her head rests on her shoulder. A satisfied sigh leaves her lips. They remain silent, basking in each other’s presence and the garden view.

“If you’re like this with plants, I can only imagine how well you’d be with kids,” Natasha muses.

Wanda lifts her head and looks at Natasha, her shoulders raised slightly, “What if, at some point, you won’t have to imagine?”

Small smiles grow on both of their faces. They share a knowing look before assuming their previous positions. “Someday, lyubov, someday.”

Natasha used to feel the need to keep busy, keep moving because she thought anything too constant would be taken away from her again. Though she never admitted it to anyone, not even herself, the thought of settling down and starting a family of her own was terrifying.

But not anymore. Everything felt so much easier with Wanda. It now truly felt like anything was possible. The lack of fear forced onto her when she was younger came from a dark place of abuse and indifference. Now, it comes naturally. It comes from love.

#ky writes!#oneshot #fanfic #marvel #mcu #marvel oneshot #marvel fanfiction #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff #wandanat #wanda maximoff fanfiction #natasha romanoff fanfiction #wandanat fluff #wandanat fanfiction #wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff #wanda x natasha #wlw

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ilguna · 1 year

Text

☼ drowning in love (Johanna Mason) ☼

summary; you promised Johanna you'd support her with anything she needed when she came back from the Capitol.

warnings; swearing, they shower together, torture mention.

wc; 1.6k

–

“I’ve changed my mind.” Johanna says, you tilt your head at her, unamused.

The two of you are currently inside of, what must be, the smallest bathroom you’ve ever seen. You thought that when the medical team of Thirteen said they had a private bathroom, they meant something bigger. You weren’t expecting it to be the same size as the bathrooms in the Capitol, but at least half that. It isn’t, though. Everything in here has been crammed to ensure that every inch of space is used.

Johanna’s sitting on the toilet lid, hunched over in her towel, arms wrapped around her abdomen to make herself smaller. You’re standing directly in front of her, your kneecaps touching hers because there is nowhere else to stand in here. You’re lucky that there’s even enough room for the two of you to shower together in the first place.

“Babe, that’s what you said ten minutes ago, you can’t keep changing your mind.”

She shakes her head, staring at the floor, “I’m not ready.”

“You’re going to have to do it either way.” You tell her, “If you don’t do it with me, then the nurses will do it, and they don’t really care about your feelings.”

She meets your eyes, “They’ll sedate me.”

“And then you miss out on an opportunity to start the process of healing. You can’t keep pushing it back. What will you do when the rebellion’s over and we’re no longer in Thirteen? There won’t be anyone to sedate you.” You raise your eyebrows.

“You will, if I put up a big enough fight.” She says, you think you can see a smile hinting at the corners of her lips. She’s not entirely joking, though. She knows that you don’t like seeing her in pain.

“You’ll be okay, I’ll be right here.”

“Except, I don’t want to go in there alone. What if—what if I have an episode?” She asks, you watch her shudder.

“Do you want me to go in with you?” You ask, “You know I will.”

“What if I attack you? Like Peeta did to Katniss?”

“You won’t. They didn’t use tracker jacker venom on you.” You say, “And the doctors would’ve caught it by now.”

Johanna begins to bite on her bottom lip, face contorting while she thinks. She knows you’re right, but she doesn’t want to admit it. She just wants to find a way out to avoid having to face the water. And you understand why, the issue is that you won’t be putting up with sponge baths for the rest of your life.

Her eyes dart to the door momentarily, possibly planning an escape. She won’t make it far, not with you standing in front of it. She wouldn’t be able to pull it open before you have her on her ass again.

“Johanna, the water can’t hurt you.” You slide down the wall, taking her hands in yours, “You know you’ll have control in there. You’ll be able to move the shower head off to the side if you can’t handle it, and change the temperature if it’s too close to what they used in the Capitol.”

She presses her lips together, “I don’t want to freak out, (Y/n).”

“You won’t. I’ll get in there with you. You’ll be safe with me in there, you know I would never let anything happen to you, not when I’m right there.” You squeeze her hands.

She nods.

“It’s only a few minutes, we’re just getting your body washed. You’ll feel so much better once the grime is gone, and you’re washing away their touch.”

“Okay.” Johanna breathes.

“Okay.” You echo, letting go of her hands as you get back to your feet.

You slide the glass door open, leaning in to turn the shower on. You can feel her hands grip around your wrist when the water starts. And without you even saying anything, she begins to take deep breaths in through her nose, and exhales through her mouth. A technique she was taught by the head doctor, it looks like she’s paying attention after all.

You guide her hand to the water slowly so she can feel the temperature, adjusting it the way she tells you to. She goes on the hotter side, staying away from the warm to cold range. You’ll have to keep that in mind for the future.

“Alright,” You hold your hand out to her.

“Can you go in first?” She asks.

“Johanna, if you run out of the bathroom, I’m going to be pissed.” You tell her.

“I won’t. You’ll be closer to the water.” She says, “Please?”

You watch her for a couple of seconds, gauging whether or not she’s telling the truth, and find that she is. You pull your hair up, figuring that you’d rather accidentally get the ends wet than your whole head. You then take off District Thirteen’s jumpsuit, and the underwear underneath.

You keep a hand on Johanna when you open the glass door, backing inside a few steps. This forces her to her feet, where she uses a shaky hand to release the towel, letting it fall to the floor.

“It’s only a couple of minutes.” You remind her, “One step at a time.”

“I know.” She breathes, “I don’t think I can get my face wet.”

“How about we do your collarbones and down?” You ask, “Does that sound okay?”

She hums in agreement, coming into the shower. She slides the door shut behind her, and you watch her begin to take deeper breaths. You reach back to feel how close the water is, and find it only an inch further back.

“How do you want to do this?” You ask her, “You have to face the water.”

“Just my back right now.” She closes her eyes.

You move her around, slowly backing her into the water, watching as her face twists at the anticipation. When it begins to rain down on her back, she jumps slightly, a shudder running through her body. You can see the goosebumps rise on her arms.

You step closer, placing your hands on her hips, watching her face. She’s got her eyes closed, trying to focus on not freaking out. She moves slightly to allow the water on her shoulders and down her sides.

“Do you think I’ll be better by the end of the rebellion?” She asks.

“If we keep working on it, it’ll be a step in the right direction.” You tell her, “It won’t happen overnight Johanna, as much as I know you wish it would.”

“I wish he’d chosen something else.” She mutters, eyebrows drawing in, “The District borders will finally be down and we won’t even be able to see the ocean. Finnick makes me so jealous when he talks about how beautiful the beach is. And all we’ve got are fuckin’ trees.”

“That’ll be our goal, then.” You say, she opens her eyes, “To go visit Annie and Finnick on the beach.”

“That could take years, (Y/n).” She says.

“Good thing we’re gonna live for a while.” You smile, she lets out a laugh, “Ready to turn around?”

She nods, you let go of her hips, allowing her to turn around to face the water. She lets out a breath, hesitating.

“I didn’t take you as a beach person.” You say, hoping it’ll take her mind off of the shower water, and instead put her somewhere else. She doesn’t move for a second, before stepping forward. You place your hands on her hips again.

“Yeah, well, neither did I. Finnick talks about the summers there, how he and his family would jump off the docks as kids. The water is cold and refreshing. The sand is warm, and sometimes too hot to walk on with bare feet.” She murmurs, reaching over to grab the bar of soap on the shelf, you smile slightly. “They build sandcastles and play games. It’s like a picnic we have at home, but on the beach. And the best part is the sunsets apparently.”

“I think Finnick just wants us to move there.” You laugh.

“Probably.” She agrees, “I wouldn’t mind, Annie and Finnick are our best friends. It’d be nice to be close to torture them often.”

“I’m sure it’s an option.” You say, “Even if you’re not ready to see the water, I’m sure they have houses away from the water.”

She pauses, “You’d move there with me?”

“Where else would I go?” You laugh, “Do you think I’d stay in Seven?”

“Well, no.” She says, carefully rubbing the soap over her skin. It’s still tender from the scabs that have recently fallen off. “I just thought you’d be more against it.”

“We’ve lived in Seven our whole lives, I’m sure it’ll be okay if we move somewhere new for a while.” You tell her.

“That’s true.”

You lather her back in soap, so it’s less effort for her. She rinses the scentless bubbles down the drain, and then steps out to dry herself off. You get rid of the soap that she’d accidentally gotten on you, before shutting the water off.

When you step out, you’re able to see Johanna wiping her eyes, sniffing. She looks at your briefly, eyes already turning red.

“Hey,” You pull the spare towel around your body, before pulling her into a hug. She wraps her arms around you, letting out a sob. “It was so easy, you didn’t even think about it.”

“I know.” She places her forehead on your shoulder, “I know, I’m afraid it won’t be like this every time.”

“It can be, though.” You press a kiss to her cheek, squeezing her tighter, “And I’ll be here with you the entire time, I promise.”

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romanoffsbish · 1 year

Text

Do I Know You?

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!R

Request: lil anon.

Natasha loved you, that much she knew, but the closer your binding nuptials came the more she felt a need to run. So, that’s exactly what she does, but when she returns a year later nothing was the same. You were made to forget her, and in turn your once blooming love that she’s desperate to reignite.

Warnings: Alluded to Violence/Brainwashing. Heartbreak. Feigned Amnesia. (Happy Ending)

Alluded to Smut | 18+ | Minors DNI

"Another one?" Natasha nodded with a wince, she could already feel a headache drawing on from the excess amount of liquor she's downed thus far, but she deemed it her underwhelming punishment for what she did to you today.

For breaking your heart, time and time again she chose the life of superhero over you, even when she didn't need to. It's not like you didn't understand the mission here or there, you too were an Avenger who understood that duty calls, a few missed dates caused little harm.

There's got to be a line drawn though, and you expected that she knew your wedding was one of those times, but she practically begged Fury to let her onto a mission, in front of your face like your feelings didn't matter; she refused to believe you when you said it was the last straw.

——

So, she very well placated you, lying with too much ease about turning it back down after all, and for a few short days it was back to bliss. Natasha held you so close, cherishing you because she knew she'd have to fight to get you back when she returned, but she needed time.

It all went swimmingly until you were standing alone at the altar, all your mutual friends were sat in shock at the sight of a gap where your blushing bride should've been, but wasn't.

So now she's drowning her sorrows in a bottle of whiskey in some foreign country because she likely ruined the one good thing she's ever had.

——

Natasha's foot tapped against the bottom of the Quinjet anxiously, it'd been a year since she left, every time she pleaded with Fury to stop extending the mission it's like he doubled it.

She had a plan: take the three months to fix herself while doing what she's best at, then come home and make it all right with you.

However plans never seem to work out in her favor, and she is drowning in self deprecating thoughts as she ponders if you've forgiven her.

Did you meet someone else? Are they taking up the right side of the bed in your shared room?

Natasha bit her lip at the painful thought.

Will she be able to undo the pain she caused? Can she convince you to forgive her just this additional time, and promise it'll be different?

She will beg down on her knees if she has to.

Will she be different? Or will she just pretend until she can't anymore, and fall back into running away whenever she began to feel like she couldn't possibly live without you.

She's never needed anyone before, it terrifies her to need you, but she can't fight it anymore.

No, that much she knew was over. Because in the year she was forced to be without you it became rather apparent that she was correct. Living without you was a miserable experience; not hearing your giggles in the middle of the night when you should both be sleeping, or to not have you tucked into her, safe and sound.

Natasha realized that everything she was running from was everything she ever wanted. Loving you wasn't a burdening thing like her past tried to convince her it was, she was not about to be tied down and have her will taken. No, she was just signing up for a life with you by her side, and she realizes now that she has to fix this because now she can't imagine her life any other way then with you as her wife.

As soon as the jet landed she was racing off to find you, and once she reached the kitchen her search was over. There you stood with a mug in hand talking to Wanda in your Stitch pajamas. Natasha moved on impulse, her body needed to feel yours, so she catapulted into you without a second thought on as to if she was allowed to.

"Y/N, I'm so sorry, please forgive me," she sobbed into your shirt, and you froze upon feeling her tears seep through to your chest.

"I'm sorry, but do I know you?" Natasha froze, entire body tensing as you spoke, because the tone you used was one of innocence, and not one full of malice or contempt. You were asking her an honest question, and it terrified her.

"I'm your fiancée?"

"Were," Wanda softly corrected with a glare fixated upon the absolute mess of a woman.

"I'm so confused..." you whispered, and the woman pulled away from your hold, the one you graciously allowed her to remain in with a deep frown, and eyes glistening with tears.

"You don't remember me?" Natasha shakily asked, her arms now wrapping around her body as she took tentative steps backwards.

"I know who you are," you admitted, "Just not how you're supposed to be important to me."

Natasha nodded, then before you could break her heart any further she was taking off to her old room so that she could be sick.

"Y/N?"

"Yes?"

"I thought all your memories came back?"

"They did," you replied with a saddened smile, "But I don't know if I want to remember her."

—

After crying herself into a restless nap Natasha woke up with a start, hand flying out to grasp you to pull you close but she was reminded for the umpteenth time that you weren't there.

Nothing made sense before without you, but after seeing you it makes even less sense, and in order to get answers Natasha jumped up and ran to Fury for them, and as she drove closer to Shields headquarters she fears her continued mission extensions were intermixed with why.

"Agent Romanoff, welcome home," the stoic man greets without even looking up, he didn't need to with the way she slammed his door into the wall without a shred of remorse.

"What happened to Y/N?"

"And here I thought you were here with completed mission reports, and detailed ones at that since I heard you sustained an injury."

"Stop giving me the fucking run around Nick."

"You broke her heart, and that trickled into a long winded year of saving the poor girl."

"From what?"

"Hydra."

Natasha's knees gave out, causing her body to fall into the mans couch with a tightness in her chest. "Nick, what are you saying? I-I don't understand, what happened? If she was in danger why didn't anyone tell me? Is this why my fucking mission was pointlessly extended?"

