a rosie by any other name

Outfit completed, Timmy unplugged the iron and took a look over himself in the mirror. Thirty minutes left by now, he should take the pin curls down. One by one, he released the perfectly flouncy spirals. He fluffed them all just a bit, to give it the effortlessly tousled look you loved even though the process was anything but effortless. He smiled at his reflection, dabbing on just a bit of the cologne you bought him for his birthday before leaving the bedroom.

Timothée had made quite the catch with you. A teacher, his parents had been impressed when he first brought you home for an introduction. 

You were a boss all day, commanding your classroom, shaping young minds, nurturing them. It only made sense that most of the time, you came home and commanded it too. And Timothée was more than fine with that. You worked so hard all day and kept a roof over your heads. Afforded him such a nice cushy life. Of course he’d want to provide every little comfort for you when you got home. Catering to you was the least he could do.

Right on time, Timothée had just finished icing the cake when he heard you pulling up in the driveway. He licked the glaze off his finger, smoothing out his button down on the way to the door. He arrived in the foyer just as you opened the front door. Warmth flooded his chest. Would he ever get used to how pretty you were? Almost a year of marriage and he didn't think it possible.

“Welcome home, my love,” he greeted you as he helped you out of your jacket.

“Thank you,” you said, breathing deep. “Smells good in here.”

A pleased smile played on his lips as he followed you into the dining room. “I’m glad it does. Are you ready for dinner or would you like to unwind first? I could mix you a drink or pour you a glass of wine.”

You sighed as you rerouted to the living room. “You know what, babe? A mojito would be really fucking nice.”

“Of course, Y/n! Put your feet up for a bit.” Timothée made his way to the bar cart and started the prep and assembly of the drink. 

“These flowers are pretty.”

Wings fluttered in his chest. You noticed. “They're from the garden! I thought they might brighten up the room. Saw them when I cleaned out the gutters earlier.”

“Shit, I didn’t even see that, thanks babe.” 

Tim finished off your drink with a mint leaf garnish and brought it to you with a smile. You patted your lap and his cheeks flamed, quietly suppressing his delight. “Take a seat and tell me about your day.”

He did as you said, practically buzzing under your attention. You took a sip from the cocktail and hummed, your other hand rubbing circles on his lower back. Timmy cleared his throat and began listing all the things he had been so excited to report to you, pride swelling at each little word of praise from you. It was hard to stay still, to focus on his words when the hand that was on his back traveled to the nape of his neck, flustering him as you twirled one of his carefully curated curls around your finger.

“You look so pretty today, Tim.”

Was there any wonder how Timmy fell for you? He’d never get up. “Thank you, love.”

“Mhmm, let’s get your pretty ass on up and in the dining room. Think I’ve delayed dinner long enough.”

Timothée loved the attention but he was glad for a distraction, his face was so hot he could reheat the meal on it, if necessary.

As you ate together, he asked about your day and your mood deflated then flared as you recounted the annoyance that was the principal of your school. Timmy had heard you complain about him before, knew you didn’t like him or agree with his decisions half of the time. Timothée thought you would make a wonderful principal, had mentioned it before but you loved the kids. Being principal took you out of the classroom and that just wouldn’t do for you. Thus, your frustrating cycle at work continued. He felt a little bad for souring your mood, for spoiling the sweet flavor of cake still on your tongues. He had to make it up to you.

“We could snuggle up on the couch, watch a little tv,” he suggested as he rested his hand over yours.

“Sorry, Tim, I'm a little too keyed up from the day to wind down just yet.”

Timmy’s heart thumped in his chest as he trailed a finger over the back of your hand, as far up your arm as he could reach. “Well then, use me.”

You raised an eyebrow, a lopsided grin growing on your lips. Timothée returned it with an inviting one of his own as he stood. Taking your hands, he walked backwards as he led you to the bedroom. “Use me however you see fit.”

“Friend, the embarrassment I feel on your behalf is painful so I cannot even imagine what it must be like for you,” his friend, Jacob, smirked.

“Hush,” Timothée growled as he kicked the sweet bread he’d dropped off the path and into the grass. Just the glimpse of Chantal across the square had him fumbling the dessert from the tavern he and Jacob had just left.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you’ve gone this long without major injury.”

“I beg of you, shut up! I’m well aware of my failings, thank you.”

“Failings, to be sure, little Fiona does better toddling about than you!”

“You believe yourself to be so funny.”

“The most entertainment you have.”

“That’s only because I haven’t fixed my lute string yet.”

“Ah yes, and how did you break that again?”

“Shut. Up.”

Timothée parted ways with Jacob where the path diverted to their respective houses. The large wooden lodge he lives in loomed on the road ahead. It had to be roomy to fit all its occupants and a business inside; his parents, his two aunts and his uncle, his grandmothers, his sister and three cousins milling about, and himself. This time of day, Tim expected a near empty house with few of its inhabitants inside. Just his mother and grandmothers. Perhaps his sister Pauline or his cousin Kiernan. A decently quiet afternoon to fix his lute string by the fire at the feet of his elders at their normal post of knitting across from each other in the den.

Timothée walked towards his shared bedroom, intent on getting his instrument, when he noticed his mother taking an order at the shop door. It was a Dutch door which served as a pseudo shop counter for drop offs. He stutter-stepped as he recognized the voice of the customer. Chantal’s father.

