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theragethatisdesire · 10 months

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scary dog privilege - best friend!eren x reader one-shot, 18+!!

hellooooo i have had this in my wips for like two entire months and i am giddy and ready to share it. this hopefully will just be a one-shot, but you guys know i love to create a universe for each of my erens so god only knows where we'll end up with this one. best friend eren appears to be my angstiest, broodiest one yet, and i love him lol. wanted to make some use of classic fanfic tropes, so here we get best friend eren and fake dating!! woohoo!!

beware: this is absolute, pure filth once you get into it lol

pairing: eren jaeger x afab reader

wc: 9.1k

DISCLAIMER: this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. if you are a minor, please do not read below the cut.

CWs: smut, consensual hook-up, rough sex, biting, dirty talk, oral sex (fem!receiving), alcohol use, cussing, squirting, penetrative vaginal sex, swearing, use of names (baby, pretty baby, my girl), crying, multiple orgasms, eren being a menace per usual, jean's an asshole (i'm so sorry you guys know i love him but it had to happen)

have fun ;)

This is a terrible idea, and it had been from the start. You know it and so does he, but you had insisted. Now that you’ve made your bed, you have to lay in it, you suppose. You press your forehead to the cold, tinted window of Eren’s ridiculous muscle car, ignoring the vibrations from the rock music he’s blaring and the consistent fluttering in your stomach, and think back to your conversation earlier that week.

“Come on, Eren. It’s just one night!”

“And what about after? When you run into Sasha at the coffee place or Armin after work? Did we just suddenly ‘break up’?” Eren scoffs, pushing past you to grab a Red Bull out of the fridge. You collapse into one of the barstools in his kitchen, having prepared yourself to accept defeat from the moment you posed the question.

“I just can’t face him alone,” you sigh, “it’s only been four months and Sasha told me he’s hooked up with not one, not two, but three girls already. I haven’t even had a drunken makeout at the bar.”

“So? Just because Jean’s been whoring around doesn’t mean you have anything to prove.” Eren's tone is thoroughly unimpressed as he pops the tab to his energy drink.

“You’re my best friend. I just need one tiny favor.”

“Who would even believe us? It’s not like it’s a huge party- we know everyone going.”

You cock an eyebrow. “How many times have Annie and Mikasa tried to con us into a double date? Connie’s been teasing us for years, not to mention the waiter at lunch the other day–”

“Fine!”

“Fine?”

“Fine. I’ll be your date for one night. But all of the explaining is up to you. And,” Eren takes a sip, leveling a glare at you over the top of the can, “I’m going on the record as saying that this is a bad idea.”

He may be reckless, arrogant, and a bit of a brat, but if Eren Jaeger is one thing consistently, he was right. You chance a glance at your “date”. He’s in his typical uniform: black hoodie, black jeans, the little silver chain he never takes off, key swinging over his chest as he turns the car. He looks good, appealing even. If Jean dares to show up with a girl, she won’t consider you to have downgraded, that’s for sure.

You consider your own outfit, an anxious fist tightening in your stomach at the thought of seeing Jean for the first time as an ex. He would have hated it. Your nothing-to-the-imagination outfit is all thanks to Sasha.

You had clued Sasha in on the plan; you hoped having one more agent in on your secret would help sell the act. Sasha had gone all out, lending you an incredibly low-cut black top and some black leather pants that would have caused at least a twenty-minute argument with Jean. Had he not dumped you, you remind yourself bitterly. Sasha had insisted you borrow her all-black outfit to match Eren’s typical attire “just to be cute”. In hindsight, her enthusiasm about this whole situation should have been a red flag, but you’ve already gotten everything lined up, and it’s too late for regret.

It’s far too late for hindsight, too; you’re already ten minutes into receiving the official girlfriend treatment from Eren. He had worn you down on picking you up, opening the car door, the works. Hell, you wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled out a bouquet of roses at this point. You can hear his obnoxious tone now: Even if you’re my fake girlfriend, you’re getting the full package. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.

Eren parallel parks smoothly on Armin’s quiet street, unusually busy with the buzz of a house party and lined with your friends’ cars. It’s Connie’s birthday, but Armin always hosts. It’s an unspoken rule at this point; you aren’t sure why he keeps volunteering, especially after Sasha had projectile vomited all over his bathroom at the last get-together, but again, dig your own grave and lie in it. You and Armin are in the same boat there.

When the car switches off, Eren takes a moment to consider you, wrapping and unwrapping his long fingers around the steering wheel, a nervous tic he’s had since high school. “You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” you sigh, reaching for the door handle. Before you can wrap your hand around it, Eren leans over and pinches you harshly on the thigh. “Ow!”

“I open the door, remember?” Eren says, visibly annoyed.

You roll your eyes at him.“Isn’t this a bit much?”

“You think I’m going to be caught dead letting my ‘girlfriend’ open her own door? I have a reputation to uphold.”

You decide to bite back a snippy comment about the many girls who cried over Eren in college and cross your arms over your chest, pouting instead. “Fine.”

If Eren can be dramatic, so can you.

As naturally as if he had done it a hundred times, Eren slings his arm over your shoulders on the walk up towards the door; the weight of it, both physically and mentally, is heavier than you’re willing to acknowledge. When you catch sight of Bertholdt, Reiner, and Annie peering through the window, a flutter of nerves erupts your stomach; you reach a hand up to play with Eren’s fingers, absentmindedly spinning one of his rings and trying to sell the look as best you can. “We better pull this off.”

“It’ll be fine, just follow my lead.” Eren pulls you closer, kissing your hairline. Goosebumps rise all over your body; not at the action itself, but how disturbingly easy the affection seems to come to him. As Eren knocks on Armin’s bright red door, you pack that thought away and shove it to the back of your mind to collect dust.

“Hi…guys?” Armin’s friendly smile upon opening the door falters in confusion as he takes you in, absorbing the sight of you two intertwined on his doorstep. Armin’s wide, blue eyes flick between the two of you, and you can see the gears churning in his head, trying to make sense of how awfully close you and Eren are. Pitting your fake relationship against Armin’s intellect is the perfect first test; a nervous sweat breaks out under your skimpy outfit.

“Sup, ‘min?” Eren smiles back, the very picture of nonchalance, extending his free hand to shake Armin’s shoulder.

“Come on in.” Armin, ever polite, turns to allow for plenty of room for Eren to pull you inside. He doesn’t outright ask why Eren’s holding you, but his eyes betray his suspicions. It seems like your plan, as terrible as it is, is working. One down, a dozen or so to go.

Never dropping his arm from around your shoulders, Eren steers you into the living room where one of Connie’s favorite bands is already blasting from the speakers. Annie and Mikasa are curled up together in Armin’s recliner, hands interlocked as usual; Sasha and Connie are positioned at Armin’s bar cart, violently shaking two cocktail shakers apiece; Reiner, Bertholdt, Marco, and Jean are on the couch, arguing over something sports-related. With a sinking stomach, you notice that there’s only one unoccupied seat left in the room.

“My two favorite lovebirds!” Sasha cries, abandoning her cocktail shakers and rushing over to give you a hug. Upon Sasha’s impact, Eren drops his arm and grabs your hand that’s closest to him as a substitute, never taking his hands off of you. His actions are pointed, purposeful; every pair of eyes in the room looks between the two of you in surprise. You can practically feel a hazel-tinted laser beam burning a hole into your forehead. “You guys are so late; honeymoon phase gotcha already?”

“Laying it on a little thick, Sash,” you whisper into Sasha’s ear, cheeks burning. To your chagrin, Eren only curls his mouth in response.

“What?” Connie frowns, still shaking his drinks. “How long has that been a thing?”

You pause, your heart nearly stopping. You should have made up a story, you realize, something to explain–

“Just a few weeks.” The still-strange weight of Eren’s arm around your shoulder returns, and his jade eyes rest on you, adoration beaming through his always-cool gaze. Against your will, butterflies start dancing in your stomach; apparently Eren’s quite the actor.

“Yeah,” you jump in, grateful for Eren’s lead, “we just wanted to feel it out before we told everyone, that’s all.”

“Sasha knew.” Mikasa raises a suspicious eyebrow. Annie smirks at the two of you, a knowing look on her face.

“It’s about time.” Marco appears from the kitchen with a huge bowl of tortilla chips in one hand and salsa in the other. “Good for you guys.”

You can’t help yourself, finally meeting Jean’s eyes. He’s openly scowling at you, which is to be expected; where Eren is a criminally smooth liar, Jean wears his heart on his sleeve. You recognize that face all too well: anger to mask heartbreak, the same face he wore when you used to fight. For the first time, it occurs to you how cruel this plan might be, how Jean might react to you moving on with a mutual friend. Guilt washes over you, cold and heavy.

“Thanks for giving me a heads-up before you moved in on my fucking girlfriend, Jaeger,” Jean snips, taking a long swallow of his beer.

The guilt drops away from you as quickly as your jaw; you’ve forgotten what a prick Jean can be. Eren has been slowly guiding you over to the singular remaining seat throughout the conversation, and after Jean’s comment, he tugs you down firmly onto his lap. He rubs a large palm over your thigh, a blatant gesture of ownership.

“Not your girlfriend anymore, Kirschstein.” You can hear the distinct note of pride ringing through his voice, hear the nasty look leveled at Jean without turning to face him. It’s been fifteen minutes of fake dating, car ride included, and you can already feel the friendship line blurring. Your head spins.

“Anyway,” Armin, ever the gracious host, interrupts, breaking the awkward tension that has settled over the room, “what bar does everyone want to head out to later? Connie gets the first pick, being the birthday boy.”

The conversation in the room picks back up into a familial bickering over the evening’s next destination. All of your friends have become accustomed to the occasional awkward moment over the years now that some of you have begun to couple up; Mikasa and Annie especially are notorious for bickering like an old married couple, no matter who’s around.

“I need a drink,” you murmur to Eren, moving to stand.

“Do you mind getting me one, babe? Don’t want to lose our seat.” Eren pecks you on the cheek, smiling up at you as if everything about your situation right now is normal, natural for him. Jean’s eyes follow you every step of the way, and your face burns.

Over the years you’ve been friends with him, it’s never been lost on you that Eren’s attractive, not after the dozens of women he ran through in his college years. Peeking over your shoulder now, however, feels like you’re seeing him for the first time, seeing him the way the world sees him. Heavy-set dark brows frame his bright eyes beautifully, his jaw’s grown sharp and severe, and his lips are soft and pouty, stretching into a wicked smirk with sharp canines. He had grown into a heartbreaker, and he’s your best friend and now fake boyfriend– you swat away your private admiration as soon as it comes, taking a deep breath to center yourself and rifling through the bar cart in a daze.

“Want me to make you one?” Sasha waves a bright red concoction under your nose. “Connie and I made them- it has three different types of liquor in it, and you can’t taste any of it!”

One sip of the tiny cocktail straw has your nose wrinkling in disgust. You’ve worked behind a bar since the day you turned twenty-one, and the drink Sasha’s offering you tastes like an overly-syruped nightmare. “Um…no, that’s okay Sash. I’ll probably just stick to beer.”

Connie sticks his tongue out at you. “Boring!”

Predictably, Sasha pouts. “Okay, but we’re definitely making you take a shot. We can chill it in the kitchen, want to help me get some ice?”

Holding up a bottle of tequila, she cocks her head toward the kitchen and wobbles her eyebrows madly. You almost laugh; anyone who can’t pick up on a hint from Sasha is walking around with earplugs and their eyes closed.

“Fine. Let me just grab Eren a beer, and I’ll meet you in there.”

“Ugh, couples,” Connie rolls his eyes, wandering over to fiddle with the dusty karaoke machine that Armin claims broke years ago. You’ve always been dubious as to the truth of that, but knowing your friends, you can’t blame him.

Opening the cooler, you smile to yourself; Armin remembered your favorite IPA from the brewery down the road and stocked the cooler accordingly, nestling a few Hazy Daze’s between Reiner and Bertholdt’s domestics. You pick your way through the haphazard seating arrangements back over to Eren, holding a cold Budweiser bottle towards him. He pauses in his conversation with Reiner, grabbing your hand that holds the beer and removing it from your hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips, brushing them over in a light kiss. He looks you up and down lecherously as he does it, a dangerous curve to his lips.

You return a weak half-smile, doing your best to not appear outwardly shaken by Eren’s behavior and keep the what the fuck? thoughts from showing plainly on your face. Eren waves you off to the kitchen with a light pat on your bottom, innocent as ever.

“How’s it going?” Sasha asks, safe now in the privacy of the kitchen. Her face is already full-flush with excitement and that awful cocktail she was sipping.

“I mean, it seems like everyone’s buying it. Jean looks pissed, though.”

“What were you expecting? He’s always thought Eren had a thing for you.”

“Everyone thinks Eren has a thing for me,” you roll your eyes, “at least it’s working in my favor now.”

Sasha fixes you with a glare, wobbling slightly. “If you don’t think Eren actually has a thing for you, you must be blind. Deaf, too.”

“Sasha–”

“I mean, even if you hadn’t told me, I would have fallen for it. Is it not, like, weird for you guys? That it’s just natural for you two to–” Sasha burps, interrupting herself, and giggles. “Just makes ya think.”

“Sasha!” Connie calls from the living room. “Let’s do Eye of the Tiger first!”

