Summary: Alicent's youngest daughter was raised beneath the strict gaze of the Faith, growing up surrounded by prayers. But behind the walls of the Red Keep lies a secret capable of destroying kingdoms, for the little princess is not King Viserys' daughter, but the child born of Queen Alicent and Ser Criston Cole.
Pairing: [Future Aemond x Reader]
Words: 5k
Part One here
Warnings: mentions of bastards
Author's note: In the next parts reader will be older, but for now i wanted to explore more her chilhood dinamics.
Don't forget to reblog, like and comment!
If Alicent built your days...
The rest of your family unknowingly filled the spaces she left behind.
You learned very early that your mother loved you in her own way, which often made it difficult to distinguish love in such a strict routine.
Meanwhile, others loved you much more easily.
King Viserys adored you.
Perhaps because you were his youngest. Perhaps because illness had already begun stealing years from him before it stole his body.
Or perhaps because, whenever he looked upon you, he saw only Alicent.
"My little flower," he would murmur every time you climbed onto the arm of his chair.
His joints ached too much to lift you now, but he always reached for your hand.
"So much like your mother."
You beamed whenever he said it. "I am?" The question always overflowed with emotion.
Viserys, despite having begun to lose sight in his left eye, was still able to see how you vibrated with joy every time your resemblance to your beloved mother was mentioned.
"So very much." He smiled tiredly, brushing a loose auburn curl away from your forehead. "The same hair, the same beautiful smile, and the same stubborn little chin." He said grabbing your small chin between his thumb and forefinger.
You giggled. "Mother says I shall not be stubborn."
Viserys laughed, the sound dissolving into a cough before he recovered. "Then your mother has forgotten what she was like as a girl."
You frowned thoughtfully. "Was Mother naughty?"
Alicent, seated nearby with her embroidery resting forgotten in her lap, looked up immediately.
"Your Grace." He said in a serious tone and with a reproachful gesture.
Viserys merely offered a sad smile. "No." He squeezed your tiny fingers in his big palm. "But she used to laugh more." A note of longing permeated his voice, a slight hint of sadness for a past that neither of them could quite recall.
And, for just a moment, something flickered across Alicent's face. A memory. A girl in a blue dress running through the gardens of the Red Keep, smiling, happy, and carefree. Long before duty took hold of her life, long before she was queen and wore crowns, long before she had to lead the proof of her dishonor by the hand through the halls of the Red Keep.
You never noticed the sadness behind her smile, you simply nestled closer against your father's side, hugging him tightly and burying your head in his chest.
"I hope I always look like Mother."
Viserys kissed the crown of your head. "You always will, my little dragon"
Across the room, Alicent lowered her eyes, clutching the embroidery she had been sewing so tightly that the needle pricked her skin, drawing a little blood.
She said nothing; she couldn't bear to correct him.
Nor could she bear to agree.
Princess Rhaenyra noticed everything.
Far more than Alicent wished she did.
The court was full of little performances. Knights boasted of their tournament victories, lords flattered their feats in battle during their youth, ladies whispered about the furtive glances that different lords gave them at night, while children played beneath tables too large for them.
And amidst all of it...
There you were.
Hair loose down your back.
One pale lock hidden somewhere beneath the heavy waves and your brown eyes searching curiously around the hall, trying to gather all the information the world wanted to give you.
Everything is fascinating to a five-year-old girl, especially the crown princess.
Rhaenyra was, for you, a muse straight out of a fairy tale. Her porcelain skin, her purple eyes, and her long white hair, always styled in the most dazzling ways, always seemed worthy of a queen. A Valyrian queen nonetheless.
The very image of House Targaryen, your father's house. Meanwhile, you, always observing from some shadowy corner of the palace, were the blood of Oldtown. The green Hightower blood ran through your veins, and your mother, as always, never hesitated to show it.
While your half-sister wore elegant black gowns with sleeves and necklines of red lace and intricate embroidery of dragons and tales from Old Valyria, your gowns were always deep green. Sober gowns, made of plain fabrics, without embellishments, embroidery, or any ostentatious, worldly decorations that might distance you from the faith of the Seven. The only adornment you wore was that necklace with the seven-pointed star that always hung heavily on your chest, like a figurehead of a ship announcing its wearer's entry into every room, representing the owner's identity and strength.
There was no doubt where your loyalty lay.
Every now and then you would catch Rhaenyra looking back at you.
She always smiled at you and you always smiled back. She never failed to return it, not once. You thought she was kind, The Realm’s Delight she was called once upon a time.
Alicent knew better.
One afternoon, while musicians played softly in the background and the children chased one another between the columns, Harwin Strong leaned lazily beside Rhaenyra.
His eyes followed you as you hurried after Helaena. "There she goes."
Rhaenyra hummed. "There she does."
Harwin tilted his head.
"She has your friend's smile."
"My former friend’s smile." Rhaenyra corrected him.
"But not her eyes." Harwin's grin widened.
"No." Rhaenyra's eyes never left the girl running around. "For years..." she said quietly, "...she stood in this very hall and looked at my boys as though they were stains upon the throne."
Harwin snorted softly.
"And now?" Rhaenyra's smile grew gentler, not quite cruel but simply tired. "Now she cannot look at her own daughter without seeing exactly what she spent years condemning."
There was no triumph in her voice, only irony. Perhaps even pity, she felt pity for you, because she knew that Alicent could never love you the way she loved Jace, Luke or Joffrey.
She felt sorry for you, because she knew that no matter how hard you tried, you could never have your mother's love.
Because every attempt to be more like her was one more reason to distance yourself further from the court, one more reason for Alicent to love you less.
A bastard, without a mother to protect your honour, your legacy, your legitimacy. A mother who would never be able to encourage you, to motivate you to take your rightful place at court. A mother who, instead, made you hide in the shadows of the Red Keep.
Her eyes moved toward where her children were playing carefree. Her brown curls swayed with every movement. What would become of her own children if she weren't there to defend them? How cruel would the court be to mere infants who had done nothing wrong but believe their mother?
She couldn't even imagine, she couldn't even imagine how his children would feel if every time he looked at them, contempt and disgust were reflected in his eyes.
She couldn't even imagine looking at them the way Alicent looked at him.
He wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy.
Ser Criston Cole never allowed himself to linger near you.
That was the safest thing. The wisest thing. The most honorable thing, or so it was said.
He was Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
You were the King's daughter.
Distance was duty.
Distance was survival.
And yet distance became impossible around you.
He was the protector of the Queen, and you were always with her. In that you were alike, both always following the queen from a prudent distance and obeying her orders.
Every child in the Red Keep admired Ser Criston. He was patient and he never raised his voice.
You didn't have a clear opinion of the knight who always followed your mother. He was simply there; Cole never tried to engage you in conversation and only answered the queen when required.
However, as time went on you realized that you could demand that he answer your questions and Alicent, for some strange reason that you didn't know at the time, never stopped you.
Unlike many knights, who wouldn't bow their heads to address you and were incapable of giving you a minute of their time, Criston Cole always answered your questions, even the ridiculous ones that only a little girl could think of.
"Could a dragon fit inside the throne room?"
"No, Princess." He always replied with that courteous and chivalrous manner. The most faithful servant. The knight of the seven kingdoms, one might say, always noble, polite, and dedicated to the cause of answering the princess.
"What if it was very little?"
Cole glanced at the queen, who was hiding a small smile, as they walked through the palace corridors. Seeing no negative reaction from your mother, he replied, "Perhaps."
"What if it curled into a ball?"
He pretended to consider it, straightening up and readjusting his grip on the sword... "...A very little dragon."
You nodded solemnly. "That’s what I thought."
He smiled despite himself.
Other members of the council or even other knights laughed about the stupid questions and curiosity that plagued the little princess mind.
Criston did not. He never laughed at you, not once.
One day, while Alicent was resting on the garden porch talking with other ladies, and after you had insisted terribly on wanting to go and find beetles for Helaena, your mother had sent you to Criston with the good protector that he was.
There wasn't much space to walk around; it was already late afternoon and the shadows only rested in the vicinity of the buildings and some tall trees in the garden.
Cole was beside you and couldn't hide the pain in his chest as you spoke of not being able to leave the shade, since Mother had strictly forbidden you from being in the sun.
However, when it came to crossing from one shadow to another, running to get through the sun as quickly as possible, and lacking a parasol, you casually grabbed Sir Criston's hand so that you could both cross the terrible border of sunbeams.
Criston nearly forgot how to breathe. Your fingers were so impossibly small and they wrapped trustingly around one of his gloved hands as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
He looked down, and you were chatting happily about the orange butterflies your sister had shown you. Your hands still united even after you had reached the shadow again.
Completely unaware.
He wanted–
Gods...
How he wanted to lift you into his arms, to kiss your forehead, to tell you that you had inherited your mother's laugh. That your curiosity came from him, that he knew every expression upon your face before you made it. That your eyes and your skin were completely perfect the way they were, and that there wasn't anything wrong with them because they came from your father.
From your real father, whose hand you were now holding.
Instead, he gently untangled your fingers from his, coming to a halt.
"You shouldn’t hold my hand, Princess. Only your Mother’s or your Lady’s hand"
You looked up, confused. "But I wanted yours."
His chest tightened so painfully he thought the armour itself might crack and with a solemn tone he knelt in front of you. "...Mine must hold a sword, to protect you in case of an attack."
"Oh." You accepted the explanation instantly.
Children always did.
That night, Criston remained in the training yard until long after sunset.
He trained until the last of the squires had retired, until the torches burned low. Until sweat soaked through the linen beneath his armour.
It was not enough.
Later, behind the closed doors of his chambers, he knelt before the image of the Warrior.
He prayed. And prayed. And prayed.
Then he reached for the leather scourge he had sworn he would never need again and, even so, he took off his shirt.
When dawn came, no one remarked upon the stiffness in the Lord Commander's movements.
No one noticed the fresh marks hidden beneath the white cloak of the Kingsguard.
Pain was easier than wondering what kind of father he might have been.
Of all your siblings...
Helaena understood you best.
Perhaps because neither of you quite belonged where everyone expected.
Her chambers were unlike any others in the Red Keep. Noisy courts became quiet there, silks and precious jewels gave way to jars of butterflies, spiders and beetles.
Most people found caterpillars sleeping inside little wooden boxes unsettling but you found them fascinating.
"They're beautiful." You whispered as you pressed your face to the glass box.
Helaena smiled as she played on the floor with her new acquisition, a small blue caterpillar that seemed to have thousands of tiny green feet. "They're only ugly until they change."
You crouched beside her. "Do they know they're going to become butterflies?"
"I don't think so."
"Then how do they know what to do?"
Helaena looked thoughtfully at the tiny caterpillar resting in her palm. "...Perhaps they simply become who they always were."
You considered that for a very long time; here you have the silence and freedom to think in peace without anyone watching. A small Eden into which it seemed the presence of the Seven could not enter.
Mother never interrupted when you were with Helaena.Perhaps because she believed insects could never lead anyone toward dragons.
But Helaena, without ever intending to, became the only place where you forgot yours.
If Helaena became your sanctuary
Aegon became your shield.
He would have denied it to anyone who asked. Loudly and repeatedly. That he did not care about the annoying ball of red fur that seemed to appear in any dark corridor of the palace and that always followed him around asking incessant questions about nothing in particular.
He would always deny it with an eye roll dramatic enough to be seen from Dragonstone.
Yet everyone within the Red Keep knew the truth.
Prince Aegon Targaryen could torment his brother from sunrise until supper, he could sneak frogs into the kitchens, steal enormous quantities of wine from beneath the noses of servants, and escape three tutors in a single afternoon.
And Prince Aegon never arrived on time to anything.
Not to his lessons, not to sword practice, and not to supper.
Not even to the endless prayers his mother insisted the family attend together.
If a septa expected him at the seventh bell, she learned to expect him at the eighth. If a maester summoned him, another servant was usually sent to fetch him a second time.
Everyone complained, everyone sighed, and everyone had long since accepted that Prince Aegon Targaryen simply did as he pleased.
Except when you asked for him.
The first time had happened by chance. You had been sitting cross-legged in the library with a High Valyrian book almost as large as your lap, quietly sounding out the unfamiliar words beneath your breath.
Aegon wandered inside with every intention of hiding from his own lessons.
"What are you doing?" he asked almost listlessly as he looked at you there, sitting on the floor with the book between your legs.
"I'm learning High Valyrian."
"...Why?" he asked after a second.
You looked up, confused. "Because Father says every prince and princess should know it."
"...That sounds dreadful." He said as he lay listlessly down on the chaise lounge, with one leg dangling on the floor and the other bent over the soft pillows.
You frowned at one of the lines, got up with effort, and, staggering with the book in your arms, went to the armchair. You climbed onto the armchair and over Aegon's body as he grunted, finally sitting with your back against his stomach and reopened the book.
"I don't know this word." You said, pointing at the word and moving the book close to Aegon's face.
Aegon slightly lowered his arm from his eyes and barely glanced at the page before replying, "It means dragonkeeper."
You pondered for a few seconds before pointing to another word. "And this one?"
"Fire." Aegon said wearily, covering his eyes with his arm again.
You frowned slightly before turning several pages, trying not to drop the heavy book, searching for another word. "And this?" You impatiently pointed at another word. "Arg...uris? Ar...guris? Argh...ugh...uris? Argh...oooris?"
"Gods..." Aegon laughed “Arghurys”
"Arg...uris."
"...No."
You frowned. "Ar...guris?"
"Still no."
You tried again, slower this time, and intoning almost as if you were howling at the moon, "Argh...ugh...uris."
Aegon laughed even harder, clutching his stomach with his hands as he trembled from the laughter that came from him.
You pouted "I'm trying."
Once he stopped laughing, he said with a small smile, "I know." He nodded as he sat up slightly using his elbows, then leaned closer, tapping the word with one finger. "Arghurys. It means hunter."
Your face brightened and you looked at them with the biggest smile anyone had ever given you. "You know High Valyrian!" you said excitedly.
"I suppose." He murmured softly.
You nodded, convinced. Yes, you had already decided. "You'll help me."
It was not a request.
Aegon looked toward the open library doors as though considering escape. Then he looked back at you and thought of the beautiful smile you had given him. No one had ever smiled at him like that, and a warm sensation filled his chest.
"...Fine."
After that, it simply became expected.
If you asked Aegon to help with your lessons, he came. No matter what else he had been avoiding.The maesters quickly learned that there was only one reliable way to ensure the prince attended anything on time: To tell him his little sister was waiting.
"You are late again, Your Grace."
"I know." He said, rolling his eyes.
The master clasped his hands and tried again. "You have already missed your own lesson."
"I know." He barked with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
The maester waited a few seconds before adding, "...Princess Y/N has been waiting for nearly half an hour."
Aegon stood still, before turning around and shooting the Maester a murderous glare. "...Why didn't you say so first?"
He would already be walking away before the old maester had finished speaking.
He never cared enough to study for himself, but he hated not knowing the answers to your questions.
So, more often than not, the evening before your lessons, he could be found lazily turning the pages of whatever book the maesters had assigned you, grumbling beneath his breath about dull kings and impossible High Valyrian grammar.
Not because he enjoyed it, but because he liked the way your face lit up whenever he knew the answer.
You never understood why everyone insisted your eldest brother was lazy.
He certainly looked lazy, he yawned through lessons, skipped half of them altogether, and complained about everything.
Yet somehow, whenever you wanted him, he was always there.
As children, it never crossed your mind that people could change. To you, your brother had always been good. You believed he always would be.
And you would spend years trying to remember this version of your brother.
The one who always came when you called.
If Aegon became your protector...
Aemond became your greatest contradiction.
Aemond was… Peculiar.
Not that he disliked you, that would have required finding you interesting enough to dislike in the first place.
For years, he simply couldn't understand you.
You woke before sunrise without complaint, you knelt through every prayer, you copied every line the septas set before you with neat, careful handwriting. Your dresses were always immaculate and your posture never faltered. Your long auburn curls fell perfectly down your back, never braided, never pinned, never out of place.
You thanked every servant, you curtsied to every lord, you lowered your eyes whenever an elder spoke.
Everything about you was...
Painfully ordinary.
You were exactly the sort of little lady Mother wished all her children had become.
And Aemond could not understand how someone carrying the blood of Old Valyria could be so utterly uninterested in everything that made House Targaryen… Well, House Targaryen in itself.
He devoured histories and you memorised hymns. He spent afternoons tracing old maps of Valyria and you embroidered flowers onto handkerchiefs. He could spend hours listening to the old Dragonkeepers speak and you politely excused yourself before they had finished their stories.
Whenever someone mentioned dragons, your attention drifted elsewhere.
It made no sense to him.
Sometimes he wondered whether you simply lacked curiosity altogether.
You never questioned anything, never argued, and never demanded anything.
You simply accepted everything and it irritated him far more than it should have.
Then came the comparisons. Not from Mother, never from Mother bit from everyone else.
"The Princess has remarkable penmanship." and "The Princess has already memorised the fourth chapter." or "The Princess recited the Star without a single mistake." and even "The Princess is most diligent."
Always the Princess.
Aemond never struggled with his lessons. He was usually the brightest pupil in every room at least until people began mentioning you in the same sentence. And he disliked that far more than he cared to admit.
Not because you outperformed him, you rarely did, but because everyone seemed so impossibly impressed whenever you accomplished the very same things they had always expected of him.
As though neat handwriting were somehow more remarkable on your page than on his, as though your discipline deserved admiration while his was merely expected. He found it deeply unfair.
You, meanwhile, couldn't understand your brother at all.
Everyone insisted Prince Aemond was clever. And you surely believed them.
He certainly knew an extraordinary amount about dragons, swords, kings and places with names you could barely pronounce.
Unfortunately, those also happened to be the only things he ever seemed interested in.
He rarely smiled, rarely laughed, rarely joined Aegon when he invented games for you and Helaena through the corridors, and rarely sat with Helaena among the flowers.
He always seemed astonishingly busy while not doing anything in particular. Simply thinking, always inside his own mind.
You eventually decided Aemond simply preferred books to people.
You didn't dislike him.
You simply couldn't think of a reason to seek him out. There was nothing the two of you enjoyed together.
When Aegon found you, he taught you High Valyrian, he made you laugh, and he even tickled your little nose. When Helaena found you, she showed you beetles hidden beneath leaves and told you about the little animals that nobody else saw. When Mother found you, there were prayers, lessons or long evenings brushing your hair.
When Aemond found you there was usually only silence. And strangely enough, neither of you minded it.
Yet there was one thing Aemond noticed more than anything else: Mother.
She was never affectionate. Not truly, no to anyone. She did not kiss scraped knees, she did not tell bedtime stories, and she did not shower any of her children with embraces or laughter.
Duty always came before tenderness.
That much was true for all of them.
And yet she was always beside you. Every morning, every afternoon, and every evening.
Always watching out for you. She corrected the way your sleeves sat upon your wrists, she reminded servants to bring your parasol, she disappeared with you behind the doors of her chambers every single night, she inspected your lessons herself, she walked the gardens with you, and she called for you. Constantly.
Aemond could not remember the last time Mother had spent an entire afternoon with him.
He saw the little smiles she reserved only for you. Brief and almost invisible, gone as quickly as they came. Most people would never have noticed them.
Aemond did. He noticed everything and each one lodged somewhere beneath his ribs. He told himself it was because you required more supervision. Because you were younger, because little sisters always needed looking after. He repeated those explanations until he almost believed them.
Almost.
For years the two of you barely existed in each other's worlds.
If Aemond spent the afternoon buried somewhere within the library, you were likely in the sept, reciting prayers beside your mother.
If you embroidered quietly beneath the shade of the gardens with Helaena, Aemond was somewhere near the Dragonpit, pestering Dragonkeepers with endless questions.
If he disappeared into the training yard, you were practising your handwriting.
If you walked beside the Queen through the castle corridors, he had already taken another passage entirely.
It became an unspoken rule of childhood.
You always seemed to be walking in opposite directions, like the two ends of a compass that refused to meet.
On the rare occasions your paths crossed within the endless corridors of the Red Keep, neither of you stopped. Just a brief glance, a polite nod and then you continued walking.
You to the sept and him to the library.
You to your embroidery and him to his histories.
It never felt strange, not to either of you.
There simply never seemed to be a reason to remain in the same room for longer than necessary.
That evening, everything began as it always did. The servants were dismissed and the doors closed. The familiar crystal bottle rested upon the table beside Mother's silver brush.
You climbed onto the cushioned stool before her mirror without needing to be asked, your long auburn curls already tumbling down your back as Alicent stepped behind you.
The room filled with the familiar rhythm of the brush gliding through your hair. Slow, gentle, and patient.
You loved this part.
Outside those chambers, Mother was always the Queen.
Inside them, and just for a little while, she became simply Mother.
You watched her reflection through the mirror as she carefully gathered the thick lock of hair hidden deep at the nape of your neck, separating it from the rest with practiced fingers.
The soft auburn roots had returned once again.
She sighed almost imperceptibly before uncorking the crystal bottle. The sharp scent of vinegar and herbs filled the room. You barely noticed it anymore, and now you even associated that love of ammonia with a safe and happy place.
As the little brush painted the mixture onto your roots, your eyes wandered absentmindedly towards the open window, The cold night breeze gently swayed the silk curtains.
Faintly, beyond the thick stone walls of the chamber, the distant sounds of the castle settling for the night drifted through the silence.
Somewhere far below, a door closed. Footsteps echoed briefly along a corridor.
Then nothing again.
Only the quiet, steady rhythm of the brush moving through your hair.
You smiled to yourself.
"...Mother?"
"Hm?" Her attention never left the careful strokes of the brush.
You tilted your head slightly, watching your brother disappear beneath one of the stone archways.
"If Aemond wanted..." You started speaking in a small voice and Alicent hummed distractedly. "...could you make one of his white locks red too?"
The brush stopped. Not gradually but instantly.
You looked at her reflection, waiting for an answer.
She hadn't moved. Her hand remained suspended in the air, the little brush still resting against your hair.
"...So he could look a little more like you," you continued innocently. "Then we'd match." You said excitedly, noticing and trying to fix the shift in your mother's mood.
Silence.
You frowned.
"I could even show Helaena how to apply it, then even Aegon and her could match."
The colour drained from Alicent's face so quickly it almost frightened you.
For one terrible heartbeat she simply stared at your reflection. Then, all at once, she spun your stool around so abruptly your feet slipped from the wooden footrest.
Her hands landed on your shoulders, her slender fingers gripping you with a devastating force. A small, frightened whimper escaped your lips when you saw your mother's terrified eyes.
"Never." Her voice was barely more than a whisper, yet it sounded harsher than any shout you had ever heard.
You blinked up at her, startled.
"...Mother?"
Her fingers tightened without her realising.
"You will never say those words again."
"I only thought—"
"No." She said, shaking you by the shoulders as the word cracked through the room. Her breathing had become even now, each breath shallower than the last.
"Not to Aemond." Another shake. "Not to Aegon." Another. "Not to Helaena." Her eyes searched yours with something you had never seen before.
Not anger, not disappointment, but terror.
They reminded you of the eyes of sheep before they were incinerated by Sunfyre, the dragon of your beloved brother Aegon. You had only witnessed it once, but those trembling eyes of the lambs had left such a mark on your memory that you still had nightmares about them.
"You will never tell anyone about this."
"I wasn't going to—"
"No one." Her voice trembled. "Not your brothers." Her fingers dug a little tighter into your sleeves, now grabbing your wrists. "Not your father, not the servants, not the Maester, not anyone."
You saw how your mother's eyes changed color, how a dark shadow completely obscured them, leaving aside that tearful brightness and replacing it with flashes of blind anger.
You had no idea what you had done. The little bottle? The white lock? Nothing made sense anymore.
Your lower lip trembled. "...Mother?" For the first time, your voice sounded frightened and a tear rolled silently down your cheek. "I don't understand."
Alicent's face crumpled for the briefest of moments, but almost immediately she closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe. She straightened her back and walked away from the vanity, her back to you. When she turned around to look at you again, the panic had been pushed back behind the familiar mask of the Queen. That slight sneer of disgust and contempt that was already so familiar on your mother's face.
"You don't need to understand." She spoke slowly, cold as snow. "You only need to promise me."
You nodded quickly. "I promise. I do, mother. I will never tell anyone," you said as small sobs escaped your lips.
"No." Alicent barked, and for a moment you could see a flicker of anger again before it was overshadowed by a look of contempt. "Look at me."
You did while you were drying the tears that kept falling with the sleeves of your nightgown and trying to wipe them away with the soft embroidery of the cuffs of your nightgown on your cheeks.
"Say the words." She said in a cold tone, her eyes wide with shock. The queen appeared with regal bearing and all her magnificence just a few steps away, almost as if she were in a royal audience, her posture immaculate. "Say the words, daughter. Your Queen commands you."
And you, with your childlike innocence, did what your mother told you: "I promise I won't tell anyone." Sealing a promise that would last for years.
Children usually did what their mother told them to do.
She held your gaze for another long moment, searching your face as though trying to decide whether a child could truly keep a secret she did not even understand.
The room was silent once more.
The brush still rested abandoned upon the floor where it had slipped from Alicent's fingers.
You rubbed your sleeves where she had held you, more confused than hurt.
Mother had never looked so afraid, not even when Father had fallen ill, and not even during the thunderstorms that rattled the windows of Maegor's Holdfast.
Whatever terrible thing you had almost said, you could not understand what it had been.
You only remembered Mother's face.
Years later, you would realise that something had died inside those chambers that evening.
After that night, you never quite got your mother back.
For your mother became harder to find beneath the Queen.
After that night, there were moments when you could still glimpse your mother. But they became fewer with every passing year,
Until at one point, only the Queen remained.
Thus grief, too heavy for words, whispered to an overburdened heart until it broke.
Tell me what you think about exploring her childhood. This might be slowburn with Aemond (since I’m starting since they’re children) but trust me with this one.
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**read touch and go here**
✮ synopsis: steve rogers has spent two years keeping you at arm’s length. but when a mission goes wrong and his skin meets yours, suddenly every wall he’s built starts crumbling.
(or: the soulmate fic where touch is the one thing captain america can’t fight.)
✮ pairing: steve rogers x soulmate!reader
✮ warnings: gunshot wound, severe blood loss, near-death experience, touch starvation/deprivation, PTSD, panic attacks, grief, hospitalization, steve's crippling self-destructive tendencies, some bone-deep yearning, angst with HEA, explicit sexual content
✮ word count: 17.2k (ur girl doesn't know how to shut up)
✮ a/n: this was supposed to be a drabble. like. idk. (I think I might like it more than 'touch and go' WHO SAID THAT)
series masterlist
bonus drabble 1
bonus drabble 2
The first time you see Steve Rogers cry, you're not supposed to be there.
The SHIELD medical bay at 2:47 AM is meant to be empty—just you, a dislocated shoulder from a mission gone sideways in Prague, and the ice pack you're too stubborn to ask someone else to help you position. But there he is, Captain America himself, hunched forward in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside bed seven with his face in his hands, shoulders shaking in that particular way that says everything hurts and I'm trying to be quiet about it.
You freeze in the doorway, good arm holding your bad arm, heart suddenly hammering against your ribs like it's trying to break free. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright, making everything look sharp-edged and surreal. Your mouth goes dry. There's a metallic taste on your tongue—adrenaline, maybe, or just the copper-tang of exhaustion that's been following you since your transport touched down six hours ago.
He's still in his tactical gear—dirt-streaked and blood-spattered from wherever he's been. You'd heard whispers in the hallways. A Hydra facility. The Winter Soldier, recovered. Captain Rogers, who never fails, who never breaks, bringing his best friend home after seventy years. You'd seen him from a distance when they'd brought Barnes in, shield on his back like it weighed a thousand pounds, and thought what you always think: beautiful and untouchable as a monument.
Now, though. Now he's just a man in a room that smells like antiseptic and grief, crying over—
The bed. There's someone in the bed.
Barnes. James Barnes. The Winter Soldier. Bucky. Whatever name he's wearing today. This is your first time seeing him up close, seeing him as something other than a ghost story whispered in SHIELD corridors. He looks smaller than the legends suggest, more human than weapon.
He's unconscious, or close to it, hooked to machines that beep in rhythms that must mean something to someone who isn't you. But what catches your attention—what makes your stomach twist and drop like you've missed a step going downstairs—is the woman curled against his side.
You don't know her, have never seen her before, but you know what she is. It's in the way she fits against him, like two pieces of something broken made whole. The way even unconscious, his body angles toward hers, his metal arm—and God, that's the arm that's killed presidents—draped protectively across her waist. The way her hand rests over his heart, monitoring his breathing even in sleep.
His soulmate. The Winter Soldier has a soulmate.
And Steve Rogers is crying over them.
Your shoulder throbs, sending white-hot spikes down your arm, and you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. You should leave. This is private, sacred, none of your business. But when you try to shift backward, your shoulder screams—a sharp, electric agony that races down your spine and makes your vision go spotty at the edges. The small sound that escapes your throat—half-gasp, half-whimper—cuts through the quiet like a gunshot.
Steve's head snaps up.
His eyes are red-rimmed, devastated, the blue of them turned dark and stormy with an emotion so raw it feels like looking directly at an exposed nerve. There are tear tracks on his cheeks, catching the harsh fluorescent light, and his lips are parted like he's forgotten how to breathe properly. For a second, neither of you moves. You're caught in the doorway like a deer in headlights, your pulse thundering in your ears, and he's frozen mid-grief, and the moment stretches taut as wire between you.
The air feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. Your skin prickles with it, every hair on your arms standing at attention.
Then his face closes off. All that naked emotion disappears behind the Captain America mask, so fast you'd think you imagined it if your heart wasn't still trying to claw its way out of your chest from the impact of seeing it.
"You need help?" His voice comes out rough, scraped raw, gravel and exhaustion and something else threaded through it. He clears his throat, stands, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the walls pressing in. He's always so much—six feet of genetically enhanced perfection that makes your body confused about whether it wants to fight or flee or something else entirely that you refuse to examine.
"I—" Your voice catches, sticks in your throat like you've swallowed glass. You force yourself to look at your shoulder instead of his face, but that means looking at the way his hands flex at his sides, the way his weight shifts like he's fighting the urge to move toward you. "Dislocated. From Prague. I can manage."
"You can't." Matter-of-fact, not unkind, but there's something underneath it—a tension that makes your stomach flip. He crosses the room in three strides, and you have that thought again—monument—but monuments don't usually smell like gunpowder and sweat and something cedar-sharp that makes your hindbrain light up with interest you absolutely cannot afford.
He stops just short of you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. The movement makes your shoulder scream, and you can't quite suppress the way your breath hitches.
"Really, I'm—"
"Stubborn?" There's something almost like amusement flickering across his face, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it makes your chest go tight and warm. "I know. You once tried to extract yourself from a building collapse with three broken ribs and a concussion."