"I haven't the time to offer you explanations, I'm needed elsewhere, but to make a long story short—yes, we didn't need you in the way in a fit of remorseful hysteria as we found her," the man revealed as he dropped a huge file on the table then looked her straight in the eye, "Not to mention she told everyone before she was ever taken captive that if you were to ask about her no one was ever allowed to indulge you."

Fury left as soon as the words left him, and the redhead shakily reached for the thick files. Knots formed in the pit of her stomach the more she read, the papers were thorough, not a single bit of information was spared. Starting with your failed nuptials that led to you going on the honeymoon alone and being kidnapped.

Natasha left you in a vulnerable headspace, costing you six months of your life, she basically led Hydra right to you, and she felt sick to her stomach at the notion. Love isn't mean to cause pain, and yet that's all she's done to you; therefore your lost memories of her love was her burden to carry going forward.

——

It'd been a week since Natasha had been back, nobody would even spare her a glance, so she hid out on the unused floor of the compound. Until one morning when she was informed by Friday that the team had left the compound. Something about an impromptu mission that she was to sit out of due to her recent injury.

The same injury you heard about through the grapevine, and you honestly felt responsible. Had they let her come home on time she would have avoided her last forced sparring session. Then her torn calf wouldn't be on your conscience, and you wouldn't be watching the poor woman struggle to make her sandwich.

"Need some help?"

Natasha jumped, making the pain in her leg worse as it shot through her body and sent her tumbling backwards, but fortunately you were there to catch her, "Falling for me are we?"

Mentally you slapped yourself for saying that, her lip wobbled ever so slightly, most people would've missed it, but you never could. No matter what happened, you'd always be in tune with the woman who still held your heart captive after all this time and the heartbreak.

"I'm okay, thanks though," she politely declined, then with as much strength as she could muster she stood upright again, and shifted to face the counter to hide her tears.

"Natasha, I know what happened, Wanda told me," you told a partial truth, it was the witch that restored your memories months ago, but you wouldn't be letting Natasha know yet, if you were ever going to trust her again, she needed to prove to you she was really sorry.

"Oh," she whispered, the knife clattering on the counter drowning her voice out, "I'm sorry."

The tone of her voice wasn't something you'd grown used to, even after three years together she had yet to ever be this vulnerable with you.

"Hey, it's okay Nat, I'm sure you had a reason."

Natasha stilled when your hand settled on her lower back, she didn't deserve your sympathy.

"Y/N, please, you don't have to forgive me, if it wasn't for my cowardice you wouldn't be in the mess that you're in," Natasha shakily stated, her inability to reel her emotions in truly did shock you, and it was clear to you how broken up over the entire situation she is—as she should be, but it also pains you to see how she blames herself for what happened to you, even if the team agreed, you never once blamed her.

You've had a long time to think the whole situation over, and if you could go back in time you would, in a heartbeat. You'd have slowed down, caught on to her fight or flight response slowly building up and gave her the space she needed, hell you would've even postponed the wedding if she would have only asked. It was the secrets and blatant lying that did you in.

"That's the thing Natasha, I already did," you whispered as you pulled her in for a hug, one that you craved just as much as she did, but the desperation was only visualized from her end. Natasha clung to you like you were still her lifeline, because deep down you always will be.

"I'm sorry," you spoke, and she pulled away with a deep frown full of defiance, "No, you've got nothing to apologize for Y/N, not at all!"

"It's my fault you're hurt Natasha, they told me they wouldn't let you come home," your voice wavered with a concern she didn't expect, but nonetheless she appreciated, "and now that you're back you've being unfairly isolated."

"Hey, hey," Natasha cupped your cheeks when she saw you losing hold of your composure, an all too familiar intimacy that you leaned into within an instant, making the redheads heart flicker with a bit of hope, "They had every right to keep me away, and to keep their distance. I didn't just steal Thor's poptarts krasivaya, I broke your heart, and that's worthy of all this."

You chuckled, "Thor does love his poptarts."

"Yeah, and the team, me included, love you."

An awkward silence fell over the both of you as you remained connected in a loose embrace. Only to be broken when Natasha gazed at your lips with a hunger you recognized as futile. Though you wanted to kiss her just as bad, you couldn't let her back in just yet, so you gently let her go, and nudged her out of your way.

"Sit, I'll make you a proper lunch."

Natasha went to refute your offer, but the way you looked at her made her back down, and at the sound of her relieved sigh as she settled on the stool you smiled in triumph. Natasha never let you take care of her like this before, most of the time she'd glare at you for even insinuating she wasn't capable of doing so; she'd cook eggs on the stove while bleeding out just to prove a point. Literally, once Bruce had to stitch her up as she passive-aggressively fixed dinner.

This wasn't much, but it was a start, and you were hopeful this wasn't a temporary thing. That her injury isn't the reason she's allowing you in like this, and that it's who she became while she was away. It made you think, that maybe, just maybe, there was still hope for you.

—

The mission the team went on ended up turning into quite the doozy. What was meant to be an overnight became a three month long undercover mission. So in that time you were left to either your solitude or Nat's company.

For the first month she herself kept a bit of distance between the two of you. After she was so close to pouncing on you in the kitchen she felt it was the best option. It wasn't fair for her to look at you like you belonged to her, when you didn't even know who she was anymore outside of the rumors, and the harsh truths.

It wasn't until you purposefully set your alarm for four in the morning so you could corner her in the kitchen that she was given no choice but to spend time with you. Neither of you said much, you gently nodded to the mugs on the counter and she graciously accepted the offer.

"Thank you," she hummed, her distinct rasp you'd grown to love in the mornings much smoother as the warm drink coated her throat.

"Don't thank me yet, you have yet to try my omelette," You watched in amusement as the redhead's eyes widened and her head instinctively shook in the negatory. "Um, I'm not hungry, but thank you, really it's kind."

You deadpanned, "Your stomach growled."

Natasha sighed in defeat, begrudgingly she accepted the extended plate, tentatively she cut off an edge, then she moaned at the flavor.

"No fucking way, Y/N, that's delicious!"

"You seem shocked," you gasped with a hand on your chest in feigned offense.

"It's just, my Y/N couldn't even crack an egg."

It's true, Natasha used to do all the cooking after she rescued you from Hydra the first time, but in her absence you had to learn.

"Well consider me the superior Y/N then."

You watched regretfully as your words struck the redhead far deeper than you'd intended.

"Natasha, I—," she cut you off with a warm, albeit hurt smile, "I'm actually in a rush, I have physical therapy today, I'll catch you later."

As the redhead ran away, again, you found your heart was aching at the distance you just reaffirmed with your careless attempt to joke. It wasn't a lie, ever since your failed attempt to wed you were forced to become a more well rounded person, but that didn't need to be a new point of guilt for the redhead to bare.

You finished off her omelette, then retreated back to your room, you'd try again tomorrow.

—

The following day you saw Natasha on the couch, her injured leg was on an ottoman, while the other was curled beneath her as she read a book: Girl in Pieces, it was one you got her for her birthday when she mentioned she needed more to read, it was also your not so subtle way of trying to get her to see your pain.

It warmed your heart to see her actually read it, but really what caught your eye was the hoodie she wore as she flipped the pages. The light grey that swallowed the petite woman was one of yours, it was rather new actually, and even if you were meant to be upset that she stole from a Y/N who didn't know her, you just weren't.

Knowing that on some level she still needed you kept that burning hope that never died alive. Natasha always looked beautiful wearing your clothes, whether it be your hoodie with sweats or an oversized tee paired with her lacy panties. There was nothing she couldn't pull off, but in most scenarios you did, discarding the fabrics on your bedroom floor to feel her.

It was easy to admire her really, the way the sun filled the nearly empty room and reflected off of her was nothing short of angelic. She wore a pensive expression, brows furrowed with lips pursed, and eyes focused as if the words were inspiring her to think critically.

"So, why is it you're not on the mission?"

Natasha giggled when you jumped, of course she knew you were there, she slipped her bookmark between the crisp pages, then gave all of her attention to you with a soft smile.

"Um, I am not exactly cleared to go out yet," you quietly replied as you sat on the couch across from hers, "Not since I got powers."

Natasha's face fell when your hand raised to show the materialization of blue sparks, you were never supposed to be in this situation. Natasha remembers the day she saved you from the fate you eventually still endured.

You'd been so scared when she stumbled upon you in a high tech cage with glass for walls. Hydra had only had you for a few weeks, it was enough time to start their trials, but they only succeeded in altering your physical strength. Now though, they'd given you the powers you never wanted, and now she wanted to cry.

"Oh Y/N," she couldn't bare to see you like this, knowing it was her fault only made it worse. The guilt swimming behind her eyes made you frown just the same, "It's not your fault Nat."

"It kinda is," she replies instantly, "If I wasn't a coward, had I not ran, you would've never been alone for them to take. We'd be truly happy, but more importantly you would be safe."

"Why did you?" Natasha's frown only deepened as you asked the looming question, "Why run?"

"I-It wasn't exactly a choice," she starts, her hands reflexively clenched, before she tightly clasped them together, "It was fight or flight."

The vague answer she gave honestly upset you, you know she was scared, but for her to have such a fearful biological response to you hurt.

"What did I do wrong?"

Natasha shook her head, her brimming tears falling as she did, "Nothing, you were perfect."

"I don't understand."

Natasha's knuckles cracked as she reflexively tightened her grasp, the idea of being this honest scared her, but you also deserved to know, even if you weren't truly you anymore.

"I'm not a good person Y/N," now it was your turn to clench your fists, this undeserved self loathing mantra of hers always infuriated you.

"That's simply not true Natasha, we've all made choices we weren't proud of, I know you're not a bad person, my heart knows that much."

"I broke that heart, it should despise me."

"Well it doesn't, so stop willing it to."

"Why?" her voice cracked, she looked unsure of what she was asking, but she asked anyway.

"I'm destined to love you, I don't have it in me to hate you Natasha, trust me, I already tried."

A wave of clarity washed over her, there was a storm behind her green eyes, and the way you could see her heart breaking devastated you.

"Natasha—"

"I can't believe you lied to me like this..."

Even with an injured leg she was still able to evade your grasp, and escape on the elevator.

"You left me at the altar, but I'm the bad guy?" You huffed to yourself like a petulant child, and stormed off to your room via the many stairs.

—

A loud knock on your door woke you up, you groaned, all you wanted to do after earlier's fight was sleep the rest of the day away, but it appears the redhead wasn't done berating you.

With a scowl to rival her expected one you opened the door, but all you found was a box with your name on it signed from Natasha.

"I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me for earlier's blow out, you've got every right not to, but I hope you do understand I felt blindsided. If you don't, I hold no grudges, and I promise I will leave the compound as soon as possible so you can be comfortable. But if you do, please meet me in the training room at 8."

With the note read you untied the ribbon, then you opened the box to find a customized suit, it was primarily black, but there were these gorgeous waves of varying shades of blue going down the sides of the breathable latex material.

A soft smile graced your face as you ran your hands over the piece, it made you feel special, but more importantly it gave you a feeling of belonging again. For months now they've been too afraid to utilize you in combat, they were worried about the unknown capabilities of course, but you also knew they just didn't want to put you in danger, but that wasn't exactly their choice to keep making. Nat understood.

After less than a minute deliberating you were slipping into the suit you know she spent the last few hours making in Tony's lab for you. Then you made your way down to the gym just in time to find her perching herself atop of a miniature board in a carnival-esque dunk tank.

"Natasha, what is all of this?"

"Well, I see that you are either hesitant to use your powers, or the team is benching you, and in either scenario I want to help you undo it."

"You're injured, are you sure this is safe?"

Natasha rolled her eyes, "Y/N, it is a tiny pool of water, what could you possibly do to me?"

"I could drown you."

"Don't threaten me with a good time," she winked and smirked at you in that dopey way that usually has you crumbling to your knees.

Now it was you rolling your eyes, "Romanoff, what am I even expected to do with this?"

"Whatever your heart desires Y/N: use the water beneath me to pull me in, freeze the water as it exits your hands and throw the ice blocks at the target, or use a water stream."

All was going well, before you began to dunk Natasha in the tank you focused more on your breathing, and the overall serenity one needs to feel to remain under control. Once you felt at peace, something you knew deep down came when Natasha smiled at you, and encouraged you with praises, you began to formulate tiny balls of water, then you upped the ante and focused on chilling them until you had ice.

However, after you dunked her for the tenth time you could see something was wrong, she stayed under the water longer than normal, and judging by the influx of bubbles you knew she was screaming in pain. Something she felt she needed to keep from you as she rose out of the water with a tight lipped smile as she reset the seat and clambered back on with a struggle.

“Timeout,” you shouted while running over to the redhead who was failing to hide her pain, which meant it was likely a drastic feeling.

"Oh come on Y/N, we were just getting warmed up," the redhead frowned, "Or cooled down?"

“Nat, I saw you screaming in pain,” you admit, but she shrugged, “What is life if not painful?”

“I’m fine,” she tried again, but the truth was she was the furthest thing from it, but she didn’t want to present as incapable, or or weak, and she just didn’t want to let you down again.

"Natasha, please just be honest with me," you sighed, hand falling over hers as it sits over her calf, "If we're going to fix us, you have to be."

Natasha met your worried gaze with a tearful one of her very own, "W-we can fix this?"

It shocked you to see her so unsure, telling you that she was helping you without expectations. Letting you train with her because she knew you better than anyone else, and she knew you were scared of what you have become. It was endearing, and reminded you of the Natasha that you fell in love with all those years ago.

"It won't be the way it was overnight Natasha, but if you're here, as in no more running when scared, and you're honest, we can get us back."

"Okay," she timidly whispered with a nod, followed up by a shaky exhale, "The therapist said I need surgery, but I'm terrified Y/N/N."

"Oh love," you lifted her hand up to your lips to deposit a gentle kiss, "I am so sorry it's not getting better on its own, I know you hate the hospital, and being put under even more so."

"I can't do it, I don't want to—I won't."

You gently lifted her off the platform of the dunk tank so you could hold her in your arms, "Yes you will baby, because you are one of the strongest people I've ever known, and if it'll help you, I'll be right there the whole time."