“Woo!” Sasha shouts, abandoning you and running into the room to take part in the newly-revived karaoke festivities.

You stand alone in the kitchen, shell-shocked by Sasha’s observations. The truly irritating thing is that she’s entirely right. Not only do Eren’s little kisses here and there, the constant touching, even the pet names come naturally, it almost feels…nice. It’s as easy for you to receive his affection as it is for him to give it. You peek around the corner, grimacing at Sasha and Connie’s amplified wailing, just wanting to look at him. Really look at him.

Kicked back, beer in hand and jacket thrown over the back of his chair, Eren oozes charisma. Even doing nothing but holding a conversation with Mikasa, the room gravitates around him. Jean’s angry glare never leaves him; Armin has switched to drinking Budweiser, even though you know he hates it; Annie’s nodding along with whatever Eren’s saying; even Sasha and Connie are angling their performance around him, alternating between singing together and holding their microphones towards him, trying to elicit a reaction. He has this undeniable magnetic force, one that you aren’t exempt from.

You’d met him nearly a decade ago, in high school, and initially couldn’t stand him. His hair-trigger temper had hardly cooled with age, and his ego had gotten unthinkably larger, but you grew to find both of them charming– to a degree. One thing led to another, and before you knew it, Eren was the one cleaning you up and getting you drunk after every bad breakup, introducing you to all of your favorite sports teams and lending you jerseys for the games; hell, he even read that smutty fairy fantasy series you’d been obsessed with in college. Had the man you attempted Star Wars marathons with until you both fell asleep really looked like that the entire time?

He catches your stare, beckoning you over with one long, crooked finger. As his girlfriend for the night, you have to obey, even though you would much rather roll your eyes at the cliche.

“Missed you,” he mumbles as you sit back on his lap, breath hot against the shell of your ear.

“You too,” you respond accordingly, wrapping your arm lovingly around his shoulder. Eren’s eyes flit down to your cleavage, but knowing him, it’s impossible to discern if it’s part of the act, or Eren being himself.

His hands rest comfortably over the casing of your pants, one on your thigh and one on the small of your back, one thumb rubbing circles into your soft flesh. Reveling in the drag of his rings over your clothed body, you couldn’t help but wonder how they’d feel on your bare skin, on your throat, on your–

Surprising yourself at the dirty direction of your thoughts, you swallow your beer too quickly, coughing. Eren, who had coincidentally been taking a sip at the same time, laughs at you mid-sip, choking beside you and spraying beer out of his nose.

The entire room bursts into laughter; Eren regains his composure and joins in good-naturedly. You giggle along, relief coursing over your body. Sure, Eren might look a little extra handsome tonight and be a bit touchy because you asked him to, but he’s still Eren.

“They’re practically in sync already.” Hitch, Marco’s girlfriend who had apparently joined the party while Sasha and you were in the kitchen, rests her face on her hand dreamily.

“It’s a little freaky,” Annie observes with narrowed eyes, but the slight curve of her lip betrays her. Not only were they believing your little farce, but they were happy for you. That’s enough to make you flush a little, realizing how naturally everyone’s just accepted your fake relationship. Everyone but one person, at least.

Jean suddenly stands, ripping a beer from the cooler and storming into the kitchen. The laughter dies as quickly as it had come, everyone exchanging nervous looks.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Eren offers, nudging you off of his lap. You blanch.

“Eren, I don’t know if you should-”

“It’s fine,” Eren drops a soft peck on your forehead, walking away before you can stop him. You meet Mikasa’s eyes, wide and concerned. To everyone else, Eren’s walking calmly, not a hint of aggression in his gait. But you know him, know him well enough to catch the anger simmering in his eyes, quiet, but there.

Jean and Eren have always been friends, albeit reluctant ones at first, but too similar where it counted not to get along. That had abruptly come to a halt when you had fallen for Jean. At first Eren had been confused, but over time that confusion had melted into constant irritation. Jean and you were wrong for one another, you know that in hindsight, but at the time, you had chalked all the fighting up to a passionate relationship. The constant tears had driven Eren nearly to a breaking point; multiple times you had begged him not to bring his frustration to physical blows. And now, your fake-boyfriend slash best friend and ex-boyfriend with the two worst tempers out of everyone you know are “talking”. You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep the worry in your chest.

“Are you alright?” The question comes from Armin, who’s placed a steadying hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry that Jean isn’t taking the news well.”

“There’s no news,” Mikasa says low enough for none of the others to hear over the music, now standing directly behind Armin.

A neat little cross appears between Armin’s eyebrows. “They’re-”

“Faking,” she interrupts Armin, “they aren’t dating.”

Armin stammers, trying to correct her and apologize to you for her at the same time, but you just sigh. “How’d you know?”

“One of you would have told me,” she shrugs, “or at least I’d like to think you would.”

“It’s just…I couldn’t bear to show up alone, not with Jean here and apparently sleeping around since the breakup.” You cross your arms over your chest, grabbing your own shoulders tightly. It’s your fault, you know it is, but you had only wanted to feel a little less pathetic, a little less heartbroken. Drama had been an unfortunate and unexpected side effect.

“Why would Eren agree to that? It seems silly,” Armin muses, noticing your glare and immediately turning bright red, “I- I don’t mean you’re silly, just, you shouldn’t-”

“You know.” Mikasa bumps him. The slightest hint of a smile plays on her face, a knowing look directed at you. You frown, trying to look confused through the pink rising to your face.

A loud crash from the kitchen catches all of your attention, saving you from an uncomfortable line of conversation but making your heart beat that much faster. Dashing to the kitchen door, the entire house party hot on your heels, your thundering heart sinks.

Eren has Jean pinned up against Armin’s cabinets, forearm tight against the other man’s neck. Jean’s still seething at Eren, raw ego washing against the cool anger blazing in Eren’s eyes.

“Need to learn how to watch your fucking mouth, Kirschstein–”

“Eren!” Your voice is surprisingly firm, given the nauseating mixture of embarrassment, confusion, and panic swirling in your stomach. “Let him go!”

“Do you want to tell her what you said, or should I?” Eren hisses, nudging into Jean further. Jean’s eyes dart to you, back to Eren, and for a fleeting moment, you have hope that maybe this all can be resolved peacefully. And then Jean makes a fatal mistake.

He spits directly in Eren’s face.

Just as Eren swings, Reiner collides with the two, just barely catching Eren by his forearm before he can make contact with Jean’s cheek. Bertholdt, as always, is Reiner’s shadow, grabbing Eren by the shoulders and wrenching him away from Jean. It takes Connie, Reiner, Marco, and Bertholdt to restrain both of them, Armin standing in the middle and shouting how ridiculous the fight is above the curses.

“It’s my fucking birthday, Jean, come on bro!” Connie growls, pinning Jean to the cabinets with his back.

“Jaeger- back off!” Reiner manages to pull him back a few inches, hardly able to contain Eren, who’s struggling furiously, in his massive arms. Jean finally relents, slouching into the multiple arms holding him back. After several seconds, Eren does the same, never taking his eyes off of Jean. Into the shocked silence, Armin bravely speaks first.

“Maybe we should leave,” he suggests awkwardly, “take the party elsewhere.”

You pity him, poor Armin and his hosting inclination. Eren finally turns to face you. The wrath laid bare in his eyes sends a chill over your body.

“We are,” he spits, sparing Jean one last threatening glance before storming over, grabbing you harshly by the wrist, and practically dragging you towards the door.

“Eren, wait–” you try to reason with him and dig your heels in, but it’s fruitless. Eren’s strong, stronger than you, and you don’t stand a chance stopping him now that his mind’s made up.

He doesn’t drop the act at the car, ripping your car door open, waiting impatiently for you to step into your seat, and slamming the door behind you. As soon as he turns the ignition, the same angry rock music you had listened to on the way over blasts from the speakers; Eren makes no move to turn it down and neither do you. After so many years together, his temper rarely scares you anymore; it’s more of a nuisance than anything when it flares. You stare out of the window, seething with anger, arms crossed and foot tapping.

Five minutes into the drive, you realize Eren isn’t taking you to your house, but to his. What he’s thinking, you can’t be sure, but you go ahead and start making your plans to give him an earful and call your Uber the moment you get there. You just can’t wrap your mind around why he would attack Jean and embarrass you like that– Eren may have been a hothead, but rarely did he let his temper escalate to that degree, especially against a friend.

Eren whips his car into the driveway, parking with such force you nearly knock your head against the headrest. You reach for your door handle, ready to throw it open, but Eren’s faster. He hits the child lock button and slams his own door behind him, storming around the car.

“The fucking child lock button?” You leap out of your seat once he’s opened your door, glaring up at him with your fists curled by your sides. “Is that what I am, Eren, a child?”

“Come inside.” Eren’s voice is low, dangerous. You’re too angry to indulge his temper.

“No,” you snap, “I’m going home.”

No sooner have you pulled your phone out to call an Uber than Eren snatches it from you, sliding it into his pocket. He repeats himself, more forceful this time. “Come inside.”

You stand rooted to the spot for a beat, so angry you aren’t sure what you want to do more: run home, punch him, or kick his precious car headlight in. Eren simply glares down his strong nose at you, face unreadable as ever, rage still glittering in his eyes.

“Come inside, please,” Eren repeats himself again through gritted teeth. You decide you’ll indulge him and go inside, hear him out, and then punch him. At least it’ll catch him off guard, and you’ll have a better chance of getting your shot in. Without another word, you stomp up the walkway to his house, into the house, and into the kitchen, shoving your shoes off. Stupid fucking kitchens, you think to yourself, kicking your bare foot against the base of his kitchen island. Immature, but the little burst of violence feels good.

Whether Eren’s house smells like him or Eren smells like his house you’ve never been able to decide. The distinct scent of him envelops you: a boyish, sharp smell, laced with a hint of the weed he kept in the living room. Ordinarily it’s a comforting smell, but tonight, it nearly makes you sick with irritation. Fighting with Eren is something you do rarely, but you know the both of you well enough to buckle down. Arguing with Eren means you have a long, nasty, and emotionally gutting night ahead of you. You’re more than ready, fists shaking by your side.

“What the hell was that, Eren?”

He doesn’t answer, swinging the fridge open and grabbing a beer. He twists the top, tossing it aside carelessly and taking a healthy swig, bun bouncing on the back of his head, making no move to acknowledge your presence.

“Answer me!” Your voice rattles the cabinets. “Yeah, was the fake dating a stupid idea? Sure, fine, it was stupid, but starting a fucking fight with Jean on poor Connie’s birthday–”

“You didn’t hear what he said,” Eren says simply, still chugging his beer and avoiding your gaze.

“What could he have said to make you do that? What was so awful that you had to–”

“It was about you.” Eren finally brings his eyes to yours, staring you down through the little hairs that have escaped his bun with such intensity that it nearly knocks you clean on your ass.

Your heart stutters. “You– what did he say?”

“Told me if I wanted to taste your ‘slutty pussy’ so bad, I could just smell his breath. S’why he spit in my face.” Eren’s fingers wrap and unwrap around the beer bottle anxiously.

Your mouth drops agape, tears immediately springing to your eyes. No, you set your resolve, praying your body cooperates. “He…he said that?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d been fucking him?” Eren spares you another scalding look. Your temper flares at his anger, one fire against another.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Eren snaps, “this whole thing was your idea. What am I to you, just some toy you can dangle in front of your pussyboy ex boyfriend? How long have you been fucking him?”

“I haven’t been fucking him,” you hiss, “he lied because he was jealous. And you’re not some toy, you’re– you’re my best friend. I needed you.”

Eren freezes, eyeing you across the kitchen. His expression has changed, infinitesimally so, a pinch of the fury fading from his face but none of the heat. It strikes you that in the years you’ve known him, he’s never looked at you like this before, not once. “Say it again.”

“You’re my–”

“The other thing.”

“I needed you.”

“Again.”

“I needed– fuck, Eren, what is this? Some kind of game?”

He stalks toward you, silhouetted by the light behind him and looking sinful, closing you in. He’s forceful and shameless as he backs you into the counter, as quintessentially Eren as he can be. “Say it one more time.”

“I…needed you,” you indulge him, brain slowing down to pick up each little detail. His cologne– when did he start wearing cologne?– musky and thick in the air, one of his tattoos peeking above the collar of his shirt, the tangible sensation of emerald eyes dragging along every inch of you.

“I like the way you say that,” his tongue darts out, wetting his lips. You stare blatantly. His mouth is red, pouty, and full, bottom lip a little chapped from where he was chewing it in the car. “That you need me.”

Words are lost on you; even if you could gather something to say, it would probably get stuck in your throat the moment it materialized. His presence is choking you. He brings one of those massive hands up, cupping your jaw, running a thumb over your lip. His posture, looming over you, is demanding, almost hungry.

“Do you still?”

“Still?”

“Need me.”

You blink, eyes still watery. “How?”

“You’re a smart girl,” Eren murmurs, hot breath laced with beer fanning over your face, “you know. You’ve always known.”

You do know. When he ghosted a hand over your thighs at the bar, when you fell asleep on his chest watching a movie, the way he had kissed your head, nearly fought Jean, protected you at every twist and turn. You had kept it relegated to the recesses of your brain, slid a hand between your legs and allowed it to simmer to the surface, maybe for a moment, before pushing it back down. You had always known. He has you on the edge of a cliff, and with a thin gasp, you understand him now: he wants you to jump. And so do you.

