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#of course he can patch Sam up. he’s done it before. he’s torn him up and put him back together so many times. child’s play really.

rewrittenreality · 2 years

Text

All Patched Up

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader

Word count: 933

Warnings: A little blood

Summary: Sam comes back from a hunt all scratched up so you patch him up.

You knew what you were getting into when you met the Winchester brothers. You knew they were hunters, as your parents were, and you knew the lifestyle was dangerous. The moment you laid eyes on Sam, however, you knew that you would be more than willing to go back to that life.

So there you were, sitting in the bunker reading through books to pass the time. You weren’t needed for research this time because the boys were looking for a shifter. Even though you knew they would come back, you couldn’t help but worry about the brothers.

When you heard the bunker door open, you jumped out of your seat in excitement. That excitement quickly faded when you realized that Sam was in fact injured. His face was bloody, his shirt was torn where there was a gash on his chest, he had various cuts and bruises all over, and he was limping badly.

“Dean, what the hell happened?” You questioned, rushing over to help. “Sammy here decided to play hero and had a brawl with the shifter. Got his ass beat if you ask me.” Dean said, letting out a chuckle at the end. Sam shot him a glare, wincing as he walked towards you. “The shifter was about to attack somebody so I jumped in front of them. I’m fine. Just a few cuts and bruises.” Sam informed you, clearly trying to make it sound like he wasn’t in severe pain.

Dean brought out the medical supplies and placed it on the table. “I got it from here, Dean. You go clean up. There’s food I made for you guys in the fridge.” You said, opening the box of supplies. “Have I ever told you how great you are?” Dean asked, lighting up at the mention of food. You laughed as he quickly left the room.

You turned back to Sam, your face full of worry. “Sammy, sit down so I can look at you.” You said softly, trying to get his jacket off of him. “It’s nothing I can’t handle on my own. I’m okay, Angel. Really.” Sam tried to argue with you, letting you slip his jacket off of his broad shoulders. “Sam, I said sit your ass down.” You repeated, your voice now stern and serious.

Sam quickly sat down. He knew not to argue with you when you sounded like this. You smiled when he listened to you. “You know the drill, Sammy.” You stated, motioning towards his shirt. This wasn’t the first time you’ve had to patch him or Dean up. Sam slowly removed his shirt, his sore muscles making him wince.

“Jesus, Sam. What kind of shifter was this?” You questioned, looking over the gash on his chest and the many cuts and bruises everywhere else. “A powerful one, Angel. A powerful one.” Sam said, leaning back in the chair a little.

You opened the bottle of whiskey in the medical supplies, spitting the cap to the side. “This is going to hurt. You ready?” You warned, making sure he could brace himself.

Sam nodded, gripping the arms of his chair tightly. You began slowly pouring whiskey on Sam’s chest wound. Sam hissed in pain, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his chair tighter. “I know, Baby. I know. Almost done.” You said, absolutely hating seeing him in so much pain. Using a cloth, you gently wiped away the excess whiskey on his skin.

“There we go. All done.” You said, grabbing the supplies for stitches. The wound was too deep to leave open so you had to close it somehow. You handed the whiskey to Sam who took a swig of it before you started.

Once you were done, you put a bandage over the stitches. “Good as new.” You smiled, trying to lighten the mood. Sam couldn’t help but smile a little when he saw you smile. In the process of stitching Sam up, Dean brought you some warm water and another cloth. You used the wet cloth to clean Sam’s face and arms, humming softly as you did so. Your humming always made Sam calm, no matter what the situation was.

“It was stupid to jump infront of that shifter, wasn’t it?” Sam asked. “Of course it wasn’t, Sammy. You saved that person’s life.” You reassured him, gently wiping his face with the warm cloth. “I could have just gone straight for the shifter.” Sam said, doubting himself. “You’re a hero, Sammy. You know that. Selflessly saving someone, protecting innocent people even when they think you’re insane. Kinda hot if you ask me.” You smiled, running your thumb over his cheek.

Sam leaned into the touch, a small grin on his face. You finished patching him up and put the cloth down. “There you go, Sammy. All patched up. Now I better not see you trying to lift things with those stitches.” You said, raising your eyebrow at him. “Yes ma’am.” Sam chuckled, kissing your hand. His action made you giggle.

“What would I do without you, Angel?” Sam asked, leaving kisses up your arm. “Die is what you would do, Hotshot. You boys have so many close calls it’s not even funny.” You answered, raking your fingers through Sam’s hair. “You would be correct. Now come here and give me a kiss.” He said, reaching out to you. You happily obliged, leaning down and kissing him sweetly.

“I love you, My Angel." Sam mumbled against your lips. "I love you too, Baby." You smiled kissing him again. “We have bedrooms for a reason!” Dean called from the other room.

#Sam Winchester #sam winchester x reader

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clairenatural · 4 years

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Suptober 2020, Day 23: Favorite (destiel, 1.2k. fluff!)

It gets destroyed on a hunt, slashed clean through to his arm. Dean rips off a strip to tie around the wound and discards the rest of the flannel in a nearby trash can. He fixes his shirts, when he can—he’s had some shirts for a decade or more that way, and he’ll fix up his favorites until they’re just lumps of dollar store sewing thread if he has to—but the fallen shirt isn’t his favorite. He’s had it for a decade, too, but he barely wears it. He pulled it out of the back of his closet on laundry day, probably, and has kept it in his duffle bag for hunts ever since. It’s off-white and gross yellow and muted red and it has snaps, not buttons, and Dean’s not sure why he kept it around anyway.

So it meets its end, ripped and bloody, in a trash can. And Dean doesn’t think much about it. They limp back to the motel and Sam patches up his arm and he throws away the impromptu bandage, and that’s that.

Except it’s not, because two weeks later there it is—hanging in his closet, good as new. Well, not good as new, but the hole has been sewn up and the torn edge has been patched with a plaid that matches remarkably well. It’s obviously hand done, and the stitches are meticulous if not exactly skilled, and Dean pulls it off the hanger and stares at it for a moment before groaning. Of course the ghost had to somehow follow them home. “Sam!” he yells, already backing out of his room in search of salt. “We have a problem!” At least flannel burns.

Castiel answers him before Sam does, nearly colliding with Dean in the hallway as he steps out of his own bedroom. “Dean, what—” he starts, but then stops himself, frowning. “Why are you holding that shirt like it’s going to bite you?”

“Keep it moving, Cas.” Dean tries to step around him. There isn’t time for questions. “This got shredded on the hunt but here it is again, good as new. I’m thinking our ghost friend hitched a ride somehow.”

Cas’ eyes widen, and he hastily moves to block Dean’s way again. “No.”

Dean furrows his brow, but stops moving. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean, there’s no ghost.” Cas looks down, avoiding eye contact. “I did that. I fixed your shirt.”

What.

Dean must be staring, because Cas continues in a rush. He sounds nervous. “I noticed it was destroyed, so I went back and got it, and...well. I tried my best.”

Dean thinks about how Cas took longer than usual on his beer run that night. At least the timing makes sense, but everything else? He frowns. “Okay, uh. Why?”

Castiel finally looks up at Dean, then. He considers his next words carefully, long enough that Dean half expects him to turn and walk right back into his bedroom without answering. “Because it’s my favorite.”

He says it so calmly, so straightforward, like it’s the most obvious answer. It’s the same way he always says these things—the same tone as because God commanded it so many years ago, like both are just facts of the universe, and—wait a second.

Dean looks at the shirt. He looks back at Castiel, who seems to be watching the gears turn in Dean’s head. He suddenly remembers meeting Sam in a motel room and pulling off Bobby’s old Henley to change into one of Sam’s old flannels. He remembers driving four hours to see a psychic and complaining to Sam about the cuff snaps on the drive. He remembers a barn, with Bobby, waiting for a monster that turned out to be an angel.

“Hold on,” it clicks into place. “Is this—this is that shirt? From the barn.” The last part isn’t a question.

From the smile on Cas’ face, Dean knows he’s got it right. “Yes.”

“And it’s your favorite.”

“Yes.”

“Of my shirts.”

“Yes.”

“I never even wear it, man.”

“And yet you’ve kept it for twelve years,” Cas points out, and, well, damn. He’s got him, there.

Dean shifts and breaks the eye contact, feeling strangely sheepish. “Yeah, well. It’s a good shirt,” he mumbles, but Cas looks amused and Dean knows he’s not fooling either of them. It’s not a good shirt.

“You never even wear it,” Cas echoes, then—“man,” he adds, after some consideration, and it’s so oddly endearing coming from Cas’ mouth that Dean can’t be mad he’s been caught in his lie.

Cas steps forward and reaches out to touch the flannel, trains his gaze on the shirt before he starts talking again. His tone has become solemn. “This shirt is my favorite because that night, in the barn—” he takes a breath, “—was the most important night of my long, long life. And I couldn’t bear to see it discarded. I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable.” He glances back at Dean, then, and Dean—unsure of how to process that—gapes back at him, and they stand there for several long seconds just staring at each other.

Finally, Dean’s brain catches up, and it’s like everything slides into place. He smiles and takes a step closer. “You know why I kept this shirt for twelve years, Cas?” he asks, because he remembers, now. He’s not sure how he ever forgot.

“Why?” Cas replies, just as quietly, and Dean’s not sure when they started whispering but it fits how heavy the words feel.

Dean is planning something intelligent to say in response, like because it was the most important night of mine, too or because I don’t know where I’d be if you hadn’t been the one to save me or even you told me that night I deserve to be saved, and so does this shirt. But between blinks Castiel has somehow managed to move even closer, close enough that their noses are almost touching, and suddenly no words seem like they’ll be enough. And maybe some part of his brain is finally fed up with the decade of pining, maybe his logic brain is still distracted by trying to detangle why Cas would hand-stitch his old shirt with that much care, but it suddenly seems like the only thing that would be enough would be...to close the gap and kiss him.

So he does.

Cas kisses him back before he has the chance to second-guess this decision, and Dean drops the flannel to wrap both arms around Castiel’s waist as his hands move up to Dean’s face, to his hair. He crowds Dean against the hallway wall, and Dean is suddenly very glad that wherever Sam is, he was too far away to come running when Dean called.

They break apart eventually because, unfortunately, humans do need to breathe, and Dean leans their foreheads together as he struggles to catch his breath. “I guess I should wear that shirt more often, huh?” he grins down at Castiel, who chuckles and presses a kiss to Dean’s jaw.

“No, Dean. It’s not a good shirt.”

Dean pulls back as far as the wall will allow, eyebrows raised. “I thought it was your favorite.”

“It is, because that night is my favorite. Because you are my favorite.” Cas is staring at him in something close to exasperation, as if Dean should have figured this out by now.

Dean just smiles and kisses him again.

#suptober20 #destiel #deancas #destiel fluff #deancas fluff #first kisses #i was so mean to the shirt in this #it's not that bad lmao it's a fine shirt #the pacing here is odd but.#felt good to WRITE again! sorry ive been so spotty w suptober :/#my words

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blushing-starker · 4 years

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Having a boyfriend that's a natural rule breaker becomes even more tedious because now it's two people conspiring together, itching to shatter social norms. Sure, they won't pull the fire alarm stunt to get out of a quiz (that's more Rocket and Groot's style), place mirrors on front steps to confuse Fury and nearly give the principal a heart attack (Loki with an exasperated Thor and cackling Hela) or hire a mariachi band to follow hall monitor Alexander Pierce (Steve had joined Bucky and Sam in that one); they'd never sneak into the air vents, fill them with glitter so the haughty board of directors would be covered in pink sparkles when they cranked the ac (Clint and Nat).

Ok, they did help with that last one, buying the shimmering stuff from T'Challa's sister and slipping five jars into Clint's backpack, but they didn't actually go into the vents.

But that's not the point. The point is there are limits to their rule breaking; Tony's spot on the football team and Peter's participation in the art club too important to risk on something as silly as skipping a quiz. No, they thanked their best friends, unhooked the window lock and slithered out only after finishing and handing in the quiz. They weren't amateurs.

Still, Peter knows Tony literally couldn't have chosen a worse time for their impromptu lunch date. (Luckily, he'd expected this exact situation.)

"Tony, they don't even have bad food today. We could just wait until the bell rang to meet up and eat at the bleachers. Like we always do a day before a big game."

His boyfriend swivels around, hooks nimble fingers into his belt loops to pull Peter closer, never once stumbling even while walking backwards. The grin he shows is manic, just this side of wild to let Peter know this isn't about haunting nightmares and bouts of anxiety. This is normal, too high on a feeling Tony Stark. Which means he won't head back to school unless Peter pulls out all the stops...

He's too exhausted from last night's art project to use up energy on the puppy eyes. So he sighs, tugs on the blue varsity jacket Tony loves to show off, kisses a dimple before turning this untamed creature around.

"Come on, I found a new route to that shawarma place with MJ and Ned last week." It sounds exasperated, but Tony knows Peter will do anything to keep him happy. Well. Not anything. There's only so many times they can discuss Star Wars before simply agreeing to disagree on whether Han and Luke are pan or bi.

"What, and you tell me this now?", Tony squawks indignantly from Peter's left side, freezing nose nuzzling into Peter's neck as revenge.

Like a robber caught sneaking into a vault, he raises his hands instantly before shoving Tony away.

"Hey, you were focusing on practice! If I told you, you'd bring Rhodey, he'd bring T'Challa and then Shuri would pop up and who goes where she goes? Bucky, which means Steve and Sam, who'd already be there thanks to Rhodey and of course Clint would somehow appear with Nat. We'd be together so Ned and MJ are gonna be teasing with Betty and half the guys in our grade have a crush on Nat, or MJ or Shuri or Betty or you. So what's the end result? The entire football, soccer, basketball and swim team eating shawarma a week before the games. I am not hearing Coach Coulson scold me for you guys breaking diet again. I'm already on his list, another situation like that and I'll have to run fifteen laps around the field."

"Oh come on, you can do those in your sleep." He could, but again, not the point.

"With a weighted backpack, Tony."

"Yeah, I can see why you wouldn't want that."

"Before cycling fifteen laps and then swimming fifteen laps."

"Jesus, why would he even do that?" Tony looks at him then, disgruntled at the thought of his boyfriend doing all that.

He shrugs, doesn't want to explain Peter had done it once when it all got too much and he'd needed to release the pent up energy. He hadn't noticed Coach watching him, ready to come help if he hurt himself. They'd talk afterwards, Coulson making him promise to never do that alone. Now it became a reward and a punishment. Peter won the art contest? Fifteen everything to focus his mind and not go jumping off walls in his excitement.

His students wolfing down a thousand calories before a game? Fifteen everything so Peter would at least "time it so it's not during the season, Jesus". To be fair to Peter, Tony participated in almost all the sports teams so scheduling was hard.

"Listen, just don't eat a whole animal, ok? We can split it, eat enough," he glares at Tony, pushing through even as the puppy eyes come out, "and then head to the movies. They're showing Aliens for a few days cuz of Halloween and I already texted the guys to come during lunch."

His boyfriend, smart and sharp and witty, just blinks at him. "But we have class after lunch."

"Technically, but I convinced Mr Pym to let the class out of lab so we could all hang out. It's the one class we share so now the whole group can see it together."

Tony stops, eyes wide and mouth open.

"You, what, planned this?"

"Yeah, something fun before tomorrow to take it off your mind for a while. Or, you know, not make it stand out as much. I know how focused you get, and it's really great, having that as a goal, strategizing and taking it seriously. But I also know it can be a lot, so I thought we should all hang out since each of us has something coming up and we aren't spending much time together. Which I get, responsibilities and family and school; I just missed it and I can't be the only one, right? So yeah, this was planned. Like, two weeks ago. When MJ found the new route, it was like a sign. And I really want you to relax and enjoy the whole, I have friends that care for me and a boyfriend that loves-"

He slaps a hand on his mouth, eyes impossibly wide and cheeks flaming. Tony and Peter stand immobile, the world reduced to beat up sneakers breaking the simplicity of yellow lines on black, a flickering neon sign telling them the shawarma place is open and two hearts slowly starting to beat again after that confession.

Ned would say it's romantic. MJ would bluntly remind them it's a bad idea to stand in the middle of the road even if they're saying I love you. And with good reason, since there's the telltale roar of a car bursting with teenagers, voices howling out the lyrics to an AC/DC song. And of course Peter notices the noise of rubber swerving against gravel, the screeching of old brakes and a few terrified shrieks harmonizing with a sharp wind blasting into him out of nowhere. Before he can react, Tony is there, wrapping his arms around Peter and shoving them both into the little patch of grass that grows from a crack in dirty pavement.

There's a moment where his whole world flips, tumbles until he screws his eyes shut and prepare himself for whatever the fuck caused that noise. But nothing comes. Only a sigh blowing a stray curl away from his forehead. But a sigh? Why would?

Tony.

He gasps, jolts upright and apologizes when that just serves to jostle his boyfriend further into the ground. His boyfriend who'd flip them so Peter wouldn't be hurt. Tony is peering at him through half shut eyes, discomfort clear on the grimace he tried to transform into a sheepish grin.

"So, you love me, huh?"

It's the stupidest thing Tony Stark has ever said.

"What the fuck were you thinking? You could have gotten hurt, you could have shattered a wrist, dislocated a shoulder, torn an ACL, bent a leg-"

"This is not what I expected. Also it was a three foot leap forward on grass, I'm fine, Peter."

"Or bashed your head, or busted an arm and then what would you do for the game tomorrow? Who the hell does that?"

"The guy you love, apparently."

"That's not the point, Tony, that's unimportant because you nearly got hurt. Christ, Coulson will slaughter me if there's a scratch on you, and then your mom would be sad and I'd be sad because, what would I do without you? And don't you ever do that again, I can't take it. I am not losing you, Tony. God, why would you do that, risk so much on-"

"On you? Babe, I'd do it again. Ok, not the right thing to say based on the whole face thing you got going on right now. But just hear me out. Don't, stop hitting me, ow, why are you hitting, how are you this strong, Jesus. Ow, stop it. Peter, for fuck's sakes, I love you, you animal. Now please let go of the jacket, it'll get wrinkles."

His hands unclasp the soft cotton, Tony falling back with a groan and Peter's unhinged jaw snapping shut after fifteen seconds of letting the flies in.

It's a wonderful thing, hearing the guy he's loved for so long say it back, say he loves Peter.

It's also fucking stupid since there's even more reason to not do stunts like that.

"You're an idiot. I'm in love with a guy that has one shared brain cell with Steve. You could have been hurt, Tony. And what would that have done, huh?"

His boyfriend sighs yet again, wraps an arm around Peter to push them from the ground and heads to the car where their friends are gawking. He waves them off, offers a "Yeah, I know I'm amazing, no, I didn't break anything, T'challa, yes, I can play, Jesus, Rogers, I can read you like a book. I appreciate the worry, Bruce; Nat, thanks for calming him down. Rhodes, excellent driving. No need to hog the seats, Sam, we need to settle in. Peter, you can keep cursing me out if you, yeah, see how it's nice being fun size when you fit in my lap in a car full of people. What, I'm not walking after that, I don't care if it's til we reach the parking. Let's go, Rhodes. Pepper, I'm fine. "

Clint offers a high five. Tony responds and that's that. Out of sight, Ned gives him a fist bump and MJ keeps on reading her book. It could just be his imagination, but Tony's sure she's smiling, approval clear on her face. He preens, glad to have her blessing, and settles his head on Peter's fluffy hair.

-----

When they're all laughing in a booth, smashed together and picking food off of everyone's plate, Peter nuzzles the crook of his neck, holds his hand and squeezes it. Tony smiles, lights up and shoves at Sam's face when the trio of best friends tease him for puffing his chest out when his boyfriend ever so softly says, "I love you."

"I love you, too." The table whoops and calls for another round of food and Coca-Cola, their family grinning at them and fondly teasing the new couple. Tony grins back, high on this feeling of warmth and happiness and safety and love.

And then Peter presses ice cold lips onto his neck and he lets out a shout, pain coursing through him when a knee slams into the table. His eyes water and through the haze of agony he sees their friends exchanging cash, some grumbling and others smirking. Rhodey and MJ, he notes, are the ones that win the most. They high five before pocketing the cash and ordering dessert.

Peter kisses his cheek, smile innocent and eyes wicked. It's his own fault Tony snatches an ice cube and slips it below his Nirvana shirt. He only has five seconds to lord his victory over Peter before there's ice cream being smeared on his cheek. They battle then, accidentally sending food into Wanda's lap, Clint's hair and Bucky's face.

In less than a minute they are all covered in shawarma and participating in the fight. Peter shrieks when Tony pulls him into his lap, gets chicken on the varsity jacket and tries to wriggle away. But Tony kisses him, tastes ice cream and joy, thanks whoever decided to give him a break and find this incredible person dozing on the roof of the school with Ned and MJ one spring afternoon. Peter kisses back and, at the same time, they say, confidently, honestly,

"I love you."

This is dedicated to @drarryismyshit07

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atlasfreak · 3 years

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hell is hot from your mistakes

chapter two; Tumblr edition

The afterlife is a mess of time and space. Dream got the brunt end of that mess, of time, and bad luck follows Tommy even in death. Dream is mere seconds too late reviving him.

Tommy wakes up in a familiar, unfamiliar world in a familiar, unfamiliar body that looks so much like an old friend of his, and yet he remembers everything when really, he shouldn't His brother's voice guides him, the Nether is blistering heat and dust and his hands are hoofed.

ArchiveOfOurOwn link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30073104 or THIS

Life as a piglin isn't so bad. Tommy decided that a week or so ago.

He wakes up in their little cave. Tommy's brother will headbutt him until he gets up and plays - they chase each other around the netherrack. Sometime later the big piglin, their mother, cracks open her eyes with a tired rumble. It feels so childish, Tommy feels so childish, playing games with his brother while he knows that bad things are happening in the Overworld, in his home - that he messes around with a dumb piglin friend while Tubbo and Quackity and Sam Nook and Techno and the DreamSMP have to deal with his mess, his rivalry, his death.

Then his brother barrels into him, and he feels Dream's phantom fist in his face, and he gets up, and he runs faster.

Their mother watches with approval.

That's what she does when they play - she watches. She doesn't move, not even when Tommy is thrown too far and doesn't get up for a moment (not again not again not again I'm not going back there I don't want to die). Then she will leave them there, alone in a big red cave, and she will come back a few hours later with food. She'll watch, watch them eat, then watch them play, and then it's time to sleep and she will watch them sleep always standing guard, protecting.

Sometimes she takes them out into the forest, like the day Tommy woke up. They stick close to her side when she does.

It's not rare that, when she came back to them, she'd be bleeding. They know it's from the hoglins - Tommy remembers the bruises they left across his human body. Their mother always tried to hide the blood from their eyes, but they had seen it before. He was torn - part of himself chastises, a soldier never flinches at blood, and the other is yelling, screaming for mercy, but Dream never showed him mercy. Never.

His brother was equally as desensitized, but that's how it was as a Nether mob. Even a baby like him has seen horrors here.

Their mother brings back hoglin meat and leather and she sharpens her golden sword on a beastly tusk. It makes Tommy feel ever so slightly sick - the hoglins look like piglin brutes and Technoblade is a piglin brute and always, always the worry bubbles up that somehow, somehow Techno was killed. That Tommy will arrive in a very different DreamSMP than he knew, one with more spirits and less living, breathing bodies.

Mama piglin will notice him staring at his food oh-so-blankly. She'll nudge him with silent eyes. He shakes his head and he ignores his worst thoughts and he eats. It's usually raw and tough and chewy, but it's good. When they have a stroke of luck and hoglins step too close to lava or fire, they eat cooked pork. Very rarely does the piglin mother give them rotten flesh to eat and Tommy is glad, but god if he can't help but miss the carrots he was used to in the SMP, or the sweeter golden carrots Techno always gave him, or even the dusty potatoes of Pogtopia.

That's how it always was. He would let himself enjoy something, and then his brain would remind him of what he's seen and done and suffered, of what's waiting for him when he finally finds a way home.

(He wishes this could be home, but he was never meant for safety, he thinks. He has to go back.)

Wilbur always goes quiet when he declares that he will make it back to the DreamSMP, and yet he always whispers "I'm sorry, Tommy " when the once-human boy goes still, lost in thought, in reminiscence - when he misses what he had what feels like eons ago, but enjoys what he has now, here, in a red cave in a red forest in a red world, when he thinks it doesn't feel right, to miss a metaphorical hell but enjoy life here, in literal hell. Wilbur apologizes.

Tommy knows he's lucky. He's never been lucky before, but right now he's lucky, because- because his guardian is kind and skilled and strong. He's seen other piglins die; he's watch her kill them. And still she always brings them food, still they live as well as the Nether allows and it's all thanks to her strength. Without her, Tommy would be dead, and he knows it.

He's so very very lucky and yet he still misses his last life.