"Really?" her hands gripped you over the suit in an attempt to garner a semblance of reason, and you smiled at the way she used you to ground herself like this, "Of course, you're not ever going to be alone if you don't want to be."

"Never again," she whispered the promise, "This is where I want to be for the rest of time."

"Funny," you smirked down at her, your right hand cupped her cheek, "I was thinking the same thing," you pulled her in for a kiss, her parted lips swallowed your sudden giggle as she eagerly moved to deepen the reunion kiss.

"However, the bed might be more comfortable, what do you think?" Natasha whimpered hotly as you bit into her lower lip, "Please detka..."

—

“I told you it’d work,” Tony boasts, and the little witch rolls her eyes while filling her duffle bag up with a discernible quickness, “No, you said ‘why does it matter’ and ‘this isn’t my problem’ when Clint and I suggested this.”

“Well, initially, yeah, but I changed my tune.”

“Yeah, like five minutes ago when Natasha fell into the water with a cry and Y/N ran to her,” Steve bemoaned while starting up the jet so they could ‘return a month and a half early because they were just so incredibly efficient.’

———

4,572 Words

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff fic #natasha romanoff fanfiction #natasha romanoff angst #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x female reader #natasha romanoff x y/n #natasha romanoff x you #natasha x reader #natasha x y/n #natasha x you #natasha x fem!reader #gxg #black widow imagine #black widow x reader

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wroteclassicaly · 2 years

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ok since we’re being dirty filthy whores….. i want eddie pissing INSIDE me, making me hold it, releasing it on the toilet myself.

You… have no idea what you’re asking of me. My residency on hell road is solidified. I tweaked this a bit, so I hope you don’t mind? :P

Filth is below the cut! Obviously we are gonna have watersports, so… Master kink too! This is pretty intense, be warned, lol.

~*~

You really didn’t mean to be a brat all day, it just… well, it happened. Combine that with the stress you’ve been under lately and you’d sort of taken it all out on Eddie. He had raised a chocolate brow, a look of incredulous wonder painted on his defined features. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and tutted, then told you to ‘get the fuck in the van and keep your mouth shut.’ You knew Eddie would never be so casually mean with you, not purposely. And his tone suggested where it was headed.

And that is how you’re in your current predicament, laid out in the back of his van on several old blankets, accepting another water he’d given you without any protests. You’d stopped begging him to let you pee an hour ago. He’d driven you to a clearing out near Lover’s Lake after filling his cooler full of sodas and waters, a sneer on his plush mouth, a plan in his devious, curly little head. Eddie crushes a can of Coke in his fist, tossing it behind your head, furthering his vehicular clutter. You whine and shift, pressing your tight clad thighs together.

For a fleeting moment, as Eddie turns to look at you in the Autumn breeze, his hair billowing out behind him, you think he’s going to give you a break. When his chocolate irises give way to dilating pupils, your stomach sinks into your cunt. He lets his hand slide down against the growing swell in his denim jeans, snapping his fingers at you. “Everything from the waist down comes off. Now.”

You know better than to protest him, that look in his eyes shaving off any remaining color his irises hold. It’s embarrassing that you’re this wet through your leggings and they cling to your soaked panties, that also pull off strings of your arousal when you tug them down and place them behind you, the cool air making you tighten your muscles and close your legs automatically to resist that urge in your bladder. Eddie shakes his head as he’s shrugging out of his leather jacket and denim vest, throwing beside your head, undoing his belt.

“Spread your legs for me and lay back.”

This time you can’t hide your nervous whimper, an ache slicing through your tummy. You bite into the top of your lip and nod. “Yes, sir.”

Eddie’s stance shifts, his cock rock hard. It’ll be less difficult for him since he’ll be inside of you. He can’t contain the words that flow off his delicious lips. “I’m gonna fill you so fuckin’ full of my piss that you’re gonna cry.”

You choke on a soft cry, Eddie briefly faltering, raising a brow as he tilts his head. “That… good? Okay?”

You throw caution to the wind, eager to have something this filthy occur between you and Eddie. Without being asked you edge your ass on the end of the van floor, still on the blankets but hovering over the dirt below. You fall back, chest heaving with pained breaths, heart beat rushing through your ears, drowning you in static. Eddie steps into the space between your thighs, truly seeing how soaked you are, his doubts about your want for the situation become obliterated. He’s surprised at how gone his voice is when he rasps out his next sentence, thumb slicking down the soaked seam of your cunt. “Fuck, sweetheart. Someone really wants to be filled with her master’s piss, doesn’t she?”

“Please, baby.” You whine, gone, tears gathering in your eyes.

Eddie shushes you and finally pushes down his pants and boxers, his cock flushed and ready for you. He grips around the base, slapping your clit with it. You can’t see anything from your position, choosing to feel what he’s bestowing upon you. Still, he checks in.

“Gonna put my cock in now, yeah?”

You simply moan in response, widening your thighs, exposed more than you’ve ever remembered being as your feet plant into a prop on the bumper of Eddie’s van.

He slides in easily, a squelch echoing in the vast expanse of the woods surrounding you. Your hands fists into the blankets at your sides, Eddie pushing it until his full balls are nesting at the globes of your ass. He bends to meet you, kissing your chin in a stretch of his lanky body, shirt riding up and exposing his happy trail. You open your eyes to watch his hand slide into your sides and brush his fingers along your cheek, whispering into the cove of your mouth, pausing to give you time to adjust. “You’re so fuckin’ wet, you know that? M’ proud of you, princess. Doin’ so good taking me, holding it.”

“Eds, I don’t think I can much longer.” He drinks in your soft sighs and moves himself into the first stroke, both of you losing yourselves into it.

“Just gonna give you a little, then you’ll get filled up, kay?”

“O-okay. So much. Love you.”

“Oh, baby. Master loves his little angel too. More than anything.”

Eddie gives you a few more languid thrusts, that achingly, slippery glide making your toes curl. It’s when he stops that you’re lifting your head in time to see him toss his head back, clench his teeth, nose scrunching, and you’re flooded with a deep warmth. Your mouth drops open as you arch your back, panting, raising up to try and see what you can. Eddie’s having trouble not cumming on the spot, cupping the back of your neck and bringing you upright, both of you watching as he slides out enough that you see his piss spilling out all around his cock and from your cunt.

“Fuck, sweetheart. You feel me using you like this? Pussy full of my piss.”

He suddenly hisses through his teeth as you clamp down on him, trying to close your legs, begging yourself to be good. And he loses his resolve, abruptly sliding from you in a wet plop, his cock covered in his own spray and your creamy arousal, soaking the curls around his shaft. All of his release pours out and soaks the earth, and he steps close to you, beginning to stroke himself, teeth nipping your ear as he leans in close and says, “Piss for me. Fuckin’ do it now.”

Your body obeys Eddie before you do, hand in hand, jumping into off of that pleasurable precipice. It’s a filthy mess when you let go. Loud and a lot more than you anticipated, Eddie growling, tugging his cock directly underneath the spray as he noses your top away from your shoulder and bites into the flesh. He’s encouraging you, nipping, hand drenched and fisting his fat cock. “Pussy looks so pretty pissing for me.”

He lets his other hand slide against your cunt and presses his thumb into your clit, thrumming it fast circles, now nosing into your neck. “M’ gonna cum. You wanna cum with me, princess? Think you can do it while you’re—“ He cuts himself off with a throaty laugh, and you’re a goner.

That coil is so violent, combining with the relief of letting yourself pee after holding it for a while, and you’re cumming so hard that Eddie has to hold you upright by pressing himself against you, eyes wide. “Shit, baby. You cummin’ right now? S’ a good girl for me. Innit that right, princess? Cum and piss all over your master’s cock.”

Your head falls into his shoulder as you literally sob, fucked out and drunk on the haze of lust. Eddie twists his hand and aims himself at your cunt, you stopping once there’s a puddle beneath you, ass soaked, bumper wet, and both of you a mess. He spreads your lips apart as he spurts his release right against your clit with a loud and throaty cry, hand gripping the van door from the intensity of his own orgasm. It takes a few seconds, and he is huffing and moving away to survey the damage, trying not to let his shaky legs take him away. He spots a mixture of translucent cream and piss dripping off your cunt and down your ass.

You are looking at him with your glassy eyes and he recognizes those tears, separates them from anything bad. He leans in for a kiss, then another, nosing your nose with a cute smoosh. “You were fuckin’ incredible, baby. You alright? Still with me?”

“For now.” You manage with a knowing smirk.

#kristenwrites #thank you so much!!#kink hour #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader

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coeurify · 1 year

Note

okay i feel like ellie would fucking love when the reader sits at her feet. you’re all whiny when she’s cleaning her gun or filling out paper work at the dining room table your bead pressed up against her thigh giving her doe eyes

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+ and up, dom/sub dynamics but thats it.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: loveee dominance displays like this.

It wasn’t unusual to find yourself in a position like this, feet tucked nicely under your bottom as you stared up at Ellie with glazed over eyes, blinking slowly.

In fact it was a rather usual occurrence, one that you were too happy to comply with following the first demand to “sit down under me,” from Ellie. Ellie who looked down at you with adoring eyes, a blinding emerald that you would gladly stare at forever, given the opportunity. Ellie who always looked away, paying no mind to the girl on her knees under her. Ellie who took a seat at the kitchen table, her pistol clanking down onto the glass surface a bit roughly, likely scratching the top.

Ellie who you would do anything for, including fall to your knees.

“How was your day?” You tried as your knees scraped against the wood of the floor, shuffling until you were directly at her feet. You glance up to your girlfriend, her eyebrows furrowed together as long fingers wrapping around the gun. She seems to be picking it apart to clean. The auburn haired girl doesn’t answer you with much more than a hmph noise, pulling a pout onto your lips.

“El?” You ask again, pressing the fat of your cheek onto her thigh in an attempt to garner any reaction from her. Still she gives you little to nothing, not meeting your gaze as she mumbles, “Long.”

A sigh escapes your lips, eyes falling instead to stare in front of you, the denim of Ellie’s jeans irritating your cheek slightly. Of course you don’t move despite this, listening instead to the sounds of Ellie pulling a rag from her pack, the beginning stages of a proper pistol cleaning occuring.

The silent company already had you slipping into that sweet melted space that laid between the sky and your body, the one that you always sunk into during this type of situation. Your following words come out a little whinier as your eyes turn glossy with comfort, the denim no longer leaving red marks on the skin of your face. “Els, talk to me.”

The request is simple, searching for words in the overwhelming quiet of the kitchen. Something to accompany the dizzy feeling growing in your body. Something to join the soft noises that come from the table above you. Your finger plays with the very bottom of her jeans, picking at the loose threads there.

One hand comes down to thread into your hair, a short comforting motion of blunt fingernails dragging against your scalp follows, drawing a soft mewl from you. Ellie clears her throat above you as she continues playing with your hair. It makes your chin tilt on its place against her leg, doe eyes following her movement.

“Focusing on this right now. Be good and quiet for me then we can have fun, right baby?”

The words are soft when they’re spoken, but still hold a certain power to them, an unwavering sense of control to the sound. You nod quickly, not tearing your eyes away as her attention returns to the task at hand. Your eyes follow her fingers wrapping ‘round the rag, dragging it over certain areas of the weapon. Your eyelids droop slightly, that comfortable daze trickling down your body. You shift slightly, feeling red marks burn the bottoms of your legs, heels becoming sore from their place pressed into your ass. You don’t mind, the slight pain drowned out by every other feeling.

“So perfect, baby, look so pretty like this,” Ellie mumbles after another quick glance to your unending attention.

You answer only with a soft smile.

#rins reqs ❀.#ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x y/n #ellie williams x you #ellie williams x fem reader #ellie williams x female reader

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holybibly · 6 months

Text

Divine Rosa ❢ot8xreader❣

❣ Pairing: yandere!otx8 x reader ❣ Genre: Dark Romance, vampire au, angst, horror, yandere au, smut ❣ Summary: The moth always pours itself into the flame; what a pity that in the end it burns out. After the tragic death of her sister, MС tries to find answers to the questions she left behind. This leads her to a gated cottage town known for its luxurious rose gardens. In addition, there are also these mysterious men who manage all the affairs in the city. Too sweet, too helpful, too intrusive, and too in love. ❣ WARNING: only!18+ Themes of death, suicide, severe depression, stalking, blood, yandere behavior. ❣ Disclaimer: I don't support yandere behavior, stalking, or religious imposition. Themes include violence, obsession, possessiveness, and emotional or psychological manipulation. This book is intended solely for entertainment purposes.

English is not my native language, so if you see any mistakes, please let me know.

Published on AO3 like FleurRi

❣ Prologue: Roses scarlet like blood ❣

Every story has a beginning: a magical, inexplicable moment—an elusive contact between reality and dreams. When thoughts emerge from the edge of consciousness, a stream of colorless letters appears on the parchment of our fate, eventually becoming an event. Life's intersections, fragments of various plots, are continuously repeated, lost, or deliberately forgotten. They are like unwritten melodies; the echo of their angelic voices follows us through life, like the bright tent of a wandering circus that incessantly makes noise. is full of tinsel, and raves with dreams.

There are millions of them. No. Billions, like the sleeping stars, sway peacefully on the sky-blue wire; their scattered light tells the wayward souls the way in the velvet folds of the night's darkness. These are our memories. Some are dazzlingly bright, as fresh as summer breezes, while others are barely flickering, covered in the marble ashes of time and a diamond crumb of emotion. And they all live so far away and at the same time prohibitively close together, there, in the labyrinth of the underground sky and on the endless roads of the blood rivers, where it is impossible to find them: in our memory.

Just as a pebble thrown into the ocean sinks into the murky depths, so does memory. Drowning into the viscous muddy depths without a bottom, in that rich and uncharted area that we call “oblivion,” it sinks in time. And few of us have been given the opportunity to preserve living images of memories of the feelings we have ever experienced: to drown in the bittersweet water of sorrow and joy; to fill our consciousness to the brim, like a vessel with golden honey, with the feelings of pain and keen passion, and to die. Die happy. The greatest privilege of all.