“I still need you. Now.”

Something critical snaps in both of you. The countertop digs into your lower back, a beautiful, aching pain blooming up your spine to meet the sting of his teeth sinking into your bottom lip. He’s kissing you; this magnetic, maddening man is kissing you, hard. It’s all tongue and teeth, fingers wrapping in hair, hands exploring familiar places in a new way. Greedy, demanding sounds slip through his teeth as he paws at your clothes, squeezes your curves through the silken shirt Sasha had lent you.

“This shirt is ridiculous,” Eren pants into your mouth, “wish I wasn’t about to rip it off of you.”

A little whimper leaves your mouth at that, and your knees buckle. Eren catches you, grabbing you by your torso and lifting you up onto the kitchen counter; you use the extra height to wrap your legs around his hips. A groan from deep in Eren’s chest rumbles against your lips as he rolls his clothed cock insistently against you. The low, simmering heat in your stomach catches fire; he’s big, even through both of your pants, rubbing himself into where you need him most. A hand creeps up your neck, grabbing a fistful of hair and forcing you to look up at him. It hits you how large he is; six feet and some change of taut, corded muscle, bad intentions, temptation.

His voice is quiet and controlled, so close to your face that his nose moves against yours as he speaks. “I’m going to take you to my room. If that’s not okay with you, I need you to say it right now.”

You nod urgently, relishing the burn in your scalp where he holds your hair tight. “I want it- want you.”

Eren slides you off of the kitchen counter and holds you firmly around his waist, making a beeline for his room. You mouth at his neck, enjoying the little grunts he makes against your ear. You drop unceremoniously onto the bed, left to watch as he tears off his shirt.

Oh, and do you watch. It’s difficult to comprehend that your best friend is the man standing above you. You’ve seen him shirtless countless times, but not like this: chest heaving, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, muscles flexing as he reaches for your shirt, ripping it from you and tossing it away. Your eyes draw towards the defined v leading down beneath his jeans, and you wonder how it might taste under your tongue.

Your bra comes next, Eren moving down to take your lips in his again as he deals with the clasp. He pushes you onto your back, kissing down your neck, sneaking harsh bites in between the gentle presses of his lips.

“Careful, Eren– you’ll leave marks,” you gasp, pulling at his hair.

“Good,” Eren replies against your neck, emphasizing his point with another deep bite to your neck, “you wanted everyone to think I was your little boyfriend, didn’t you? Let them see.”

Your panties grow damp and hot against your core at that; you have no other response than to choke out a stunted moan.

“Fuck, you have no idea,” he growls, traveling down, teeth scraping the top of your breast, “what you do to me. How long I’ve wanted you.”

Your mind falters, caught in the crosswires of Eren’s confession and the way you’re clutching his head to your breasts, fingers desperately threaded in his dark hair and pulling him as close as you could get him. His mouth is so hot it burns, even against your feverish skin.

“Remember…” Eren muses, mouthing his way down your stomach, “remember college? When you’d wear those slutty little dresses out?”

“I remember,” you breathe, impatient and urging him towards your lower half.

“Used to come home from the bar and jerk myself off, thinking about this sweet little cunt,” Eren tears your pants down your legs, panties following, “could practically see it in those short ass dresses. I’d cum thinking about how you’d sound when I stuck my tongue in it.”

A lewd whine rips out of your throat before you can stop it. Eren’s pressing your thighs open now, and his words and the quick little swipes he’s making across your clit are making you dizzy.

“Fuck…” Eren trails off, eyes wide, “got such a pretty pussy. Just look at you.”

“Eren, please,” you’ve never been the begging type, but the bright green eyes peering up at you from where your legs are propped open by broad, strong shoulders take your sense away.

“I’ve got you,” he shushes you, grinning as he leans into your center. A thick stripe of a lick up the center elicits a groan from you both. “So fucking sweet. Knew you would be.”

Eren hooks his arms around your legs, dragging you down the bed to be flush with his face. Eren’s no amateur when it comes to women, you know that, but you had never dared to let yourself imagine what that might translate to in practice.

He licks little figure-eights around your clit, not quite hitting it; he’s teasing you, the antagonist that he is. You tremble under him, little gasps and whimpers puffing out of your lips. Eren smiles contentedly against your pussy, nose flush with your clit, nudging against it rhythmically as he licks through your folds, circling your entrance. You bring your hands down your body, grabbing a fistful of dark hair and pulling him closer to you; you don’t even know what you want, the singular word more ringing in your head like a church bell.

Eren chuckles. “You need something?”

“Stop fucking with me,” you breathe, inwardly cringing at the desperation in your voice, laid bare for him to see. You brace yourself, looking down to meet his eyes, and instantly regret it. The anger has faded entirely from his face, replaced by an unyielding hunger. A wet, wicked smile plays at his mouth; you can physically feel your cunt dripping just at the sight of him.

“You want me to stop fucking with you?”

“Please, Eren, I need you–”

“That’s all you had to say.”

And then, like he does with everything else in his life, Eren licks into you like his life depends on it, like he’s trying to drown himself in you. His tongue pushes in and out of your hole, swirling around your clit, and you can distantly hear the most obscene sounds you’ve ever heard slipping from your mouth. He’s so good, better than you’ve had in years; you throw your head back against the bedspread, hardly able to focus on breathing.

Just when you think it can’t get any more intense, Eren slides one long finger inside of you, curling it against a spongy spot in your walls that makes you see stars. He chuckles at the loud, long moan that you let out.

“My girl likes being full, doesn’t she?” He pumps his finger slowly, testing your limits. Your walls clutch down on him, begging.

“M-more,” you stutter, barely able to form a coherent word through your panting.

“What was that?” You can hear the shit-eating grin on his face.

“I need– fuck– I need more.”

“Magic word?”

“Please, Eren, fuck!”

“Good, good girl,” he coos, pushing another finger into you, “so sweet and needy for me, yeah?”

Your eyes fly open at the stretch, the fullness of his fingers moving inside you. His other hand comes up to push on your lower stomach; your head snaps up, and you frown at him, panicked.

“W-what are you– oh,” you hate yourself for it, but you can’t even speak as he applies pressure onto your abdomen. You feel strange; it’s just right and too much all at once. The familiar bubble of an impending orgasm swells in the pit of your stomach, but it’s more intense, wetter than you’ve ever felt it.

“Close?”

“Mhm,” you force out through gritted teeth. Eren moves his elbow slightly, just enough to bear down on your hip bone where you’re pushing your hips up towards him unwittingly. “But it- it feels weird…I, I can’t–”

“Sh,” he murmurs, mouth back against your clit, “you can do it, just for me, I know you can. It’s going to feel so good, you’ll see.”

Your eyes roll back in your head as you teeter on the precipice, blood roaring in your ears. You want to, you need to–

“Cum all over my fucking face baby, give it to me.”

The band in you snaps, your eyes rolling back into your head. You can feel your cunt spasming around his fingers, pushing something out. Liquid sprays from you, all over Eren’s face, soaking the sheets beneath you. You can’t even hear the lewd sounds coming out of your mouth, too surprised at the gushing orgasm. It finally winds down, and once you gather the energy, you shove insistently at his hand still pumping in and out of your sensitive pussy.

“You have the messiest little cunt,” Eren chuckles at you, wiping his face and kissing his way back up to your gasping mouth, “knew you were a squirter.”

He lands a few gentle taps against your sore pussy, and you flinch.

“I–I’ve never…” you take a shaky breath in between every word, “never done that before.”

Pride illuminates his face. “Really? I knew you could do it– just for me, right?”

You nod, sitting up on trembling elbows. “Your cock, I– I want it in my mouth. Please let me.”

You reach down to fumble with the button of his jeans, but Eren grabs your wrist, pulling your hand up to kiss it gently. “Next time. I’d never forgive myself if I busted before I got to fuck you.”

Too overwhelmed to answer, you simply nod again, sitting back as he shimmies his pants off. Once you catch sight of it, your mouth waters. He’s big, bigger than you thought, wide enough to where your fingers wouldn’t touch if you grabbed it, and long enough to make you gag. The thought goes straight between your legs, cunt still throbbing and clutching around nothing, and a rush of anticipation washes over you.

Eren flips you over onto your stomach, shoving a couple of pillows underneath your hips to prop your ass up. “Christ,” he exhales, landing a sharp smack to your ass.

“Please, Eren- oh!” You jump; Eren’s circling your asshole, using the mess you’ve already made as lube to pop the tip of his thumb in. “Eren…”

“You’d let me fuck you there, one day, I bet,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, you think. Your body tenses in response, the memory of your first glance at his cock fresh in your mind. Eren swears under his breath. “Maybe next time, then.”

You hear him spit, hear the slick sounds of him lathering himself up. You have a brief moment to think to yourself, with the last glimmering shreds of consciousness in your orgasm-dazed mind, that this is Eren. This is your best friend, pinning you to the bed by the back of your neck, rubbing your lower back, admiring you, fucking you. And then the head of his cock is pressing into you, and that last little bit of hesitation gives way.

“Oh, baby,” Eren bends over you to growl in your ear, “never gonna forgive you for keeping this perfect pussy from me all these years.”

“Eren, it’s so– oh my god,” you trail off, eyes rolling back into your head as a few more inches of him sink into you. The way your body stretches for him, the way he fills you, is unbelievable, sweetened by just the slightest burning sensation.

“Fuck,” he hisses, pressing his forehead into the back of your neck, “you feel so fucking good. Best I’ve ever had.”

You whine at that, pushing your hips back into his and forcing him to bottom out. Eren swears against your skin, nearly collapsing on top of you. Your cunt pulses around him, desperately trying to hold him. You can hardly fathom the weight of him inside you; you’re just so full, the word runs through your mind on a loop.

And when he rolls his hips into yours– you nearly start praying. He drags against your walls so nicely, you nearly cum again then and there. He works up a torturously slow rhythm, grinding his hips into yours. You bite down hard on your bottom lip, trying your hardest to suppress the obscene groan about to leave your mouth. You taste blood.

“Never giving this pussy up,” Eren grunts above you, “never letting you give this to anybody else again. It’s mine, isn’t it?”

You nod into the pillow beneath your head, tears pricking at your eyes. He’s picking up the pace now, and the exquisite push-and-pull rhythm of Eren moving inside of you coupled with the fact that it’s Eren moving inside of you is destroying any semblance of intelligent conversation you can muster.

“Say it’s mine,” his face is beside yours now. A hand grabs your hair, turning your face towards him. You know how dazed you must look, mouth open in a permanent gasp, eyes watery and full of hearts. “God, you look fucking incredible. Say it.”

“My…my pussy is,” you swallow hard around the delicious knot of shame in your throat, “yours. It’s yours.”

“That’s my girl,” Eren sits back up, thrusting even faster, “my pussy, my girl. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” you pant, canting your hips back against his, feeling your next orgasm approach embarrassingly fast. Eren understands, already knows your body as well as he knows you, and moves the angle of his hips just so to hit that spot he had found so quickly with his fingers earlier. You keen, drooling into the pillow, letting him fuck you stupid.

Eren shoves you over the edge for the second time that night. It’s toe curling, almost violent in nature, the way you cum around him, listening to him hiss as you tighten around him, vice-like. He fucks you through your orgasm for just long enough to see you through it, and flips you onto your back the moment you begin to twitch and shove at his hips, desperate for a break.

You slowly blink your eyes open in surprise, letting the tears roll down your cheeks, expecting to see Eren lining himself up, ready to fuck you senseless once more. Instead, he’s studying you, wiping a tear from your face, licking it off of his finger. There’s a moment happening here, an important one, one you don’t have the mental capacity to absorb right now.

“I want to see you now,” Eren says quietly, “need to see your pretty face when I cum, m’kay?”

You nod dumbly, not knowing how to respond to him in the thick air hanging between you. Before Eren can get any more words out of his open mouth, a loud ring startles you both.

Your phone is buzzing on the floor where it fell from Eren’s pocket; the name on the screen nearly stops your heart. Jean.

You stare into Eren’s eyes, a long, silent beat passes between you both. Your hazy mind is scrambling, grasping at anything you can say to take his mind off of the awkward interruption, but to your surprise, Eren cracks a grin. It’s a wicked grin, prettier than the devil himself and twice as evil.

“Your other boyfriend calling? Checking up on you?”

“He’s not my-”

“Better not be. Not after what I did to you tonight,” Eren’s voice drips with ego. Something in his eyes is territorial, carnal.

You find your words, but they come out quiet. “He’s not. Never again.”

Eren’s grin grows darker. He’s nudging your knees apart with his own, reaching down and pulling one of your legs to wrap around his waist. He’s pushing himself in now, the ringing of your phone fading into the background as the all-encompassing stretch of Eren inside you takes over your thoughts.

“Such a good girl,” he coos, thumbing at your bottom lip, “such a good mouth. Always telling me what I want to hear.”

You nod again, urgently this time, pulling your other leg up to hook them around his waist, hold him inside you, make sure he never leaves again. You’re addicted already; addicted to the pressure in your abdomen, addicted to the way his tip kisses your cervix, addicted to the taste of his sweat as you lick a strip of it from his face, cheekbone to temple.

“I…” you aren’t sure how to articulate how good it is, how good he is. A defeated laugh of your own making interrupts you. “You feel so fucking good. I feel so fucking good right now.”