You blink, stomach doing something complicated and uncomfortable. He knows that? He noticed that? Your skin feels too tight, like your body's trying to contain something that won't fit.
"Sit." He gestures to one of the beds, and when you don't move immediately—frozen by the way he's looking at you, intent and focused like you're a problem he needs to solve—his head tilts slightly. "That's an order, agent."
"You're not my CO," you point out, but you're already moving, because arguing with Steve Rogers while your shoulder feels like it's full of ground glass and your body is betraying you with all these inconvenient reactions seems like a losing proposition.
He follows, and you're hyperaware of him in that way you always are—the space he takes up, the way air seems to bend around him, the way your skin prickles with awareness even though he hasn't touched you. When you sit on the bed's edge, the paper crinkles beneath you, too loud in the quiet. He stands in front of you, and you have to focus on the SHIELD logo on his chest because looking at his face feels dangerous right now, like staring directly into the sun.
"This is going to hurt," he says, and his voice is lower now, closer. You can feel it rumble through the space between you.
"I know." Your good hand is gripping the edge of the bed so hard your knuckles have gone white. Your heart is doing something irregular and concerning in your chest.
"I mean it's going to—"
"Captain Rogers." You finally look up at him, find him watching you with an expression you can't parse—something intense and careful and guarded all at once. The fluorescent light catches in his hair, turns it more gold than blonde. There's a smudge of dirt on his jaw. "I've been in the field for six years. I know what a shoulder reduction feels like."
Something shifts in his jaw, that little muscle tick you've catalogued along with a hundred other Steve Rogers tells. Your breathing has gone shallow, and you don't know if it's from the pain or the way he's looking at you—like you're something he needs to be careful with.
Finally, he reaches for your arm.
He's wearing tactical gloves.
Of course he is. Steve Rogers always wears gloves on missions, black leather that make his already large hands look even more capable. You've never thought about it before—lots of agents wear gloves. Protection, grip, a hundred practical reasons.
But now, with him this close, with his hands carefully bracketing your injured arm, you notice the deliberateness of it. The way the leather covers every inch of skin from fingertip to wrist. The way he's careful, even now, not to let any exposed skin above the glove brush against you. There's a gap, barely an inch, where his sleeve has ridden up, revealing a strip of pale skin. You stare at it, pulse jumping in your throat for reasons you don't understand.
"On three," he says, and his voice is closer now, quieter. You can feel the heat of him, the solid presence that makes your good hand want to reach out and—
Your fingers twitch on the bed. The paper crinkles.
"One."
He adjusts his grip, and even through the leather, even through your tactical shirt, your nerve endings light up like a circuit board. Your breath catches, stops, starts again too fast.
"Two."
You're watching his face because you have to look somewhere, and that's when you see it—a flicker of something that looks like resignation. Like loss. Like he's steeling himself for something that's going to hurt. The tendons in his neck are taut, and there's a bead of sweat trailing down from his temple despite the cool air.
"Three."
The world whites out. Pain floods your system, sharp and immediate, and your vision goes sparkly at the edges. Your good hand flies up instinctively, searching for something to anchor you, and finds—
His vest. Your fingers curl into the tactical fabric, knuckles brushing against the solid wall of his chest beneath. You're falling forward, or maybe he's moving closer, and suddenly your forehead is almost touching his chest, and his hands have shifted to your shoulders—careful, still gloved, but holding you steady.
"Breathe," he says, and maybe it's the pain, but his voice sounds different. Softer. Rougher. His thumb moves in a small circle against your shoulder, probably meant to be soothing, but it sends electricity racing down your spine. "You're okay. Just breathe."
You realize you're making small, hurt sounds into his vest, and his body has curved around you slightly, protective, blocking you from the rest of the room. Your working hand has somehow fisted completely in his tactical vest, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, too controlled to be natural. His heart beats against your knuckles, faster than you'd expect for someone with enhanced everything.
"I'm good," you manage, though your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy, wrecked. "I'm—thank you."
You pull back, look up, and freeze.
He's so close. Close enough that you can see the flecks of green in his blue eyes, the way his pupils have dilated slightly. Close enough to count individual eyelashes, to see the faint scar on his lower lip. Close enough that when his lips part slightly, you feel his exhale ghost across your face.
His eyes drop to where your hand grips his vest, and there's something almost stricken in his expression. His throat works as he swallows, and you track the movement helplessly.
Then his gaze snaps to your face, and for a second—just a second—his eyes drop to your mouth.
The air between you goes electric.
His hand on your shoulder tightens infinitesimally, leather creaking, and you're suddenly aware that your bodies are still curved toward each other, that if you just leaned forward an inch—
He jerks back. Takes three full steps back, actually, like he needs the distance. Like proximity to you is somehow dangerous. His breathing is slightly uneven, and there's a flush high on his cheeks that wasn't there before.
"You should get that x-rayed," he says, and his voice is too loud in the quiet room, just slightly unsteady. He's Captain America again, professional and distant, but his hands are clenched at his sides and he won't quite meet your eyes. "And ice. Twenty minutes on, twenty off."
"I know the drill." Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, throaty and affected. Your good hand is still raised slightly, fingers tingling from where they'd gripped his vest.
He nods, sharp and efficient. Turns to go back to his vigil beside Barnes's bed. But something makes you speak, words tumbling out before your brain can catch up with your mouth.
"He's lucky."
Steve stops. His shoulders go rigid, the line of his spine straightening like someone's put electricity through it.
"Barnes," you clarify, though you shouldn't. Your tongue feels thick in your mouth, clumsy. "To have someone who—to have her. His soulmate. They're both lucky."
When he turns to look at you, there's something hollow in his eyes, something that makes your chest ache with recognition you don't want to examine. The muscle in his jaw is working again, and his gloved hands clench and unclench at his sides.
"Yeah," he says quietly, and the word comes out like it's been dragged over broken glass. "Lucky."
He says it like the word tastes like ash, like something burned and bitter on his tongue.
"Steve—" You don't know what you're going to say, don't know why his name feels like something precious in your mouth, why your body is still leaning toward him like a plant toward sunlight.
"You should rest." He cuts you off, gentle but firm, and there's something almost desperate in the way he's not looking at you. "That shoulder needs—"
An alarm goes off. Not the gentle chime of a normal medical alert, but the sharp, angry wail that means something's wrong. Steve's already moving, heading for Barnes's bed where machines are screaming and the woman—his soulmate—is sitting up, hands pressed to her temples, saying "Something's wrong, something's—"
Barnes jackknifes upright with a sound that isn't quite human, metal arm swinging blindly, and his soulmate catches his hand without flinching. The moment their skin connects, some of the wildness bleeds out of his eyes.
"Bucky." Her voice is steady despite the chaos. "You're in medical. You're safe. I'm here."
You should leave. This is definitely not for you to witness. But you're frozen, watching how Barnes's entire being reorganizes itself around her touch, how his breathing slows to match hers, how the machines gradually stop their shrieking as his vitals stabilize. The way she runs her fingers through his hair, and he melts into it, face pressing into her palm like he's trying to absorb her through skin contact alone.
And you watch Steve watch them, standing two feet away but somehow miles distant, his gloved hands clenched so tight at his sides that the leather creaks.
You've never wanted a soulmate. The odds are astronomical, the chance of finding them slim to none, and you've seen what happens to people who lose them—the hollow-eyed grief that never quite fades. Better to never have one than to lose them. Better to be whole on your own than broken in half of a pair.
But watching Barnes fold into his soulmate's arms like coming home, watching her hold him together with nothing but touch and presence and fierce, protective love—
Your chest aches with want so sharp it steals your breath. Your skin feels too tight, too hot, like your body is trying to tell you something your mind won't acknowledge.
When you look at Steve, he's already looking at you. For just a second, you see your own longing reflected in his eyes, the same hollow ache of watching others have what you'll never possess. His gaze drops to your hand—the one that had gripped his vest—and something flickers across his face, too fast to read.
Then he looks away, jaw tight, and the moment breaks, and you're just an injured agent who needs to stop projecting feelings onto a superior officer who barely knows you exist.
"Get some rest," he says without looking at you, voice carefully controlled. "That's an order."
This time, you don't argue. You leave him to his vigil, to his grief, to whatever it is that makes Captain America cry in hospital chairs over other people's happy endings.
Your shoulder throbs in time with your heartbeat as you walk away, and you tell yourself that's the only reason your chest hurts. That's the only reason your skin feels like it's burning where he almost touched you. That's the only reason you can still feel the ghost of his vest under your fingers, the phantom heat of him curved around you.
You're very good at lying to yourself at 3 AM.
But your traitorous body remembers the way he'd jerked back from you, the way his eyes had gone wide with something that looked like fear when he'd realized how close you were.
Whatever Steve Rogers is afraid of, you're starting to think it might be you.
The next time you see him is three days later, and your body knows he's in the room before your brain catches up.
You're bent over a terminal in the east wing surveillance room, trying to make sense of intel that feels like it's been encrypted in ancient Sumerian, when every hair on the back of your neck stands at attention. Your spine straightens involuntarily, muscles tensing like an animal sensing a predator—or worse, like iron filings responding to a magnet.
"Agent."
Just that. Just your title in his Captain America voice, all professional distance and careful neutrality. But your treacherous body reacts like he's whispered something filthy in your ear—pulse jumping, skin flushing hot, stomach doing that uncomfortable flip that's becoming alarmingly familiar.
You don't turn around. Can't. Not when you know what you look like right now—haven't slept in thirty-six hours, hair in a messy bun that's listing severely to the left, yesterday's coffee staining your SHIELD-issued crewneck. Not when you can feel him taking up all the oxygen in the room just by existing in it.
"Captain Rogers." You're proud of how steady your voice comes out, even as your fingers have gone white-knuckled on the edge of the desk. "Something I can help you with?"
Silence. Long enough that you almost turn, almost give in to the gravitational pull of him. Then: footsteps. Measured, deliberate. He's moving closer, and your body tracks his approach like sonar, every nerve ending pinging with proximity alerts.
He stops just outside your peripheral vision—close enough that you can smell him (soap, leather, that cedar-sharp scent that makes your hindbrain whimper), far enough that there's no chance of accidental contact. You notice he does that a lot. Maintains exact distances like he's calculated the precise minimum safe zone between bodies.
"The Brussels intel." A pause. You hear him shift, leather jacket creaking. "Fury wants us to run point together."
Your hands still on the keyboard.
Us.
Together.
Run point.
"Us," you repeat, carefully neutral, still not turning around because if you look at him right now your face will do something stupid. Something that reveals how your stomach just dropped through the floor at the prospect of working closely with him. Of being in proximity to Steve Rogers for an extended period when just standing in the same room makes you feel like you're about to vibrate out of your skin.
"Is that a problem?"
There's something in his voice—a challenge maybe, or a test. Like he's waiting for you to admit what you both know: that whatever this thick, electric tension between you is, it's becoming harder to ignore.
"No, sir." You turn then, because not looking is starting to feel more obvious than looking, and immediately regret it.
He's in civilian clothes—dark jeans that shouldn't be legal on someone with his thighs, a navy shirt that clings to his chest in ways that make your mouth go dry. The leather jacket that does things to his shoulders that ought to be classified. But it's his face that kills you—that careful, composed expression that doesn't quite hide the way his eyes darken when they meet yours, the way his jaw ticks when you unconsciously wet your lips.
"Good." He steps closer—just half a step, but your body reacts like he's pressed you against the wall. Your breathing goes shallow, chest rising and falling too fast, and his eyes track the movement before snapping back to your face. "Briefing's at 0800."
"I'll be there."
He should leave. The conversation's over, message delivered. But he doesn't move. Just stands there, looking at you with an expression you can't read, and the air between you feels like it's getting thicker, harder to breathe. Your skin prickles with heat despite the aggressive air conditioning, and you can feel your pulse in your throat, your wrists, between your legs—
"Your shoulder." The words come out rough, like he's had to drag them from somewhere deep. "How is it?"
"Fine." Your voice sounds breathy, affected. You clear your throat, try again. "Good. It's good. Thanks to you."
Something flickers across his face at that—almost pained, like you've said something that hurts. His hand comes up, and for a heart-stopping second you think he's going to touch you. Your whole body goes still, waiting, wanting, every cell screaming yes, finally, please—
But he just runs it through his hair, a gesture that's so uncharacteristically unguarded it makes your chest ache.
"Steve—"
"I should go." He cuts you off, already stepping back, and the loss of proximity feels like someone's turned off the sun. "Early morning."
He's halfway to the door when you speak, words tumbling out without permission.
"Why do you do that?"
He stops. Doesn't turn. "Do what?"
"Pull back." Your heart is hammering so hard you're sure he can hear it with his enhanced everything. "You get close, and then you just—" You make a frustrated gesture he can't see. "It's like you're afraid of me."
His shoulders tense, and when he turns to look at you, there's something raw in his eyes for just a second before he shutters it away.
"I'm not afraid of you."
"Then what—"
"I'm afraid of what I want from you."
The words hang in the air between you like a grenade with the pin pulled. Your breath catches, stops entirely. Your body goes hot and cold at once, skin too tight, like you're having an allergic reaction to honesty.
He looks as surprised as you feel, like the admission escaped without his permission. His hands clench at his sides—you notice he's not wearing gloves, and for some reason that feels significant. Dangerous. His fingers are long, elegant despite their strength, and you have the sudden, visceral thought of what they'd feel like on your skin.
"Captain—"
"Steve." His voice is rough, wrecked. "Just... when it's just us, call me Steve."
Your throat feels like you've swallowed glass. "Steve."
He makes a sound—small, strangled—and takes a step toward you before catching himself. The muscle in his jaw is working overtime, and his hands—Jesus, his hands are actually trembling.
"This isn't—" He stops. Tries again. "I can't—"
"Can't what?" You stand, and your legs feel like water but you need to be closer to him, need to understand what's happening in the space between his words. "Steve, what—"
"0800," he says, and it sounds like surrender. "Don't be late."
He's gone before you can respond, leaving you alone in a room that feels too cold without him in it. Your skin feels raw, oversensitized, like you've been flayed open and exposed to the elements. You sink back into your chair, legs finally giving out, and press your palms against your burning cheeks.
I'm afraid of what I want from you.
Your body is still humming, vibrating at some frequency that feels like it's going to shake you apart. You can still smell him in the air—leather and soap and something unmistakably Steve that makes your hindbrain want to follow him down the hall, pin him against a wall, and find out exactly what he wants from you.
But you don't. You sit in your chair, stare at intel you can't process, and try to convince yourself that whatever's happening between you and Steve Rogers is just chemistry. Just proximity and adrenaline and two people spending too much time dancing around each other in small spaces.
You're getting better at lying to yourself.
But your body remembers the way his eyes had gone dark when he watched you breathe. The way his hands had trembled. The way he'd said your name like it was being torn out of him.
0800 can't come fast enough.
The briefing room is too small.
That's your first thought when you walk in at 0755, coffee clutched like a lifeline, to find Steve already there. He's studying a holographic map of Brussels, one hand braced on the table, the other holding a tablet. The morning light from the floor-to-ceiling windows turns his hair gold and throws his profile into sharp relief, and your step falters in the doorway because he looks like something out of a Renaissance painting—all strong lines and perfect angles and terrible beauty.
He doesn't look up, but his shoulders tense slightly. He knows you're there.
"Morning," you manage, proud when your voice doesn't crack.
"Agent." Back to titles, then. Back to distance. But when he glances up, his eyes catch yours and hold for a beat too long, and you see him swallow.
You take your seat—across from him, with the whole width of the table between you like a demilitarized zone. But it's not enough. The room's too small, the air too thin. You can see the rise and fall of his chest, the way his thumb taps against the tablet in a rhythm that matches your elevated pulse.
"The target's a bioweapon," he says without preamble, swiping something on his tablet that makes the hologram shift and expand. "Hydra remnants, we think. They're moving it through Brussels tomorrow night."
You force yourself to focus on the intel, not on the way his hands move when he talks, precise and economical. Not on the fact that his sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms that make your mouth water—all corded muscle and prominent veins and a dusting of hair that catches the light.
"Extraction point?"
"Here." He rounds the table to point at a specific building, and suddenly he's beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that when you breathe in, you get a lungful of his scent that makes your head spin. "Warehouse district. Minimal civilian presence after dark."
You turn your head to look at the map, but that's a mistake because now his face is inches from yours. You can see the barely-there freckles across his nose, the way his lips part slightly when he breathes. His eyes drop to your mouth for a fraction of a second before he jerks back, stepping away so fast you feel the displacement of air.
"We'll go in quiet," he says, voice rougher than before. His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, a gesture you're starting to recognize as his tell for when he's affected. "Two-person infiltration. Quick and clean."
"Just the two of us?" The words come out more breathless than you intended.
He nods, still not looking at you. "Fury wants it kept small. Discreet."
Discreet. Right. You can be discreet. You can be professional. You can absolutely handle being alone with Steve Rogers on a mission without doing something stupid like wondering what his hands would feel like in your hair, or how his voice would sound saying your actual name in the dark, or—
"Questions?"
You realize you've been staring at him, and your face goes hot. "No. No questions."
"Good." He's already moving toward the door, eager to escape, but he pauses at the threshold. When he looks back, there's something almost vulnerable in his expression. "We leave at 1400. Quinjet bay three."
"I'll be there."
He nods, starts to go, then stops again. His hand tightens on the doorframe, knuckles going white.
"You should wear tactical gear," he says without turning around. "Full coverage. It's going to be cold."
There's something about the way he says it—careful, deliberate—that makes you think he's not really talking about the temperature. But before you can respond, he's gone, leaving you alone in a room that still smells like him.
You spend the rest of the morning trying to focus on mission prep, but your mind keeps circling back to the way he'd looked at your mouth. The way he'd jerked back like you'd burned him. The way he'd specified full coverage like he was trying to minimize the chance of—what? Of skin contact? Of touching?
By 1400, you're wound so tight you feel like you might snap. The tactical gear feels heavy, constrictive, like it's pressing all your sensitivity inward. Every brush of fabric against skin feels amplified, every movement hyperaware.
You find him in the quinjet, running preflight checks with the kind of focus that suggests he's trying very hard not to think about something. He's in his Captain America suit—the deep blue that somehow makes his shoulders look even broader, red and white accents catching the cabin lights. No skin visible except his face and that thin strip at his neck where the cowl doesn't quite meet the collar, every inch of him covered like armor against something more than physical threats.
"Ready?" He doesn't look at you when he asks.
"Always."
The flight to Brussels takes six hours. Six hours of sitting across from each other in a quinjet that suddenly feels impossibly small. Six hours of trying not to stare at the way his hands move over the controls, sure and competent. Six hours of him studiously avoiding your gaze while the tension ratchets higher with every passing minute.
Halfway through, you shift in your seat, and your knee brushes his under the table. It's barely contact—layers of fabric between you—but you both freeze. His hands still on the tablet he's holding. Your breath catches in your throat. For a moment, neither of you moves, like you're both waiting to see what the other will do.
He pulls his leg back.
You curl your hands into fists and stare out the window at clouds that look soft enough to touch, trying to ignore the way your knee burns where it brushed his, trying to ignore the way he's breathing just a little too carefully across from you.
"You should get some rest," he says finally, voice neutral. "It's going to be a long night."
You don't tell him there's no way you could sleep, not when every cell in your body is hyperaware of his presence. Not when you can feel the weight of his carefully maintained distance like a physical thing.
Instead, you close your eyes and pretend, counting your breaths, trying to ignore the way your body hums with proximity to him. Trying to ignore the fact that in a few hours, you'll be alone with him in the dark, dependent on each other in the way that missions make necessary.
Trying to ignore the way your skin already aches for something you've never had.
When you fake-wake an hour later, he's watching you.
The look on his face—unguarded, soft, almost pained—makes your chest tight. But the second he realizes you're awake, his expression shutters, locks down, becomes Captain America again.
"Descending in twenty," he says, all business.
You nod, start checking your gear, and pretend you didn't see the way he was looking at you like you're something he wants but can't have. Pretend your heart isn't racing from that single, stolen moment of his true face.
Twenty minutes to Brussels.
Twenty minutes until you're alone with him in the dark.
Twenty minutes until whatever this is either snaps or shatters.
Your hands shake as you load your weapons, and you tell yourself it's just pre-mission adrenaline.
You're getting worse at lying to yourself.
The warehouse district in Brussels looks like every other warehouse district you've ever infiltrated—all concrete and shadows and too many places for things to go wrong. Your breath mists in the December air, visible for half a second before disappearing, and you're hyperaware of Steve beside you, the way his body heat seems to radiate even from three feet away.
Three feet. Always three feet.
You've been in position for forty minutes, watching the target building through night vision, and the tension between you has ratcheted so high you can practically taste it—metallic, electric, like the air before lightning strikes.
"Two guards, northwest corner," you murmur into comms, watching them through your scope. Your finger rests against the trigger guard, steady despite the way your whole body feels attuned to Steve's presence. "Rotation in approximately ninety seconds."
"Copy." His voice in your ear makes your stomach flip, low and authoritative. Through your peripheral vision, you catch him adjusting his shield, the movement precise, controlled. Everything about him is controlled. Has been since you touched down three hours ago. Maybe since before that. Maybe since that moment in the briefing room when he'd told you to wear full tactical gear like he was trying to armor you against something more than bullets.
The silence stretches, fills with things unsaid. Your skin prickles beneath the kevlar, every nerve ending hyperalert. Not from danger—not yet—but from proximity to him that feels more intimate than touch. You can hear him breathe, steady and measured. Can smell that cedar-sharp scent that cuts through the industrial stink of the district. Can feel the weight of his attention even when he's not looking at you.
"You know," you say quietly, because the silence is becoming unbearable, "for a stealth mission, you're thinking very loudly."
A pause. Then: "I'm not thinking anything."
"Liar." The word slips out before you can stop it, soft and knowing, and you feel him go still beside you.
"Agent—"
"You said when it's just us, I could—" You swallow, throat suddenly dry. "We're alone, Steve. You can use my name."
Another pause, longer this time. When he speaks, his voice is rougher. "The guards are moving."
He's right. You track them through your scope, watching them disappear around the corner, and try to ignore the way your name apparently burns in his throat, the way he can't seem to say it even when you've given him permission.
"Window's open," you confirm. "Ninety seconds, like clockwork."
"Let's move."
You're up and moving before the words finish forming, bodies falling into perfect synchronization. He goes high, you go low, covering angles with the kind of wordless communication that feels like dancing, like inevitability. Your breath syncs with his as you cross the open ground, and you tell yourself it's just tactical breathing, just professional compatibility.
You're getting worse at lying to yourself.
The side entrance is exactly where intel said it would be. Steve makes quick work of the lock while you cover him, and the domestic intimacy of it—you protecting his back while he works—makes something twist in your chest.
"Got it." The lock clicks open, and he pulls the door wide, weapon raised.
You follow him into darkness.
The warehouse is a maze of shipping containers and scaffolding, all deep shadows and blind corners. Your night vision paints everything in shades of green, turning Steve into something otherworldly as he moves ahead of you, all lethal grace and coiled power. You've seen him fight before, but there's something different about moving with him like this, just the two of you in the dark. Something that makes your body hyperaware of every gesture, every signal.
He holds up a fist—stop. You freeze instantly, trusting him implicitly. He tilts his head, listening to something you can't hear, and you watch the line of his throat, the way his pulse beats steady and strong beneath the skin.
Then you hear it too—footsteps, multiple sets, coming from the east corridor.
Steve looks back at you, and even through the night vision, you can see something pass across his face. He points to himself, then forward. Points to you, then to a stack of crates that would provide cover.
You shake your head. You're not letting him go alone.
His jaw ticks—that tell you've catalogued along with all his others. But there's no time to argue. The footsteps are getting closer.
You move together, silent as shadows, until the first hostile rounds the corner.
Steve takes him down in one fluid motion, shield connecting with a dull thud that the man doesn't get up from. But there are more—so many more—and suddenly the warehouse explodes into chaos.
"Contact!" you shout into comms that suddenly fill with static, jamming signals flooding the frequency. "Multiple hostiles—"
A muzzle flash in your peripheral. You pivot, fire twice, watch the figure drop. Steve's shield sings through the air, ricocheting off three targets in quick succession before returning to his hand. You move back to back without thinking, covering each other's blind spots, and the contact—even through layers of tactical gear—makes your skin burn.
"We need to move!" Steve shouts over the gunfire. "The bioweapon—"
"I know!" You drop two more hostiles, reload with practiced efficiency. "Northwest stairs, we can—"
The explosion knocks you sideways.
Your shoulder hits concrete hard, night vision flickering, ears ringing. Through the smoke, you see Steve fighting like something out of legend—shield and fists and absolutely ruthless efficiency. But there are too many. They keep coming, and you're separated now, a wall of hostiles between you.
"Steve!" You fight toward him, muscle memory and desperation driving you forward.
"Get to the weapon!" His voice cuts through the chaos. "I'll hold them—"
"Like hell!"
But more fighters flood in, and you're forced back, forced to watch him disappear behind a wall of bodies. Your chest goes tight with something that's not quite panic but close—the thought of losing sight of him, of something happening while you're not there to cover his six.
You fight harder, brutal and efficient, trying to close the distance. Your body moves on autopilot while your mind tracks him through glimpses—the flash of his shield, the sound of his voice calling out positions.
Then you hear it. His sharp intake of breath, pained.
"Steve?"
"I'm fine." But his voice is strained, and you catch sight of him favoring his left side, blood dark on his tactical suit. "The weapon—"
"Fuck the weapon." You slam a new magazine home, determination crystallizing into something sharp and desperate. "I'm coming to you."
"No!" The authority in his voice stops you short. "That's an order—get the bioweapon. I'll meet you at extraction."
Every instinct screams against leaving him, but he's right. The mission. Always the mission.
You run.
The stairs are clear—too clear. Your instincts scream trap, but there's no time. You take them three at a time, hip protesting from the earlier fall, listening to the sounds of fighting below. Steve's still engaged, still fighting, and you track his progress through the warehouse by sound alone.
The lab is exactly where intel indicated—third floor, northeast corner. Also exactly as unguarded as you'd feared.
Trap. Definitely a trap.
But the bioweapon is there, contained in a small metal briefcase that seems too innocuous for something that could kill thousands. You grab it, already turning back toward the stairs when you hear Steve's voice crackle through the static.
Not "Agent." Your name, sharp and desperate, and the sound of it makes your blood freeze. "Get out. Now. They're—"
The static cuts him off.
"Steve? Steve!"
Nothing.
You're already running, taking the stairs so fast you nearly fall, the briefcase clutched tight against your chest. The warehouse has gone quiet—too quiet. No more gunfire. No more fighting.
Just silence.
You round the corner into the main warehouse floor and see him.
He's surrounded, on his knees, blood running from a cut above his eye. Six hostiles have weapons trained on him, and his shield is nowhere to be seen. But what makes your blood turn to ice is the seventh figure—a man in tactical gear holding something that looks like—
"No!" The word tears from your throat as you recognize the device. Sonic disruptor, strong enough to disorient even a super soldier.
The man's finger depresses the trigger.
Steve convulses, hands going to his ears, and the sound he makes—
You're moving before conscious thought catches up, pure instinct driving you forward. The briefcase clatters to the ground as you raise your weapon, laying down cover fire that sends three hostiles scrambling. But you're exposed now, in the open, no cover between you and—
The first shot catches you in the vest.
The impact slams you backward, driving all the air from your lungs in a whoosh that whites out your vision. Your body armor holds—SHIELD makes good gear—but the force spins you sideways, and before you can recover, before you can breathe—
The second shot finds the gap.
Right where your vest meets your hip, that vulnerable slice of space where mobility trumps protection. The bullet tears through tactical fabric and skin and muscle like tissue paper, and the pain—
The pain is exquisite.
White-hot agony blooms from your hip, spreading like wildfire through your nervous system until every cell is screaming. You hear yourself make a sound—sharp, breathless, more surprise than scream—and then your legs are failing, and you're falling, and the concrete rises up to meet you like an old friend.
Your name rips from Steve's throat like something being torn from his chest cavity.
Through blurring vision, you see him move.
The sonic disruptor doesn't matter. The six weapons trained on him don't matter. He erupts from his knees with a sound that's barely human, pure rage and desperation, and bodies go flying. He fights like something mythical, like something out of the stories they tell about Captain America, except there's nothing heroic about this.
This is brutality. Devastation.
Your hands shake as they try to find the wound, fingers slipping on something warm and wet that's spreading way too fast. The pain is enormous, eating at the edges of your consciousness, white-hot and pulsing with each heartbeat. Your tactical pants are already soaked, the fabric clinging to your skin, and when you lift your hand it's painted crimson in the warehouse's emergency lighting.
That's... that's too much blood. Way too much.
Your body starts to shake—shock, probably, or blood loss, or just the simple animal recognition that you're badly hurt. Your teeth start chattering, and you can't make them stop, jaw clenched so tight you taste blood from where you've bitten your tongue.
"No, no, no, no—"
Steve crashes to his knees beside you so hard the concrete cracks. His hands—his bare hands, when did he lose his gloves?—hover over you for a fraction of a second before pressing against the wound. The pressure makes you scream, body trying to curl away from the pain, but he holds you down, holds you still.
"Hey, hey, look at me." His voice cracks completely, nothing like Captain America's steady authority. This is just Steve, terrified and desperate. "Look at me. Stay with me."
You try to focus on his face, but it keeps fracturing, splitting into doubles and triples before reforming. Your eyes won't track right, keep sliding away like they're too heavy. His face is covered in blood—from the cut above his eye, from other wounds you can't catalog—and there's something wild in his expression, something that makes your chest tight for reasons that have nothing to do with the bullet.
"Steve—" Your voice comes out wrong, too wet, copper flooding your mouth. When you cough, something warm splatters across your lips.
"Don't talk, don't—just stay still. I've got you." He's pressing so hard against the wound that new pain blooms, sharp and bright, making your vision white out at the edges. But his hands—his hands are shaking where they press against you, and that seems wrong somehow. Steve Rogers's hands don't shake. "Med evac's coming. Two minutes. Just two minutes, you have to—"
His voice breaks completely, and you realize he's crying. Captain America is crying over you, tears cutting clean tracks through the blood and dirt on his face.
"'S okay," you slur, though it's not, though nothing is okay. Your tongue feels thick, clumsy. "'M okay."
"You're not okay." It comes out harsh, angry, but his hands on your wound are so careful, desperately trying to hold you together. "There's so much blood. Why is there so much—"
That's when you see it. His bare hands are pressed against your wound, skin to skin where your tactical gear has been torn away, and you wait for something—for warmth, for electricity, for whatever cosmic sign is supposed to indicate a soul bond. But there's just the cold creeping up your limbs and Steve's devastated face above you.