Seconds, minutes, days, and years—colorful fragments of time; sharp crumbs scattered under our feet. Unlike us, those who plunge into eternal sleep, our memories that have insidiously dissolved in ink in our blood will not disappear. They fear death, flee from it, and hide in the thick of the earth that blossoms with fluttering glass, forget-me-nots and drunken petunias that, in their intoxicating happiness, kiss the eyelashes of the blind God. You hear them whisper, “I’ll never forget you…”

My story begins with an innocent question that I’m sure you’ve heard more than once: “Do you like roses?”

Once upon a time, I would have answered, "Yes, I love roses." But, as it turns out, all our words are followed by consequences, and small rosy spikes can be much more dangerous than they seem at first glance, just like in the fairy tales that we were told in childhood. You know, there are things that we might call fatal: people who decide other people’s lives as long as they reach out to them like they're God. And then there are the flowers, which keep the mysteries tenebrous and ancient. I'm almost a hundred years old, maybe more. I should start my story right now; this is the perfect moment.

I will tell you about who I once was and who I am now. I will tell you about love, which is akin to obsession, and the death of her faithful friend. I will also tell you about the people, ghosts, or maybe illusions that were around me. They were with me once… Now, there are others, but they’ll be in my story later. They will come into my life with a chorus of angelic voices; the sound of a heavy autumn downpour, and the pretentious solemnity of death. Yeah, they’ll be there, though, if you think about it, they were always there, from my first breath to my last breath, by my side. But I’m forgetting what’s important. I have to tell you about the roses, and only about them.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

Mina's long hair shimmered like luxurious silk under the early morning light. Bloody strands fell in curled doll curls onto her bare shoulders, as if in Baroque paintings. The lush blossoms of white roses woven together in her hair made her look like the ancient Greek goddess of spring. Her appearance has always been astonishing, blatantly perfect rather than real, but that was sometime in the past. Now she was like a pale ghost of herself, a blurry reflection on a black surface of water on a moonlit night. The only thing that reminded her of her former beauty was her hair, which remained perfectly groomed and scarlet, like blood. Oh yeah, there are still roses. These flowers… there was something unnatural about them, something otherworldly. Each petal was painfully perfect, as if made of satin. But the flowers were real; they were alive and breathing and too demanding. It seemed that just because they wanted this, Mina could wear them in her hair. It was their choice, not hers. “Do you like roses, Rosa?” · · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

This is the moment when my life changed forever. If I had known that this innocent question would be the beginning of my end, but can this be called the end? Would my answer have been different?

I’ve thought about it a thousand times. Over and over again, I played this scene like a broken record, crossed my answer out of the script, wrote a new one, and made comments and footnotes, but… But the answer was the same. I couldn’t change anything; it was destined. Much later, when I fall asleep in a warm bed, I will feel a gentle kiss on my closed eyelids and hear San’s angelic voice whisper in my ear that fate is never wrong. That they would find me or that I would come to them does not matter; in the end, we would still be together in life and in death. In eternity.

I’ll come back to that later, I promise. In the meantime, I’ll continue. · · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

“They’re beautiful, Mina, but I don’t like them anymore.” I sounded terribly rude from the outside, and I could see Mina’s eyes filled with tears, as if I had slapped her.

“But Rosa!” Mina reached out her pale arms to me. “Look how perfect they are; don’t you care about their beauty? Doesn’t your heart beat faster when you look at them? O Rosa, these flowers are special; they never wilt.” She shook her head, as if confirming her words. “Yeosang gave them to me before I left” Her long, thin fingers reaching for the white rosebuds in her hair. “I want to give you one.” Hooking the flower, Mina gently pulled it out of her curls and stretched it towards me. I didn't have the desire to accept her gift; something in her behavior and her voice caused me anxiety. And there was this name: Yeosang. It wasn’t the first time I heard it, but it was a long time ago, and I still remember that Mina mentioned others with that name: Hongjoong, San, and Mingi. They sounded familiar to me as a song once learned by heart. She pronounced them in a special way: with a gentle intonation and an exciting euphoria. As if it had been repeated countless times at the same completely new to her. All I could hear was the echo of that song, which came along with those names in the conversation. It was an ominous echo, like an impending, inevitable storm. Mina was still holding out a rose, and I looked at her hands. Arms with a faint web of blue veins that looked like dried stems of faint flowers. For some reason, I came up with the idea of sirens holding out their hands to pirates while their voices led them into the welcome embrace of death. Did they look like Mina’s hands now?

I remember these hands weaving long pearl threads into my hair during festivals. I remember the feeling of intertwined fingers as Mina led me down the dark corridors of my grandmother's old house. I remember them gently wiping my tears when I was rubbing my feet until I bled in ballet class.

I remember the touch of those hands… I know him. These cold fingers that so carefully hold the snow-white flower no longer belong to my sister. Their touch changed, becoming foreign and distant, as did the mysterious land where these perfect, never-fading roses grew.

Didn’t that sound like a fairy tale? Just in our history, there has been no magic mirror, no Queen-Witch whose crown shines like a star, and no apple full of poison, but there is a coffin of shimmering crystal, and a prince that sleeps in it. Of course, there are also roses—thousands of roses.

“Rosa” Mina turned to me again. “Please take them; you will surely love them. Just try to feel them…”

She put a flower in my hands. The drops of nectar froze on the wax petals, and the first rays of the dawn sun made them sparkle like diamonds. “This variety is special.” Her voice sounded soft. “It's called the Deva-Rosa. I want to show you where they grow. It’s so beautiful. I want you to come with me, Rosa. We’ll be there together, you and me.” Mina smiled dazzlingly, but something was wrong with that smile. The once-sensual kiss lips were painfully curved, the corners awfully lifted, like the forever-frozen smile of a Venetian mask, and the warm pink shade was gone.

I was always jealous of her lips. They were so tender, plump, and enticing. All her features attracted attention, but it was her lips that made Mina's beauty unique.

She shone like the sun, easily becoming the center of everyone's attention—a beautiful white swan. The main heroine of the story.

Then there was me, only a shadow of her perfection—gloomy and pale as the moon, the complete opposite of the burning heat and the sexuality of my sister. Unlike Mina's, my features were not sensual and breathtaking; no, they were old-fashioned, like those of a porcelain doll. I didn’t find myself ugly or unattractive; just ordinary. One of a hundred million. The classic tragic heroine of a Gothic novel, someone like me, doesn’t make it to the finale.

Now looking at Mina, I can no longer see her life; her fire has almost been extinguished, leaving embers smoldering. And only her hair, like a burning sunset, was the only bright spot in her appearance. They crimson her white dress like blood rivers in the snow.

“Rosa, come with me.” The touch of her hands was icy and gave me a nasty shiver. It wasn’t Mina anymore. “Let's go, please. We can admire roses together. We can be together, Rosa. Remember what we promised each other when we were kids? Forever.” Mina leaned towards me with her whole body, completely trespassing into my space, and with her intimacy came the suffocating, sugary smell of roses. It was a thick, enveloping aroma that instantly sat in the lungs. I thought that if I breathed it in deeper, these strange, unnatural flowers would sprout in my veins, intertwine with my bones, and create a new home for themselves in my body.

“No!” I exclaimed, pushing Mina away from me. “I don’t want that, Mina. I don’t want you or those freaking roses in my life.”

Suddenly on my feet, I took a few steps away from the pale Mina, who was staring at a rose that had fallen to the ground. Her posture was as vulnerable as that of a wounded animal, and her limp arms reached for the flower, which, surprisingly, began to darken and fade, touching the ground. In her eyes, once radiant with happiness and dreaming, stood tears, and her lips began to tremble. It was as if a child whose beloved toy had been mercilessly abused had fallen to her knees, picked up a dying bud, and, in despair, pinned it to her lips.

“How can you be so cruel, Rosa?” Mina whispered, her lips gently touching the petals. “You hurt them; it breaks their heart. Can’t you just accept their love? Accept the roses?” She continued to kiss the petals.

“What are you talking about, Mina? Whose love should I accept?” I asked cautiously. Her behavior began to frighten me.

“You must give yourself to them, Rosa; I must give you to them.” Mina ignored my question, methodically kissing a faded flower. His dead petals began to fall away, slowly, baring his heart. “O Rosa, the rose is a rose; the rose is a deva; the deva is a rose; is a rose.”

“Mina!” I called her by her name in an alarm. The entire situation had me in a state of primitive terror. Mina began slowly swaying from side to side in time to your words, all the while continuing to say, “Rose is a rose, the rose is a deva.” It was meaningless, like the ravings of a madman. The words were repeated in an endless circle, like a prayer or a ritual chant. Mina’s voice grew louder, higher, and higher until it broke, and abruptly she stopped all movement, standing there like a graceful statue.

Once I admired her every move; now I want to cover my eyes so I never have to see her again. What happened after became the most traumatic thing in my life. I can never forget it, no matter how much I want it. It seemed to be imprinted on my eyelids, and even after closing my eyes in my sleep, I couldn’t get rid of those memories.

Her movements were fleeting, like the wings of a butterfly. Here she is before me, tense and waiting, and then her throat crosses a ragged line, and blood rushes through her body like a waterfall.

Eyes shining from tears are wide open and so resemble smooth black pearls, and lips are opened as if waiting for a kiss. For a second, Mina's body stretched like a thin string and then softened, falling on the grass. I heard someone start screaming; the sound was so deafening and heartbreaking that I wanted to curl up in a ball and cover my ears with my hands, so I couldn’t hear.

I found myself screaming. I needed to call for help; I had to call an ambulance, and I had to try to help her. Put my arms around her neck and cover her gaping red velvet wound.

But I was yelling about something else instead. My name is not Rosa; you hear me, Mina! I am not her. · · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

I awoke in a frenzy, sweating profusely and with a wildly pounding heart from an endlessly recurring nightmare.

This dream has haunted me for months since Mina’s funeral. Night after night, I have lived this sunrise over and over again. I didn’t like morning anymore; I started avoiding sunlight and hiding in the velvet folds of the night, sharing my loneliness with the darkness. I made the moon my friend, and the stars my silent witnesses.

My memory is folded paper, folded a thousand times. Sometimes, I want to unwrap it, but not completely: open the brittle edges of the fragile sashes, smooth out the folds and creases with my fingers, spread out the time sequence. Unwrap it just a little, and then fold again, mixing letters and days, reality and dreams. I never want to open the pages where the memories of that morning are stored. Every time I get almost to the end, moments before the final, I run away to the safety of happy days.

I try to come up with a new ending to this story, a different ending, but the dream comes to me like a cat, gently calling me into its embrace, and I find myself again in a place I don’t want to be.

It’s early in the morning, and the sun is just rising above the horizon, shimmering like a limitless purple-pink ocean.

In Mina’s crimson hair are snow-white roses, and her dress looks like an intricately woven ruffle and lace. Her pale hands holding flowers, her puffy lips in a painful smile, and her bare feet—the ground must be cold since it was the middle of October. Her blood… and the roses. And if it were possible to personify hatred and death, then for me, it would be roses.

I hated and despised these flowers with all my heart. They brought only sorrow and gloominess into my life. The beautiful symbol of mourning solemnity. They started it. They ended it all.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

I was sixteen when Mina first called me Rosa. One January afternoon, she came home with a basket of the most gorgeous flowers I’ve ever seen in my life. Scarlet like the blood of a rose, they were magnificent and perfect. From that day on, I became Rosa. Why did Mina start calling me that? She never spoke. But she completely forgot my real name. For the whole world, I was now Rosa. After this case, every day in our small apartment, the roses became more and more numerous, until every inch of free space was filled with scarlet buds. Their smell was suffocating, thick, and sticky like honey. It is absorbed into the skin, hair, and dissolved in the blood. It made me dizzy and nauseous, and I could taste it on my tongue with every breath. But it wasn’t just a smell. It was a color that screamed “red,” like blood itself. It poured over our house, coloring the entire apartment in a disturbing shade.

After that, every day in our house, the roses became more and more numerous until they filled all the surrounding space.

Soon, they became so numerous that our house looked like a tomb filled with scarlet petals hanging from the ceiling. We've been arranging here with all honors, breathing in a haze as imperceptible as rose-scented mist.

In all the time I lived there, not a single flower withered. It was frightening and exciting at the same time. Day followed night, and night gave way to day; but no petal lost its pristine beauty, and no bud bowed its heavy head in sorrow. There was not a single bouquet that would dilute this velvet sea with its mourning black.

And if that did happen, Mina cried long and hard over these flowers and blamed herself for not saving them. At night, I heard the sound of her apologies and her fanatical prayers.

Whether she prayed to God or to the Devil, I couldn't tell. I'll find out for whom these prayers were intended many years later.

Roses were always sent with a postcard and a box of expensive chocolates with some intricate filling. The box was necessarily in the form of a heart. The signature was also one; once the unchanged calligraphic handwriting deduced only one phrase, “For you,”

Mina never told me who gave her these magic flowers or why the roses didn’t wither.

I tried to ask her these questions several times, but she only brushed them off, throwing her long hair from one shoulder to the other and angrily declaring, “You must love them; you don't need to know more.”

Mina also dyed her hair scarlet, like roses.

I couldn’t take it anymore. Constantly surrounded by these flowers was unbearable, and one day I packed up all my things and moved in with a friend, leaving Mina alone in her regal rosary.

My first night away from home, away from the roses and Mina, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned anxiously in bed hour after hour; but the dream never came, and then the phone rang. Mina called. Crying, she begged to come home, and when I asked her why, she barely whispered, “The roses are wilted.”

I hung up, and Mina never called me again. Two years had passed. My life had changed, and I think my luck had smiled. I found wonderful friends who were eccentric and bright. I had a great and caring boyfriend, and the internship at ballet school was promising. Everything worked out perfectly, and there were no more roses.

Until my twentieth birthday, a huge bleeding bouquet of scarlet roses tied with topaz-embroidered ribbon appeared in my new apartment. The candy box was heart-shaped, and the caption read, “For You.”

I burned the bouquet, threw out the chocolate, and tore the note apart, and blew it to the wind.

