#cevans fandom

Inside, a large pair of men’s loafers lay across the mat, equally as crooked as the truck outside. Voices and laughter sound from the kitchen, buoyed by the scent of honey and cornbread, and the muddy-water smell of catfish. You resist the urge to straighten his shoes, to fix them like you fix every-fucking-thing-else—

You don’t. 

I could just go upstairs. You can probably make it past the kitchen without being seen. Just pretend he’s not even here. You can’t, though, your feet refuse to carry you past, like they know you need the confirmation. Need to see. 

Your mother’s back is to you. She’s bent low over the stove, a long filet of catfish held in her cornmeal-crusted fingers. It’s even hotter here in the kitchen than it is outside, but your mother is old-school; the air conditioners down here are for company and for show—“not for you kids to run up my damn power bill”. 

Damien is seated at the head of the table like a king. His feet are propped up on another chair, arms pillowed behind his head. He looks comfortable, too comfortable, like he belongs there when you know he doesn’t. Not in the fucking slightest.

“Baby, you like your fish fried hard, don’t you?” Your mother’s bourbon smooth drawl rounds out the edges of her words and elongates her syllables with a warm twang. “Your plate’s almost ready.” 

Your stomach turns. He’s not supposed to fucking be here when I’m here. That’s the fucking deal. Your tongue is practically burning with the rebuke, but you swallow it instead, and the words burn all the way down. More respect, that’s what you need, she’d tell you, more flies with honey than vinegar. 

“Momma.” She jumps, turning around like you’d bitten her instead of just said her name. “D.” Damien grins at you, sitting straight up and dropping his feet to the hardwood floor with a loud thump. “Momma we talked about this—”

“How you doin’, Squirt?” He’s all smiles, all warmth as he rushes you, pulling you into an uncomfortably tight hug you don’t have time to return before he lets go again.

“Aren’t you happy to see your brother?” Your mother asks over her shoulder. “He’s been gone so long.” You were supposed to have my fucking back. The words pass unspoken between you as her expression turns pleading. Please keep the peace, her face says in the silence as you stare at the two of them. Don’t make a scene. “Your uncles are all coming over. To celebrate.” 

You glance at the pile of catfish, the bowls of greens and seasoned rice—it’s  enough to feed a small army. 

“Oh.”

 It’s all you can dig up from beneath the glass-sharp shards of her betrayal. You’d talked about it, had a plan—no one was supposed to contact Damien. No one was supposed to let him back in. 

Your brother squeezes your shoulder, laughing. “Good to see you too, Squirt.” You want to pull away from him, the truth burning in your lungs with the desire to be exhaled right into his smug face. 

I wish they put you away forever.

“Hi.” He goes in for a hug and you turn your body to the side, so that it sloughs awkwardly off of you. “What are you doing here?” 

“Oh, don’t be like that,” He says. “Thought you’d be glad to see me.” 

“When did you get out?” 

“Six weeks ago.” Six weeks. That’s all the time it had taken to get back into Momma’s head—to her heart. Six weeks to forget. 

“Oh.” He claps you on your shoulder—the bad one. It feels like his fingers linger on the raised scar beneath your t-shirt, but you don’t know if you imagined it or not, if it’s a warning—a reminder. 

“That all you got for your big brother?” Damien smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Things will be different this time. Better.” You swallow, tasting the bitterness of his lie before answering with one of your own. 

“Okay.” 

— 

The roof is still your only private space, given that the door to your room hasn’t locked properly since you were twelve. Tonight is much the same, as  your brother’s “Welcome back from prison, you piece of shit” party is still raging on beneath you. At least up here, the noise from your drunk uncles playing dominoes and cards is drowned out by the general Friday-night block-shenanigans, which is honestly preferable. 

You exhale a thick cloud of smoke from your nostrils, and it spirals up into the dark sky before disappearing. 

Just have to make it until August. Just two more months. 

The joint dulls your feelings of betrayal and rage until they’re minor annoyances, and not all-consuming the way they had been as you’d been forced to smile and tell your brother how much you’d missed him. 

Like a hole in the fucking head. 

When you’ve smoked it down to the filter, you flick it into the gutter, where it sparks and fizzles out against the decaying leaves filling it. Just another two months, and you’ll be in Portland. You’ve already put up with Damien for twenty-five years—what’s another two months? You slide down from the roof onto the little outcropping outside your window—you refuse to call that one by one rectangle of nothing a balcony. Your room is exactly as you’d left it, your father’s old amp in front of the door to keep it shut. 