"Please," he's saying, over and over, like a prayer or a plea. "Please, just hold on. Just—"
He reaches for your face with one blood-slicked hand, maybe to check your pupils, maybe to keep you conscious, and that's when it happens.
His palm cups your cheek, and the world explodes.
Not with pain this time, but with something else entirely. Something that races through your dying body like lightning finding ground, like coming home, like every cell suddenly remembering what they're made for. The bond slams into place with the force of a freight train, decades of waiting condensed into a single moment of contact that rewrites everything you thought you knew about existence.
The warmth that floods through you has nothing to do with healing and everything to do with recognition. With rightness. With the soul bond that's singing in your bones, drowning out even the pain, making everything else fade to background noise. You can feel him—not just his hand on your face but him, his emotions crashing into yours like a tidal wave. Fear and longing and desperate denial and—
He rips his hand away like you've burned him.
"No." The word comes out strangled, broken. He's staring at his hand like it's betrayed him, then at your face with something that looks like pure horror. "No, not—not like this. Not now—"
The loss of his touch hits worse than the bullet did. Your body convulses, a sob ripping from your throat that you can't control, can't stop. The bond—new and raw and screaming—feels like someone's reached into your chest and started pulling things out. Every nerve ending is firing wrong, confused, desperate for the contact that just got ripped away.
"Steve." Your voice breaks on his name, barely human. The world is going fuzzy at the edges but this—this burning absence where his hand was—this is crystalline. "Steve, please—you're—we're—"
"Don't." He's pressing against the wound with just fabric between you now, using torn pieces of his uniform to maintain pressure without skin contact. His whole body is shaking, violent tremors that make his hands unsteady. "This can't—I can't—"
"Please." The word comes out slurred, desperate, all your walls crumbling with your blood pressure. Your body moves without permission, trying to arch toward him, and the movement sends agony through your hip but you don't care, can't care, not when every cell is screaming for him. "Need—need you t'touch me. Please. Hurts—hurts so much without—"
A whimper escapes, high and broken, and you're crying now—real tears mixing with blood from where you've bitten through your lip trying not to beg.
"I can't." He's sobbing openly, pressing harder against the wound as your blood soaks through the fabric barriers he's maintaining. His face is wrecked, destroyed, tears cutting tracks through dirt and blood. "I can't do this to you. I can't—everyone I touch—everyone I—"
"'M dying." It's matter-of-fact, clear even through the growing fog. Your body knows it, feels it in the way everything's going cold and distant.
Your hand lifts, trembling so hard it's more spasm than movement, reaching for his face. He catches your wrist with fabric-covered fingers, holding you back, and the sound you make—wounded, animal, barely human—seems to physically hurt him.
"You're not dying." Fierce, desperate, a lie that cracks in his throat. "You're not. Med evac's thirty seconds out. You're going to be fine, you're going to—"
"Hurts." The word is pure anguish. Not just the wound but the rejection, the bond screaming, tearing, dying in your chest. Your body's shutting down but somehow the ache of his denial cuts deeper. "Steve, please—am I—did I do something wrong? Am I not—not what you wanted—?"
"No." The word rips from him with enough force to echo off the warehouse walls. He's shaking so hard the fabric between you vibrates with it. "No, you're perfect. You're everything. You're—Christ, you're everything I never let myself want. That's why I can't—"
"Don' understand." Your vision is tunneling fast now, darkness eating the edges. Your body won't stop shaking, violent tremors that make your teeth chatter. "'S supposed to—soulmates supposed to—to help. To make it better. Why won't you—why won't you just—"
Another sob tears from your chest, weaker this time. Your reaching hand falls, fingers still twitching toward him.
"Because I'll destroy you." Raw, bleeding, the words torn from somewhere deep and wounded. "Because everyone I've ever—because I'm not meant for this. For you. You deserve someone who—someone whole. Someone who isn't—"
"Jus' wanted—" Your voice is fading, each word a monumental effort. Your body feels like it's floating and sinking at once. "Jus' wanted to know what it felt like. To be yours. Steve—'m so cold—”
Your eyes are sliding shut, but you force them open one more time, finding his face. He looks shattered. Broken. Like watching you die is killing him too.
"'M sorry," you whisper, and you don't know what you're apologizing for. For dying? For being his soulmate? For not being enough to make him want to hold you? "Sorry I'm not—not worth—"
"Stop." His voice breaks completely. "You're worth everything. You're worth—"
But you're already going under, the last sensation being the phantom burn of where his palm touched your cheek for those thirty-seven seconds. The bond screams and screams and screams, and then—
The med evac arrives in a thunder of sound and motion, but you can't process it anymore. Hands are moving you, lifting you, but all you can focus on is Steve's face, the way he's looking at you like you're taking his soul with you.
"I'm sorry," he's saying, over and over, his voice following you into the darkness. "I'm so fucking sorry. You deserve better. You deserve everything."
The last thing you see is him standing there, your blood painting his bare hands red, looking like a man who's just given up the one thing he wanted most in the world.
The last thing you feel is the phantom burn where his palm touched your cheek, the bond screaming for a connection that's been severed, your body trying to reach for something that's already gone.
The last thing you think, with the last conscious part of your mind, is that you would have been good to him. You would have been so good to him, if he'd let you.
But maybe that's why he pulled away.
Maybe he knows something you don't—that good things don't last, that soulmates are just another pretty lie the universe tells to make the dying easier.
Your hand falls limp, still reaching for him, and the darkness takes you under.
The medbay ceiling has exactly 247 tiles. You know because you've counted them approximately forty-three times since waking up, which was—what? Two weeks ago? Three? Time moves differently when your body is trying to rebuild itself from the inside out and your soul is trying to tear itself apart looking for someone who won't come.
The gunshot wound is healing. Slowly, methodically, with the kind of grinding precision that modern medicine excels at. They'd had to do surgery twice—once to stop the bleeding, once to repair the mess the bullet made of your intestines. The scar will be ugly, they tell you with professional sympathy, as if that's what you're worried about. As if the external scarring could possibly compare to whatever the fuck is happening inside your chest where the bond lives.
Or dies. You're not really sure which anymore.
Your nights follow a pattern now, predictable as clockwork. At 10 PM, the ward goes quiet, lights dimming to that particular hospital twilight that never quite achieves darkness. At 11:47 PM—always 11:47, like he's calculated the exact time the night nurse finishes rounds—you hear it.
Footsteps in the hallway. Careful, measured, but with that particular weight that only belongs to him. Your body recognizes them before your mind does, skin prickling with awareness, the bond flaring to life like struck kindling.
The first night, you'd opened your eyes.
He'd frozen in the doorway, silhouetted by hallway fluorescents, and for thirteen seconds (you counted), you just stared at each other. His face was—God, his face was something you'd never seen before. Raw. Destroyed. Like someone had reached inside him and rearranged everything until it no longer fit right.
"I—" he'd started.
You'd waited, heart hammering so hard the monitors had started alarming, bringing nurses running.
By the time they'd cleared out, satisfied you weren't dying, he was gone.
Now you know better. You keep your eyes closed, breathing deep and even, and let him have whatever this is. Whatever he needs.
He sits in the chair by the window—always the same chair, the one that creaks slightly when he shifts his weight. For the first ten minutes, he just sits there, breathing. You match your inhales to his, careful to keep them sleep-slow even though your heart is racing, even though every cell in your body is screaming to reach for him.
Sometimes he talks.
"They're releasing you tomorrow," he says tonight, voice barely above a whisper. "Fury told me. Said you're healing well. That you'll be able to—that you'll be fine."
Fine. The word sits between you like a lie neither of you believes.
"I know you're awake."
Your breath doesn't catch. You've gotten very good at this game.
"I know you're awake," he repeats, softer. "Your heartbeat changes when I'm here. Just a little, but—" A pause. The chair creaks. "I memorized it. Before. The sound of your heartbeat. Didn't mean to, it just—happened. Enhanced hearing and all."
You want to open your eyes so badly it's physical pain, but you don't. Can't. Because if you do, he'll leave, and even this—this careful distance, this monitored proximity—is better than nothing.
"I'm being reassigned."
Now your breath does catch, just slightly. You hear him shift forward.
"Fury thinks it's best. For both of us. Different divisions, different missions. Clean break." His voice cracks on 'clean' like the word itself is cutting him. "It's better this way. You can—you can find someone else. Someone who isn't—"
Broken, you want to finish. Scared. Frozen in a past that no longer exists.
But you keep your eyes closed, keep your breathing even, keep pretending that your chest isn't caving in with every word.
"I watched Bucky with his soulmate," he continues, and you've never heard him sound like this. Lost. "Watched how easy it was for them. How she touched him and suddenly he was whole again, was himself again. How the bond just—fixed things. Made sense of them."
The chair creaks again. Closer now. You can feel the heat of him, smell that cedar-sharp scent that makes your body ache with want.
"I thought—" He stops. Starts again. "I thought if I didn't have a soulmate, I could pretend I didn't belong here. Could keep one foot in the past, you know? Keep waiting to go home to a time that doesn't exist anymore. But then you—"
Silence. Long enough that you almost open your eyes, almost give up the pretense.
"You make me want to stay," he whispers, and it sounds like a confession. Like something torn from him against his will. "You make me want to belong here. In this century. In this life. And that fucking terrifies me."
Your eyes burn behind closed lids. Your throat aches with words you can't say.
"So I'm leaving. Because you deserve someone who isn't terrified of wanting you. Someone who can touch you without feeling like the universe is ending. Someone who—" His voice breaks completely. "Someone who didn't let you bleed out rather than accept a bond."
You hear him stand, the chair scraping slightly against linoleum. Feel him hesitate, that particular stillness that means he's fighting himself.
Then warmth. Just for a second. The ghost of fingers near your hand where it rests on the blanket, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin, the way the air shifts between you.
"I'm sorry," he breathes. "I'm so fucking sorry."
Then he's gone, and you finally let yourself cry—silent, body-shaking sobs that you muffle in the pillow so the night nurse won't come. The bond aches like a severed limb, phantom pain for something you had for exactly thirty-seven seconds in a warehouse in Brussels.
Tomorrow, they release you.
Tomorrow, you go back to a life where Steve Rogers is just someone you pass in hallways, someone who looks through you like you're a ghost, someone who touched your face once while you were dying and then decided you weren't worth the risk.
Tonight, though. Tonight you lie in a hospital bed and count ceiling tiles and pretend you don't know that he stands outside your door for another twenty-three minutes before he finally makes himself leave.
Your apartment feels like a crime scene you're returning to.
Everything is exactly as you left it three weeks ago—coffee mug still in the sink, laptop still open on the counter, the ghost of your normal life preserved in amber. Except you're different now. Hollowed out and reconstructed wrong, like someone took you apart and lost a few crucial pieces in the reassembly.
The first night is the worst.
You'd thought the hospital was bad, with its antiseptic smell and endless fluorescent twilight. But at least there, you could pretend Steve might appear. Could lie to yourself that the footsteps in the hallway might be his.
Here, in your own space, there's no such illusion.
The bond aches constantly. Not the sharp, immediate pain of the first few days, but a bone-deep throb that makes everything feel wrong. Food tastes like ash. Sleep comes in fragments, always interrupted by dreams of warehouse floors and the phantom warmth of a palm against your cheek. Your skin feels too tight, like your body is rejecting itself in the absence of touch it's only had once.
You try to go back to work after a week.
Fury takes one look at you—hollow eyes, hands that won't stop shaking, the way you flinch when anyone gets too close—and sends you home.
"Medical leave," he says, not unkindly. "Take the time you need."
You want to tell him that time won't fix this. That you could take a year, a decade, and you'd still be searching every room for a ghost who won't appear. But you just nod, gather your things, and pretend you don't see the pity in his eye.
The second week is when the anger arrives.
It starts small—irritation at the barista who makes your coffee wrong, frustration with the TV remote that won't work properly. But it builds, feeds on itself, until you're standing in your kitchen at 2 AM, hurling the mug Steve never saw you drink from against the wall, watching it shatter into pieces that still somehow hold more cohesion than you do.
How dare he.
How fucking dare he.
To touch you, to activate a bond you didn't even know existed, and then rip himself away like you're something toxic. To visit you every night but never when you're awake to actually see him. To make decisions about your life, your future, your soul without even asking what you want.
You track his missions through the internal SHIELD networks you're not supposed to have access to anymore. London. Moscow. Cairo. Always moving, always running, like distance could somehow break what's already broken. Your clearance hasn't been revoked yet—an oversight, probably—so you read his reports, clinical and detached descriptions of operations that tell you nothing about whether he's eating. Whether he's sleeping. Whether his soul feels as flayed as yours.
Probably not. He chose this, after all.
The third week is when you see him.
You're not prepared. How could you be? You're just buying groceries, standing in the cereal aisle like a normal person pretending to care about fiber content, when you feel it—that familiar prickle of awareness, the bond flaring to life like muscle memory.
You turn, and there he is at the end of the aisle. Frozen, like he's been caught. He looks—
He looks like shit.
Hollow eyes, sharp cheekbones like he hasn't been eating, a carefulness to his movements that speaks of bone-deep exhaustion. His hands are shoved in his pockets, probably to stop himself from reaching for you. Or maybe just to hide how they're shaking.
For a moment, you both just stand there, two people separated by twenty feet of fluorescent lighting and an unbridgeable chasm of his making.
You watch his mouth form your name. Not quite speaking it, just shaping it, like even that much is more than he's allowed himself.
Your body moves without permission, taking one step toward him, and he takes a step back.
Right.
The message is clear. Crystal fucking clear.
You turn around, leave your half-full cart in the middle of the aisle, and walk out of the store with as much dignity as you can muster. Make it all the way to your car before the shaking starts, before you have to grip the steering wheel just to keep yourself anchored.
Twenty feet.
He couldn't even stand to be within twenty feet of you.
That night, you draft seven different resignation letters. Because fuck this. Fuck playing this game where you pretend you're okay, where you pretend that seeing him doesn't make you want to scream or cry or claw your own skin off just to escape the constant ache of the bond.
You don't send any of them.
But you keep them, just in case.
Week four is when Natasha shows up at your door.
"You look like hell," she says without preamble, pushing past you into your apartment.
"Thanks. Great pep talk. You can go now."
She ignores you, taking in the disaster you've let your living space become—dishes piled in the sink, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, the general apocalyptic ambiance of someone who's given up.
"He's not doing any better, you know."
You laugh, bitter and sharp. "Good."
"He sits outside your building sometimes." She says it casually, like it's nothing, like it doesn't make your heart stutter and race. "At night. When he thinks no one will notice. Just sits in his car and stares up at your window like a fucking Victorian ghost."
"He made his choice."
"He made a stupid choice," she corrects. "Because he's a stupid, self-sacrificing idiot who thinks he's protecting you."
"From what?" The words explode out of you, months of frustration and hurt finally finding voice. "From having a soulmate? From being loved? From fucking touching another human being?"
"From him." Her voice goes soft, which is somehow worse than when she's being cutting. "From what he thinks he is. What he thinks he'll do to you."
"That's not his choice to make."
"No," she agrees. "It's not."
She leaves after that, but not before placing a small piece of paper on your counter. An address. A time. Tomorrow, 3 PM.
"He won't be there," she says. "But you should go anyway."
You stare at the paper for a long time after she's gone, memorizing numbers you'll probably never use.
But when tomorrow comes, you go anyway.
Because maybe you're just as much of a self-sacrificing idiot as he is.
Or maybe you're just tired of being angry.
Maybe you're just tired, period.
The address leads to a small gym in Brooklyn, the kind that smells like old leather and determination. You expect it to be empty—Natasha said he wouldn't be there—but there's someone in the ring.
Barnes.
He's working the heavy bag with mechanical precision, each punch measured and brutal. The sound echoes in the empty space—thud, thud, thud—rhythmic as a heartbeat. He doesn't look up when you enter, but his shoulders tense slightly, that particular stillness of someone who's hyperaware of their surroundings but pretending not to be.
Your stomach does something complicated. You've seen him around the Tower these past couple months since Steve brought him in, but always at a distance. Always with her—his soulmate, the one who somehow reached through seven decades of programming to find the man underneath. The one who touches him like it's breathing, casual and constant and necessary.
"Natasha send you?" His voice is flat, careful.
"Yeah."
He stops punching, turns to face you. Takes you in with those winter-gray eyes that see too much, catalog too much. There's still something unfinished about him, like he's a sketch someone's only halfway through shading. Two months of freedom haven't quite erased seventy years of being someone else's weapon.
"You look like shit," he says, which isn't what you expected.
"Thanks. Everyone keeps telling me that."
His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "Steve looks worse, if it helps."
"It does, actually."
This time he does almost smile, just a flash before his face settles back into its usual brooding. He unwraps his hands slowly, methodically, like he's buying time to figure out what to say. The motion is practiced, automatic—muscle memory that belongs to James Barnes, not the Winter Soldier. You wonder how many things like that he's had to relearn. How many small, human gestures he's had to excavate from under decades of conditioning.
"This is..." He stops. Runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. The gesture is so remarkably normal it makes your chest tight. "I don't usually do this. The talking thing. That's more—" A pause, like he's trying to remember who handles these things now, in this new life where he has friends instead of handlers. "That's not really my thing."
"Then why—"
"Because Steve's an idiot," he says bluntly. "And someone needs to explain why he's being an idiot, and apparently that someone is me." He tosses you a pair of wraps. "You know how to use these?"
"I'm on medical leave."
"Not asking you to fight. Just asking if you know how to wrap your hands. Gives you something to do while I..." He makes a vague gesture that somehow encompasses the awkwardness of the entire situation.
You do know how to wrap your hands. The familiar ritual of it—loop around the wrist, between the fingers, across the knuckles—gives your body something to focus on besides the constant ache under your ribs where the bond lives. He watches you do it, noting the slight tremor in your fingers that hasn't gone away since Brussels.
"He ever tell you about Peggy?" Barnes asks suddenly, like ripping off a bandaid.
You pause, stomach twisting into something complicated. "No."
"Course not." He leans against the ropes, and for a moment looks older than whatever age he's supposed to be. "From what I remember—and my memory's not exactly..." He taps his temple with his metal finger, the soft whir of recalibrating plates filling the silence. "But from what I remember, and what I've been able to piece together since, he loved her. Real love, not just wartime desperation. Had her picture in his compass, carried it everywhere. Used to moon over her like she hung the goddamn stars."
Your chest tightens, ribs suddenly too small for your lungs. You focus on wrapping your hands, but the fabric keeps slipping because your palms have gone sweaty.
"But he knew they weren’t soulmates."
"Yeah. And it didn't matter to him. He chose her anyway." Barnes's jaw ticks, and you can see him working through memories that might be his or might be stories he's been told—the confusion of it flickers across his face. "I was already gone when he went into the ice. But from what I've learned, when he woke up, she'd lived a whole life without him. Found her actual soulmate. Got married. Had kids. The whole American dream he thought he was fighting for."
The words land like stones in your chest, each one heavier than the last.
Steve chose Peggy. Chose her without destiny, without the universe's intervention, without biological imperatives. Just looked at her and decided she was worth defying fate for.
And you?
You're just what the universe assigned him. The consolation prize. The participation trophy for surviving into a century he never wanted to see.
Your hands still on the wraps. "That's not—she couldn't have known he'd survive—"
"Doesn't matter. Logic doesn't factor into it." His metal hand flexes, a nervous tic you've noticed before. "I think—and look, this is just my theory, thrown together from bits and pieces—but I think Steve maybe saw it as proof. That the universe was right all along. That choosing her was just him being stubborn, going against what was meant to be."
The words settle heavy in your stomach like you've swallowed cement. "So when he found out I was his soulmate..."
"Proof he's supposed to be here. In this century he's never felt like he belongs in." Barnes's voice goes quiet, almost careful. You can see him choosing his words, this man who's spent two months relearning how to have opinions. "Look, I've only been... back... for a couple months. I'm still figuring out who Steve is now versus who he was then. Half my memories of him are probably more fantasy than fact at this point. But from what I can see, if he accepts you, then he has to accept that this is where he's meant to be. That this is home."
"And he doesn't want that."
"He wants it so much it terrifies him."
Barnes moves to the speed bag, starts a rhythm that's almost meditative. His metal arm moves differently than the flesh one—more precise, less natural, like he's still learning to inhabit it.
"When they brought me in, when I was still more Winter Soldier than anything else, my soulmate—she didn't give me a choice." The rhythm falters for a moment. "Just kept showing up. Kept touching me even when I tried to—" He stops. Restarts. The sound fills the gym like a heartbeat. "Even when I was dangerous. Even when I couldn't remember her name five minutes after she said it."
You know this story, or pieces of it. Everyone at SHIELD does. But the way he tells it—halting, like he's still surprised by it—makes it feel different. Raw. Like he still can't quite believe someone chose to love him through the worst of it.
"I could have killed her. Almost did, more than once those first few weeks. But she kept coming back." The speed bag stills. His hands drop to his sides, and for a moment he looks lost, like he's forgotten what to do with them when they're not fighting. "I didn't get to push her away. Didn't get to decide I was too broken or too dangerous. She made that choice for both of us."
"And it worked out."
"Yeah." His voice does something strange here—goes soft in a way you didn't think it could. Like even after decades of violence, there's still something in him capable of gentleness. "Yeah, it did. But Steve—Steve's got this idea that he's protecting you. From disappointment. From loss. From him."
"That's not his choice to make."
"No. It's not." Barnes looks at you directly, and there's something almost sympathetic in his expression. "But he's gonna make it anyway unless someone stops him. And I'm too fucked up myself to be giving relationship advice, but—"
The gym door opens, cutting him off, and Barnes's entire demeanor changes instantly. It's like watching winter thaw in fast-forward—his shoulders drop, his face loses that careful blankness, even his breathing seems to ease. You turn to see a young woman entering, all bright eyes and gentle energy that seems to fill the space with warmth.
"Hey," she says, and Barnes is already moving toward her like she's got her own gravitational pull, like his body just naturally orbits hers. "You ready to go?"
"Yeah, doll. Just—" He gestures vaguely at you, and she turns that warm attention your way.
"Oh! You must be the one Nat mentioned." She extends her hand, and her smile is so genuine it makes your chest hurt. There's something knowing in her eyes, something that says she understands what it's like to love someone who thinks they're unlovable. "I've heard about you."
"Hopefully not all bad."
"Never." She squeezes your hand gently before releasing it. "How are you holding up?"
The question is so earnest, so carefully kind, that you almost start crying right there in the gym. Your throat goes tight, eyes burning with tears you refuse to shed.
"I'm—" You stop, unable to lie to this person who radiates the kind of empathy that makes dishonesty impossible. "Managing."
She nods like she understands, and somehow you think she does. Then she turns back to Barnes, and it's like watching a completely different person emerge. He leans into her space without seeming to realize it, his hand finding the small of her back with the kind of casual intimacy that speaks of constant touch, constant contact. The metal hand, you notice. The one that's caused so much damage. She doesn't flinch from it.
"You eat today?" she asks him quietly, reaching up to brush his hair back from his face. The gesture is so tender it makes your chest ache.
"Yeah, sweetheart." His voice is impossibly soft, private.
"What did you eat?"
A pause. His mouth quirks slightly—a ghost of whoever James Barnes was before the war, before the fall, before everything. "You."
She smacks his chest. "That doesn't count as food, James."
"Seemed pretty filling to me."
"Oh my god." She turns to you, cheeks pink but biting back a smile. "Six decades as an international assassin and he thinks he's a comedian now."
"I'm hilarious," Barnes says, completely deadpan, but his hand is rubbing small circles on her back, and the look she gives him—fond and exasperated and completely besotted—makes something crack in your chest.
Because this is what choosing looks like. This is what wanting looks like when it's not forced by biology or destiny or the universe's sick sense of humor.
Steve chose Peggy like this. Without destiny. Without force. Just looked at her and knew she was worth everything.
And you? You're just the assignment. The universe's way of telling him he can't go home. The anchor keeping him in a century he never asked for.
Your hands curl into fists inside the wraps, nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt.
"We're gonna grab dinner," Barnes's soulmate says to you, still tucked against his side like she belongs there. "Real food," she adds with a pointed look at him. "You should come."
"I—no, thank you. I should—" You gesture vaguely at nothing, at the door, at escape.
"Think about what I said," Barnes interjects, not unkindly. His eyes are serious, understanding in a way that makes you want to run. "And..." He pauses, seems to wrestle with something. "Steve's an idiot. But he's an idiot who's been looking at you like you hung the moon since before Brussels. That's not the bond. That's just him."
They leave together, her hand in his, talking quietly about dinner plans and everyday things. You watch them go, Barnes letting her guide him toward something as simple as a meal, and the comparison burns in your throat like acid.
He never pushed her away. Even when he was dangerous, even when he was broken, even when he couldn't remember her name. He let her choose him.
But Steve? Steve took one look at the bond between you and ran.
Because with Peggy, he had a choice. He chose to love her.
With you, he doesn't. You're just what he's stuck with.
Your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.
He has a mission briefing tomorrow at 0900. Conference room C. Just saying.
You delete the text, but the information burns in your brain.
Maybe it's time to stop letting Steve Rogers make all the choices.
Even if you're just the consolation prize.
Even if you'll never be Peggy Carter.
Maybe especially then.
Conference Room C is empty.
You stand in the doorway like an idiot, staring at the polished table and empty chairs, at the blank whiteboard that mocks you with its pristine surface. The digital clock on the wall reads 09:07. You've been lurking in the hallway since 08:45, watching people filter in and out of different rooms, none of them Steve.
Of course.
Of course Natasha's intel was wrong, or maybe it was right and he changed locations when he realized you might—
Fuck this.
Fuck all of this.
The anger that's been simmering for weeks boils over, hot and sudden.
You're done.
Done waiting, done hoping, done letting Steve Rogers dictate the terms of your existence with his absence. Your hands shake as you turn to leave, the bond aching with fresh disappointment, and you're so focused on not crying that you don't hear the footsteps until—
A hand wraps around your elbow.
Even through the fabric of your shirt, you know it's him. Your body recognizes his touch like a key in a lock, every nerve ending suddenly alive, suddenly screaming. You're yanked sideways—not roughly, but with desperate efficiency—into a supply closet that smells like printer toner and industrial cleaner.
The door clicks shut, and you're plunged into darkness cut only by the thin strip of light under the door.
Your eyes adjust slowly, and when they do—
Jesus Christ.
Steve looks destroyed.
No, destroyed doesn't cover it.
He looks like someone reached inside him and hollowed him out with a rusted spoon. His uniform is torn—actually torn, with what looks suspiciously like blood staining the blue fabric black. There's a cut on his cheekbone that's already healing, but slowly, like even his enhanced body is too exhausted to properly function. His hair is matted with ash and something darker. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide in the darkness, and he's breathing like he can't get enough air, like his lungs have forgotten how to work properly.
"Steve?" Your voice comes out tentative, barely a whisper.
He makes a sound—broken, animal, completely unintelligible. His hand is still on your elbow, grip tight enough that it should hurt but doesn't, and you can feel him trembling. Not just his hand. All of him. Vibrating with something that looks like shock but feels like barely contained devastation.
For a moment, you just stare at each other in the dim light. His chest heaves with each breath, and you can smell the mission on him—gunpowder and smoke and something else, something that makes your stomach turn. Death. He smells like death.
"Steve, what—"
He breaks.
With a deep, shuddering breath that sounds like it's being torn from the very center of him, Steve pulls you against him. It's not gentle. It's desperate, consuming, like a drowning man finding solid ground. One hand tangles in your hair, fingers twisting in the strands hard enough to make your scalp sing with that perfect edge of pain-pleasure. The other arm bands around your waist, and then—
His hand slides up under your shirt, fingers splaying wide against the bare skin of your back, and you both gasp.
The bond roars to life.
It's not the gentle warmth you'd imagined soulbonds to feel like. It's a flood, a tidal wave, every point of contact sending liquid heat through your veins like you're mainlining pure sensation. Your knees buckle, but he's got you, holding you up with desperate strength as he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder.
The noise he makes then—God, you'll hear it forever. Half sob, half relief, muffled against your neck as he breathes you in like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. His body curves around yours, too tall, too broad, trying to eliminate every millimeter of space between you.
"Had to—" His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable, words pressed hot against your throat. "Had to find you. Couldn't—fuck, I couldn't breathe—"
His hand on your back moves restlessly, seeking more skin, and when his fingertips brush the edge of your bra, you shiver so hard he groans. The sound vibrates through your chest where you're pressed together, and you can feel his control fracturing, feel the way his hands shake with the effort of not taking more.
But he does take more.
His hand in your hair tightens, tilts your head back to expose your throat, and his mouth presses to your pulse point—not kissing, just resting there, feeling your heartbeat against his lips. The hand under your shirt spreads wider, slides higher, until his thumb brushes your ribs and you make a sound you've never made before.
"The mission," he says against your skin, and you feel more than hear it. "There was—Christ, there was this couple. Shopping for groceries when the building came down."
His whole body shudders, and he presses closer, pins you against the door with his weight like he needs the contact to stay upright. You can feel every line of him through the torn uniform—the hard planes of his chest, the way his stomach muscles clench with each ragged breath, the thick press of his thighs against yours.
"She died instantly." The words come out broken, wet. "But he—he lived long enough to feel the bond break. Have you ever—" His voice cracks. "I've never heard anyone scream like that. Like his soul was being ripped out through his chest."
"Steve—"
"All I could think about was you." His confession comes with another full-body shudder, and suddenly his mouth is moving against your throat, not kissing but talking, like he needs the contact to get the words out. "What it would feel like if—if I lost you before I ever—"
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are wet, devastated, completely without walls. "I can't lose you. I can't. I'll die. I'll actually fucking die."
"You won't lose me," you breathe, but he's already shaking his head, already pulling you impossibly closer.
"You don't understand." His hand slides from your hair to cup your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheekbone with reverent desperation. "The bond—it's not—for normal people it's intense, but for me—" He makes a sound like he's in physical pain. "The serum amplifies everything. Every sensation, every emotion, every—"
He cuts himself off by pressing his forehead to yours, and you can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back.
"Steve."
"I need—" His hand at your back shifts, slides around to span your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bra, and you both freeze. The touch is electric, sends sparks racing down your spine, pooling low in your belly. "Fuck, I need to touch you. Need to—please. Please, just let me—"
"Yeah." The word comes out embarrassingly breathy, but you don't care because his hands are already moving, already taking.
He spins you suddenly, presses your back against the door, and then his hands are everywhere. One slides up to cradle your throat—not squeezing, just holding, feeling your pulse flutter against his palm. The other pushes your shirt up, fingertips tracing your ribs like he's memorizing you through touch alone.
"So soft," he murmurs, and it sounds like prayer. "How are you so fucking soft?"