No one was supposed to see or know. Even me. Exactly eight days after these flowers appeared, I got a call from former neighbors in the apartment complex Mina was still living in. I was urged to come and deal with the situation; the smell of rot and death was unbearable, and Mina didn't open the doors or answer the phone. I opened the door with my key. Opening it wide, I crossed the threshold and could not contain a short scream. All the once-luxurious roses had rotted, dripping thick, stinking jugs on the floor and accumulating in gleaming poisonous lakes. Every corner of the space was occupied by large vases with black velvet buds and tall candles. After my move, Mina got rid of all the furniture, leaving only the big bed, which was now covered with dried stems strewn with thorns.

This place was like a grave — cold and dark — where my sister was supposed to rest. Going deeper, I found no hint of Mina's presence. Absolutely nothing. Only putrid roses and an empty heart-shaped box.

Mina was gone. For a whole year, I tried to find her without success. Old friends, distant relatives, acquaintances, and any other connections she might have ever had—I checked everything, but there was nothing to help me find her. It’s like she never existed.

In the two years we’ve been apart, I didn’t know anything about her. Mina didn’t call, and when I tried to contact her, she would reply with a short message, always the same: "Roses have wilted; come back." just like the night I left her.

All Mina had ever thought about since that unfortunate January day were these sinister roses.

The police began an investigation. Two years after her disappearance, Mina became officially missing.

And a year after that, she showed up at my door in the twilight of the fall morning, barefoot, in a sophisticated lace dress with a rose crown on her head. From the Mina that I knew, all that remained was her hair—long, silky, and crimson like blood and roses.

She still kept calling me Rosa, calling me out, and promising that we’d be happy together. That it will be only us, forever. She promised to show me where these strange flowers bloom, which she called the Deva-Rose, although these were not her words, but those of someone distant and unfamiliar to me, Hongjoong.

And then...then Mina died. The dawn painted her body in pink shades, flooded the grass with sparkling gold, and dyed the white roses of her crown scarlet. She slit her throat. Ragged a sharp spike into it. As it turned out, even the tiniest rose spikes were deadly. It was a nightmarish and, at the same time, majestic end to her story. The image of Mina haunts me in dreams even now—this distant gaze in her pearly eyes and a complete absence of fear of death. No, Mina wasn't afraid. She welcomed death as an old friend, graciously opening her arms.

It was her exodus. I remember screaming loudly. Blood thundered in my ears, and tears flowed in an endless crystal stream. I screamed that my name wasn’t Rosa; that I wasn’t her, and never would be.

Her funeral was truly a royal one. Rain and thunder rattle in the sky, as if raising a toast in her honor. The flat haloes of the black umbrellas swayed peacefully as the guests made their sorrowful speeches.

Mina seemed to fall asleep, dressed in an old-fashioned wedding dress, lying there like a princess, drowning in thousands of roses. The flowers were brought at dawn. Their color was deep and dark, as if every petal was filled with the gloaming of the night. They mourned with me. But I knew better. It wasn’t the end; it was the beginning. Death follows life in an endless cycle of rebirth. When one flower fades, plant a new one. Back home that night, I found a black envelope at my door, sealed with a monogram wax seal.

It lacked an address and the sender's signature. The message was clear and concise. "I live for you, my Rosa."

· · • • • ✤ • • • · · I went to the window and opened the curtains with my newfound determination. It’s time to stop being afraid and run away. Whatever it is, I’ll find out what happened to Mina. Let her start it all, but I’ll be the one to finish the story. The last surviving girl.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · · How naive I was then, how stupid. The moth always flies to the flame, attracted by the warm fluttering light; he himself goes to his death.

I was that moth. Without realizing it, I came to my inevitable fate, which has been waiting for me for centuries, maybe longer. Their hands have stretched out since the darkest times, when the light didn't exist, and the Devil was as real as you and I. At that time, everyone knew his face, felt his hot breath on his skin. The story I’m going to tell you isn't going to be bright and sweet; we’re going to go down to hell and come back. I'll take you through the dark woods to the horrors of uncharted lands where barefoot priestesses rock their sharp teeth in alluring smiles. I will take you to the castle where the prince rests in a crystal coffin and make you drink wine that tastes like blood.

Now I have to ask you, "Are you afraid of the dark and what’s hidden in it?" But my question is, "Love, do you like roses?"

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pinkcherryblossom18 · 7 months

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Take And Take And Take (Me As Yours)

Jacaerys Velaryon/Twin!Reader

Summary: A fight breaks out and Jace is sent to make you see reason but what reason is there that doesn’t go against everything that you know?

TW: Twincest, Descriptions of violence (The Driftwood incident), sex and death, Fingering, Making out, Arranged Marriages, Angst, Codependency?

Word Count: 2.1k

The sky was bright with stars and full of the moon that casted along the shores that crashed against the rocks of Dragonstone with a calamity inducing force but no such accidents would occur. They had always threatened to drown the rocky island but have yet to do it in the centuries that the Targaryens had made it their home.

Your feet were cool with the water that sprayed out and touched the bottoms of your toes and the tops of your shins as well as soaking the edges of your dress. Your mother wouldn’t say anything about it but Daemon might for nothing more than the opportunity to jest and make fun of you in the subtilist of ways. It was loving, something that you wouldn’t have expected from a man called the Rogue Prince but he had proved himself to be alright over the years, showing so in ways of small gifts and jokes that led to laughter and a weird sort of bonding.

Rheana and Baela helped as well.

Though you hadn’t talked to them a few moons after the accident on Driftmark that left your uncle with a missing eye and you with a long scar on the top of your forehead from the rock that was intended for your brother. You were sure that Jace would have finished Luke’s unfortunate swing of protectiveness of both you and your dear twin. It was a sureness that had you gripping his arm tightly and shaking our head at him when he made his way to get up and attack him, doing away with the knowledge of Aemond’s new injury, only focused on the gash on your head that let rivers of blood flow down your face and leaving you as blind as Aemond until the maester was able to get all of the blood out of your eye.

He hadn’t left your side when all six of you were dragged into the hall. His hand in yours as the maester stitched up your forehead and not even letting go when your mother ran up to you, cradling your head in her hands as she demanded to know what happened. She had kept you close the entire time as well, keeping both you and Luke tucked up against her side as she tried to reason with Alicent who only demanded your younger brother’s eye as a repayment for Aemonds own, as if that would have fixed anything.

That night, Jace stayed with you, curled up in your bed holding you as tears ran down your face. Jace cried as well. Both of you in sadness, loss of your aunt, what had transpired only an hour before and the death of your birth father. It seemed that despite the added pain which made tears still cascade down your puffy cheeks in lumps, Jace cried harder. He never told you why and you never asked beyond that but you could feel what it was. Anger; rage swelled up and twisted so tightly inside of him that it was bound to break one way or another.

Jace hadn’t been too far from you since then, not that you two were far apart anyhow. Always close, ever since birth and just getting closer as the seconds ticked past and the sun rose and fell, being replaced by the moon. Then a few years later, it was replaced by touches that seemed different from the blushing romances that you had read in your books. There were no shy touches or sneaky glances that ended in giggles and red tinted cheeks. No, you two were sure with your affections. Hands grabbing waists with the affection that fifteen year olds going through changes can muster and kisses with the forces of waves at sixteen that shunned upon comparison how you two moved onto the next step at seventeen and now at eighteen with looks of longing lust gone and replaced with the infectious love that goes through the line of siblings in the great House Targaryen.

That would all go away soon.

Soon you would have to go North and marry some Karstark or other to make an alliance with the North, to transplant what little Targaryen blood you have in you into some frigid bastard until it was bred out of whatever children or grandchildren that you two would possess. It wouldn’t matter, you would finally succumb to the fate all bastards are given: no longer existing in any matters of importance. To be erased from all minds and hands washed of any blood spilt, dirty blood that was tainted and spoiled by unfaithfulness and wandering hands of two persons who could no longer bear not touching each other.

Once you hadn’t understood such a thing with the thundering force of resentment and inner hatred. Now you understood, it was all clear.

Something could be done, by you and by Jace.

But Jace was dutiful. He was the good son. The future King and Lord of Dragonstone when your mother became queen and when she inevitably died of either age or sickness (you hoped for the former). He wouldn’t taint his already soiled reputation, he wouldn’t.

Jace was still a dragon. Dragons take and take and take until they wholly claim what they believe is theirs.

You turned your head at the sound of feet approaching, watching your twin’s messy hair being swept by the wind that only made its current state worse with each passing breeze. A laugh bubbled in your chest at the pout that graced his lips at such an inconvenience but you were sure that he had already given up on fixing it as his gaze stated on yours when they caught each other.

He stands above you, a small smile on his face but the remenits of the past conversation la in face with the lines of grimaces on his face just below his eyes and a certain look in those dark colored eyes of his. Love is in there, that is something that you are sure will never go away but something alike to pity also resides in there. You hate that but what can you do but welcome it when it comes from Jace? “May I join you?” He asks you.

A sigh comes from you. Joy is a key factor in what you feel when you look at him but the ever looming aspect of the conversation you two are about to have is clear and hateful. The feeling of crawling sickness builds up in your chest just at the prospect of it.

“Go right ahead,” you say, gesturing at the open space beside you that still doesn’t feel full when Jace sits beside you, shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. Your knees touch and warmness courses through your body in waves of the storms that had sunk many ships before they could reach this rocky island of your home.

It doesn’t feel like enough. For once, it almost doesn’t feel right.

Perhaps it’s the anger or the war that is coming soon but something in your heart had tweaked when the announcement of your betrothal was announced. He hadn’t said anything as you yelled at your mother, calling her a hypocrite and so many nasty names that you can no longer remember them all. Those names had even been directed at Luke. Sweet, loving Luke who had done nothing wrong but would inherit Driftmark now. You’re birthright and you’re way of becoming something—someone in the history books. Along with your mother, you would have inherited a powerful seat as a woman.

Now that was gone and Jace had done nothing to stop it.

He settled fast and reached for your hand, grabbing it in his anyway even after you had pulled it away. Not letting you go from him. You hoped that it was a good sign, you hoped that it meant more than it actually did. “It wasn’t mothers fault, you can’t get mad at her for this,” he says softly, as if talking to Vermax when he was angry or agitated.

A scoff comes through it heavily and it leaves off with a giggle that has you shaking your head humorlessly. “Try me,” you snap and snatch your hand away from his. You clamber off of the sandy ground, brushing off the grains that are on your dress and skin before storming off.

His footsteps are normally light, something that he brought with him from years of training. His gliding swordsmanship of quick feet and fast reflexes had come into his everyday life along with the strength that he had gained from it. “You’re not being fair,” he says and you stop.

Your footsteps are contrary to his own, their rough and angry and full of hatred toward your beloved twin that you never knew that you could hold in your love filled heart. “Fair?” Anger filled tears take over your waterline, threatening to fall out in a manner that would have Septa Cragen—a woman most unfortunate looking as her name—shaking her head. “Don’t talk to me about fair Jace, nothing about this is fair.” You shake your head and try to pull back your tears. “Out of everyone I expected you to be just as pissed as me.”

Anger is now in his features as well, he wears them well. With grace and dignity, unlike you. Unlike you who had caused a scene earlier, who had caused such a ruckus that even your loving and understanding twin has turned against you so easily. “I am.”

You don’t believe and start to walk away but in quick strides he is closer to you and has your head in his hands. They are rough and calloused but so very soft when touching you. His dark brown eyes are filled with something carnally desperate that you want to reach out and feed into it with a vigor that fuels your own desperately wanting and all consuming love.

Those hands that hold you don’t tighten like his words that grow rough. “Trust me there is nothing more that I would love than to go up in the North and kill that Karstark boy. I want to keep you here, with me, at my side like we always have been.” You’re tears finally fall and he catches them, a well practiced move since you two were nothing more than small babes still suckling on your mothers teats.

You grab his arms. “Then marry me, like we’ve always talked about. Like we planned. Fuck them,” you spit out. Jace looks shocked but he doesn’t say anything, knowing that there is more. There always is more when it comes to the two of you. “The Queen, the King, the Karstarks. Our mother. Fuck all of them. Marry me like Daemon did with mother, take me as yours.” Your hand now grasps his face and you lean toward him, he allows it and his head falls so that now both of yours are touching. Lips only an inch away. “Take me,” you whisper to him.

He doesn’t do anything but take his hands away from your face so that they can wrap around your waist and pull you closer, your head now nuzzled comfortably in his chest of warmth and safety. “I will, I have always promised you that.” His hand strokes your back as he whispers to you words that calm something in you that has reared up on hind legs since the fight. “Not tonight, not when you’re not thinking straight.” You look up at him but his face is stern, leaving no room for arguments. “Don’t argue, you know that I am right.”

You huff. “Fuck you for that too,” you say and he only laughs. You join him right before your lips connect.

All seems to fall into place, more so when he joins your bed. Your dress is hiked up on your legs with you head tilted back as he presses his lips on the sensitive skin that lays there while his fingers go in and out of you. His lips suck and bite and press promises that you hope that he keeps while he brings you to your peak with his lips against your own with the same words on his lips as they had been on your neck. “My little wife, all mine. All for me,” he whispers, it consumes you and over takes you much like your peak. All because of him.

It's all a fire that swarms you. Like a dragon. Like Jace who is much like one himself as he takes and takes and takes what is his by right. By birth.

By blood and fire.

#jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 2 months

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Begged & Borrowed Time (xxviii, ao3)

(Chapter twenty-eight: After three days spent healing, Cassian finally wakes and finds that he has several things to say to his brother.) (Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)

At first it was the village.

Not quite a dream, but a nightmare laced with memory as Cassian found himself standing right back in the ashes of his own rage, watching the smoke drift, bitter and acrid, toward the sky. Blood stained the snow and seeped across grey rock, and he could have sworn, even in delirium, that screams still echoed through the mountain pass.

Broken siphons lay shattered, the shards as sharp as drawn blades, and in the dream Cassian looked down at his hands and saw Illyrian blood dripping thick from his fingers. It blurred in his mind, the deserted, desecrated camp high in the mountains looming in his memory as the nightmare sunk its claws deep into his flesh.