So Wilbur apologizes. Tommy doesn't know why, but part of him whispers If he hadn't come to the DreamSMP, you would still have every life. It's his fault. Of course he's apologizing. He decides that he'll never let Wilbur hear that voice

Tommy likes Wilbur now. He liked L'manburgian Wilbur and he hated Pogtopian Wilbur and he likes Ghost Wilbur and he hated Death Zone Wilbur and he likes Nether Wilbur.

Of course, he was nervous - nervous that Wilbur would go mad again, that he would put that final nail in the coffin, that Tommy would be stuck with the ghost of everything bad in Pogtopia murmuring into his ear. But Wilbur didn't - he hasn't. He's as sane as he was when they laughed together, when life was kind. Wilburs leaves when Tommy asks him to go, Wilbur jokes and he laughs and his voice is always fond now. Tommy can trust him, finally. He trusts here, somehow - despite everything, he trusts. He trusts his new mother and his new brother he trusts Wilbur. He trusts him more than he did by his right hand in a revolution built on drugs and blackstone walls, far more than he ever did as a bystander to madness in a desperate hideout, a ravine.

Wilbur Soot has been there always, through everything, but only now does Tommy trust him. Only now does Wilbur act like family does, like a brother should.

(Are they family now? Tommy hopes they are.)

One day he'll ask what happened in those long years Wilbur spent dead. How had he changed so much? But for now, he'll let Wilbur keep his secrets; he doesn't want this to be ruined.

But no matter. Tommy is grateful and he finally, finally trusts Wilbur.

Where is Wil, anyway?

Tommy lets his eyes flutter open. He glances up at the warm red roof. He's curled in on himself - he'd been ready to sleep. He waits for a quiet Tommy? or a groan from the voice in his ears, but Wilbur's gone, he's silent. Probably asleep. (Can you even sleep in the Afterlife? Tommy hadn't tried.)

He looks back down, eyes scanning the cave.

His piglin brother is snoring softly to his right, dead to the world like Technoblade always was when he slept. Tommy thinks about Techno a lot, thinks about how Techno must have done this, too; survived the Nether. He looks at his hoofed hands and he thinks of his old friend.

He's distracted again. Tommy shakes his head and turns to his left.

Mama piglin is laying there, in her spot, watching Tommy and his piglin brother. Her eyes never leave them as she licks a small, bloody gash on her shoulder, cleaning it almost like a cat. Tommy stares at the red as it drips down and stains her soft fur, and he only blinks when she presses hoglin hide to it, soaking up the rest of the crimson, waiting for it to scab. Her eyes are on him purely now, curious.

Tommy moves to lay his head back on the ground. He and his piglin brother sleep on a little patch of soft soul soil, his mother by the entrance but just out of sight of the outside. Wilbur's voice always comes from the right of him, by where the other piglin sleeps. It's cozy; it's nice.

She tilts her head as he shifts, squeaking at him. He still can't quite talk like them - he's got a piglin's body and his human memories and thoughts and those memories and thoughts are wired for English. But he understands what she says.

"Are you ok?"

Tommy grumbles back. She gets up and sniffs at his head, like she always does. Checking that he's ok.

"I fuckin'- I miss my home," he tells her. His English is improving, and he's excited to use it on a person, a player. But for now, he uses it at a piglin; a piglin who doesn't understand. She's used to it by now, her odd son. She's used to his odd speaking and his odd movement and his odd thinking and she still protects him with her life. Still, it's typically tough love, with her. She would sacrifice herself for them, yes, but she so rarely lets them curl up to her.

Right now, though? She lays her head by Tommy's, puffing air at him and quietly murmuring comfort.

"I miss the fuckin' SMP. I want to go back home, but I like it here with you, too. I don't know what I'm gonna fuckin' do."

She licks at his face with a worried warble. It's just a low grunt, and yet Tommy still understands.

"Sleep. Sleep! Worry is not good for piglets. Worry is not good for you!"

Tommy closes his eyes. "Ok. Ok, I'll- I'll sleep. On it. I'll sleep on it. Goodnight, piglin mother. Goodnight."

He hears her get up to go back to her spot, and while she doesn't understand his words, she understands his point.

She rumbles, almost purrs as she goes back to watching.

Tommy could practically hear her voice wish him "sweet dreams."

It's been two weeks since Tommy woke up with hooves; seventeen days, sixteen nights. He takes his mother's sword and cuts nicks in the wall for every day.

Piglins are odd mothers. More protective than anything Tommy's ever seen, and yet so relaxed about when their piglets live or die, whether they're safe or hurt.

Mama Piglin (as Wilbur has dubbed her) watches with an eagle's eye, but she lets him use the sword with little protest.

It's hard to count the days in the Nether. There's no sun to wake him up, and there's no moon to tell him to sleep. There's only his piglin brother to shake his shoulder, wake up, come play! and his piglin mother to croak at him, time for sleep. Wilbur has been telling him when an Overworld day is over and when an Overworld day has started.

Tommy will never admit it, but Wilbur has been his savior, his anchor in this red world. Someone who speaks like him and thinks like him and knows how he speaks and knows how he thinks. Wil's mellowed out, half the madness he had when he died, and he instructs and guides Tommy and god, most importantly, he keeps Tommy company.

And right now, Wilbur is keeping too much company.

I don't see why you want to go back. Wilbur grumbles. It's nice here. Just stay a Nether piglin, Tommy. You have Mama Piglin to keep you safe and Brother Piglin to play with. What's the DreamSMP got?

They're following Mama Piglin through the brush. Tommy fidgets with a red tendril he'd nicked hanging from a small tree while Wilbur's voice saves him from sheer boredom. "Well, it's got Tubbo," Tommy grumbles.

Wilbur sighs. His voice comes from somewhere behind Tommy. Didn't Tubbo exile you?

"Lads on tour, lads on tour," Tommy hums instead, staring at the ground. I'm not heavy enough to leave hoof tracks, he notes quietly. "Do you remember being Ghostbur, Wil?" You changed the subject, but yes. I still am Ghostbur, Wilbur mutters. How do you think I know when it's been a day?

"I dunno. Thought you like, counted."

Counted the seconds in a day?

"Seems like a you thing."

Mama Piglin pauses and Tommy nearly runs into her. She chirps quietly at him and Little Piglin as he appears on Tommy's left, then turns around.

"Stay," she's saying, Tommy decides. He sits. The other piglin glances at him and then copies. When she nods approvingly, Tommy sticks his tongue out at his brother.

Don't be rude, Tommy, Wilbur scolds as the piglin's ears flatten.

"'e's a prick."

So are you.

"Wh- hey!"

Watch Mama Piglin, Wilbur interrupts suddenly. His voice is rapt with excitement. She's gonna try and kill that hoglin.

Tommy glances around, intrigued. He catches the other piglin staring into the trees after their mother, so he follows its gaze. The big piglin is, in fact, creeping up on a grazing hoglin, golden sword unsheathed and held at her side. It's an awful beast, chewing on the red grass, facing away from Mama Piglin (Tommy and his brother, hiding in the thicket.)

"Nononono, wait." Tommy whips his head around, trying to peer through the trees aroudn them. "Wait, she's gonna get herself killed, Wilbur. Wilbur, Wilbur- Wilbur, don't hoglins come in groups?"

Wilbur is silent. Tommy is alone with his thoughts - his worries. "No, mama piglin! You're gonna die!" he screams in his painfully inhuman scream.

She glances over. Almost if understanding, her eyes are wide. Confused, almost fearful. She grumbles lowly, asking "Danger?"

The baby piglin beside him has wide eyes, as if he understood his English.

"Yes! Danger! Mama piglin, lots of danger! Lots of fuckin' danger!"

Tommy, shut up! Wilbur spits, almost frantic. Shut the fuck up! You're gonna alert the hog!

Too late.

The hoglin looks up as Tommy shuts his mouth, eyes wide. Mama piglin starts backing up slow, slowly. The hoglin looks around, searching for the source of the noise, and it locks eyes with her.

Her ears fall flat.

Oh, fuck. Wilbur whispers.

The hoglin rears with a bloodcurdling roar, slamming its front hooves into the ground. Tommy can't feel his legs; he's stapled to the ground, forced to watch the horrible swine as it grunts, as it charges.

The other baby piglin squeals as the hoglin slams its tusks into their mother - the impact sends her flying. The other child smacks at Tommy frantically - "GO! GO!" -and runs towards the hoglin.

"NO! NONONONONO! NO, COME BACK! YOU'RE GOING THE WRONG WAY! YOU'LL DIE! NO!" Tommy screams, pain lighting his throat ablaze.

Wilbur is deathly silent in his ears, but Tommy can hear his shaky breaths.

The hoglin roars as Tommy's piglin brother stumbles through the red grass. Tommy and Wilbur both know what awaits him there.

Tommy hears the thud of more hooves, and yet he still can't move. He feels panic shoot through every one of his veins like snow slush under wheels and he can't move. He feels like he's sitting beside himself, watching his hooves shake. They're alien to him - part of him knows that even if they were skin, not fur, he still wouldn't recognize them.

Wilbur's voice finally, finally cuts through the fuzziness.

THESEUS, RUN!

Tommy looks up. Soon there will be blood staining long hoglin tusks. Three more have arrived. His brother is screaming, and Tommy is broken out of his stupor as he feels himself get scruffed.

His mother - she's grabbed him, tugging him away. Her eyes shine with something distant, familiar.

It's grief.

They're leaving the other child behind.

"No, we can't!" Tommy shrieks. "No! Mama, we have to go back! We have to go get him!"

Deep down, he knows his piglin brother is already dead, crushed under dirty hog hooves. That doesn't stop him from sobbing as his mother holds him close, afraid to loosen her grip lest she lose a second son.

"Wilbur!" Tommy's voice shakes. "Wilbur! Wilbur?"

He's silent, and so is Tommy's piglin brother. There are no more heartwrenching screams, only sick silence. Tommy still feels the fear rushing through him as his mother runs, and Tommy knows if water could exist here, he would be crying harder than he had in a very long time.

Dry your tears. Soldiers don't cry.

(But he's not a soldier here, he's just a child. He's always been just a child.)

The cavern he's come to see as his home feels so fucking empty without his brother, and his ears feel so blank without Wilbur's voice, his gentle humming. Tommy hopes that he'd taken the piglin child to the afterlife, and he hopes even more that Wilbur will come back, that he won't be trapped in the dead zone. That he won't leave Tommy alone, so terribly fucking alone.

His mother doesn't place him in his spot on the soul soil today. She instead grabs him and draws him to lay by her side, and she's shaking. God, she's shaking like a leaf. She swallows her sadness down, lifts her head to shake away her pain and Tommy watches her in horror as she turns to him and she puts her effort into comforting him. Sniffing at his head as she always does, making sure he's still alive and well. Holding him close, so nothing will harm him. Reassuring him, reassuring herself. It.. it's nice, Tommy decides. If he has to be a baby piglin, he has a good mother, at least.

"Mama piglin?" he murmurs.

She doesn't respond.

He looks to his right, where his brothers used to sleep - both of them. His piglin brother and his human one - they always sat to his right. Whether soft fur or a quiet voice, they were always at his right.

"Wilbur?"

He doesn't respond.

Tommy sighs and lets his head fall. "Goodnight, mama piglin. Goodnight, Wilbur. Goodnight, Nether." His voice breaks.

"Goodnight, brother piglin."

When he dreams today, it's so much more real. So much more horrifyingly real.

He's back in the prison. His own body lays in a shaky ring of blood, looking broken as it felt to live in it. Dream is sitting against the wall, head tucked behind his knees, hidden behind his arms. He's not wearing his mask, and his knuckles bleed. Red stains the wall above his head as well. Tommy winces as it trickles down, into greasy blonde hair.

Funny. Even after dying, after being reborn as a stupid little pig, Dream still haunts his - well, dreams. Fitting. Tommy could almost laugh at the irony, but he doesn't. Tommy doesn't move at all, actually. He's standing in front of the lava, stock still. He doesn't think he could move if he wanted to; he feels like his feet are glued to the ground. He looks down, as though to check.

He takes a sharp breath. His eyes shoot up immediately, waiting for Dream to whip around and smile at him, waiting for the haunting "Tommy, welcome back!"

But no matter how long Tommy holds his breath, Dream doesn't react.

Tommy looks down again.

He doesn't have the little hooves he's used to, no soft fur. He notices now that there's no tail following him, and he's taller than he should be. Way taller.

He's human.

He's a ghost.

Tommy shakes his head. His hair flops around like his ears used to, and he hates it. Somehow, somehow, he misses being a piglin. There's no more fluff to cover up the bruises on his skin, and it's bittersweet. He doesn't like this.

The splash of water echoes in his ears. He glances up. Food is falling into the water pool at the edge of the cell. They're not raw potatoes, they're carrots.

"Hello, Sam," Dream murmurs, lifting his head out from behind his arms. "I still won't help you."

Immediately, Tommy knows he's missing something. He's an eavesdropper, listening to an old conversation he's new to.

Sam sighs. "It's not a bribe. I ran out of potatoes."

"You didn't."

"I did."

Silence stretches out before Dream yawns. He doesn't move to grab the food, just stares. "You ever gonna come get this?" he says, nodding at the body.

"They're for you."

"Not the carrots. Tommy."

Tommy jolts as Dream says his name, a spike of frantic anxiety, but Dream is glaring at his corpse. Not him, not his apparition, not his face.

"Dream," Tommy calls. Against all his better judgement - he has to know. "Dream?"

No piercing green gaze turns to bore into gray eyes. Feeling returns to Tommy's legs. Shakily, shakily, he creeps forward.

"Dream?"

He nudges his former cellmate - his hand passes through. But Dream jumps and looks around and Tommy's heart drops. Dream's eyes don't find him. He raises an eyebrow, turns away. Tommy sighs. He's safe. Dream can't touch him.

Dream is back to glaring at the carrots. "Sam?"

"Dream."

"So? Are you gonna come take his body, or..?"

"I-"

What are you doing, Theseus?

He nearly jumps out of his skin, Tommy's so startled. "Wilbur?"

Tommy! A grey hand pokes out from the wall. Ghostbur. You're not meant to be here, Tommy. Come with me! Dream can see me, we should go.

Tommy casts one last weary look at Dream, then he sighs and he shuts his eyes and he takes Wilbur's hand. Wilbur tugs.

When Tommy opens his eyes, his hands are hoofed and he sees red again. The red is comforting. Red has never been comforting before.

"Wilbur?"

Tommy! Good morning.

"I dreamt about you. And Dream. And Sam."

A pause. Oh, Tommy.

"I was- I was afraid," he whispers. He doesn't want to wake Mama Piglin, he really doesn't. "I was afraid Dream would see me, so fuckin' afraid."

Ignore it, Tommy. Wilbur's voice echoes in his ears. You weren't meant to see th- you're not meant to have nightmares here, it's safe. No Dream here. Ignore it. It'll only upset you. Ignore it. Go back to sleep.

"..okay," Tommy murmurs. "Ok, Wil."

...

"Wilbur?"

Theseus?

"Will you- nevermind."

No, it's ok. What is it?

"Uh- why don't you sing? I haven't heard you sing in awhile."

There's a moment of silence. Do y- do you want me to sing to you?

"No- no, I'm-"

Awww, Tommy! I'll sing to you, it's ok! Tommy!

Tommy grumbles, but Wilbur's voice drifts around, soft and sweet as ever. He can almost forget the thunder of hooves, the bubble of lava, the roar of explosives - all of it, he could almost forget as Wilbur hums.

Almost.

But when Tommy's eyes flutter closed and his breath evens out, Wilbur Soot frowns.

Somewhere across the map, there's a portal. Through that portal is a stone black room and stone black creeper eyes and a stone black cell and in that stone black cell, Dream could've sworn he felt a hand on his shoulder.

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thismasterpieceofmine · 3 years

Text

Breaking the Rules

Rated T; Spoilers for seasons 4-15.18

Regardless of what Heaven thinks, Cas was not doomed the moment he touched Dean's soul in Hell. He was saved.

Or: a look at all the rules Castiel broke as he sided with the Winchesters, and the one rule he surprisingly kept.

Michael had been absolutely clear in his instructions: “Grab the Righteous Man’s soul from the Pit and return it to it’s body so I may have my vessel to defeat Lucifer.” Towering above the seraph, Michael’s cold eyes do not leave Castiel, as if waiting to find a crack or some indication this particular angel before him would fail him. “Do you understand your task?”

Castiel nodded, as one does not disobey an Archangel. “Yes sir.”

“Good. It doesn’t matter the casualties, don’t stop until you grab it,” Michael added, making it clear the task was to obtain his vessel.

It did not matter how many angels died in the process and if Castiel had been introduced to humanity, to doubt and other emotions at the time, perhaps he would’ve seen the flaws in thinking like that. But he had not, and such forth does not question Michael’s word. After all, Michael was the eldest of all angels. He was one of the few who their Father spoke to, and knowing His word, Castiel knows Michael’s own word must be almost as important as God’s. Besides, Castiel is old enough to know what happens to angels who disobey or question orders - they fall.

So Castiel, the good soldier, nods again and leads his garrison to Hell. They storm the gates as Michael has commanded, and in the midst of the fighting, Castiel flies to the Pit and retrieves the Righteous Man’s soul from the Rack.

“Oh, and Castiel?” Michael’s voice rang through his head as he reached for the soul, the final parting words the Archangel had told him before leaving. “Do not get attached to it.”

Such a silly warning, one might think, for angels are not able to get attached or form connections with things. Especially those below the Archangels in rank. Emotions had been deemed dangerous, tricky things that had caused the Fall, caused the Rebellion, and the remaining Archangels had made it clear how bad those were. And those who forgot, Naomi reminded.

Angels do not feel.

Angels do not get attached.

And yet, when Castiel’s hand meets the soul’s shoulder, a shudder passes through his grace. The soul is damaged, and has faced the harsh nature of Hell -- it has been torn and ripped at, all sharp edges and weeping wounds, and as Castiel touches it, it's emotions seep into his own grace. But still, despite this, he can feel it's strength, it's resilience and Castiel lets some of his grace seep into the soul to ease it's emotions, to patch it's wounds. Without realizing it, the angel mends most of the damage done to the Righteous Man’s soul, before returning it to it’s body, and that’s when Castiel breaks the first rule: don’t get attached.

Of course, Castiel doesn't realize this at the time. It becomes such a gradual thing, forming bit by bit, strengthening as time passes. After the Righteous Man -- Dean, his name is Dean. A name Michael does not use. All the angels view Dean has the Righteous Man, the Michael Sword. Castiel views him as Dean -- is resurrected, Castiel tries to reach out to him. It’s purely to keep an eye on him, much like he had been told to, after having delivered the news to Michael.

Michael had told him to ensure Lucifer’s agents did not weaken his vessel before the battle could commence -- and Castiel had understood his next command. Keep the Righteous Man safe to ensure Heaven wins, whatever the cost. So, as a loyal soldier of Heaven, he does. He allows himself to aid the Righteous Man and the vessel of Lucifer time and time again, and each time he returns to them, he finds himself growing intrigued by them. Dean especially. Up until this point, Castiel has only observed humans from afar, but now, seeing them up close, helping them, he feels like he’s truly begun to understand them. He can see the similarities between Dean and Michael too, but where the angels only see the similarities, Castiel sees the differences too.

Unlike Michael, Dean does not see the apocalypse as a war for paradise, of Heaven triumphing over Hell. Rather, he sees how it will affect humans, all those who will die and suffer for some useless battle -- and hearing it that way makes Castiel pause and think.

Because despite being told this battle will rid the world of evil and temptation, that Michael will use him to destroy Lucifer, the Serpent, the Fallen Angel of the Pit, the Father of Lies, Dean does not care for that. Instead, as the demons work to break the seals, him, and the vess--- Sam work to counteract it. They go against everything Castiel knows and believes, and as Castiel continues to offer his help, he finds himself doing the unthinkable: he asks questions.

Not out loud, no, he knows the consequences of that. But being around Dean, around the Winchesters, he thinks about what they tell him. He thinks about how his superiors and the angels around him seem less and less concerned as more seals break. They are all certain that Lucifer will be sprung from the Cage, Michael himself, and Castiel can’t understand what happened once to their dedication to preventing that. Why is it only the Winchesters that don’t want the war to happen?

It’s being at Dean’s side that Castiel truly learns Heaven and Hell aren’t so different -- they both want their war. They both want their victories over the other, and neither cares about humans if they don’t serve them for their tasks. Heaven especially. Perhaps Castiel should’ve figured this, as angels were soldiers first, not guardians, but he also remembers his Father telling them to love and protect humans.

And if Michael and Heaven can’t understand that, then Castiel will do it himself.

With this, he breaks two more rules: He doubts Heaven, and he disobeys his superiors, ignoring the mission they gave him.

An angel shouldn’t be able to turn its back on Heaven, not without falling, not with all the effort Michael has put in to keep them loyal, but Dean fascinates Castiel. It’s his willingness to not give up, to keep fighting even when the odds are stacked against him, and Castiel follows him wherever he goes. He helps the Winchesters try to stop the seals from breaking, he joins them on hunts, sits in the back of their car, and acts very unangelic.

He turns his back against Heaven again and again and again.

He kills angels for Sam and Dean, he talks back and asks questions, and allows himself to willingly fall further and further from God’s Grace.

Castiel lets Dean (and Sam) call him Cas, removing the suffix that ties him to Heaven, to God. No longer is the shield of God. He’s just Cas, and while the butchering of a Heavenly name should warrant the two hunters facing the wrath of heaven, Cas welcomes it with a smile. After all, Cas has made it clear at this point, that he will not serve Heaven anymore, will not listen to Michael’s orders, putting himself instead on the side of Humanity. Cas, the angel formerly known as Castiel, does not quite saunter from Heaven’s light, or take a thousand-year-free-fall to Hell, takes a conscious step off the edge of Heaven right into Humanity’s arms with a grin.

After stopping the showdown at Stull Cemetery, Cas begins breaking rules like it’s a checklist.

He rebels against Raphael, the only remaining Archangel.

He starts a rebellion in Heaven and then kills Raphael.

He kills angels -- old friends, new enemies, all those who were his brothers and sisters -- for the sake of two humans.

Cas questions God’s plan and then calls himself the new God in Raphael’s place.

He works with demons, he falls, he betrays Sam and Dean, his friends, all fo Heaven.

He lets himself get attached, feel emotions and care about other humans, picking humanity over his siblings each time.

Regardless of the chances he’s been given to come back, Cas turns his back on his angelic mission, on what the angels say is God’s plan, and no amount of threats and brainwashing and words can stop him. (Even death does not stick for Cas, who comes back as often as the Winchesters.)

In twelve years of being on Earth, of being in the presence of Dean, there is one final rule that he breaks.

Now, this isn’t a spoken rule that he was told by his superiors, but it’s a rule passed by mouth from those in his garrison and others he trained with. A rule made way back after the angels fell, when Nephilim first sprouted up - never fall in love with humans. Taboo, a rule that when broken was as good as death, as good as falling, as good as betrayal against Heaven. Angels were not allowed to fall in love.

Cas breaks that rule too. For how could one look at Dean Winchester and not fall in love? How could he not care so deeply about this one human who taught him everything, who shared his passions and showed him kindness and called him family when Heaven deemed him broken? How could he not love this human whose soul he patched up in Hell, who watched time in and time out, put himself so selflessly on the line for his brother, for their friends, for all of the world, expecting nothing in return? How was Cas expected to not care about him after all of that?

Chuck and a great deal of Heaven had pointed out time and time again that Castiel had come out wrong, a bit broken, a crack in his chassey, and perhaps they were right. Maybe he was broken, maybe he had fallen the moment he lay hands on Dean’s soul in Hell, or had shattered himself at the altar of Dean Winchester, but he was okay with that. Because Dean cared for him back, and Cas easily could say these last few years by the hunter’s side were some of the best, regardless of the good, bad and ugly that came with it.

“I love you,” he says with a smile. It’s not the way he planned this to go, and Dean looks confused and heartbroken, but Cas does not regret the words. He does not regret the rules he has broken to get here, even as Billie threatens to break down the door and kill them both. Nothing could ever stop Cas from breaking those rules again if given the chance -- because Dean Winchester had been saved when Cas had pulled him from Hell, and Cas had been saved the moment he met Dean on earth.

(and perhaps, for all that the grief he had been given over the rules he had broken, he should be given some credit for the one he had kept: Keep the Righteous Man safe. Maybe not without getting attached, but, as the Empty swallows him and Billie up, he likes to believe that that little detail hardly matters. He still kept the most important one.)

#spn fanfic #castiel #castiel centric fic #fanfic #supernatural #I'll reblog with the link #or else tumblr will probably eat this post #spn 15.18 spoilers #destiel

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babbushka · 5 years

Text

All My Stars (2/3)

The year is 1346. War ravages the land, and you are torn from your family to reside with the royal household of the Organas until it is safe. However you know there are more plots at play here, and you feel bitter and alone, until one mysterious Knight clad all in black bursts through the doors of the great hall, and into your heart, forever.