His thumb finds the hollow of your throat, presses gently, and your head falls back against the door. He makes a sound like you've killed him, and then his mouth is on your neck, open and hot and desperate. Still not kissing exactly—more like tasting, like he needs to experience you with every sense.
Your hands come up to clutch at his shoulders, and he crowds closer, presses you harder against the door. His thigh slides between yours, and the pressure makes you gasp, makes your hips cant forward involuntarily.
"That's it," he breathes against your throat. "Let me feel you. Let me—"
His hand at your throat slides down, palms the curve of your breast through your bra, and the sound you make is embarrassing and needy and you don't care because he echoes it, his hips pressing forward to pin you completely.
"Been dying," he confesses against your collarbone, words muffled by skin and want. "Every day, dying by inches. Watching you walk past, smelling your shampoo in the hallways, hearing your laugh and knowing I couldn't—"
"You could have." Your hands find his hair, tangle in the sweat-damp strands, and he groans. "This whole time, you could have—"
"No." He pulls back to look at you, and his pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left. "Would've destroyed you. Consumed you. The bond, the way I need you—it's not normal. It's not healthy."
"I don't care."
"You should." But even as he says it, his hand is sliding up your ribs again, fingertips tracing patterns that make you shiver. "You should be terrified of how much I want you. How much I need to—"
He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, but his body betrays him. His hips press forward, and you can feel him hard against your hip, can feel the way he's shaking with want.
"Show me," you breathe, and he makes a sound like you've shot him.
"You don't know what you're asking."
"Then show me."
His control snaps like a rubber band stretched past its limit.
His mouth finds yours with the kind of desperation that makes your knees buckle, and it's nothing like you imagined during those long, empty nights. Nothing soft or careful or sweet. This is drowning. This is Steve Rogers trying to climb inside your skin through your mouth, one hand fisted in your hair to angle your head exactly how he needs it, the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades like he's trying to fuse your chest to his.
His tongue slides against yours, hot and demanding, and you taste copper—blood from where he's bitten his lip raw—mixed with something that's just fundamentally him. Something that makes your brain short-circuit, makes you grab at his shoulders just to stay upright. The bond roars to life under your skin, weeks of rejection suddenly reversed, and the whimper that escapes you would be embarrassing if you could think past the electricity racing through your veins.
"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, not really pulling back, just speaking the word into you like he needs you to swallow it. His teeth catch your bottom lip, tug just hard enough to make you gasp, and he uses the opportunity to lick deeper into your mouth, thorough and filthy and completely at odds with Captain America's public persona.
Your back hits the door harder as he presses closer, and you can feel how affected he is—the way his chest heaves against yours, the tremor in his hands, the hard length of him pressed against your hip. It's overwhelming and not enough, too much and not nearly—
"Perfect," he growls, breaking away just long enough to trail his mouth down your jaw, teeth scraping in a way that's definitely going to leave marks. "You're so fucking perfect. Do you have any idea—" His hand slides under your shirt, fingertips tracing your ribs like he's mapping you for memory, "—what you do to me? How many meetings I've had to leave because you walked by and I could smell you?"
"Steve." Your voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. Your hands are in his hair now, tugging probably too hard, but he groans like you've given him a gift.
"I know, sweetheart. I know." His mouth finds your pulse point and sucks, and your vision whites out for a second. "I've got you. Let me—just let me—"
His hands shift with purpose now, one sliding down to grip your hip hard enough to bruise, the other pushing your shirt up, up, until cool air hits your stomach. And then—Jesus Christ—he's dropping to his knees with a fluidity that shouldn't be possible for someone his size, pressing his mouth to the skin above your waistband like communion.
You look down and nearly combust. Captain America—Steve—on his knees in a supply closet, eyes closed like he's praying, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach that are somehow both worshipful and obscene. His tongue traces the line where your pants sit low on your hips, and your hands fly to his shoulders because your legs have forgotten how to work.
"Should've been doing this for months," he murmurs against your hipbone, and you feel the words more than hear them, vibrating through skin and muscle and straight to your core. "Should've been worshipping you. Should've—" His voice cracks, and suddenly his arms are banded around your waist, his forehead pressed to your stomach like he's hiding. "That man today, when his bond broke—the sound he made—"
"Steve." You card your fingers through his hair, gentle this time, trying to soothe whatever demon is riding him. He shudders against you, full-body, and presses closer.
"I can't lose you." The words come out muffled by your skin, but the desperation in them is crystal clear. "I can't. I won't survive it."
"You won't lose me."
It's probably a lie. You're both in a dangerous line of work. People die. Bonds break. But right now, with him on his knees looking like you're the answer to every prayer he's never let himself voice, you'd promise him anything.
"Promise." His hands tighten on your waist, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are wild, desperate, nothing like the composed soldier the world knows. "Promise me."
"I promise."
He surges up and kisses you again, different this time. Still desperate but searching, like he's trying to memorize you—the shape of your mouth, the sound you make when his tongue slides against yours, the way you shake when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast through your bra. It's overwhelming in a different way, intensity without hurry, and you're dizzy with it, drunk on the sensation of being wanted this badly by someone who's spent months pretending you don't exist.
When he finally pulls back, you're both wrecked. His lips are swollen, slick, and his pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left. You probably look worse—you can feel your hair sticking to your face with sweat, your mouth tender and used.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. "For Brussels. For after. For being such a fucking coward."
"I know." You do. It doesn't fix anything, not yet, but you know.
"I'll make it up to you." His thumb traces your lower lip, and you can't help the way your tongue darts out to taste it, salt and skin and Steve. His breath hitches. "However long it takes."
"You can start now." It comes out more breathless than the sultry suggestion you were aiming for, but something about your desperation makes his eyes go dark again.
He laughs, rough and ruined, and presses one more kiss to your mouth—this one soft, almost chaste, if not for the way his hand tightens possessively in your hair.
"Tonight," he says, and it sounds like a prayer. "Let me—let me shower, change, become human again. And then dinner. Real dinner. Where I pick you up and we go somewhere and I don't run when the bond makes me feel everything."
"And if you run?" You're trying for threatening but it comes out vulnerable, scared. Because he's run before. He's so good at running.
His hand slides to your throat, not squeezing, just holding, thumb pressed to where your pulse hammers against your skin. "You have my full permission to hunt me down and make my life hell."
"I will." And you mean it. You're done being the one left behind, the one reaching for someone who's already gone.
"I'm counting on it."
He steps back, and the loss of contact hits like cold water. Your skin feels too tight, too sensitive, nerve endings firing confused signals—where is he, why isn't he touching us, bring him back. You can see him feeling it too, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides, the way his body sways toward you like you've got your own gravitational pull.
"Tonight. Eight o'clock."
"Steve?"
"Yeah?"
"Next time you have a bad mission, come find me. Don't wait. Don't hide. Just—come find me."
Something in his expression cracks open, vulnerable and raw and so un-Captain America it makes your heart skip. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He kisses you one more time—quick, fierce, a brand, a promise—and then he's gone, leaving you slumped against the door on legs that feel like jello. Your mouth is swollen, your skin still burning everywhere he touched, and you're pretty sure you've soaked through your underwear, but the bond...
For the first time in months, the bond doesn't ache.
It purrs.
It fucking purrs.
Tonight. Eight o'clock.
You're going to need a very long shower. And possibly a new pair of pants.
And maybe—just maybe—you're going to get what the universe has been trying to give you all along.
Even if you're not Peggy Carter. Even if you're just the consolation prize.
Right now, with the taste of him still on your tongue and bruises already forming on your hips in the shape of his fingers, you can't bring yourself to care.
"Tell me about Peggy," you say, and it comes out embarrassingly breathy because Steve's just shifted his hips in a way that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.
"Fuck." His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh with bruising intensity. The pressure sends heat pooling low in your belly, makes your inner muscles flutter around him. "Can we... not?"
It's not the most unreasonable request in the world. He's inside you, after all, thick and perfect and stretching you in ways that make coherent thought impossible. You're straddling him on the couch, and he's maneuvering you exactly how he wants—one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints, the other splayed possessively across your lower back, controlling your rhythm with casual strength that makes you dizzy. Like you weigh nothing. Like you're his to position and please and wreck completely.
"Bucky says—"
A growl rumbles through his chest at the name, vibrating through your body where you're joined. His hand slides from your back to your throat in one fluid motion. Just resting there, feeling your pulse race beneath his palm. A reminder. A warning.
"Another man's name?" His voice is dark, edged with something primal that makes your stomach flip. "While I'm inside you?"
You gasp as he lifts you slightly, changes the angle, and your thighs shake with the effort of holding yourself up. "S-says she's the reason you stopped believing in soulmates."
Steve goes still. Not completely—he's still buried deep, still hard, still breathing like he's barely holding onto control—but his hands stop their restless movement, and his eyes snap to yours with something like exasperation mixed with disbelief.
"Are we really doing this?" His thumb presses against your pulse point, and you feel your heartbeat stutter. "You want to talk about someone else while I'm trying to fuck you through this couch?"
"I just—oh god—" Your train of thought derails as he rolls his hips up, deliberate and punishing, hitting that spot that makes your vision white out.
"What you need," he says, voice dropping to that Captain-giving-orders tone that should not work in this context but absolutely does, "is to stop overthinking and let me take care of you."
One hand slides up your spine to tangle in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your neck arch, exposing your throat to his mouth. The other grips your hip, holding you still as he rolls his hips again, controlled and devastating.
"She wasn't my soulmate." The words are pressed hot against your throat between open-mouthed kisses that feel more like claims. "Loved her, yes. A long time ago. Thought I'd marry her if I survived the war. But she wasn't mine."
His teeth graze your collarbone, and your whole body shudders, nerve endings singing. The bond between you pulses with each heartbeat, amplifying every sensation until you can't tell if the pleasure is yours or his or some perfect fusion of both.
"Not the way you are." His hand in your hair tightens, forces you to meet his eyes. They're blown dark, barely any blue remaining. "Not even close to the way you are."
"But—"
"Sweetheart." He stops moving entirely, and you make a sound of protest that would mortify you if you could think past the need coiling tight in your belly. "Listen very carefully, because I'm only saying this once."
His hand leaves your throat to frame your face, thumb stroking across your cheekbone with gentleness that contrasts sharply with the possessive grip in your hair.
"She chose someone else. Her actual soulmate. And yeah, it messed me up. Made me think the universe was laughing at me." His hips flex slightly, involuntarily, and you both gasp. "But you know what I realized?"
"What?" The word comes out wrecked, barely audible.
"The universe wasn't wrong. I was." He releases your hair only to grip the back of your neck, holding you steady as he starts to move again, slow and deep and deliberate and exquisite. "I wasn't meant for that time. If she'd been my soulmate, I'd have stayed in the forties. Lived a quiet life. Had the house and the kids and the picket fence."
"That sounds—"
"Like everything I thought I wanted," he agrees, punctuating the words with a particularly deep thrust that has you seeing stars. "Until I woke up here. Until you walked into that briefing room two years ago, looking so goddamn competent and untouchable, and my body knew you were mine before my brain could catch up."
Your nails dig into his shoulders as he picks up the pace, and you feel his pleasure spike through the bond, mixing with yours until you can't separate them.
"I fought belonging here for so long," he continues, voice getting rougher, more breathless. "But you—Christ, you make me want to stay. Make me grateful the ice gave me you instead of her."
"Steve—"
"That’s it, sweetheart. No more names but mine," he commands, and then he's kissing you, deep and claiming and filthy. His tongue slides against yours, and you taste desperation and possession and something that feels dangerously close to devotion. When he pulls back, you're both panting. "And I want to keep hearing it. Preferably screamed."
You nod, words beyond you, and something dark and satisfied flashes across his face.
"Good girl."
The praise shoots straight through you, makes your cunt clench around him. He groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder, and his control finally, blessedly shatters.
He fucks up into you with purpose now, each thrust deliberate and devastating. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your ribs, palming your breasts with possessive familiarity. Every touch feels magnified, the soul bond amplifying sensation until you're drowning in it. You can feel his pleasure mixing with yours, feeding back on itself in an endless loop that has you both gasping, clutching at each other like you might dissolve without the anchor of skin on skin.
"This is what I think about," he confesses against your throat, words punctuated by the snap of his hips. "Not the past. Not her. You. Always you. How you feel around me, how you taste, the sounds you make when you're close."
Your nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks, and he hisses, the pain-pleasure bleeding through the bond making you both groan.
"The serum," he pants, rhythm getting erratic. "Fuck, the goddamn serum makes everything more intense. Every touch, every—I can feel you everywhere. In my blood, in my bones. Under my skin where I couldn't get you out even if I wanted to."
"Don't want you to," you manage, chasing your release, that coil in your belly wound so tight you might shatter.
"Never." It's a vow pressed into your skin with teeth and tongue. "Never letting you go. Mine. My soulmate, my—fuck, I'm close—"
His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy, and you're gone. The orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, pleasure so intense it borders on transcendent. You do scream his name, just like he wanted, and he follows you over, your name on his lips like a prayer, his hands holding you against him like you might evaporate if he loosens his grip.
You collapse against his chest, both of you panting, sweat-slick and trembling. The bond hums between you, satisfied and warm, and for the first time in months, you feel whole.
"So," you say once you can form words again, unable to help yourself, "just to be clear—"
He flips you suddenly, pressing your back into the couch cushions, and the predatory look in his eyes makes your breath catch. He's still hard, still inside you, and when he rolls his hips experimentally, you both groan.
"You want clarity?" His voice is dark, promising. He hitches your leg higher around his waist, slides deeper, and your head falls back. "Let me be very, very clear."
He pulls almost all the way out, then slides back in with devastating slowness, making you feel every inch.
"You are the only person I think about," he says, setting a rhythm that's slow and deep and intentional. "The only person I want. The only person who's ever made me grateful to be exactly where I am, when I am."
His hand slides up your thigh, grips behind your knee to open you wider, and the new angle has you gasping, clutching at his shoulders.
"The past is the past," he continues, voice steady despite the way his control is visibly fraying, tendons standing out in his neck. "And I plan to spend my future making up for lost time. Starting now."
"Steve—"
"That's it," he praises when you say his name, and rewards you with a particularly deep thrust that has your back arching off the couch. "Just like that. Let me show you exactly how not hung up on the past I am."
And he does.
Thoroughly.
By the time he's finally satisfied you understand, you've forgotten not just her name, but your own. The only thing that exists is him, the bond between you singing with contentment, and the absolute certainty that the universe knew exactly what it was doing.
Even if it took Steve Rogers seven decades to appreciate the gift.
Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content, near drowning, branding, oral sex (female receiving), dry humping, edging, teasing, 18+ ONLY
Word Count: 5.3K
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Series Masterlist
You groan and stretch out your cramped muscles. Every part of your body is stiff. Aching from sleeping in a hard chair, while that horrid man slept peacefully. Stupid man with his naked body sprawled out. There was quite literally nothing else to stare at and the chair was barely comfortable to sleep.
You sigh loudly, letting your head fall back. What has your life become? You once lived a simple life, playing around the farm. Laughing with the hired help. The help never seemed to quite do anything, he was there to learn a job, but your mother wanted him to be a kid, and for you to have a playmate. And then it was all about letting people lace your corsets up extra tight, standing up straight, pinching your cheeks to have a natural flush to your skin. Letting people mess with your hair, while it’s put up. Becoming the epitome of femininity while men gawk at you, and take bets on if your body can handle their touch, and then their seed.
Gross. Not that this place is much different. You’re still trapped against your will with nowhere else to go but to your death in the water. As cruel as Steve seems, and his words are, he hasn’t taken you against his will. The smacks across your face are enough to get your attention without hurting too much. Leaving the slightest burn and tingle to your skin. You hate it and hate him.
You glower at him. Willing him to wake up without saying anything. Let him go prance around the ship, and give you his bed for the day. You could even behave and not keep him locked out, you just want some sleep. And the bed is comfortable. Warm. Plush. And so much better than being tied into this chair like a dulled ornament.
Your foot starts a rhythmic tapping as you glare at him. He’s being ridiculous and you know that he hears you, but you don’t give him the satisfaction that you spoke first. You just want to sleep. Sleep will make you feel better and not crabby to the point that you want to hurl something at him once your arms are free.
“You’re annoying,” he groans, and turns away from you. Asshole. “Did you sleep well?” He gives a yawn while you roll your eyes. You will push him overboard the first moment you can.
“Yes, Your Highness, I slept like a princess.”
“Cheeky bitch,” Steve chuckles as he turns to his back. He stares up at the ceiling a few breaths before his head falls over to look at you. “You’ve got bite, I’ll give you that.”
“I’d like to bite you.”
“Oh, I know you would,” he sits up, stretching. Letting his long limbs pull too far from his body. His muscles flex, looking like long sinewed lines as he puts his arms above his head. Your eyes zone in on an odd mark over his chest. Most of his body is covered with scars and black ink, but one scar in particular strikes you.
“Can you draw or paint?” You scowl at him, shaking your head no. His mouth turns up in a smirk. And then he stands, naked as the day he was born, showing all his manhood to you. He takes tentative steps towards you before reaching around the chair you sit in. Grabbing onto his clothes before only taking a few steps back.
Steve drops most of his clothes on you, keeping only his pants in his hand before stepping into the legs. “I thought you wanted to bite me? Too busy staring at my cock, Siren?”
“You’re quite full of yourself.”
“You can touch it,” with his pants not fully pulled up, he steps back in front of you. Close enough that you should be able to reach out to touch him. “Go on, you wanna taste?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Did you get on your knees for your traitor?” You peek up through your lashes up at Steve, smirking. He hates talking about James, and yet brings him up.
“Oh, I got on my knees all the time. Sucked his fat cock right into my mouth. Even got on all fours while he fucks me from behind,” Steve raises his hand, and you don’t move a muscle, you stare up at him. “I dare you.”
“You’re a whore.”
“I’ve been with one man, and I’m a whore?”
“Your mouth is that of a whore’s,” he gets pissy so easily. It’s almost comical just how easily you can rile him up.
“Weren’t you the one placing your cock near my whore mouth?”
Steve pulls his britches completely up, and then reaches into your lap, grabbing up his shirt. “Things are going to change,” of course they are. “You will join me in my bed.”
“No.”
“And if I want to fuck your whore cunt, I will.”
“Over my dead body!”
“I can arrange that for you,” his lips turn into a crooked smile, showing off a gold tooth, and he winks at you. “I’d rather not have you dead though.”
“Fucking a corpse not your style?”
“No, I prefer my pussy hot,” pig. Steve slides another chair in front of you before sitting in it to put on his boots. “I went soft on you yesterday. Today you’re going to be out on the deck.”
“I don’t know anything about boats.”
“This is a ship, Siren. You’ll learn. You’ll also learn when to get out of the fucking way. “Now,” he puts on another leather boot, and then leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “I have warned the crew not to touch you in any way.”
“I suppose I’m yours?”
“That’s exactly right. I can touch you as I please.”
“I’d rather drown than be touched by you.”
“You’d probably be eaten before you drown. That dress would drag you and your perfect tits below the surface before sharks feasted on you. It’d be such a waste,” it feels as if your life is nothing more than a body for men.
“Why are you doing this? Why me?”
“Bucky made you sound absolutely delectable.”
“So you want his sloppy seconds,” the darkness in Steve’s eyes return as he glares at you. Bucky having you before him is such a sore subject. “If you wanted a virgin that only had you, I’m not your girl.”
“You’re not a girl, you’re a woman. And I don’t want a virgin. I want you. You not being a virgin is but a small issue. Let’s go,” you sit still, glaring at him. “What’s the problem?”
“You have me tied up.”
“Next time I’ll tie you in the bed,” he growls, but leans forward to undo your bindings. Keeping his eyes on your heaving chest. “They are quite lovely, Siren. They'll look better out of that dress and corset. Better with my mouth on them.”
“No, thank you, Captain.”
“I wouldn’t say that if I were you.”
“Is that not what you are?”
“Yep,” in an oddly gentlemanly manner, he reaches a hand down to you, and you take it. Allowing him to help you up, “But coming out of your mouth makes me want to devour you. So only call me that when you’re begging me to fuck you.”
“I’ll never beg for that,” he winks at you again. Cheeky bastard. He doesn’t know anything about you. He might have seen your eyes wandering over his body, but it’s because you were studying his tattoos, his scars, and that mark over his chest. A mark of ownership. A man that was once a tool for someone richer, now is treating you like you’re nothing but property. It makes no sense. But you know enough to keep your damn mouth shut until you learn more.
“You don’t have to stay with me. Just stay on the top deck, and out of everyone’s way. I’ll see to it that Nat makes sure you get your rations for today. But this is a long journey. I need you to get some sunlight and oranges,” such an odd man. Opening the door to his quarters, you gape at the already hustling around men. “We overslept. Have at it, Siren. And if anyone makes you uncomfortable. Let me know.”
Let him know. What would he do if it was him that makes you feel uncomfortable? Would he dispose of himself? Not likely. But everyone else is available to slaughter. A woman that he holds in such regard that she’s protected on this ship. From everything but him. Despicable.
There has to be a reason for all of this. There has to be a point of being taken before your marriage. Then there’s the personal disdain for James. A need to keep you alive, intact, albeit humiliated, but also this constant digging in about James. You can’t help but wonder if this was a payback for James deserting the crew that you would not have been giving such comfortable accommodations.
They weren’t perfect, and definitely not what you had grown accustomed to, but he didn’t leave you caged up with the entertainment. He didn’t refuse you food or drink, and he didn’t force himself on you. What he has done — while unwanted, at first, it made your body react.
Parts of you are confused because you desire James, not him. Except you can’t help but feel flustered with his nearness. His words. Your body reacts, and betrays you, and you fear one day he will learn of such. He’s an enigma. There’s an odd sense of familiarity, and then an overwhelming need to fight him at every turn.
You sigh as you look out at the horizon. There’s nothing but water. And him. You don’t even have to turn around to know that he is watching you. You feel his heated gaze on you everywhere you go. Even when you try to hide. He’s there. He’s everywhere. Everything. And it makes no sense.
You just want off this stupid ship and run away from him. Find a way to get back to James. You’d feel and know if he was dead. You will find him. Captain Hydra can kiss your ass.
You turn around, and lean against the railing, and cross your arms. Your eyes automatically create a line directly to Steve. Just like you knew, he’s staring at you. His brow lifts and a sly smile paints his features. Asshole. But you can’t look away. Your brow lowers, and you glare at the man that changed your life forever. Humor lights up his eyes. You won’t back down from him. No matter what.
You won’t be the first to look away. You’ll stand here for the rest of the day with your chest heaving, and your eyes squinted at him. He doesn’t deserve any relent. He deserves every ounce of your ire. Every morsel of your hatred is given to him. It’s what he deserves. It’s the only way that you can cope with things. He’s the enemy. You are not his guest, you’re a pet. And you need out of here.
“She hates me,” Steve says to Sam. His eyes do not move away from you. They haven’t. But now that he has your actual gaze, instead of your back, he refuses to look away even for a milisecond. Not to mention your sizable bosom heaving with every angered breath you take. The sea looks good on you.
The sun is making you radiant. Highlighting your every feature in the most spectacular way. You seem refreshed, even in your exhaustion. If you weren’t so stubborn he would have allowed you in his bed. And would only touch you once your body was ready for him. His grin grows larger as he envisions you writhing and whimpering in his bed. Oh the ways that he could make you come.
“She hates you because you’re incorrigible. Quit staring.”
“I often wonder what she would do if she was able to escape me. I will always find her. But just how far would she get before I had her back in my grip.”
“Are you bringing her into the council?” Steve nods his head. “And how is that going to work?”
“I’ll have her on a leash, or in my lap. I’ll have her obedient. Just wait,” your glare on him falters only enough for you to turn to your side. You can’t stand the heat of his gaze anymore. Popping your hip harder than necessary on the railing. And things happen so fast, you can’t even right yourself.
There’s something to be said about the knowledge of knowing you’re going to fall to your doom. Everything goes into slow motion. You can practically see every splinter of wood flying around you as the railing bursts at your side. The sound of the ocean gets louder, while the sounds of the crew soften to nothing. Your sight pings on Steve, and everything disappears, but him.
His arrogant grin turns into something akin to true fear, and you’re not going to be alive long enough to even ask him about it. There’s no amount of his immediate action that can stop this. You watch his face contort into a yell, and he takes a few running steps before all that is seen is the clouds, and the peeking sun. This is it. Your watery grave, and no answers to any of your questions.
What only could have been a few seconds stretches out into painfully slow minutes. The world that you have known for such a short time topples down around you before your body folds in on itself, and you break through the water. Viewing the ship and sky from a very different lens. It’s almost beautiful. Like an obscure painting, and it’s a beautiful pattern of swirling colors.
You have no more fight left in you. If there’s no James in your future, you don’t want it. And fight for what? To be back on a ship with Captain Hydra? Become his plaything. He’s taken his time, but you know exactly where this is going. You’re his property. And he can do damn well as he pleases.
So instead of fighting to be handled, you fight to die peacefully. Let your eyes drift close as the ship barrels away from your final imprisonment. You belong to the ocean now, and you’ll let it claim every part of you.
More rubbage from the broken railing falls into the ocean beside you. And it doesn’t matter anymore. You won’t be dying without falling in love. You won’t be dying because you couldn’t produce Alexander Pierce an heir. You’re dying a young life, and knowing that you lived. Maybe not to the fullest, but you lived. You had someone in your life that cared for you, not your womb, but you.
Your vision goes completely black as the arms of death circle around you. You died without being a man’s property. You died knowing you will never be told what to do anymore. You no longer have to play by the rules. You are finally free.
“Steve!” Steve doesn’t care about anyone yelling or screaming his name. He only cares about getting this cursed corset off your body. You can’t breathe, and that blasted thing is not helping.
“My knife!” Sam begrudgingly hands over a knife, and yells at the crew to make themselves scarce. Steve having a weakness is not a good thing. He’s not even sure if you are a weakness to Steve. What he does know is Steve dived into the water without a second thought of his own life. The two of you both should be dead.
Steve cuts through all the boning, ripping apart the contraption. “Steve, she’s gone,” no you aren’t. You weren’t under the water long enough. Not to mention you’re too stubborn to die now. You’ve only been paused for a moment, but he will soon remedy this unfortunate situation.
“Steve!” The captain only growls in response as he tilts your head back. Holding your nose, he presses his lips against your own, and breathes deeply into your body. Going down to your chest, he compresses hard. You will not die today. This is not the end of your story. You will come alive as a new woman.
This is not how things finish.
Things are not complete. And there is much more to do.
All you have to do is breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Take a fucking breath!
He doesn’t stop compressing on your chest, and blowing into your mouth. You will not die today.
Just fucking BREATHE!
Your blood shot eyes pop open wide as the liquid death spews out of your mouth. Your body was consumed with sea water. The very water that tried to claim you for themselves. Steve is too selfish and jealous to let someone or something claim you. You may be a siren, but you are without a doubt his.
Steve’s breath is ragged as he reaches his arms under you. You will rest in his bed. And then later he will join you. In his bed. And if you want to make a comment he will tie you to that bed, and now because of your clumsy nature, and this damn ship that is trying to take you away, you will be glued to his side. A leash indeed.
You whimper as you try to sit up. Pain thrums in your entire body, radiating from an exceptionally tender spot on the inside of your wrist. It aches and burns. Throbbing like you have been severely injured. You try to blink the clouds in your vision as you try to move. Attempting to bring a hand to your opposite wrist, and nothing happens.
Panic hits you hard in the gut, and you yank and pull at your arm. No.
“Nonononononononono,” you whisper, looking above you. Finding your arm tied to Steve’s bedpost. Gulping, you sit up and look at your bandaged wrist. Brown blood seeps through, and you try to remember all that happened. You fell. Someone got you. Someone held you.
The smell. It’s a smell you can never forget. The arms clinging tight to your body, screaming at Steve. Laughing at — you. Hands were all over you. Gripping, grabbing, pinching, holding you down while you thrashed around. The smell of scorched skin invades your memory, and you gag. Something happened in this room, and it’s something you know you won’t like. And that something is causing your wrist to tremble.
“Steve! Captain Hydra!” Your pain has turned into fury. Tied up and injured when you were supposed to be dead. “Steven!”
Steve looks up at his room with an evil sneer. You’d finally decided to join the living. He stands beside Sam, practically giddy. You sound beyond pissed. Just the way he likes you. Full of grit and anger, and still having that side of submission. He’s no dummy, he sees the way your pulse quickens when he’s close. The vein on your neck thrums out a tune that goes right to his groin.
Your eyes dilate whenever he gets near you, and he smells the heat that grows in your belly. Bringing you alive, and you fight your attraction to him. All because you have a loyalty to a one armed chum. That’s if he’s still breathing. With any luck that man sunk to the bottom of the ocean. And if he’s alive, he’ll be so disappointed in the lady turned wench to a captain. Not just some filthy lying pirate, but a real captain.
Steve will have you ruined by the time Bucky ever sees you again. If he should have the air in his lungs to do so. He wipes at his beard before marching towards his living quarters.
“Careful. That one bites, Steve.”
“It’s what I’m counting out,” Steve chuckles before leaving Sam to man the ship. A steady man, better than most on his crew. He didn’t have the sadistic side that Steve does. The complete joy and arousal Steve feels at causing pain. His bloodlust is almost too strong for his own good. Except his crew revels in a fight. Which is why none of them hesitated to hold you down.
Steve flings the door open to his bedroom, and gazes at you, while your vision throws daggers at him. You’d righted yourself in the bed, just like he knew you could. And that bandage wrapped carefully around your wrist now is discarded on the floor. His mark of an octopus with a skull face looking a bit too crude in this stage of healing.
“What the fuck did you do?”
“Claimed you.”
“You branded me. Like cattle.”
“Would you rather me have fucked you while you were unconscious?” You flinch back, staring at the man that boggles your mind. “I could have fucked you so hard, you’d still feel me in that tight little cunt. I could have claimed you by filling your belly full of my cum, and then I would just fuck you full of more, so I had mercy on you, Siren.”
“Mercy?” Your ragged skin did not look merciful. It looked infected. You could lose your hand because of this show of power, and he wouldn’t even care. “If I get gangrene from this and lose a hand, how will…” your words stop immediately, and you look away.
“You have another hand I can fuck. But I much prefer your holes,” you roll your eyes looking away. Feeling sorry for yourself has never been your style. You have to survive, or die trying. “That pretty cunny between your legs,” he inhales deeply, “I smell it from here. Or maybe your mouth. Have you drooling on my lap, and gagging on my cock.”
You gulp as you shift under your too thin nightgown. You see why you didn’t have anyone in here with you, it’s sheer. Leaving nothing to the imagination. It doesn’t hide the pebbling of your nipples. And if you were a betting woman, you would say that Steve could view your racing heart. It’s not just fear, it’s not only anger, there’s a tremor of longing for his callous power, and you hate yourself for it, “But you know what hole I really love?”