“Four total,” Diamant continued as he balanced a stack of three fabrics on the door. “I’d like these mended and patched for me, my wife and my youngest. The fur linings will need to be touched up as well. I request only prey animal hides be used, please. On the blue one, could you do some embroidery? The phases of the moon along the hood?”

“As you like,” Timothée’s mom nodded easily as she took note. “And the fourth?”

“A new cloak. For my eldest. A gift.” It was the first time Timothée had seen the man grin, small as it was. 

It was stupid how his heart pounded just from the simple allusion to her, but Timothée had accepted long ago that he was irredeemably gone for Chantal Renée. His body chemistry and personal physics changed the moment her golden eyes met his.

Payment was exchanged as the order was settled up. Timothée was already daydreaming. He wanted to make it. He really, desperately wanted to make her cloak. It’d kill him and cure him all in one to see her walking about the village in a garment of his making. It’d make up for the fact that he’s still never uttered a word to her.

Pauline moved in on the stack, beginning to look over their mother’s notes. Timothée hustled over and slapped a hand over it. She startled.

“What the devil is wrong with you?!”

“Let me make the fourth one.”

She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind, which, fair. She peered down at the parchment, trying to read between his fingers. “Who’s it for?”

“The Renée’s.”

Pauline held up her hands. “Say nothing more, brother. All yours.”

Timothée marched to the weavers’ shop. They had a close partnership, working in tandem to clothe and keep warm the people of the village. He tried to temper his excitement but he wasn’t sure if he managed it. His mind was winding with different ideas for Chantal’s cloak. A black wool melton with orange fox fur would be stunning. The fiery orange would bring out the flash in her eyes. But no, he shook his head despite loving the mental image. Prey animals only, her father had specified. He wondered why. Personal beliefs perhaps? Whatever the reason, he had to shift plans. Blue looked lovely on you. You had a dress in faded indigo that always elicited a wistful sigh from him every time you wore it. But your sister’s cloak was blue and Timothée preferred to get you something unlike the others. White was too impractical and your mother’s cloak was green. Should he revisit the black melton again?

All thoughts were knocked out of his head as he approached the shop. In the window, Portia was just arranging fresh new yardage of wool in the front window. Timothée pushed inside of the store without taking his eyes off of it, his jaw dropped.

“Beauty, ain’t it? You wouldn’t believe what all we had to do to get this deep shade of red! The combination of dyes alone! Why John was collecting berries till his hands turned…”

Timothée was no longer listening, if he ever was. The theater of his mind was showcasing Chantal, in an ankle length cloak of this. A deep candy red, thoroughly saturated to perfection. She pulled the hood up and it was lined with white arctic hare fur, framing her dark coils. And as she twirled, the cloak belled out and silver and gold embroidery twinkled in the winter sun, an intricate design lining the edges of the entire piece. And at her neck, a silver clasp he had bought years ago with no project in mind at the time but he knew he’d find the perfect item for them one day. It was today. It was for Chantal.

His head snapped to the side, cutting off Portia who was still ranting about the toil that went into the fabric.

“How much.”

A lot, was the short answer. Timothée had actually dipped into his own funds just so his family as a whole wouldn’t come out as a loss with this purchase. It was more than Diamant had given them for it. But it was more than worth it. Timothée was downright giddy with his find, eager to get it home and turn the cloak Chantal modeled in his head into reality.

Timothée’s world for the next several days was all ruby wool. Ruby wool and thoughts of Chantal but that wasn’t new. He didn’t often have the opportunity to make a piece from scratch himself. He usually did one or two parts of the process or worked on patch jobs. But with this project, he really could sink his teeth in. He absorbed the methodical and meditative process of forming the shape of the cape; the crisp sound of his freshly sharpened fabric shears cutting the excess of the wool, joining the wide cape pieces together with a secure stitch then doubling back to hide the raw edges in a neat French seam, brushing out arctic hare fur then fitting it along the hood. He got lost in the repetition, in the mindless work that let his thoughts wander. Day and night, Timothée had the cloak in hand, either spread out on his work table or over his lap in front of the fire. He only put it down to eat and sleep.

He devoted so much of his time to it that at the witching hour a full week later, Timothée secured the last embroidered thread on the decorative trim. He placed it on the form stand, securing the shiny clasp at the neck. Draping it just so and stress-testing his stitches, Timothée finally stood back and took it all in.

A rich blood red in the moonlight and the embroidery enhanced by candlelight, with a gentle hand over the fur, it looked perfect. Exactly how he envisioned it. Timothée was incredibly proud of himself, his sense of accomplishment overriding just how fucking tired he was. But a little exhaustion and throbbing fingertips were small prices to pay. He put out the fire that he worked by and picked up a lantern. He couldn’t wait to go upstairs and hit his mattress. The bliss of a job well done carrying his tired bones into sleep.

A bliss that curdled quickly after waking.

In the morning light, all of his pride and pleasure had eked to the floor at the sight of the cloak he had finished.