A Kylo Ren x Reader Medieval AU

(Word count: 15.2k ; warnings: N*FW, graphic violence)

-----------

Kylo is, for lack of a better word, enthralled with you.

Absolutely everything about you, from the way you carry yourself, to the way you seemingly were sunshine incarnate, has him captivated. It is becoming a problem, for he is finding it more and more difficult to remain aloof, to remain distant.

He does not deserve you, this he knows. Neither your kindness nor your smiles, your affectionate gazes. His stomach twists as he dreams against your door, standing upright with his eyes closed for a few hours of sleep.

But oh, they are wicked visions, for they are good dreams, the best of dreams. Dreams of your body close to his, his arms around your middle, back pressed against his chest. They are dreams of the depth of your eyes, the way your lashes fan out against your cheek as you blush at him – the fact that you even blush at him at all.

He is torn, conflicted, so conflicted. He has come to slay his brother, a challenge in and of itself – he was not anticipating you, was not prepared for the way you so quickly, so easily, made a home inside his chest. He feels as though he is falling, until he realizes he is falling, for real, not just in his dreams, and he jolts awake.

“You slept!” He hears you exclaim as he rushes to catch himself, bracing his arms out on the doorway so he might not topple over you and crush you beneath his armor.

“Pardon?” He asks, and he is so disoriented, for you are so lovely, dressed and prepared for the day.

You crowd yourself against him as you are wont to do, reach up to tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear. He frowns, he has never liked his ears, and shakes the hair free to your amusement.

“You were asleep, oh good, I was beginning to worry that you had gone all this time without a wink.” You say, and Kylo is strangely embarrassed, like he has been found out, proven to be mortal.

“You’ve caught me.” He says, and you beam up at him, for you know this is but a playful jest.

His heart warms at your smile, at the realization that now, something has shifted between you, that he is allowing himself to be more open, more warm. He offers his arm to you and you take it gladly, setting a slow and steady pace down through the hall. Your body is warm beside his, and Kylo does his best to breathe evenly, to focus on putting one foot in front of another.

“Please do not think that I require you alert at all times, a guard is little good to me if he is so exhausted.” You tease, and this admission relieves him of some of his stress.

He opens the door to the stairwell for you and follows carefully behind you down the spiral stone steps, makes sure you do not trip on the fabric of your skirt.

“What is on our agenda today, Lady (Y/N)?” He asks, and you throw a smile over your shoulder to him, one of mild exasperation, of fondness.

“Please, call me just (Y/N).” You instruct, to which is instantly ignores. You are a lady, a princess, of noble and royal blood alike, he will address you as such. “I would like to go into the village, if we may?” You ask, and he frowns.

“What for?” He asks, as this is the second time you’ve wanted to journey to the village.

There has not been another feast in between the last time you visited and now, there is nothing requiring your presence there. What could you possibly want in a farmland that you could not have here in the castle, on the grounds?

“Must there be a reason?” You challenge with a raised brow, reclaiming his arm once you are through with the stairwell, walking past the great hall, ignoring breakfast for the day.

“Most people typically tend to have one.” Kylo points out, a raised brow of his own.

“I am not like most people.” You reply, and Kylo admires your quick wit, for no you truly are not like most, like any he has come across.

“To the village it is, then.” He says with ease, and you puff up at the permission, not that you needed it anyway.

The stables are not far from the castle doors, and you break free from his arm to run the last few paces into the sheltered building. Your horse is there as is Sam, and Kylo thinks it comical the size comparison between the two.

He thinks back to the day he met Sam, his most trusted, if reluctant companion. How he had freed her from an abusive farmer’s whip, how he had slain the man who had carved and branded wounds and scars into her hide. Sam snorts a greeting at Kylo, but is much more interested in you, something he cannot fault the horse for.

You procure an apple each, one for his and your horse, and they eat them happily.

“Lady (Y/N)! I am afraid I have terrible news, your horse is ill.” The stableboy appears from around the corner, hat removed from his head and gripped tightly in his hands.

You pet the soft nose of your horse, regard him with a frown.

“Ill? But Agnes was perfectly fine just the other day!” You inspect her, and she only whinnies softly, tosses her head as if to say he is lying.

Kylo has been with horses his entire life, and he knows a sick one when he sees it – this is not that. Agnes looks perfectly healthy, her coat is shiny and her eyes are bright, and Kylo gives a hard stare at the stableboy, trying to decide what he’s playing at.

“The Queen has said her brother, Lord Bishop Luke, has prescribed her rest, I am afraid she cannot be ridden for a few days.” The stableboy explains, and your entire mood sours.

Kylo steps forward, hands balled into fists, ready to strangle the boy for ruining such a beautiful smile. You simply sigh, knowing that if the Queen has ordered it, there is nothing to be done.

“Please, make sure she gets the best care possible.” You say, glum before turning to Kylo, “It looks like we must find some other way to spend the day, Sir Ren.”

Sam chuffs and nudges Kylo’s back with her great big nose. He looks at her, and they exchange a glance or two, one that shows she is amendable to having you ride on her back once more.

“We could…” Kylo starts, hoping hoping hoping you do not think him overstepping any boundaries, “We could ride Samantha.”

“The both of us?” You ask with a great grin, no doubt remembering the way he had asked you to ride with him just the other day.

He blushes, for the thought of his arms around you once more has warmth spreading from his stomach, down to his toes, up to his spine where he tingles all over.

“Yes, I could remove some of my armor, so it would not be too heavy on her back.” Kylo says, and your eyes only widen, a great big smirk, a cheeky grin spreading across your face.

“Remove your armor?” You ask, and Kylo blushes, must choose his words carefully so that they may not appear rushed, or stammered.

“Not all of it, but I wear more layers than some deem necessary.” He says, before turning bright crimson when you step close, ever so close to him, your hands resting on his heavy breastplate, resting above his heart.

“If you would feel so comfortable, then I have no opposition.” You say, and Kylo swallows down a whimper for just as you have come, you are gone, giving him some room to breathe and undress.

He sheds two entire layers of protection, lessening the weight of his armor by half. He can already tell Sam is grateful for the lightened load, but she does not complain as you pet her mane, as you call her beautiful. In fact, she preens under the praise, and Kylo allows himself to roll his eyes, for of course his horse would like you better than his own self.

Sam is happy to simply trot down the path towards the village, taking her time. You are in no rush, simply wanting to get out of the castle walls, wanting to breathe the fresh air of nature, unpolluted by stench of civilization.

“Where have you been all these years? Why did they call you lost?” You ask, catching him off guard, as you travel through the wood.

The sunshine filters through the tops of the trees and a green gold washes across the floor in dappled patches. Kylo does not know how to answer, does not know what to say that will not alarm you, for what he has done has been most alarming. You wait, wait for an answer, and he finds he does not want to conceal the truth from you, you deserve the very best, nothing but the truth.

“I have been ruling in the Unknown Regions, under the hand of Chancellor Snoke. They call me the lost prince because I ran away when I was very young.” He says softly, only in your ear, as if there were spirits in the wood that might overhear.

“Why did you run?” You ask, and Kylo sighs.

“Because I am a murderer, a beast, a monster like everyone says.” He explains, the back of his throat burning with acid at the memories of his days as a prince.

“I do not say so.” You reply quietly, quiet and yet firm.

It is quiet for a long while, as Sam follows the path. There are chirping birds and blooming flowers, and you are so lovely pressed against him, his arms around you. All this, and still his mood darkens, he can feel thunder in his veins at the memory. But you do not seem angry with him, you show him nothing but concern, but compassion.

“The Chancellor showed me the truth of my family, the lies, the deception, the corruption. He opened my eyes to their lack of love, of care, their neglect for both me and my kingdom. I was part of a plot, a ploy, to murder them all and ascend the throne – but I was weak. I only managed to remove my father, and when my sister attacked me in retaliation, I slayed her as well, set fire to the castle.” He sighs, scrubs a gloved hand over his face, skin tingling, “She gave me this scar, a parting gift, a reminder of my failure, my shame.”

He fully expects you to gasp in shock, in horror, for this was murder in cold blood you see, this was treason, this was a crime. Instead, you reach out and pick ripened summer strawberries from bushes that Sam passes, and she slows to a halt to allow you to reach for more.

“Were they evil people?” You ask him, twisting your torso around to look up at him and his shining, wet eyes.

“No. But they were not good, either.” He whispers, and you only nod, place a strawberry in his palm.

“And now you are back, to finish the job?” You ask, closing his fist around it, squishing it, the juice running and flowing between his fingers.

“I do not know if I could kill my mother.” He says seriously, for this has been something he has battled with for twenty years.

You nod in understanding, and Kylo is so confused, so bewildered by you.

“But Sir Dameron?” You suggest with a cheeky grin, and this makes him very nearly smile.

“Oh, I have no problem skewering him.” He replies, and you laugh loudly, voice echoing through the forest.

Kylo urges Samantha onward, for at this rate you will never make it to the village before the day is done. She maintains her even pace, hooves clip clopping against the path. It is quiet, and it is peaceful – until it isn’t any longer.

Sam stiffens at the sound of something, and all at once Kylo’s attention is ripped from the soft tune of your humming, eyes scanning the trees.

“Lady (Y/N)! You must go.” He leaps down from his steed, sword drawn immediately as men jump down from the skies, hidden away in branches in the tall trees.

“What – ” You startle, for you are jumping down after him, not realizing, it is all happening too quickly.

There are ten of them, five great big men on the ground, dagger and sword drawn, and five in the trees, wearing camouflage colors of green and brown with bows and arrows poised at the ready. The men on the ground bare their filthy teeth at you, and Kylo does not waste a single moment, before he is defending you from them, swinging his sword expertly against their daggers, deflecting the arrows they shoot at you from above.

Adrenaline rushes through him, for it has been a long while since he has truly fought someone like this, and oh has he longed for the bloodshed of a victory. He shouts, a loud battle cry as he takes on all five men at once. They punch and kick but he weaves in and around them, meets their blows with one of his own, and he is more physically powerful, can move quicker than they can with these layers of his armor removed.

However he is more vulnerable to their bows, and must be careful, must dodge their pointed arrows. He twirls his sword and stabs a man through the stomach, relieved to see that he is not wearing mail of any kind – which means none of them must be.

This suddenly became much easier, he thinks, as he rounds on three more men, slices their gut open, listens to their ear splitting screams as they fall to the ground, slip and slide on their own mess.

The archers look at one another in fear, but with false bravery they descend from the trees, leap down and draw their swords. Kylo meets them, overpowers them, has no qualm to remove their hands, to slice the backs of their knees and incapacitate them. One by one they crumble to a pile, wailing and choking.

Kylo spears his sword through their necks from where they lay on the ground in agony, watches as blood bubbles up, gurgles through their gaping mouths.

“Get your hands off of me!” You shout, and Kylo whirls around to see the last man standing with his hand on your wrist.

Kylo sees red.

He storms over to where you are punching and punching this man in the face, trying to get him to let go of you, and Kylo tears you from his grip. Roughly he pushes you against a tree, a silent command to stay there, as he hauls the man up from the ground. He is tall, but Kylo is taller, and stronger, and he lifts this bandit, this scum of the earth by his throat, feet dangling and swinging for purchase as he chokes.

“What have you come here for?” Kylo demands, tightens his grip on the man’s throat, “Answer me!”

“For the princess!” The man chokes out, sobs, for now he can see the carnage that Kylo has left behind, nine bodies strewn about, some in pieces, some with their entrails spilled out from their bodies. All dead, and he knows he is to join them.

“To kill her?” Kylo shouts in his face, screams it, for he has come to realize that there is no greater fear he has, no greater crime that anyone could commit, than to want to do you harm.

“No! No – no just for the gold she wears, I swear it upon my life!” The man begs and cries and pleads, but Kylo shakes his head, sneers and scowls at him in disgust.

“Your life has little worth to me.” He spits in the man’s face, and with his other hand stabs his sword deep through his stomach.

He releases the man’s throat and watches as he falls deeper onto his sword, impaling himself as he falls down down down to the ground, a disgusting, tearing sound of flesh met with a heavy wet smack as the man goes limp on the earth.

Kylo’s chest is heaving, his shoulders are tense. He tenses when he feels hands on his back, rounds quickly to see who else there might be, but it is only you, only you.

“Lady (Y/N) what are you – ”

“I told you, I will not stand by and watch you bleed.” You say, searching him, checking him all over. He does not feel pain, but that is only because he is not paying attention, and the more he tries to will himself to relax, the more he can feel stinging all over. It is in his palm, in his calf, his back. You yank off his gloves, and deep red crimson spills. “Your wound has opened back up, it might do for me to stitch it closed.”

Kylo frowns, wipes the sweat off his brow.

“We cannot stay here, it is unsightly, these people.” He says, wanting to shelter you from the gory, horrific sight before you. For surely this must repulse you, the state of things, the state of him.

You only shake your head, reach into the small pocket you have tied around your waist, fish out a small vial of clear water, needle and thread.

“I do not mind, you must be tended to.” You insist, your hands shaking and your chin trembling, and Kylo rushes to cup your cheek, rushes to soothe you. He would move Heaven and Earth to prevent a single tear of your from falling down your nose. “I feel awful, I am so sorry.” You whisper and he shakes his head.

“You have nothing to apologize for, do you understand?” You may be insistent but so is he, “I am your guard, this is what I am meant for.”

And when you look up at him, when he sees the clearness in your eyes, he sees something else, a hunger he cannot place.

“You are meant for so much more than this.” You whisper, letting him dwell on that as you sit him down on the soft earth where there is no blood.

You close the wound on his hand once more, secure it with fine stitching, a true embroiderers touch. All the while you tend to him with such care, such a steady hand, such even breathing, that Kylo wonders how you are real at all. Any person he has known would have stayed atop his horse and ridden away, would have put as much distance between them and the danger as possible.

But you, you rushed to his aid, you punched a man in the face over and over again. You were no damsel, no weak thing in peril. He wonders if you had had a sword, a dagger, what damage you could have done.

“Do you know how to fight with weapons of steel?” He asks, and you lightly trace the line of stiches when you tie them off, cut the thread with your teeth.

“Of course, though I have none of my own. There was no time to grad my knife, during the siege.” You explain, and Kylo nods, stands up from the earth and goes to Samantha, who had been nothing but a great witness to the fight.

In one of her knapsacks is a push dagger, a new weapon he had been experimenting with for his own self. He found he much preferred his sword, but carried the dagger around with him, for it would be a great waste if someone did not use it.

“Take this.” He offers you the dagger, places it in your hands.

“It’s beautifully made, pray tell where did you find this?” You gasp in delight, hold it up to the sun so that you might get a better glimpse of the engraving, the detailing that covers practically every inch of the blade.

“I made it with mine own hands.” Kylo says, and you stop in your tracks.

“You?” You ask, turning to face him with wide eyes, “You made this?”

“I have made everything you see me wear and hold.” Kylo gestures to his body, and he blinks when you are suddenly pressed close to him, barely a breath away, your hands running over his armor.

There is blood there, and you smear it with your fingertips, seemingly not caring, seemingly in awe.

“You mean to tell me you are, in addition to a prince and a knight, you are a blacksmith too?” You whisper, and Kylo does not know why this is appealing, why the thought of him covered in ash and sweat, bent over a fire and hammering metal may be so attractive, but your pupils dilate in a way that makes him stir.

“Chancellor Snoke taught me everything I know. This armor took over one thousand hours, the sword nearly as long.” He says, and your ribcage expands as you take in a deep breath, as you bite your lip.

Your hand travels down his stomach to his side, where the pommel sticks out, juts against your hip.

“It is a very capable sword.” You smooth your hand up and down the hilt, and Kylo goes deathly still, for that is far too suggestive, far too close to what he does to his cock, which is only inches away from your hand. “May I?” You ask with big round eyes, and he finds his breathing quickening although there is no danger.

“It is heavy.” He murmurs, and a soft groan escapes your throat as you pull it out of its hilt.

“Divine, it is absolutely divine. So big.” You say, and the words travel right to his dick, make his head go dizzy with want.

He can’t, should not, lust after you – it isn’t right, isn’t proper, but you – heaven you make it so difficult, when you’re looking up at him like that, hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword. Surely you must know what it is you do to him, but in the case that you do not, he would not dare be the one to bring it up, not dare to be the one to tarnish your virtue.

“Lady (Y/N),” He chokes out as you caress his sword, “We…we must return to the castle, must rinse away the blood of these enemies.”

“Perhaps I might like to be covered in it, for it is a reminder of your strength, of this victory.” You do not make this easy, you make nothing easy, not as you loop your arms around his neck, as you press your body close to his – so close that you might very well feel the hard press of his cock through his trousers when you whisper, “I am indebted to you.”

“I require no such payment.” He removes your arms, and you smile, place his sword back in his holster.

The ride back to the castle is without any issue, although he is most uncomfortable, for his cock is still hard and being pressed against you atop his horse does nothing to lessen that want, that craving. He wills himself to be calm, wills and prays and begs silently inside his own head for the strength to at the very least make it through the rest of the day.

You return to the castle in secret, slip down to the storerooms to eat instead of going to the great hall. You do not want a fuss, you tell him, you simply want to go to bed.

So Kylo accompanies you to your bedchambers, leaves you in the capable hands of Gwendoline as he takes his armor down to the brook, scrubs it and himself clean. You have a perfumed bath in your room, and Kylo is grateful, glad that the scum will be washed away from you, from your hair, your clothes.

That evening, he stands at full attention, having had the chance to let the events settle into his bones.

Kylo is ever more vigilant than before, now. Now that there has been proof of a true necessity for your protection, now that he has seen firsthand that there are those who might do you harm.

Those who would have, had he not been there. He looks to the stitches which lace together his palm, and thunder cracks outside, loud and brash as it booms across the castle. The rain is heavy, and this does not bode well, is not a good sign for a peaceful night.

He wonders, as he stands outside your door back pressed firmly against the wood, if you are afraid of thunder or of lightning. He used to be, when he was only a boy, before the thunder and lightning forged him into the man he is today.

You are sound asleep in your bed, and this thought brings him comfort, for each time he blinks he can only see the terror in your face, can only relive the shout of pain you let slip when that filthy man gripped your wrist in an attempt to twist you to submission. He grits his teeth, hand flexing on his sword’s pommel as that shout echoes in his mind like the thunder does in the hall.

He sighs, looks through the window though it is a fruitless endeavor. There would be no visibility this night, and this makes him anxious – how is he to see your attackers if there is no way to see them? Fortunately, the castle servants have lit the sconces, one on either side of your door. Kylo stands between them and is grateful for their warmth. Who knew a summer night could be so cold?

Left alone with his thoughts, they begin to fixate on the attack, on your reaction to it.

Time and time again, you reacted in a manner Kylo did not expect. The way that you had run to his side, the way you had refused to hide, the way you tended to his wound without a second thought – all of this had him in such shock. You did not bat an eye at the blood which splattered his armor, paid no mind to the men who laid strewn across the floor, sliced to pieces and stabbed to a gory death by his sword, his hand, the hand you held tightly in your own.

He knew not what the feeling in his chest was, but whatever it was, it had a strong grip on him, one he could not shake.

He wasn’t so sure he wanted to.

All of his thinking about you is interrupted by a low noise that he hears coming from your room.

He freezes, tries to parse if it is just a trick of the rain, the thunder. But no, there it is again, a groan, low and long, and panic begins to build within him.

He turns to face your door, presses an ear against the wooden planks which separate the two of you. He quiets his mind, trains his hearing to focus – and yes there it is again, this time higher in tone, a wail. Kylo is indecisive.

He has never been inside your bedchambers before, no man has. He has never been inside the bedchambers of, well, any woman before, for it is improper, it is inappropriate –

“Sir Ren!” You cry, call for him, and that is all it takes. They may have his head for this, but you are groaning for him and he is sworn to protect you, and he does not know, can not know, what ails you from standing on the other side of your door.

He checks the door, fully anticipated to find it locked as it should be, as he has told you to do, but instead the handle turns easily for him, and Kylo decides that when you are safe, when you are feeling better, he will remind you that you must take all precautions for your safety – especially after the events of the day.

He takes a deep breath and opens the door, rounds inside the bedchambers and closes it behind him, sword drawn, before he drops it clean out of his grip, for you are in your bed yes, but you are not tucked in underneath the covers like Kylo had envisioned.

No, instead you are spread out on top of them, your smock bunched up above your waist, your knees parted as your toes curl into your sheets. His eyes widen as he takes in the sight of you, his mouth goes dry – before practically flooding, salivating, as he takes stock of your hand between your legs.

You are writhing in your bed, but it is not with pain, it is with pleasure.

He has made a grave mistake.

You freeze, no doubt wondering what Kylo is doing there, and he too is frozen. His mouth opens and closes as he tries to think of something to say, some apology that could be worthy of this error, and his mind is racing. Surely you must be mortified; he has embarrassed you, he has walked in on such a private moment, an intimate moment!

And yet, you do not scream at him to leave your chambers. You do not lob an object as his head, you do not move to cover yourself.

Your fingers begin to move once more, and Kylo holds his breath, when he realizes when you cried out his name, it hadn’t been in agony, it had been a moan.

“Sir Ren.” You throw your head back onto your pillow and moan for him again, as if you could read his mind.

His cock fills out immediately in his trousers – no one had ever said his name in quite that manner. You carry on as if he were not there, as if he were not some imposing figure looming at your door. Your hips arch up into your hand, and Kylo’s feet carry him towards you of their own accord, not coming to a rest until he is at the foot of your bed, until he leans his chest against the corner wooden post which holds up your canopy.

Shame burns through him, rips through his stomach, warms him from the inside of his armor out. He can feel the back of his neck sweating, has to lick his lips, bite at them to keep him from saying something stupid, from making you stop.

God, he doesn’t want you to stop.

He can see the stiff peaks of your nipples poking up your smock, can see the dark stains where sweat has soaked through it. How long had you been touching yourself like this, he wonders, wonders if this is the first occasion – or if there had been others, other moments he was unaware of.

Your eyes are closed, and he doesn’t think, doesn’t give it a second moment to mull over as he reaches his hand under his chainmail, dips his own hand into his trousers.

His cock is leaking at the tip, spurred on by your sighs and pants, and he has to brace himself against the bed. He sits down on the edge of your mattress, a soft thing that dips dramatically when he adds his weight in all his armor. It dips so dramatically in fact, that you are pulled to him, your body sliding down towards him, and you only let out a little laugh as you throw your legs over Kylo’s lap.

He has died, he decided, he must have been killed in that ambush, for no creature as lovely as you could ever be so at ease with yourself around him, ever so encouraging. And encouraging you are, as you continue to pleasure yourself, opening your eyes to watch him do the same.

He growls, frustrated that he is in full plate, frustrated that he cannot pull himself free, instead he must be content with this, with his hand down his trousers as he has his eye trained on your hand, moves to the speed at which you move yours.

“I – I’m going to come,” You gasp, and he grunts out an acknowledgment, trying to catch up.

He wants to fuck you, wants to make love to you, but he can’t, not like this – not under these circumstances, not like this. He strains to catch a glimpse of you, of your cunt, but your hand covers it and he cannot bear to tell you to stop, not when you are clearly so close.

“Cover my mouth.” You order and he doesn’t know why you demand it, doesn’t bother to ask you, only splays his leather-clad palm over your lips.

You shout, loudly, and Kylo then understands. Your moans would have carried through the hall, not even the thunder could have stopped them. Kylo is still stroking his cock, pulling at it with force and speed, but now he feels awkward that he is the only one.

“Don’t stop,” You say, command, and his chest hitches as he continues to jerk off.

Your legs are still draped over his lap, and Kylo admires them, the way the flesh of your thigh trembles, the way your knees are turned towards one another. You are smudging his armor, smearing it, ruining the polished finish and he groans loudly, thuds his head against the post which holds up this corner of the canopy, so turned on by that.

He never wants to wash the evidence of this night away.

His orgasm takes him by surprise, and he curses, come spurting over his hand inelegantly. The release is incredible, he doesn’t think he’s come that hard ever. But the beauty of the moment vanishes, when you pull your legs away and he is immediately reminded of the circumstances, of what he has done.

He winces when you raise your hand, expecting and bracing for a slap to the face, but when none comes and he cracks open an eye, it is to see you kneeling before him, offering him a square of silk, white with braided edging.

“Use this.” You whisper, and he knows you mean to clean up, to wipe away his come.

Kylo does as he’s told, and with shaking hands he does his best to clean up his mess without exposing himself to you. The silk is cool against his overheated skin, and he regrets the finery of the napkin you’ve given him, regrets how it is now sullied with such a sinful thing as his come.