“My cunt?”
“Your ass,” you gasp, eyes going wide as you stare at him. Shaking your head no. “Why don’t you tell the heat rising up your neck, and to your cheeks you don’t want me to fuck your ass. Better yet, why don’t you tell your soaking wet pussy.”
“I’m not wet,” your voice is a soft whisper, and your eyes betray you by looking away. It’s one thing to lie to him, but you can’t lie to yourself. You feel the immense power exudes rush through your body, settling low in your belly. The heat blooms outward, creating a pool of slick in the very area you don’t want him to see. He can’t know this about you.
“Spread your legs, and show me then,” you shake your head no. Determining that you would just ignore Steve. “Hmm, I could force those legs apart. Have a taste myself.”
“You don’t taste pussy.”
“You’re right. I’ll drown in your pussy. Oh, look at those pretty nipples coming out to play. Go on, Siren. Show me your cunt that isn’t dripping on my bed,” you hold up your wrist. Exposing the charred skin. Skin that he took it upon himself to mar with his brand. “Oh, I should really clean that. That way you have both hands to hold onto my thighs while I bruise your throat.”
“You’re a pig.”
“I’m a fucking pirate, and now you’re mine. It says so on your skin,” he walks over to a chest, pulling out less than perfect means to clean your mark. Making his way to the bed, he pushes one leg of yours into the floor, leaving the other behind his body. Keeping you awkwardly spread around him, while he tends to the wound.
“I’m not yours.”
“We’ll see.”
“You could have given me more to wear than this.”
“And miss the chance to see you squirm, thinking I don’t feel the heat coming from between your thighs. You’re really cute, Siren. But I can promise you, I’m meaner than you are. I have been kind to you.”
“And how have you shown me kindness,” you yelp as Steve presses a clean rag too hard onto your wrist. “Bastard!”
“I’m not a fucking bastard, you wench. I took a kindness by putting my mark on your wrist. Typically it’s on your chest, but I truly didn’t want to see those perfect tits burned,” you suck a bottom lip into your mouth, and Steve watches the movement with bated breath. Returning to your wound. “Do you remember it?”
“Barely.”
“You had finally woken up from your topple into the water. The one I jumped in and saved you from. I gave you the kindness of rum. Let you pass out again before five of my men held you down while I seared your skin,” that’s why everything was a blur, you’d been drunk.
He wraps pieces of fabric around your wrist, tucking the end into itself before turning to you. His hand touches the stretched fabric of your nightgown, and starts to lift. An aching sob releases from your mouth, and he looks up at you. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want you to look.”
“Why?” You stare silently at him. Keeping his eyes on you, he lifts your gown, bunching it up, and lets it rest at your hip, but he still doesn’t look. You twitch on the bed nervously. Your body is on fire, and your skin prickles with his never blinking stare.
With a smile, Steve looks down to your spread core. Immediately he licks his lips. Here you are, sitting so pretty with his mark on the inside of your wrist, and your legs spread so far apart he watches your cunt shine with arousal. “This is why you didn’t want me to look.”
You try to push your legs together, but he puts a hand on each thigh, holding you apart, and pushing your legs further out. “Oh, you slutty thing, you’ve got your pretty tight little pussy leaking right onto my bed.”
He shifts his body, placing himself into the floor, and his head gets too close to your heat, “Steve, don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because, it’s wrong.”
“Like I care,” he exclaims before his head drops between your thighs. His nose strums up your weeping cunt, inhaling your scent as he does so. His tongue flattens, and he drags the muscle through your wetness, moaning at your taste. You’re drenched. You can deny it all you want, but you’re just as sick and twisted as him. For something to be so wrong, he’s got you so worked up and twisted that you're trembling.
He drags his tongue back down your seam, stiffening enough to breach your entrance. He pushes and pulls his tongue into you. In and out. In and out. Slurping up your juices from your messy cunt. You sink further into the bed, letting your back bow, and he chuckles against your core. “What?” you ask breathlessly.
“I thought this was wrong?” You look away from him, but of course, him and that mouth never know when to shut up. “It’s so wrong, and yet your body reacts so perfectly. You want more?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you never — came on Bucky’s tongue?” You turn to glare at him. Pursing your lips, and shaking your head no. “I guess you didn’t have time while you were being fucked in the alley. I’d much prefer you riding my face,” and just like he knew it would, your pulse quickens with his words. Beating so strongly on your neck that he wants to bite it.
“What does it taste like?”
“C’mere,” he says suggestively. You stare at him. Wondering if this was the best way to escape. To give into his debauchery. He wants you to go down to hell with him. You sit up calmly. “Come on,” leaning forward slowly, but Steve’s body juts forward. He crawls onto the bed, and has his legs in between your legs. Caging you with his strong arms. One hand slams on the headboard behind him, and the other lifts your head before he crashes his mouth into yours.
Your pupils turn into molten lava, and melt within your irises as you let Steve claim your mouth desperately. This isn’t sweet. This is feral. His tongue pushes into your mouth, and your sweet tangy essence coats your mouth. Your body molds with his, and you find yourself spreading further apart to accommodate his wide frame.
His hips roll into you, and his hardened cock runs over your bare, and soaked core. Over and over again. He moves his body frantically into you. Clothes keep him contained, but he moves like he’s fucking you. He moves like he hates you. Hard thrusts, and fingers that pull at your hair, then go to gripping your neck.
His movement causes the bed to bang up against the wall, and somehow your body morphs to him. Clinging to him, and wrapping your legs around him. With intentions to just feel him more. To feel his erected cock cause the most mind buzzing friction on your spread thighs.
He lets you come up for air, and you gasp at the ceiling, while he makes a mess of your neck. Nipping, biting, and suckling on your soft skin. Getting high off the salty taste of the sea on you. “Beg for it!”
“No,” you answer breathlessly. “I’ll never beg for you.”
“Fucking lying, bitch,” his movement stops, and you try to kill the whine that echoes off your body. “What was that, Siren? You begging?”
“Fuck you.”
“Nah, I won’t give you my cock until you beg me for it. I will deny you the satisfaction of finishing, but I sure as hell will make you wear my damn cum like a badge of honor,” he rips apart his pants, and pulls himself out. You don’t even care, you gawk at his silky steel rod as he fists himself. Pumping his thick girth over and over again, and he keeps you spread wide. Smiling down at your cunt, clenching around nothing,
You are a filthy little slut, and he can’t wait to paint your insides with his seed. But you will suffer. You will hate the day that you said you wouldn’t beg. He doesn’t ask but once. He pulls at himself with so much need, squeezing his cock so tight, he imagines that it’s yours. Pearls of precum shimmers at his tip.
If it wasn’t for your labored breathing, he would be pissed. But you want him just as much as he wants you. You’re a scared good girl who thinks she’s in love. You have always thought you were in love. Always promised yourself to one person, lying bitch. Your mouth lags open, and he lets himself spurt all up and down your front. Not missing the drop that gets too close to your mouth.
Your tongue slips out, and you moan at his taste. Filthy slut. His filthy slut. He’s got the time. Just a couple more weeks, and he’ll have you following him around like a bitch on a leash. Have you straddling his thigh at the council. And he’ll make sure everyone knows that every inch of your body, and every last one of your holes belong to him. And they always have.
“Oh, and, Siren?” You look up at him, chest heaving. You're angry, and he loves it. “Don’t touch yourself to make you come while I’m gone.”
“Touch myself?”
“Oh, you innocent thing,” with that, he leaves. No worries that you would ever deny him the sight of seeing you come. Sweet innocent thing indeed.
Summary: The mating rituals commence—beginning with the Challenge.
Warnings: 18+ Only, Genre typical violence, Warlord Nomad AU, Dark Fantasy AU, Enemies to lovers, Eventual smut, References to past abuse, Fighting, Monsters, Animal Death, Violence, Mildly described gore
Despite her hands being so much larger than yours, Carol is surprisingly decent at braiding. You suppose you shouldn’t be shocked that she’s so gentle given the neat, orderly braids that often adorn the part of her head she hasn’t shaved, but you are anyway.
“Hold this.” She hands you the unfinished end of one thick braid before reaching for the bowl of flowers, carefully selecting one before taking the braid back. You watch in the mirror as she weaves the stem in with your hair, the petals poking through prettily. Carol steps back to admire her handiwork, and you can’t help but do the same, glancing at the mirror. Your wild hair now has several braids throughout, each adorned with white and yellow wildflowers, gold beads and charms like the ones you have seen other Orcs wear.
“You’ll make a fine mate yet,” she says, and when you look at her in the mirror, her eyes look a little wet. “I think my Dethak will have more of a fight on his hands than he thinks.”
The Challenge was meant to demonstrate that Steve could protect you, that none could take you from him. He’d declared confidently that no one would challenge him, though it’s obvious Carol doesn’t agree. The thought makes you nervous.
“What happens if they win?”
“They win the right to mate you.” Carol replies with a shrug. “I would not concern yourself with that thought. There are few Orcs alive who could best your mate in combat.” Your smile a little at the casual way Carol refers to Steve as your mate already. You like it. With a final look at yourself in the mirror, you stand away from the table. You’re still in your loose sleep shift despite having bathed—you didn’t want any of the hair oils to stain what few clothes you have.
“I should change,” You reply, gesturing at your wrinkled, loose dress. “I think the green dress again,” you say, before heading outside to the clothesline you’ve strung up over your blooming garden.
“You should,” Carol agrees. “I’ve left something for you on the line.” You nod gratefully. The Orc had seemed more than happy to ask amongst her friends and neighbors to see what clothing they had for you to wear, but you cannot deny you will be happy when you can earn your own coin, and buy things that haven’t seen two or more generations of wear before coming to you.
It is still early, the mist rolling off of the sea still hanging thick in the air when you push open the door to the garden. Little green shoots have already started to poke through the soil, the fruits of the seeds Steve had given you. Joy, warm and wonderful coils in your chest at the sight of them. Soon the little patch of green behind Carol’s little house will be vibrant and ripe with flowers and vegetables, though you can’t quite be sure what kinds—almost none of the seeds had been familiar to you.
It’s the least I can do.
You move toward the clothesline, but stop after a few steps, your mouth dropping open. The pretty green dress you’d washed and hung the night before is no longer on the line. In its place is… something else entirely. You run reverent fingers across the gold beading along the edges, tracing the delicate embroidery you know had to have taken hours. Days, even. The silhouette is familiar, reminding you of the belted tunics you have seen some of the Orc females wear, though far, far more ornate and delicate. Tears gather in your eyes as you rub the gauzy fabric between your fingers.
You’ve never owned something so fine.
“You cannot wear castoffs to your mating ceremonies.” Carol says from behind you, and when you turn to face her with wet eyes she simply crosses her arms, the skin of her cheeks going pink. “You have no pahem or mahem. No family to claim you or braid your hair. So I will do those things. I will be your dahem—” You fling your arms around her, stopping her mid-sentence.
You still can only speak the most clumsy syllables of Orcish, but you know what that word means.
It means sister.
Carol helps you dress, deftly tying and knotting the woven belts around your waist to hold the tunic in place. It has no sleeves, the embroidered neckline sitting jut beneath your collarbones. Though loose and open on the sides at mid-thigh, the belts force it tight about your waist, emphasizing the fall of your breasts and the shape of your hips. In the village it would have been horribly indecent, the sight of your arms and legs bared with every movement.
The woman who stares back at you in the mirror is not one you recognize. She is familiar, of course, you know the shape and features of your own face— but that is where the similarities end.
Because the woman in the mirror is beautiful.
“Come, Little Human.” Carol pats your shoulder. “Let us go and meet your mate.”
—
A crowd waits for you outside the city. Though there are familiar faces in attendance, most of the ones you see are strangers, come to see the results of the mating challenge. You swallow nervously as the spectators part for you and Carol, wondering if any of the males there will step forward.
You certainly hope not.
The sea of bodies splits to reveal a massive raised dais, carved from the same dark stone as the cliffs themselves, polished smooth with effort and time. It is as big as the temple, with nearly identical carved pillars spaced in equal intervals around the platform. On the far side, where Steve waits for you with the Council, there are carved stone chairs—and when you count them, there is one more than there are council-members.
Your Orc-betrothed’s face splits into an eager smile as you make your way up the steps and across the dais, bowing your head respectfully to the Council. Steve’s eyes burn across your body almost as intensely as a caress. He takes his time, gaze moving from the top of your head down to your sandaled feet.
“My bride is beautiful indeed.” He says appreciatively, reaching out to stroke the line of your chin with his finger. Your breath catches. “The most beautiful thing I have ever seen.” Gods you could melt. You mirror him, lifting a hand to trace the bright warpaint adorning his face, following each line. He presses his cheek into the palm of your hand and closes his eyes as he breathes in your scent. For a moment, the roar of the crowd behind you fades, and there is just the two of you standing there—
But he reluctantly pulls away and the world rushes back in around you.
“Come, Little One. The Challenge begins.” He leads you to one of the seats—the highest, the one in the middle—and helps you into it. It is, after all, made for an orc, with the seat standing as high as your waist. The Council sits too, and you feel small and awkward among them. The youngest female seats herself on your right, fixing you with a cool look.
“I offer you congratulations, on your mating.” She says with a nod. “To have such an eligible and virile mate is an honor.”
“Thank you?” You watch as Steve moves toward the center, throwing his arms up. A drumbeat begins, so deep you feel it rattling in your bones.
“Avhe lenga rhausak!” The crowd goes utterly silent, quiet enough for you to hear the sound of the sea on the breeze, like distant thunder. “Ayh avhere hanausan nalkriuk evinaj meeav alnej shal thavavle?” You do not know the words, but you come to understand their meaning as Steve walks to the edge of the great stone circle.
Who will challenge me?
Steve wears a leather kilt like the one he had worn on the journey across the grass-sea, his face and chest painted with symbols and runes, teeth bared. He looks terrifying—but you are not afraid. Not of him. Never again will you fear him. Warmth gathers in your belly, and you sit up straighter, pressing your thighs together as you straighten your dress.
No one steps forward, not at first. It is only when you begin to suspect that no one ever will that someone moves. A large Orc male steps up onto the dais, his eyes flicking to you with unabashed interest. He is shorter than Steve, his tusks larger and more dangerously curved.
“Lat rhaj ukofav agh ukweeav liavavle ni. Jiak liwo thavavle.”
“He says you look soft and sweet, little human.” The Orc beside you replies in her heavily accented Common. “That he will challenge.” Your face burns. You like when Steve calls you those things, but coming from another mouth they feel like oil on your skin. You try to hide your grimace, but the way the female Orc’s shoulders shake with laughter tells you that you have failed. Your distasteful expression only grows as another male steps forward, and then another.
“Many males find you desirable. Is that not pleasing to you?” She asks, and you shake your head. You have never cared for the attention of men; roving eyes and hands as they stumbled home drunk from the taverns. And how could their petty, flighty attentions compare to what Steve has shown you? To what he has given you?
Freedom.
“As pleasing as a bee sting,” you mutter, and she laughs out loud.
“I will challenge.” The voice that rings out is strangely familiar, and your stomach drops as you watch Peter ascend the stone steps. The wind whips at his curly brown hair, and his eyes shine with a boyish confidence that tugs at your heart just a little.
“I will challenge. For her.” He looks at you, and there is yearning plainly written on his face. He juts his chin out confidently.
Summary: You share your knowledge with the council.
Warnings: 18+ Only, Genre typical violence, Warlord Nomad AU, Dark Fantasy AU, Enemies to lovers, Eventual smut, References to past abuse, Fighting, Monsters, Animal Death, Violence, Mildly described gore
A/N: and then the plot barrels back in like a bull in a china shop—
At night you dream of fire.
The great golden pyre, fire raging at its heart. The ground littered with sacrifices, bodies charred, rent and broken. Blackened hands reaching up to the ever silent gods.
They don’t answer.
They never answer.
You wake, panting and sweaty. Thoughts of King Adrys’ soldiers, his priests with their indigo stained mouths and fingers, their ruined eyes hidden behind blindfolds sewn with Halith’s star. For a terrifying moment you imagine soldiers at the door, armored fists crashing against the wood—but there is no sound but your own heavy breath in the dark. No priests in their white robes have come to seize you for your heresy, you are safe here, truly safe.
Or at least… you were.
The King of Golden Pyres sends his soldiers to Tarrath.
Your mother made wretched things of Halith’s gifts, your father had said as they’d buried her. It is why the sickness came for her.
You know now of course that no such thing is true—Halith’s eye was never on your little village, and if it was, she remained as silent as you have ever seen her through every prayer, psalm and sacrifice. She had certainly not extended her hand to sicken your mother. She had taken ill assisting those in the village afflicted with the sweating sickness. It had taken her from you as the King’s priests scoured the streets for heretics to burn—
Wise women and midwives all.
You had been forced to watch as they had been sent to the Gods—screaming the whole time.
Ready yourself at dawn, Sweetmeat. I will come for you, and we will go before the council together.
The sky outside your little window is still dark, with no sign of the coming morning yet on the horizon, and you lay there in your bed until the sky turns purple and pink with sunlight. A sleepy Carol helps you drag the bathing tub out from the storage room—you couldn’t move it yourself even if you tried—and you scrub yourself raw after boiling water in the hearth.
You dress yourself in another of your borrowed items, and you sigh with relief to find it smaller than the rest—it’s only a little big, the neckline resting below your shoulders to expose your collarbones and the barest hints of your cleavage, with pretty golden embroidery all along it. With the laces in the front, you’re able to pull the sea-green fabric in around your torso. It flares out again at your waist, coming to a stop at your ankles and the sleeves are bell-like and airy. After you dress, you force yourself to eat a few slices of bread, though your stomach churns.
The Council.
You know little of Tarrath, but the way Steve had spoken of them makes you think they are important. Extremely important.
And you are no one. The thought of your father’s voice makes you wince. Nothing. Just like your mother. Perhaps he’s right—you rely on nothing but the kindness of the pack that had taken you, and what do you do?
Nothing.
You clench your fists. You will be more than a weak human pet.
The rapping of Steve’s fist at the closed door pulls you from your thoughts, and you cross the kitchen to open it. He stands before you in a fresh kilt, his blond hair freshly combed and braided back away from his face. He greets you with a smile.
“Good morning, Sweetmeat.” He reaches for you, curling a lock of your hair around his finger before letting it spring back into place with the others. You’ve taken great pains today to be presentable, and you find yourself hoping he likes the way you look. “Are you ready?”
You swallow. “Yes.” He holds out his hand.
“Let us go, then, Little One. The sooner we are finished, the sooner you are mine again.” He tucks a wayward curl behind your ear, and you shiver, this time for an entirely different reason. You wave farewell to Carol and then step out into the dewy morning with Steve. Your little garden is faring well, green shoots are already beginning to poke out of the dirt on the other side of the path.
The streets of the city are quiet and empty at this hour, though the occasional straggler crosses your path. Steve holds your hand again, and this time you are under no pretense as to why he threads his fingers through yours, thumb stroking softly over your knuckles. The streets he leads you through are first a tangle of familiar cobbled paths and turns you remember taking, until suddenly you are in a different part of the city entirely.
The structures here are grander, the architecture finer—older. There is almost too much to see as Steve guides you through the square toward the largest of them all. It reminds you almost of the great temples you had seen in the King’s City, all tall pillars and arched roofs.
A damp sweat breaks out across your forehead as Steve walks you up the stairs, a large hand on the small of your back. You wonder if he can feel your scars through the thin layers of fabric.
“I smell your fear.” Steve says softly, pausing. “Why?”
“The council in my village… they were bad men.” You say quietly. How could you forget their right to the First Touch, sliding their hands beneath the bridal shawl and—
“I know.” He tucks a finger beneath your chin. “I promise you, you have nothing to fear here. But if you are not ready, I will take you back to Carol.”
“But…you need me to tell them, don’t you?” You ask weakly, and he shakes his head.
“I brought you because I value your voice, Little One. But should you wish for me to speak in your stead, I will do it.” Your chest tightens. I value your voice. If Steve is to be your mate, then you must trust him, you decide, squaring your shoulders. He had called you his brave warrior, and so brave you shall be.
“I’m ready.”
Inside the air is pleasantly cool, sunlight streaming in between the carved pillars. Swaths of wine red fabric are draped from the walls and ceiling, and at the far end of the temple upon a dais of white marble, sits the council. Seven of them in total, three females and four males, Orcs all. You feel small before them, but you do your best not to show it, keeping your head held high and your back straight. They are dressed in fine robes, and you can see the jewels glinting at throats, ears and fingers.
One of the Orc women speaks first, and Steve leans forward, translating softly in your ear.
“Dethak.” It is a title, you think, certainly not his name. Her voice is husky, melodic. “You bring new blood to the city.” She nods at you. “Have you reconsidered? Will you lead the war-band?”
“No, Duzmahem. I cannot. I have brought my mate, she comes from the lands across the grass sea. She knows of these soldiers, the ones that make for the city.” He juts his chin out proudly, eyes shining as he gestures toward you, and a bolt of fear arcs through your chest—but you clench your fists, and step forward. An Orc male, one of the oldest, leans forward, fixing you with an interested look. He speaks quickly in Orcish, and Steve rushes to catch up.
“What can you tell me that my scouts cannot?” He asks. “What do you know of those who approach our borders?” Your mouth goes dry, and for a moment you feel the heat of the fires upon your cheeks.
“The King of Pyres, my Lord.” You say, your voice echoing in the empty temple. “That is who marches upon the city.” Another male speaks, and he is perhaps the oldest Orc you have ever seen.
“Tell us of this King of Pyres.”
Your hands shake, and you clench them in your skirts to hide their trembling.
“Do… do the Gods speak, here?” You ask, and the Orcs all look at you with confusion.
“Yes.” The answer comes from one of the women. “Are your Gods silent, little human?”
“Halith is ever silent in judgement of my people.” You reply. “That is why King Andrys built the pyres.” You look down at the stone. “That Halith might see their light and embrace us once more. He burnt…” You pause, swallowing. Steve’s hand comes to rest comfortingly on your shoulder, squeezing. I am here, he says with a touch. I am with you.
“He burnt many.” You continue, eyes rising as the words tumble from your lips. “At times he burnt the sinful—but mostly he just burnt the innocent. Anyone with a touch of magic. Healers. Wise women.” At this, a worried murmur passes through the council.
“There is magic in the city’s bones, child,” the old Orc says again. “He cannot burn it out.”
“He will try.” You do not know how you know this, but you do, as surely as you know your own name. “How many ride upon the city?”
“Fifty.” Steve responds from beside you. “All soldiers.”
“Heralds.” You reply, shaking your head. “They come to convert before they destroy.” You remember the soldiers in your village, the bright red banners with their gold stars snapping in the smoke filled air. “They came to my village. They spoke of Halith’s light and her love, and then they burnt, and burnt, and burnt.”
Another Orc female, the youngest, drums her delicately ringed fingers against the arm of her chair. She speaks in heavily accented Common, the syllables rolling in her mouth like marbles.
“You have chosen strangely, Dethak.” She says, clucking her tongue. “Let us hope not unwisely. You will take your little human, and treat with this King of Pyres.” She makes a fist and places it over her heart, and Steve mirrors the gesture. “Take your finest warriors, and show them that the city at the end of the world is not so easily cowed.”
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Summary: You learn from your new betrothed about Orc wedding ceremonies.
Warnings: 18+ Only, Genre typical violence, Warlord Nomad AU, Dark Fantasy AU, Enemies to lovers, Eventual smut, References to past abuse, Fighting, Monsters, Animal Death, Violence, Mildly described gore
A/N: 😈
“It is decided, then.” The air in the room is still like a held breath. Steve’s hand is on your cheek and it feels like the entire world has stopped around you. You cannot hear the sounds of the busy street outside; all that matters is you and him and the moment shared between you. The affection of his gesture makes warmth gather in your belly.
This male wants you.
You cannot call him a Man—he is not one; has proven himself different from men in every way you can imagine. You decide you like it, that he is not a Man, is more than one in all ways. He stares at you with wanting, searching eyes, like he wants to commit every bit of you to memory. He is so close to you that you can feel the brush of his breath against your skin, and for a moment you wonder if he’s going to kiss you—-
Instead, Steve reluctantly lowers his hand from your cheek, dropping it to the table. The only kisses you have received were clumsy, stolen things. An awkward meeting of mouths and teeth that left you unsatisfied.
Would they be like that with him?
“W-what now?” You ask, and he chuckles. Marriages in the village were cause for much celebration—but here in Tarrath there is only you. No mother remains to braid pretty flowers and ribbons into your hair, to sew the sigils of love and honor onto your bridal shawl. No father to accept your bride-price, no council of priests to test and ensure your purity. You wonder what the marriage ceremonies here are like, what the customs are, and you realize you know nothing of them. Of Steve.
Does he have family?
Will they like you? You are, after all, weak and small and utterly human. But… you do not feel these things when Steve looks at you, like he sees only your strengths, not the glaringly obvious flaws you know are there.
“Naukmun Remenausan.” He smiles wide. “The bride ceremony. Your people have them, yes?” He asks, and you nod. “Tell me.”
“Well, there is the negotiation of the bride-price,” you say, biting your lip. “And after it is accepted, the priests ensure the bride’s virginity.” Steve’s nose wrinkles.
“Ensure… virginity?” He asks. “How?”
“I, well… they check,” you say gently, unsure of how to phrase it. “To make sure the bride is untouched.” Steve’s expression grows dark, and he shakes his head.
“No one will touch you but me.” He grimaces. “Least of all a wanton old fool.” The fierce possessiveness in his words reminds you of his clear anger at Peter, his insistence that you reject the younger Orc’s mating proposal. The thought makes you feel a little giddy, now, a smile threatening to spread across your lips. “We will not continue this custom.”
“And your people?” You ask. He grins.
“There is little Orcs love more than revelry.” He says, and then pauses. “Perhaps a good fight. At an Orcish wedding there are usually plenty of both.” He holds up three fingers. “There are three ceremonies. Fighav, the challenge, Ulvhan, the blooding, and Naumn. The claiming.”
“The challenge, the blooding, and the claiming,” you repeat, and he nods.
“Yes, Sweetmeat. I will prove my worth to you, as your mate.”
“What is the blooding?” He holds up his hand, and draws a finger across his palm. Like he’s cutting it.
“We will join hands before the council, and we will share our blood. One bloodline, one family.”
“And… the claiming?” He fixes you with that hungry look again, and you swallow, torn between hoping that Carol comes back soon, and hoping she stays upstairs forever as another hot pulse spreads out from your core.
“I will hunt you, Sweetmeat.” The sound of his voice makes gooseflesh rise on your skin. “And then I catch you, and claim you.”
“Three ceremonies,” you say, breaking his gaze by rising from the table. You take your bowl over to the wash-bucket just to busy your hands. “And your family? Will they be there?”
His smile is pained. “Carol will be there, yes. And the pack.” Suddenly you are embarrassed, like you have prodded at an unhealed wound. “My parents are gone from this world.”
“I’m sorry.” The smile he gives you has less sorrow in it, but it still remains at the edges of his expression, distant clouds on a sunny day.
“As am I. I suspect they would have liked you very much.”
Your chest warms at his compliment. “Even though I’m human?” You ask, and he laughs.
“Because you are my human.” The heat is there in his words again. Your fingers are still wet from the wash-water, and you twine them nervously in your apron. “Come here to me, Little One.” You move forward as he rises from the table, stepping into his arms. They close around you, walls of solid muscle—but you are not afraid. He smells like sunlight and something earthy and familiar. Slowly, you press yourself to his chest, just beside the thick plaid that comes up from his kilt to wrap around his torso. His heartbeat thrums beneath your cheek.
His hands rest on the curve of your hip, thumbs rubbing circles through your dress. He leans down and presses his nose into your hair, breathing deep. You have seen these hands rip and tear, wield sword and axe—and yet he touches you softly. Steve noses over the shell of your ear, the point of his tusk scraping against your cheek. You gasp, and he chuckles.
“Do I frighten you?”
“Not anymore.” You answer, and feel his hands tighten on your hips.
“Good.” He rubs his cheek against yours again and your knees tremble. “You smell so good, you know that?” He says lowly, practically humming with pleasure as he rubs the tip of his nose against yours, his lips a hair's breadth from yours. “Like wildflowers.”
Your pulse roars in your ears, and you want nothing more than to kiss him. Gods you want that so badly. You lick your lips, and you watch as his keen eyes follow the movement.
“Will you not… will you not kiss me?” You ask breathlessly, and he tucks a finger beneath your chin.
“Another human custom,” he says, a small smile on his lips.
“Orcs do not kiss?” You feel silly even asking, and Steve laughs a little before tapping the tip of one sharp tusk.
“Makes it a bit difficult.” You make to pull away, embarrassed, but Steve’s arms are an iron bar about your waist. “I did not say I would not try for you, little mate.” He tucks a finger beneath your chin. “Come.”
You have to stand on your toes to reach him, and still he must bend down to brush his lips against yours. Lightning blazes through you at the contact. You move your mouth over his, pressing first softly before you drag your blunt teeth over his bottom lip. He growls, the sound deep and hungry before he pulls you tighter against his chest. Steve nips at your lips with his sharper teeth, humming with pleasure as you gasp.
He presses his tongue against the seam of your lips. You gasp, and he sweeps inside, tasting every inch of you. His tongue is longer than yours, rougher, and you feel yourself clench as he strokes it against yours. His fingers knot in the curls at the base of your skull, holding you still as he explores you with unhurried, deliberate strokes. His other hand rests just above the curve of your ass, fingers twitching like he wants to move them lower.
You’re dizzy when he pulls away, panting and lips swollen. Steve drags his thumb across your lip. If not for the arm around you, you fear you might collapse to the floor. Your core is slick and clenching with want, and you watch your betrothed’s nostrils flare.
Gods. Nothing like the village boys at all.
He sighs, nuzzling against the side of your face one last time before he releases you. There is a rustling above the hatch, and your face burns as it opens. You jump away from Steve as Carol comes down the winding steps—or at least, you attempt to. He twines his fingers with yours, chuckling as you scramble to extricate yourself.
She takes in the two of you with a smirk, shaking her head.
Summary: You explore the great Orc stronghold of Tarrath, and what you find is unexpected.
Warnings: 18+ Only, Genre typical violence, Warlord Nomad AU, Dark Fantasy AU, Enemies to lovers, Eventual smut, References to past abuse, Fighting, Monsters, Animal Death, Violence, Mildly described gore
A/N: thank you as always for any and all feedback and interaction with my work! tentatively re-considering starting a taglist—let me know what you guys think!
Tarrath is easily triple, quadruple the size of the Kings’ City, and Steve takes great care as he guides you through it. In another life, you might have been joined by a chaperone to ensure no impropriety were to occur. But in this new life the two of you make your way without a third party for modesty, your hand held in his massive one.