It was too stunning. Embarrassingly so, especially now next to the other cloaks. Beside the muted brown of her father’s, the faded green of her mother’s, even the lovely bright navy of her sister’s, this one more than stood out. Red as a cardinal and just as striking as one in the snow with the white hare fur lining the hood. A silver filigree clasp held it closed and he used the motifs to inspire his embroidery. Painstaking handiwork in silver and gold thread, winding together in a design about an inch thick along the edge of the entire cloak. Exactly as he’d imagined. Last night it had just looked nice.

But now it looked fit for a noble. Not just by comparison to the other cloaks of her family but it would to every cloak in the damn village. Some of the more well-off families had cloaks this elaborate but not a lot of everyday villagers had both nice fabric and intricate embroidery. 

Timothée may as well have declared in the square his undying love for her, because in not so silent red wool, the cloak would be doing so every time she wore it. 

Pauline whistled low as she took it in. “I would say that I’m surprised you made this in the time it took me and Kiernan to do the other three, but it would be a lie.”

“Hush.” He groaned. But even if she did, that didn’t mean the others would follow suit.

“I couldn’t pledge to him having three meals a day this past week, but him finishing today was a much safer wager,” Kiernan giggled behind her hand.

“Hush.”

“So does it still count as a courting gift if she doesn’t know you’re mad for her? I’m curious,” his cousin called out from his seat at the kitchen table.

“Everyone, shut up!”

Pauline just chuckled as she brushed past him. “Well, you better make yourself scarce. Monsieur Renée said he’d be here first thing this morning for the three cloaks. How thrilled he’ll be to see he can take all four home today!”

Mortification and fear trilled down his spine at the thought of coming face to face with Diamant in the presence of such flagrant devotion to his daughter. 

“I’m sure first thing means after breakfast,” Kiernan said, patting his shoulder soothingly. “Come, sit down to eat and then you can make your getaway.”

Only Timothée wasn’t so fortunate. Cursed by the fact that Diamant was apparently an early riser or had foregone breakfast, he was halfway through a bowl of porridge and eggs when a knock rapped on their shop door. Timothée choked as he moved too many directions at once, trying to put down the bowl, scoot back from the table, and sprint away all in the same millisecond.

He ignored the snickers of his sister and cousins, making for the stairs as swiftly as possible. He had just made it there when Pauline opened the door for Diamant fully, welcoming him in to wait while she gathered the cloaks he ordered.

Timothée sat down on the steps, unseen but still wanting to bear witness to her father’s reaction.

“As an unexpected bonus, the new cloak was finished in time as well!”

“Oh, that’s certainly a surprise. Did it–.” But his voice cut off as Pauline directed his gaze to the cloak still on the form. Anticipation pumping through Timothée’s veins like blood, he watched through the large space between rungs for any sign of emotion on the stony man’s face.

“It’s… exquisite. You made this?” he asked finally.

“Nope. Timothée did.” Pauline responded, immediately throwing him under the cart.

Timothée couldn’t even enjoy the flood of pleasure at the compliment before the horror of betrayal set in. Unerringly, Diamant found the spot where he was hiding and Timothée sat up ramrod straight, suddenly feeling hunted. 

“You made this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This has to be worth more than I paid.”

“No, it's fine! I, uh, actually got a pretty good deal on it.” Not a lie but the deal wasn't as significant as he made it seem.

“And the needlework? You did all of this design in the time since I commissioned these?”

Timothée worried for the state of their stairs. They’d go up in flames if his body could possibly heat up from embarrassment more than it already was. He really didn’t have to ask so plainly, it was obvious to everyone and the hounds that Timothée was atrociously stupid over his daughter. The man could just let him die in silence. There was no way to downplay the hours he’d put into the embroidery that lined the entirety of the fabric in two different shades. So Timothée just cleared his throat and admitted it.

“Yes. I did.”

The man stared at him for a couple heartbeats, it felt like a couple hundred the way Timothée’s heart galloped along.

“You have to let me compensate you for the extra craftsmanship you put into it.”

Timothée winced. “Please don’t.” He didn’t want it commodified or to dwell on it any longer. His hopeless romanticism had gotten him into more trouble than he was worth. But Chantal was worth it. “It’s enough that you like it. I appreciate your praise.”

Diamant tilted his head to the side, considering him again. Timothée forced a tight smile, nervous under the scrutiny.

“Well, you have my thanks. It’s a fine piece. I’m sure Chantal will treasure it.”

It was embarrassing what hearing her name aloud did to him and even more to have it happen in front of her father. But Timothée couldn’t have prevented the softening of his smile even if he tried. He just ducked his head towards the man, not trusting himself to respond to that like a normal human being. Pauline helped him wrap the parcels up and loaded them into a crate for him to take them home in. When Diamant left, his entire family turned to look at him from their respective locations and Timothée focused on the beams of their ceiling to avoid every pair of knowing eyes.

“Not. A. Word.”

He was fully expecting there to be scorch marks left on the steps where he sat.

Timothée worked the large shears in his grasp, frowning at their looseness. Well, that won’t do. He got up to go tighten them. As he passed the shop door, a knock rapped gently. He doubled back and swung open the top of it. “Can I help—?”

Suns. Honey. Gold.

The shears fell to the ground and he winced absently at the sound. Jacob was right. He’s lucky he hasn’t sustained many injuries yet.