It’s one of the only things you plan on bringing with you. 

Somehow, even with the door closed, your whole room still reeks like cigarette smoke. Which means Leonard’s down there smoking again. You grimace. There’s no use in chastising him—any of them. Your mother had agreed to no more smoking in the house—just like she’d agreed to no more Damien in the house. 

Respect your elders. Don’t go telling grown folks what to do. Your mother’s irritated voice rings in your head. It doesn’t matter that you’re more than grown yourself, not to them. You grab the worn pair of headphones hanging on your bedpost, and settle them snugly over your ears. The music quiets instantly, and you bask in the near-silence.  

Two months.

—

The air still smells like stale cigarettes when you finally roll out of bed late the next morning, the house eerily silent. When you venture downstairs, still in your pajamas, the evidence of last night’s party are still strewn everywhere—beer bottles resting on every available surface, red Solo cups with ominous contents and dirty paper plates on the sofas and coffee table. The ashtray that your mother continues to claim is merely decorative is now full of cigarette butts, and a few blunt roaches. 

The kitchen is hardly better, the counters packed with trash and dirty dishes you know are meant for you to clean up. For a satisfying moment, you imagine stiffening your arm and sweeping everything onto the floor, imagine the bottles shattering against the tile before you pull out a garbage bag from under the sink and get to work. There’s no use complaining—and you can’t ignore it, the trash rising up around your ears while your mother dotes on her favorite son. 

Don’t you know what I do for you? What I sacrificed to bring you into this world? 

You reach for the faucet, turning it viciously as your eyes water. I wish you fucking hadn’t. 

It’s mindless, at least, the cleaning. So much so that when someone raps on the locked screen door from the front of the house you nearly jump out of your skin. You drop the plate you’re washing back into the soapy water, splashing yourself. The knock comes again, more insistent. Probably Uncle Stefan. Left his wallet again. Shaking off the suds, you head for the door, rolling your eyes irritatedly as the banging continues. With a frustrated hmph you yank open the door, eyes narrowed. 

“Uncle Stu I don’t know where Momma put your wallet, she’s not home—” The words curl in on themselves in your throat. The man on the porch is most certainly not your uncle. 

“Good thing I’m not lookin’ for your Momma.” He flashes you a bright, white smile. It’s hard to talk around the lump in your throat but you manage. 

“D’s not here either.” You want to look past him, to stare at the air over his shoulder instead of into those stormy blues, anywhere but at him, but there’s so much of him he has to slouch to fill the doorway. Curtis is wider than last you’d seen him, his blond hair now close-cropped, the beginnings of a beard shadowed around his mouth and jaw. The edges of a tattoo peek out from beneath his sleeves and shirt collar, one he hadn’t had the last time you’d seen him—

Five years ago, in the back of the same cop car as your brother. 

“Now that’s a pity.” He clucks his tongue, and the silence that follows is nearly as heavy as his gaze. Beneath it, you are suddenly all too aware of your wet shirt sticking to your chest with every nervous breath you take. He licks his lips, slow and deliberate. “Mind if I wait for him?”

“I don’t know when he’ll be back.” You don’t know why you don’t just say no—men like Curtis Everett don’t hear that word enough anyway—but it feels like you can’t. Like his asking is only a formality. Like he’s daring you to say no. 

“He’s out with Momma. Don’t know how long they’ll be.” You hope the bitterness on your tongue doesn’t show in your voice. You should be over it by now, should have accepted the order of things long ago. 

But somehow, it still always stings. 

“I don’t mind.” Curtis shrugs, muscles flexing beneath his shirt. You don’t remember him being this big. He places a hand on the doorframe, leaning down till he’s almost eye level with you. “‘Sides, that gives you and me time to catch up.” He drawls, a grin spreading across his full lips. “Doesn’t it Ladybug?”

“Don’t call me that.” You snap. “Nobody calls me that anymore.” A slow grin spreads across his full lips. It makes you shiver.

“Nobody but me.” Suddenly, you’re fifteen again, buying your first eighth from your brother’s cool older friend, Neesh holding onto your shirtsleeve as you hand over the money. “Brings back memories, doesn’t it?” For a moment you debate whether or not to answer.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “Memories.” Bad ones.

 He glances past you into the house. “Looks like you all had a good time last night.” You can’t help the scowl that crosses your features. “Your momma does love a good party.”