“God, just look at you, all fucked out for me. You love it, don’t you?” Eren kisses your forehead, face to face with you after propping his elbows on either side of your face. “Love how I fuck you like a whore, don’t you? Tell me, baby.”

“I love it,” your voice is quivering, and you’re vaguely aware of tears streaming down your face. You’re overstimulated, you at least know that, but he just feels so good that asking him to stop seems more painful than letting him keep hammering into you.

“My pretty baby, you’re so fucking perfect,” Eren rambles, “so pretty when you cry for me.”

You can’t break away from his gaze, not through the tears or the rapid-fire speed of him fucking into you. Your legs are shaking so badly you can barely hold them up; Eren’s letting a flurry of little grunts and groans fly out, grabbing onto your cheek with one hand.

“Gonna cum soon,” he huffs, hips still pistoning into you hard enough to hurt, “gonna cum in your pussy, really make it mine, okay?”

“Okay,” you whimper, clamping down on him at the mere thought of it.

“Fuck, you like that don’t you?” He seethes against your forehead, thrusts beginning to falter. “You want to be mine? Want this pretty cunt stuffed full of my cum?”

You can feel him getting closer now, sloppy thrusts punching into your cervix, the ache of bruises forming on your inner thighs as he uses you, chasing his orgasm. You force your eyes open, meeting bright, hypnotizing green. Your voice is going to break, you know it, you hate it, you love him for it. “I– I want to be yours. P-please cum in me Eren, I need it.”

He slams into you one last time, holding his hips as tightly to yours as he can manage, cumming deep inside you with a breathless curse. You arch your back, relishing the feel of his cum in you, warm and filling. Even in your fucked-out mind, you know it’s a lot; you can feel the drip of it, seeping out around his cock and down onto the sheets. The leaden collapse of his body into yours, the gradual softening of him inside you, grounds you, pulling you down from the clouds and back into the bed.

It’s Eren on top of you, sweaty skin clinging to yours, his cum that you begged him for leaking out of your abused pussy. Your eyes shoot open. He’s incredibly heavy, your breath still coming out in short puffs as you try to catch it. He slides out of you; one last pitiful whimper leaving your lips as you find yourself empty.

“Holy shit,” Eren breathes out into the tension, a humorless and exhausted laugh punctuating his statement. As he rolls off of you, you’re overcome with the urge to smack him.

“That’s one way of putting it.” You scrounge around in the bed, trying to find the edge of the sheets to cover yourself with. Eren lays beside you, arm tossed over his eyes, as if the entire axis of your friendship hadn’t just flipped on its head. After a beat, you speak your mind, testing the waters. “I should probably call Jean back.”

That catches his attention. Eren sits up, scowling at you. “Why?”

“Maybe he wants to apologize.”

Eren snorts, rolling off of the bed and pulling you up with him, bridal-style; you aren’t sure where he’s taking you, but all the fight’s been fucked out of you, and you melt into his arms, eyes falling closed. “Who fucking cares?”

“I might,” you answer quietly, adjusting to the heat radiating off of his body. When your eyes open, you realize he’s carrying you to the bathroom to clean you up. Your heart thuds sadly in your chest, overcome with so many emotions you couldn’t begin to name them if you tried. You almost want to cry again, for a different reason now.

Eren sits you on the toilet, not responding to your small confession. He drops to his knees before you, reaches a long arm behind him over to the fixtures on his obscenely large bathtub, pushing the plug in and turning the water on. You draw your knees up to your chest, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed. Satisfied with the water temperature, Eren turns back to you, one hand placed firmly on each of your kneecaps.

“You don’t need him,” he says, solemn as you’ve ever seen him, “and from what I saw tonight, you don’t even want him. You know that now, right?”

There’s something about the way he says it, a hidden thread of pleading woven into his words. Your exhausted brain holds onto that, but your heart refuses to believe in it, broken and beating wildly in your chest.

“I just–”

“I meant it, you know,” Eren avoids your direct gaze, eyes flitting over every feature on your face, “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. Meant every word of it.”

You pause, wondering absentmindedly if he can hear the pounding of your pulse. “Really?”

“We don’t need to get into it now,” he shrugs, “but you know that. You know I’d do anything for you. You know I’d treat you well. ‘M not a bad guy.”

Your chest aches. “I know, but Eren–”

“So that wasn’t the best sex you’ve ever had in your life?” He fixes you with a singular, raised eyebrow, so serious that you giggle in his face.

“You might have me there.”

“Better than horseface?”

“Watch it.”

The light returns to his eyes; it loosens a hard little piece in your chest, flooding you with warmth. It hits you just how much you love that little sparkle amongst the green, just how much you would give to see it as often as you can. “We won’t talk about it, for now at least. I’ll get us cleaned up, and we can go watch–”

“Mamma Mia,” you blurt, hopeful.

“No fucking shot. But we can watch something else of your choosing, if you let me eat you out again.”

“Eren!” You smack his shoulder, scandalized. Both of you laugh; your fake outrage is twice as funny considering the state of you right now, smeared makeup and bruises on your neck.

He grins crookedly back at you. “That’s not a no.”

#aot x reader #eren x reader #eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #eren jaeger smut #eren x you #eren yaeger x you #eren yeager smut #aot fanfiction #eren jaeger fic #eren jaeger fanfiction

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mrs-lockley · 4 months

Text

Once Upon a December

Pairing: Hades & Persephone AU, Miguel O’Hara x WOC!Reader (no use of Y/N) Word Count: 4.5k Warnings: Arranged marriage, implied age gap (reader is a couple centuries old and of age), mention of death and a child death/funeral (no actual death graphically described or specified), dark imagery of the Underworld, use and mentions of Greek mythology, conflicted feelings, magical realism, no time period specified Summary: In the early decades of your marriage to the god of the Underworld, you resented him for abruptly ending your maidenhood. As the decades go by, you learn that there is more to the man who rules the dead than you realize. One day, your husband takes you to Tartarus, the depths of the Underworld, to suggest a proposition.

Author's Note: Hi my little doves, I'm semi-back with a new fic! To be honest, this fic has been in my draft for 3 years (date of origin: 12/30/2020) with First Order!Poe originally, but I thought Miguel suited Hades much better. I have a few fics in my wips and it's honestly like Russian Roulette because i did not expect to complete a Miguel fic before a Jake fic, lol. Special thanks to @soft-girl-musings and @v4mpires0ap for supporting me in completing this and giving me feedback! This fic was also deeply inspired by this comic illustrated by @katadesmoi, another take on the Hades & Persephone myth. If you like to listen to music while reading, I highly suggest listening to this Once Upon a December playlist on Youtube. Happy reading! Likes are appreciated, but reblogs make my heart go warm 🤍

Tagging: @soft-girl-musings @v4mpires0ap @venting402 @musing-magpie @writefightandflightclub but only if you would like to read it!

You have seen this place before. The place where the stars fall to the earth, where the roots meet the soil, where the ocean meets the shore.

Where the dead meet the living, where the living meet the dead.

Your reflection mirrors you in the sky as you look up to the clouds with the whispering images of Earth shining down on you. On Earth, the clouds weep at the loss of the sun, but other clouds have gone soft with crystals catching the last kiss of sunlight before nightfall. Other places show the yellow sun shining over glistening forests and beaches, and some a starlight projection over snowfall.

A snowflake flutters from the sky, and you stretch your palm to watch it melt on your skin.

“It’s beautiful,” you whisper.

Underneath the moonlight, the trace of a smile tugs at your husband’s lips. He moves to stand beside you and the two of you gaze at the glassy sky above.

Miguel keeps his distance, a shadow’s length between the two of you.

For a brief moment, a sparkling ember is reflected in those brown eyes, only to quickly disappear within a blink and a slight shake of his head.

Your husband was not malevolent, nor was he benevolent. Miguel was a man whose moral conviction strongly aligned with the laws of nature, life, and death. He takes no sides, but only stands in the middle, seeing nothing but carnage to his right and hearing the wailing of tears to his left.

You met him once before your arranged marriage. You and your mother were at a banquet one evening, your first banquet after the war when he caught your eye. Standing at the side of the hall with a glass of red wine in his hands, everyone fell into a hushed whisper. It was rare to see the god of the dead at a gathering like this, especially since the collapse of a universe.

As your mother mingled with one of her sisters, your curious eyes drifted into his orbit. It was as if the darkness of the Underworld followed him into the light, but you were entranced by the shadows that caressed the contours of his face. Centuries of carnage and war clouded his eyes a deep brown, but in the dim candlelight, you could see that in spite of witnessing the heaviness of humanity, there were traces of his youth in smile.

A pair of older women passed you, whispering quietly about him.

The wine looks too much like blood in his hands, one of them remarked with disdain.

But not to you.

It was difficult to not notice him with his imposing height and stature. Even as he stood to the side and in the shadows of the banquet hall, the wine in his hands reminded you of the deep crimson of a pomegranate, waiting for you to cut it open so you could taste its juices.

Smoothing your hair, you quickly averted your gaze and distracted yourself by listening to your mother discuss the upcoming spring harvest. You smiled at your aunt as she pitched in, acknowledging how the winter rain would help water the crops and contribute to a bountiful spring for the mortal universe.

But as the conversation continued, your skin prickled. It was as if something was burning you, a small flame lit on your skin and was rapidly growing into a thunderous wildfire that consumed everything in its wake.

You tried to ignore the sensation as you listened to your mother and your aunt's plan for the harvest, but the longer you ignored it, the hotter the fire burned your skin. It was as if you were thrown into a wildfire with the smoke filling your lungs, traveling to your throat, and threatening to spill from your mouth. Their voices began to fade into the distance as the roar of your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

Unable to ignore the feeling any longer, you began to look around to find the cause of your discomfort.

Your innocent eyes met his, and you could barely breathe.

His brown eyes darkened into what you would believe to be the darkness of the Underworld. It was as if he was pulling you into its depths– not seducing you into temptation– but revealing all of your secrets into the light.

All you could feel was the blood rushing to your face as he looked at you. You could not read the expression on his face as his eyes drank you in, but you could not tear yourself away. You were caught in his snare.

But as your eyes met, you saw something else. As he was reading you, you were reading him, trying to translate the pages of a book that was presented to you in an ancient language you discovered for the first time. The introduction was breathtaking, but the first chapter was consuming and inviting.

His eyes only left yours when you saw your father call and approach him. As he looked away, you too turned your eyes back to your mother and her sister. You could not hear what your father and Miguel were discussing behind you and your mother’s back, but you would soon learn that the god of the dead was blessed by your father for your hand in marriage.

There was no warning. One day, you were laying under the sun in the springfields with flowers in your hair, singing a love song from days of old. The next day, you were escorted to the world below you, climbing your way through its webs to become queen of the dark kingdom to your betrothed.

“I know you have assumptions about me.” Miguel’s voice is quiet as he speaks, barely above a whisper in the snowfall. “I cannot change them or how you feel, nor do I intend on changing your mind, but …”

His words trail off, his voice fading into the distant sound of the winter winds howling in the cavern.

Looking back up at the dome above you, you catch his reflection. A shadow crosses his stern face, its fingers stretching across his tan skin. In the dim moonlight, you could almost catch streaks of silver in his dark waves. The centuries have taken a toll on him, and while you were a couple hundred years younger than him, you, too, felt the heaviness in your chest.

“I’ve heard stories,” you tell him quietly.

His eyes remain on the sky above with an unreadable expression. The only sound between you is the silent snowfall and the white clouds that puff around your lips with each breath you take.

“Do you believe them?”

His question catches you by surprise. Your eyes widen, your breath stuttering in your throat as you think about how to answer him.

Your husband turns to you then, a stormy look on his face as he looks at you.

You remembered the stories and cautionary tales your mother told you about him. While you were tending the rose garden one day, your mother shared with you the stories she heard from the other gods after attending a banquet.

He was the reason one of the universes collapsed. He meddled into the mortal realm when he should have stayed where he belonged- in the depths and shadows of the dead.

He chased a young boy to the edges of the Underworld, all because the poor boy wanted to save his father from dying. Imagine how cruel a man could be to stop a boy from saving his father.

That man shows no mercy or remorse for the dearly departed. He only sits on his throne as he listens to their tears of sadness and cries of anguish. He would not even show mercy to a mortal man who ventured into the Underworld to bring his lover back to life– instead, granting an impossible task that doomed the poor man from the start.

Decades ago, you might have believed the whispers of the gods, goddesses, and other celestial beings as they spoke about him behind his back. For the first few decades of your marriage, you resented him for taking you away from your mother and the mortal realm. He stole you away from the sun with just a simple blessing from your father, and he had not even spoken a single word to you before making you his bride and queen.

What he did not know was that once, you ran away.

As Miguel was in the heart of the Underworld, you briefly escaped its darkness. It was winter in the land of the living, and somehow, you managed to sneak past the hounds, the souls, and the suspecting ferryman who stood at the crossroads between realms.

(Whether he knew your plan of escape or not, he did not say. The ferryman merely watched with unknowing eyes as you slipped past him.)

Your lungs ached as you climbed your way out from underground. Soil crusted beneath your fingernails, your skin covered in earth when the light of the winter sun nearly burned your eyes upon your ascent.