“Sorry.” Chantal’s voice brought his attention back immediately.

Smelted metal. Dancing flames. Gold.

“No! No um, it was my fault. Definitely not yours. Wh-what uh, what can I do? For you, what can I do for you?”

Well this was going poorly. His first time speaking to her in the years since she moved (that’s right, years) and it was already going to shit. There was still a completely hazardous tool on the ground between them that he was too nervous to retrieve. He could barely string a damn sentence together without stuttering. And any miniscule bit of progress he made got absolutely dashed when she made eye contact. His mind got scrambled in gold and came out the other end blank as a slate.

It was clear he adored her. His family knew. Her father knew. The entire village probably knew. Did she know?

“You’re Timothée, correct?”

Have mercy. Nothing could have prepared him for the sound of his name on her lips. He swallowed and cleared his throat. Cleared it again, determined to be coherent henceforth. “Yup.” Adequate.

“So you are the one I must thank for my beautiful cloak.”

Her smile was thanks enough if you asked him, as warm and radiant as her eyes. He endeavored to keep his gaze from lingering on her lips. His own grin was reflexive and indulgent. Timothée shrugged.

“I was inspired.”

“There’s shears on the ground, Tim, did you know?” Pauline’s voice and Kiernan’s stifled snort came from behind him.

He closed his eyes and said a quick prayer for strength, turning to hiss at the two menaces through gritted teeth. “Thank you. I’m aware.”

“Well, are you going to pick them up?”

“Wasn’t going to, no.”

He turned around, pointedly refocusing on Chantal with a forced smile. “What were we saying before they rudely interrupted?”

“Something about you being inspired.” And just by the tone of her voice, the knowing glint to those gold eyes, it was clear. She knew. His open secret known to its subject, with her standing a mere three paces away. The realization made him want to put the shears at his feet to use, find them a new home in his gut. But Chantal wasn’t cruel about it. Teasing, yes. Flirting? God, he hoped so. Nevermind, that if she was, two could absolutely not play at that game given his awkwardness already. 

“I did sincerely want to thank you. I’ve never owned something so fine. It’ll be an honor to wear such a piece. I may just bring it out any time it gets even the tiniest bit cold out. Just look how perfectly it suits!” Chantal said as she stepped back for him to see his work on its intended model. His mouth went dry, the real thing right in front of him putting his imagination to shame. And worse, she did a twirl and it was like time slowed, the fabric fanning out flatteringly and revealing her faded indigo dress that was a favorite of his underneath. Timothée knew his gaze to be lovesick and pitiful, his mouth ajar as his jaw hung, but he couldn’t bring himself to fix either personal failing. 

“How does it look?” She asked with a false innocence.

“Perfect.”

Her beaming smile faded as she looked behind him and he too tuned into the conversation his father and uncle were having.

“Portia said that’s the second sheep o’ hers that’s come up dead in as many weeks.”

“What’s she thinking done it?”

“Something killed it. Probably a wolf with the way it looks.”

“Pity.”

“Thank you again,” Chantal’s voice called him back around, her smile tight. “I really appreciate your lovely work, Timothée. I’ll be proud to show it off.”

His heart was knocking on the confines of his ribcage again. Her saying his name could very well stop it one day for good. “You’re very welcome… Chantal.”

Her visage softened a bit before turning to leave, heading down the path to the main road. Timothée watched until the red fabric left his view.

“Well, that could have been worse!” Kiernan cheered. Pauline snorted.

“Though to be fair, it still wasn’t great.”

“Oh, ha ha. Certainly no thanks to you meddling magpies, I really don’t need help embarrassing myself.”

Timothée’s mom strode past with a crate in hand. “What are you all doing?”

“Timothée was just being pathetic again,” Pauline announced. 

“Oh, was Chantal here?” 

Timothée choked on air. Betrayal from every turn in this damn house. “Mom!!” 

She completely ignored him, plowing on to say, “I had something to give her for her mother.” 

Kiernan hummed. “Well, we’re sure Timothée would be delighted to deliver it for you.” 

He leveled her a glare. No one in this house respected his feelings, exploiting his crush for laughs and to torture him. It was cruel to assume such a thing of him, that he’d willingly put himself back in close proximity again. That he'd jump at the opportunity to be in an awkward position again. That he’d happily sacrifice his pride to seek her out so soon after just having his first conversation with her. It was downright reprehensible.

He’d go though.

Kiernan just didn’t have to say it so plainly.

He nuzzled his nose into her temple. “What a good idea, you’d think there’s a brain in here.”

Their second morning, he woke up to her staring at him, her eyes slowly poring over him.

“What?” He grumbled.

She whispered back, her words almost reverent as if it was only just now sinking in. “We got married. We truly did. You’re my husband.”

And the word on her lips caused his dick to throb. He whimpered as he grinded it against her leg before groaning and ducking beneath the covers.

“My wife.” Paul mumbled between her legs. He snaked his arms under her thighs before framing her hips. “My Pharao.”

And with the first lick of his tongue, his name was tumbling from hers. “Paul.”

One casual day on Caladan, Paul is just staring at Pharao sitting next to him. Eventually she notices and stares back. Small grins dancing on both of their lips.

Leto grimaces as he looks back and forth between the two. “What is this? What’s happening right now?”