“Yeah. For me to clean up.” You wince. “Sorry, I mean—” 

“You’ve always been the responsible one.” He shrugs languidly. The silence between you stretches on until he breaks it again. “I really don’t mind waiting.” He shifts so slightly you don’t even really register it, and suddenly he’s towering over you, the width and breadth of Curtis Everett filling your vision. He’s half-inside already, his foot on the threshold, the bulk of him leaned in past the doorframe. You feel small, vulnerable, your heart a frightened rabbit in your ribs. “I won’t get in the way. Promise.” 

I’m coming inside. He doesn’t have to say it, he doesn’t need to.

“Fine.” 

— 

You can feel Curtis’ eyes on your back as you stand at the sink, suck in an endless cycle of wash and dry. You grit your teeth as you furiously scrub the breading-caked fryer basket. Sometimes it feels like you can’t win for losing—first Damien, now Curtis. Who next? With my luck it’ll be fucking Dave. You shiver slightly at the thought—the walls still have patches of off white paint from where he’d driven his closed fists through the plaster. 

You never could find the right shade of eggshell white to cover the damage.  

A furtive glance over your shoulder reveals Curtis, standing in the doorway, a garbage bag in hand. It’s practically full to bursting, the crinkle of crushed plastic cups and paper plates as he hefts the bag almost as loud as the silence. 

“Got the living room cleared up.” You turn to face him, wiping your soapy, wet hands on the dishrag by the sink. It’s like you need to see where he is, to gauge the distance between your bodies constantly, like the hyper-vigilance will keep you safe. You know of course from experience that it won’t, but it doesn’t stop the habit. There’s a certain irony in your fear—Curtis hasn’t ever hurt you, hasn’t ever even tried, but something about him terrifies you, and you don’t want to know what he’s capable of. 

“Thanks. You can just leave it by the back door. I’ll take it out on my way to work.” 

“Oh? Thought you were still in school.” Curtis drops the bag by the door on the opposite side of the kitchen, before draping himself over the counter. “Least, that’s what D told me, anyway.” 

“Maybe you should ask him, then,” you reply snidely. “Since he knows so much.” 

“Maybe. But I’m askin’ you, Ladybug.” Suddenly, you’re aware you’re the only person in the house. Not that you hadn’t been before, but it dawns on you now in a way it hadn’t when he was at the door—

Silly little girl. You’ve gone and let the wolf in. 

You panic, tongue searching the roof of your mouth for a precious second as the lie forms in your throat.

“Nita’s. In Buckhead.” He nods his approval.

“Nice place.” You hum noncommittally in response. “Maybe I’ll come see you sometime.” The cup you’re washing slips from your fingers, shattering in the shallow, soapy water. “You okay, Ladybug?” You’re the furthest from okay that you’ve been in almost a decade but you don’t know how to say that. 

“We’re ho-ome!” Your mother’s lilting, sing-song-y tone saves you from having to reply. She bustles into the kitchen, arms laden with shopping bags. “Oh good, you’re up. D will be in with the rest of the bags and—” She pauses, a sharp intake of breath marking her observation. Better late than never.

“Curtis Everett, you better not be standing in my kitchen with them outside shoes on.” She snaps, pointing down at his feet. 

“Miss Gregory.” 

“Don’t you Miss Gregory me. Go on and take ‘em off or go stand on the porch.”  She makes a shooing motion towards the front door, her lips pursed in a disapproving frown. “Go on, now. Take ‘em off.” Curtis moves too gracefully for someone his size, crossing the kitchen in easy strides. There’s more than enough room between your back and the table for him to pass without touching you, but he brushes against you anyway. You nearly drop the pieces of glass you’re holding as you go stiff. 

He did that on purpose.

But when you look at him all you see is his receding back as he moves in the direction he’d been instructed to, leaving you and your mother alone in the kitchen. 

“Help me put these away.” 

Groceries. It was bags and bags of groceries. You sink your teeth into your lip to keep the angry words inside. The fridge has been empty for weeks; between paying for your classes and covering her half of the light bill and your own has left you little to spare in the way of grocery money. Up until this week the two of you had been scraping by on frozen dumplings and ramen.

“Did you get paid, Momma?” You ask quietly, pulling open the fridge door. She sucks her teeth. 

“Not that it’s any business of yours, but yes. I did.” 

“It’s just, you said you’d pay me back for the power bill when you got your check.” 

“We needed groceries.”