And then the screams shifted, a warrior’s pain morphing into something else. The blood on his hands thinned, turning dark— turning to Cauldron-water as the rock beneath his feet turned smooth, blood-stained snow replaced by polished marble. The scene around him changed, until it wasn’t blood on his hands but water, water that needled his skin like acid as it pooled beneath him in a puddle so dark it seemed to swallow the light whole.

Pain— there was so much pain.

His, but not his.

The world began and ended with his every breath, an aching kind of cold pressing at his fingertips and spreading up through his veins as the village he had destroyed once in his fury bled into the throne room like ink, the horrors of both twining until the screams of anguish he heard echoing through the mountains weren’t his anymore but hers—

The floor of Hybern’s throne room was slick with dark water, as black as the night itself. Cassian’s hands slipped as he tried to rise, struggling to find purchase, and gods, it burned. Where the Cauldron’s water kissed his skin, Cassian felt an ice so deep it beggared belief sinking into his veins. He heard screaming, heard her screaming, felt her drowning like it was his own heart ceasing to beat, his own blood beginning to boil. He pulled away, or tried to, but the memory dragged him down, reality converging brutally with the dream, and in his chest hoarfrost gathered, beginning to crawl, and when he opened his mouth to scream—

All he tasted was medicine, a sleeping tonic thick and bitter on his tongue, keeping him chained and trapped within the nightmare until at last, blackness swallowed him… and Cassian remembered nothing at all.

***

When he opened his eyes at last, Cassian swore he could feel her.

Nesta’s scent lingered in the air, draped lightly over the sheets as though she had only just been there, sitting beside him as he lay healing. He seemed to have missed her by a hair’s breadth— by a moment or a second, a heartbeat or an hour, he wasn’t sure. The light danced across the bed, sharp in the wake of his dreams, and as Cassian breathed in the scent of his mate, slowly, slowly, he stretched out a hand, reaching for the ghost of her left behind.

But the movement sent sent a bolt of fire spearing right down his spine, drawing a livid curse from his lips as pain - unrelenting pain - shot like lightning across the broken mass of his wings.

It didn’t stop him.

Couldn’t stop him, not as he reached for the empty space on that mattress, hoping he might bring her back if his fingers could just graze the sheets that still smelled, faintly, of her.

But the space beside him was cold, and if Nesta had been there, it had been hours ago.

Cassian’s brow furrowed, fingers curling tightly in the sheets.

In his chest, something broke.

He loosed his grip on the bedsheets, drawing a gasping breath as he flexed his hand. The movement was stiff, and the siphon he wore was shining as if through fog as pain radiated from the bottom of his wings to the nape of his neck. At his back, pinned beneath him, those wings were nothing but a blistering ache, so sharp his breath got caught in his throat.

And— fuck, when he twitched them, to test how much strength they had left, they were as spindly as the legs of a newborn deer. Wrapped in so many bandages it was a wonder there was any linen left in Velaris at all, he forced his wings to shift. But a roaring pain engulfed him, a tidal wave of it he felt down to the tips of his toes.

His entire body felt hollow, bones aching like they had been snapped too, and he hissed as the pain barrelled through him, a sound of pure agony building within his throat.

It was a brutal reminder of just how close he had come to death.

He had been bleeding and broken, wings shredded, and though he was no stranger to risk or injury… it was different, this time. This time he had felt death in a way he never had before. It had cracked open an eye in the darkness and saw right through to his soul, staking a claim on him as the pain had dragged him under.

A chill coursed through him, kith to the ice still burning in his chest.

But he forced it away.

It didn’t matter.

None of it mattered.

His own pain, his own anguish, was nothing. He recalled the dreams that had haunted him in his sleep, the screams he knew would dog him for the rest of his days. His hands reached again for that space on the bed beside him, her name echoing with each beat of his broken heart.

Nesta.

He could still see her eyes, brimming with terror and rage as the king’s guards forced her into that Cauldron. Could still feel the bond, taut as a bow-string and thrumming the way it had the moment their eyes had met across that godsforsaken throne room. Absolute, inexorable need surged through him as the bond tightened, stealing his breath, and it was for Nesta that Cassian took a breath and braced both palms against the mattress. For her he ignored the barbs of pain that shot through his wings as he pushed his weight against the heel of his hands, trying to rise.

For her.

“Fuck,” he gasped, breaths turning ragged as agony knifed along his spine, spreading across his shoulders.

And across the room, from a half-hidden corner by the window that Cassian hadn’t even glanced at before now, another curse echoed his own.

“For fuck’s sake, Cass.”

Sharp footsteps sounded from the wall of windows opposite, but before Cassian could force his broken body to rise another inch, Rhys’ hand was pressed flat against Cassian’s shoulder, firm and immovable.

“Don’t even think about it,” the High Lord said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

Cassian didn’t stop for a minute to study his brother— to really note the anguish that cloaked him like a second skin. Nor did he pause to wonder how or why Rhys was the only one waiting for him to wake. His brother has been so lost in thought standing in that corner, staring listlessly out of the window, that it seemed he hadn’t even noticed Cassian opening his eyes until that whispered curse had been torn from his throat. He’d never known Rhys to be so distracted but…

No, Cassian didn’t pause. Not for a second, because he couldn’t fucking breathe.

He pushed once more against Rhys’ palm, gritting his teeth against the riot of pain working its way up and down his spine.

“Let me up,” he managed through clenched teeth.

Stitches were pulled taut in wounds not yet healed, and the new, fragile membrane of his wings threatened to tear as his arms began to tremble. His muscles ached, like keeping himself sitting upright was challenge enough, but it didn’t matter, didn’t matter, didn’t matter—

Rhys didn’t move.

“Rhys,” Cassian snarled. “Let. Me. Up.”

The High Lord said nothing, violet eyes dark and determined as he refused to relent. He kept his hand pressed against Cassian’s shoulder, and fucking hell, Cassian thought grimly, any other day he’d be able to force Rhys away without so much as blinking. But the blast that had taken out his wings had all but decimated his strength, leaving him with nothing but the sweat gleaming on his brow as he fought to stay upright.

After what felt like an age of bone-cracking agony, Cassian could do nothing more than collapse back against his pillows, staring furiously at the ceiling and cursing his sudden weakness.

“Not yet,” Rhys said mildly as he removed his hand at last. “Give it another day— give it until tomorrow.”

Cassian slammed a fist against his sickbed. “Another day? How long has it been already?”

His voice was cold, but Rhys didn’t flinch.

“Three days.”

Cassian swore the world began to tilt beneath him, the balance suddenly off-kilter.

“Three days,” he echoed, deadpan.

“And a half,” Rhys added, turning to the window at his back, as if tracking the movement of the sun. “It’s almost noon.”

As if Cassian gave a fuck about what time it was.

“Where is she.”

The demand came out rough, like gravel, and his voice seemed to quake beneath the weight of the temper he was only barely keeping in check. Deep within, something primal and primordial began to howl.

Rhys only rolled his eyes. Under his breath he muttered something that sounded a lot like ‘both the fucking same,’ and Cassian’s brow lowered over narrowed eyes as he began to wonder if Rhys had faced similar questioning from Nesta herself. But then— why wasn’t she here? Where was she? And Mother save him, how was she?

They were the only questions worth asking, the only things that seemed to matter.

“She’s here,” Rhys said after a pause, waving a hand in a gesture so casual it made Cassian clench his jaw. “And she’s awake, which is more than I can say for Elain.”

“Elain isn’t awake?”

“No.”

Cassian glowered. “So Nesta’s been on her own for three fucking days then,” he countered darkly, running a hand over his ribs to make sure those, at least, were still intact. Feeling nothing broken he shifted, more than ready to try and rise again regardless of the pain, but Rhys stopped him with a glare so glacial it made chasms of his eyes.

“Not alone,” Rhys said bluntly. “I checked on her, and Mor took her some clothes.”

Cassian was silent. His eyes seemed to burn as he looked pointedly at his brother and waited for him to continue— because if Rhys thought that was explanation enough, then he was so severely mistaken that Cassian might have started to wonder if the High Lord had hit his head on the way out of Hybern’s throne room. As it was, his brother sighed heavily before running a hand through his already-mussed hair.

“The Cauldron took its toll,” he explained. “Neither Nesta nor Elain were fully conscious when we made it back to Velaris, and after Mor and I winnowed them up here… they were out of it for a little while. Nesta woke after a few hours, but Elain is still drifting in and out.” When Cassian’s gaze turned sharp, bladed with concern, Rhys added, “There’s no injury. Physically, they both seem fine.”

A note of caution entered his voice, one that had all of Cassian’s instincts sharpening like a blade against a whetstone.

“Mor brought Nesta clothes,” the Lord continued flatly, violet eyes devoid of stars. “But she didn’t even bother to look at them before casting them off. Mor wasn’t exactly happy—“

Cassian snarled again, a sound of abject consternation so abrasive it was a wonder it didn’t rake claws down his throat.

“What the fuck,” he asked, in a voice so rough it was little more than a growl, “were you thinking?”

The glare he gave Rhys was one that so rarely crossed his face these days— one that even battle-hardened warriors had run from in the past. But he didn’t bother to temper it. Of course Nesta would refuse whatever it was that Mor had offered. Night Court fashion was a world away from what they were used to below the wall, and though Mor had shaken off the shackles of her upbringing, it was plain as fucking day that Nesta hadn’t.

As well-intentioned as it was, was it any wonder it had brought out Nesta’s claws?

Rhys didn’t answer, only pressed his lips thin.

“Get her something else,” Cassian said sharply.

“I tried,” Rhys retorted, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She doesn’t want anything else.”

“Then I’ll fucking do it,” he huffed, his hands curling once more into fists so tight his knuckles began to ache.

“You can’t get up,” Rhys hissed. “It’s a fucking miracle you’re even alive. It wasn’t just your wings, you know. Whatever was in that blast— you’ve had a temperature for days that even the healers can’t understand. Like you were burning from the inside out.”

Cassian stilled. The dream came back to him in a rush, an echo of that burning heat thrumming distant in his veins. Like it wasn’t him burning at all.

The bond twining around his ribs trembled, and in the silence that followed Cassian shoved it all away and clenched his jaw before demanding roughly,

“Tell me what happened.”

Rhys looked uncomfortable with the question, his shadowed face stony. “I haven’t been able to glean much. All I know is that Hybern broke in whilst they were sleeping. Killed the servants—“

“And the Illyrians?” Cassian felt his anger harden, cool into something far more difficult to break. “Where the fuck were they? I swear, if they—“

“They’re dead, Cass.”

It took Cassian a moment to understand. For the words to sink in. And when they did, there was a ringing in his ears so sharp he had to shake his head to clear it.

Fuck.

“Ash arrows were found in the grounds,” Rhys continued darkly. “And the other four men you sent to the Mandray house never saw Nesta. By the time they arrived she had already gone to stay with Elain. They didn’t know she wasn’t inside.”

It was like being dragged into a riptide.

The waves kept coming, kept pulling and pushing and holding him under, each new kernel of information Rhys offered one that made Cassian feel like his lungs were taking on water. Four men dead— men who had families, friends, loved ones. Cassian had personally picked the ones to go below the wall. He hadn’t been about to put Nesta and Elain’s safety in the hands of any of the more… conservative Illyrians, especially when Devlon had been so reluctant to let them go at all. No, these had been soldiers who respected him, who had only barely grumbled about being stationed so far from home.

Dead.

He’d have to tell their families, have to visit them personally.

And the servants. Gods— who would tell their families? Or Nesta’s father? Cassian didn’t have an overwhelming amount of respect for the man, but still. Would he return to an empty house, dilapidated and dark, a ruin filled with nothing but shattered glass and the echo of violence?

Each thought made his head spin, and yet it was nothing - absolutely fucking nothing - to the weight in his chest, the crushing heaviness where his heart should be.

Because the sharpest undercurrent of all was…

He’d known.

He’d known something was wrong. That night, after Hybern’s attack, he had been so consumed with worry it had almost eaten him alive. He had felt it, as certain as anything.

If only he’d sent a shadow to the Archeron estate that night too. If only he’d known Nesta wasn’t with her husband at all, but with her sister. If only he’d insisted Azriel somehow find the strength to command two shadows across the wall, or better yet, if he himself had flown there despite his exhaustion…

If only, if only, if only.

His eyes closed.

“So when Az sent that shadow…” he began, hoarse. “Nesta wasn’t even at home that night. She was with Elain the whole time.”

His heart felt as brittle as cracked glass, his eyes stinging. Somewhere inside him was a pendulum, one that swung wildly between spikes of terrifying fury, and deep valleys carved of guilt and grief.

He could have saved her.

Could have stopped her being taken in the night, bound and gagged and thrown into that Cauldron. All of it could have been avoided had he only been looking in the right place that night, when the bond in his chest had been so damned insistent that something was wrong.

He should’ve listened. Should have paid more attention.

How many lives would have been saved? How many grieving mothers would have been spared a loss? Most importantly to Cassian, how much pain could he have kept Nesta from? How much agony might have been avoided?

When he slid his eyes open again, he saw Rhys nod.

“That’s all I’ve been able to gather. Nesta hasn’t exactly been… forthcoming with the details.”

Cassian blinked slowly, eyes darkening. “Can you blame her?”

Rhys sighed, taking a step closer. Slowly, carefully, he added, “There’s something… up with her, Cass.”

“Up with her,” Cassian echoed, in a voice as that was cold and flat, as desolate as a Winter Court snow plain. He could have sworn his brother cringed.

“I can sense something,” Rhys continued. “I don’t know what, exactly. She won’t tell me what happened inside the Cauldron—“

“Rhys,” he warned, “back off, would you?”

The dream lurched once more in his memory— the cold, the aching in his bones. That distant feeling of ice searing him right through, stealing his breath with its ferocity. It lingered, even now, like it had been fucking real. Cassian suppressed a shudder.

“It’s her eyes, Cass. There’s something there, some kind of power she won’t speak of—“

“Rhys.”

Cassian fixed his brother with the kind of glare reserved usually for soldiers out of line— the kind that made his entire face harden. He didn’t give a single shit about what Nesta may or may not have emerged from that Cauldron with. It wouldn’t be enough to change anything— to stop him loving her with everything he had left.