Paul shrugs. “My wife is pretty.”

Pharao rolls her eyes even as a full smile breaks through. “You are so full of shit.”

“I’m full of love for you, actually.”

“Disgusting.”

“I never said I was proud of it.”

“Well, you couldn’t have done better than me truly.”

Leto groans disruptively. “Water take me, when do you two go to Enfiel? It’s time Abraxas has to deal with this.”

“Why have you come to bother me?” Paul deadpanned, barely looking up from his desk.

“All I did was step in the door! Who said I’ve come to bother you?”

“Because I have it on good authority that you spend every waking moment bothering me.”

Pharao scoffed. “My life’s not all about you, Atreides.”

He frowned as he finally looked up at her. “Is there someone else you’re bothering? Should I be jealous?”

She snorted as she sidled up beside his chair. “No, but you so frequently are anyway.”

Her smirk was practically feline. Paul was in no mood. He grabbed her chin, a little rougher than necessary, squishing her cheeks and puckering her lips the tiniest bit.

“How do you manage to still look pretty even when you are aggravating me into the atmosphere?”

“A talent.”

“An annoying one.” He pecked her lips before releasing her chin and pushing at her chest. Paul refocused on the documentation he had to read through. “Leave me be, woman.”

“Careful what you wish for, little duke,” she sing-songed as she strolled towards his door again and it immediately reminded him that his wife was a petty one. And one unpleasant thing Paul had found when the floodgates of their love opened up was that he was actually quite needy. She’d withhold her affections just to be an asshole and it would drive him spare.

“Leave me be until lunch,” he amended.

Paul and Pharao have only gotten worse since getting married. They could bicker back and forth for hours without getting tired and regularly do. Meanwhile, everyone around them gets fed up and leaves in the first ten minutes. They've been known to clear out rooms and not even notice until like 20 mins of bickering later because when their families sense an argument coming on they immediately evacuate. As colorful and inventive as their digs at each other are, they aren’t as bad as when their shit talk turns suggestive.

Abraxas is very annoyed that the bickering hasn’t ended since they got together. He thought the denial of pining was bad, the sexual tension is lightyears worse.

Paul: Stars, must you be so foul-mouthed in every situation?

Pharao: I am sorry princess, am I offending your delicate constitution?

Paul, smirking: I'm sure you recall I was anything but delicate this morning. Much more suitable occasion for that foul mouth of yours–

Abraxas: SHUT THE FUCK UP YALL ARE IN PUBLIC

And both Pharao and Paul jump because usually anyone in the room has already left by then. This 100% has happened on multiple occasions. Multiple.

Brax is sick of it. Leto is secretly pleased. He’s very much like “That’s my boy, he gets that from me.” Brax thinks if they’re gonna traumatize him they can at least make him a grandfather but they are being annoyingly safe about their birth control.

It’ll happen one day. Before or after they become the new seats of government for the Known Universe? Who’s to say…

I can see them being super passionate for each other but not the type to fuck where they can get caught usually. They’ve done it but super rarely and it was highly unlikely for anyone to catch them. I feel like they’re too professional? to do anything like that. If they get too embroiled in a passionate argument and get carried away but that doesn’t happen too often. They may make out and feel each other up in that situation but they usually take it to their bedroom first before anything can really happen. They may not fuck in public but they’ll absolutely delay/cancel meetings to fuck. Just married nobility things. Their fathers have created monsters and everyone has to live with it.

Parents tucking their infants, no older than toddlers, in and waking to an empty crib.

Disappearing into thin air without a trace, or a clue as to who had taken them.

Halloween wasn't looking promising this year.

"Tony, are you sure a party is the best idea right now?" You ask him carefully.

The billionaire shrugs, pouring a mug of coffee.

"Why not?"

You raise a brow pointedly in Wanda and Vision's direction.

Your best friend sits with a hand on her baby bump, oblivious to the conversation.

Tony sighs.

"Right. Look, it's Halloween! There's a few more months left, anyway. The people need a little reassurance that we've got this handled, and I, for one, aren't about to let a serial kidnapper ruin a night for free candy and drinks. Besides, we could all use a distraction from the Bermuda Triangle bullshit going on around here".

You roll your eyes, casting another worried look at Wanda.

Tony's expression softens.

"Look, it'll be right here in the compound, and all of us will be there to make sure nothing happens to the kid".

He flashes you a smile, patting your shoulder.

"You just make sure you wear somethin' pretty, and we'll handle the rest".

Decorating the nursery with Wanda, you stare at the wall, shocked.

Wanda fixates on the fresh hole in the blue paint, blackened around the edges where her magic burnt into it.

"I- I thought I saw someone. Something..." her voice trails off.

As more children disappear, paranoia takes its toll.

Wanda's powers spike with her emotions, burdened with hormones from not one baby, but twins.

What should have been glorious cause for celebration is overshadowed by fear. 

As her due date approaches, you've witnessed plenty of magical outbursts before, but this has to be the worst.

This scares you.

Wanda traces a fingertip over the indent, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

You brush an errant strand of hair from her face.

"What did you see, Wands?" You prompt gently.

You're both still shaken and startled from the ball of magic energy that had barely missed your head.

"Something after my boys... I can feel it".