“We needed them before, too.” You say pointedly, and she rolls her eyes. “I just…I hope you didn’t blow your whole check on a nice breakfast and groceries for Damien. I don’t have any shifts this week, and—”

“Girl, who are you talking to?” Your mother’s tone is low and accusatory. You know instantly you’ve gone too far. 

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t tell me how to spend my money when you live in my house rent free,” she snarls. “Disrespectful—” she mumbles something, a curse you can’t make out. “Move. I’ll do this myself.” She practically shoulder-checks you out of the way, angrily shoving her hands into the grocery bags. When you don’t move fast enough, she sucks her teeth. “Move, I said. Since you’re so grown.” 

You know defending yourself will only make it worse, so you clamp your jaw shut, your eyes focused on your trembling hands. 

Two months. 

Your mother places each item into the refrigerator as loudly as she can, slamming down bottles of juice and packages of frozen meat so hard you worry she’ll shatter the shelves. 

“Momma.” She slams down some frozen ground beef, shutting the freezer with equal force. “Momma, come on.”

“You giving me orders now? You just don’t know when to stop—”

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’m just… things are tight as it is. I’m just worried about us. I don’t want anything bad to happen.” 

“That’s my job.” She sighs. “I’m the parent, you’re the child. Stay in a child’s place.” 

I’m twenty six years old.

“Yes ma’am.” You clench your fists out of sight, where she can’t see them as you crawl back onto the proverbial tightrope. “I’m sorry.” 

“I know.” 

“You scared the shit out of me,” she chuckles, stepping into the room with him. Only then does she realize he’s literally panting as if he’d ran here from his mission, and she frowns as she begins to ask him what’s wrong.

Before she can even blink he’s got her pinned against their living room wall, his lips on hers. It takes her a moment but then she’s kissing him back with the same amount of aggression he gave her, and then he’s lifting her up until their hips are touching, immediately grinding against her.

The material of his suit is causing great friction, the fact that she’s wearing nothing but a pair of flimsy panties helping as well. They’re moaning into each other’s mouths, as they grind against one another, desperate to get off as quickly as possible.

They’re both lost in the bliss of their bodies on one another until Steve pulls away abruptly. “No,” he shakes his head. “Can’t take you right here, it’s not right. Have to go to the bed,” he says, but it’s more to himself than her, and she’s obliging and turning to leave. Until he grabs her arm and pulls her back to him, hoisting her up to his waist and pressing his lips to hers again. His hands move down to grip her ass cheeks as he begins the trek to their room, and he somehow manages to successfully tear the panties off of her with one hand, letting them fall to the floor as he walks.

As they finally make their way into the neat bedroom, he tosses YN onto the bed and she sees the literally feral look in his eyes, not concerned but curious as to what’s got him this way. Before she can ask him, he’s on her again, his hand reaching forward to palm her breasts, but she needs to make sure his head is in the right place before they move forward.

He’s a bit shocked when she rejects him, making him snap out of whatever daze he’d been in. “Steve. What’s going on with you?” she questions, a look of confusion on her face as she tries to think of what’s made him this way.

He looks at her for a beat as he reads her face, trying to figure out what the best way is to say this. A quick battle in his mind leads to him just coming right out and saying it. “I wanna have a baby,” he blurts, and YN’s eyes widen a fraction before going back to normal. For a moment it’s just silence, and he’s worried he’s done something wrong.

“Are you…sure about this?” she questions, choosing her words wisely. “I thought you weren’t ready,” she finishes. Her eyes wander over his face as she makes sure there’s nothing off with his demeanour, and sure enough, it’s the Steve she knows. But that doesn’t quell her confusion.

Steve is slightly offended by her question, his mood shifting just a bit. “What do you mean am I sure? Why else would I say this?” he scoffs, moving off of her to sit next to her. She sits up when he does, now a bit upset at his tone.

“Steve, just last month you told me you weren’t ready. You can’t be mad at me for wanting to be sure,” she reasons. Steve is confused for a moment until it all clicks.

~

One month earlier

YN and Steve both finally have a free day, deciding to spend it together. Instead of staying home, though, they opt for a day out on the town, hitting some shops and even stopping at a nearby bakery. In quiet bakery, they sit and indulge in their pastries and coffee as they make conversation about anything under the sun, until the sound of small cries catch their attention.

They both whip their heads over to the source and see a little baby boy no more than a few months old crying, and after a few moments of investigation they realize he’s dropped his binky out of the stroller. YN hops up and grabs it for the overwhelmed mother, tapping her on the shoulder as she’d been trying to console her son.