“Let her work it out in her own time,” he added gruffly, his tone one that threatened retribution if not flat-out violence.

“We might not have time,” Rhys countered dryly.

Cassian snarled. “I said back off.”

For a second Rhys looked prepared to argue his point, a scowl twisting the corners of his mouth, but Cassian snarled again softly, little more than a growl of patience lost, and Rhys’ scowl vanished. He exhaled heavily and raised a hand in surrender, giving his brother a small nod.

“Alright,” he said tightly. “Alright.”

Cassian nodded once too, brisk, and settled back against the pillows, careful not to disturb the mass of bandages and scar tissue that was his wings.

There was a beat— where Cassian felt the ache deep in his bones collide with the weariness that gnawed, ravenous, at his edges. He sighed, and let himself relent. For now— just for now.

“And Az?” he asked after a moment, forcing himself away from the memory of Azriel’s blood slicking his hands in that throne room.

“The healers are still keeping him under. The poison… it had almost reached his heart.” Rhys shuddered. “It’s the same poison that tipped the arrows I was hit with, only in a far more concentrated dose. If Feyre were here, she could probably heal him just as quickly as she healed me, but…”

The High Lord stumbled over his mate’s name, like it pained him to speak of her. He trailed off, eyes darting back to the window he’d been staring out of before Cassian had opened his eyes, like he was trying to follow the bond and see all the way to the south, to wherever Feyre was now.

“She’s in Spring,” Cassian breathed, not quite a question.

In the dimness of his memory he recalled the way Feyre had drifted back to Tamlin’s side in that throne room, the way Rhys had fallen to his knees. Cassian didn’t remember much— couldn’t remember words or put it all together in any kind of narrative that made sense, and he’d been dragged into unconsciousness soon after his brother had screamed in pain. But he remembered the way Tamlin reached for Feyre, a wary kind of relief igniting in his green eyes and mingling with the reflected candlelight until they were an evergreen forest consumed by flame.

The lines on Tamlin’s face had smoothed as he placed a hand on Feyre’s wrist. No matter that Cassian’s vision had been growing dark, or that Azriel’s life hung by a thread. No matter that Elain trembled in a puddle of Cauldron-spilled water, or that Nesta scrambled towards her sister even as her eyes remained fixed on Cassian.

None of that had mattered to the High Lord of Spring.

A sharp, terse nod was Rhys’ only response.

“There’s something else you should know too,” Rhys said, his voice made heavy by the bitterest sort of irony. He turned back to the bed and looked Cassian in the eye, lifting his chin with all the bearing of a High Lord. “Before we went to Hybern, I made Feyre High Lady.”

For a moment, Cassian forgot the pain in his wings.

He thought he must have misheard, must have been hallucinating from all the tonics the healers had been giving him—

“Mor and Amren were told as soon as we got back,” Rhys said, “but with you and Az unconscious…”

“You fucking what?” Cassian spat, scrambling on his hands to raise himself from the bed. His wings protested again as his muscles shifted, stitches close to tearing, and once more Rhys stepped forward with ease and halted him with a palm flat against his shoulder.

“Don’t start. I’ve already had all this from Mor and Amren.”

Cassian hissed. “And if you think you’re not going to get it from me too then you’re sorely mistaken. You didn’t think we deserved to know that we weren’t just taking the Lady of the Night Court into Hybern, but the High Lady? Have you lost your fucking mind?”

A dark laugh bubbled in his chest, one that ached in his throat. Suddenly all those feelings he thought’d he’d buried, the ones left over from when Rhys went Under the Mountain… they came screaming back, every ounce of inadequacy and failure returning in a wave as he realised that once again he’d been left out of Rhys’ scheming. That the High Lord had left his General in the dark.

He knew how it looked— how it seemed. Every sensible part of him clung desperately to the knowledge that Rhys trusted him implicitly, that theirs was a bond forged of blood and sweat and tears that could not be broken idly…

And yet.

“You didn’t think we needed to know?” Cassian asked again, blunt as an axe. “That we deserved to know?”

Rhys took a breath. “It’s not about that. It was never about that.”

“We were unprepared,” Cassian snapped. “We never would have—”

Rhys drew back, as surely as if Cassian had slapped him.

Everything in the High Lord appeared to crumble. His eyes, dark before, seemed abyssal now. The tension in his shoulders evaporated, the harsh lines at his mouth and his brow vanishing as the fight seemed to leave him entirely. He looked up to the ceiling, the shadows beneath his eyes seeming darker and more prominent than before. A pang of remorse echoed through Cassian’s chest as his words died in his throat and Rhys lifted a hand, not in surrender this time, but something like supplication.

“Enough. It’s done, Cass,” he said, his tone just a touch too resigned to be considered sharp. He sighed again, maudlin. “It’s done.”

Cassian took a breath, willing the waves of his anger to subside. That twinge of remorse in his chest surged as he looked to the windows, where Rhys had been gazing so forlornly. Gods, had he been any better when it was Nesta so far away? How many times had he stared out at that same horizon, wishing miles were inches?

Nesta.

Just the thought of her had everything else fading.

“Tell me something else,” Cassian said, breaking the heavy silence, remembering what was important. “Tell me about Nesta. How was she— when she woke?”

The question lingered, and Rhys… hesitated.

The sure and certain High Lord, who had an answer for everything, hesitated. The silence that followed spoke louder than anything Rhys might have said, and as Cassian’s eyes narrowed, he gave his brother a look of warning that said he’d better come up with an answer, and a good one, fast.

“Rhys,” he said slowly, his voice sharpening. “You were there. Right? Tell me you didn’t let her wake up alone.”

Silence.

The ruby siphon on his hand began to pulse in time with his raging, racing heart, flaring as his temper spiked. His hand curled into a fist so tight his fingertips began to feel numb, and behind his ribs the bond strained so tightly it stole his breath, like a blade had pierced his lungs.

Rhys only scowled, plucking at a piece of fucking lint.

“We’ve been preparing for war,” he said flatly, lifting his chin. “And in case it escaped your notice, I’ve been down a commander and a spymaster. Mor and Amren and I have just about managed to hold this court together, so forgive me for not sitting idle by your sweetheart’s bedside while the world around us goes to shit.”

Cassian growled, a rumble in his chest so deep his entire body seemed to thrum.

“My sweetheart,” he echoed with a low, dangerous laugh. “You’re a fucking cunt sometimes, Rhys, you know that?” His brother was quiet, and Cassian felt the reins of his temper slip through his fingers as he uncurled his hands, leaning forwards as if he was only a breath away from rising from that bed and closing those hands around his brother’s fucking throat. “Never mind that you’ve clearly been sitting idle by my bedside. Never mind that she’s your mate’s sister.”

His lips curled back over his teeth, something feral and unrestrained howling inside, hammering against his chest, begging to be set loose. His siphons flickered.

“She’s so much more than my fucking sweetheart and you damn well know it,” he seethed. “Give her the respect she deserves.”

The voice that left him sounded foreign even to his own ears. It was sharp and bladed and angry— he hadn’t felt like this since that day in that village in the mountains, when he’d slaughtered so many of the men who had sneered when he’d asked where his mother was. Rhys didn’t balk in the face of that anger; his brother stood stoic and firm, letting Cassian’s rage wash over him in a wave.

Cassian took a breath, clenching his fists as he tried to find the moment where everything had gone wrong these past few weeks. It seemed like only yesterday Nesta was in his arms by the water, watching the stars fall from the sky. Only yesterday that Rhys had told him to go and get her, to bring her to Velaris for the night.

And now— somehow they had ended up here. With Rhys separated from his mate as the entire continent faced Hybern’s threat, and Nesta no doubt in more pain than she’d ever been before, no matter how fine Rhys thought she was.

He loosed a single breath, forced the thrumming in his veins to steady.

“I get it,” Cassian bit out as the waves of anger receded just enough to let him breathe again. “Feyre’s not here and you’re losing your mind. But that doesn’t mean you can be a prick to the ones of us left behind with you.” His jaw grew tight, his voice dipping low. “After all, maybe now you’ll understand how we felt all those years you were Under the Mountain.”

Rhys snapped his gaze back to Cassian’s, starless violet meeting furious hazel. His lips parted, as if ready to argue, but something Cassian had said must have resonated because he quickly looked away, back to the windows. Regret flickered in those dark eyes as he ran a fist through his hair, turning his face away.

“You’re right,” Rhys said quietly, like it pained him to admit it. A heavy sigh rattled through his chest. “I’m sorry, Cass.”

Cassian sighed too, the atmosphere shifting as he sat back. Their heated words died in the silence, anger melting and giving way to something else, the kind of acceptance and acquiescence only found in the wake of a blistering argument between those who loved one another as family.

“As soon as I can get out of this bed,” Cassian said darkly, “I’m going to hit you so fucking hard you’ll see stars for a week.”

A tentative smirk pulled at Rhys’ lips.

“Fair,” he answered with a shrug.

And with that, all of the resentment was gone— just like that. Cassian let himself fall back agains the pillows, the burning in his wings easing as they lay flat once more. Looking up at the ceiling, he felt his heart pound as his mind wandered, a different kind of guilt pulling at him, fraying his edges until he was half afraid there would be nothing of himself left by the time it was done.

I’ll find a way to keep you safe. I swear it.

Who could have guessed it would turn out to be such pointless vow, a hollow promise?

“I made her a promise,” Cassian said quietly now, his voice too close to breaking. He spoke more to himself than to Rhys, but still his brother was there to listen. “I swore to protect her and I didn’t.”

“How could you have stopped it?” Rhys asked mildly. “You were in no position to—“

“I could have done something,” Cassian interjected hotly. “I should have done something.”

Gods— the guilt would eat him alive. Would destroy him, and he couldn’t quite tell whether he wanted to run to her or hide from her forever. His entire soul, every tiny facet of his being, longed to find her— but could he bear the betrayal in her eyes, knowing he was the reason she’d been dragged into that throne room? Knowing his failings had cost her her life?

And after all hadn’t he thought, once, that he’d give anything for Nesta to be fae?

Like a fucking fool, he’d once dreamed of her living above the wall, living forever… and for his stunning hubris, his stupid fucking arrogance, the Mother had granted his wish.

He turned his head, eyes catching on the sheets beside him that still carried that lingering trace of her. She’d been sitting there— right beside him. Maybe that meant she didn’t hate him after all.

But maybe she should.

Maybe someone ought to.

He closed his eyes, feeling wave after wave of anguish swallow him whole.

“She still doesn’t know, does she?” Rhys asked gently. “About the bond?”

Cassian shook his head, hardly able to speak. He felt sick.

Rhys let out a dry laugh. “The way you snarled in that throne room… how could she not have realised?”

Cassian didn’t want to think of it, didn’t want to be taken back to that expansive stone room, thick with the scent of spilled blood. But he couldn’t help but recall Lucien and the three little words that had burst from his mouth, like he hadn’t physically been capable of keeping them inside.

You’re my mate.

Gods, the Autumn prince had made it look so fucking easy. Part of Cassian wondered now why he hadn’t just done the same weeks ago, torn off the bandage and made it quick.

Fuck.

Given how badly Nesta had reacted to Lucien’s little outburst… well, Cassian could hardly tell her now, could he? She’d made it clear with the way she’d scrambled to Elain’s side, horror written all over her face, that the last thing in the world she needed - wanted - was a mate.

He’d thought he needed to give her time. To let her adjust to the idea of a mating bond before he sprung one on her, but now…

“Gods,” Cassian groaned, “it’s all so fucked, Rhys.”

Rhys snorted his agreement. “Yeah,” he said dryly, glancing down at his hands. “Yeah, it is.”

The High Lord glanced at the sky again, the sun high in the centre. He looked back to the bed, eyes softening.

“I told Amren I’d meet with her after noon,” he said, brushing a hand down his black shirt. “I should go. There’s still work to be done, and someone needs to keep an eye on those queens. Especially in the wake of….” He waved a hand, gesturing broadly at the chaos that surrounded them. “…All this.”

Cassian started. “You can’t mean to go yourself.”

“Someone needs to, and Az is hardly up to it.”

“You’re a fool, Rhys.”

“I am capable of looking after myself, you know.”

Cassian was about to argue, but as the sun slanted across Rhys’ midnight hair, he looked at his brother— really looked, for the first time since he’d woken. Stress was carved so deeply in his face that every plane of it seemed strained, and his eyes were flat and empty, like the stars there had simply given up hope of shining. He looked like every single drop of anguish Cassian felt had scarred him too, and Cassian’s own eyes softened as he shook his head.

“I’m not going to be the one to tell Feyre when you get yourself hurt,” he said archly.

Rhys laughed, bitter. “Let’s worry about that when she’s home, shall we?”

Cassian rolled his eyes, absently lifting a hand to his chest. It was something subconscious, something innate, that had his fingers splaying across his ribs, right above where he felt that bond tying him so resolutely to Nesta. It was brighter now, more alive, like her being turned fae had amplified it. Rhys tracked the movement and blinked, nodding in understanding. His own fingers twitched, like he’d reach for Feyre if only he could.

“I’ll come back later,” he said gently, nodding to the bedside table where several small glass vials were laid out. “If the pain gets too much, take three drops from the green bottle. Six drops for sleep.”

Cassian nodded, even though he had no intention of sleeping any time soon. He’d spent three days sleeping— it was more than enough. There were more important things now than sleep, more pressing things than pain.

Rhys glanced pointedly at the bottles once more before raising an eyebrow and fixing Cassian with a knowing stare.

“You really should stay in bed for a little longer,” he said, stepping forward to clap him lightly on the shoulder. His voice was weary, but the resignation in his tone said he knew that, short of tying Cassian to the bed, there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop him.

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “And you really should have told us before making Feyre High Lady.”

Rhys rolled his eyes, drawing back. “Alright, alright,” he conceded. After a minute he loosed a long breath, shaking his head in surrender. “Swear to me you’ll be careful.”