Wanda's whispered words spook you in the dark nursery, lit only by light from the hallway.

Her intuition has never failed her, and if she believes something is after her twins, you believe her.

The thought chills you to the bone with dread.

"I sound crazy, I know", she says, fidgeting with her hands. "But it's the same thing that's taken the others... I can feel it".

The nursery grows cold and foreboding, like something terrible has, or will, happen in this room.

Every glimpse of a crib, a mobile, a child's toy is a reminder of anticipated horror, and that which has already come to pass.

The urge to leave the room is strong.

"It won't get to you or the twins", you promise her, sealing it with a kiss to her temple.

As you guide her out of the nursery, though, you swear you catch a shadow out of the corner of your eye, tall and winged, against the wall, right by the hole singed in the plaster.

You blink, and it's gone.

The twins, Billy and Tommy, are born healthy and safe.

The former sleeps peacefully as the latter wails.

A faint smile paints Wanda's lips as she leans her head into the pillows, cradling Billy as Vision does Tommy.

A thin layer of sweat across her forehead makes her skin glow under the hospital's fluorescent lights, and her hair, long and wavy, splays over the pillows.

Even after just giving birth, she looks like a princess.

It's the most relaxed you've seen her throughout her entire pregnancy.

In the joy of the twins' birth, the disappearances are nearly, but not quite, forgotten.

The lights flicker before cutting out completely, casting the room into darkness.

Immediately Wanda summons her magic, creating an eerie red glow.

The twins, sensing the change in energy, grow restless.

And just as quickly, the lights are back on.

Steve and Natasha burst in, followed by a nurse.

"Clear", Steve reports. "Lock it down. No one gets in or out".

He eyes Wanda sympathetically.

"And get some extra security up here".

As the nurse fusses over Wanda and the twins, you latch onto Nat's arm.

"Nat, what's happened?"

You keep your voice low.

The Widow's eyes flick around the room as she drags you off to the side, out of Wanda's earshot.

"Don't let Wanda hear this", she warns, before breaking the news that everyone fears:

"An infant was just taken from the nursery".

Halloween arrives a month after the twins are born, with no new disappearances.

Wanda hasn't quite let her guard down yet, but Tony is ready to party.

You agreed to a few hours before spending the rest of the night watching the twins.

Wanda, at least, deserves the night off.

You feel self-conscious in her lingerie, the white lace set from her own wedding night magically altered by her to fit you under your costume.

Your mother's wedding dress hangs in a garment bag off a hook on your bathroom door with a pair of heels, waiting to be tried on.

"Come on, it's not as if we haven't seen each other undress before", Wanda teases as she adjusts the bralette.

You cross your arms over your chest.

"We've seen each other undress before, but don't you think this is a bit much when no one else is going to?"

She reaches for a tube of lipstick on your sink, motioning for you to pucker.

You obey, letting her apply.

"It's realistic. Besides, you could meet someone tonight... a handsome stranger..."

She smiles, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

You laugh, taking the dress from the garment bag as she finishes.

"I won't have time. I'm on babysitting duty tonight".

You end up staying far longer than you anticipated.

It's dark and storming outside, ignored by the party, when you decide to head back up to your room.

Wanda looks content, if not slightly intoxicated, in her red crown and cape, slow-dancing with Vision, the twins long asleep in the nursery, as you make your way over to say your goodbyes.

She pecks your cheek, turning over her shoulder to call out:

"Oh, Y/N? Will you check on the boys, please?"

You lean against the elevator wall as it travels up, feet aching in your heels.

Skirts brush against your legs as you step out.

But something feels wrong when the lights don't immediately come on, as they usually do.

You bend to remove your heels before cautiously proceding down the dark hallway.

And that's when you hear the cries.

You sprint towards the nursery, static crackling under your soles as your tights meet the carpet and the hairs on the back of your neck stand from an unknown energy.

The air smells like autumn, like wet earth and leaves with an underlying spice, like apple cider, or cinnamon, and hints of leather.

It grows stronger the closer you get to the nursery. You struggle to breathe as panic grips you.

The crying stops right before you reach the door.

You throw it open and burst in, your heart stopping dead at the sight before you.

A flash of lightning illuminates a tall, slender figure, curved horns and magnificent wings, standing over the twins' cribs.

When the flash fades, the horns and the wings are gone, but you remember the shadow from the night Wanda had put a hole through the wall. 

Your breath catches as the stranger lifts his head to look at you.

He's handsome. Beautifully so. Ethereal. Unearthly.

Fair skin, long raven hair slicked back and curled at the ends, and ice blue eyes, all contrasting.

Cheekbones to break diamonds on, a regal nose.

Dressed finely in a long black coat, a green and gold scarf draped around his neck, he looks deceptively human as he cradles one of the twins.

"It's you", you say out loud, breathless. "You're the one who's been taking all the children".

The stranger smirks, eyes sparkling with mischief in the dark.

"I am".

His voice is rich, pleasing, with an accent you can't place.

"Wanda... she saw you that night. I saw you..."

"The veil is thinner around your friend. Her abilities bend it to her will, whether she means to or not".

He's awfully casual for breaking and entering, and kidnapping.

Your eyes narrow then soften as they fall upon the baby, Billy, asleep in his arms.