The woman is a little startled by YN’s presence but her eyes soften as she realizes what she’s holding, thanking YN for returning the binky back to her. “No problem, I couldn’t just leave it down there while you tried to find it or figure out where it was,” she explains, smiling softly. From there, the woman and YN go into a small conversation about her son, and YN’s heart just melts at how fondly the mother, whose name she found out was Harper, spoke of her son Jacob.

The two finish up their conversation with an exchange of numbers, and YN heads back to Steve with a pep in her step, sitting down with a smile. Almost immediately she goes into how cute Jacob was and everything she and the mother had talked about. In the midst of her rambling, she hadn’t noticed Steve had gotten quiet until now.

“I can’t wait to be a mom someday! Can you imagine a little me or a little you running around one day?” she asked, still smiling brightly. The smile was quickly wiped from her face when Steve didn’t answer her, but stood up and announced he was ready to go home. Her frown deepens at that, and she quietly gathers her things and they start the trek home, walking in silence beside one another as YN keeps herself from breaking down on the middle of the sidewalk.

They arrive home after what felt like an eternity to her, and she speeds to the bathroom and closes the door behind her, turning on the shower before letting herself begin to cry. She thought she’d been discreet with her sobs, but not long after she hears the bathroom door open and she silences herself. Through the foggy glass of the shower she can see Steve begin to strip down before he’s climbing in with her. Her back is to him but he already knows what’s happening so he turns her to him and pulls her into his chest.

The sobs start up again immediately, now with no restraint as she doesn’t need to hide from him anymore. He’s soothing her silently, rubbing his hand up and down her back and hasn’t stopped scolding himself for the way he reacted. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers once her cries quiet to small sniffles.

She shakes her head against him and he frowns, leaning back to get a good look at her face as she begins to speak. “No, I’m sorry,” she starts, and he’s about to say something but she stops him. “I jumped the gun, I shouldn’t have put so much pressure on you so early. I know we’ve only been married for two months and-,” she’s cut off by the feeling of his lips on hers, silencing her rambling.

“Baby,” he whispers, even more guilty now that she feels it’s her fault. “Stop that right now. This is not your fault, it’s mine. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did,” he firmly tells her, making sure she doesn’t believe she’s at fault. “You did nothing wrong. It’s just…I think I need a little bit more time. My life is so crazy and I want to be invested fully,” he explains.

“I should have expressed that, and I want you to know that as soon as I am ready you will be the first to know,” he finishes.

“I know and I’m sorry. We definitely need more time with just us,” she responds, her worries not completely leaving but staying in the back of her mind for the time being.

~

Now

“The mission I was just on…we were outnumbered,” he starts, taking her hands in his. “We almost died. And all I could think about as we were fighting as you. How you were here waiting for me to come home. I thought about coming home to you and our kids, the way I know you’d love them the way you love me, and I don’t want to die without getting to experience that with you,” he explains, and she’s listening intently as she takes in his words

“It’s just… I don’t want you to regret this later. I’d rather not be pregnant or a mother alone or have you resent me because I rushed you into this,” she explains to him, expressing her worries.

He was a little hurt by her words but he understands where she’s coming from, frowning as he sees the tears falling from her eyes. Reaching up he thumbs them away before speaking again. “I know, baby. And I’m so sorry I made you feel that way. I would never,” he starts, pausing to think over his next words.

“I’ve taken a break from saving the world for a bit. They’ve got it under control,” he smiles, pulling her in again as she cries harder at his revelation. “All I could think about while I was in there was us and our family, how happy we could be together. There’s nothing I want more,” he finishes, his little speech making her heart melt.

She scans his face for any sign of regret and when she finds none, she’s all in. He can see her eyes change almost immediately, and she’s taking her shirt off before throwing it somewhere in the room. “Well if you’re ready, why don’t we get to it?” she questions, and there’s no hesitation. He’s up and stripping so fast she has no time to comprehend it. The moment he’s naked he finally looks up at her to see her with her legs spread, a hand in between them.

Thinking back on that day now, he can’t believe he even thought like that. All he can imagine now is the fact that he’s about to get his own personal slice of heaven, manhandling YN until she’s on her hands and knees in front of him. To provide himself with even more access to his favourite place he just reaches forward and pushes on her back until her face is buried in the duvet.

Seeing her all dripping and clenching around nothing sends the last bit of his restraint practically bleeding from his body as he takes his cock in his hand and strokes it a few times. YN wants to look back and see what he’s doing but she knows better, staying where he’s placed her.