“I’m not the one going to spy on the same queens that sold us down the river to Hybern,” Cassian pointed out flatly, a scowl settling above his brows. Rhys grimaced.

“No, but I’m not the one who almost died from blood loss.”

Cassian waved a hand, like it was nothing. Like he didn’t still remember the way his fingers had slipped in pools of his own blood, staining his skin crimson.

“I promise I’ll be careful if you will,” he offered instead, and this time Rhys rolled his eyes, resting his hand on Cassian’s shoulder once more.

“I promise,” the High Lord said, dipping his head. And then he drew back, his steps almost silent as he pulled away. He looked to the door, straightening his spine and plucking at his sleeves before adding a soft, “I’ll see you later, brother.”

It was the only farewell he offered, and even though Cassian muttered a quiet see you later in return, Rhys didn’t say anything more before sweeping from that bedroom, leaving only silence in his wake.

Cassian waited for one breath— then two, three. Just enough to ensure Rhys wasn’t about to come storming back.

And then, arduously, he began to rise.

Every nerve he possessed protested as he forced himself upright. His bones barked beneath the pressure, the bottoms of both wings burning beneath the bandages, like someone had just taken a match to them. He felt every single one of the small, intricate muscles straining as he straightened his spine, pulling so painfully that darkness gathered once more at the corners of his eyes.

But he refused to black out this time.

Cassian gritted his teeth, biting back the groan that rose to his lips.

He eyed the bottles on the side, wondering if he ought to take those three drops after all.

But he pushed— pushed and pushed and pushed, his body screaming.

With effort, he managed to swing his legs off the bed. Somehow, he made it to the door, pulled it open.

In his mind was a singular focus, a sole purpose that kept him going as he staggered down the hallway, each step a labour. He dragged one hand along the wall as he went, using it as a support. And then he was at the stairs, swallowing as pain bloomed in every part of him, as he looked at the downward spiral of steps and knew that the effort might just make him faint.

But for Nesta, Cassian knew he needed to make it down those stairs— come hell or high water.

He was sweating by the time he made it to the landing a floor below. The guest corridor stretched out before him, seemingly endless, and his heart thundered as he made his way down its length. He had guessed this was where Rhys would have housed the sisters, and even though he’d never gotten confirmation, the bond in his chest was thrumming with his every step, like it was leading him right to her. Cassian didn’t know what room Nesta was in, but that thrumming grew louder and louder until he found himself standing in front of a closed door.

Instinctively, he knew this was it.

Already he could hear her heart.

If he wasn’t already so desperate, Cassian thought he might really have collapsed then. If his body could have handled it, he thought he might have sank to his knees.

His mind went blank; his heart pounding against his ribs.

And Cassian didn’t think— didn’t knock.

Like a man starved, he pushed open that door and all but stumbled over the threshold. Instantly he was met with her scent, and with a gasp his mate turned her head, silver eyes glinting across the distance between them that suddenly seemed vast enough to wound.

But as Cassian looked upon Nesta for the first time in days…

Every single thought eddied from his head.

Every single word he knew was forgotten save one.

Nesta.

Her name. Just her name— the only thing in the world that still held meaning.

It bubbled to his lips, his strength failing him as he grasped at the doorframe and felt his knees go weak. He couldn’t pretend arrogance, couldn’t find it in him to flirt. As she lingered, still, on the other side of the room, Cassian felt himself growing brittle as, at last, he found it in him to rasp a single, aching,

“Nesta.”

Taglist: @hiimheresworld @highladyofillyria @wannawriteyouabook @infiremetotakeachonce @melphss @hereforthenessian @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @the-lost-changeling @valkyriesupremacy @that-little-red-head @sv0430

#nessian #nessian fic #begged & borrowed time

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frenchkisstheabyss · 8 months

Text

7 Psychopaths: Yeonjun

x Summary: You are X, a seasoned assassin, and your boss has just assigned you an unusual task. You have two weeks to gather six men for a top-secret mission that requires their unique brand of psychopathy. The trick is, you've got romantic history with all of them.

A detail that might make this a walk in the park or the fight of your life. Time to find out...

x Pairing: assassin!yeonjun x assassin!chubby!fem!reader

x Genre: angst/crime au/smut

x Word Count: 2.1k

x Warnings: violence, blood, knives, guns, general criminal activity, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex, strong language (naturally), a smidge of rough sex but nothing crazy, misogynists and xenophobes get their karma quite painfully

x A/N: This is #1 in a series of 6 stories featuring members of TXT/ATEEZ/Stray Kids. They all follow the same theme and can be read chronologically or you can jump around. I support the chaos.

| | Next Psychopath: Lee Know | |

This? This is bullshit.

You should be sitting first class on that bullet train to Kyoto right now, sipping tea as you watch the bustling streets of Tokyo fade into a blur of neon light. Instead, your ticket is ripped to shreds at the bottom of a gutter two countries over and you’re slumming it in the back alleys of Nowhere. With the exception of a few flickering streetlights ahead of you, it’s almost too dark to cast a shadow out here. “Too dark,” insists one of the drunken assholes trailing behind you, “For a pretty little thing like you to be out here all alone.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you count five of them. The ring leader, let’s call him Red Shirt, has enough liquid courage in him to lead the pack in announcing every filthy thing they’d do with you if you let them. You roll your eyes, pushing forward to your destination, dying to escape them and the unpleasant stench that the mugginess after tonight’s rainstorm has left lingering in the air. “She’s not listening to us,” teases Black Jacket, “Maybe she thinks she’s too good for you.”

The childhood trauma of rejection at the hands of an unloving mother flips a switch inside of Red Shirt that he’d know was there if he’d gone to therapy like his ex suggested and he’s charging towards you in seconds. Shoving your hands in the pockets of your long leather jacket, you take a deep breath, bracing yourself for a confrontation that you aren’t even kind of in the mood for. There are much bigger things to worry about tonight. Much more pressing issues than Red Shirt and his band of sexually insecure misfits.

You reach the edge of the alley, almost clear of the group, when a hand slams down on your shoulder squeezing tightly enough to leave a bruise. “I know you hear me talking to you! Do you know what we do to girls like you around here?” Red Shirt hisses, venom dripping from his words. Grasping the handles of the switchblades in your pockets, you whip around, unfolding them at the speed of light and burying them in his shoulders. The flesh squishes like raw meat on a butcher's slab. You love to hear it.

Red Shirt drops to his knees, deep burgundy blood soaking through his shirt and dripping down his shoulders. The scream of anguish he lets out is enough to split the earth in two. The other four stumble back, the shock of their leader groveling in pain for likely the first time ever enough to make them want to shit themselves. You stare down at him, your eyes cold and void of any sympathy, “You know what I do to guys like you?” Twisting the blades, one of them knicks bone, making him whine like a wounded animal.

“Do you want me to show you?” you ask, smiling warmly, “Or are you gonna gather your friends and get the fuck away from me before I make sure you never use these arms again?” There’s an attempt at speaking. A croak, drowned out by the waterfall of tears rushing down his cheeks. “What’s that? I can’t quite hear you.”

“Leave. We. Leave” he manages.

It’s not the groveling that you’re used to but it’ll have to do for now. The blades ease out of his shoulders smooth as butter. His body hits the concrete hard enough that he early splashes water---at least you hope it’s just water---on your high-heeled boots. You squat down, casually cleaning your blades on his shirt. “If it makes you feel any better” you sigh, “Red is your color.”

“Do I have to talk slower so that you understand me? I Don’t. Owe. You. Shit.”

The words of the cocky American cooking up dope in the basement of this hole in the wall laundromat echo in Yeonjun’s mind. They call him San Jose for the time he spent in California locked away in a supermax prison. You learn a lot when you’re shoved into a cage in a strange new place with people you don’t know. And, for Yeonjun, English was one of those things. This American didn’t need to speak slower. San Jose understood him the first time.

The insult was just overkill which is precisely why he feels no guilt popping coins into the max load dryer the American’s currently folded into. The window's smeared with blood from the bones that had to be broken to wedge him in there, to begin with. Messy but necessary. Beneath the stained floors, marbled with dirt, Yeonjun’s associates facilitate more bloodshed among the guards too loyal or too stupid to run before things got this bad.

“You don’t have to do this!” the American begs, suddenly confident in the lack of a language barrier, “Please! I’ll get you your money! I promise!” Yeonjun taps at the glass, watching the American squirm like a panicked fish swimming in poisoned water. “So sorry” Yeonjun apologizes, “I don’t speak English.” The press of a button sets off the buzzing noise that signals the start of a cycle.

Tiny green lights glow beside the options Yeonjun patiently selected. Cycle: Heavy. Heat: High. Door: Locked.

There’d been a point where this was all about the money. But now? If he handed it over Yeonjun would throw it into the dryer and let it burn right along with him. Hypnotized by the clanking of the American’s body as the drum makes its labored turns, Yeonjun almost doesn’t hear the front door creak open. You stop dead in your tracks when you’re greeted by the barrel of a 45 ACP pistol. I said he almost didn’t hear the door. Just almost.

You throw your hands up, more as a peace offering than a sign of surrender. “You aren’t gonna shoot me are you, Yeon---” “You don’t get to call me that anymore, X” he snaps, raking his fingers through his platinum blonde hair, “You’ve got 10 seconds to turn around before I pull this trigger.” “Yeon---” He turns to you, his left eye twitching, and cocks the pistol. “San Jose” you say in an alluring tone, taking baby steps toward him, “I just wanna talk. Five minutes. That’s it. Can you give me that?”

Yeonjun can hardly look at you but he can’t bring himself to turn away. Why are the flowers most likely to kill you always the prettiest to look at? He groans, his rage softened by the sight of your face after almost a year apart, “Five minutes.”

Bent over the wooden desk in the manager’s office, you dig your heels into the floor, desperate to keep your trembling legs from giving out. You could say that you’d forgotten what it was like to have Yeonjun’s tongue performing acrobatics inside of your tight pussy but that would be a lie. There’s simply no way to forget how talented this man is with his tongue. Your memory though, pales in comparison to the real thing, and experiencing it for the first time in a long time has juices dripping down your lush thighs.

From his position behind you, the second time you’ve had a man on his knees tonight, Yeonjun’s fingers press into the softness of your ass. It looks glorious beneath the teal overhead lighting. Flawless in every way. Just like everything else about you. The taste of you is addictive. Sweet enough to rot his teeth. He squeezes your ass harder, raising you up to create the perfect angle for him to swipe his tongue between the slickness of your folds. His tongue brushes over your clit, making you moan in ways he can’t help but grin at.

“Why me?” he asks between sloppy, eager laps at your slit, “What does your boss want me for?” Nails tapping on the desk, nearly scratching the cheap plywood, you arch your back at the tugging in your lower belly. “She has plans. Something big and I don’t---aah---question her. I just---fuck.” Your body collapses, a spark traveling through your veins like liquid fire. “I just know she wants you back with us.” Yeonjun rises to his feet, pushing your dress up further to reveal the small of your back. He kisses it with the gentle lips of a man born to be a lover and bred to be a killer.

“But do you want me back?” he asks in a rare moment of vulnerability. You groan, rolling over onto your back, hands covering your face. Spending time with him, talking to him, loving him, the entire experience of being with him had been one of the only things that made waking up in the morning worth it in a life like this. None of it was ever just about the sex, as amazing as it is. It was always about him. Do you want him back? Of course, you do.

The head of his cock nudges at your slit, smearing your juices through the delicate petals of your pussy. Yeonjun runs his hands along your curves, indulging himself in the nostalgia of nights like this. “Do you?” Taking him by the collar of his shirt, you drag him on top of you, kissing him passionately as you lower yourself onto him until every inch is buried within you. “I do” you whisper, the sincerity in your eyes swearing to him that you aren’t lying. You wouldn’t. You can’t.

The feeling of being wanted by you again, knowing that you’ve wanted him all this time, is a high unlike anything else. Your legs wrap around his waist, keeping him flush against you as he dips in and out of you. The ridges of your walls when you clench around him. The blood pumping through those gorgeous veins that travel up his shaft. It’s almost too much. You kiss his forehead, stroking the back of his neck, unsure if that thumping is your heart or the body in the dryer just beyond the door. “I missed you so much” he moans into your chest, licking beads of sweat from between your cleavage.

“Fuck me harder then. Prove it.” You pose a challenge that he takes on without hesitation. Pinning your arms over your head, one hand keeping your wrists locked together, he thrusts into you with a force that carries a certain finesse civilian men painfully lack. He doesn’t miss a single sweet spot, making every tiny movement count. Every sensation pushes you closer to the edge of oblivion---and the desk. You don’t even have to speak for Yeonjun to know you’re about to cum. Your body tells him. It always has.

That thumping? It was your heart after all, and it’s at maximum volume in your ears as you come undone beneath him. The death grip that your walls have on him, your moisture coating him, leaking out to make a mess of his pants, has him coming right along with you. The warmth in your belly as he fills you up has you silently begging him not to stop, your brain still too lost in ecstasy to formulate more than a few incoherent whimpers. If he had it in him never would but you’re milking him so well, draining him of everything, that all he can do is stumble backwards before you take his soul too.

“Fuck” he pants, his body propped up against the wall behind him, “You’re the devil.” Pushing yourself up, you use what little balance you have to get your clothes back together. You wink at him, throwing your coat back on, “But you love me.” Locking eyes with him, you help him fix his pants, teasing the rim of his tip before tucking it away, “I’ll see you in Berlin then?” “Wouldn��t miss it for the world” he answers, lips hovering dangerously close to yours. You kiss him once more and his arms come around you, desperate to keep you here forever.

A cutesy ringtone blares as your phone vibrates in your pocket. You know by the sound of it that it’s your boss. “Answer it” he insists, kissing you one last time before turning you loose. With the phone in your hand, anticipating an interrogation from your boss, you march out of the manager’s office, ignoring the half conscious man with salami for skin hanging out of the dryer. “You be a good boy now, San Jose!” you shout behind you.

Yeonjun follows you out of the office, shoving the body back into the dryer without taking his eyes off of you, “You can call me Yeonjun again!” You can only laugh to yourself, disappearing back out into the night. You like that name better anyway.

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