"What did you do to him?"

"He merely sleeps".

"Give him back".

The stranger chuckles, a dark, smooth sound.

"He will serve me well someday. As the others have".

"Who are you? What happened to the others?"

The stranger arches a perfect, dark brow.

"Careful", he chides. "Names have power. Shall I give you mine? Or should I take yours instead?"

A chill runs down your spine.

He smirks knowingly, turning to face the window.

Your mouth parts in silent protest as Billy disappears from your line of sight, and you lurch forward, into the room.

"Not that I don't already know it", he continues. "Y/N. But where I come from, names freely exchanged hold considerable power over the possessor".

Your eyes widen and he turns over his shoulder to laugh at your expression.

"You may call me Loki, if Your Majesty doesn't suit you".

You frown.

"'Your Majesty?'"

Loki smiles thinly with pride.

"I am rightful king of my realm".

"Your realm?"

"The fae realm. Why did you think none of your Avengers have been able to locate your missing children?"

He spins to face you, taking a step forward.

You take a step back, keeping distance between yourself and the fae, like a dangerous dance.

Still, he towers over you, eyes boring into your own with every drawled word.

"Some fae families are missing children of their own. Lost to illness or death. The mortal children serve as replacements".

Your brow furrows as you put the pieces together.

"So you've been stealing 'mortal' children from families who love them to give to another?"

You choose your words carefully, but still, they drip bitterness and resentment.

His features harden into a glare.

"I've only ever made sure they are accepted into Seelie homes. Believe me, they are well-cared for".

You glance at Billy, blissfully unaware of the monster who holds him so carefully.

"So that's it, then? You're going to take off into the night and trade him off to a fae family?"

Loki's eyes flit over the baby, cold and calculating.

"He is his mother's son. I have use for such raw magic".

A wicked smirk graces his lips. "It would suit him better in my realm, don't you think? Son of a fae prince..."

"No-"

You chuck one of your heels, then the other, at his head.

He sidesteps both with ease, before you lunge for him.

But sparkling green and gold tendrils of light capture your neck, wrists, and ankles, binding you and lifting you above the ground.

Loki clicks his tongue.

"Such fighting spirit, for a mortal", he drawls.

You struggle in the magical bonds, suspended.

"You can't take him", you grit out through your teeth. "His parents-"

"... should be grateful I didn't think to take both children", he retorts.

The fae's demeanor is infuriating when he holds half of Wanda's life in his hands, with no regard for the pain it would bring.

He regards you curiously, eyes piqued with interest.

"You seem awfully concerned for a child that was never yours to begin with", he states.

An anguished tear slips down your cheek.

"I love his mother, more than anything". Your voice strains. "If you take her baby, you would take half of her soul".

He says nothing.

To your relief, he turns from you, bending gracefully to lower Billy back into his crib.

But his next words shock you further:

"Would you like me to give you a child of your own?"

You gape at him.

"W-what?"

The mischievous spark in his eyes is back as he smiles coolly, inclining his head.

"My kind do bestow gifts upon mortals occasionally. I could give you a child... my child. A child of royal fae blood. I needn't take the boy then".

He turns from you, releasing you with a flourish.

You fall to the floor with a thump.

When you collect yourself, your surroundings have completely changed.

The nursery has been transformed into a forest clearing, like something out of a fairytale storybook.

Golden light shines directly down from a circle in the lush, dark green leaves above, onto a gold crib, entwined with flowers and vines, surrounded by a thin gauze veil that hangs by nothing but magic, you assume.

Lights twinkle in and out of your field of vision.

Vibrant flowers bloom on vines that crawl up the thick tree trunks and in patches of grass that spot the dirt ground.

A crystalline stream separates you from the crib.

As you take a step forward, foreign skirts brush against your legs.

You remember what Wanda looked like in the hospital when the twins were born. Like a princess.

You look much the same now, you realize as you catch your reflection in the stream; no longer the ingenue playing pretend in her mother's wedding dress, but like a genuine princess, hair free and skin glowing.

The gown is something straight out of a costume ball from a period piece; varying shades of emerald, black flowers and beading sewn intricately into the details of the bodice, short sleeves falling off your shoulders, skirts made of varying smooth velvets and tulle.

Matching silk slippers laced above your ankles make no sound as you gather your skirts and carefully step over the stream.

When you reach the crib, you find it empty. The twins are gone.

Your heart pounds.

"Billy? Tommy?"

"They are safe".

Loki's voice from behind you has you turning sharply.

If there was any doubt of his status before, it dissipates at the sight of him now.

He looks every bit a king, gold helmet with curved horns crowning his head; a scepter in hand, blue stone set at the center, with a sharp, pointed tip.

Emerald cape trails behind him, boots silent on the earth as he draws near.

"And this is an illusion of my realm. Though..."

He places a hand at your waist, turning you slowly to face the crib again.

You grip the side as he leans over you, feeling every piece of his armor, every detail of his leather clothing as his firm chest presses against your back.

His breath ghosts over the shell of your ear with every low, silver-tongued, seductive tone:

"... should you accept... should you allow yourself to be filled with and impregnated by a fae's seed..."

He spins you to face him again.

"... it could be reality. You would be queen".