“Can’t believe this is all for me,” he chokes, rubbing his thumb over the leaking, throbbing tip of himself. It’s only a few more seconds of his filthy moans and grumbling under his breath about how beautiful she looks before she’s inhaling sharply at the feeling of him parting her lips with his thumb and spitting filthily right where she needs him, her weepy hole clenching around nothing in anticipation.

“Please,” she begs, and Steve, never being one to deny her when she looks and sounds so pretty for him, obliges almost instantly. Not even a seconds later he’s gently gripping the base of his aching cock and parts her lips with the head, running it through to lubricate himself before he’s got the tip nudged at her entrance.

The sound it makes when he finally sinks himself into her is nothing short of obscene, a wet squelching sound accompanying the both of their moans of relief. He can barely contain himself when he immediately begins to thrust in and out of her, his body seemingly moving on its own to take what they both need.

“Fuck, I can’t wait to see you pregnant,” he grunts, his thrusts getting harder as his thoughts get dirtier. “Gonna keep you so full of my cum at all times to make sure it sticks. God, I can imagine it now. How beautiful you’ll look round and full of our kids,” he continues, and the way he used it in plural form doesn’t get lost on YN, her loud moans of pleasure being muffled slightly by the sheets.

Steve, always being one to want to hear what he’s doing to her, reaches forward and grabs a fistful of her hair and pulls her up until he can hear her loud and clear. He can feel her legs start to shake and give out beneath her but he’s holding all of her weight up, fucking her as if his life depends on it, and to him it does. “You like the sound of that?” he asks, not slowing his punishing pace.

She can barely nod with the grip he has on her hair but she manages to, choking out a plea for him to do exactly that. “You wanna be so full of my cum at all times that you’re leaking down your legs, exhausted from how many times I work you on my cock?” he grits out through clenched teeth, trying to stave off his impending orgasm in an attempt to wait for hers.

No more words can leave her lips, just cries and sobs of pleasure as he’s drills so deep inside of her she can barely breathe. I mean he has to be puncturing her lungs at this point. Her orgasm is coming and it’s coming fast, but of course she can’t warn Steve, speechless. He knows her inside and out, though, and doesn’t need a warning to know what’s coming. (double pun is crazy)

“I know, don’t have to tell me. I can feel how tight you’re squeezing my cock. Go on, soak me, show me how much you want to be full of me and I’ll do just that,” he demands, and YN, always the obedient one, cums instantaneously. Her orgasm makes his hips stutter immediately as she locks down on him so tight, her body so tense that he can’t move. He lets go of her hair in a split decision, and he’s glad he did. He uses that same hand to reach around and rub at her clit quickly, making her tense up even tighter before relaxing entirely as she squirts all over the bed sheets below them, Steve praising her throughout the entire time.

Her orgasm sends him flying over the edge with a loud swear, his hips flush against hers as he floods her with his warm cum. It seems like it lasts for forever, his balls seeming to get fuller the more he cums. When he’s finally drained of all he has he stays buried inside of her for warmth for a while before he’s pulling out slowly and just sitting there and watching his cum start to drip from her.

He helps her fully lie down on her stomach before he’s getting off the bed, shushing her whines of protest. “Just gonna get you cleaned up, gonna be right back,” he coos, running a hand on her back to ground her a bit more so he can leave. She gives him a weak nod and then he’s hurrying out of the room to get a wet washcloth for her.

The process of cleaning her up is a bit rough with how sensitive she is but he makes it work, cleaning her up quickly and throughly before cleaning himself. He then helps her to the bathroom to pee, her body very weak but he knows she needs to do so.

When she’s all done they end up going into the guest room and sleeping there instead of sleeping on their soaked bed, Steve making a mental note to clean up first thing in the morning, he’s way too exhausted right now. When in the room, he helps her get all comfortable and tucked in before turning off the light and climbing in as well, pulling her into his embrace. The both of them start to doze immediately, and within a few minutes they’re both out, soft snores filling the room.

~

main masterlist

let me know what you thought about this!!! my ask box is open

“You are too young!” He says with a growl, looking back at the council. 

“I am thrice blooded. Twenty-two summers.” Peter replies evenly. You wince. You are older than him by nearly four summers. “More than old enough to take a mate, to challenge for the right.” Steve’s lips pull even further back into a fierce growl as he looks to the council.