He wants to kiss you, desperately, but he will not ruin you the way he has ruined this napkin. He tucks it into your waiting hand, and you clasp your glistening fingers around it, and Kylo’s stomach swoops at the thought of your come mixing together, living together there in that silk.

“Good night, Lady (Y/N).” Kylo murmurs, gathering himself together and retreating at once to your door.

He opens it and takes one last look at you for the night, the way your hair curls and sticks to your cheek from the sweat that has dampened it, the way you still kneel on your bed, hand outstretched as if calling to him, beckoning him.

“Call me (Y/N).” You say.

But you say it with a smile before flopping backwards onto your pillow, and when Kylo closes the door behind him, he knows that he is forgiven.

-----------

The next morning, you say nothing of your shared dalliance. You simply smile at him, and it is a knowing smile, and Kylo blushes behind you as he accompanies you all the way down to the great hall for breakfast, where there is sure to be a fuss.

And a fuss there is indeed – however this time it is not with anger they regard Kylo, it is with awe, with admiration.

“Lady (Y/N)! Is it true? Are there bandits in the wood?” A servant girl rushes up to you, clutching a bowl of pears to her chest as you and Kylo ascend the steps of the high table.

Kylo pulls out your chair for you, and stands behind you with hands clasped behind his back.

You gratefully take a pear, begin slicing it into pieces that you dip into honey.

“There were! And oh what a horrible group of men, I am eternally grateful for my guard, Sir Ren. If he were not with me, I do not know what might have become of me.” You beam, practically an angel, looking up at him with such adoration in your eyes that he must look away, for he can feel his ears burning from your kind words.

“Sir Ren?” His mother asks, as if she is surprised by this news.

She never did believe him capable of very much, he thinks bitterly. But that bitterness cannot remain, not when you turn to offer him a slice of pear, proud of him.

“Yes! He killed them swiftly, it was magnificent. I have never seen such speed and efficiency in my entire life. There we were, going down the path in the wood, the one to the village you know, and my goodness it was like something of a fairy tale the way they leapt from the trees, knives drawn!” You recounted.

“No.” Gwendoline gasps with mock shock, for you had told her the story last evening when Kylo had taken his bath.

“Sir Ren noticed the attack before I did, and he jumped down from his great steed with his weapon drawn, told me to flee the scene but I could not leave him, I was too enthralled with his swordsmanship. There were ten great men and within the blink of an eye, four lay on the ground bleeding from wounds to the neck and stomach.” You continue with a nod, and Kylo is enjoying your enthusiasm so much, that he does not notice at first when Dameron groans.

“Is this the most appropriate breakfast conversation?” He asks, swirling his spoon round and round in his porridge.

“Oh don’t tell me you are squeamish, Sir Dameron?” You ask, brow raised.

“No! No not at all I just think that perhaps the ladies at the table might like to be spared the gory details.” Dameron grumbles, and Kylo cannot help himself.

He takes a step forward and leans down so that he may speak only into your ear. Everyone in the hall strains, either obviously or subtly, to try and listen to what he says.

“It appears as though he seems far too concerned with the ladies and less so with his own training.” Kylo murmurs, the ghost of a jest on your ear, and you snort into the goblet which you had just lifted to your lips.

Satisfied, he straightens back up, as Dameron grumbles, brow pinched in a petulant scowl.

“What?” He demands to know, but you simply bite the inside of your cheek, shake your head.

“Nothing at all.” You said, though there is still a hint of humor in your voice, and Kylo’s chest warms through and through, knowing he has such an easy time making you laugh. “Anyway, then he…”

You spend the morning recounting the events, even going so far as to reenact with him. Kylo did little more than stand there while you pretended to stab him in the stomach with your spoon, but it entertained the entire hall, so much so that when you were finished with your breakfast and gathered your skirt up to leave, he was met with slight applause rather than harsh glares.

You were laughing with Kylo when once again, your happy mood was soiled by the prince, as he came chasing after the two of you.

“Lady (Y/N)!” He calls, throws a hand up to catch your attention.

“Yes, Sir Dameron?” You all but groan, and he braces his hands on his knees before tousling his hair and attempting to charm you.

“I was wondering if perhaps this afternoon you would take a walk with me, through the grounds.” Dameron asks, offering you his arm.

You simply look at it.

“Only if my guard may accompany us.” You agree, which brings irritation to Dameron’s face, and a victorious satisfaction to Kylo’s heart.

“Your highness may I remind you that I too am a knight?” Dameron asks, exasperated.

“You may.” You remark, sarcastic.

“I do not see why you must make things so much more difficult than necessary.” Dameron huffs, runs a hand through his hair, and for just a single moment, Kylo feels bad for him, for how stupid must one be, to not get the hint that he is unwanted?

“And I do not see why you insist on making me so uncomfortable with your attempts at an advancement.” You snap back, and anger flashes across his face.

“I – ” Dameron takes a step towards you with clenched jaw and fists, and Kylo intervenes immediately.

“Don’t.” He warns, threatens this man, his brother, for the second time.

It would seem that this is the limit.

“And you! I have about had enough of you. Bad enough you aim to steal your mother’s crown, but after what you did to your father? To our sister! How dare you show your face.” He spits, looks to you, to gauge your reaction. He thinks you do not know, that Kylo did not tell you. Well, he finds, they both find, he is wrong.

“He cannot steal what is rightfully his.” You seethe from behind Kylo, hands sliding around his waist.

Dameron’s eyes widen at the gesture, but he only growls.

“And what will you do with it? When you have it, if you win?” He steps forward once again, and Kylo is thankful for you, for only your arms around him are what is holding him back from breaking that perfect nose. “You know nothing of running a country, how could you having spent your whole life away?”

“You know nothing of what Sir Ren has done with his time away.” You say, angry, defensive, “Do not assume him to be so incapable.”

“Why do you stand up for him?! Why?” He explodes, and at this you dart around Kylo’s body, force yourself right in between them, teeth bared at this insufferable man.

“Because he is my friend!” You shout, shout so loudly, making Kylo’s ears ring, making all time stand still. “Do you still wish for a walk around the grounds, o kind and noble knight, Sir Dameron?” You have acid in your voice, and Dameron gets the message, finally.

“Perhaps another day.” He nods with a scowl, bows deeply, just as sarcastically.

“I shall await the moment with bated breath.” You have the last word, before Dameron turns on his heels and retreats to the castle.

Kylo can only see your tense shoulders from his position behind you, can only see the way your hands are balled into fists at your side. He reaches out, tentatively, ever so hesitantly, and hooks his pinky through yours.

“You consider me a friend?” He whispers, for the word has never been uttered in his regard before.

The tension falls, and you sigh, turn to face him with a sad smile.

“Of course I do.” You whisper back, not wanting to yell at him accidentally, as your hand twines with his own, careful of the stitches. “Surely you must know that.”

“Forgive me, I have never had one before.” Kylo admits, admits right there on the grass of the castle grounds, and you cup his cheek, press your forehead against his own in a gesture that he has now come to crave.

“Well now you do.” You say, and his chest tightens, tightens even more when you pull away.

-----------

The next morning, Kylo is restless. He paces up and down the hall, unable to stand by your door any longer. The sun has barely risen above the hills to the East when he hears light excited footsteps running down the hall of the castle, a familiar gait that has his heart beating ever slightly faster.

“Sir Ren!” He hears, your bright voice only confirming his suspicions, and he turns to face you, to bow deeply before you. You grin, eternally pleased to see him, and you give a proper curtsy of your own. “Good morning, are you well?” You ask, out of breath only slightly from having sprinted to greet him.

“My morning has been made much better, now that you’ve awoken.” Kylo says, and you only duck your head in modesty, as you loop your arm through his. This has become your favorite fashion for walking through the castle, and Kylo cannot bring himself to deny you it, even if he is afraid the metal of his armor will be cold against your hands, will chill your sleeve.

“The weather is pleasant, is it not?” You ask, completely undeterred by his plate and chainmail, instead content to lead him through the castle, past the windows where sunlight pours through in pale yellow beams that have your hair shining.

He notes the small basket you have pressed to your hip, and he wonders where or when you had snuck off to gather such a thing, for he had been outside of your door all evening save for the wee early hours of morning when he stole away for his daily bath in the brook.

“Yes, why, have you something you’d like to do?” He asks playfully, for clearly you do, and you laugh at his feigned ignorance, in the best of moods this fine morning.

“As a matter of fact, I would.” You say, before whispering conspiratorially, “You see there is a secret clearing of which I know, and I have found myself longing to witness its testament to beauty. It was my hope you may accompany me there for breakfast.” You waggle an eyebrow at him and he stops in his tracks.

“How did you learn of this clearing?” He asks, and you look very much like the cat which got the cream in the way you smirk.

“A nightingale told me of it in a dream.” You reply, and he hums, because of course he wouldn’t be getting a straight answer out of you, not for anything it would seem.

You are so unlike any woman he had ever come across, he thinks, and he realizes he’s staring when you begin to blush.

“A dream, I see.” He says, nodding to himself, letting himself be pulled as you all but drag him further down the hall.

“If I told you it would not then be a secret, would it?” You countered, and Kylo only sighed, for as playful as you were, there were real dangers out in the world, real people who wanted to cause you real harm.

He had defended you once, and he would do so gladly again, but the thought of you two so unguarded had him genuinely concerned.

“I am not so certain it is indeed a secret, nor that it would be safe to conduct such a leisurely activity as a picnic, so wide in the open.” He expresses his worries, and in typical fashion you only give him a look of such longing that Kylo feels uncharacteristically vulnerable, like you’re looking directly into his soul.

Maybe, he thinks, you are.

“Oh but my dear knight, of course it would be safe, for I would be with you.” You say, say so softly that Kylo thinks he has misheard it, and he does not know how to handle this, how to respond. Fortunately, you give him reprieve of your affectionate gaze, and turn your sights to his steed who grazes out front, “And Sam, of course.”

“I presume you already have food and drink packed?” He asks, gesturing to the basket which you hold in your free hand, which swings back and forth from the gentle force of your walking.

“Your presumptions have yet to fail you.” You confirm, before rounding on him suddenly, “Please, may we go? I don’t wish to eat with the Queen and her ward, I find myself growing entirely too weary of the loudness of the dining hall.”

He searches your eyes and finds only the truth, and who is he to deny you this? He is your guard, you are a princess, he is happy to serve.

“Alright.” He concedes finally, making you practically jump into his arms, down and off of him as quickly as you were on, as you take his hand and tug him down to the castle grounds.

“Wonderful! Oh thank you, Sir Ren, thank you.” You burst into happiness, like a thousand poppies opening their petals, and Kylo has to plant his feet firmly to prevent you from running away on your own.

“Wait, where are you going?” He asks, making your smile fall in slight confusion.

“The clearing, it is this way.” You say, giving his hand a squeeze, but he only shakes his head.

“No – the morning dew will have moistened the path,” Kylo says, before wrapping an arm around your middle and one behind your knees as he carries you like a newly wedded bride, holding you close to his chest for the short distance it takes to reach Sam. “It would not do to muddy your shoes.”

He sets you atop his horse, and Sam whinnies and tosses her head happily. You smooth your hand over her cropped mane, and settle yourself in the saddle, confused for a moment as Kylo remains on the ground, holding Sam’s reigns in his hand.

“Will you not join me up here?” You ask, and Kylo shakes his head.

“I don’t think Sam would like that very much.” He points out, a fact which his horse confirms with a loud chuff of her nostrils.

“But Sam does not know I am afraid of heights.” You lie with a smile, an attempt to get him to fold.

“Rest assured my lady, I will always catch you if you should fall.” He says instead, and he has succeeded in charming you once again for the moment.

You ride in companionable silence for a short while, eager to simply enjoy the beauty of your surroundings. The trees are green and healthy for it is summer and the last of the spring chill has dissipated. The further you travel, the warmer the sun grows, and soon you are unbuttoning the brooch that holds the collar of your kirtle closed.

It takes great restraint for Kylo not to stare, not to steal glances in the hopes that he might see a hint of your cleavage. His ears grow warm at the thought, his mind wandering back to the rather chaotic day at the river only a week ago. How you were clothed and yet nearly bare to him all at once, how the fabric of your shift had clung to your form…

“Look – just there!” You gasp, and Kylo’s first instinct is to reach for his sword, until he registers that it is excitement in your voice rather than fear. He looks in the direction that you have pointed, and he instantly relaxes when he hears the soft baaing of livestock. “My family used to own many sheep, they’re my favorite creature. As a small child I used to run among them, pick fallen leaves out of their wool. The lambs and I would jump together through the fields in the spring, and I would feed them wildflowers when I was finished. Their milk sours my stomach, which is a great shame, for it is so delicious, don’t you think?”

“Hmm.” Is all he says, for now he is paranoid, checking the tops of trees for bandits that may be lurking in the shadows.

You fall silent once again, yet once again it is not uncomfortable.

“I think it is admirable, what you are doing, by the by.” You say, apropos of nothing. He looks to you with a slight frown, but you are glancing up through the trees. “Reclaiming your country, your title as king. I know it may seem obvious to you now, but you have my full support in the endeavor. I should like to see you on the throne rather than Dameron, when the time comes.”

He does not know why you would say such a thing, for a declaration like that would be treasonous at the very least. Yet he finds himself less scandalized than relieved, and he mulls over a response in his head.

Should he tell you? Should he let you know he has dreamed of you sitting beside him on great carved thrones made of the finest wood, wearing a crown forged from the softest gold, encrusted with the deepest sapphires? Should he confess his desires to call you his queen, ask your hand right then and there?

“Tell me about the dream, the one with the nightingale.” He says instead, heart thudding too wildly.

He cannot figure you out, cannot parse through your playful teasing and your sincerity. Or perhaps he can, and he is just too afraid that it is true, the things that you say – for how could he deserve such finery, after all he has done, all he has been through?

You do not jest with him, this he knows, but he cannot bear to think it true.

Luckily, you indulge him, and the conversation shifts to much less overwhelming topics.

“It was beautiful, you were there, walking with me as you always are. I do not know where we were going or why, but we found ourselves in the wood where a tawny brown nightingale hopped onto a cherry branch and chirped its sweet song at us.” You say, and Kylo can picture it, can picture exactly that. “I grasped your hand in mine own and we chased the bird through the wood to a clearing of tall grasses and wildflowers, where the sun shone brightly and we feasted upon a large loaf of bread and butter.”

“I like cherries.” He admits, and you gasp in delight at this news, startling Sam into a halt.

“Then I shall fetch us some! Help me down?” You ask eagerly, already collecting your skirt so it may not tangle around your feet, already swinging your leg over the saddle.

“Lady (Y/N) I don’t think – ” He protests, but you are already poised for action and he finds himself scrambling to free his arms of helmet and basket.

“Sir Ren if you do not help me I will have to jump and what might become of me then?” You ask, and he drops all that he carries to lift you by the waist and place you gently down onto the ground.

You do not stay there very long, and he watches as you nimbly climb into the nearest tree you can find, hand over hand as you ascend the branches, until you are far enough up that Kylo can barely see you through the leaves.

And you had a fear of heights, right, he thinks fondly.

“Toss me a small pouch?” You call, and Kylo searches his knapsack for one that might serve you well, a small woolen pocket embroidered by his own hand.

It takes a few tries for you to catch it, and you laugh and laugh as the attempts grow more and more futile, until finally Kylo decides to climb the damned tree himself, desperately trying to hide his own amusement as he bites the inside of his cheek.

The two of you hidden away in the tree like this feels more intimate than Kylo had prepared for, especially when you crowd him against the trunk, press a cherry to his mouth.

“Are they ripe?” You ask through hooded lids, watch as Kylo parts his lips to accept the fresh fruit, his teeth grazing the skin of your fingertips in a manner that has you shuddering.

He doesn’t trust himself to speak, instead he takes his time chewing the cherry, mindful of the pit which he plucks from between his teeth. He chucks it across the wood, where it might one day plant and add to the collection of trees, and you smile for that is answer enough.

Cherries are not enough however, to keep the growling of his stomach at bay. He is embarrassed, but you only smile knowingly, and the two of you climb back down the tree, Kylo positioning you back atop his horse. You cradle the pouch in your lap, filled to the brim with the fruit you will no doubt enjoy in a moment, enjoy with all the other splendid foods you have brought with you.

Kylo begins to grow skeptical when it seems as though the wood continues on and on. He wonders if your dream had been only that, just an imaginary concoction, as you ride through the wood. But then, just as he’s about to suggest turning back, or stopping to rest for a moment to eat right there, the dirt path gives way to a field of bluebells.

And you grow excited as you urge Sam onwards, Kylo maintaining his place at your side as he too becomes eager. The bluebells cover the ground until they are at the very edge of the wood, and Kylo must admit he is impressed when before him lays a great expanse of tilled land, neat and even.

There are few trees here, instead large sections of the area have been conformed to manicured sections, each a variety of green grasses and flowers. They are buttercup yellow and daisy white, and the sky is a powder blue that boasts few fluffy clouds. Unlike deep in the wood, here there is a breeze, and Kylo becomes entranced, not with the sights of nature, but rather with the sight of your hair fluttering softly.

“Oh isn’t it gorgeous!” You remark, hopping down from Sam with an ease that makes Kylo’s chest fond, forgetting yourself and your supposed fear of heights for once and for all, turning to him and taking the basket from his hands, running away from the edge of the wood to find a much better spot than there, a spot with sun and yet shade, with grasses but level ground.

“Yes.” Kylo says to himself, for you are out of ear shot and cannot hear him when he says, “Yes you are.”

You find a good location to rest, and happily you arrange the contents of the basket so that you may enjoy a happy feast for breakfast. Kylo allows Sam to graze on the wildflowers and grasses that sway calmly as he stands near you, watching you unpack the foods.

There is a round loaf of hearty bread, eggs boiled in their shells among clusters of small cheeses that are encased in wax, crisp yellow apples and of course the cherries you picked only moments ago. You unwrap some cheese and dip it only for a moment into the small jug of wine, before biting off a chunk and laying down, eyes closed, letting the sun warm your face.

Kylo watches all of this in awe, at how you can be so at ease, how you can be so relaxed.

Without opening your eyes you pat the space next to you, smile to yourself.

“Won’t you lie with me?” You ask, and Kylo shakes his head, though you cannot see.

“I’m afraid not.” He says, but you are not so easily deterred, if nothing else he has learned this.

“And pray tell why not?” You insist, always stubborn, always questioning him, challenging him.

“What good is a bodyguard if he is not alert to danger?” Kylo says simply, and you laugh brightly at the idea.

“I do believe the only thing I am in danger of at the moment is perhaps the sting of a bee, or the bite of an ant. And you would much better protect me from here than there.” You say, and Kylo, against his better judgement, settles down in the grass near you.

Not quite exactly next to you, but facing you in a way that he can see behind you, see if anyone were to creep up.

He looks beyond you for just a moment before something dawns on him.

“You’re wearing the red kirtle again.” He says, and this makes you open your eyes then, makes you sit up, smooth the fabric over your knees where it has begun to ride up only slightly.

“Yes.” You reply, amused that he is just now noticing.

“You’ve worn it the past three days. Has something happened to your other dresses?” Kylo grows concerned for them, and you only shrug, reach across the spread of food you have prepared, and pluck an apple from the pile.

“They do not please your eye as this one does, therefore they are of no use to me.” You smile softly at him, and Kylo cannot help himself but for his ears to go red. Never before in his life, had a lady done something like this, something for him. “You must be starving, here, please eat.”

You hand him an apple and he accepts it graciously, holds it between his palms and rips it in half like he has done all his life. He raises one half to his lips to take a bite when he sees your shocked expression, how your eyes have grown wide and your mouth dropped open.

“What?” He asks, looking over his own shoulder, trying to see what it is you must be looking at.

When it is clear there is nothing, he turns back towards you, to see your gaze cast away, lip bitten, hands busying themselves in the hem of your dress.

“Nothing, I have just never seen someone with such easy strength.” You remark, awe in your voice, and he blinks a frown, for that is not a true show of his strength, not by any means at all.

“It isn’t hard, here I’ll show you – ” He says, offering you another apple, but you refuse him, shake your head at once.

“No! No I would rather not learn.” You interrupt, growing silent as his hand lowers, and he is concerned, immediately afraid he has upset you, has disrespected you somehow. He wracks his mind for an apology that may suit you, but when you look up at him once more, he finds no anger in your eyes, rather a wistful sadness that aches almost as much when you say, “For if I do, then what excuse will I have to ask you to do it for me?”

Kylo and you simply look at one another for a moment, before he moves behind you, sits down on the grass and pulls your back to his chest as he places the apple in your palm. He positions his hands around yours, and the both of you split the apple with ease.

“You need not a single excuse, I would do it every time.” He murmurs in your ear, swallows hard against the lump in his throat.

You take a large bite out of the crisp apple, the sound of your teeth tearing through the fruit music to his ears, and he is humbled, grateful, that you would eat the food he prepares for you, even if it is a small preparation as this.

You both remain in this position for a good long while, until more and more you begin to lean back into him, until Kylo must brace himself with his hands atop the earth, so that you may rest your head upon his shoulder.

You remove the stems from the cherries you have picked, and toss them up into the air so that Kylo may catch them between his teeth. You let out a small cheer each time he succeeds, and soon his lips are stained a deep red color, he can feel it. When the last of the cherries are gone, and the pits scattered to the wind, he is pleasantly full, and grateful for your spot against his shoulder so that you might not see the way he blushes at your applause.

You hum to yourself, a tune that Kylo recognizes and recognizes as a celebration of summer, Mirie It Is, and your eyes close against the warmth of the sun as you hum and hum, your fingers idly playing with a piece of grass you have plucked from the earth, twirling it round and round. Aside from your humming, it is quiet, the only sounds in the clearing are your even breathing and the chirping of the morning birds.

As the song comes to an end, your breathing deepens and soon Kylo realizes you have fallen asleep, putting him in quite the predicament.

He realizes you cannot remain like this, leaned back against his chest while you nap, because you would surely grow uncomfortable in that position, your back stiff or your neck in a crick where your face is turned into his throat. He is also vulnerable to danger like this, for if someone were to approach with the intent to harm, he would not be able to react fast enough without waking you.

However...

He cannot shake the thought of you being so comfortable as to fall asleep in his arms, for they are still around your middle. He cannot bring himself to part from you, to disturb you in any way, to do would cause him pain.

Still, he is no stranger to pain, and he ever so carefully maneuvers you so that you may lay down atop the soft grass. A flower tickles your nose accidentally, and he swiftly rips it from the earth. He regards the small flower, a tiny thing with fair white petals, and places it gently in your hair, tucks it just behind your ear. Your lashes flutter softly against your cheek, and Kylo hopes you are having pleasant dreams.

He allows you to sleep as he walks just a few paces past, surveying the clearing.

He thinks of all the land that would be his, should he succeed in slaying his enemy, Sir Dameron. He thinks that this land might be given to you, if you would be so amendable as to receive it. He thinks of you coming to the clearing as often as you would like, and his heart yearns for a future where you might feed him cherries and he you apples.

He continually checks in on you, as the time passes, continues to make sure you are safe and comfortable.

He finds on one such checking, that you have arranged your limbs in a manner that is entirely suggestive, and he blushes at the thought – for it recalls memories of the night of the ambush, memories he had been trying to swallow for days now, memories that refused to stay locked away.

He licks his lips and wills himself not to grow overheated from the remembrance of the sounds that had poured from your lips, the way your hand had delved underneath your smock to disappear between your legs, as you had called out his name, his name.

He removes his cloak from his shoulders and drapes the fabric over your body, both in an effort to keep you comfortable, and to prevent his mind from wandering. He could get away with such devious thoughts late at night, but he fears that if he winds himself up now, he might have to relieve himself in broad daylight, and that would not do.

Shame burns through his throat at the very thought, for you are no common prostitute to lust after – no you are a princess, one who has captured the very essence of his soul, and in only a few short days. No, he could not sully you with such impure desires, no matter how strong those desires may be.

He collects an apple or two from the pile and approaches Sam, who has found a small pond of fresh water to hydrate herself by. She perks up at the offering of an apple, and Kylo rolls his eyes.

“She’s spoiled you greatly these past few days, hasn’t she?” He asks his horse, who has now all but come to expect the treat of this fruit.

Sam only nudges Kylo’s hand with her nose and downs the apple quickly, sniffing out the rest he has hidden under his arm. He doesn’t bother trying to refuse her.

The peace of the morning is broken, when suddenly you are running past him, having smacked his arm on your way.

Both he and Sam startle, and Kylo has his sword drawn, has it twirled in his hand for a stronger grip, for surely danger must be imminent. He is reaching for his helmet when you run past him once again, now heading in the opposite direction that you once were.

“Lady (Y/N)! What is the matter, where are you going?” Kylo insists, demands to know, hand already balling into a fist ready to deliver a swift blow to your attacker.