The fae's words drip honey and deception.

You know better than to take them immediately, even as your head spins at his attentions.

"And the twins?" You demand. "If I agree to this, you never look their way again. Never, ever, return to haunt their mother".

Loki grins, chuckling darkly.

Cupping your chin, he brushes a thumb thoughtfully over your lips.

"Promises aren't in my nature, my lady. But yes. Me and mine shall not seek the Maximoffs again".

You feel frostbitten where his touch lingers.

Slipping your eyes closed, you make your choice.

Wanda and the boys will be safe.

When you open your eyes, you find yourself back to normal in the dark nursery.

Loki reclines in Wanda's rocking chair, leant to one side, legs spread, the way you imagine he sits upon his throne in his realm.

He tilts his head with a knowing look.

"Don't be shy now, mortal. Come forth".

You obey, drawn to him; all too aware of the power you surrender of your own free will.

You avoid looking at the twins' cribs as you pass.

He rises as you approach, eyes darkening as they drink you in.

One hand cups your cheek, the other, your waist, drawing you intimately close.

You almost expect him to kiss you.

Instead his hand leaves a trail of glittering gold magic that warms your body to the touch as he pulls away.

The effects are immediate; arousal stiffening your nipples against the bralette and flooding to your core.

Loki smiles, lifting his chin.

"Against the wall".

Briefly, you bristle at the command and he raises a brow, challenging you to defy him, before you remember the twins, sound asleep, right there.

They're not completely safe yet.

You turn slowly to face the wall, planting your hands flat against it.

Loki hums, positioning you to his liking.

Bent over, ass out.

"Leg up".

You wince as you shift to bend one knee, lifting it against the wall.

The position is vulnerable, compromising.

"Do relax. It's not ideal, I know, but..."

He gracefully lowers himself to one knee behind you.

"... I can make it pleasurable for you".

You gasp as he rips a hole in your panties. You can feel a garter snap, quim clenching at his inhuman strength.

He nips at your thigh, catching the other garter between his teeth and dragging the lace down, slipping it free.

He hands it to you as he stands, curling your fingers over it.

The mortal tradition surprises you for precisely one second before his cock is between your thighs.

Your nether lips are slick, even as you struggle to comprehend how easily he has you wrapped around his finger.

He chuckles lowly.

"Fae magic... can work wonders on mortal bodies".

He nips at your ear.

"I said, relax".

Your mouth forms a perfect O as he impales you, feeding his length between your pussy lips.

"I'd make use of that garter, if I were you", he advises, lazily drawing his hips back. "I intend to make you scream".

He snaps his hips forward, stuffing you to the brim with his cock.

You do scream, slapping a hand over your mouth, trying desperately to muffle yourself with the scrap of lace in your palm.

Your eyes flick over to the twins' cribs, praying you haven't woken them.

He fucks you in a white whirlwind of lace, chiffon, and magic as your skirts push higher around your waist with every thrust.

Your breasts bounce, chafing in your bralette, nipples sensitive as they brush against the material.

The muffled noise that slips past your lips and the tears of pleasure welling in your eyes don't go unnoticed.

"You, my lady, are a particularly lovely mortal", Loki lets you know, the words muttered under his breath.

Your face burns at the fae's flirtation.

He takes a handful of your hair, wrapping it around his fist to tilt your head back.

Long, slender fingers encircle your wrist as he pins it to the wall with his free hand.

The garter slips from your grasp, the only barrier between your moans sent fluttering to the floor.

"Give me your name, freely", he growls.

You blink, turning your head over your shoulder in confusion.

"You- you already know my name..."

Your voice trails off in a moan as he chooses that moment to hit your pleasure spot.

"Freely", he emphasizes.

Names freely exchanged hold considerable power over the possessor.

You recall his words, a final warning.

Still, you cry out your own name, sealing your bargain.

He smiles darkly.

"Good, foolish, girl".

Pleasure bursts from your cunt as you fall apart.

When he cums, he fills you with ropes of white.

Your belly already feels swollen and distended with the amount he pumps into you.

The pact is made.

You shudder at the realization.

His cock slips from you, untethering your body from the fae's.

He steps back, magic shimmering up his figure as his armor, cape, and helmet materialize, giving you a moment's reprieve.

"Say your goodbyes".

His expression remains neutral and composed as he waits for you.

Tears blur your vision as you move towards the cribs, ignoring the sticky mess between your legs.

Your heart clenches at the sight of Billy and Tommy.

You'd have a baby of your own soon enough, to stand over their crib as you do now.

You lean down, pressing a kiss to Tommy's temple, and then to Billy's.

A tear lands gently on his face, and you brush it away with your thumb.

"Goodbye, Billy. Tommy", your voice trembles. "You only got to know me for a short time, and I know you won't remember me, but at least remember, someone loved you. And will still love you. I'm sorry".

You think of Wanda, and your heart breaks.

"I'm sorry", you repeat.

Loki extends a hand to you, and you take it, joining him at his side.

His side, where you were certain you'd be for the rest of your life.

The fae seems to read your thoughts.

Moonlight shines on the tear tracks on your cheeks.

One hand flutters up to your neck, tilting your face back as he sweetly brushes them away.

"It's only forever, my lady", he assures you. "Not long at all".