You did not know how long you wandered, but you walked until the soles of your feet burned crimson. The skies darkened into icy shades of gray and white before weeping for the loss of the sun and your fingertips mirrored the color of your feet.

Day turned to night, and before long, you stumbled upon an evening wake.

Outside the church, the deceased’s family mingled in the winter night. Their eyes burned with tears as their voices trembled with each word spoken. Loved ones gathered around them to offer their condolences while the children sat outside on the steps, playing with makeshift paper dolls and animals to pass the time.

You wondered if anyone saw you, but the thought of someone recognizing you never crossed your mind. While your mother advised you to stay out of mortal affairs, there was something pulling you towards the coffin, urging you to stay.

It did not take long for your heart to break.

Tears pricked your eyes as you gazed at the little girl laying inside the wooden box. You remembered her youthful spirit and jovial smile as she would sit under your favorite tree, weaving flower crowns and sharing fruit with some of the wildlife that dwelled in the forest. The nymphs and dryads spoke fondly of her whenever she visited the lake, and a few times, you remembered picking up the blooming flowers that she left behind as an offering.

Overcome with grief, you placed your hand over hers, whispering words of assurance and comfort to her. Her skin was cold to touch, but you did not shy away as you left behind a small white lily in her embrace.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, you immediately stepped aside. You assumed the man who approached the coffin to be her father as you watched him place the coins over her eyes, whispering to his daughter in their native tongue with tears streaming down his cheeks.

Your heart ached for the girl and her family as you watched them gather around her coffin. No one noticed you while you walked away, following the fallen petals of dried flowers to guide you back to the world below.

It was as if nothing changed since your brief departure. The ferryman merely watched you with apathetic eyes when you returned, his boat filled with souls as he carried them over the Styx.

You did not meet with Miguel that day, but as you wandered the Isles of the Blessed, you heard a familiar voice ring in the air.

Not wanting to be seen or scolded for wandering off, you quickly hid behind a tree. Peeking from behind the trunk, your heart warmed to see that same little girl playing in the field with a man holding her hand.

Miguel.

You watched as he knelt down to her height, a gentle look on his face as he held her hands. You could not hear what they were saying, but from the smile on her face, you knew that he was nothing but kind and gentle with her as she adjusted to her new life in Elysium.

“What is your name, little one?”

“Gabriella.”

“Gabriella,” your husband repeated as he brushed her hair out of her eyes. His fingers paused over the lily tucked behind her ear. “This is a beautiful flower you have in your hair.”

She smiled as she removed it from her ear and offered it to him.

“I had it with me when the ferryman took me here. I don’t remember how I got it, but he told me to keep it.”

You held your breath as Miguel held the lily in his hand. It was not unusual for flowers to spring wherever you went, and you wondered if he knew that you snuck into the mortal realm under his watch.

To your surprise, he smiled at her as he tucked the lily back in her hair.

“He was right. You should keep it.”

You have not seen Gabriella since that day, but you never forgot her. Whenever you walked near the Isles of the Blessed, you could hear her laugh in the wind with the river twinkling in the shape of her smile.

His question hangs frozen mid-air as the snow crystallizes around you.

Did you believe the horrid tales, after what you have seen?

His eyes search yours as the two of you stand under the shadow of the earth, its roots tangling around you.

Of all the myths and legends you heard about Miguel, it would be easy to sway you into believing he was an apathetic man who ruled the land of the dead. He stole you away from spring, but in the decades that followed since your marriage, you realized that not once did he ever try to hold you back. There were countless times you snuck away into the mortal realm, and every time he could have held you back or ordered the hounds to follow you. Yet, he never did.

Perhaps you have judged him too harshly before learning about the man beneath the mask. While a part of you still resented him for the marriage, you could not bring yourself to truly hate him.

“I would have,” you answer him quietly, “once upon a December.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle slightly, amusement briefly flickering across his eyes as the ghost of a smile tickles his lips.

In the mirror above, snow continues to fall like kisses from the earth. Its kisses leave droplets on your skin, but as you turn to your husband, you could count the snowflakes like stars in the night sky as they melt into his dark hair and brown skin.

It was one of those rare moments where there was nothing and no one else in the world but the two of you. While Miguel was known to mortals under a different name and had a duty to follow in his realm, he gave you freedom to roam his world as you pleased without fear. You were his queen, and he treated you as such in his own quiet way.

While he kept you at arm’s length, you were no fool.

“Why did you bring me here?”

The cavern almost seemed to engulf him as the moonlight shined upon him. Whispers of snow glistened in his hair, and the perpetual scowl on his lips appeared to soften the longer he gazed at the sky.

He pauses, calculating his words.

“Long before the mortals named me, I stumbled upon this place by chance. It is safe to presume that the deepest depths of the Underworld to be a frightening place of terror and grief, but it is more than what the legends say.”

Miguel takes a step forward until he is directly underneath the center of the mirror. Behind him, the outlines of a tree stretched its branches around him with its root tangling your shadow with his.

The wind continues to howl like a wounded wolf in the dead of night. While the mortals would call this place Tartarus, it was not what you imagined.

A deep ache settles in your chest, its roots ensnaring the heart in your ribs as the winter breeze fills your lungs with sharp knives of ice.

“Only once in a blue moon could I walk into the world above, but here … it is the only way I could see the mortal realm without leaving mine behind.”

His eyes seem to mist in the moonlight, and your heart softens. The fortress of the castle he built around him begins to crumble, and for the first time, you see the lone king that resides within the darkness of its walls.

The longing of the sun, the yearning for something warm, for someone to hold.

As you look up at the mirror, you remember a time when you wandered the meadow in your youth and stumbled upon a stream where the carrion birds often flocked to. The nymphs, dryads, and your overbearing mother advised you to never venture near the river, but your youthful curiosity overcame you against their best wishes.

The birds followed your movements as you stepped towards the river. Dark clouds gathered in the sky above with thunder rumbling in the distance, but you remained steadfast. White peace lilies and roses bloomed underneath your feet as you fell to your knees to peer into the murky waters beneath.

Darkness swirled around your reflection as you gazed at the water below. The longer you looked, the more confused you were as you tried to decipher what lurked underneath the surface. What could cause the dryads and nymphs to urge you to stay away from this place? What worried your mother that you found a secret beneath?

You never told them about the river, nor did you ever return since that day, but as you look up at the familiar mirror above you, you wonder if the forbidden river drifted into the Styx. Perhaps the carrion birds were the ones who guarded the river in the mortal realm.

Perhaps as you wondered and peered into the dark waters, another face watched you from below.

His voice pulls you out of your thoughts, urging you to look at him.

“I know a part of you must resent me for taking you away from your mother — and I do not blame you for it — but this…” He gestures to the mirror above, a soft expression relaxing the curves of his face, “is the only way we could see into the mortal universe. If I could bring a piece of the mortal world to you, it is the least I can do.”

Snow continues to fall with the winter winds howling around the two of you, causing a small flurry of snow to surround your two bodies. Frost begins to crystallize at your feet, indicating the official arrival of winter in the world above.

Your husband illuminates in the moonlight, a serene glow casted across his frame as he keeps his gaze on the sky. The corners of his lips curve into a lazy smile, and you could not help but think back to all the legends and myths you were taught about him, and the river that your mother warned you to stay away from.

If this was the face that watched you from below, how could you despise him for bringing a piece of your world back to you, especially when he was not welcome in the light?

“It is the winter solstice in the mortal world,” you tell him softly. The sky darkens above you, but you do not feel the cold as much anymore, not with the snowdrops beginning to surface from the frost. “The shortest day and the longest night of the year.”

You wonder what flowers would bloom in the spheres of the universe, what sky and stars the mortals see as they bask in the moonlight. While your marriage to the god of the Underworld dictated the seasons above, you lived long enough to know that the worlds above adjusted to your absence or presence in their own ways.

The first winter you spent in the Underworld, you were inconsolable. While Miguel tried to comfort you, you were distraught, crying tears of anguish into your pillow as the darkness surrounded you. For the first time, no flowers bloomed where you stepped or where you lay. Instead, only roseless thorns and weeds gathered where you walked, and in the world above, it was the worst harvest the mortals have seen in decades.

While your parents argued with your husband about the conditions and length of your stay, you blocked out their voices. The only sounds you heard were your cracks splintering through your heart as you mourned the warmth of the sun and the endless blue sky. As much as Miguel tried to coax you out of your chambers and into the dark gardens of his kingdom, you planted your roots into the ground, refusing to be anywhere near him.

Only for the winter, your father proposed. Your mother wept by his side, but your husband nodded in agreement, sealing your fate as swiftly as the seasons changed.

It took some time, but throughout the first few years of your marriage, you began to be civil with Miguel. Much like him, you kept him at arm’s length, watching him and trying to understand what kind of king he was to his subjects in the world below. While you heard the whispering lore and legends of him in your ears, you soon learned that he was not everything that the people believed him to be.

A cloud storms in his brown irises as he looks over at you, his brow slightly furrowed. “If I may ask, are you happy here?”

A bitter laugh threatens to spill from your lips, but you quickly bite your tongue.

It has been decades since you were taken to rule the world below. While you may not have lived long enough to control your godly emotions, you still felt an aching pain and loss as you grieved leaving your home.

“I did not have a choice in becoming your bride,” you answer, your voice laden with sadness and despair. “What say do I have as your wife?”

You were a younger goddess who lived only a couple centuries, but you had yet to learn the complexities of the universe. You still needed to experience the worlds around you, both above and below, but your maidenhood was cut short by the man your father arranged to be your husband.

Even with the decades behind you, time had yet to fully heal the part of your heart that grieved for your maidenhood. You were conflicted in your grief and loss when Miguel had been cordial and respectful, in his own sentimental way. A part of you may resent him, but you still did not completely understand the feelings you held towards him.

His brown eyes soften at your words, his lips slightly parted as white cotton clouds flutter in the air from his breath.

“You are not a prisoner here,” he assures you gently, approaching you as if you were a skittish deer in the woods. “I am truly sorry for the pain I brought upon you.”

You look up at him slowly, seeing nothing but remorse in his gaze. You wonder if he would ask for your forgiveness, but it was too late for that. It has been half a century since your marriage, and the world already recorded the event in the stars and the sky.

Miguel was a man of many things, but you know in his eyes, he is lawful. With the living and the dead, he merely rules over the departed to balance the universes. He only follows the rules of nature, but in godly matters, he follows the customs and traditions. A marriage only needs a father’s blessing for his daughter to be wedded without the husband needing to court or ask the bride. He broke no laws, but he did not fully understand the depths of your grief.

His voice is gentle as the winds quiet around him.

“I know it will take time for you to fully accept me as your husband, but I am a patient man. All I ask and plead is for you to give me a chance.”

The winter winds pull the air out of your lungs as Miguel turns with his hand outstretched towards you.

As you grieved the sudden end of your maidenhood, you reflect on everything you have seen. The gods and goddesses may indulge in heresy and scandals whenever they pleased, but from what you learned from their whispers, some of their stories did not reflect what you have seen.

The god of the dead was not cruel, nor was he kind. He often deals in absolutes and ultimatums, with the universes remaining in balance as he ruled over his domain.

Even so, you remember Gabriella’s smile as he held her hand in Elysium. A child taken too soon, but found comfort in the man who guided her to the Isles of the Blessed.

Perhaps he was kinder than you believed.

Snow gathers in his palm as he holds his hand towards you. It would be easier for you to turn away and loathe him for the rest of your days, but something stirs in your heart.

Darkness may have taken its hold over the mortal realm, but it has not fully consumed yours.

Your fate is already written in the stars, your marriage bound in a godly affair. While you are still a younger goddess in a single web of the universe, perhaps it would do you no harm to trim the thorns that protected you and allow a rose to bloom.

Slowly, you take his hand, his skin oddly warm against yours.

Your husband smiles gently at you and raises your hand to his lips.

“I promise to love and care for you,” he whispers, “as long as you are by my side.”

Snowdrops and hydrangeas begin to bloom from the frost that dusted the ground beneath you, tangling with the roots of the tree as you walk beside him, allowing him to guide you away from the moonlight and towards the river from where you came.

A comfortable silence falls upon you as Miguel rows the boat along the Styx, the water calm and quiet on the journey away from the darkness. The winter winds begin to fade into a distant echo, and as much as you wish to turn back to gaze at the world above one more time, you keep your eyes forward.

The winter solstice may have begun in the mortal realm, but the spring solstice has begun to blossom in the world below.

And in the depths of the Underworld, the tree that holds the mirror above sprouts a single crimson fruit, a small pomegranate in the start of spring.

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara x fem!reader #miguel ohara x fem!reader #miguel o'hara x woc!reader #spiderman 2099 x reader #spiderman-2099 x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel ohara x you #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel ohara imagine #spiderman 2099 imagine

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inafieldofdaisies · 10 days

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Will you raise me gold? I raise you sapphire Will you raise me heaven? Ha, I raise you hell You give me sunset I give you a fucking eclipse

#this feels like such a highwaymen song <3 #wip: after the collapse #far cry new dawn #fcnd #chinchilla #music recommendation #currently listening to #favorite songs #song lyrics #Spotify

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bellaxisworld · 3 months

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february 10, @jegulus-microfic word prompt: violin. word count: 625.