Just to keep from being separated.
“I trust Carol showed you the market.” Steve ushers you through an alleyway, and you emerge in a small, tiled plaza. There is a fountain in the center of the little square, and children laugh and play in the clear water.
“A-a little. It was…”
“Overwhelming?” He supplies. “It will be better when you’ve learnt our tongue.” You nod.
“It seems rather difficult,” you admit.
“Not so difficult as yours,” Steve replies with a laugh. “So many vowels.”
“I—where did you learn? Common?” You ask, following him through the space between the houses. The street you exit onto is busy, but the crowd of people part for Steve, like water curving around a stone. He grasps your hand again, and you feel the familiar warmth in your cheeks and belly as his thumb curves protectively over your knuckles.
“In the King’s City.” Steve says after a moment. “When I was still a youngling.” His eyes go dark. “It is a story for another time.” You try to imagine a young Steve, an Orc in a city of Men, but it is difficult to see him as anything other than what he is—
Power.
The sky is bright over the tops of the shops and houses, the sun a brilliant circle set into the peerless blue. And beyond them—
The cliffs. Your heart pounds.
“Will we go over?” You ask, and he grins.
“Oh yes Little One,” he says. “I will show you the Fall.”
The edge of Tarrath is worn smooth with the passage of time and many, many people. Just beyond it the ocean crashes against the rocks, the scent of saltwater rising up from the distant shore below. Steve holds out his hand when you hesitate.
I’ll fall, I’ll fall and die—
“The city’s magic is old and strong,” he says, one foot on the cliff’s edge. “It will not fail us today.” He smiles at you gently. “Trust me.”
Do you? Do you trust him? You recall that first day—the last day, you suppose, the last day of your old life.
I’m telling you to run.
You are not that woman anymore, scared, incompetent. Your blade hangs above the mantle just the same as Carol’s, your deer horn on the little table at your bedside.
You’ve only to make it to the river!
The woman you had left in the river could not kill a deer. Nor could she skin a rabbit, hold a sword or navigate the stars—it is she who doubts him, you decide. She who whispers fearfully that he will lead you to death and ruin. But you?
You place your hand in his and step forward with him over the very edge of the world.
For a moment there is a rush of air, and the sensation of falling—before your feet touch paved street once more. The world is shifted on its axis now, the sea sparkling at you from the end of every street, like a great wall of endless blue stretching up above your head to that infinite place where it meets the sky.
You stare at it, breathless and wide eyed, too stunned to notice that the orc’s gaze is not on the spectacle above, but on you, a soft smile on his lips.
—
“Are you hungry, Sweetmeat?”
You realize that you are—starved. The meal you had shared with Carol earlier that morning is long gone now, and your stomach twists as if realizing that it is completely empty.
“Yes. But I—”
“You’ve no need of coin with me.” Steve replies, silencing your objection.
Oh.
Your face grows uncomfortably warm again, and you are ever more aware of your hand in his, of every time your bodies brush together as you pass through the streets of Tarrath.
“There is a tavern by the library.”
“There’s a library?” You ask excitedly, and Steve chuckles.
“There is no rival in all the lands. I will show you another day—the hour grows late, and the archivists do not stay long past dusk.” Disappointment dulls the spark of your excitement, but only barely. Steve is a man—well, an Orc—of his word, you know you can trust that he will make good upon his promise.
You’ve been wandering the city the better part of the day, and now the sun hangs low in the sky, close to setting. The heat has abated a little, but not much. Still, you enjoy the breeze that rises up from the sea, cooling your sweaty face. Steve leads you down a merchant-lined street, toward a wide building with a wooden sign out front. There is writing on it that you can’t read, the letters strange and unfamiliar. As you squint at it, Steve chuckles.
“Don’t worry, Sweetmeat. I’ll teach you.” He pulls aside the cloth covering the entrance and ushers you inside.
The inside of the tavern is brightly lit with a fire roaring in the hearth despite the heat outside. A few rabbits roast over it on a spit, and beneath them is a huge, bubbling pot. You sniff the air and your stomach rumbles. It smells good, like warm spiced meat and ale.
There are not many empty tables, but Steve finds one, settling down onto the wooden seat with a sigh. The seats are rather large, and your feet dangle a little off the ground when you heave yourself up into it. The barmaid approaches, furiously wiping down a warped looking glass. She chatters something in Orcish at you, and you smile apologetically.
“I-I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“Com-mon?” She asks brokenly, her smile still broad. “Food eat you?” She asks, pointing at her mouth and then the cauldron over the fire. She holds up two fingers, and you realize after a moment that she means money. You look to Steve for help, and he laughs, before answering for you. You watch as he roots around in the pouch on his belt before producing two bronze coins. She takes them happily, biting one hard before reaching into her massive bosom and producing a purse of her own. She drops them in and then stows it away again.
“Bowl,” she replies happily. “I bring.” She bustles away, returning shortly with two full bowls bigger than your head along with two mugs of ale. She’s given you a healthy portion of stew and a good chunk of rabbit. You look to Steve.
“How do I say thank you?”
“Ahn lat.”
“Ayn lat,” you try, and the barmaid giggles, and says something else before she hustles back over to the packed bar. You glance at Steve.
“What did she say?” A small smile creeps across his face as he lifts the spoon to his lips.
“She said that my pretty human has nice manners.” He takes a bite as you choke on air. Your whole body goes cold and then hot, skin prickling beneath your borrowed dress.
“I—I’m not—” You grab for the ale, taking a big swallow. “I’m not, I mean, we’re not—” You think of Peter’s rejected courting gift, of the shell on your little table.
“Of course not.” He replies, though it doesn’t look as though he means it at all. You’re unsure of whether or not that bothers you. “Eat your food, Sweetmeat,” he says, eyes glittering as he takes another bite. “While it’s still warm.”
You do, taking your first bite with the too-big spoon, and it’s delicious. You close your eyes, savoring it. The spices are new and rich, and you wonder what plants they come from, if you might grow them in your little garden.
“What’s in this?” You ask through a mouthful, and Steve cocks his head.
“Probably aissa, maybe some spice-leaf. Easy enough to grow.” He smiles at you. “Would you like some seeds, Little One? For your garden?” You look down bashfully. How had he known? ”I will bring your seeds, then.”
Gods, you don’t know what to make of the feeling in your chest, joy, anticipation, and some new kind of terror that leaves you breathless. It isn’t like when the zhut had descended upon the pack, or when you had seen the village fall. This is softer. Newer.
When you are done eating—try as you might you cannot finish the massive bowl—Steve takes you back to Carol. The sun is nearly set, the first stars beginning to appear in the sky as he opens the gate for you. Carol is waiting in the doorway, arms folded with a wide, knowing grin that makes you want to flee back the way you’d come.
“Showed her the city, did you?” Carol asks. You nod.
“It was wonderful.” You turn back to Steve. “Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure.” He runs his thumb over your knuckles before letting you go. “And I shall bring you your seeds.” You watch him go until he disappears into the tide of bodies. Carol leans over to pat your shoulder.
“Makes quite the tender suitor, doesn’t he?” She asks, laughing. You stare at Carol, open mouthed, breath caught. Suitor? No. No. He isn’t. Least of all to you.
“What did you say?”
“Your suitor. Tender, isn’t he?” The smile on her face grows impossibly wider as you turn tail and flee up the stairs to your room as Carol’s laughter follows you.
AN: yay steve!! successfully brought back my Marvel obsession!! reader has nature powers, plus telekinesis but it's green!!
It was late when he realized it. They’d just gotten back from a two-week-long recon mission when it clicked. Her hair glistened in the dim lights of his apartment, his apron wrapped around her waist as she made them dinner.
He’d offered to help, she’d said she’d wanted to. “After this mission, you deserve a break, Cap.”
He glared playfully, fighting the blush forming on his already rosy cheeks. “Please don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” She smirked. “That is your title.”
“But not my name.” He muttered, staring at her intently. “I like it when you call me my name.”
It was her turn to blush. “Fine, fine.” He held her hand, rubbing the back gently with his thumb. Of course, she gave in. “Steve. Now, go set the table.”
He’d never set a table faster in his life.
And then, when he turned around and watched as her face focused on their dinner, tongue peeked out from behind her lips, his heart fluttered. He stalked over, holding the crook of her arm gently as he spun her around. Her eyes widened, pupils growing for every second she stared at him. “Steve? What are you-”
He dove down, kissing her like it was his last moment on Earth. Like he needed her. In a way, he did.
Her eyes fluttered shut, arms wrapping around his neck. He smiled, pulling away ever so slightly. “You’re beautiful.”
Her cheeks felt like he’d lit them on fire. “Steve. What’s gotten into you?”
He shrugged, nudging her nose with his. “Thought I should make a move.”
She laughed, and his heart fluttered. “You have good instincts.”
“Are you sure?” He asked for the millionth time. “Peg’s been dying to meet you.”
He was too nice, she told herself. She knew Peggy could not care less about seeing her. “Steve, I’ll be just fine waiting for you here.”
“I-” He nodded. “I’ll be back.”
“Go on.” She smiled, kissing his cheek. “You’re already late.”
He hadn’t been gone long when she received two texts from Nicholas Fury. She frowned reading it, their boss had always had the most inconvenient timing. Walking down the hall, she gazed into Peggy’s room, smiling at the pair. Steve sat diligently at her bedside, every week, like clockwork.
“I couldn’t leave my best girl-”
Jealousy ripped through her like a disease.
Peggy and Steve had had their time, but she was married. She wasn’t even someone Steve was remotely interested in anymore.
But when Y/N watched the man she’d grown to love staring at her like that, she couldn’t help but listen to the tiny devil on her shoulder. It’s not like they were dating, they’d only kissed for the first time last night. She shouldn’t care, she told herself over and over.
She shouldn’t be jealous.
A tear fell down her cheek, and she gasped, turning away from the door to wipe it away.
“Something wrong?” His voice pulled her from her thoughts.
Shaking her head, she turned back around, smiling lightly. “Not really. Fury texted. Said we still needed to turn in some paperwork for the mission.”
“Ah.” He looked disappointed. She didn’t blame him.
“I can do it, no need to leave her or-”
“No! No, I’d be happy to help.” He smiled, reaching for her hand. “I would love to.”
God, he was charming. It was hard to be jealous when he looked at her like that. “Maybe it would be best…” Her voice grew quieter with each word. “It would probably be quicker if I did it by myself.”
“Oh.” He sounded weak. “If that’s what you want.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice. Handing him the keys, her heart skipped when his fingers brushed hers.
His head tilted. “Are you walking?” She nodded once more, and he looked utterly confused. She would be too, considering she had been the one to drive here. It was a company car, but still. “Let me drive.”
“It’s fine, really-”
“I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.” He spoke like he meant it. She knew he meant it. “Please.”
How could she say no?
She’d been home for approximately four hours when she realized how stupid she’d been. Using the spare key Steve had given her months ago for ‘emergencies’ she slipped into his apartment, smiling to herself when his cologne fell out of the shadows. Throwing her coat on the counter, she walked over to the light switch, about to flip it on when a voice broke through the quiet. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
She pulled her gun out of its holster, aiming at the corner. Fury’s face peeked out from the dark, and her shoulders loosened, lowering her aim. “What the hell, Nick?”
“What the hell to you too.” His voice was gruff. “What is my little green thumb doing in Captain America’s apartment?”
“None of your-”
“Business?” He raised an eyebrow.
Her cheeks flushed. “I could ask you the same question, sir.”
“My wife kicked me out.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What wife-” Fury raised his phone, the text reading ‘Shield compromised.’
“Shit.” She hissed. “Did she-”
“Y/N?”
“Steve.” She turned around, glad for the dark. It hid her hot cheeks perfectly. “I-”
“Did I do something earlier?” He threw his coat next to hers, walking down the hall with a horribly beautiful look in his eye. “If-” She tilted her head toward the corner, and his eyes darted to Fury, glaring. “I don’t remember giving you a key.”
“Do you really think I’d need one?” The old man looked at Y/N, smirking. “It’s a select group, I see.”
Y/N glared, avoiding Steve’s gaze. “Fury-”
“My wife kicked me out.”
She fought the urge to roll her eyes. He was using the same line he’d used seconds before. Steve stepped in front of her, turning on the light. “I didn’t know you were married.”
“A lot of things you don’t know about me.”
“I know Nick. That’s a problem.”
“Cap.” She hissed. “Be kind.”
“Cap?” Steve hissed back. “What did I-”
Fury held his phone up, the words he’d shown her still typed in large bolded letters. Steve’s eyes widened, and he gazed around his apartment. His arm stuck out behind him, pushing her behind him. Her heart fluttered. “Stay.”
“I’m sorry to have to do this.”
“Who else-” Steve sounded tight. “Who else knows about your wife?”
“Just my friends.” His phone read ‘us three.’
Steve scoffed. “Is that what we are?”
“That’s up to you.” Fury stood up, barely out of his seat when an attack of bullets shot through Steve’s wall, hitting him square in the chest.
They dropped to the floor, pulling Fury behind the kitchen counter. “Shit,” Y/N whispered, checking for his pulse. “Shit, Cap.”
He glared. “We’ll talk later.”
“Why would-” He raised an eyebrow, and her cheeks flushed. “Just be safe, yeah?”
“I will.” He nodded, smiling lopsidedly. “Are we-”
Fury stuck a shaking hand out at Steve, a grey flash drive with Shield’s logo in his palm. “Trust no one.”
The operating room was cluttered, with doctors and equipment at every corner. Her hands gripped the windowsill tightly, staring at her boss getting cut open on the table. “C’mon Fury. Please don’t die.”
Steve’s hand laid over hers, a comforting presence. He said nothing, just staring at her with his mouth slightly agape. She dared to look over, frowning. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Y/N-”
“How is he?” Nat’s voice was panicked. Y/N pulled out of his hold, hugging her friend quickly.
“Not good, Nat.”
All they could do was watch helplessly as Fury died. And when Steve held her in his arms, flash drive digging into her back, she knew their talk would have to wait. Fury’s body was presented to them minutes after he’d been declared dead.
She’d never seen Natasha so shaken.
“I need to take him.”
Nat stayed firm by Fury’s side, and Steve stepped forward. “Natasha.”
The redhead took one last look at her boss before stalking down the hall. Leaving Maria by herself, they chased after her. She whipped around, anger flooding her normally playful gaze. “Why was Fury in your apartment?”
“I don’t know.” God, Steve was a horrible liar.
“Cap.” Y/N turned around, looking at Rumlow with disdain. “They want you back at Shield Headquarters.”
“Yeah, give me a second.”
“They want you now.” His voice held something else, a secret that Y/N couldn’t decipher.
“Okay.”
“You’re a terrible liar you know,” Nat shot back, walking away.
“I should-” Y/N whispered. “I should go.”
“No.” Steve shook his head, holding her hand tightly. “Fury trusted you with this too.” His eyes looked wild. Not with passion or love, but with confusion, and worry. “I need you with me.”
She could never say no to him. One thing stuck in the back of her mind, one thing Steve had told her without saying anything at all. Trust no one meant something bigger than a single person. It meant a system, an organization they’d both worked for, that they both protected. They were going to take down Shield.
Shields headquarters, much like its field of work, was dark. Gloomy, grey, and dark. Absolutely no green or foliage to be seen for miles. Like always, she complained to Steve as they walked. “I understand why we have to wear our suits, but I’ve never felt more uncomfortable in my life.”
Steve laughed, a smile cracking from beneath his normally hard exterior. “As soon as we-” His smile faded. “As soon as you get home, you can change. I promise.”
“Steve-”
Pierce and Steve’s supposed neighbor were huddled outside his office door, speaking in hushed tones. Y/N made an effort to stand taller, their talking coming to a halt as they approached. ‘The neighbor’ smiled, greeting them both as she left. “Captain, Terra.”
Steve didn’t even bother to look in her direction. “Neighbor.”
“Captain.” Pierce stuck out his hand. “My name is Alexander Pierce.”
Y/n fought the urge to roll her eyes. The older man had always given her an unsettled feeling in her stomach. They had met multiple times before, and she saw no reason to shake his hand for the millionth time.
“Mr. Pierce. It’s an honor.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. What an honor indeed.
“Nick ignored my direct order and carried out an unauthorized military operation on foreign soil, saving the lives of a dozen political officers, including my daughter.”
“So you gave him a promotion.” Steve seemed skeptical. Good.
“I’ve never had any cause to regret it. Captain…” His voice held a sort of curiosity. In Y/N’s opinion, it was closer to nosiness. “Why was Nick in your apartment last night?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you know it was bugged?”
“I did,” Steve confirmed, leaning forward. “Because Nick told me.”
Y/N placed a reassuring hand on Steve’s arm. “Fury told him months ago. And, between you and me Mr. Pierce, Nick’s been having family issues.”
“Ah.” Pierce’s hard gaze hadn’t moved from Steve's. “Did he tell you he was the one who bugged it?” She hadn’t known that. “I want you to see something.”
“Is that live?” Steve turned around.
Her eyes widened at the video. “Where is that?”
“We picked him up last night in a not-so-safe house in Algiers.”
“Are you saying he’s a suspect? Assassination isn’t Batroc’s line.”
“He may be a deranged man, but he wouldn’t put a hit out on Fury,” Y/N whispered. “No way.”
“It’s more complicated than that. Batroc was hired anonymously to attack the Lemurian Star. He was contacted by email and paid by wire transfer, and then the money was run through seventeen fictitious accounts. The last one going to a holding company that was registered to a Jacob Veech.”
“Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“Veech died six years ago. His last address was 1435 Elmherst Drive.” Her heart dropped. She and Fury were by no means close, but after working with him for longer than she cared to admit, she came to know his past, just like he came to know hers. She knew things, like his first pet's name, or his family’s home address. Shit. “When I first met Nick, his mother lived in 1437.”
“Are you saying Fury hired the pirates?”
“The prevailing theory was that the hijacking was a cover for the sale of classified intelligence. The sale went sour and that led to Nick’s death.”
“Mr. Pierce, with all due respect, Fury would never do that. You know-” Her eyes welled. “You knew him, I knew him. He may have played dirty occasionally, but he was no traitor.”
“Why do you think we’re talking?” The older man replied. “I took a seat on this council because Nick asked me to because we were both realists. We knew despite all the diplomacy and the rhetoric, that to build a better world, sometimes you have to tear the old one down. You two were the last people to see Nick alive. I don’t think that’s an accident. And I don’t think you do either.” Y/N held her breath, remaining cool under his suspicious stare. “So I’m going to ask you again. Why was he there?”
“He told me not to trust anyone.”
“I wonder,” Pierce murmured. “If that included him.”
“I’m sorry. Those were his last words. Excuse me.” He grabbed his shield, and both of them walked toward the door.
“Captain.” The pair turned around, and she ignored the annoyance that grew in her stomach. Pierce tended to only respect the men in the room. “Somebody murdered my friend, and I’m going to find out why. Anyone gets in my way, they’re going to regret it. Anyone.”
“Is that a threat?” Y/N stepped in front of Steve, her hands glowing ever so slightly.
Pierce simply shook his head, a strange sort of smile on his face. “Simply a promise.”
“There’s always been something off about him.” She muttered as they waited for the elevator. “That is exactly the person we shouldn’t trust. The type of person that Fury warned us about.” Steve just stared out the window, arms crossed. She frowned. “What’s on your mind?”
The elevator door opened, and he walked in, Y/N trailing after him. “Operations Control.”
“Cap-”
“Not here.” His eyes looked gloomy, like the beginning of a storm.
“Keep all S.T.R.I.K.E. personnel on sight.” Rumlow walked in, accompanied by three agents Y/N had never seen. “Cap. Terra.”
“Rumlow.”
“Evidence response found some fibers on the roof they want us to see. You want me to get the tac team ready?”
“No. Let’s wait and see what it is first.”
“Right.” Rumlow looked jittery. Odd, she thought to herself, he was normally quite calm. Four more agents entered on the next floor. With no warning, Steve grabbed her hand, pulling her in front of him. She could feel his breath on her neck. Rumlow’s voice was hushed. “I’m sorry about what happened with Fury. It’s messed up, what happened to him.”
“Thank you,” Steve muttered.
Three more agents entered on the floor after that, and she squeezed Steve’s hand. A fight was imminent. Steve squeezed back before letting go. Summoning the small bit of energy in her hands, she stood tall, her face hardening.
“Before we get started-” Steve’s voice was confident, firm. “Does anyone want to get out?”
It was all a blur. She threw three agents against the door, knocking them out. Steve broke out of their hold, smacking the one who’d held him in a chokehold against the window. Rumlow pulled out his taser rod, slamming Steve in the back.
“Hey!” Y/N yelled, building up an energy blast in her hand and breaking the rod out of his hand. “That’s not very nice, Rumlow.”
Rumlow scoffed, pulling his two backups out of his belt. “Whoa, big guy.” Y/N rolled her eyes. “I just want you to know, Cap, this isn’t personal!” He jumped forward jabbing Steve in the side before he was thrown into the ceiling.
“It kinda feels personal.” Steve grabbed his shield, turning around and looking her over for injuries. “Are you alright?” His voice was barely a whisper, pushing a stray piece of hair behind her ear.
She hummed, leaning into his touch. “I’m fine.” She wiped his brow with her sleeve, the smallest bruise forming. “Are you?”
“Fine.” He lied. He canceled the emergency stop, the doors opening to reveal twenty Shield officers aiming straight at them. He stilled, placing a protective arm in front of her.
“Drop the shield and put your hands in the air.” The lead yelled out.
Without any warning, Steve spun around, cutting the elevator lines with one fell swoop. After the elevator stopped, he tried to door again, even more agents waiting for them than before.
“Steve-” She hissed, watching as he eyed the window. “Don’t-”
“There’s no other way out.” He quipped.
Her hands glowed as she shook them in the air. “Hello?”
“I have to say-” She whispered, burying her face in her hood. “Hiding the top secret hard drive in a public vending machine is not your smartest idea.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “Did you have a better one?”
“Keeping it on my person crossed my mind.” She teased, nudging his side. “It’s not like all of the secrets Fury has been hiding from us are on it.”
“Stop worrying. It’s-” Empty. All the gum had been bought, along with, Y/N thought to herself, a free flash drive. Nat’s face reflected off the glass, popping a bubble from the gum she had bought. In any other situation, she would have laughed.
Steve grabbed her arms, pushing her into the room behind them. “Where is it?”
“Safe.”
Y/N watched with mild fascination.
“Do better.”
“Where did you get it?” Nat questioned.
“Why would I tell you?”
“Fury gave it to you. Why?”
“What’s on it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Stop lying.” He shook the super spy.
Y/N’s smirk broke. “Steve-”
“I only act like I know everything, Rogers.”
“I bet you knew Fury hired the pirates, didn’t you?”
“Well, it makes sense. The ship was dirty, Fury needed a way in so do you.”
“I’m not going to ask you again.” Steve was practically seething. Y/N reached out, placing a hand on his arm before Nat spoke once more.
“I know who killed Fury.”
“The Winter Soldier. Five years ago, I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran. Somebody shot out my tires near Odessa. We lost control, went straight over a cliff. I pulled us out. But he was there, and I was covering my engineer. So he shot him, straight through me. Soviet slug, no rifling. Bye-bye, bikinis.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I bet you look terrible in them now.”
“Going after him is a dead end. I know, I’ve tried.” She held up the hard drive. “He’s a ghost story.”
“Then let’s find out what the ghost wants.”
“How much time do we have?” The three of them huddled around the computer as Nat tried to access the hard drive.
“About nine minutes from…” She plugged the drive in. “Now. Fury was right about that ship. Somebody is trying to hide something. This drive is protected by some sort of AI, it keeps rewriting itself to counter my commands.”
“Can you override it?”
“The person who developed this is slightly smarter than me.”
Y/N laughed. “I thought that wasn’t possible.”
“Ha-ha. I’m running a tracer, so if we can’t read the file, the least we can do is find out where it came from.”
“Can I help you guys with anything?”
Nat laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, no. Just fulfilling my maid of honor duties. Helping my brother and his fiance find some honeymoon destinations.”
“Right,” Steve spoke through his gritted teeth, slinging an arm over Y/N’s shoulder. “We’re getting married.”
She felt like she was on fire. Steve looked down at her with heart eyes, and she melted, relaxing in his hold.
“Congratulations.” The employee smiled. “Where are you guys thinking about going?”
“Jersey.” She smiled back.
“Huh.” The employee stared at Steve, too long for it to be nothing. “I-” Shit, he knew. “I have the exact same glasses.”
Oh. “You two are practically twins.” Y/N teased.
“Yeah, I wish.” The other man laughed. “Specimen. If you guys need anything, I’ve been Aaron.”
“Thank you.” Y/N smiled, looking up at Steve as she mouthed the words ‘perfect specimen.’ His cheeks grew red.
“You know it?” Nat gestured to the screen, breaking the moment in two.
Steve looked solemn, nodding. “I used to.”
Nat hissed as they moved out of the Apple store. “I’ll meet you in the parking garage, don’t get caught.”
“What?” Y/N widened her eyes. “Why-”
Steve grabbed her hand, pulling her onto the escalator. “It’s alright, we’ll get out of here soon.” He tilted his head, taking his turn to tease her. “Scared to be alone with me?”
“Steve.” She gasped, smacking his chest. “Don’t fish for compliments.”
“Oh?” He smirked. “So you had a compliment?”
She turned around, eyes widening when she saw Rumlow step onto the adjacent escalator. “Kiss me.”
He looked pale. “What?”
“Rumlow-” She sighed. “Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortabl-” Steve’s lips smashed against hers, his arms snaking around her waist. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she received a sudden burst of deja vu. Pulling away, she turned around, walking the rest of the way down. “I wasn’t finished.”
Steve shrugged. “I got the point.”
“So-” Nat leaned forward, looking between the two. “What happened?”
Y/N tensed, looking back at her friend. “What do you mean?”
“You two haven’t looked at each other since you got in the car.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “What happened?”
Steve cracked the smallest smile, and Natasha gasped, smacking Y/N’s arm. “You kissed him!”
“What?” Y/N yelled. “Why was it me that kissed him?”
“Oh.” Nat’s smirked widened. “So it happened then?”
Steve laughed. “Is this something you talk about?”
“I-” She felt like she was going to burst. This was much too much attention on her. “It was for the mission, Nat.”
Steve frowned. “I wouldn’t say so.”
Nat was fully grinning. “He wouldn’t say so.”
“Natasha.” Y/N hissed. “Leave it be.”
“Fine, fine.” She held her hands up in defeat. “Where did Captain America learn how to steal a car?”
“Nazi Germany. And it’s not stealing, it’s borrowing.”
“All right.” Nat nodded. “I have another question for you. Of which you do not have to answer. But I feel like if you don’t answer, that sort of answers-”
Steve sighed. “What?”
“Was that your first kiss since 1945?”
Y/N choked on air, and Steve placed a hand on her back, rubbing it gently. “Breath.”
She glared, flipping him and Natasha off. Nat smirked. “I was just wondering how much practice you’ve had.”
“You don’t need practice.”
“Everyone needs practice-”
“It was not my first kiss since 1945. I’m ninety-five.” He cut her off. “I’m not dead.”
“Nobody special though?” Nat egged on. If there were no repercussions, Y/N would blast her out of the car then and there.
Steve quickly looked over at Y/N before looking back at the road. “There’s someone.”
“Do tell.”
“Nah.” He shook his head, smiling to himself. “I don’t think I will.”
Summary: You’ve been running missions with Sam and Bucky for a while now, and everything was fine—until John Walker started showing up and taking an interest in you. Bucky isn’t having it. Not because he’s jealous. Definitely not because he’s jealous. He just doesn’t trust Walker. Right?
Unwanted Attention
You weren’t sure how long you’d been walking, but you knew Bucky was beside you—silent, brooding, and absolutely vibrating with tension.
Again.
It had started a week ago. After the whole Flag Smashers fiasco in Munich, John Walker and his annoying sidekick, Lemar, had started appearing more often. They were always just there, cocky and insufferable, flashing that stolen shield like they had any right to it. But that wasn’t what had been bothering Bucky the most.
It was Walker’s interest in you.
Ever since you’d first been introduced, Walker had made it painfully obvious that he found you attractive. The first time, it was a comment—something about how you were “too pretty to be running around with these two grumps.” You’d rolled your eyes, but Sam had snickered, and Bucky had muttered something under his breath that you hadn’t quite caught.
Then, it became touches—a hand on your lower back, a brush of fingers against yours when he handed you something, a lingering grip on your wrist after a mission. It was all casual enough that you couldn’t really call him out on it, but you weren’t an idiot. Walker was testing boundaries. And every time, Bucky got pissed.
At first, you thought it was just his general hatred for Walker. But then you noticed other things.
Bucky started standing closer. His arm would “accidentally” brush against yours when you were walking. He’d place a firm hand on your back before Walker could, guiding you away without a word. And, most notably, whenever Walker so much as looked at you, Bucky’s jaw would tighten, his fists clenching like he was barely keeping himself from decking the guy.
Which led to this moment right now.
You, Bucky, and Sam were walking back to the safe house after a tense meeting with Walker and Lemar—one in which Walker had, yet again, spent way too much time trying to get your attention.
“You don’t have to act like I’m gonna drop dead if he talks to me, you know,” you said finally, breaking the silence.
Bucky didn’t look at you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come on.” You stopped walking, turning to face him. “Every time Walker so much as breathes in my direction, you look like you’re about to rip his throat out.”
Bucky scoffed, looking away. “I just don’t trust him.”
Sam, who had been trailing a few steps behind, smirked. “Right. That’s what this is about.”
Bucky shot him a glare, but Sam just shrugged.
“Man, you’re jealous,” Sam said. “It’s written all over your grumpy little face.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“You’re so jealous.”
“I—” Bucky cut himself off, taking a deep breath like he was trying to calm himself. “He’s an asshole.”
“No arguments there,” you said. “But if you don’t like him flirting with me, there’s a pretty easy solution, Barnes.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours. “Yeah?”
You smiled innocently. “You could just tell me why it really bothers you.”
For a moment, he just stared at you, blue eyes dark and unreadable. Then, with a sharp shake of his head, he muttered, “Let’s go,” and kept walking.
Sam sighed. “Man, you are hopeless.”
You didn’t disagree.
A Game of Possession
The next time you saw Walker, things escalated.
It was supposed to be a simple recon mission—stakeout, gather intel, get out. But, as always, Walker found a way to insert himself where he wasn’t wanted.
“You know,” Walker said, sidling up beside you, “we’d work a lot better together if you ditched these two and joined Lemar and me.”
Bucky, who was standing just a few feet away, tensed immediately.
You sighed. “Not interested.”
“Come on,” Walker pressed, flashing that annoyingly charming smile. “I’d take good care of you.”