“Ant arunh klahun, Dethak. Najor mausann thavavle.” The Orc seated at the end of the line to your left holds up his hand. “Proceun avh avhe cemonausan.” Steve bares his teeth again, but stands down. Peter gives you a pleased smirk. It seems he has not forgotten you as you’d hoped he might.

“He says our laws are clear, that Dethak must let him challenge.” 

“Thank you…”

“Téa.”

“Teyah?” You repeat, and she nods. 

“You are much welcome, Dethakin.” All thoughts of asking for a thorough translation leave your head as Steve stalks back toward the center of the platform. You watch as he reaches for the enormous axe resting between his broad shoulders, lifting it with a single hand. 

“You want her?” He hefts the axe, pointing at you with the other hand. “Come and claim her!” For a heartbeat the crowd is silent, and there is only the distant roar of the sea—

And then the first of the challengers lunges forward with a terrible shout, his own sword ringing as he draws it from the sheath. The iron is practically singing for blood as their weapons meet over and over, the stockier Orc’s expression growing increasingly frenzied as Steve bats away each thrust and stab. He makes it look… easy. Almost like a dance as he steps gracefully forward and back, feinting with the axe.  

The longsword nearly tumbles from the other Orc’s hands at the next parry, and Steve bears down for all he’s worth until it does, clattering to the ground.  Finally, he kicks the other Orc’s feet out from beneath him with a clean sweep of his leg, holding the axe to his throat.

“Khin.” He snarls, and you know what it means when he repeats the word harshly. “KHIN.” 

Yield.

After a moment the other orc nods. 

“Jiak khin.”

 The words are nearly lost in the roar of the crowd. Steve stands up to his full height, and beckons again to the challengers. Only Peter looks unswayed by the defeat, his eyes narrowed. 

“Come forward,” Steve snarls in Common. “And challenge!” The others do not wait to come one by one, rushing forth to surround him with weapons drawn. Steve bares his teeth, and for a moment you do not realize it is a smile. 

Your heart leaps into your throat as the fight begins in earnest, the air filling with the sounds of steel and shouts. Blood stains the pale stone, you are not sure whose it is. Steve stands at the center of the chaos, holding his own with only his axe. Perhaps if they worked as one they might stand a chance at overwhelming him, but as it is they are fighting him and one another, their focus and allegiances all divided. 

Peter slashes at Steve with a dagger, drawing a line of red across his chest with a smooth, lithe movement. If there is any threat here, it is from Peter. He may be young, but you have no doubt about his capabilities as a warrior—he had survived the zhut ambush, after all. Peter dances backward, allowing another challenger to close with Steve. 

He hopes to outlast him. 

One after another the challengers fall, yielding until only Peter and Steve are left, circling one another. Steve bears a gash across his chest, and blood drips slowly from a wound above his left eye. With Peter’s back to you, you can see the set of deep gouges down his back, though whether from weapon or claw you cannot tell. Steve draws a hand across his mouth, and spits blood down onto the dusty stone. 

“Come youngling.” He says, holding out the axe as if in invitation. “Finish it.” Peter charges, ducking out of the way of Steve’s swing.  He is smaller, faster, and he recovers quickly from Steve’s over-estimation. He thrusts up, the dagger is aimed for Steve’s throat—

And then he stops moving, Steve’s hand wrapped tightly about his throat. He squeezes, and Peter’s eyes bulge. 

“Yield.” He snarls through gritted teeth. When Peter says nothing, he squeezes again. “Do not make me kill you, rahem. Yield.”

“I—yield,” he chokes the words out around Steve’s fist. “I yield!” 

Steve releases him as the crowd cheers. He drops like a stone, gasping for breath. The oldest councilman stands.

“Varosaun uk lat, Dethak. Lat fough abpak—”

“He says your mate fought honorably and well, victory is his.” Téa winks at you, and your face fills with heat. 

You loose the breath you hold in your chest as Steve tosses down the axe with a thunderous bang, the metal ringing against the stone. He charges toward you, his eyes fever bright from the battle. You barely have time to comprehend it before he is upon you, his large hands on your waist as he hoists you up effortlessly. 

“My prize,” the gravel of his voice makes your stomach tighten. “My mate.” Steve does not put you down, cradling you against his chest as though you are something precious. Something loved. 

The council surrounds you. An Orc bearing a copper bowl of blue paint dips his fingers into it, drawing symbols across first Steve’s forehead and then your own. Steve leans down to nudge your cheek with his nose affectionately. 

“The challenge is fulfilled.” 