But you only laugh and jump around, and Kylo groans, groans for he does not how many more of these false alarms he can take.

“I have had my time in the sun and now I grow restless! As the children say, tag you’re it.” You taunt him, before gathering your skirt in your hands and running running running away.

“Lady (Y/N) please, come back.” Kylo shouts with too much force, exasperated, has half a mind to be angry at you as he sheaths his sword once more.

You climb atop a rock in the clearing, hands on your hips looking triumphant as you tease.

“Oh are you too slow my dear knight? Perhaps you’d be faster without all of your heavy armor weighing you down – ah!” You take notice of him chasing after you, Kylo’s legs far longer and stronger than your own.

You jump off the rock and your laughter rings through the hills of the clearing, echoes across the tilled land as Kylo snatches you about the waist with ease, hoists you up and over his shoulder like you were no more than a sack of potatoes and spins you around and around.

He does not know when the last time he played was, does not know if he ever has, so he does not know if this is correct, but you are not angry with him when you beat your fists against his back.

“Sir Ren!” You exclaim as he sets you right side up, feet on the floor and no longer kicking wildly from the thrill of being so captured.

Your chest heaves from the excitement but he is barely out of breath, and he wonders how you might fare in another situation, one where your face may flush just as it is now, where he may have his hands on you, around you, in a different manner.

“I think you’ll find I am exactly as fast as I need to be, Lady (Y/N).” He says, and you hum in contemplation, rest your forehead against his, for that is how close you are to one another.

“Call me (Y/N).” You whisper, a teasing smile just toying with the corner of your lips.

“No.” He says, and though he does not smile, he knows you can feel the warmth in his expression, in his eyes.

A moment passes and then he is pulling away from you, running away towards Sam, armor clinking and clanking against itself, as he calls out, “I believe now it is you, who are it, Lady (Y/N).”

He can clearly see disappointment flit across your face for some reason, before it is overcome with joy that he is willing to play along.

Hours later, when the sun has gone down and you both have eaten every morsel of food you have brought, does Kylo suggest returning to town.

“I do not know how the time escaped us,” You remark as you enter the castle, Kylo’s arm in yours once more, “But I am glad to have spent such a wonderful day with you.”

Kylo wishes he had the words to say he was too, but he was more than glad, he was thrilled – elated, he had never felt this way before, about anyone or anything. He would give anything to you, for you, do anything to make you smile.

“Sir Ren…” You say when you arrive at your door, and for the first time it is you who is shy, you who dips your head low and blushes, “I feel as though I must confess something. I fear that you mistake my affections for jest, for only a friendly nature. Please know this is not the case, I…I care for you deeply.” You admit, and Kylo feels as though he may black out.

All of it, all of it has been true this entire time. He does not know what to do, what to say, for his mind is reeling, heart beating so fast, so hard in his chest he thinks he is going to die, going to just have a heart attack.

You mistake his silence for rejection, he can see it in your eyes and he begins to panic.

“I beg your pardon, it was never my intention to make you uncomfortable. Good night.” You are mortified, and you turn towards your door, shaking hand trying to get the lock turned with the great big key you carry.

He rushes to stop your hand, rushes to heal this pain he has caused you, for that is not the case, never has been the case.

“You do not.” He says, says so quickly that he isn’t sure if the words are coherent.

“I’m sorry?” You ask, and fuck there are tears in your eyes, and his heart sinks. He grasps your hand between his own, brings the fingertips to his lips, an echo of a gesture you had bestowed upon him those days ago at the brook.

“You do not make me uncomfortable, with your advances.” He shakes his head, tries to convey the depth of his feeling, how it is very much the opposite.

“You mean to say…?” You whisper with wide eyes, and Kylo nods.

“Good night.” He says, but he says so with such fondness that you grin, that you hug him tightly, arms around him in an embrace.

You slip behind the door to your bedchambers, but this time when you close it, you keep your eye trained on his the whole time, stealing a glance until the very moment the door is shut.

Hours pass, and it is dark. The night is clear, only the gentle pattering of rain sounds around him, nothing quite so tumultuous as a thunder storm.

“Lady (Y/N)?” He sounds surprised, when you turn the heavy metal handle and gently push open the door.

He’s not sure why he’s surprised, why when in the middle of the night like this you aren’t in bed. No, instead you’re wearing only the barest of robes, thick red velvet that drapes and folds off your curves in such a manner that could ensnare the most chaste of men.

Your hair is down and freed from braids, and oh that is a sight, a sight so delicious he has to avert his eyes, has to turn his scarred face elsewhere, for he is unworthy to feast his eyes on you.

You disagree, reach a hand out to rest on his armor, for he still has not taken it off, of course not, not when at any moment he might need it. Your hand slides up his forearm, over his bicep, up to his face, to his cheek, and you are not wearing gloves – this he can tell, even in the dark.

“How many times must I tell you to simply call me, (Y/N)?” You ask, and this makes him bite the inside of his cheek, because this is the fifth time. He’s been counting, keeps track, he likes keeping track of you, likes that you have these inside humors to share.

You tilt his gaze back towards you and the pale light from the moon makes your skin glow. He’s not so sure he isn’t ensnared, not when you smooth your thumb over his marred flesh, not when you smile at him so softly.

He captures your hand in his own, filled with regret at the leather encasing his fingers. He turns his cheek slightly to kiss your palm, gently, ever so gently. He doesn’t want to harm you, not when he is capable of so much.

“As many times as you must, for I’ll never regard you as anything less than a Lady.” He says and even though the night is high and the visibility is low, he knows, he knows you are blushing.

“Won’t you come inside?” You ask, and he permits a soft huff of air that may be passable as a laugh.

“No, I’m to stand watch all night.” He replies, for this you know, he had stood guard of your bedroom every night for nearly two weeks.

This was not the first night you had been so bold, but his barriers have been broken down, he can feel in his heart how exceptionally lovely you are, how he desperately wishes to give you what you want. But as stubborn as you could be, so could he, and he aims to make you work for it.

“You couldn’t possibly, not all night. When would you sleep? A man needs his sleep.” You argue, and Kylo hums thoughtfully, playfully.

“No more than a Lady needs her protection.” He counters, making you bite at your lip in a grin that shows all of your pretty teeth, a luxury that Kylo is self-conscious of for himself.

“And what are you protecting me from, Sir Ren?” You ask, withdrawing your hand so you may cross it over your chest with the other, leaning against the doorframe looking entirely too beautiful.

“Anything. Everything.” He is lost in the sight of you, and thinks that yes, you are a woman he could fight for, would kill for. It seems silly in retrospect now, considering, but you had the face that would win a million wars, just call you Helen.

“You cannot protect me from everything, not out there.” You tsk, a playful glint in your eye, and Kylo was eager for another battle of wits, for they were such fun when they were with you – even though he would never admit it.

“Oh? And what, pray tell can I not prevent from here?” He asks, an eyebrow raised.

You hum to yourself for a moment, before he shocks you by opening his arms and collecting you in them, pulling you close. He could chuckle at the width of your eyes as you realize you’ve won this round, won this war. Still, he likes to be difficult and though he has you pressed against his black armor, he leans his head away so he might look upon your face, so you might be just out of reach of his lips.

“The chill of the room as it washes over my skin.” You say, licking your own, looking up at him through thick lashes.

“You should warm your skin by the fire, then.” He suggests, knowing all too well there is an ember glowing near your very bed.

“Hmm, the bandits that might climb through my window.” You offer, but he simply shrugs.

“Lock the window, then.” He allows a finger to curl under your chin, to lift your face up up up, watches as your eyes slip closed, as you breathe in the smell of his leather and polish.

“The plague of my nightmares.” You whisper, and Kylo’s lip quirks a smile, the first smile he’s let you seen, the first smile he’s let anyone see in many years.

“Pray for sweet dreams.” He says simply, as he lets himself lean down barely, just a tad, just a hint, enough that his warm breath ghosts across your mouth.

“The yearning ache in my lips?” You ask, and this, this he will grant you, because he can save you from this.

“Kiss me.” He allows, and you do, oh, you do.

His lips yield to yours, and the press is heavenly when your sweet smile sighs against him. He breathes you in, forgetting himself, forgetting his duty, and he allows his tongue to slide against yours.

When you moan into his mouth he decides he cannot wait any longer, will not wait any longer, and he cautiously walks you backwards into the room, door shutting behind you, sealing out the world beyond.

Your bedroom is just as he remembers it, from that day where he caught you pleasuring yourself, and something inside him is thrilled that this time, this time it will be he who pleasures you. The room is dark and warm, nothing but the light of the moon and the small embers of the fire to light the area.

You allow the red velvet robe to fall from your shoulders, and a bead of sweat trickles down the back of Kylo’s neck, as he is allowed to look at you, as he is graced with the opportunity to really look at you. You are naked before him, arms relaxed at your side as the velvet catches around your wrists on its descent to the floor. There is enough light to see, to see how gorgeous you are, the way your hair cascades down your back, the way your pulse jumps in your throat, the way your nipples stiffen at the sudden exposure to the air.

He does not move, does not dare to move, not even as his trousers become impossibly tight around his crotch, as he desperately wants to shift his weight so he might have some friction on his cock.

“Let me help you?” You whisper, sensing his mild distress, sensing his desperation for you, but he shakes his head, gloved fingers already swiftly undoing the clasps and buckles that hold on his breastplate, heavy metal resting atop black chainmail.

“I can do it.” He says, grateful for the chance to breathe, the routine of removing his armor almost meditative, until your hand comes to rest atop his own.

“I know you can.” You say, as you lean up to kiss him, as you press your naked body against his which is entirely clothed, his which is clad in steel, steel that smudges as your sweat and the oils from your skin rub against them.

He kisses you slowly, the slide of his tongue against yours something which is more intoxicating than the most fragrant wine. He refuses to part from you as he removes the rest of his armor, piece by piece, as quickly as he can – not hurriedly, not rushing, but efficiently. Your hands join in helping lift the mail over his head, and you let out a surprised huff when you realize just how heavy it is.

He smirks, pleased that you are impressed.

You break the kiss to admire him, all of him, and he stands proudly before you as naked as you are before him. Your eyes are glued to his cock, which hangs heavy and thick between his legs, and you reach a hand out to grasp his, to lead him to your bed.

You lay down and Kylo follows, settles himself between your open legs, and he cannot stop looking looking looking at you, at the curve of your breasts, at the soft plush flesh of your stomach, the way your thighs part for him, hair between your legs that frame your pussy so beautifully. In the firelight he can see the way you glisten, all over, from the sweat on your chest to the slick that collects in your cunt.

“You are so lovely, a dream. I must be dreaming.” He whispers, and you blush, suddenly shy – shy after all this time spent flirting.

“Do these not feel real?” You ask, and he licks his lips as you guide his hands to your breasts, and he cannot stop them from shaking as they cup your tits, as his fingers splay across them.

He kneads them in his hands, pinches and rolls your nipples between his thumb and forefinger in a way that makes you gasp into his mouth when he swallows it up in a kiss. You remove one of his hands from your chest and instead guide it down between your legs.

“How about this?” You ask, hand holding his wrist steady.

His breathing quickens when your hips rise to meet his fingers as they curl inside you, and he is shocked to feel how hot you are, how wet. He acts on instinct, pushes them as deep inside you as they can go, just his two fingers, but he is bewitched by the feeling of it. You tip your head back and moan, and Kylo is afraid he is going to begin to drool, drunk off the sound.

His cock strains against your thigh, and he wants nothing more than to sink it deep inside you, but he must be honest with himself, with you.

“I – ” His voice is hoarse, and he clears it, tries to clear his head as he pumps his fingers slowly in and out of you, as he elicits more moans and gasps from your lips, moans that sound just the same as the ones he listened to when he interrupted you in a similar position as this, “I have but only heard, of the wonders of a woman’s body.”

He is shy, and his face burns with embarrassment at the admission, but he does not wish you to think he is more experienced than he is, does not wish you to be disappointed. Thankfully, you do not seem deterred, for you do not kick him out of your bedchambers in disgrace, nor do you laugh at him, nor do you do much of anything beside cup his cheek and pull his forehead down to rest against yours.

“The only experience I have is with myself, but this you already know.” You whisper, and relief floods through him as he removes his fingers from your cunt.

He laves his tongue over them, licks up your juices and moans at the taste, for you truly are like honey in his hands, on his lips. He in turn kisses you, because he cannot get enough of that, of this, of you.

“You must tell me what you like.” He says when his cock begins to throb and ache in a manner which he can ignore no longer. He abandons your breast which he has been holding, and instead uses that hand to support his weight while he rubs the head of his cock through your folds with his other.

You nod, and soon the sliding back and forth gives way to penetration, as he positions himself to push into you, hips pressing in short thrusts until they are flush against yours.

“Oh – oh.” You moan, your back arched up into him, and now that he is inside you he caresses your lower back, kisses you as his thrusts grow more bold.

He feels your legs wind around his hips, and lets out a deep groan of pleasure as you do something, something to squeeze your cunt around his cock, and his hips buck into you with more force.

“Yes! Harder? Harder, I beg of you.” You cry out, hands flying to his back, nails digging into the strong meat of his shoulders then.

He nods, buries his face into your neck as he thrusts with more and more force, until the bed is squeaking and shaking, until your mouth is unable to close, hot breath coming in short pants that he breathes in, that makes him dizzy.

You are exquisite around him, and he knows that this wait has been worth it, that this victory is one he shall savor forever, the trust that you have placed in him, the desire that you have for him, both evident in the way you are lavishing wet kisses to his neck, the way you mark his back, the way you clench your pussy and push your hips into him.

“I’m going to – ” You choke off a moan, and he knows this means you must be close, and anticipation builds in his chest. While he has seen you come once before, never has he felt it, experienced it like this.

He can feel your stiff nipples rubbing against his chest, and you’re whining, gasping. You blindly reach for his hand and he gives it to you willingly as his hips push you up and up the bed. He does not know what you aim to do until all at once it is clear – you guide his hand back to your cunt and press his finger down onto your clit, a command that he would rather die than disobey.

“Sir Ren, yes!” You shout out, not caring if you woke the whole castle, and Kylo feels your orgasm hit him like a waterfall.

He rubs your clit, harsh circles that paired with the force of his cock leave you crying, and Kylo is worried that he has hurt you somehow but when he peeks a glance at your face from where he has made a home in your throat, he finds nothing but what could only be described as ecstasy.

It is that face, the feeling of your hot body beneath his, around his, completely consuming his, that makes him grunt and groan, makes him sweat and shake as he can feel his orgasm rip through him.

It blinds him, and he doubles over, arm which has supported him this whole time finally giving out, as he collapses onto your chest. He can feel it, swears he can feel his come spreading inside you, the throb of his cock as it releases all of his spend into your tight cunt. Your arms are weak from your own pleasure but you smooth your hands up his back, and he rolls his hips with a groan to milk himself for what he’s worth.

He does not know what that may be, but he gives it to you, gives every single drop to you. Your thighs and stomach are fluttering underneath him, chest rising and falling with breath that tries to regulate itself, and he cannot stop the prick of hot tears from slipping down his nose, from collecting on your chest.

He is so overwhelmed, so in love with you, that he cannot bear it, cannot believe how lucky he is for you to grace him with this gift. You have the largest smile on your face, chin pinched up in happy tears of your own, and Kylo knows he has done well. He thinks he has done well, hopes he has, for he isn’t sure he could live without this, now that he has tasted it, has had a sample of your body.

But you are smiling and you comb your fingers through his hair as he kisses you, his body heavy on your own, his cock still inside you, and he has no strength in him to hold back a great big smile of his own.

------------------

Tagging some pals! As always please let me know if you’d like to be put on the taglist or taken off of it <33 Part 3 coming soon! @adamsnackdriver @dreamboatdriver @kyloxfem @autumnlovesadam @solotriplets @driverficarchive @kylo-renne @formerly-anonhamster @thepilotanon @joannapenguin @whiskey-bumblebee @passengereve @venusianmaiden @callmehopeless @sarcasticallyhateful @ilikebritsandbands @tinyplanet-explorers @kittyofalltrades @princessofpow @softcrybabykid @inkstaineddaughter @wonderneverland562 @magikevalynn

#reader insert #kylo ren/reader #kylo ren x reader #kylo/reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren imagine #medieval au #historically accurate #kylo ren fanfiction #my writing #all my stars

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the-omni-princess · 5 years

Text

Silver and Gold

Author: @the-omni-princess

Summary: Soulmate!AU, The first words spoken to you by your soulmate are written on your wrist. What happens when two super soldiers say the same thing at the same time?

Word Count: 2.4K

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Warnings: Injuries, blood, a bit of angst, bit of fluff

A/N:

A request by @darknessdaughterr for some soulmate confusion between Steve and Bucky and a “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

[Masterlist]

----

Soulmarks. That's what they called the words etched onto your wrists. They first appeared when you officially hit puberty, and they were the lifeline to your soulmate. Your other half, your perfect half. The first words your soulmate would say to you (once you had your mark) would be the words etched onto your skin forever. They would change colors, from the brown-grey they started off as, an ugly dull color, to a beautiful rainbow and array of colors.

Some people found their soulmates right away, your best friend in middle school let out a small gasp when the heartthrob of the school asked her for a pen. Her wrist busted into beautiful shades of green like a forest etched into the writing. Some people got lucky with their marks, and their colors always meant something to their other half.

When your mark first etched into your skin, you were thirteen. Womanhood gave you cramps and a soulmark. Despite how elated your family was that your mark appeared, they always teased you about your soulmate's choice of first words. "What the hell are you doing?" Etched in cursive, dull, brown ink. You used to get excited whenever someone spoke to you for the first time. Now, much older than your friends, you felt left out. You were one of the few people with a boring, lifeless, and haven’t-met-my-soulmate-yet-grey mark. You've been pointedly ignoring it for years.

You became a practiced surgeon. The long shifts at the ER helped ease your mind that you were one of the few people without your soulmate yet. Your family worried about it constantly. Maybe your other half was dead, maybe they aren't even from the same country as you.

Pushing all those thoughts aside, and begging to get away from your overbearing family, you moved to New York, and were approached by a Stark representative to work as the Avengers' personal surgeon. It took months of preparation under Helen Cho and Bruce Banner, learning exactly what ailments and enhancements every Avenger had. Super soldiers, gamma radiation, a telekinetic witch, it was a lot to learn, but you took it in stride.

Now three months into the position came the first challenge, a mission gone sideways. You grabbed your stethoscope, wrapping it around your neck as FRIDAY's voice appeared. "Your presence is requested in OR 2, Agent Barton has deep lacerations and multiple bullet wounds."

"On it!" You called out to the AI, already heading in that direction. You rushed in, noticing Dr. Banner already attempting to take a bullet out of the still awake Hawkeye. "Jeez, ever heard of anesthesia Bruce? And stop pulling on that bullet in his leg, it could be lodged in his femoral artery and he'll bleed out before you can toss the bullet into waste." You gloved up, shooing the doctor away who held his hands up in surrender. "Hello, I'm Dr. Y/n L/n, and excuse my forgoing of formalities, Agent Barton, but the bullet in your shoulder looks to have nicked something major and I'd rather make sure you live than introduce myself." He responded with a groan, nodding. You now noticed the redhead he was gripping hands with, who you recognized as Natasha Romanoff before you rushed to help him.

You quickly went to work, asking Bruce for gauze when needed and taking out bullets, green eyes watching you like a hawk, which you found ironic. Four bullets later you sutured the bullet wounds, then the laceration, effectively cleaning up the blood and bandaging him up. You clapped your hands faintly, smiling. "Done!" You grinned up at the two. Clint was out of it, staring up at Natasha who was staring at you. "Make sure he rests, and he should be up and running in a few weeks."

"You're new," Natasha stated, still eyeing you warily.

You nodded, "Still getting the hang of it, but I know what I'm doing, usually at least. But what's a little adventure into the unknown?" You smiled warmly, noticing she loosened up a bit.

"Thanks for patching Clint here up," she sighed softly, still holding onto the Archer.

"Of course, kind of my job to make sure you are all patched up. Tell him to try not to hit anything too major next time though," you teased.

She chuckled, "Will do, till next time."

"Hopefully you guys stay safe enough there aren't too many next times, besides, I have to take Robin Hood here to a room to rest," you cleaned up the station, before transferring Clint to his own room to rest. Natasha and you kept talking, and by the time you had to leave, she had started warming up to you.

You had found out she was so wary since the two were soulmates. Her soulmark was shades of purple, and Clint's was in shades of black and red, you noticed as you worked on him, but you knew not to ask what the words said. She had found out more about you and had seen that you haven't met your soulmate yet.

About a month later you had met or patched up most of the Avengers, and Natasha and Clint were the closest to you, as well as Bruce since you saw the most of them. FRIDAY had alerted you that the Avengers were back from another mission gone bad, this time it was Sam Wilson who was hurt, he was unconscious, and his vitals were dropping fast. Steve and Bucky were running in after him, just as you got to work. You patted your scrubs down, the bright orange and pink Ombre was a bold choice but you wanted a splash of color against the white sterile walls of your lab and operating room, as the Avengers tended to let you do what you wanted.

You silently went to work, washing hands, pulling on gloves, and wordlessly grabbing what you need to save his life. You groaned aloud, grabbing the bandages and cauterizing tool, but you weren't able to do your job due to the two towering super-soldiers blocking your way. Unable to push them away from you instead opted to jump on top of the patient. Terrible procedure? Definitely. But you had two super soldiers that wouldn't move, and you had a patient dying.

Both men simultaneously cried out, "What the hell are you doing?"

You were already starting your cauterizing tool, cauterizing the artery that was the cause of the blood loss. "My job, if you don't let me do it, he'll die from blood loss. So, get out of my way!" You pushed one of the soldiers out of the way, Steve you think, grabbing the gauze and patching up Sam. Once you were finally done, you jumped off of him, he stabilized halfway through your work, so you hooked him up to an IV and stood back at your handiwork. You ripped your gloves off, tossing them away as you washed your hands. You froze, your mark was now a splash of color. Navy blue ink etched in silver and gold. That only meant one thing, one of the super-soldiers behind you was your soulmate. But they both said it at the same time, which one was your other half? Could you survive having an Avenger soulmate? You had patched them up enough to know how many close calls they tended to have.

"Are you alright, ma'am?" Of course, one of the very same men you were thinking about was concerned about your sudden shyness.

"I'm not quite sure, Captain Rogers," you turned back around. "Your friend will be alright, just needs to rest and heal, but he'll be fine." You smiled brightly at the two super soldiers looking at you warily.

Captain Roger's mark was already colored in, you could see the peaks of bright red just peeking out of his uniform. Sargent Barnes, however, didn't have any color peeking out of his right hand, and that's when you realized his mark might have been on his left wrist before it was torn off. That meant you had to outright ask the two intimidating men about their marks, something only children did.

"Are you sure you're okay, doll?" Barnes was the one that spoke up this time, both men weren't quite sure what to make of you. You were pushing them out of the way to do your job minutes ago but now seemed shy.

You took a deep breath, "There’s no easy way to say this, so I'll just say it, I think one of you two is my soulmate." You said it quickly, looking absolutely anywhere but them.

"What do you mean?" That time it was the Captain.

You exposed your wrist, the brilliant shades of Navy lined in gold and silver. The silver and gold seemed to shimmer, and even without their enhancements, both men could make out the writing. Both men shared a look, and you noticed you had gained an audience. Natasha, Clint, Bruce, and Tony were now standing at the room, you were too preoccupied panicking to even notice their entrance to check in on the now waking up Falcon beside you.

"You two said those words and my mark gained color, one of you is my soulmate," a groan from beside you diverted your attention. You went to work, making sure Sam was comfortable as he started to become aware of his surroundings.

"I wake up and one of the fossils gets a soulmate? I should get injured more often, maybe they'll both get lives before I die," he joked in a weak voice.

"I have limited patience with someone who tried to get shot, Wilson," you rolled your eyes, checking to make sure he didn't rip his stitches as he sat up. "And you shouldn't be sitting up, you've lost a lot of blood," you tried reasoning, but he just waved you off.

"Na, I've got to see this. Aren't you the new doctor Tony hired? You're cute, too bad I'm not your soulmate, smart and pretty," he rambled on, the medication starting to kick in.

"I've been here for four months, you just manage not to get as many bullets in you like the others," you made sure his IV drip was working before turning to your audience.

Steve spoke up first, "It’s not me," he exposed his mark. "My soulmate was Peggy Carter," his mark was bright red, the color of bright lipstick. He had left his soulmate back in the forties, that had to suck.

His eyes went to Bucky, as did yours. He looked a little stunned. "Repeat what you first said to me," he said it softly, almost hesitant.