Before you could retort, a heavy, warm weight settled around your waist.
Bucky.
His metal arm wrapped around you in an unmistakably possessive gesture, tugging you snugly against his side. His fingers splayed against your hip, and when he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous.
“She’s already taken care of.”
The air went thick with tension. Walker’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered.
“Oh yeah?” he challenged. “By who?”
Bucky’s grip tightened. “Me.”
Your heart stopped.
Walker raised an eyebrow. “Huh. Didn’t peg you for the type to settle down, Barnes.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Maybe you don’t know as much as you think you do.”
Walker let his gaze linger on you for a beat too long before smirking. “Alright, alright. No need to get your vibranium arm in a twist.”
And with that, he strolled off.
Bucky didn’t move. Neither did you.
Finally, you found your voice. “So. That was… something.”
Bucky let out a breath through his nose. Slowly, his hand eased away, though his fingers brushed lightly against your side before leaving entirely. “Sorry.”
You turned to look at him. “Are you?”
He hesitated. Then, in a rare moment of honesty, he admitted, “No.”
You bit your lip, heartbeat unsteady. “So… am I actually taken?”
Bucky exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Do you want to be?”
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you stepped forward, closing the space he’d left between you.
“I wouldn’t mind,” you murmured.
Bucky swallowed hard. His eyes flickered to your lips. His fingers twitched at his side like he wanted to touch you again.
Before either of you could do anything about it, Sam’s voice rang out from across the way.
“Hey, lovebirds! We’ve got work to do!”
You pulled back, trying not to grin. Bucky just sighed.
“This is your fault,” he muttered.
You smirked. “If you say so, boyfriend.”
Bucky groaned, but the tips of his ears burned red. And you had a feeling that, jealous or not, he wasn’t going to let the title go.
Summary: Andy wanted you. He wanted things right. But your dad refused. What other choice did he have?
Pairings: Andy Barber X Reader
Rating: explicit
Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content, narrow views of sex due to the time period, slut shaming, unprotected sex, breeding kink, PIV sex, first time, creampie, 18+ ONLY
Word Count: 3.9K
Andy Barber Masterlist
*dividers created by @firefly-graphics
Your mom fiddles around with a bouquet of roses and daisies, refusing to meet your eyes. You’ve heard her talk about how you made a mistake for weeks now. How you put yourself in this position. That you should consider yourself lucky that things are going the way they are. And still you feel her judgemental gaze as she peeks at you over the bouquet.
“Marge?” your grandmother questions your mother. Picking up your dress, she then turns to look at you. “What did you do, you stupid girl?” You hold your head high as your sister starts to zip the dress up. Grunting when she reaches a snag. Well…it is now too tight.
“How far along are you?” You play dumb. The dress wasn’t supposed to be a give away. Your grandmother walks behind you to help your sister. “You could have gone with a bigger dress.”
“It fit last week,” your sister is much too young, and does not understand the adult conversation happening between you and the women who are ashamed of you.
“That far along, huh? Are we going to have to bribe someone to lie about the date on the marriage certificate?”
“No,” Andy told you everything would be okay. And it would be. Everything would be just fine.
“Marge?” Your dad peeks out the front window, watching as the little boy from down the street pushes you in the swing. “Marge!”
“Yes, dear,” your mother responds. She wipes her hands on her apron as she walks into the living room.
“Who is that boy?” He points to the little boy with the bright blue eyes that had captured your heart the moment he and his mother moved down the street. “Hmm?”
“The kid from the old house up the street,” it isn’t like your father didn’t know this already. He asked about him every time you played with him. The problem was your father didn’t like him. Didn’t think the son of a single mother was good enough for his precious angel.
“The one whose father is in jail?”
“That would be the one. She fancies him.”
“I think he just sees an access to money,” your mother rolls his eyes, as she starts to step back into the kitchen to prepare lunch. “You laugh at me, but kids younger and younger are being taught by their parents the best way to money is finding some stupid girl that has a rich family to marry. He sees an in. A respectable man that owns a magazine, like myself. The heir…”
“We’re not royalty. His mother says he wants to be a lawyer.”
“Bah. That kid is a loser.”
“Sir,” your father attempts to close the door in Andy’s face, but the younger man places a foot there first. “I would like to take your daughter out on a date.”
“No,” he deadpans. “Is that all?”
“Why can’t I take her on a proper date?” He looks the man up and down. The scrawny little kid has filled out. But the reputation of a son raised by a single mom still lingered. A son who had to get a job far too young to make sure that he and his mother could survive. A son that was accepted into college, and now about to graduate Harvard law. And still he isn’t good enough for you. He is no good. And never would be.
“What do you mean by proper?”
“Oh, umm…I didn’t mean anything by it,” he meant he didn’t want to wait below your window as you snuck out with him. In order to not be spotted, he’d just take you on long walks at night, where eventually the two of you would lay looking at the stars. It was kind of infuriating to have you all alone. But you are a respectable woman. And clothes always stayed on.
“You know, Dwayne down the street mentioned something about you and her. Now, I thought it was a bit crazy to suggest that my daughter was riding in a car with the likes of you after midnight,” Andy stands up straighter. Nothing had ever crossed a line. But he has every intention of marrying you, and would prefer it be done the right way. “I want you to stay away.”
“I want to marry your daughter.”
“Over my dead fucking body,” Andy’s cheerful face turns sour, and he glares at your father. “You know nothing about my daughter.”
“I know that she prefers the moon over the sun. I know that her favorite flower is a lily, but your wife thinks her room looks better with roses and daisies. I know that she wants a big family, and wants to live just out of the city. I know she wants a dog, a golden retriever, and name her Bagel,” your dad stumbles back on that. You said you never would tell anyone that unless you knew they loved you. “I know she loves baking, and she loves to read. I know that you taught her to type.”
“You’re not marrying my daughter. Do you know why?” Andy shakes his head. He has done everything a man should do. He even has a job lined up. He has a home he is going to buy, just for the two of you, and eventually your children, and Bagel. He has a car. He will provide for you. “You’re a piece of shit, born from a piece of shit. Do you not think I know about your bastard father rotting in prison? Do you not think I don’t know about how your mom was making some extra money? You’ll never be good enough for my daughter. Never.”
—
You lean outside of your window, smiling when you see Andy on the lawn. Throwing your legs out of the window, you shimmy towards the tree branch, and make your way towards the most perfect man you have ever met. Getting down to his arms, where he gives you a bruising kiss. His hand is holding onto you a bit too high on your rib cage, and his thumb grazes over your breast before you jump away from him. He shouldn’t touch you there while at your parents’ home.
“Where are we going tonight?” your voice is so soft as he grips your hand, and leads you down the road and to his parked car. You are so proud of Andy and all that he has earned.
“Did you talk to my dad?” Andy opens the door of the car for you, and closes it before he crosses over to the other side. “Andy, did you talk to him?” He has to let you date Andy now. He is a lawyer. And you weren’t some shy little girl anymore. You wanted to become his wife, and have cute babies with him. And the sooner that this was public, the sooner you can have that, “Andy?”
“He said no,” your arms cross over your chest as you look out the window of the car. “It’s not stopping me.”
“Why is he like this?” it upsets you that your father can’t see the Andy that you see. He is perfect. And he will give you a perfect life.
“Because you’re his oldest daughter. His pride and joy, and he just doesn’t want you to be married off to some boy.”
“Except you’re not some boy,” you give him a smile, scooting over on the seat towards him. Your dainty hand rubs up and down his chest as you snuggle in, “You’re all man.”
“You have no idea,” he gets the most devious plan. It’s not as evil as it may sound. Andy plans on marrying you anyways. Currently he doesn’t have your father’s blessing, and this way wouldn’t exactly be a blessing. But at least he couldn’t say no. You are just like every other girl, and would only get the proper talk until you were engaged. You didn’t fully understand how babies are made, or the ways that Andy could love you, and evour you.
They’d tell you how a woman has wifely duties. But sex with you isn’t a duty. Sex with you almost seems like a life force for him. It is proper to wait for marriage, but this marriage doesn’t seem like it’s going to be approved by your father. And he’d hate to see you leave Andy behind because you needed that.
But…if you were to accidentally fall pregnant how could he say no? You would need to have a man to marry you. What man would marry a sullied woman? Leaving him with no choice but to approve the marriage. Demand it.
It’s not evil. It’s just changing up the way he would like things to go. He doesn’t want you to be looked down upon in the community. He wants you. He doesn’t want to wait. He wants his future wife properly. He’d taken way too many cold showers after leaving you. Relieved himself way too much.
His car turns in a different direction. The house was supposed to be a surprise. But he was also supposed to be given your dad’s blessing. It’s empty, and a bit bleak right now. But if he’s going to have your properly, he wants it to be in your future home with him. You would no longer be a lady, and sex didn’t automatically mean pregnancy, but he wasn’t going to stop until you became pregnant.
Andy has always played the long game with you. He knew the moment he saw this sweet little girl rocking in her saddle shoes as you stood there holding out a coloring book and crayons for him, and told him that you have a swing that he was in love. He fell instantly and even told his mom that he was going to marry you. And he will. Even if you have to get pregnant out of wedlock for it to happen.
“Andy, where are we going? We’ve never been here before?” You ask after a while of silence. You are perfectly content rubbing on your boyfriend as he drives. He gets all fidgety and squirrelly when you do. It makes you feel better knowing his heart is racing just like yours always does around him.
“I bought us something.”
“Oh?” You look up at him with doe eyes, and kiss him on his neck. Giggling when he makes that sound. Kissing on his neck always makes him squirm. You love watching him adjust how he’s sitting and even how he pulls you closer to him. Letting his hands roam where they want to roam. You don't mind as long as you are alone.
“It might not be much. But this is just a starter,” he says, slowing down as he turns onto a road. You squeal as you look forward. Your hand lays on his upper thigh, and he clears his throat. Andy is such a funny man when you touch him in certain areas.
“Andy, it’s perfect!” It truly is. The cutest little white house with a white picket fence. A perfect starter home. “Can we go look?”
“That’s why we’re here,” you don’t even wait for him to open the door before you spring to the house. Having to wait a bit too long for him to come to your side and unlock the door before you're running through the empty house.
Home.
Yours and Andy’s home.
The kitchen is bigger than your mom’s, and a few modern appliances. The living room is huge, but maybe that’s because there was no furniture. Running down the hall you see the perfect room for a nursery. Can already envision the crib.
“Honey,” Andy pulls your hand down the hallway, leading you towards the biggest room in the house. It is mostly empty, sans a bed. “This will be ours.”
“Ours?” You sigh, turning towards him, and run both hands up his chest. “And we’ll get to sleep in the bed together,” your mother hadn’t quite taught you anything concerning marriage. And you’d heard your friends gossip a bit about their husbands, but it just made you queasy. You didn’t want to think about another man. You just want him. You want those conversations with Andy or nobody.
“We can do more than sleep,” he says with a sly quirk of his mouth.
“What else does one do in the bed with their husband?”
“Well,” he says softly, pulling you into his body. His meaty hands run up your sides before they’re high enough for his thumbs to caress over your breasts, and you sigh leaning into him. You were in private, and there’s nothing you wouldn’t let Andy do. Or touch.
Your body heats up with ministrations, and you stare up at him with your eye lids at half mast. “It’s something I’ve always wanted to try with you.”
“And what’s that?”
“I want to make love with you,” your tongue flicks out of your mouth, and you pull your bottom lip in. Biting on your perfect pout as you look up at him. “Do you know what that is?”
You shake your head no as Andy’s hands go to your back, and he grips tight to your zipper as he pulls it down. You gulp, allowing him to undo your dress. It feels right. And you love Andy, so making love sounds right. “When two people love each other, they give each other their bodies.”
“And then what,” you release a wanton mewl when he fully unzips your dress. Placing his hands back on your shoulders, he pulls the dress down, and you watch with bated breath as it pulls at your feet. Andy’s hungry eyes roam over your body before he reaches back behind you, undoing your bustier, and you’re the one pulling it off.
He stands there, taking your nearly nude body in. “Then what, Andy?”
“I taste you,” you gulp. “You taste me,” you shudder. “I enter inside of you,” you whimper. “I come inside of you.”
“Inside where?” Andy’s finger taps between your legs, and your knees start to buckle. Leaning more into him for support, and you shyly pull at his jacket, and fumble with the buttons on his shirt. “Have you ever came inside someone?”
“No,” it isn’t a lie. He’s had sex, and only because he wanted to be the best for you. But that part of him…it is only for you. “Can — I touch you?” You nod your head enthusiastically, and he leans forward. Both hands cupping your breasts before he sucks one into his mouth.
“Oh, god,” the other breast he squeezes and pulls until he reaches your swollen bud, and gives it a little pinch. You pant as you stare down at him. Sucking on your nipple before he pulls off with a pop, and moves to the other one. “Andy…I can’t breathe.”
“We’re just getting started,” he practically growls. He grabs your hand, and places it on his crotch, while you moan. Slick heat races to your core, and your mind goes all fuzzy. Andy always has this innate ability to make butterflies race to your belly.
Feeling Andy like this doesn’t even feel criminal. He’s showing you exactly why he adjusts his pants, “This is what you do to me.”
“And this,” you take a deep breath, trying to collect your thoughts. You can feel his pulse under your fingers. He’s so hot and heavy under your palms. Yours. This is all yours. “This goes inside me?”
“It does.”
“Show me,” Andy steps away from you before sinking to his knees. He starts to slowly peel away your panties and stockings down your body. Assisting you in kicking off your shoes, and stepping out of your confines while you stand completely bare in front of him.
“Andy,” you coo before he kisses you over your naked mound. “Andy,” you start to melt as he coaxes your legs apart, and he licks through your slit. “Oh dear,” Andy is getting a part of you that no man has. Open and so ready for him. Whatever it means. Is this what people are talking about when they mention the wedding bed?
Wedding be damned. You can’t stop this now. You want to feel him inside of you. “Andy, I want you in there,” he glances up at you with an almost evil smirk. “Will you show me what that means?” He will marry you. He will make an honest woman out of you. Your father drove him to do things this way.
Lifting you up, he lets your legs wrap around his body, while he moves you to grind over his enlarged bulge. Your eyes blow wide open with curious lust and the simpering sounds of your needy voice make his movements so much quicker. He could just about come looking at you like this alone. Laying you down on the bed, he spreads your legs so wide to stare at your weeping cunt. Perfect. And all his.
“Andy,” you whine, wiggling around. You feel so exposed, and want him so bad. You want him all over you. You want him to feel a part of you that no one has.
“Shh,” he whispers as he starts removing his clothes. You gasp as his cock springs free. Scooting back in the bed, suddenly scared of where he says he’s going to have you. “You can take it. You’ll take it all, and if it doesn’t fit, we’ll make it fit.”
Andy clamors onto the bed, using his wide berth to keep your legs parted as he lines himself up with your center. Pushing just the tip of him in you and quickly pulling back out, and you yip. “Honey, you can take it, huh?”
“Y-y-yeah,” you take a deep swallow as he goes deep, but doesn’t pull out. “Oh, golly,” he slowly sinks his girth deeper. Letting your body adjust to the intrusion inch by inch. “Oh…oh!” Panting when he fully sheaths his steel rod all the way inside of you, and into the depths of your soul.
Both of your bodies hum with the throbbing intensity that is the two of you becoming one. It’s overwhelming and lovely all at the same time. All these years have led you here. Spread wide open for him. Taking him. Loving him.
“There’s a good girl. There is my sweet good girl,” it is overwhelming having Andy inside of you. Stretching you out deliciously. You want him always there. It just feels right. How dare your father try and take this from you. You belong with Andy with him inside of you.
“Andy, I love you.”
“I love you.”
“I want a baby with you,” fuck yes. Yes. Just what he was wanting to hear. “I want to marry you, and live here with you, and have you inside me every single night. I want to take care of our sweet babies, and —“ he pulls himself out of you again, causing you to pout, but then he pushes back in with a jolt. “Oh, Lordy be!”
“You like me fucking you?”
“Uh huh,” such terrible language, but right here, right now, it feels wrong not to be saying that. “Fuck me harder. I like that,” he snaps his hips, barreling back into you. Again. Again. And again. And tears spring to your eyes, but he kisses them away. Pistoning into your body with such force you cry out.
The fullness of him. It makes it hard to breathe. Even the sting of the stretch doesn’t hurt all that much.
“Good girl. You sound so pretty crying for me,” you just cling on for dear life as Andy’s movements make the bed slap against the wall. “You were made for me, Sugar. Nobody can ever take this away from us. I won’t stop fucking you until I plant a baby in your belly.”
You’re too far gone to truly understand the implications in that statement. You just nod your sweet little head, opening your legs wider. Andy leans back, pinning both legs to the bed as he watches himself impale you. Your tight little cunt clings to his cock. Even your body didn’t want him to leave you. It was begging for him to stay buried deep inside you.
And he would be. He’ll keep fucking you, and planting his seed until it takes. What is your dad going to say when you’re swelling with Andy’s pride and joy? He wouldn’t want to ruin your good name, therefore the family’s. He’ll be forced to allow you to marry. And he’ll have you exactly how he wants you.
On your back, taking him every night, while every day he gets to worship you. The dream.
“Sugar,” Andy pants, his movements stiffening up. “I’m gonna give us a baby.”
“Yes, daddy.”
“Fuck,” he crows, keeping himself lodged deep in your body. “Fuck!” Warmth blooms in your belly, and your mouth goes slack as you stare up at him. “This will be our little secret, okay?”
Until your belly is so round that everyone knows that he’s fucked you good and hard enough to get a baby. Men will stare jealously knowing that Andy has had you with no inhibitions. There will come a day that he will get to tell people that the two of you are trying for a baby. Meaning they’ll know he’s fucking his come inside of you every night.
It will come. But for now, he’s going to keep coming inside of you. Creating a life in secrecy. In hopes that your father will approve this union. He won’t have another choice.
“Beige,” your grandmother huffs as your sister pulls the veil over your head. “You seriously think people won’t notice you’re wearing beige? You spread your legs for the first man that whispered how much he loves you in your ear. You will ruin this family!” your sister looks back and forth between you and your grandmother, but you keep your head held high. Today you become his wife.
“You were supposed to marry the astronaut.”
“Guess he wouldn’t want to marry some whore, huh, Nana?” You let your hand drift down your stomach, rubbing over the barely there bump. “Andy did ask daddy for his permission to marry me. He said no, but all I’ve ever wanted was to be Mrs. Barber.”
“He trapped you,” your mother gasps, holding her hand over her mouth, while the other fans her face. “Sweetheart.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me. I wanted this. I begged for him to give us a baby. And now he’s giving me his last name. We have a home, and he has a job, and will move up at the firm. Let me have this happiness. He kept his promise. So let me keep mine.”
Let your mom continue to pray that nobody sees the weight you’ve put on. Four months, and six weeks, it is becoming harder to hide. There wouldn’t be a honeymoon. There would only be you going home to your husband. Sleeping in the bed right beside him where you belong. No more sneaking around, and leaving before sunlight. Everyone may know that you didn’t wait, and you don’t even care. Because he still kept his promise.
There would be no more lies. Only the truth, and that’s what has always been known. You love Andy Barber.
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A Mob! Steve Rogers x Forensic Scientist! Reader Series
Part of the Outta Nowhere AU
Main Masterlist
Series Summary: You’re just trying to do your job, solving crimes and running tests. It doesn’t help, though, that a certain ‘business man’ keeps showing up, a little too curious about your work
Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.
A/N: thank you so much to everyone who continues to read and support my work. i really hope you all enjoy this next installment, please don’t hesitate to drop me a comment or inbox me. reblogs are always golden ❤️
You are not, and then, all at once you are again. Awareness spreads like contagion down each limb, and you know them again as it does. With it, though, comes the pain in your belly, sharp and biting like—
Like a blade.
It fades as you force your eyes open, your clumsy hands searching yourself for the dagger’s handle. You do not find it, but the relief that floods you at its absence is short-lived. The darkness that greets your wide, panicked stare is so deep and unyielding that for a moment you wonder if you have gone blind—but as you raise your trembling hands before your eyes, you can see them clearly. But beyond, there is only darkness.
No, not darkness—nothing.
“H-hello?” Your voice is muted, muddy even to your own ears, the syllables thick and sticky like they passed through honey on the way. “Please-!” The hungry nothing swallows nearly everything but a sluggish, dull thump that echoes in your ears—it is the only sound in the resolute silence. You stumble forward with your hands out before you, fingers outstretched as you wait to encounter something, anything. You do not, though. There is nothing. No cool stone beneath your feet nor the caress of wind your skin. Even the sound of your footsteps is absent, stolen. All there is is the drum.
It must be a drum, you think, because the sound is so deep it reverberates in your bones. Sluggish. Steady. Panic rises in your chest and you force it down with gritted teeth, your nostrils flaring.
If this is death, I was right to fear it.
Your dry tongue tastes like ash and earth in your mouth as you gulp down thick, gasping breaths. But there is no relief in the action, nor in the thick void that flows in through your lips, filling your throat with ink. There is only that sound, deep and heavy—thump, thump, thump.
A hand flies to your breast, pressing against the cool skin above your collar—but you feel nothing. There is no answering pulse from your own veins, your chest cold and quiet. A terrified gasp rips from your throat and you stumble, hands tangling in the torn fabric of your dress. Your blood should be racing, your ears thundering with the roar of it in your veins—but there is nothing. Nothing but the silence and the sound—
Thump.
Thump.
Steady like a heartbeat.
Your heartbeat, drumming in the dark, empty nothing. The echo of it is dull in your ears as if through cotton, but it is the only sound, the only thing in the vast absence aside from you. It rumbles in your bones as you stagger blindly forward, your hands outstretched. The void that presses back against your hands is like spiders silk, strands of ephemeral nothing. You fist your hands in it, and for the first time you feel… something. Like ripping apart fragile cloth—only something inside of you tears too.
The sensation of it makes you gasp, choking on the dark as it rushes past your lips and into your mouth like dry water. You pull at the ragged strips of nothing and they stick to you like wet paper. You push through the ragged hole into the white light beyond—and fall to your knees on hard stone coughing and choking. You draw the back of your hand across your trembling mouth and it comes away stained inky black, the texture like wet sand.
For a moment, you heave there on the floor, sticky, pulpy blackness forcing its way up out of your throat. The air you gulp down tastes of something so distinctly alive that it nearly brings you to grateful tears. After a few desperate breaths, you force yourself up to your knees, bracing your hands against the wall as you stagger up to your feet. You feel weak, as though the earths pull might drag you back down to your belly at any moment.
These… these are my chambers.
You had not thought of this place as home before, but you are relieved to see it now. The siting area is a mess of gauze wrappings, half-mixed poultices and dried herbs scattered across every surface. It looks as though Healer Janna has been hard at work here, you note with a small, grim smile. The sound of rasping, labored breath draws your attention toward the bed. Though the dark, heavy fabric is almost entirely drawn, the soft firelight shining in through the gaps illuminates the shape of a figure beneath the covers.
You cross the room with slow steps, trembling as you approach. The drumbeat roars in your ears again as your eye adjusts to the gloom. Your own features swim out of the darkness at you, pained and ashen, your lips pressed into a grim line. The shock of it draws a horrified gasp from your throat, and you stumble back, nearly falling over. The feeling it evokes in you is new, a mixture of terror and disgust as you tear your eyes away from the empty vessel laying before you. That’s it, you think to yourself as you slap a hand to your mouth to hide the violent gag. My body is empty. You retch, your hands fisting in the stiff, dirty cloth of your dress as you fight to remain standing.
“To see oneself without a soul is quite a sight indeed.” The sight of Geralt is nearly enough to send you to your knees as you stagger against the bedpost. “I think perhaps that is why they drew the curtain.” He stands by the fireplace, his hand resting upon the mantle. His molten eyes seem lit with the fire’s eerie glow.
“I am glad to see you, Little Doe.”
“What’s happening to me?” Your voice is just as dull and muddy as it had been in the other place, the dark place. You shudder to think of it again, gripping the bedpost tightly. Even the sensation of that seems far away, as though your grasping hands merely clutch at the idea of it. Your step-brother’s expression turns concerned.
“You’ve left your body, Dreamwalker.” The thought of looking back at the shell on the bed turns your stomach. “A living thing cannot be without a soul, my little witch. The body needs a soul.” The fear that twists in your belly at his words is sharper than the Duke’s dagger. Your eyes widen, your mouth trembling as you cling helplessly to the bedframe as Geralt moves toward you.
“I—I am—I am not—” Your rebuttals fall from your lips unfinished, scurrying over each other in their haste to leave your mouth. You hold out a hand to halt his approach, and he passes through it like smoke. “I am not a witch!” His amused smile is as off-putting as the sensation of his body diffusing yours.
“Not yet,” he agrees. “But you could be.” You think of the witch, her fingers tipped in purple-black ichor like they had been stained with pitch. “There is power in your blood. The same as mine.” The smile that flits across his lips is grim, and does not reach his golden eyes. “We are more alike than you know.” He moves as if to touch you and then stops, seeming to remember that he cannot.
The fear coiling in your chest beats wildly against your ribs. He knows. You wonder if this means word has reached your mother—or worse, the King. There are no elves in the city save the Witch—and you.
“My mother—”
“Knows nothing.” You’ve little idea what has inspired your step-brother to keep your secret, and a pit of iron forms in your belly as you wonder what steep price he will extract from you for the privilege.
“Why? Why would you not…” The words stick in your throat. “You’ve no reason to lie for me.” Geralt scoffs.
“It is an unwise King who would lead his people willingly to civil war.” Geralt looks tired, then, far older than the summers he has weathered. “We are not all so ruled by petty superstition as Duke Emhyr.” There is no lie beneath the words that you can tell, but they ring hollow anyway, like you’re missing parts of them. “It would be quite a waste to see you hung in the square.” You swallow, your lip curling.
“So I am to be your pawn?” The sneer curls your lips and bares your teeth. “Your grateful servant?” He laughs then—a deep, loud peal of laughter that strikes like lightning. You jerk backward, forcing space between you.
“If my aim was your servitude there are more apt ways to ensure it.” He seems content to say no more than that, his golden eyes glittering like coins.
“But there is a price.” You say, and the corners of his lips curl.
“You think too poorly of your brother,” he purrs. In an instant, he is again the Geralt you are coming to know and despise. “I would ask nothing of you that you could not give.” His lips curl into a deceptively charming smile. “Indeed, nothing you would not want to.” Geralt’s eyes seem to focus on something behind your head, and the smile slips.
“We might discuss this later. For now, little Doe, you must return to your body.” You cannot hide the repulsed shudder that passes through you at the thought of looking at yourself on the bed again. “You spent too long in the ether.”
“Ether?” He rolls his eyes, and beneath the mask of his cool charisma, you see true irritation. Strangely, it pleases you.
“The dark place, the between place.” He sighs. “Lay on the bed.” He pulls aside the curtain, and you swallow the violent retch that builds in your throat. You close your eyes and crawl onto the bed. You feel nothing against your palms but perhaps the slightest pressure. There is abnormal warmth emanating from the body beside you, however haggard your appearance. It is welcoming, even, like a soft embrace. You want to lean into it, so you do—though you doubt you could help it even if you did not.
The room shifts, warping and twisting like smoke. You do not want to return to the cold, dark nothing, and you fight against it with all you have. Your will, however, seems as incorporeal as your spirit. As you spin back down into your own subconscious, Geralt’s voice seems to come from every crevice of the chamber—
“And do keep your promise this time, little witch.”
—
When you wake, there is pain.
Perhaps it is more apt to say that you wake beacuse there is pain, deep and biting as you force your eyes to open. Your lids feels heavy, like you’ve not abided the task of lifting them in quite some time. Each breath feels strange, rattling in your chest. Sunlight streams in through the parted canopy curtains, and you wince, blinking away the spots trailing across your vision.
I live.
You feel… weak. Disconnected from your body. It nearly takes more strength than you have to sit up, and you gasp, falling back against the pillows as pain lances through your belly and up your spine. With clumsy fingers, you pull back the covers. You are dressed in one of your loose cotton shifts, and as you tenderly trace the shape of your own body through the fabric, you can feel the thick layers of bandages wrapped tightly around your middle.
Gingerly, you roll up the hem of your nightdress, your jaw set tight. You follow the edge of the wrappings with your finger. It’s fit snug around your waist, padded thickly with gauze to the left of your navel. It still seems somehow like fantasy, that the duke had stabbed you, that you had felt the cold bite of his steel deep in your belly—
That you had lived.
“Witch.”
Trembling, you press your hands to your face. Duke Emhyr’s accusations still sting as they echo from your memories, his hatred burning hot like coals behind his eyes. Is he only the first of many? You wonder, wincing sharply as you reach for the goblet of water on the stand by the bed. It’s almost too heavy for you, but you grip it, and bring the edge to your lips.
The sound of voices begin to echo down the hall, heralding the approach of other people. As quickly as you can, you adjust your dress and draw the covers back up again, waiting for the door to open.
“—asleep, Your Majesties, when I left to fetch a clean pail of water—”
“And left her alone?” Your mother’s incredulous voice grows louder as the doorknob rattles, and then clicks open. She glides in first, her ornate gown trailing behind her, whispering against the stone. Her eyes narrow as she peers around your chamber in distaste.
“Have the servants clean up this mess,” she says, the words cool, authoritative. Your mother has always been one for orders, only now there is a smugness to the command, an expectation that the bearer dare not fall short of. Kassandra hurries in behind her, water sloshing in the wooden pail she holds by the handle. She sees you first, nearly dropping the bucket in surprise as her eyes widen.
“Y-Your Majesty!” She gasps, practically throwing the bucket to the ground as she rushes to your bedside. “Oh thank the Gods!” Your mother gasps at the sight of you, her delicate brows rising.
“Thank the Gods indeed.” Your mother approaches you, perching herself on the edge of your bed before embracing you. “My daughter… I thought I might never see your eyes open again,” she cups your face affectionately, and though you had not felt the urge to weep before, suddenly your eyes fill with exhausted tears. She is, after all, your mother, staring down at you with concern and relief lining her face. You press your face into the crook of her neck, breathing in the honeysuckle scent of her skin as you sob.
It’s so much—the Witch, the duke—your mind feels both full to bursting and disjointed with the knowledge of every moment of it all. Elf-kin. Witch. Princess. My lady. Your Grace. Doe. Who are you? What is your name? You know not when last you heard it. You do not know when you became such a meek little thing, so easy to trap in a box to bring a hammer down upon—
But you hate it.
“You may leave us. I shall call when we need you.”
Your mother hums softly, stroking your hair with gentle passes. She works through the tangled mess as you cry, parting each snare with a motherly diligence that reminds you of summers spent catching fireflies and frogspawn. You cling to her, like a child with a scraped knee. When she has worked her way through every section of your hair, she sighs, massaging your scalp with the tips of her fingers. Finally, when your sobs turn to hiccoughing breaths, your mother sighs, her hand dropping from your head to your bandaged middle.