Regulus had learned, from a very young age, to be modest and shy, to never gloat, to bring as little attention to himself as possible, to hide in the shadows, to disappear, and to avoid disrupting. He learned that his opinions were worthless, and that it was better if he was quiet, obedient. An emotionless, robot statue that could only say yes, papa or yes, maman. He learned that this was the quickest way to appease his parents when they were prone to violence against a six year old.

Be quiet. Don’t draw attention. Go unnoticed.

This was how he stayed safe.

And, now—standing and sweating in front of an entirely full theater audience, gripping his violin like a lifeline, he was desperate to revert to the safety of his childhood philosophy.

Be quiet. Don’t draw attention. Go unnoticed.

Unfortunately, he’d invested far too much into this concert to turn back now. Regulus allowed himself a millisecond to panic, and in this fraction of a second, he thought of the sun.

Or, more accurately, he thought of his sun: James Potter.

James spent months convincing Regulus that yes, baby, this concert is a wonderful idea. Regulus, darling, you’re so talented, you have to share your music with the world. Sweetheart, everyone will love you. Reg, you’ll make people happy, and more importantly, you’ll make you happy. James Potter was the brightest star Regulus could have ever dreamed of catching. He was witty, and kind and gentle, and he had the biggest heart. He was enthusiastic, and lovely, and he was Regulus’ greatest weakness. Regulus would have collapsed into an anxious puddle forever after his first panic-breakdown over the concert—if it weren’t for James. Playing the violin was Regulus’ second favorite thing in the world(just a smidge behind James), and it made him happy, and he was good at playing. He knew he would sell out theaters and it would grant him quite a bit of attention.

And that was the issue.

Regulus had spent years and years training himself to disappear. Now, he was granted the opportunity to be somebody, to do something, and Regulus didn't know how to choose something for himself for once.

But, he did. He chose himself, and he chose his passion, and now, he was panicking in front of a full audience, which could have ended in disaster—if not for James.

James sat in the front row, blinding smile bright and relaxed as he looked at Regulus. He had unwavering faith in him. James radiated warmth, and love, and pride. He was so proud of Regulus. So Regulus looked at him, eyes shining as he gathered his courage, and he smiled down at James. James’ smile softened—because he always understood. He nodded at Regulus, an encouraging motion, and mouthed, You got this.

Regulus was most thankful for James because James always reminded him that he needed to put himself first sometimes(it was an equal exchange—Regulus constantly reminded James to be a little selfish).

Regulus nodded and took some strength from James, his pride and his courage, his unconditional faith in Regulus, and breathed.

He picked up his violin, hands steady, and he played, loud and unashamed and beautiful. He played for himself, and he played for James, and he played for everyone who still believed it was better to disappear. He played with his whole heart, and he was magnificent.

He received a standing ovation, and the first thing he did following his bow was run right into James’ arms, smiling so hard it hurt. James was so proud of him, and showered him with love, but most importantly—Regulus was proud of himself, and he promised to never again dim his own light to make others more comfortable.

also found on ao3(multi-chapter microfic WIP): february, i'm yours.

#jegulus #jegulus microfic #jegulus au #james potter #regulus black #starchaser #sunseeker #marauders #the marauders #marauders era #marauders harry potter #hp marauders #ao3 #fanfiction #marauders fanfic #marauders fanfiction #bellaxis microfic #bella writes

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imagine-knowing-a-name · 3 months

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In the Background - Chapter 4.5

Summary: You’ve been dating Natasha in secret since her early days in SHIELD, and you’ve been in the background of all her missions since.

Word Count: 5047

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Warnings: canon events (violence/death), occassional swearing.

A/N: I'll be focusing on a couple of other WIPs now this is done but then it's back to work on Chapter 5; feel free to send comments/questions about the series and I'll answer any I can 😌

Series Masterlist

Previous Part

—:::——::-————>◇<—————::——:::—

If only the Avengers didn't cause so much destruction, your life would be so much easier. You'd been staring at the screen for hours now, tracing leads, conducting damage assessments, and handling the repair efforts as best you could, so when Natasha called and you answered within the first ring? You'll blame that on your dull work life, definitely not just your eagerness to speak with the assassin.

It was only after answering the call that you thought to check the time - 10pm, just as you would usually begin to wind down for the night. You smiled, for someone who lived such a turbulent life, Natasha managed to maintain a remarkable consistency; she always tried to call at that time, no matter where she was in the world, to keep you company with late night talks and to wish a goodnight.

As soon as she greeted you tonight though, you knew you were in for something different.

“Y/L/N.”

“Romanoff.” It was a warning, of course, a system you'd agreed upon to protect your secret if others were around. Sure enough, when her camera flicked on, you were greeted to the sight of the Avengers milling around her.

“We have company,” she told you somewhat redundantly, as you were shown the visitors sitting around the Barton family's kitchen table, with Nick Fury standing at the head of it all.

“Evening, Director,” you said.

“Did you know too?” Tony scoffed, “he’s got both of you?”

“Just Maria,” Fury corrected, “but why put in the effort to hide it from Y/L/N?”

“Does anyone actually know my first name?”

“No.”

“We’ve got a lead on Ultron.”

“You have a plan?”

“I always have a plan,” the man scoffed, almost in disbelief that you'd asked such a question. “Hill’s helping me out, and I'm bringing Banner back too. As for you… Steve, Clint, and Natasha are off to Seoul. You wanna help your old team?” Fury smirked with an eyebrow raised; he knew your answer before you could give it, so you played into it by pausing and humming as if considering your options.

“I suppose I can help out,” you said at last, earning an eye roll from Natasha in the background, “I'm sure they really need me.”

Natasha came to the forefront of the image again and grabbed her phone back. “That's enough of that,” she said; you raised your eyebrows and smirked at her tone. You saw Clint react the same, though he tried to hide it.

“Go to bed, Y/N. We'll call in when we need you.” She hung up before you could comment on her use of your first name.

—:::——::-————>◇<—————::——:::—

“We have to be careful. If Ultron is here, he's not gonna like that we're here too. So stay hidden, stay vigilant, and I'll be right back.”

The suit cams were deactivated for this mission – something about Ultron picking up on the transmission frequencies, you weren't sure; all you did know is that it made your job harder.

“Two minutes; stay close.” You assumed that they'd dropped Steve off.

Despite your statements the night before, you really weren't needed on the mission: Steve took mission lead, Natasha controlled tracking, and Clint flew the jet with no hesitations, all you were there for was backup, lest something go wrong.

Perhaps you thought too hard about that last point, jinxing the team with your belief that it would all run smoothly, but the plan collapsed almost instantly. Steve didn't direct his message to your group specifically, but looped you all into his conversation with Dr Cho.

Ultron knew they were there, he'd injured Cho, he had two superpowered twenty-somethings on his team, and he'd created a weapon beyond capabilities, something indestructible. Or, at least, he was in the process of making it; you still had a chance to stop its creation… silver linings.

“I've called for medical,” you said. That left Steve free to focus on the fight at hand, taking instruction from Natasha and Clint on where to find the metal man.

Clint, the eye in the sky, lived up to his codename by spotting it first: “There. It's a truck from the lab.” Steve clambered up and across the roads without hesitation, before a blast to the truck door almost blew him into moving traffic – at least it confirmed that Ultron could be found inside.

“Well, he's definitely unhappy. I'm going to try to keep him that way.”

“You're not a match for him, Cap.”

“Thanks, Barton.”

With Steve in the fray, you had to take command once again; your position away from the fight gave you the best overview with which to form a plan, and access to all angles of sight.

You only saw one way forward: “Natasha, you need to get into the fight. Steve can't get the cradle like this, so make the most of the distraction he's providing.

“Never thought I'd see you giving me orders.”

You didn't need cameras to picture the smirk on her face, you just knew it was there in the same way you knew that, despite her talk back, she would be following your instructions.

“A real role swap, I know,” you deadpanned, “now get on your bike.”

Was it essential for Natasha to ship her motorbike with her to every destination? No. Had you questioned her on it countless times? Yes. Did it occasionally come in useful? Unfortunately yes, but that was an answer that you would never admit to her face.

“We've got a window!” Clint took over, flying low to the ground so that Natasha could disembark, “Four, three…give ‘em hell.”

From then on, you could only do so much to keep track of all the agents, so Clint took charge of directions, watching from above to keep Natasha on the right track, while you monitored the truck's ever changing location. The roles eventually aligned as Natasha came up alongside the truck, throwing Steve's shield up to restore his upper hand in the fight.

Ultron could fight a battle on two fronts though; after being knocked down by Cap, he pulled a chunk of tarmac out of the road to keep Natasha away.

“Since when could he do that?” you asked into the comms.

Natasha was tenacious, a fact Ultron soon found out, and a clump of dirt didn't deter her. She neared the vehicle again, just for the enemy's robotic lackeys to fire at her this time.

“Clint, can you draw out the guards?” she suggested.

“Let's find out.”

Firing at the robotic man did just that, and soon the Quinjet weaved through the sky, trying to shake off various bodies on Ultron, which left Natasha free for her retrieval.

“Natasha, the Ultrons are on you now,” you warned. They hadn't seemed to see her in the truck, but latched onto the sides.

“Okay, the package is airborne,” came Clint's next comment, as the robots carried the truck away from reach. That didn't matter though, as Natasha was still inside and by the sounds of it, knew just what to do. You'd lost sight of them, so focused your attention on Steve's fight with the main Ultron body…or at least, as much as you could see.

The train cameras were non-operational and soon enough, the whole train was too.

“I lost him; he's headed your way,” Steve yelled. With the fight in the air, he couldn't follow, but he also had bigger problems: a runaway train, with the driver hit and the controls fried.

“The train's at the end of the line, I can't stop it from here.”

“Nat!”

“There are no controls; I need to get civilians out of the way.”

“Cap, you seen Nat?”

“If you have the package, get it to Stark! Go!” Steve said, momentarily distracted as he answered Clint's request.

“Clint, what's happened to Nat?” you shouted, quickly leaving Steve to his own problem – this was a higher priority to you.

“Do you have eyes on Nat?”

“Go!”

You scan everything you can get your hands on, desperate for a sight of your girlfriend; but they had been too high up, too far to be covered in any camera footage. She may as well have disappeared.

“Clint,” you said urgently, cutting Steve out of the communications for the moment, “what happened to Natasha?”

“Ultron got her. I don't know, she was with the cradle and then he flew past and she's not there.”

“She didn't fall, so he's got her.”

“I can't look for her here.”

“I know. Just get back.”

“I'm sorry. We'll find her, Y/N”

“We better. And I don't care if he's vibranium, I'm gonna kill Ultron with my own two hands next time we see him.”

The train sat stationary and steaming by the time your focus returned to it. Steve stood out among the crowd, and you realised he had the Maximoff twins by his side.

“The press will be on the scene any minute. I've sent ambulances and Damage Control. Steve, Stark has a jet at Incheon, get there and get back ASAP,” you mumbled the instructions to him then hung up, once again leaving him to fend for himself.

You threw your headset down with a scream, and stormed to where the other Avengers had settled.

Anger rarely got the best of you after missions were over, but that's because even after the worst incidents, Natasha would be there to keep you sane, and talk it through. Now she was gone, and you had no leads to getting her back.

“Where's Fury?” you demanded, seeing only Bruce and Tony in the room.

“Off on his own little mission, he picked Maria up and left. Do you know what it is? Because that man is always-”

“Natasha is missing.” You don't care that you interrupted Tony, and you don't care that there's probably better ways to break the news. Ultron had killed and hurt and targeted people the Avengers were close to; finding Natasha was urgent.

Bruce broke out of the stupor first. “What?”

“Natasha is missing. And if anyone could find her, it would be Fury, but since he's missing-”

“I'll set up nets, have one of my AIs tracking the internet for any signs of her. If she's out there, we'll find her.”

You nodded, and relaxed your body temporarily when you realised how stressed you looked. “I'm gonna keep looking,” you mumbled, “Clint's on his way back with the body Ultron was building – find a way to dismantle it safely when he arrives.”

Neither man spoke as you vacated the room and headed to the floor below. After SHIELD fell, the room has been converted into storage for some of their old tech, ranging from their founding in the 40s up until the internet age took prominence. There was nothing you could find on the internet that Stark's tech couldn't do faster, so you resorted to old fashioned methods: radio waves, faint signals, and contacting agents across the globe. One way or another, Natasha would be found.

Ultron was different to any enemy you'd faced before, he had no fixed body, he couldn't die, and he had more knowledge than even an espionage agent ever could. But his sentience, the humanity he tried to destroy… you noticed that, and that would be his downfall; Ultron theoretically could have been unstoppable, but he was a show-off, he craved attention, and because of that, he didn't always make the most logical moves. He hadn't dismantled JARVIS, he'd made a mess of the system and bragged about it; he'd killed Strucker and sent a message, even if that was the clue to finding him. If he'd killed Natasha, or hurt her in any way, he'd be boasting of it for attention – so you knew she was alive, and that hope kept you searching. The best spy alive was still alive, and she'd find a way to send you a signal.

—:::——::-————>◇<—————::——:::—

“I've never seen Y/N as stressed as this, nor you.”

You'd seen Clint's return and gone upstairs to greet him; you knew he would be as stressed as you in the situation. But when the conversation you found was focused on you and Natasha, you felt the sudden urge to hide and listen in.