"Well, I can't remember! I was trying to make sure Birds of Justice here didn't die!" You gave him a pointed look, Sam laughed at that, and you shot him a glare, "No laughing, you'll rip your stitches and if you do something stupid I'll kick your ass myself."

"Oh, feisty, I like her," a loopy Sam Wilson giggled like a school girl beside you.

"FRIDAY, please repeat the audio of what Dr. Y/l/n said when Sam first came in," Natasha stated, making you roll your eyes.

"Nat, I'm just Y/n to you," you mumbled, but otherwise kept quiet, needing to know the answer to the riddle written in ink around your wrist.

"Certainly, Agent Romanoff," the AI replied before the audio played.

The two super soldiers’ voices rung out first, "What the hell are you doing?"

Before your voice replied in the audio, "My job, if you don't let me do it, he'll die from blood loss. So, get out of my way!"

You looked towards the former Winter Soldier. "Does Navy Blue, Silver and Gold mean anything to you, Sargent Barnes?" You held up your wrist, and he gently grabbed it with his right hand. His thumb brushed across the ink etched deep into your skin.

"Navy Blue was my uniform color when I was a Howling Commando, silver was the color of my first metal arm, and gold is currently in my metal arm. And call me Bucky," he held up the black and gold vibranium arm for you to inspect. "I always thought my soulmate would be a nurse during the war, one I flirted to at the wrong time, or got in the way one too many times. I guess I was partially right," he kept his voice soft, the two of you locking eyes.

"You're my soulmate? I never thought I'd find you," you mumbled softly, getting lost in his blue eyes.

"My left wrist had those words, and I lost it in the fall of the train, and I'm actually glad I did because Hydra couldn't find you that way, and I'm sorry you have me as a soulmate, and I'm sorry you can't even get to see the colors my mark would have, and-" he rambled on, making you smile, gently taking his hand and interlacing your hands together, promptly shutting him up.

"I'm not sad you’re my soulmate, Bucky. I was just confused is all. I had basically accepted I'd never find mine, I've had dull brown ink on me since I was thirteen. But it's you. I found you," you couldn't stop smiling up at him.

He gave you a bashful smile, "I'd like to think my mark would be the colors of your scrubs. Orange and pinks like a sunset," he explained.

"Or a sunrise," you spoke up, "New beginnings and all."

Natasha made a retching sound behind the two of you. "Absolutely adorable and disgusting. We'll watch over him, y/n, he's already falling asleep, and we'll have FRIDAY update you if needed. Go on break," she shooed you out of the room, Steve already tossing Bucky out with you, Sam making cooing noises behind you as he fell asleep. They shut the door, effectively giving you not much choice.

"Well, I guess that settles it," you turned to Bucky, who looked towards you a little skeptical. "Let me formally introduce myself, soulmate. I'm Dr. Y/n y/m/n y/l/n, but you can call me y/n/n." You put your hand out, your mark on full display.

He gave you a goofy smile in response, taking your hand and kissing your knuckles before kissing your wrist right over your mark. "Why hello, soulmate. I'm Sargent James Buchanan Barnes, but you can call me Bucky."

Bucky Tags:

@cassandras-musings

For a tag, just reply/comment, if I don’t see it, just message me. Tell me what you think! Literally, any comment makes me happy! Like, comment, reblog, interact <3

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #My writing #soulmate!au

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katymacsupernatural · 4 years

Text

Bittersweet

Endverse!Dean x Reader

1500 Words

Written For: @heavenandhellbingo, @spnkinkbingo, @teamfreewillbingo

Squares Filled: Apocalpyse (HH), Endverse Dean (Kink), The Colt(TFW)

Summary: Reunited during the apocalypse, you quickly realize that this Dean isn’t the one you had fallen in love with.

Warnings: Angst, slight smut, 18+, endverse Dean

Being pushed against the crumbling wall, you stared up at the man you hadn’t seen in years. He was hardened and rougher around the edges, but it was still Dean. The man who had ripped your heart out so many years ago.

“Y/N?” His hand dropped away as if he had been burnt. His green eyes were wide as they glanced up and down your body. “No, this can’t be. You’re dead.”

“As you can see, I’m not,” You argued, trying to calm your pounding heart. “It’s been a while,” you muttered awkwardly, not sure what to say to him. How to handle this reunion you had dreamed of so many times.

Dean seemed so different. But that shouldn’t surprise you. After ten years, anyone would have changed. But it hurt your heart to see him so hardened, so cold and calculated. His eyes narrowed before his lips captured yours, but you weren’t ready for it. Pushing hard on his chest, he finally took a step back.

“What the hell was that?” You asked. “You kick me out of your life all those years ago, and now you want to act as everything is alright?”

Dean glanced around, frowning when you both heard clanging coming from the alley over. “Can we not do this here?”

“Where? I wasn’t planning on being in town long,” you argued.

“I have a camp,” he told you, suddenly grabbing your hand and pulling you along with him as a bunch of Croats came around the corner. You began running beside Dean as fast as you could, pulling your gun from its holster.

Dean stopped beside a beat-up jeep, pushing you inside before climbing in the driver’s seat. “Baby?” You asked as he sped away from the zombie-like creatures.

“She’s gone. Like most of the things in my life,” he muttered half to himself. “Rotting in a pile of dirt.”

“Dean, I’m sorry,” you reached over, squeezing his hand. He raised an eyebrow as he glanced at you before quickly turning his attention back to what had once been a county road, but was nothing more than crumbling pavement. “I know how much that car meant to you.”

The rest of the ride was in silence as Dean turned away from the big city to the sprawling hills. He drove the jeep through a heavily guarded gate, and you gasped in awe at the camp in front of you. People went back and forth, heading into one of the ten cabins spread throughout. It was more unaffected people than you had seen in a long time. You watched closely, hoping to see a couple of familiar faces. Everyone scattered out of Dean’s way, and it was easy to tell he was the leader of this group. Which didn’t surprise you.

“Stick with me,” he ordered, stepping from the car, and you followed him closely, walking past a group of people before he stepped into one of the cabins. “Sit,” he ordered. Pouring two glasses of whiskey, he sat down across from you propping his feet on the table. “So, where the hell have you been?”

“On my own, exactly as you wanted,” you retorted. “Hiding in ghost towns, staying in Bobby’s old cabins. Just trying to survive.”

“I had heard you were dead,” he mumbled. “Through the grapevine, about five years ago. Heard you were taken down by a vamp.”

“Almost,” you answered, taking a sip. “But I hid in Wyoming and healed. Now you. What’s up with the whole Croat virus, and this camp? And where’s Sam and Cas?”

“Don’t say that name,” he growled, his hand clenching the glass tight. “Don’t you dare say my brother’s name.”

Before you could ask what had happened the door opened, and Cas stepped inside. But it wasn’t the Cas you remembered. He was loose and calm and high? “Cas?”

“Y/N!” He exclaimed, stopping in his tracks. “Dean, she’s not dead!”

“Yeah, I got that,” Dean muttered. “I just want to know why she’s here. After all these years.”

“I heard of a way out,” you admitted. “The colt, it’s here. And I want to use it to stop this before it gets any worse.”

“The colt? We’ve been searching for it for years!” Dean exclaimed. “Tell me more.”

Cas sat down beside you, listening as you told both of them everything you knew. Dean stayed quiet, his hands clasped in his lap as he memorized your words. When you were done he sat back. “Cas, you can go now.”

Cas patted you on the shoulder as he stood up. “Great to see you Y/N. I always knew you weren’t dead, but Dean here..he wouldn’t believe me.”

As soon as Cas was out of the cabin, Dean rounded the desk and pulled you to your feet. “Y/N, I’m sorry I sent you away all of those years ago. But if I hadn’t you wouldn’t be here now. And that’s what matters.”

Before you could come up with a response to that, his lips were hot on yours again, but this time you didn’t push him away. Dean’s hands wrapped through your hair, holding you still while his lips became familiar with yours once again. Your hands grasped his waist, holding on, enjoying the feel of his body against yours once again.

Coming up for air, Dean swept his hand across the desk, clearing it instantly before sitting you on top. You braced yourself on the scarred wood as his lips plundered yours once again, his hands brushing under your flannel shirt.

It wasn’t a gentle reunion. His hands were rough and hot against your skin, his movements rough and fast. You held on, letting him take what he needed, knowing you needed it as well.

It was early morning when you found yourself laying on the rug in front of the fireplace, Dean beside you. He had his arm thrown over your waist, running his finger along the scars that he found there. Some were new, others old. “I remember some of these,” he spoke softly.

“Of course you do. You were the one to always patch me up,” you sighed. “Dean, this was...amazing, and everything I’ve dreamed of for years.”

“I’ve dreamed of it too,” he answered, sitting up. “But now, we have the Colt to go find.”

Within the hour you found yourself standing beside both Cas and Chuck. It was weird but oddly reassuring. Chuck was muttering something about hoarding toilet paper, but you were more interested in watching Dean.

He was barking orders, telling people all about his new plan. But you could see the tightness in his shoulders that no one else could, the tick in his jaw. He wasn’t okay with something, and that thought scared you.

“Dean,” You put your hand on his shoulder, but he just brushed it off.

“Not now Y/N, I’m busy.”

He stalked away, leaving you alone once again. “Don’t worry about it,” Cas tried assuring you. “He’s always that way before a recon mission.”

“I’m just not sure about,” you whispered, but it was too late. Dean was ordering everyone into cars. You slipped into the jeep beside him, Cas riding in the back. And every time you tried talking to Dean, he brushed it off.

“Dean, please. Just tell me what happened to Sam,” you finally insisted.

“He’s gone,” he answered, but Cas leaned forward.

“He said yes,” he sighed. “A couple of years ago. “And now, Dean is trying to stop him.”

You couldn’t believe the news. You had never imagined that Sam would say yes. But you shouldn’t have been surprised.

Dean parked the jeep on the side of the road, waiting until everyone climbed out of their cars. “Alright, here’s the plan. I need half of you going in through the back. The rest, through the front. The ones in the back will create a diversion, and that’s when I want Y/N and Cas to grab the gun. Understood?”

“Dean, where are you going to be?” You asked as half the group headed through the alley.

“Right behind you sweetheart,” he whispered, cupping your cheek for a minute. “You have nothing to worry about.”

You smiled through your tears, knowing this plan wasn’t right. But you needed the gun, and you would die trying. “Dean, I’ve always loved you,” you told him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “And please, try to save Sam,” you pleaded before you walked towards certain death.

Dean/Jensen Tags: @acortez82 @acreativelydifferentlove @adoptdontshoppets @a-girl-who-loves-disney @akshi8278 @bebravekeeponfighting @bi-danvers0 @brindz30 @cap-just-said-language @colette2537 @deansgirl215 @flamencodiva @hamiltrash1411 @its-not-a-tulpa @jerkbitchidjitassbutt @justanotherwinchester @just-another-winchester @karouwinchester @keikoraventeller @krys198478 @librarygeekery @magssteenkamp @misspygmypie @mlovesstories @mrsambroserollinsacklesmgk @mrspeacem1nusone @nothinbuttrouble2 @ria132love @ruprecht0420 @sortaathief @superseejay721517 @squirrelnotsam @team-free-will-you-idjiot @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @torn-and-frayed @tricksterdean @wonderfulworldofwinchester @woodworthti666

Forever Tags: @aditimukul @alexwinchester23 @algud @amanda-teaches @andreaaalove @artisticpoet @atc74 @be-amaziing @camelotandastronauts @caswinchester2000 @cpag7 @chelsea072498 @closetspngirl @docharleythegeekqueen @emoryhemsworth @ericaprice2008 @esoltis280 @foxyjwls007 @gh0stgurl @goldenolaf25 @growningupgeek @heyitscam99 @hobby27 @horsegirly99 @imsuperawkward @internationalmusicteacher @iwriteaboutdean @jayankles @jensen-gal @just-another-busyfangirl @karlee-fay-my-wayward-son @lifelovelaughangell123 @li-ssu @linki-locks11 @littleblue5mcdork @lowlyapprentice @maui137 @mersuperwholocked-lowlife @mogaruke @monkeymcpoopoo @musiclovinchic93 @nanie5 @percussiongirl2017 @plaid-lover-bay25 @roonyxx @ronja-uebrick @roxyspearing @samanthaharper2018 @samanddeanmyheroes @sandlee44 @shamelesslydean @simonsbluee @sillesworldofwriting @sgarrett49 @spnbaby-67 @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @spnwoman @superbadassnatural @thatcrazybookwormgeek @thewinchesterchronicles @vvinch3st3r @wecantgiggleitsafandom @whimsicalrobots @winchester-writes @zombiewerewolfqueen

#heavenandhellbingo #spnkinkbingo #teamfreewillbingo #endverse!dean #dean x reader #dean reader insert #katy writes #spn fanfic #dean fanfic #dean angst

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whump-tr0pes · 4 years

Photo

This is a series. Start here. Continued from here.

Red X is for posted, white X is for requested.

AO3

Cw: blood, injuries, reducing a dislocated bone (if you’re squeamish)

Honor bound - 30 (I will only slow you down) - @badthingshappenbingo

“No. No way. No way I’m leaving you. Isaac…”

Isaac left bloody handprints on Sam’s shirt as he pushed against their chest. Tears left tracks in the soot and blood on his cheeks. “You have to go, Sam. Please. If they find you… If I…killed him…”

Sam pushed Isaac’s hands away and clutched at his shirt. “No. I’m not leaving without you.”

“I’ll only slow you down. Please…” Isaac whimpered. He curled up on his side, doing his best to cradle his left arm with his destroyed right hand. His eyes fluttered shut.

Sam’s hands tightened in his shirt. “No,” they hissed through their teeth. “If they find us then they find us. I’m not going anywhere without you. Come on, Isaac. You have to get up.” They leaned back, pulling on Isaac’s shirt with all their strength, their good foot scrabbling on the ground. They trembled, still weak from the fever. “Isaac please,” they begged. “Please.” Isaac lay still at their feet, eyes closed. They heaved a sob and released his shirt, falling to their hands and knees beside him. “Isaac…please…” They crawled to his side, mewling weakly as their broken leg jostled as they moved. They curled up next to him on the ground, fingers gently brushing against Isaac’s forearm. Their fingers came away bloody. They closed their eyes.

“Sam! Isaac!”

Sam stirred, unsure if they had imagined it.

“Isaac!”

They raised their head.

“Sam!”

The voices were close.

“Isaac! Sam!”

Ellis. Sam sat up, slightly stunned. The smoke was thick, even outside. “Here!” They did their best to get to their feet. “We’re over here!”

“Sam!” The voices got closer. Vera.

Sam could make out movement in the dark. They waved their arms. “Over here!”

“Sam!” Ellis materialized out of the smoke, supporting a dazed-looking Finn. Vera was right behind them, holding onto Gray’s shirt. Ellis let go of Finn for a moment, rushing to Sam and falling to their knees beside them. “Sam!” They turned to shout over their shoulder. “Found them! Gray, go get the car!” They pulled the keys out of their pocket and tossed them to Gray. They caught them and turned, sprinting in the other direction.

Ellis turned back to Sam, hands moving over them in disbelief. “Sam. You’re ok.” Their eyes moved to Isaac, still lying unmoving on the ground. “Is he…”

“No.” Sam’s eyes filled with tears and spilled over. “He’s alive, he’s…he’s hurt, Ellis…” They looked helplessly at Finn, who was standing with their hands outstretched, a tortured expression on their face. They can’t help him with their broken hands… Vera kneeled behind Sam and held them as they swayed on their knees.

“What happened to him?” Ellis’s hands moved towards Isaac and stopped a few inches from his skin. “I…don’t…”

“He tore his hand getting out of the ropes,” Sam whimpered. Their hands wrapped around Vera’s wrists as she held them. “Gavin was going to…shoot me if he didn’t torture me…his thumb is…” They stared at him with wide eyes. “He hit Gavin. So many times…I think he killed him. His right hand is broken. And he…got shot…” They gasped.

Finn’s eyes seemed to focus at that. “He got shot? Where?” They knelt beside him.

“His forearm. There’s…a lot of blood…” Sam shuddered. “And in the explosion he…he got hit…his shoulder…”

Ellis took a hissing breath in through their teeth as they rolled Isaac slightly, angling him so Finn could inspect the wound. Blood was leaking from the torn skin.

“Right off the bat I s-see…” Finn’s words were a little slurred. “That shoulder’s dislocated, the thumb, too, and…the gunshot wound doesn’t look like it went through…” They wiped their eyes with their forearms. “I can’t see it clearly but I think it’s just a graze…” They squeezed their eyes shut. “And that’s all on top of his…other injuries…”

Sam shook their head slowly. “How did you all escape? What happened?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Vera said soothingly against their hair. “I’ll explain as soon as we’re all safe. I promise.”

They heard the car approaching. Ellis stood up as the headlights cut through the dark. Gray skidded to a stop beside them and jumped out, leaving the car running.

Ellis stood and moved to stand over Isaac’s head. “Help me with this. Gray, can you get his hips? I’ve got his torso… Vera, his legs?” They all nodded and moved into position around him. Sam stood to the side on one foot, trembling. Finn reached for them unsteadily. Sam folded into their arms and wrapped their arms around their waist.

Isaac cried out raggedly as they lifted him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Ellis whispered. They moved in step to carry Isaac to the car. They placed him as gently as they could in the back seat. Gray fumbled to put the seatbelt on. Isaac slumped against it.

“I’ll drive.” Gray carried Sam to the front seat and guided them in, helping them slide in to the middle.

“It’s ok.” Ellis’s voice was hard. “I can drive.” They moved towards the driver’s seat. Gray stopped them with a hand on their shoulder.

“I’m driving. I’m the only one Gavin didn’t torture. I’ll be able to focus on the road the best. Ok?”

Ellis fixed Gray with a steady look for a moment. Then they dropped their eyes and looked away. “Fine.”

“Ellis. Can you sit in the back with me? Be my hands?” Finn looked hopelessly down at their injured hands, tears rolling down their cheeks.

Ellis folded a little. “Of course.” They climbed in to sit next to Isaac, Finn getting in behind them. Ellis helped them with their seatbelt. Vera got into the passenger seat and Gray hit the accelerator.

“Sam.” Finn blinked slowly. “Did Isaac hit his head? Did he h-hit his head?”

“No. I mean, I…” Sam bit their lip. “I don’t think so? I didn’t see if he did. No?” They twisted around in their seat, their eyes fixed on Isaac.

“Ellis.” Finn licked their lips. “Pull his eyelids back. Look at his pupils. Turn on the overhead light.”

Ellis did as they were instructed. “What am I looking for?”

“Are they the same size?”

“Yeah.”

“Did they constrict when the light came on?”

“Um…yeah.”

“Cool. Feel his head. Feel for any bumps or soft patches or…um…crunching.”

Ellis winced, running their fingers hesitantly through Isaac’s hair. It was filthy and clotted with blood in some places. “I don’t feel anything weird.”

“Good. Now his neck. Feel the bones down the back. Keep going down his back to his tailbone.”

Ellis did it. “I think it all feels ok.”

Finn bit their lip. “You don’t have to check his ribs too much. I heard the snap back there. I know they’re broken. He seems to be breathing ok, right?”

Ellis watched him take a few breaths. “It seems normal, I think.”

“Feel his abdomen. Feel if it’s hot or like there’s something in there that shouldn’t be.”

Ellis pressed their fingers gently against the skin there.

“No, you have to kinda…dig in.”

“O-ok.” They did it. They winced as they pressed into the cuts there.

“Now push on his hips. Do they seem to be solid?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“Ok. Feel down his legs for breaks.”

“I don’t feel anything.”

“Ok. Now for the part I know is going to suck. Try to sit him up a bit more so I can see his shoulder.”

Ellis rocked Isaac gently forward against the seatbelt. Finn could barely tell if it was dislocated, or completely fractured. The torn flesh of his shoulder leaked blood onto the seat of the car. They huffed an exhale out from between their lips. “I need to get in there and feel it.”

“But…your hands…”

Finn winced. “I think only the left one is broken. Let me try.” Ellis moved a little as Finn reached across the car. Their fingers touched gingerly along Isaac’s shoulder, feeling the bones underneath. Isaac flinched and pulled away from Finn’s touch. Finn pressed as gently as they could into the torn flesh, feeling for bone fragments and sharp edges. Their hand ached.

“P…please…” Isaac whimpered.

Sam’s hand shot back towards Isaac.

“No…please…” Isaac whined pitifully, his eyes not fully open. “I can’t…”

“Isaac, you’re safe, you’re with us!” Sam’s dark eyes were riveted on Isaac.

“Gavin…please…stop…”

Finn pulled their hand back like they’d been burned. Vera squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her fist against her lips. Gray’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.

Finn ground their teeth together. “I don’t think anything’s broken. Just dislocated. Ellis, hold him. I have to reset it.

Ellis swallowed hard. “What if something is broken?”

Finn pressed their lips together. “Then I make it a lot worse. I can’t be sure without an x-ray. But…we can’t go to a hospital…especially not now…now that…” They shook their head. “But I don’t…I don’t think it’s broken.” They pressed their wrist against their forehead. “I…don’t…” They squeezed their eyes shut. “I’m sorry, my head h-hurts…”

Ellis cupped their hand under Finn’s chin and tilted their head up. Finn met their eyes desperately. “I know it hurts.” Their voice broke. “I know. But I trust you.”

Tears formed in Finn’s eyes. “Even like this?”

Ellis pressed a kiss to their forehead. “Even like this. You just got your bell rung a little. You can do this.”

Finn turned their eyes back to Isaac. “O-ok. Ellis, I need you to…to hold him down.”

Ellis pressed their hands against Isaac’s chest and uninjured shoulder. Finn’s hand closed gingerly on Isaac’s wrist. Their hand trembled. They shook their head.

“This won’t work. You need to be able to hold him down better, and I need room to get his arm against the seat…” Finn bit their lip.

Ellis moved quickly, swinging around in front of Isaac and straddling his legs, wrapping their arms around him and the headrest behind him. Their body pressed against the length of his, holding him firmly to the seat. “Does this work?”

Finn nodded. “Yeah, that’ll be fine I think. Ok. I don’t know if he’ll wake up, but this is probably gonna hurt.”

“Have you ever done this before?” Sam’s eyes were wide with concern.

Finn pressed their lips together. “…no. But I’ve practiced on normal shoulders, and I’ve seen it work.” Their hand wrapped around Isaac’s wrist. They held it up so his forearm was at a 90 degree angle from his upper arm, pointing straight in front of him. Isaac stirred, whimpering against Ellis’s shoulder. Finn held their left forearm against his upper arm, holding it tight to his body. They nodded at Ellis. They tightened their hold around Isaac and closed their eyes.

Slowly, gently, Finn began to rotate his forearm out to the side. Isaac shuddered and pulled against Finn’s grasp. Ellis held him tight to the seat. He moaned, his voice rising into a scream. Sam pressed their hands against their mouth, pale with pain. Finn moved his forearm until it was flush with the seat. They watched his shoulder carefully as they gently began to ease it back. A slight bump reverberated down Isaac’s arm. As they rotated his arm back, they noticed the lump of displacement was gone. Isaac slumped back against the seat. Bracing Isaac’s arm against Ellis, they ran their unbroken hand over his shoulder. The torn skin still oozed blood, but the bone was in place. Finn pressed their thumb hard into Isaac’s nailbed. Isaac pulled away weakly. The skin blanched and color returned to it almost immediately. They let out a breath. “I think it worked.”

Everyone in the car let out a breath of their own. Finn held Isaac’s arm against his chest as Ellis crawled out from on top of him and settled back down into the seat.

“I need a sling for him.”

Everyone cast their eyes around for a sling. Sam started to pull off their shirt.

“No…I need the medical bag. Is it still in the trunk?”

“Yeah, but…” Gray swallowed. “I don’t want to stop. We have no idea who’s coming after us.”

Finn cast a glance behind them through the rear window. “I don’t see anyone. Gray, please…I need to stop the bleeding. I need my kit.”

Gray pushed out a slow breath. “Ok.” They eased the car to a stop. “Vera, can you -”

She was already out. The trunk slammed and she jumped back in, handing the bag back to Ellis. Gray started moving again.

Finn reached out for the bag, but Ellis pulled it away. Their paused with their hands out before letting them drop.

“Ok. Right. Ellis, get a triangle bandage from the side pocket. It’ll be…yeah. That.” Ellis unfolded it. “Tie a knot in this corner and put the knot against Isaac’s elbow.” Ellis followed their directions. “Now take the ends and pull them up around his neck and tie a knot.” Ellis leaned forward to do it, hands pressing against Isaac’s neck as they tied the sling.

Isaac’s eyes flew open and his broken hand slammed against Ellis’s chest, pinning them against the front seat. “No,” he growled.