—

Steve waits until the crowd is mostly dispersed before he takes you back to  the city, his hand firmly on the small of your back. It is warm through the thin fabric of your dress, and comforting. You smile to yourself. He’d won. He’d fought so hard just for you, and the thought makes you giddy. You had needed no show of Steve’s abilities, but you have already surmised that the show was not for you—

It was for all of Tarrath.

The paths he leads you down are familiar, the same ones Carol had taken when she’d brought you to the arena. You take the lead cautiously, Steve correcting you gently when you stray from the course. Carol isn’t home when you get there, and you let yourselves in with the spare key she’d given you. 

“Carol should be home soon,” Steve says after a moment. “I… I will prepare for the Blooding.” The thought of him leaving puts an odd, uncomfortable feeling in your chest. Steve is still bloody and bruised, his face smudged with dust from the arena. 

“W-wait!” You catch his hand in your own. “At least let me tend your wounds before you go?” He smiles. 

“Aye, if you like.”  

It only takes a trip two to get the copper bathing tub in the corner of your little room full enough to work with. There is a familiar warm pulse in your belly as you wet the cloth and draw it across his chest. 

“What does Dethak mean?” You ask softly, dabbing at the dry blood. “Téa called me Dethakin at the arena, and I want to know why.” 

“It means One who leads.” You frown up at him, pausing. 

“So does Dethakin mean the same thing? And I thought you said you weren’t a Lord.” 

It means that you are of me. My house. I told no lie, Little One. A war-chief is not a Lord,” he corrects, and you roll your eyes. 

“Semantics.” You resume your careful cleaning with a shake of your head. He matters, in a way that you had not considered when you had accepted the mating promise. You wonder what that means for your future—a future you have only just begun to consider. In the village, you had supposed you would do what all the women did—find whoever would pay your father a dowry to have you, and then you would settle into the monotony of married life. 

But here, with him, you suspect things will be quite different. 

He laughs again.“If it eases your fears, Little One, the title must be earned. It cannot be inherited, bought, or gifted.” Steve reaches forward to cup your chin, running his thumb along the curve of your jaw. “Is it so terrible a thing? Truly?”

You suppose not. “No. Bend down, I can’t reach your face.” You say almost sternly, gesturing with the cloth. “How… did you become Dethak?” He leans down, his face level with yours. Heat draws into your cheeks at his nearness, and you try to focus on the cut on his brow rather than the bright, inquisitive eyes watching your every move. 

“During a raid many, many years ago. I was nearly killed fighting a… I believe you call them Giants.” Your eyes widen, your mouth dropping open. The stories were true? There really were Giants at the edge of the world? 

“Are there Giants here? In Tarrath?” You ask, and Steve chuckles. 

“Here? No, Sweetmeat. Not here. There are mountains far, far to the west. Perhaps there we might see Giants.”

“Will you take me?” The world is so much bigger than you had ever thought it could be, and you are greedy to see as much of it as you can. Free now from the bounds of the village something new has awakened inside of you—curiosity. Want. “Will you take me to see the Giants?” You cannot avoid his gaze when he grasps your hand, stopping it halfway to his face. 

“Anywhere.” He kisses the palm of your hand, tusks and fangs scraping against your skin. You shiver, heat blooming again in your belly. All at once you are reminded of the aching want you’d felt on the beach, and it twists through you again. Steve’s nostrils flare, and you feel his grip tighten on your hand as he groans, pressing his face to your palm. 

“I’m sorry,” you stammer breathlessly. “I forgot y-you can—”

“Gods, if you apologize for desiring me I might as well have let the blacksmith best me in battle.” He pulls you to him, and you barely hear the splash as the cloth drops from your other hand into the tub. “May I kiss you again, Little One?”

“Yes—”

His mouth crashes against yours, and you taste him, warm and dark like the rye whiskey you used to steal from your father’s hidden bottles, and it makes you ache. His teeth tug at your bottom lip and he grins against your mouth when you whine. Your lips are swollen and throbbing when he pulls away, your pulse practically singing in your veins, your cunt clenching around air. 

“I should go.” He sighs the words against your lips even as his hands flex hungrily against your hips. You have tried to ease the ache between your thighs.  Appease the hungry feeling with your own fingers—all it had done was make you think of his.

 “M’not strong enough to, though.” He kisses you again, his long tongue curling around your own. He mumbles something in Orcish that sounds like a curse. “Tell me. Tell me what you want, Sweetmeat.” You run your tongue across your kiss-swollen lips.