“Y/N and Nat were recruited at the same time, to the same cohort. They’ve been friends for 7 years, longer than I've even been working with Natasha, so what can you expect? Natasha's been through a lot; a lot of injuries, scares, and dangerous missions, but nothing like this. We've always had tabs on her.”

“Guess now you know how Widow felt about you back in 2012.”

“Not the time Tony.”

“Anything on Nat?” Bruce asked Tony, having the sense to change the conversation somewhat.

“I haven't heard, but she's alive or else Ultron would be rubbing our faces in it.”

Clint then changed the topic completely, returning attention to the cradle he'd brought in.

“We're going to need to access the program, break it down from within.”

“Any chance Natasha might leave you a message, outside the internet? Old-school spy stuff?”

You thought Tony was just trying to make Clint feel useful while he and Bruce worked, and you appreciated his efforts. It also meant you had to rush back downstairs and continue to fiddle around as if you hadn't just been eavesdropping.

The archer hurried down the stairs. You saw him pause at the sight of you, before he approached more slowly.

“I am sorry, I know it's not your fault,” you began, though you didn't dare look up at him, “are you doing okay? She's your best friend too.”

“She was right there. Maybe I could've…”

“Neither of us could have done anything. She was falling through the air; that's not territory we can help in.”

“We'll find her though,” Clint repeated. You knew it was to convince himself. You nodded, then returned to your work – this time with an old friend by your side.

Minutes later, static buzzed through the radio, with vibrations echoing on the screen. You looked at each other, open mouthed, then hurried to take notes.

“Morse?”

Clint nodded, then smirked as he held the headset to his ear. He listened and typed quickly, pulling up a satellite image of a Sokovian castle.

“Coordinates. God she's smart. Come on, let's go tell them.”

Clint called to you, but your attention had diverted. You caught his eye then looked back up at the glass ceiling, pointing overhead to where one of the Maximoff twins stood, an unplugged cord in his hand.

Clint growled and grabbed his gun to shoot up and shatter the glass on which Pietro stood, causing the twin to come clattering down. The spy wasted no time in pinning him down. “What? You didn't see that coming?”

The broken glass made the blasts, punches, and threats from above even more audible. You pulled Pietro to his feet but held him back, nodding for Clint to leave the two of you and try to break it up.

You watched the scene unfold and get more and more aggressive. Pietro struggled in your hold when he saw Bruce grab his sister, and you were tempted to let him loose until she freed herself and sent the scientist flying backwards. Once the cradle was activated, and the red body of Ultron's creation flew out of it and into Thor, you saw no point holding the speedster back.

“Go check on your sister,” you muttered, and slowly ran after the blur into the common room.

The creation – the synthesoid – had calmed down by your arrival, and the team reached an uneasy truce to keep him, knowing there was no other hope to stop Ultron.

“Three minutes,” Steve eventually announced, “get what you need.”

You stood still for a moment. While the others dispersed to their lockers and equipment, you had no similar place to go – you weren't called in for last minute missions like the main Avengers were, so everything you needed, you kept in your room. You wouldn't have time for that on this mission, so you decided Natasha's locker would have to do.

“Come on,” you called to the twins who, like you, had been standing around without much direction. “Tony's undershirts might fit you,” you said to Pietro, sizing him up as you unlocked the cubicle, “and use Nat’s clothes if your sister needs.” The sister in question – Wanda – drifted behind the two of you; her focus not on you, but on the conversation happening between Thor and the synthesoid outside.

You grabbed the clothes and weapons you needed from Natasha’s locker, then left the twins to it.

“Ultron knows we're coming,” Steve told the team on the jet, forming the plan before you get there, “odds are, we'll be riding into heavy fire. And that's what we signed up for, but the people of Sokovia, they didn't. So our priority is getting them out. All they want is to live their lives in peace, and that's not going to happen today, but we can do our best to protect them, and we can get the job done.”

Tony would be the one to fight Ultron head on, Thor to investigate the robots plans, and Bruce to rescue Natasha. You tried to step in and volunteer yourself, but Clint held you back, subtly shaking his head.

“Bruce can get her out,” he whispered to you, “you'll do a better job getting civilians out than him, and it'll keep your secret a secret.”

You grumbled, but agreed, and eventually conceded to his case. So when the jet landed and Thor and Bruce headed toward the fortress the Avengers had fought so hard to infiltrate just a week before, you turned and ran the other way, into the main city of Novi Grad.

No work you did could be as effective as the twins; the pair evacuated buildings in mere minutes and knew their hometown well enough to know exactly which places to target. Meanwhile, you hurried the streets with Clint, helping anyone struggling with the evacuation process.

Almost everyone had vacated their homes, most on their way to Sokovia’s neighbouring villages, when Ultron's plan truly started. The ground rumbled, and the streets and buildings soon began to ascent into the sky. Orderly evacuation descended into chaos as civilians clamoured to jump down to solid ground while they still could – a window that only lasted seconds before the remaining civilians, and all the Avengers, became stranded on the floating rock.

“Bruce, did you find Natasha?” you heard Clint shout. Steve and Tony debated their changing plans in your ear, so if Bruce ever gave a reply, you didn't hear it.

Regardless, your attention couldn't linger on it for long, as a floating island wasn't enough for Ultron, he had to send hundreds of his identical lackeys into the fray as well.

“The rest of us have one job: tear these things apart. You get hurt, hurt 'em back. You get killed, walk it off.”

A mission was a mission, and you took to it well – even if you couldn't get the civilians to safety, you could protect them where they were. They began to congregate, and you moved with them, shooting, stabbing, and kicking the decoys whenever they got near, while herding the civilians towards shelter. It wasn't the most effective, but you were no superhero.

That remained your role, even as a certain redhead on the field caught your attention.

“Natasha!” you yelled.

She looked over and grinned when she saw you – a smile that was soon wiped off her face when an Ultron rocketed into you. You tussled with it, but it was Natasha who eventually pulled it off of you, shooting it in the head before you decapitated it for good measure.

She smiled again, then offered a hand to pull you to your feet.

“Why weren't you answering your comms, hmm? I was worried about you! I didn't know if Bruce got you out okay!”

“Oh, I don't know, baby, maybe because a psychotic robot took me captive and took away my means of communication?”

“Not those ones, Bruce's spare set! He was meant to give them to you.”

A robot came to end your reunion, but Natasha had it dead in seconds. “He didn't, but I pushed him into the crater so I can't really blame him-”

“You did what? Natasha you know you can't be doing that.”

“He wanted to run and I needed to get to you,” she smirked, with all the confidence of someone who knew they'd gotten away with it. “What else is a girl supposed to do?”

You sighed, then took her hand. “Just put this in. I had a spare set too.”

“We are not clear! We are very not clear!” Steve's voice echoed as she put it in, proving that it did in fact work.

“Now go be a hero,” you nodded, “I've got this.”

She squeezed your hand tightly before she ran to what used to be the bridge, where Steve and Thor had set up their operations.

You watched her go while completing your own job of keeping the civilians safe. The robots had dispersed, but you were still fighting a few when, minutes later, Nick Fury appeared on the comms.

“Glad you like the view, Romanoff. It's about to get better.”

Even from where you stood in the city, the helicarrier dominated the skyline and filled you with hope.

“Let's load ‘em up,” Steve commanded, and you didn't have to be told twice.

You beckoned to the crowd of people you had been protecting, and the stragglers who slowly emerged from their own hiding places as the hope of safety, and led them towards the ship. Natasha was by your side again, allowing you to direct the civilians without taking on several robots alone at once.

Countless ferries to the helicarrier later, and streams of civilians still emerged from the maze of crumbling apartment blocks. Ultron wouldn't let the team have that one victory, and Thor soon warned the heroes about an incoming attack on the vibranium core – an attack which would decimate the Earth and its population.

“Rhodey, get the rest of the people on board that carrier. Avengers, time to work for a living.”

Natasha grabbed your wrist as you signalled for more civilians to board the ferries, “are you coming?”

“Someone needs to stay and help them here,” you said with a shake of your head, “and Rhodey is dealing with enough in the sky. This is your mission, my love, so go finish it.”

She leant in, seemingly before she realised you were still surrounded by people, after which she veered to the side and pulled you into a tight hug instead.

“I'll see you afterwards, okay? Come back to me this time.”

“I promise.”

Then, once again, you stood and watched as Natasha ran into the fight. Screams and yells from the people surrounding you soon snapped you back to the present and you jumped onto duty. You called out to the civilians in your limited Sokovian, directing them in huddles from the cover of the police station onto the ferries, until they were in the ex-SHIELD team's capable hands.

“They're trying to leave the city,” Thor noticed, and sure enough, several silver bodies flew overhead, aiming to escape the Avengers' assault.

“I'm on it,” came Rhodey’s response, as he left you alone with the Sokovian authorities to protect the civilians boarding the ships. The civilian numbers were dwindling, as most had boarded already, and only the last stragglers were still arriving. Zips of blue occasionally crossed your sight, as Pietro scoured the city for any last boarders and deposited them by your side.

He eventually slowed down enough to talk, just as Clint and Natasha raced into the Square – where they had time to find and hijack a car, you'd never know.

“That's everyone,” Pietro panted, anyone not on the boats is here.

You nodded, looking around the square again. “We're almost done loading, you can probably-” you began, but rapid gunfire turned both of your heads like a shot.

“Natasha!” you yelled. The artillery had been aimed directly at her and the Hulk. The creature roared at the jet, bullets bouncing off of his skin, while Natasha was nowhere to be seen. As you ran towards her, it was only when you got close that you saw her body on the ground.

The world blurred around you as your only goal was to sprint forward, but even that failed. The Hulk picked her up, her body cradled gently in his arms, then leapt.

You turned back; he had jumped towards the helicarrier, but another sight caught your eye. A few bodies lay strewn in the street, victims of Ultron's final push, but Steve and Clint knelt still beside one of them. You traipsed back, seeing no point in rushing when the day had already taken so much.

Agents and guards rushed off the boats, running all around you to collect the bodies of their friends and colleagues. You continued forward. Steve looked up and met your eye, and you finally noticed the limp body in his arms. Clint returned the child to his mother, and Steve brought the final body – Pietro's – on board. You sat with the Captain in silence as the boat began to ascend.

“He was supposed to get Wanda,” you said at last, the realisation hitting you that she was still in the floating city. “Has anyone got Wanda?”

There was no time for anyone to respond because, just as your ship docked, the whole city began to fall.

“Thor, on my mark,” Tony said, and you watched as the city began to crumble into pieces.

Steve put his hand on your shoulder, bearing a defeated look as he guided you into the main body of the helicarrier. Your mood was sour, but the sight that greeted you inside finally began to change it for the better.

“Natasha!” you breathed, running forward as a grin spread across her face. You grabbed her and held her at an arm's length to assess her for injuries, but found nothing severe. “You're okay? You're alright?”

“I’m alright. I promised you I'd come back to you just fine.”

“Well that was before-”

“The Vision has got Wanda,” Steve interrupted, “I'm going to go up and tell her about… you know, but are we agreed on bringing her back with us?”

“She's got powers that she'll need training to control, I doubt the government will let her do anything else but come with us.”

“Don't bring that part up just yet though,” you added, “she's dealing with enough.”

He nodded, then left the two of you alone again. “So, The Vision…is that the red guy?” Natasha asked quickly. The two of you began to walk towards the control boards.

“Oh yeah! I suppose you were never properly introduced. Thor had a ‘vision’, and it was powerful enough to make him take Tony's side.”

“Wow, Asgardian visions must be something else.”

“You're telling me.”

“Y/L/N!” Fury called. You and Natasha stopped in your tracks to look over at him; he raised an eyebrow and impatiently beckoned you closer.

“I need a word with Y/N. Alone.” The Director warned when Natasha followed you over, “we have your big green friend on call, see if you can get through to him while we talk.”

Natasha’s first reaction was to check with you, but you met her eye and nodded, giving her the reassurance that you could deal with Fury alone.

You watched alongside Fury as your girlfriend rounded the corner and disappeared from sight, before the man finally turned to you with a glint in his eye.

“I have some news for you, if you're interested in hearing it-”

—:::——::-————>◇<—————::——:::—

“Your suit’s not on properly.”

“What? Yes it is, I can dress myself just fine, Nat.”

“Your belt is supposed to be tucked into your left belt loop, not the right.”

You looked down and, sure enough, your belt was wrapped anti-clockwise around your waist instead of clockwise. You then looked back up at your girlfriend, a tired look of disbelief on your face that that was the detail she decided to pick up on.

“Literally no-one is gonna notice that.”

“I did.”

“You're a special case.”

“Awww, you think I'm special,” she cooed sarcastically, before deftly undoing a redoing your belt. “There. You're all set.”

“Who'd have thought this is where we'd be 7 years ago, huh?”

You stepped out of your room, Natasha following right behind you, and headed toward the giant halls of the new Avengers Facility.

“I definitely didn't, you were shit when we met.”

“I'd argue but I always admitted that was true. And now here we both are, leading teams while we're still in our 20s… except, oh wait, oh you're old, I forgot.”

“You're so funny,” Natasha deadpanned, giving a sarcastic grin in response to your smug look.

“Fury wants to meet me here,” she then said, stopping you both at the intersection between your destination and a dead-end viewing platform. She took your hands in hers and traced your knuckles with her thumbs, “I am proud of you, you know that? You've achieved so much, and you're going to do brilliantly today. Good luck, my love.”