Continued here

@untilthepainstarts, @womping-grounds, @blue-flare10, @free-2bmee, @quirkykayleetam, @walkingchemicalfire, @inpainandsuffering, @redwingedwhump, @burtlederp, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog, @insomniacscoprio

#honor bound #bad things happen bingo #i will only slow you down #whump #rescue #injuries #broken bones #dislocated shoulder #field medicine #hurt medic #medical whump #my oc: Sam #my oc: Isaac #self-sacrifice #guys I drafted out something very rough for the rest of this story today and no joke #it came out to more than 40 more chapters #i'm nowhere close to done with them

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saxxxology · 5 years

Text

THE CURSED - Ch.9

Being an English Princess in 1739 is everything for Y/N, a Princess from a prosperous, powerful kingdom, to be happy about… until her parents arrange for her to marry a Prince from a nearby kingdom against her wishes. Unable to join her on her journey, the Royal family hires the Winchesters, two experienced Rangers, to guide her. However, the Princess and the younger brother begin to display affection for each other, and when her heat threatens her life, Sam makes a possibly deadly decision to save it.

PAIRING: Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader

WORD COUNT: ~2600

OVERALL WARNINGS: a/b/o dynamics (heat/rut, claiming, knotting), age gap, smut of varying levels, descriptions of injury and gore, a tad of dub-con and 18th-century sexism from time to time, occasional bits of angst, fighting, and violence, eventual minor character death

NOTE: Edited by @crispychrissy and @quiddy-writes - please heed all warnings! Please keep in mind that this series is set in the 18th century - society is not what it is today. I do not control where your eyes go; if you feel disturbed or think something may trigger you, it is your responsibility to either stop reading or scroll past.

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THIS WORK IS 18+ ONLY. DO NOT REPOST MY WORK ON ANY OTHER SITES.

Winter came and went. Sam and his Omega dealt with the frigid nights and mornings with several layers of thick, heavy blankets. They hardly left the bed, save to wash up and eat twice a day.

By the time spring arrived, the snow was beginning to melt, making the now-icy lake rise by several feet. Sam and Y/N had survived their first winter as a couple, but one question remained on both of their minds.

They’d had gone through another heat and rut together, and Sam kept a watchful eye on her for weeks after, watching for any sign of a growing pup. However, her belly stayed flat, leaving both of them to wonder if there was a possibility that one of them, at least, might be unable to procreate.

On a crisp morning in January, they walked the two hours to town, leaving Shadow to run about in her paddock, whinnying after them. Patches of snow crunched under their boots, and Sam kept Y/N closely by his side, under the warm refuge of Yellow Eyes’ coat.

They reached town just as the bells of the local church tolled for twelve o’clock and ambled down one of the crowded lanes when Sam stiffened, and Y/N looked up. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s here.” Sam looked as if he was torn between smiling and snarling in anger.

“Who?” She asked.

“Rowena, the witch,” Sam muttered. “Come.”

He took her hand and led her over to a small tent, where several red symbols were painted over the flaps. Y/N noticed that the villagers steered clear of her door, except for a few young ladies who stood across the road, looking as if they were debating going in.

Sam pushed one of the tent flaps aside, and Y/N was immediately swarmed by a comforting warmth and the scent of cloves. A small redheaded woman sat behind a table, arranging a stack of cards in long rows. She looked up as they entered, and when she saw Sam, her red-painted lips pulled back to reveal a row of straight, white teeth.

“Samuel,” she stood and walked around the table to greet them. She spoke with a thick Scottish accent. “It’s good to see ya, m’boy.”

“Rowena,” Sam bent to kiss her hand. “How has England been treating you?”

She shrugged. “I’m a Scot, I’ve been treated as the English believe I deserve. My little Fergus is runnin’ amok somewhere, stirring trouble where he can find it. He said he’d be here, but I never could trust the li’l rat.” Her eyes landed on Y/N. “He’s just a bairn, doesn’t know right from wrong no ma’er how much I show him.”

Sam put an arm around Y/N’s shoulders. “Rowena, this is Y/N. My Omega.”

“Ahh, I see,” Rowan cast her eyes over Y/N’s face, and she felt like the witch could see right through her, into the darkest depths of her soul. “She’s a beautiful girl, Sam, I’ll give ya that. How old are ya, m’ wee darlin’?”

“Eighteen.” Y/N replied.

“Oof, and young too.” Rowena shot her a knowing look, “Samuel here always did like ‘em young.” She paced back around her table and motioned them to sit. “Well, what brings you here today?”

Sam pulled out both chairs on the opposite side of the table and watched as Rowena poured them both tea. “We’ve been mated for some time, and… and we were thinking about a child. Not now at least, but in the future…”

The witch glanced back and forth between them. “And no luck so far, I take it.”

“None.” Sam replied.

“So, it’s fertility you’re troubled with,” Rowena raised her eyebrows and smiled. “One of my specialties. And what exactly do you want me to do?”

“Can you…” Y/N spoke up, and her voice wavered slightly, “can you tell me if I’m incapable of bearing a child?”

Rowena nodded. “Of course. Right over here, darlin’.”

Y/N looked at Sam, who nodded and stood with her. Rowena brought them to a table hidden behind a large curtain. A black strip of cloth covered it, painted with white markings and symbols Y/N didn’t recognize. She began preparing herbs and objects (some of which Y/N believed to be bones) in a small metal bowl. When she seemed done, she set the bowl in the center of the black cloth and reached for Y/N’s hand.

“I need a li’l contribution from you, m’dear,” she said.

Y/N obediently held out her hand and yelped in pain as Rowena immediately jabbed her finger with a needle, holding it over the bowl. Two drops of crimson landed on the ingredients, and Rowena began speaking in a foreign language. She cradled her sore finger in her hand and stood back as the witch’s eyes rolled back into her head, the orbs white. The bowl on the table exploded into a ball of purple fire, and Y/N stumbled back in fear.

“Sam, what is she—”

“I never said her methods were orthodox by any means,” Sam replied quietly. He took her hand and kissed her finger. “But she is good. Let her work.”

Y/N nodded and stood by his side, shivering. She couldn’t tell if it was due to the cold or fear over what she was seeing. After another minute, Rowena’s eyes normalized, and she rose steadily to her feet.

“What is it?” Sam stepped forward. “What do you know? Is it me or her? Or both of us?”

“It…” Rowena swallowed and put a hand over her heart. “She was capable of having a child.”

“Was? What do you mean?”

“She was perfectly fertile until you bit… until you claimed her.” Rowena replied firmly. “Your curse spread through the bite, but not to the full extent.”

Sam stood there, frozen in shock. “I… I don’t understand.”

“Well, the curse you bear, it wasn't supposed to allow you to take another mate,” Rowena explained softly, “but your love for her, your need, overcame it. You took her as your own, but the curse… it took something from her in retribution, just as it was supposed to take all chance of happiness away from you.”

Y/N felt her heart drop. “So… so I cannot conceive because of…?”

Rowena sighed and pursed her lips. “I can give you some herbs to try and help, but… as far as I know, Samuel, this is a permanent situation. It might be remedied if she was to take the curse in full, but…”

She brushed her hand over his and spoke something to him in another language Y/N didn’t know. Then the witch’s eyes flickered to hers. “I’ll get some things together, wait here.”

She disappeared behind the curtain, leaving them alone. Sam sat back heavily on a spare chair in the corner of the tent and buried his face in his hands. Y/N stood across from him, her uninjured hand against her stomach. She felt the tears well over and drop down her cheeks.

“Sam?”

No answer.

“Sam, please answer me.”

He looked up, and his eyes were red-rimmed. “How am I supposed to answer you? I’ve failed you. I could have given you a child if only I hadn't been so impulsive and—”

Y/N walked closer. “Sam, this doesn’t mean that we can’t be happy. I love you, no matter what, you know that.”

His upper lip curved into an angry snarl. “I destroyed the very thing you should want most, I ruined all hope of having a family—!”

He went to push past her, but Y/N refused to let him pass. “Sam, keep your voice down,” she shushed him. “Please, let’s just take the herbs and go home.”

Sam glared at the ground as tears slid down his cheeks. “Y/N, you need to let me by.”

“No, Sam, I won’t allow you to leave!” She raised her voice. “I know it hurts you. Believe me, it hurts me too, but I will not allow you to go storming off!”

Sam gathered her into his arms as she fell against him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I’m sorry, Omega, I am so sorry…”

Rowena appeared in the doorway, clutching a burlap pouch in one hand. She observed their embrace with her cold green eyes and waited for them to part before stepping forward. Sam murmured something to her in the same foreign tongue and disappeared through the curtain, and Y/N heard the tent flap open and shut.

“Where did he go?” She asked.

“He said he was goin’ to the church,” Rowena replied. “He won’t leave ye, I swear it. He’s just being a man, needin’ some time to cool down.” She slid the pouch into Y/N’s shaking palm. “Now, these may help. Your chances were not altogether quenched, but t’ be honest, dear, I don’t see much hope.” She saw the look of helplessness on Y/N’s face and reached over to brush the tears away. “I’m not leaving Dolgellau until the weather is warm. If you should need anything, you know where to find me.”

She escorted Y/N into the main room and pulled a handkerchief from her top pocket. “Here,” she began to wipe at Y/N’s cheeks and eyes, “no more cryin’, it’s no good. Go find Sam, he’ll want to speak with you.”

***

Sam knelt in the front pew, hands clasped against his forehead. He was praying for forgiveness harder than he ever had before, harder than when his father had been killed and he blamed himself for his mother’s grief, harder than when Jess had been killed because he’d left her alone… and now, he was praying for God to forgive him for destroying his Omega’s life.

What he’d done to her was worse than death.

What is this? He asked silently. Why must everything I do hurt the ones I love? I don’t understand.

He sighed and rubbed at his eyes, the lump in his throat growing tighter every second. He stood up, glaring angrily at the wooden carving of Christ crucified above the altar. He was going to leave when he nearly bumped into one of the priests. He was smaller than Sam but then again, nearly everybody was.

He had short, black hair that was mussed around his fair skin, and almond-shaped eyes that were the clearest blue Sam had ever seen.

“Why leave so soon?” The priest’s low, gravelly voice was quiet, but simultaneously echoed around the otherwise empty church.

“My business with God is, uh,” Sam sniffed, “well, I refuse to pray to someone who refuses to answer.”

The priest nodded, then held out his hand. “Forgive me for not introducing myself. My name is Castiel. I’ve seen you in town, spoken with your brother every Sunday.”

Sam hesitantly shook his hand, out of politeness rather than because he wanted to. “And?”

“I know who you are, Samuel,” Castiel replied, “rather, what you are.”

Sam stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“I saw you and your wife go to the witch Rowena,” Castiel replied. “I’m surprised; I’ve never seen a couple go to a witch before consulting God.”

“She’s not my wife,” Sam replied. “We’ve not… married yet.”

“Oh,” Castiel lowered his eyes and took a deep breath. “May I ask why?”

Sam’s next words were brutally honest, and he hated himself for saying them. “I’ve barely thought about making her my wife. If you know what I am, then you’ll understand my hesitation to wed. And I doubt anyone here in town would be kind enough to marry us; even the other priests here are afraid of me. I’ve not set foot in here for nigh on two years.”

“I am aware of what ails you,” Castiel’s eyes locked with Sam’s, “but you bear it with strength. I might call it a blessing.”

Sam tightened his lips and look at the ground. “It is not a blessing. I was not supposed to take another mate after… after my first Omega, Jessica…” he swallowed, “and when I claimed Y/N as mine, the curse took something from her.”

“Which would be…?”

Sam sighed and looked up at the ornate ceiling, “She can never bear a child. In saving her life, I destroyed the possibility of her ever producing it.”

Castiel nodded slowly. “You’re angry.”

“Of course I’m angry.” Sam spat the words as if they tasted foul. “My Omega—the woman I love more than anything in my life—can’t bear our children. And it’s my fault. I was reckless and stupid and I never thought that my curse could pass to her—”

“You did nothing wrong,” Castiel said. “I am not one to trust witches that deal in black magic, but Rowena is a very smart woman.”

“I know,” Sam folded his arms, “she’s the one who first told me I was cursed.”

Castiel nodded again. “Immortality.”

“Excuse me?”

“Immortality,” Castiel clarified. “Many would sell their souls to the darkest demon to roam the surface of the Earth to live forever. It isn’t a curse, Sam. Not when you’re with Y/N.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” the priest passed him to stand at the altar, “that you have an opportunity to live with her by your side forever. I can see the fear in your eyes, you’re terrified of her leaving you.”

“And how do I make her stay?” Sam felt tears brim in his eyes. “She must hate me, I’ve cursed her.”

Castiel shook his head. “No. No, she won’t hate you. It is a shock, I’ll admit, but you must keep your thoughts up. Something good may come out of this. You cannot keep thinking in the negative.” He handed Sam a small slate tablet covered in foreign writing. “My wife, Meg, she makes these for our parishioners. She’s a healer, and she gives these to those patients with little hope of happiness.”

Sam glanced at the tablet. He was a skilled studier of Latin, English, and Scottish Gaelic, but the letters carved into the slate seemed scrambled and disorganized. “I can't read this.”

“There are very few who can,” Castiel replied. “She is one of them. To loosely transcribe, it’s for luck, propsperity.”

Sam clutched the slate in his hand and held it up, a stiff smile playing on his lips. “Thank you.”

Castiel crossed himself, and Sam did the same before he turned to go. At the door, he stopped and turned around. “Father.”

The priest turned. “Yes?”

“I thought priests couldn’t marry.”

Castiel smiled. “My wife and I were married long before I joined the church. God has not given us any punishment yet; I can only believe that he has given us freedom to continue about our lives.” He touched the cross around his neck. “If you and your… Omega seek a child in the future, we do shelter many orphaned children, many of them infants. If you felt you could take one into your home in the future…”

Sam smiled and nodded. “We’ll consider it.” He held up the tablet again, “thank you, Father.”

Y/N was just walking up the steps to the church when Sam exited. Her face was dry and clear, but Sam could see anxiety heavy in her eyes. “Sam, what have you been doing?”

“Speaking with a priest,” Sam cupped her hands in his and raised them to his lips. “I’m sorry for leaving you behind.”

She shook her head and sighed. “I just want to go home.”

Sam pulled her back against his side and tugged his cloak over her shoulder. “I think we should get you a cloak of your own while we’re here.”

“I have one at home.”

“You deserve another.” Sam gripped her hand tightly in his and walked with her towards the shopping stalls. “You took the herbs from Rowena?”

Y/N nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.” Sam kissed the top of her head and felt her slide an arm around his waist. “What we heard today means nothing. We’ll keep trying. And whatever happens…”

“I know.” She glanced up at him. “You know I’m not angry with you, right? I don’t blame you, we had no way of knowing.”

Sam’s heart ached at her words. “I… I still feel horrible. The curse has even passed to you, love.”

“Not all the way.” Y/N protested. “Sam I’m… if I’m already halfway there, then I want to go all the way.”

He turned to her. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” She returned. “I refuse to just… pass into oblivion while you live to the end of time. I want to be by your side for the rest of my life, no matter how long it is. I belong to you.”

Sam slung an arm over her shoulders. “May we finish this conversation at home?”

Y/N nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

Sam shook his head and kissed her, not minding the people that started as they passed by. “You needn’t be. Now, let’s go get you a coat.”

If you want to see chapter 10, reblog and leave a comment! Feedback is my fuel!

TAGS FOR THIS SERIES ARE CLOSED

Forever tags: @atc74 @becaamm @bamby0304 @crispychrissy @crashdevlin @curly-haired-disaster @cameronbraswell @emoryhemsworth @ellen-reincarnated1967 @kittenofdoomage @kayteonline @kdfrqqg @littlegreenplasticsoldier @lunarsaturn88 @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @manawhaat @mereka18 @mrswhozeewhatsis @meganwinchester1999 @oneshoeshort @percussiongirl2017 @serpentbaby @spnwoman @smallgirlbigpersonality @shaelyn102 @thelittleredwhocould @winchesterprincessbride @winecatsandpizza @zombiewerewolfqueen @85natalie @81mysteriouslyme

#the cursed series #alpha!sam x omega!reader

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frizz22 · 5 years

Text

Ch. 2 After Vormir

End Game canon divergence fanfic.

SPOILERS for movie.

Read on ao3

He didn’t expect to see her laying in the water several yards from him. Her body not the small broken thing he’d last seen at the bottom of a cliff. Had, had the planet delivered her body to him so he could bring it back? Give Nat the funeral she deserved?

Barely breathing, Clint scrabbled over to her. “Nat?!” He murmured patting her cheek with one hand while the other fumbled for a pulse, unable to help himself. “Natasha!” He urged, abandoning his attempt at locating a pulse and shaking her shoulders.

“Ow.” She groaned, shifting slightly in the water before cracking open an eye.

Clint huffed in disbelief and tears poured down his cheeks even faster as he yanked her up into a tight hug. “God, Nat, I… oh Nat.” He mumbled, pressing his face against her neck as he clung to her.

Moaning, Nat pushed him away and pressed a hand to her ribs. “I don’t, I don’t understand.” She shook her head, baffled. “The stone? Was it never here?” He opened is hand and the little gem gleamed at them from his palm. Nat ran a hand over her face, “but why—”

“Don’t question it,” he interrupted, tucking the stone away and framing his best friend’s face, tracing her jaw and tugging on the end of her braid before pulling her into another hug. “Lets just get out of here before the universe changes its mind.”

Standing, Clint pulled Nat up as well. Carefully wrapping an arm around her waist, Clint moved to hit the button on his wrist device when Red Skull appeared. Snatching Nat’s gun before she could react, Clint pointed the weapon at the being. “Back away, you’re not taking her. I’m not losing her again. If you have to have someone, take me.”

“No,” Nat snapped, already trying to shield him, though they just ended up jockeying one another.

The Red Skull merely eyed them curiously. “I’ve never seen this,” he informed them, drifting closer despite the gun. “The stone, the stone gave her back. I’d heard of it in legends, but never thought to experience it myself.”

In no mood to chat, Clint shuffled back, trying to keep himself between the Red Skull and Nat. “Just press the button Nat, I’ll be right behind you.”

She chuckled humorlessly, “not a chance, stupid. Either you leave here or neither of us do.” She reached for his button, trying to send him back herself.

“No need for such dramatics,” Red Skull interrupted as he started to circle them. “You paid the price for the stone, you earned it. The planet will not take it back simply because it gave her back. A sacrifice was made, but—”

Nat frowned, “what? Was I not ‘good’ enough for the planet? For the stone? Spat me back out? Too much red in my—”

Rounding on her, Clint scowled. “Shut the hell up about that damned ledger. You and I both know you balanced it long ago. If the stone required a ‘good’ soul than you’re the best of the two of us.”

Red Skull cut into their bickering, “you’ve bypassed the laws of the stone. It required one of you to sacrifice the person you loved most to obtain it. Not for one of you to sacrifice yourself to protect the one you love most.” He eyed them, “you broke the laws, and yet, the stone rewarded you for it. It must have found you worthy.”

The comment had Nat’s mouth snapping shut in surprise. “Worthy…” she breathed in disbelief.

Clint smiled affectionately at her. “What did I say?” He murmured, with a slightly teasing ‘I-told-you-so’ tone. Before she could argue, before Red Skull or the stone or the planet or whatever had spared his best friend changed its mind, Clint gripped Nat’s hand tightly. “Let’s go home.”

Still struck silent, Nat gave him a half smile and nodded. And together they hit the devices on their wrists and were whisked away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blinking, Nat regained her bearings. They were back at Avengers Headquarters and everyone else was reappearing around them too, each slightly disoriented but looking triumphant.

“Did, did it really work?” Scott asked, looking at each of them.

Each of them nodded hesitantly in turn before incredulous huffs and nervous laughs escaped them as they realized they’d actually pulled it off. Suddenly, they were coming together in the middle, going around the circle and hugging, clapping shoulders, kissing cheeks. They’d done it.

It was only when Thor hugged her a little too enthusiastically that Nat growled, pulled away and instinctively wrapped an arm around her ribs.

“Were you hurt?” Thor asked, brow furrowed and eyes filled with concern. Unsure how to explain what happened, Nat just shrugged, they got hurt on missions all the time, no need to dig deeper. Clint, however, couldn’t let it pass.

“She died.”

The entire room went silent, faces sobering and then scrunching with confusion. Stark was the first to break the silence, to no one’s surprise. “But she’s standing right here, Barton. What are you talking about?”

Waving a hand, Nat shook her head. “I’m hurt because Clint shot an explosive arrow at me. Not—”

“You shot and killed her with an arrow?!” Bruce exclaimed, looking between them in shock.

An offended look crossed Clint’s face, “of course I didn’t kill her! And I didn’t shoot at you, just next to you.” He clarified, gesturing with his hands.

“But why shoot in the first place…”

“Now I’m confused…”

Voices overlapped one another, and Nat couldn’t help but notice Steve had been silent the whole time, watching her intently. “If you died, how are you here?” He interrupted softly, and everyone fell quiet once more.

A small smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, “I walked it off.” She told him, echoing the orders Steve had given them when Sokovia was floating miles above the ground. The group just stared at her in wonder, until she had to duck her head and she walked off the platform, a slight limp in her stride.

“You can’t just leave it at that!” Rocket called after her indignantly.

Rolling her neck, Nat didn’t turn but kept heading for the Medbay just down the hall. “Clint is the one who wanted you all to know so badly, he can tell you.” Her disinterest in sharing her death didn’t dissuade the others, though. They all filed into the room after her, crowding around.

Bruce tried to tend to her injuries, but in Hulk form he had to turn the duties over to Steve and Rhodey as he stood in the back talking about x-rays and MRI’s as her military men helped her with the time travel suit, and grabbed bandages and topical anesthetics to patch her up.

Rocket, Thor and Scott sprawled onto the free beds, listening closely and waiting for an explanation for her death. Nebula hovered awkwardly off to the side, looking like she’d been ushered in here with the others and would rather be anywhere else. Clint leaned against the door though, keeping them all trapped inside, just watching them all, eyes flicking to Nebula frequently as Tony complained about how everyone knew how he almost died, repeatedly, he might add. And it was no secret about Steve being turned into a ‘Capsicle’ either, or Rhodey’s close call when Vision shot him from the sky. So, it certainly wasn’t fair for her to hold back on them.

As the conversations washed over her, Nat couldn’t help but think this was what she’d died for. This family that knew nothing of personal space or how to let things lie. This family that had to share pretty much everything with each other because secrets had torn them apart in the past. This family she never could have dreamed of having or dreamed of deserving. It’d been worth it, her death, or it would’ve been had she not come back. And she hadn’t expected to live, why would she?

But she’d believed in them. That they’d all get their jobs done and pull off this crazy plan they’d concocted when Scott walked through their door. Believed they’d bring everyone back; Nick, Maria, Bucky, Sam, Wanda and all the others. She’d believed in them and that made it a fraction easier to launch herself off that cliff.

She’d told Clint the truth, she hadn’t wanted to die. Not when they were so close to fixing everything, to hitting the undo button. But if it’d been between her and half the universe, there wasn’t a question. And if it was between her and Clint…. Well, if possible, that’d been even less of a question.

There’d been no way in hell she was going to let Clint sacrifice himself.

No way she was going to have failed him and let him spiral and do so much in the wake of the loss of his family only to let the Bartons feel the same grief when they returned and found him dead and gone. No, they deserved to be whole. And she refused to tell Laura and the kids that daddy could have come home, but instead they got her. A poor consolation prize.

The decision to launch herself off the cliff was clinical, easy, relatively speaking. Doing it… well, Clint had made it easier for her to do it, if only by being an idiot. A race to the literal bottom. She huffed out loud at the thought and everyone turned to her, waiting.

“I’m not sharing.” She told them dryly, arching a brow. The group then turned expectantly to Clint who sighed and ran a hand over his face before glowering at her. “You’re the one who had to tell them I died; you can tell them how.” She repeated in response to his glare.

Slowly, Clint explained what happened once they arrived on Vormir. How they’d had to decide who would die in exchange for the stone; how they fought verbally and physically over who would shoulder the responsibility; how she’d sacrificed herself to save them all.

Steve unconsciously inched closer and closer to her as Clint spoke, until he was holding her hand, squeezing tightly when Clint described how she’d fallen away, how he’d seen her broken at the bottom of the cliff. Nat stroked her thumb over the back of his hand, trying to comfort him, but when Steve looked at her there were tears in his eyes.

Without breaking eye contact, Steve asked what they were all likely thinking. “How are you alive?” His tone was tender, and he’d pressed even closer, his hip resting against her knee though Nat doubted he was aware of what he was doing.

Thankfully, Clint answered, telling them how she’d come back, what the Red Skull had said, that she’d been worthy. Nat ground her teeth a little at that, but the group nodded and murmured in consent, glancing or outright staring at her with awe.

Before any of them could get gooey, though, Clint rounded on Nebula. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell us what had to be done to get the stone?” Voice hard and eyes steely, Clint shoved off the door and advanced on the blue woman.

Stunned at being addressed, Nebula’s eyes flickered to the rest of them in confusion. “What?”

“You heard him.” Nat said, tone no softer than Clint's. “You knew the price, had to, why didn’t you warn us.” She bit out each word clearly, not having much patience for Nebula when her actions almost cost her Clint.

Everyone turned to her now, and Nebula pressed against the counter behind her as though trying to escape. “I don’t know what you're talking—”

Thor stood and towered over her, some of the old god of thunder peeking through, “you do. I almost lost someone else because you failed to mention this crucial detail. I can’t lose anyone else. Why did you withhold this?”

A smile tugged at Nat’s lips at the statement, she and Thor had never been the closest, his frequent intergalactic travels made it difficult. But she was glad to know he saw her just as much a part of his family as she saw him as a part of hers.

Nebula edged away from him warily, “I didn’t withhold—” she turned then, making for the door, but Bruce blocked it now where Clint had before.

Tony exhaled loudly then, drawing their attention. “You’re not Nebula.”

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justwritingscibbles · 5 years

Text

The Puppendoktor - Part 2

Early the next morning, you loaded your carpet bag and portable sewing machine onto your motorcycle before kicking it to life and driving to the Septic House. When you rang the doorbell, a frazzled looking Chase opened.

“Thank God you’re here.” He breathed. “Sammy’s been crying and didn’t sleep well at all.”

“Don’t worry, Chase.” You smiled, following him into the house. “The Puppendoktor is here.”

You swapped your leather jacket for your patched white coat before stepping into the living room with your carpet bag in hand, leaving your sewing machine in the hallway. In the living room, you saw Samantha being hugged by her brother Grayson as she gently cradled her teddy bear. Bobby was badly torn in several places. One of his arms was nearly torn off, half of his face was dangling, and a large gash across the stomach.

“Hey, Sammy.” You said softly. “Did your Uncle Henrik tell you what I do?”

“You’re a doctor for stuffies.” Sam sniffled. “Can you make Bobby better?”

“Of course I can.” You smiled, turning to Henrik. “Nurse! Bring my tools upstairs. This patient needs some intensive care.”

Henrik smiled and grabbed your bag, leaving to bring it and your sewing machine upstairs to his office. You looked back to Sam, holding out your hands.

“May I?”

Slowly, Sam placed Bobby in your hands before burying her face in her brother’s chest.

“I’ll be back soon.” You murmured and went upstairs to Henrik’s office.

“Let’s get started.” You breathed out, placing the bear on the desk and starting to remove the stuffing to give your hands room to work on its inside.

Your machine whirred, pulling the torn fabric back together. You carefully stitched up the bear’s face and sewed his eye back into place.

You back hurt by the time you were done, but Bobby the Bear was back in shape, all tears repaired and anything that had been lose tightened to keep it from falling off too soon.

The door opened, and Henrik stepped in, smiling at the sight of the bear all repaired.

“Your work is beautiful as ever, Schatz.” He hummed, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and kissing your temple. “No vonder ze hospital hired you for ze children’s ward.”

You closed your eyes and leaned back into him for a moment, sighing contently. Then you stood up and grabbed the bear.

“Let’s reunite Bobby with his little owner.”

The way Sam’s eyes lit up when she saw Bobby back to “full health” reminded you once again of the reason why you did what you did. She ran and hugged you, babbling her thank yous. You just shook your head and told you it was your pleasure as you hugged her back.

After lunch (and after Henrik had convinced you to stay since he had the weekend off), Chase took you aside and tried to push several bank notes into your hands.

“No.” You shook your head, pushing the money away. “I didn’t do this to be payed. I did it to make little Sam happy.”

Chase smiled and put the money away before pulling you in a tight hug.

“Thank you.” He whispered.

“No problem.” You murmured, returning the hug. “Any time you need something sewed, you can call me. You lot are like my brothers anyway, apart from Henrik.”

#cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuttttteeeeee #submission

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miraclealignersv · 5 years

Text

Torn Part two (Jason Todd x Reader)

You can find the first part here

summary: After Jason comes back looking for the woman he loves, he finds out shes with someone else. Torn on choosing between Jason and her fiance, she has to make a decision.

A/N: RIght so I took a physics exam earlier today, I had a lot of extra time afterward and I decided to write the second part of Torn. Hope you guys enjoy, feedback is greatly appreciated.

y/n thought it over and over again. The thought of Jason being back from the dead, she didn't even have time to process that. Let alone the fact that she still loved him more than anything in the world. The whole afternoon after he had left, she sat on the floor in liver living room. Crying into her hands not knowing what to do.

She loved Sam, of course. He was caring and was always there for her. During the time after Jason’s death. She went through rough patches for what seemed years, and he was there for her. But her love for Sam was not the same burning, passionate love she had for Jason. Sam was good to her, and she appreciated everything he had done. But he wasn't Jason.

Deep down, she knew that the Jason that came back wasn't her Jason. He looked different, talked differently, but somehow his love for her was still there. His embrace that always made her feel safe was there. All of the years they spent together during high school, dances, kisses and intimate moments. Everything they gave each other, its as if they were two pieces of a puzzle. They fit together. There wasn't anyone else for either, in a world where neither Y/n or Jason believed in destiny. They knew they were made for each other.

Y/n knew what had to be done, she knew somehow someone was going to get hurt. It had been five hours since Jason knocked at her door. Within those five hours, she made a decision. Maybe she was a bad person for this, for choosing him, but it was like her mother always told her ‘’The heart wants what it wants’’.

Jason sat at a diner, the same one him, Dick and y/n would come to after school. Walking down the street, he saw the booth they sat in every day after class, the flashbacks of her laughing and dancing with the boys. Her rich laughter that filled the empty diner, as an old song played, Dick was laughing with them as they both danced around. Sue, the owner shook her head as the kids had the time of their lives. Only to pay their milkshakes and fries, head home and do it all over again.

Sitting in that particular spot, he stared at his cup of coffee with a cold gaze. Why would he storm out like that, how could he ask her to chose? She was happy, engaged and that's all he wanted. For her to be happy, but he got caught in the heat of the moment. His heart was broken after seeing the love of his life move on, to love someone else. To say and do what she would with Jason with someone else.

The thought of her saying the three words she would say to him every day, “I love you’’ to someone else, it pained him. The thought of her soft lips on someone else’s, well that was the final blow. He groaned and brought his hands up to his face. Rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. It was stupid of him to go look for her in the first place, he thought. Let alone yell at her to chose between him and his fiance.

He had been at the diner for a long time, waiting for nothing, in particular, even skipping out on patrol for the night because it all just felt too much. He fucking hated himself for what he had done as if she didn’t deserve happiness after his death.

‘’God Jason you're stupid’’ he muttered as he rested his elbows on the table and brought his hands to cover his eyes. He swallowed hard and glanced down at his empty coffee cup, looking around he saw Sue. She walked over with the coffee pot and smiled at him refilling it.

‘’You sure you don't want anything to eat hon?’’ she asked, concern laced in her voice. Jason stared at her and sighed.

‘’I’ll get some fries if that's okay’’ he answered, his voice soft with a small sad smile. Sue gave him a nod and placed a hand on his shoulder before walking away ‘’thank you’’ he finished as he brought the cup of coffee to his lips. It was dark out already, somehow still raining, it was one of the only things he missed about Gotham. Closing his eyes, he thought of a thousand ways to apologize to y/n for what he had done earlier.

That's when he felt a hand on his shoulder, thinking it was sue with the fries he had ordered. He moved his cup of coffee to the side sat up straight.

‘’I knew id find you here’’ he heard, his body froze as he turned around slowly to see y/n. She gave him a small smile before pointing at the seat across from him ‘’may I?’’ she asked, Jason, didn't say anything he just looked at her and every single movement she made. As she took off her coat and placed it in the space beside her, he noticed a hint of sadness in her. Hesitating to spit the words out, he sucked on his bottom lip.

‘’y/n, look I’m sorry for everything’’ he spat out, y/n tilted her head keeping her gaze on him. Jason avoided her eyes, he felt too guilty to even look at her. He didn't even know he would meet her right then and there. They were quiet for what seemed hours, Sue came by to drop off the fries.

‘’The usual y/n?’’ sue asked, y/n bit her lip and looked over at her with a sad smile. Jason saw her leg bouncing up and down, something she tended to do when she was nervous.

‘’Just a cup of coffee please’’ she answered, her voice raspy, but somehow it was music to Jason’s ears. Sue gave her a nod and walked back into the kitchen as y/n cleared her throat.

‘’What are you doing here’’ Jason asked, bringing his hands up to his face to cover his eyes. Y/n leaned back on the soft material in the booth. She crossed her arms over her chest and bit at her lip with a slight smile. That was when Jason peaked through the spaced between his fingers and looked at her. How she sat in front of him, not bothered at all. His eyes darted to her left hand, and back to her. Only to realize something was missing from her hand.

Jason removed his hands and glanced up at her, they only stared at each other. In a way both of them speechless. For starters, she was still shocked after what she had done. The fact that she left her home to search for him, and found him where she knew he would be. And Jason was shocked by the fact that her engagement ring wasn't on her finger, and instead, she sat across from him.

‘’So, do we start over or what?’’ she asked as a smirk crept onto her face as she held the coffee cup in her hands near her mouth. Jason chuckled and shook his head before giving her a nod. She gently blew on the surface of the dark liquid. “y/n, y/n y/l/n’’ she smiled.

‘’Jason, Jason Todd’’ he spoke shaking his head, he flashed her the smile she had always loved. Both of them not saying anything too each other, because it was too good to ruin the first interaction.

#Jason Todd #jason todd fanfic #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #redhood

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garethandjude · 6 years

Text

Why did we do it?

Even through rose tinted glasses this afternoon was tough. All the surgery Sam had today was elective. When he woke up in agony post surgery, crying in pain, and impossible to console you feel helpless, and wonder whether you’ve made the right choice. Outwardly you try your best to reassure Sam, offer what comfort you can, run through the full wish list of things he may want post-operatively. Inwardly you’re being torn to shreds seeing your child in pain. You knew it was coming but you’re still not prepared for it. It takes everything you have to stay composed. Then, without any justification the recovery nurse refuses to offer the IV pain relief that Sam had asked for (he knows it works faster compared to Oral). At this point you don’t feel hopeless, you feel like exploding and unleashing a verbal tirade, but you don't. As if to prove a point, Sam was as stubborn as a mule and refused to take any pain relief, oral or otherwise while in recovery. He was wheeled back to his room and even managed to swap beds on his own. He eventually capitulated and asked for the oral pain relief he’d earlier refused, but probably ensuring the recovery nurse was nowhere to be seen!

Unfortunately Sam came out of theatre with a cannula in his hand, and the sticky patches used for the ECG leads still on him. I’ve no idea why, but this made the rest of the afternoon even more traumatic for him. What followed was multiple episodes of crying or of complete defiance, where he would not let us do anything. He eventually allowed us to help him first remove the patches, then the dressing over the cannula and finally the cannula itself. What would have taken 2 minutes in Theatre took us 4 hours!

Every thing we did today was elective, but did we have to do it? Absolutely. We hope to have given Sam a chance of fathering a family that he may not otherwise have following the Radiotherapy next week. We also hope that the new line works, and we avoid the regular issues we’ve had with the old one. During the BMT Sam will need a lot of support; IV medicines, bloods, fluids, nutrition you name it. He’ll not be able to do the chicken dances or light sabre fights to try and coax his lines into action and so entering this phase of treatment with a temperamental line is just not an option.

What about the gastrostomy (stomach line)? Like a diary entry, I hope to read this in a few month times to remind myself of how I feel now. Did we make the right decision at the time? Yes. Will he still need a line? Probably. But seeing him in pain from the 2 procedures today was enough, a third incision would of made it even worse. It’s already hard to help Sam sit up or stand up with hurting him. Getting in and out of the car is an ordeal. With another cut and dressing on his stomach it would have been very hard. Moreover, the gastronomy line needs a lot more attention, it needs to be rotated every 24hrs, the site checked for leaks and of course infections. This is a burden we would have to bear with the community nurses and with only a few days to get everything else ready before the radiotherapy, this is one extra pressure we can do without at home and is best done when we’re under hospital care. As we’ve mentioned before, this is probably the lower priority of the 3 procedures and carries the greatest risk of complications, particularly given the steroids Sam is on, and his current size. Any major complications, would risk the radiotherapy and BMT dates, and being so close as we are, in the long run it’s just not worth it. I know I won’t feel this way when he first needs the nasal tube, but hopefully this will give some context.

Sam has a tough few days ahead recovering from his procedures, and a dressing change tomorrow, but at least we’re in the comfort of home.

11.09.18

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diinofayce · 6 years

Text

Like A Whisper In The Night - 13

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC (Layne Hardin) | Word Count: 2,613 | Warnings: Swearing probably, fluff, angstyfluff? | PREVIOUS CHAPTER

The group all settled around the kitchen table, Wanda and Vision serving everyone large bowls of a yellow meat sauce over rice. It had the consistency of curry, but was much sweeter and very rich. Layne picked at it and mixed it around in her bowl as she tried to get the first few bites to sit calmly in her rolling stomach, it had been over a week since she had eaten anything substantial, but she wanted to show the team that she could handle herself. It was Bucky, who watched her with intense eyes from across the table, that finally stood and went over to the fridge. He came back with a small pack of applesauce and a spoon, ripping off the tinfoil lid and setting it down in front of her and pulling her bowl of Wanda’s lunch to him.

“Small bites, doll,” Bucky said softly. Layne flushed and cast her eyes around the table, the others acted like they didn’t notice and so Layne sent Bucky a timid smile of gratitude. He smiled back and dumped the food from Layne’s bowl into his and Steve’s.

Layne took tiny slow bites of the applesauce, finding that sat way better in her stomach as she picked at the torn flesh on her knuckles, the android laying torn apart on the floor behind them.

“Are we going to tell me what is happening?” Thor finally asked through a mouthful of rice.

Steve cleared his throat and wiped his mouth off on a napkin, trying to collect his thoughts on how to best go about explaining everything the God of Thunder had missed. It was Layne who reached over Natasha to her left to extend her small battered hand to Thor.

“I’m Layne Hardin; I take over people’s minds, make them tell the truth, and can make them relieve their worst memories. This is my friend Susanna Sweet, she is not an Avenger, but she did a very good job holding down Hulk for me so I could force Bruce back in control the other day so we might keep her.” Sue choked a little on her food and elbowed Layne softly in the ribs which she ignored. Thor blinked at Layne for a moment before taking her hand in his large meaty one and shook it furiously.

“Excellent! A great addition,” he boomed. He looked over at Susanna to Layne’s right and smiled. “You held down the big green guy? That is fantastic. We must battle later.”

Layne smirked as she saw Sue go a brilliant shade of red out of the corner of her eye and continued to pick at her applesauce.

“Um. Yeah. I’m not planning on staying much longer,” Susanna waved him off, trying to deflect. “I’m just staying to make sure Layne is back on track and then I have a job to get back to.”

“So if I stay a hermit you wont leave?” Layne teased, giving her friend puppy dog eyes. Sue chuckled and shook her head, already more than overly familiar with Layne’s antics.

“You mentioned something about her brother?” Thor asked Steve and Layne bristled.

Steve and Bucky both carefully watched Layne’s reaction as she froze at the mention of her sibling down in lockup. She shook herself slightly and went back to eating her applesauce and staring intensely at the table as if it was the most fascinating thing in the room.

Steve licked his lips before proceeding with caution. “Yes. Layne’s older brother is also an Inhuman, they seem to have similar powers based on a hereditary chain. He is also quite knowledgeable in the world of robotics and it seems he has been making androids to look like that woman. She’s the daughter of the scientist who experimented on the Maximoff twins,” Steve answered. Wanda shifted uncomfortably at both the reminder of Dr. List Sr and her deceased brother.

Thor had a small frown on his face and he looked across from him to address his brother. “Why did you not contact Heimdall to send me to you sooner?” Thor asked and Loki shrugged.

“A good thing I refrained, brother. Who would have been there to defeat that,” Loki replied sounding bored as he motioned to the pile of scrap behind them.

A clatter of silverware came from one end of the table as Tony put his fork down and wiped at his face with the napkin from his lap. “What I’m curious about, Hardin, is how come when you gave us a debrief on your brothers abilities you didn’t tell us he could also take over minds and bodies like you can.” He was, of course, referencing the trouble her brother caused when he took over Steve’s body on their arrival back to the tower.

Layne squeezed her eyes shut, she was hoping no one would realize and it would never come up. That was a bleak hope, though, as she was surrounded by people who only survived by being extremely observant. “Because he couldn’t,” Layne answered quietly. “Just like I knew absolutely nothing about robotics or mechanical engineering or any of that until last week.”

Tony squinted his eyes at her and chewed on the little patch of hair on his bottom lip. “Care to expand on that?” he retorted.

“As soon as Ava List attached this enhancer to my brain it was like it caused a neuro-sync with Daniel. If you closed all the blinds I could probably disappear into the shadows like he can. But I can tell you that he’s baking under the lights you’re pouring into his room, how he’s slowly going insane because he can’t sleep because of them. I know what you’re feeding him every day, I can feel that he’s chewed his fingernails down to the quick and has resorted on chewing on his skin around them, and I know that he’s planning his escape even though it’s futile. As soon as I looked at that android I knew exactly how he built it, I knew what was important, what to remove so it can’t be activated, that Thor only did artificial damage and that it was a ticking time bomb until I pulled that chip out,” Layne’s chest was heaving as she worked herself up to a panic attack. It was Bucky’s hand reaching across the table and wrapping around her wrist that gave her something to anchor to and calm down.

The team looked at her with dropped jaws and wide eyes, Layne flushed and covered her eyes with her hand to block them out.

“So you gained each other’s extra abilities?” Natasha asked, trying to wrap her head around everything.

Layne lowered her hand and chewed on her bottom lip in thought. “It…doesn’t feel like an extra ability? It feels like it was supposed to be something I could do and that he could do…we just I don’t know…learned our abilities differently?” Layne tried to explain.

“Like a video game,” Sam piped up. “You have the same skill tree, but you both went down different branches of it, but once you have the skill points there’s no reason you can’t unlock that branch.”

Layne nodded. “Yeah. Exactly. It’s like we combined our skill points.”

“This means that Daniel has knowledge of everything we’ve been working on in the lab. The super solider serum, my problem with the big guy, even data on the blood that Loki donated,” Bruce commented, looking worried. Layne sighed and nodded in confirmation. “Can you…delete…memories?” Bruce asked.

Layne shrugged. “Like extract a memory permanently?” She thought back to her ex-boyfriend back home, how he followed her around for months showing up at her apartment and work until she had basically wiped herself from the grid. Until he found her again and she snapped, delving into his mind and pulling out every memory of their time together and destroying it. She thought about him sitting in the mental health ward at the hospital as he drooled down his shirt. Maybe it was the sheer quantity, taking out two years worth of memories, or maybe it was her erratic emotional state when she did it either way she wasn’t looking to repeat it.

“I can, but it’s too risky,” Layne conceded. “I’ve done it once, the results were less than satisfactory.”

Bucky studied Layne’s face carefully, watching the emotions flick through her eyes with her recollection. He watched as she picked her words, Bucky didn’t know if she had always been so flippant or if this was a new development to her personality. His gaze flickered over to Susanna who didn’t seem concerned in how Layne was acting so he chocked it up to just another aspect of Layne he wasn’t familiar with. Layne had this way of skirting around her truths, she never lied but would never go out of her way to give details unless pressed. It was something that Tony had noticed months ago with her, always demanding her to ‘expand’ or ‘explain further’ and she usually would without a second thought. It just made Bucky wonder into her past, what had happened that Layne only ever spoke in halves?

Layne could feel Bucky’s eyes locked on her, his gaze burning into the side of her face as she talked to Bruce and Tony. She clenched her jaw in discomfort and finished the last bit of her applesauce before flicking her gaze to his. Her caramel eyes were rimmed with amber fire and Bucky quickly looked away, knowing he’d been caught.

“When do I get to see Danny?” Layne asked suddenly, setting her spoon down gently.

Bucky and Steve looked at each other, Steve then turned to Tony who shrugged. “Whenever you want, Layne,” Steve answered softly.

Layne stood, pushing her chair back. “Excellent. He’s in lock up five, right?” She turned and strutted off without waiting for confirmation. Bucky immediately stood and glared at Steve before rushing off after her.

Thor clapped his hands on the table, a broad smile taking over his face. “So, Lady Susanna. About that battle?”

~*~

Bucky rushed into the elevator with Layne before the doors closed. “What do you think you’re doing?” Bucky asked more harshly than he meant to. Layne’s face bunched up and she took a deep breath before answering carefully, her tone clipped.

“Going down to see my brother. What are you doing?”

Bucky slammed the emergency stop button on the elevator and Layne sighed, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning against the railing. She was preparing herself for the lecture that she was sure was coming. Layne knew she did herself a disservice by locking herself away in her room because now everyone was treating her like fragile glass. Which she kind of felt like, but at the same time she was determined to stay glued together and just be normal functioning glass. Or maybe just chipped, relatively okay glass.

What she did not expect was for Bucky to cradle her face with his hands and crash his lips into hers. The taste and feel of him immediately overwhelmed her senses, she unfolded her arms and grabbed onto his waist, pulling him flush against herself as she opened her mouth to him to taste him further. Bucky kissed her desperately, holding onto her for dear life like he was afraid she would disappear. Layne let Bucky take control, his tongue brushing against hers and his thumbs sweeping over her cheekbones. He slid his flesh hand up and tangled itself in her hair, his metal hand sliding down her body to rest at her hip. Bucky pulled away, realizing they both needed to breath, but bit softly at her bottom lip with his departure.

“I have never been so afraid in my life,” Bucky said suddenly, his voice deep and rough. He opened his ice blue eyes to stare deep into Layne’s warm brown ones; he held onto her like a life line, as his eyes roved her face memorizing every line, freckle, and scar. The way her lips were red and swollen from him and the way her blood had rushed to her cheeks in surprise, how silky her hair felt in his fingers and how warm her skin was beneath his metal thumb as it traced up under the hem of her shirt.

“Of the elevator?” Layne asked dumbly, her brain failing to catch back up after the sudden attack of one James Buchanan Barnes.

“Of losing you. Of not being able to tell you I’m an idiot and ask you to go on a date with me. Of never being able to kiss you again. Of not getting a chance to try to do something right for the first time in a really long time.”

Layne took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yeah, but you found me.”

“Because of you. We were failing at every corner, I don’t want to fail when it comes to you.” Bucky removed his hands from Layne and set them on the railing on either side of her and taking half a step back so that he could lean down and rest his forehead on Layne’s shoulder.

Layne reached up and threaded her fingers through Bucky’s hair, fiddling with the hair band absentmindedly. “Bucky…I am less afraid of anything Hydra can do to me than I am of hurting you. Of fucking this entire thing up so horribly you’d never look at me again,” Layne confessed, her heart aching in her chest. “I’m like a poison when it comes to relationships.”

Bucky turned his head so his face was pressed against Layne’s neck, he inhaled the soft blackberry and vanilla scent of her body wash and the mango of her shampoo, she basically always smelled like a smoothie and it was one of his favourite things. “You can’t poison a relationship, doll. I adore you exactly as you are. I just want to be allowed to be the person that gets to watch you go and become the greatest, truest version of yourself. Because I think you’re swell and beautiful and strong and I would be beside myself if I got to call you my girl.”

Layne’s heart was pounding in her chest at his proclamation. Everyone in her life had always tried to change her, to mold her into their perfect idea of Layne Marie Hardin. No one had ever said ‘I think you’re exactly how you should be’, not even close. She was never smart enough, or pretty enough, or thin enough, or witty enough. And here was this broken boy soldier telling her that she was swell. Tears fell from Layne’s eyes unbidden and Bucky felt them hit his nose causing him to look up with worry.

“Doll?”

“You’re just the bees knees, James Barnes,” Layne said with a watery chuckle, swiping at her cheeks with the back of her hands.

Bucky looked at her unsure and swiped his thumbs under her eyes to knock the tears off her eyelashes. “Is that you saying you’re going to be my girl or you making fun of me?”

Layne let out a full laugh this time and stretched up to kiss Bucky softly on the lips. “Both. You’re a real stand up guy.”

Bucky blushed furiously and kissed her back, trying to keep the corners of his mouth curving up. “Shut up, Layne.”

“Hey, guys. Whatever is happening is cute and all, but other people need to use the elevator. So if you don’t get this tin box moving I’m going to have FRIDAY over ride it.” Tony voice sounded through the little speaker on the wall of the elevator and Layne smirked, reaching around Bucky to hit the emergency stop button and get the elevator moving again.

NEXT CHAPTER

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