“Good luck to you too, baby.” You learnt in, kissing her quickly before you drifted apart, spitting towards your opposite destinations. “No pressure,” you called after her, “but the future of Earth's defence is in your hands!”

She flipped you off, while you turned and continued to walk down the endless maze of corridors until you bumped into Steve.

“Morning, Captain,”

“Y/N. Are you off to training?”

“Sure am.”

“I still don't suppose I can convince you to join me and Nat?”

You shook your head apologetically. “A team of superheroes and superpowers isn't really where I should be. The cameras and publicity and media scrutiny, it's not for me. But I've got my place and I've got my new recruits to train, so when you need us, we'll be there to support you in the background of it all.”

—:::——::-————>◇<—————::——:::—

Series Taglist: @fairychev @catswag22 @sapphosclosefriend @romanoffsgal @taliiiaasteria @saraaahsstuff @blacklightsposts @automaticdinosaurtaco @dyslexic-dreamer

General Taglist: @canvascoloredin @fxckmiup @wizardofstories

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff x y/n #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff imagine #ikan in the background #ikan writes #marvel #mcu

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 months

Text

Don't Speak 37

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, stalking, manipulation, reclusive behaviour, disordered eating, dissociation, allusions to abuse, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Reader is a reclusive loner who ventures down to the library on a simple mission. Her task is complicated by the man she meets there. (f!short!reader)

Character: librarian!Andy Barber

Note: Get ready for Andrew Barber's masterclass in manipulation.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

Your disbelief gives way to panic. You gulp and gasp for breath as you collapse onto the carpet, hugging yourself as you sink into horror. You’re repulsed by your own body, trapped in your own skin. A monster. Just as horrible as you always suspected.

Selfish, worthless, thoughtless. Your doubts calcify to certainty. You are a bad person.

But you don’t want to be. You never wanted to be. How can you be so terrible despite your best efforts? You have to be better. You have to try harder.

You heave and lift yourself on a shaky arm, rubbing your damp cheek as you sniffle and look around. Your head throbs but you won’t be sleeping that night. The violent churning in your stomach won’t let you. You don’t deserve to rest. You have too much to do.

You get up on tremulous legs. You find it hard to balance as the swirling haze of wine turns to a groggy pulsing in your temples. You massage them as each step sends a thump through your skull. You try to shake it off but it only gets worse.

You move carefully. You did this to yourself. You drank even after Andy warned you not to. You ignored him all day like a spoiled child. You did whatever you wanted and then you… hurt him.

You start with the kitchen. It’s already tidy from Amber’s help but you wipe down the counters to be certain, then you get out the mop, leaning heavily on it as you sponge the tile to sparkling. You move on to the dining room; surfaces, floors, and even the curtains. You sus out every speck of dust and dirt.

You find yourself sitting, folded over as you cradle your head and catch your breath. You’re weak and shaky but you keep going. You get up and return to the front room. You give pause before the couch, the throw pillows knocked this way and that, one on the floor. You tidy them and refold the blanket on the back neatly.

It’s too late to vacuum but you do your best to sweep around the edge of the carpet. You go to the mantel and straighten the ornaments that seemed to distract Steve that day. You stop at the thought of the doctor and nearly sob. What do you tell him? How do you tell him what you did? He would know what you are. What would he think?

Your teeth chatter despite the warm air. It’s not the temperature but your own fatigue that sets you to shiver. You carry on, making a careful progress through the large house. You suffer over every inch. You don’t know how else to show your remorse but to make everything perfect. Everything but yourself. You will never be perfect, you are inextricably broken.

The dawn rises and you let yourself rest in the bathroom. You rinse your face in cold water, trying to wake up. You take some painkillers for the beating in your skull and grip the sides of the sink, weary and worn.

A flicker catches your eye. You glance over at the white shower speaker. He must’ve replaced the batteries. You stand straight and roll your shoulders back. You’re not done. You will never be done. This task, not the cleaning, no, but you, trying to fix you, that’s something you’ll always have to work on.

You go back to the hall and stop short. You peer down towards the bedroom door; Andy’s. It’s silent and the edges are dark. You shudder out a breath and cross to the guest room.

You enter the solemn space and search for a new outfit. You pick out something he bought for you, that you know he’ll like. You tuck a white blouse into the brown corduroy skirt that buttons up the front. You match the outfit with a pair of stockings to warm your tingling legs.

You emerge, feeling stronger but hardly better. You descend the stairs, his silence and the stillness of the house suffocating you. You drag your feet into the kitchen and tie the apron on as you begin. You take out one of the cookbooks and search for the perfect breakfast.

The hours pass swiftly as you set to work. You focus on each ingredient, each step, as you put together the pieces. A quiche with the most perfect savoury crust. The scents rising around you tug on your stomach, the dregs of wine leaving your stomach barren and acidic.

You brew coffee and put together a tray. A mug, a plate of quiche, fruit salad, napkins, and cutler. You balance it all and turn to the long journey upstairs. It feels like a treacherous path. You fear you might not reach your destination and you wouldn’t be surprised if you’re turned away.

You stop at Andy’s door, like the gates of some vaunted castle, and swallow down your fears. You knock with your foot, careful not to cause too much of a clatter. No answer comes as you stew in the silence of the large house.

You turn your shoulder to the door and lean in, “Andy?”

Your call wilts into the still air and you wait. You clear your throat and try again, speaking louder this time. The crackle of your voice is harsh amid the empty lull. You listen, a rustle coming from the other side, and a sniffle.

Your heart catches in your throat as you face the door head on. The lock clicks as the handle turns back and a small slat of space opens between the edge and frame. Your eyes meet Andy’s single on, peeking out sheepishly.

“Good morning,” you try to be chipper, “can I… I brought you breakfast.”

He stares and blinks. His gaze falls to the tray in your hand. There’s a glisten across his iris.

“Andy,” you sniff, “I’m very sorry about last night.”

He closes the door and you stand dumbly in your dejection. You look down at the tray. You’re stupid to think food could solve the problem. That you could ever apologise thoroughly for your offence. You can’t take back what’s been done.

You take a step back but stop again, the tray rattle treacherously as the handle twists back again, this time with more force. Andy still wears the same clothes as the day before. His hair is dishevelled, his beard with short shanks jutting out at the chin, as he keeps his face down. With slumped shoulders, at a slight angle, he stands back.

“We can talk,” he utters in a fractured timbre. He sounds like he’s been crying.

You bow your head and step into the room. You go to the console table and lay the tray there as it starts to shake with your nerves.

The bedsprings compress as he sits with a heavy sigh. You keep your back to him as you try to sort out the pangs in your chest and stomach. You turn slowly on your heel. As he sits on the side of the bed, the glare of the lamp illuminates his features and the dark bruising along the left side. His eye is almost entirely swollen shut.

You gasp and cover your mouth. He keeps his eyes down meekly, as if trying to hide. You can’t believe you did that to him. How could you have done that? With just one hit?

“I’m so sorry,” you creak out through your dry throat, “Andy, I’m so so sorry. I didn’t mean to– I didn’t sleep all night, I feel so rotten–”

“Enough, dove,” he hisses, “enough.”

“Please,” you beg as you step forward only for him to flinch. You stop and clutch your hands in front of your chest; he’s afraid of you.

“I…” he begins and swallows thickly. He shakes his head and reaches to brush his fingers through his beard, only to wince again. “I… I love you, dove.”

Your eyes gloss as you watch him. You see how he musters his strength to look back at you. Never had anyone looked at you like that. Afraid.

“I love you, too,” you eke out.

“So…” he quavers and clears his throat, “so let’s move past this.” You see him struggle as he grips his thigh and forces his posture straight, “I won’t make you mad again and you won’t hurt me, right?”

It’s like a punch in the gut. You could keel over right there.

“I wouldn’t ever–”

“You did,” he insists, “dove, it’s not that you hit me, it’s… you broke my heart last night.”

“I’m sorry, I really am–”

“Sorry… doesn’t always fix things. I can’t forget last night, but if it doesn’t happen again, I can live with it,” he utters each word as if it hurts, “promise, dove, promise you won’t ever hurt me like that again.”

“I promise,” you spit out desperately, “please, I never meant to hurt you. I wouldn’t ever– Andy,” you bring your hands around your throat, trying to pry away the invisible fingers squeezing you, “there’s something wrong with me. I want to fix it. I… someone hurt me…and maybe that’s why…”

“I understand but it isn’t an excuse,” he reproaches, “you can break that cycle, that’s why you go to therapy… I’m starting to think that’s not working though.”

“N-no, it is– I–”

“Have you told Steve about who hurt you?”

You reel and shake your head, digging your nails into your own throat, “no…”

“So how are you fixing yourself, dove?”

It’s an accusation. That softness is gone and the razor is back in his voice. You frown and shrug.

“I’m trying–”

“Not hard enough,” he says, “look at me.” You do, you see the purplish blue bruises and his swollen eyelid. You see what you did. “If this happens again, you have to go. We can’t stay together. I won’t let you…” his timbre turns sandy and lowers his chin, “do what my ex did to me.”

He sniffles as he hides his face. Your heart clenches and you slowly inch towards him. Before you can get to him, he stands and staggers around the bed. You freeze as he clamours into the attached bathroom and the light flicks on. The harsh yellow blaze shines into the bedroom.

You daintily pad around after him and stop just before the doorway. He grips the frame of the mirror as he looks at his reflection. Tears trickle out down his cheeks and he looks down, gulping tightly.

“I didn’t… I didn’t look before,” he wipes his nose, “Dove, I couldn’t…”

“I’m so sorry,” you murmur, “I… I’ll leave. I’ll…” you blink furiously at the thought. Where do you go? You can’t go back to Amber, she doesn’t deserve someone like you. “I’ll go–”

“Where?” He asks.

You don’t have an answer.

“Then I’m the bad guy,” his words grit, “no, we’ll… work on it. Promise, dove, promise you’ll do better.”

“I will, I swear,” you plead, “I… will you eat breakfast?”

He flinches, slowly turning his head to peek at you, “breakfast?”

“I… I wanna take care of you. You need to eat. I… I made it for you. Special.”

His lashes flutter and he looks down at the sink again. He nods as if steeling himself. He pushes himself straight.

He turns to face you completely but before you can back away, not wanting to crowd him, you’re swept up in his arms. He hugs you to him, smothering you in the scent of his sweat and deodorant. You lock up as you let him squeeze you.

“I couldn’t sleep without you,” he whispers as he rocks you with him, “as much as you hurt me, I couldn’t. Dove, I need you.”

You slowly bring your arms up and wrap them around him. You feel how big he is. For a moment, you’re in awe that you could ever make him so afraid. You? How? His strength tightens around you, tight enough to force the breath out of you. Tight enough to break you if he wanted to.

“I didn’t sleep either,” you confess.

🕊️

You clean up the tray. The shadow of the previous night looms over you but you try not to let it consume you. The plate is clean but for a few crumbs, the fruit salad was quickly snapped up, and Andy is sipping his second cup of coffee as you lift away the remnant of his breakfast.

“That was good,” he praises over the brim of his mug.

“I’m glad you liked it. Happy you ate,” you say as your own stomach growls painfully.

“I got you to take care of me,” he smiles even as his cheek ticks. You’re both thinking of the unsaid, trying to ignore the ghost in the room with you.

“Can I–” you focus on his mussed hair, an unusual sight, “can I run you a bath?”

He seems taken aback. He tilts his head and sips again. You hold the tray in front of you, fearing his rejection.

“Of if you need space…”

“No, that would be… nice,” he rasps, wetting his throat with the coffee before continuing, “dove, I’d love a bath,” he licks his shining lips, “with you?”

Your mouth falls open and your eyes round. It isn’t just the idea of sharing the tub, but the hope of his offer. It isn’t forgiveness but it’s a start. He’s not casting you out.

“Y-yes,” you squeak, “y-yeah, I’ll go… I’ll go clean all this up and get the tub going.”

“Honey,” he pats his stomach in content, “you’re so good to me.”

You can only nod. It’s another reminder. You weren’t good to him last night. You paint a smile on your face and step back on your heel.

“Let me just get this to the kitchen–”

“Don’t I get a kiss?” He prompts before you can back up.

“Oh, uh, yes, I’m sorry, I didn’t…” you carry the tray closer, “I didn’t know if you wanted… one.”

“Always, dove,” he leans over and offers his puckered lips. You give him a peck as he hums. As you draw back, he purrs, “perfect.”

Your smile quivers on your lips. He watches you as you glance down at the tray. It’s awkward. It’s going to be for a while. You won’t ever forget this. He accepts you, even the bad parts. Even when it hurts.

“Love you, dove,” he says.

Your eyes flick up to meet his, “love you too… honey.”

His face brightens, “I like that,” he beams, “when you call me honey.”

“You do?” you bat your lashes.

“It’s like a song,” he says and teethes his lips, his eyes drifting away from yours, “beautiful like the rest of you.”

You squirm and squeeze the tray. You slowly turn away, the empty dishes rattling with you. The knot in your chest just won’t untangle. You want it to be alright but it still feels so wrong.

#andy barber #dark andy barber #dark!andy barber #andy barber x reader #steve kemp #defending jacob #fresh #series #fic #don't speak #au #library au #dark fic #dark!fic

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