“That man is paying for what he’s done to you.” You do not know how her voice manages to be so soft, and yet so hard at the same time. “I will not allow this sin to go unpunished.”
You shiver. “What…what do you mean? Where is Emhyr?” You are glad you cannot see her face, because the smile that drips from her words sounds crueler than anything.
“The place he’s going to die.” Your mother sounds almost joyful. After a moment more, she releases you, dabbing at your tear-stained cheeks with the soft, flowing fabric of her sleeve before stroking the pad of her thumb over the curve of it.
“Why did you leave the castle?” Your mother’s face looms before you, her brows knitted together with concern. There’s something else, though, something beneath that. You don’t know how you see it—by rights, she’s given nothing away, and yet you see it still.
Suspicion.
Why would your own mother be suspicious of you? You hang your head.
“I—I just wanted to see the city.” You make the words sound like an admission. “Without a guard.”
“And look what your stupidity has wrought!” She hisses, gesturing at your belly. “You’re lucky Geralt noticed your absence when he did—did that little, the—” Your mother purses her perfect lips in frustration as she attempts to recall your only lady-in-waiting’s name. “Katherine? Did she help you with this idiocy?” As far as you can tell, she has swallowed your lie whole. You hope it does not work its way up out of her throat to bite you later.
“No, no, I… I just snuck out while the guards were changing, Kassandra knew nothing of it.” You are more glad than ever that you had ordered her to stay behind, the thought of what might’ve happened to her had she come along makes you shiver. The duke did not seem to be much in the mood to deal with stray ladies. The mention of Geralt makes you press your teeth against the inside of your cheek. Your mother sighs, shaking her head as she pinches the bridge of her nose.
“You are too important to lose.” She regards you with serious, dark eyes. “Do you understand me? You are my only daughter—I can have no more children, you know this. Nor could I replace you if I tried, my love.”
“Yes, mother.” You place your hand over hers. “I understand.” You can find no sign in the relieved cast of your mother’s features that betrays any heritage other than the one you know, and your father is too long in the ground to ask yourself. “I’m sorry I scared you.” You had never been particularly good at lying, the words sticking together and jumbling on your tongue as you tried to string them into something coherent. Now, however, you deliver one after another, your hands steady as stone.
I’ve more to lose now than I did stealing biscuits from the kitchens.
“I won’t do anything like that again.” She smiles at you, and it is like sunlight, warmth washing over your skin. You do not know how she does that, make her approval something to crave and bask in, even when you cannot trust her. She makes you want to.
“Thank the Gods.” She presses a kiss to your forehead. “Then all is forgiven.”
—
You have slept for nearly a full week, you find, as Kassandra helps you bathe and dress. Your mother excuses herself to attend to other matters, and you breathe a sigh of relief at her absence. After all, your head still reels with the truths that you’ve had little time to untangle yourself. You revel in the quiet as Kassandra helps you peel off your old nightgown and step into the copper tub. The water smells vaguely of cloves, and you know this is by order of the closest thing to a witch Rivian faith will abide within the castle walls.
Healer Janna’s meager magics have kept your body on this side of the abyss, even as your soul has wandered. What little she is allowed she has done, and you are grateful for it, though you suspect the Witch in the lower city might’ve done a better job.
As Kassandra assists you in unwinding the soiled bandage around your waist, you grimace at the sight of your wound in the mirror. On your side, practically parallel with your belly button if you traced a straight line around. It is not particularly long, but you know by the ache inside that the damage is far deeper than the external cut you see.
“Tis a miracle he missed anything important,” she says, applying ointment to the wound with gentle fingers. “Damnable man.” She winds fresh, clean bandages around you, and you grit your teeth against the pain. You are growing used to it, though. Your mother has laid out another Rivian dress for you, but you do not even consider it, grimacing as you return it, unworn, to the wardrobe. Winter is coming, and you know the light, flowing dresses of your home are ill-suited for the biting chill that already permeates the castle halls, but you reach for one of them anyway.
You reason that the tight corsetry your more local garments might irritate your healing wound, and Kassandra makes no mention of it as she helps drape you in the comfortable and familiar dress you choose. A small part of you, though, knows this act for what it truly is and revels in it—defiance.
“I was so worried,” Kassandra says, sweeping aside your curls to pin a swath of gold colored fabric across your shoulders to create the illusion of sleeves. She has gotten quite good at it, and you wonder if she has been practicing. “When you didn’t come back, and then the prince—” She shakes her head. “I never should have let you go!”
“I shall not have you claim responsibility for my actions,” you reply. “Nor those of the duke.”
“Did you… Did you meed the Witch?” She asks, her eyes wide. For a moment you consider your answer, and then you nod.
“She… She was not what I expected.” Kassandra has proven herself more than trustworthy, she has been loyal—and not just to the crown, but to you. And even so, you hesitate to tell her what it is you know now, the thing that changes everything and nothing all at the same time. Less elf blood in you than I could hold in my hand, but aye, kin we are, still. You have had so little control since you arrived on these shores, so little choice. One stands before you now, a forking path toward ends you cannot see.
“She told me things about myself I had no way of knowing, but that I feel in my marrow to be true.” You swallow. The last person who heard your name and the word elf in conversation drove a dagger into your belly, and the instinct to hide, to coil yourself up like a snake and be unseen, but you forge ahead anyway.
“What? What did she tell you, my Lady?”
“She… she told me I was elf-kind.” You watch Kassandra’s face, waiting for her to run for the guard—but she remains seated, earnest concern still gracing her features. She seems to take it in, her brows scrunching before she nods.
“You are still my Lady, Princess of Rivia. This does not change that.”
You practically sob with relief. Your mother’s coronation had done more than tie you to this strange, new city—it has made you enemies. Scores of them, actually. You suppose you should not feel something akin to joy at the knowledge that Kassandra is not among them, but it blooms in your chest as a grateful smile spreads across your face.
“I know not from whom this lineage comes,” you say. “But the duke…” You grimace. “He knew, though how I can only guess. He said he could see it in my features—he could tell their favor simply by looking at me. Can you?” To your surprise, Kassandra scoffs.
“As winter feeds spring, so does suspicion feed doubt. His theories needed little proof, I’m sure. If I might be blunt, Majesty, I have observed you many times, and never once have I wondered if you might be anything other than human.” She finishes pinning your dress, stepping away to admire her handiwork. It’s almost as good as when Madge did it, but there was a distinct Rivian quality to the neckline she has created with the flowing, loose fabric.
“May I be blunt myself, Lady Kassandra?” You ask, turning to face her. She nods. “I am grateful for your loyalty, do not think I question it’s truth. You have been a true friend to me, even when the very Queen has demanded otherwise of you. Why?”
She thinks for a good few moments, her brows furrowed. She seems to choose her words carefully, ordering them all together before she answers.
“The Queen does not even know my name, Majesty, despite my father sitting upon her very own husband’s council.” She replies. “Your mother knows her allies, and she knows her enemies; and I suppose that leaves little space for those who belong in neither camp. Loyalty is not given, Lady, it is earned. Any that is acquired easier than that should not be trusted.”
The jewelry you are required to decorate yourself with feels especially heavy and overly ornate today, the crown weighing heavily on your brow. You know it would be near scandal to be seen without it, though, and so you remain good and still as Kassandra pins it in place. Now, at last, you may finally leave your chambers, aided in part by Kassandra’s steady arm. Walking is an arduous task, and you find yourself tired and panting by the time you reach the end of the hall. You have no destination in mind, but staying in your chambers feels claustrophobic.
“And here I thought I would find you resting.” Geralt’s voice spreads out over the silence like honey. “I suppose I should have known you would not stay abed longer than it took to open your eyes.” He stands at the curve in the stair, his hand resting on the bannister. His silver-white hair is pulled back away from his face, and the silver wolf pendant at his throat peeks through the unbuttoned neckline of his shirt.
“I am pleased to see you on your feet again.” The insinuation behind his words makes your cheeks warm. You have not forgotten the closeness of him, the safety of being pressed against his chest.
“After a week, I fear I have slept long enough.” You reply with a wry smile. “Thank you.”
“Were you going down?” He ascends the last few steps and offers you his arm, and after a moment of brief consideration you accept. After all, Geralt is much sturdier than Kassandra. Quickly—so quickly you almost do not notice it yourself—he softly sweeps his thumb over your knuckles as he settles you on his arm. It’s an overtly affectionate gesture, one that makes your stomach churn and flutter.
“Thank you.”
Geralt holds you steady, patiently waiting for you to situate yourself on one stair before lowering yourself to the next. Patient was not a quality you associated with the prince, but he demonstrates it now, taking the staircase step by halting step. His hand is warm on the small of your back, and it does not wander. After a moment, you feel the rumble of his voice begin in his chest just before he speaks again, turning back toward Kassandra, just behind you on the stair.
“Ah, I did almost forget, my Lady, your mother did bid you join her at your earliest convenience. I do believe she mentioned a Lord Arasmus?” Kassandra’s pale cheeks instantly go cherry red as she stares down at her clasped hands. The corners of her lips, though, curl upward into a small, but telling smile. You feel a mirroring one growing on your own features as you chuckle.
“Why Lady Kassandra, you did not inform me of your impending engagement.” You tease, and she huffs, her entire face turning scarlet as she glares at you.
“Tis nothing of the sort, Highness. His Lordship is quite a skilled botanist, a-and p-provided my expertise in the gardens—” She stammers out a parchment thin explanation that you fight not to poke holes through as you nod seriously. “I m-might assist with the selection. A-and the planting, maybe.” Her eyes flick up to yours. “Might I be excused, my Lady?”
“Of course.” Kassandra skirts around the two of you, glancing back.
“Thank you, Majesty.” She bows her head politely before she disappears around the curve in the staircase and is gone. Her footsteps fade too, and as the silence settles, you realize you are well and truly alone with the prince. He helps you down another few stairs before breaking the pregnant silence.
“You choose interesting allies, Princess.” He’s so close you can smell his skin pine and sun and earth. “But that one I think you have chosen especially well.”
“Have you only come to complement me?” You ask, hoping fleetingly that you look as unaffected as you sound. He sees too much, you decide stoutly, stomping down the butterflies filling your belly. Even when you don’t think he sees anything at all.
“And if I had?” Your own reply turns to cotton in your dry mouth. For a moment, Geralt’s golden eyes go hot and hungry like they had that night in the corridor. Your skin pebbles with the awareness of him, his size, his proximity. His breath ghosts over the curve of your cheek.
“Then I suppose it is lucky for you that I come with more than one purpose.”
“And that purpose would be?”
“Clarity, Princess,” he helps you down the last few steps to the landing. “Clarity.” The hall is dotted with servants, and stray lords and ladies whose names and exact stations all escape you, but you accept each gracious bow and earnestly delivered platitude with as genuine a smile as you can manage.
“Oh Your Majesty! How good to see you up again, I do trust your mother gave you my condolences.”
“You poor thing! Princess please, you must rest!”
“Highness you look wonderful, I do love Redanian fashion so.”
“That vile, treasonous man! How awful, I trust you have kept well?”
You are grateful when you’ve finished wading through them, their cloying perfumes and grasping hands are almost overwhelming to bear. As you clear the crush of lower nobility crowding the outer hall, Geralt steers you toward the throne room.
“What do you know of the Hunt, Princess?”
The Hunt. You know what everyone knows, you suppose. “The Witcher-Kings of old led them first, to cleanse the land of monstrosities.” You had learned this fact as surely as you had learned your letters. “I know the last one was before I was born.” Geralt scowls at this, his brows furrowing.
“My father has not led a hunt in over sixty years.” You cannot stop your shocked gasp. From what you’d thought, they were led every fifteen years like clockwork. There were always monsters, things born of chaos and flesh, and there always would be, so long as chaos remained tangled in the realms of man—that was what you had been taught, at least. But to hear one had not been lead in over sixty years… You shook your head with disbelief.
“In the days of old, there were many Witchers, Princess.” There is no emotion in his voice nor on his face, but somehow, you can taste the sorrow beneath his words, heavy and cloying.
“And now?”
“There is only one.” Geralt brings his free hand to the wolf pendant. He does not lead you into the throne room proper, instead steering you past the massive carved doors. “My father called a hunt two nights ago, while you still slept.” Your brows furrow. Why now? Why after all this time?
“Why?”
“I aim to find out.”
Geralt casts a swift look down the empty corridor, and pulls aside a heavy woven tapestry, one of many lining the hall. Instead of stone behind it there is a narrow door, one with no knob or handle—only a keyhole. Geralt produces a slim silver key from his pocket, pressing it silently into the lock. You have to step sideways to make it through the doorway, but once you do, you find yourself in a cramped, dark hallway. You start at the feel of Geralt’s hand on your shoulder.
“Forward, Princess.” With one hand dragging along the wall, you take a few cautious steps into the dark.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To learn the answers to both of our questions.” The ground slopes upward beneath your feet, and behind you, Geralt urges you forward. You are reminded uncomfortably of your time in the dark place—the prince had called it the ether—the crushing weight of the silence and the vast emptiness of it all…You shiver. Finally, there is light ahead, and you feel your shoulders sag with relief to see it.
The tiny circular room is perhaps no wider than an arm’s length, light filtering in from the gold mesh that runs around it in a tight band. You realize you are in one of the pillars of the throne room, and you stand on the tips of your toes to peer down through the thin braided metal to observe the scene below. You do not recognize every person in attendance, circled around the stone table behind King Vesemir’s throne, but you can place enough of their faces to understand—the council is gathered here, and they are gathered because of you.
“—is Treason. It cannot be argued.” Lord Jakoby is perhaps the youngest member of the council, aside from Kassandra’s own father. “And it cannot stand.”
“No one argues that Duke Emhyr has committed a grave offense—”
Your mother’s cool voice silences every other in the room. “Conspiring to murder the Princess is more than a grave offense.” You watch her tilt her head, threading her fingers together beneath her chin. “Would you have us send him back to Nilfgaard to gather his armies with a spanking, then?” There is an uncomfortable murmur that passes around the table.
“No, my Queen, I would not.” He holds his hands up placatingly. “I simply suggest there might be other ways to punish him that do not result in civil war.” Lord Thay combs his fingers through his thinning hair. “The Nilfgaardian army is not a light threat, your Highness. They protect our westernmost provinces, which, need I remind you, produce most of the kingdom’s wheat and grain! Duke Emhyr is no backwater lord with a horse a cart and an unwed daughter to his name, he is Regent of Nilfgaard! We cannot simply behead him in the square!”
Vesemir holds up a hand, and you watch your as your mother presses her lips into a displeased line.
“I have heard from Lords Thay and Jakoby, Duke Rhone and mine own Queen. Lord Lightfoot, I would hear your thoughts as well.” Kassandra’s father was not a man of many words—he had barely said hello and goodbye at your own mother’s coronation—and he had thus far proved your impressions correct as he sat at the end of the table, utterly silent. And for another few moments, he remains so.
“Duke Emhyr’s treason cannot be tolerated—but the North must be treated with care.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Her Majesty is right. Duke Emhyr’s treason cannot stand, regardless of his position. There will be strife, Majesty, it cannot be avoided.” He bows his head. “But perhaps it might be mitigated. You must use this hunt as an opportunity to remind the people of your strength. Of the futility of standing against you, my King.” Vesemir is silent, as if weighing the value of each word.
“And should it come to war?”
Lord Lightwood grimaces. “The beetle is a fearsome foe to the ant, Highness. But it may still be crushed beneath a boot.”
summary: Sent on an assignment back to 1943, you encounter a drastically different version of the man you know
pairing: bucky x reader
warnings: time travel, a charming af 40s!bucky 😉, a sad af present!bucky 😔
a/n: I used the time travel logic from Endgame except fixed points exist. This was also written for @buckysknifecollection‘s 1k challenge! I had the song prompt of Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons! Congrats on 1k hun!!
Weep little lion man,
You’re not as brave as you were at the start
You found blue eyes lighting up across the crowded courtyard, beaming smile touched on the dirt freckled glow of his face, and it startled you; stilled you right in your tracks and set a stone deep into your chest, made it hard to breathe, because that wasn’t the man you knew.
No—he wore a weightlessness about him, even as he stepped away from the crowd erupting in celebration and shied to the outskirts of the commotion, he was smiling. It wrinkled up by his eyes, left behind dimples in his cheeks, a slight shake of his head as small wisps of hair fell down to his forehead.
He didn’t seem to be counting each moment of joy on his fingers, calculating how much relief he allowed for himself before the shadows came rushing back in to take it away. He was… happy.
When Y/N gets an unreal deal on her first home, she wonders why her neighbor scared away all the other buyers. Despite being cautious, she wonders why the town has given Bucky Barnes a bad name.
Part One // Part Two // Part Three // Part Four // Part Five // Part Six // Part Seven // Part Eight // Part Nine // Part Ten // Epilogue
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: Steve Rogers
Summary: you meet someone you never expect at the grocery store.
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
You sway back and forth holding your few staples. You wait patiently for checkout, happy enough to do so as you avoid the typical awkward interaction of the checkout lane. Some might dread it, but you prefer self-checkout. It spares you the face-scalding small talk with the cashiers and you’re certain they don’t hate you for it either.
The man at the machine just ahead of you hisses and tips his head back. He takes a deep breath and sets his chin straight, scratching his blond hair as the machine beeps at him. He seems frustrated by the scanner as he waves a jar of peanut butter back and forth over it.
“Come on...” he mutters then stops to look around. The attendant is at another machine, helping a woman key in her produce. “...should just leave it...”
You watch him as he turns back to the screen and taps it in exasperation. There’s something familiar about him. In a city this big, odds are you could see the same face a dozen time in the same day and not know it.
“Um, excuse me,” your bag of sourdough rustles as you tiptoe slowly close, “do you want some help?”
He turns to you and you’re stricken as you recognise him at once. It’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. The homegrown hero of New York!
“I’m so sorry. I know I’m taking forever here,” he pushes his hair back. It’s a mess from his anguished scratching and combing. “I’m trying, I swear.”
“Here, er, do you mind,” you balance your armful as you near. He steps back and shakes his head, “you got a better chance of figuring this dang thing out.”
“Alright, no promises, but I used to work retail, so, I think I can,” you carefully set down your groceries at the edge of the small metal shelf of the self-checkout. “Peanut butter, please.”
He looks down at the jar then hands it over. Your fingertips brush as you take it and find the barcode. You angle it down and the machine scans it right away. He groans and puts his palm to his forehead.
“Of course,” he sniffs. “I promise I’m not a total disaster. I thought this would be faster.”
“It’s fine, I don’t mind,” you smile. “Least I can do for the First Avenger.”
He visibly cringes, “right.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you shake your head. “I wasn’t... meaning to... do you need help with the rest?”
He nods and looks down. Now you feel awful. You didn’t mean to embarrass him. You take his bunch of bananas and key in the number then weigh it. You put it aside and finish with his pulpy orange juice and a can of ovaltine... Ovaltine?
“Right, I think that’s it,” you gather up your stuff. “You’re all set and there’s a machine free so I’ll get out of your hair.”
He slips his fingers into his pocket and slides out his wallet, “thanks. Appreciate it.”
You sidle away and claim the next machine. You scan through your bread, cans of salmon, six-pack of muffins, and the little odds and ends. You unfold your reusable bag and put each inside before you pay.
“Ahem,” the deep noise draws you away from the pinpad. “Hey, uh, I’m sorry if I came of... rude. It’s not you. The dang machine just—got the best of me. It’s not you and I mean, you were just being nice. And helpful.”
“Really, it’s no problem,” you smile as you keep your hand on the debit machine.
“I know but I almost made it one.”
“No, it’s nothing,” you turn back to finish before the machine times out. It thinks as he lingers close by.
“You’re really nice. I don’t deserve that. Captain should know better,” he says. “But I do prefer Steve.”
He holds out his hand as you swipe your card free and tuck it away. You shove it back in your purse and face him. You take his free hand and shake it as you offer your name. “Nice to meet you, Steve.”
“You, too.”
“Um,” you look behind him, “don’t wanna be in anyone’s way.”
You quickly snatch up your bag and hurry out of the checkout area. He follows you with long but easy strides. As you pass through the door, he’s only a step behind.
“Look, I’m sure you have somewhere to be,” he says as he catches up. “But, uh, could I carry your bag or something? I feel like I owe you.”
“Oh, no, it’s not very empty,” you assure him. “But thanks!”
“Hmm, well, how about...” he looks around, “coffee?”
You follow his gaze across the street. You’re not really in a hurry but you didn’t plan to be sitting down at a cafe. Your leggings a loose sweatshirt aren’t exactly trendsetting.
“I mean it, you know, it wasn’t anything at all.” You insist.
“Yeah, but how many nice people do you meet around here, huh?” He asks. As if to make his point, he grabs your elbow and angles you away from the edge of the sidewalk as the man behind you nearly walks right over you. “Gotta admit, you’re the first friendly face I’ve met since I got out of the ice and that was a while ago.”
“Uh, wow, that’s sweet. I suppose a coffee won’t hurt,” you say. “And I know what you mean, I’ve been here two months and I don’t know anyone. I thought a made a friend but she stole my shoes and never called me back.”
“Really? Someone did that to you?” He flutters his lashes in disbelief. “That’s rotten.”
“I suppose she really liked them. Besides, they weren’t very practical. Kind of uncomfortable so really, she did me a favour,” you laugh. “One thing I learned, the city moves fast and you gotta keep up with it. So, I just keep going. As best I can.”
“Hm, well,” he turns with you as you reach the crosswalk. “I think we wear a different size so I promise, I won’t steal those.”
You glance down at your knockoff Uggs in purple and snort, “oh, you think so?” You move your foot closer to his and compare the difference with his large leather shoes. “I think you could squeeze in.”
He laughs, a rocky rumble that fills you with warmth. Or maybe you’re a bit starstruck. If you had any friends, you might just brag to them that you met the Captain. You guess you’ll just have to savour it to yourself.
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Part summary: Jarl Erik’s warriors have returned to Liljasborg after their revenge campaign, but neither they nor Geralt and you are granted much of a chance to breathe.
Word count: ca. 5k
Warnings: More viking things, mention of alcohol, mention of an injury, angst, fluff.
Author’s note: Hi lovelies! I know it’s been a while. I didn’t have much time for writing in the past months, or for being here in general, but it seems like I’m not done with Viking!Geralt and Little Bird yet. Or they’re not done with me yet. Anyway, my insecure ass is going to stop delaying to click on post now and just hope you’ll enjoy 💕
The uneasy feeling has settled deep inside your stomach. And by the time dusk colors the sky a pretty mixture of faint blue, orange, and pink, it feels as if it has taken over your whole body, floating about in your every limb.
You see your fingers tremble ever-so-slightly as you stand in front of the large mirror in your chamber. Your heart drums against your ribcage. And you can feel its frantic beating against the tips of your fingers as you tug at the fabric of your dress to adjust the square-shaped neckline.
The linen feels soft yet unfamiliar against your skin. It’s a loan, just like the artfully embroidered belt hugging your waist and the silver barrette in your hair.
You eyed the clothes and gems with distrust at first, just like the woman who brought them to your chamber this afternoon.
It was the same woman who had sat next to Geralt at the feast last night. She introduced herself as Finna, and as she noticed your muted reaction, her gaze sought yours.
“Their eyes will turn toward you tonight,” she said. “I thought you might want to dress up a little.”
“I probably should, shouldn’t I?” you replied a little stiffly as you accepted the dress from her, still trying to decide whether her words or actions carried a thorn.
“He never touched me, you know?” the other woman stated bluntly thereat. “And neither did he touch any of us.”
Of us whores.
Again, you caught yourself looking for traces of condescension or pity in her eyes, but Finna seemed to return your inquiring look openly and free from spite.
“He’s a good man,” you finally said with a faint smile, which Finna confirmed with a smile herself.
“That he is.”
“I’m delighted,” Geralt declared dryly, making both of you turn around to him.
He stood a few steps away, watching your exchange with crossed arms. And the mock bow he gave then did nothing to conceal his smirk.
“Well, he is most of the time,” you qualified, and both of you joined Finna’s chuckling.
“Ready?” Geralt’s hoarse voice jolts you out of your musings, and then you see his broad form appear behind yours in the mirror.
“I’m ready,” you confirm, and you watch the fingers of his reflection skim along your upper arm.
It’s a fleeting touch, almost incidental and still so natural that your heart leaps wildly in your chest. You know he can hear it; you know he can sense your reaction to him. And a tender smile plays on his lips as he pulls you closer, and you turn around in his arms.
For a moment, you are speechless. Speechless at the sight of his beautiful features lit by the dancing flames in the fireplace. And speechless at the way he looks at you. As if you are the most precious treasure in the world.
“Are you ready?” you finally manage to ask.
“Not yet,” he hums, slowly shaking his head. And then his lips find yours, and his palm cups the back of your head.
His touch is careful enough not to mess up your hairdo yet firm enough to keep you in place as he kisses you deeply, possessively, like a maelstrom suddenly surging up in calm water. And you let the whirl carry you away, cradling his face in your hands, feeling his jaw, tendons, and muscles move under your fingers.
It’s only the sound of the tiny sigh tumbling from your lips that brings both of you back to your senses. And still, it takes you the length of a few heartbeats - hungry mouths and eyes glued to each other - to face the fact that you need to make your way downstairs to join the nightly feast in the hall.
The hallway seems endless and as dark as the night. And after rounding a corner, a glimmer of light outside attracts your attention. Your steps involuntarily falter, and you step to the window to get a glimpse of the figures lit by the light beam of a torch down there in the castle garden.
The man holding the torch seems to be a servant, just like the man next to him, who holds a basket in his hands. Their gazes are fastened on a woman tampering on the trunk of a birch with a knife, maybe to carve something into the bark. Her scarlet-red cloak is unmistakable, and you notice how Geralt freezes in place as he steps to your side, his expression vigilant, his brows knitted with concentration.
Both of you watch Hallveig extend her hand to the side, her eyes still solely directed to the tree in front of her. And the servant with the basket scrambles to pick out a horn and pour something into her palm. Then, she rubs her hands against each other, finally putting them on the birch, in the same spot where she placed the carving.
“A spell,” you whisper as she devoutly lowers her head, probably muttering conjuring words against the tree. And you wonder if Geralt can hear her voice.
His curt, silent nod lets you conjecture that he can. Which means Hallveig can probably hear your voices as well if her senses are as sharp as Geralt’s. And so you remain wordless and silent until Geralt puts his hand on the small of your back to guide you down the stairs. Toward the hall and toward the increasing noise.
The atmosphere in the hall has shifted significantly compared to last night. And you can’t help but agree with Geralt, who had referred to last night’s events as almost tame.
Tonight, the hall is crowded with warriors, and they turn the place into a shambles. They eat and drink, laugh and argue, and they do it with a degree of rampancy that is quite strange to you.
The amount of food, carelessly thrown on the tables and the floor, the met and ale and wine they guzzle or spill, could have fed the townspeople for a whole day. The words they hurl at each other, the anecdotes and jokes no one really listens to, the sneers and provocations that sometimes end in a brawl, are a waste of their own. And so are the efforts of the musicians who play against the noise.
The loudness is so ear-deafening that you can barely hear your own voice, and so Geralt and you sit next to each other in silence. The touch of his leg pressing against yours under the table feels oddly comforting. And still, you have to force yourself to eat the admittedly delicious food he piled on your plate. All the time, you’re tempted to pause, slack-jawed, with the spoon in your hand frozen in the air. And you keep staring at the crowd a few feet away from you, trying to unravel the chaos into single happenings.
A man on the table at the right side of the hall is so drunk he falls off his chair. A woman sitting at a table far back in the hall laughs out loud. A glass breaks somewhere. A couple shares a passionate kiss, apparently unfazed by the crowd around them. And you see Finna and one of the warriors standing at the wall in a heated embrace, barely hidden from the others’ looks. You hastily avert your gaze as the man rips the neckline of her dress with a firm jerk to expose her milk-white breasts while she ruffles her skirt and pulls him closer between her legs.
As your gaze drifts toward the high table, you suddenly find yourself eye-in-eye with Jarl Erik. He returns your look with a raised eyebrow, raising a sumptuous-adorned drinking horn at you. And as you give him a stiff nod that is barely more than a lowering of your eyes, an amused smirk creeps upon his face.
Even though you’re aware that you feel and look out of place, you can’t help but think he looks somehow out of place, too. But contrary to Geralt and you, the captives, there’s no doubt that Erik is the ruler over the hall and the people in it. The one who could finish or intensify the chaos with a sole snipping of his fingers. There’s no doubt that he is always at the ready to rule, and nothing and no one seems to escape his vigilant gaze wandering through the hall. For a certainty, not the woman sitting next to him.
As Hallveig entered the hall earlier, all eyes turned toward her. She walked to the high table with measured steps, almost solemnly, returning the admiring gazes and gasps with obvious satisfaction. Or with haughtiness, as you couldn’t help but think to yourself.
Yet her appearance is akin to a queen without doubt, even more so without the red cloak a servant had accepted deferentially. The dress she wears underneath is red as well, the shade darker, vaguely reminding you of the shed blood on slaughtering day before jul in your village. Golden adornments draw through the fabric, flowing together at the chest, where they form a pattern resembling a warrior’s armor. A golden necklace enlaces her swanlike neck, and an amulet that must be the size of a child’s fist rests between her ample breasts. Her eyes stand out, light as snow against the pitch-black stripe of coal running across her face transitioning into the tattooed runes on her forehead.
She looks relaxed as she sits there at the jarl’s side, leaning back in her throne-like chair. She seems to bathe in the multiple worshipping gazes resting on her. And how could she not, given the attention of the young man on her right is solely directed to her?
It’s the same man who led the warriors into town earlier today. Ingmar, the jarl’s son, as Kári told you. He is a younger version of Erik, tall and heavily muscled, with lighter hair and a hint of chubbiness in his features. His sky-blue eyes seem to lack his father’s cruelty at a first glance. But then, he’s also the one who killed Jarl Harald, his own uncle, during the battle that changed your whole life. And he’s also the one who led the revenge campaign in the borderland.
However, at that moment, he doesn’t seem to care much about death and destruction. His eyes are glued to Hallveig’s lips, occasionally drifting lower to her generous cleavage, while he continues to inch closer to her, letting his fingers skim along the bare skin of her arm. And Hallveig seems to revel in his attention, in his gazes, and in the words he mutters into her ear. An alluring smile plays on her lips as she leans in, undoubtedly to give him a better view.
For a moment, you wonder what might hold her back, what might prevent her from allowing the young man to do what he craves so obviously. But then, you’re quick to notice it’s the jarl himself.
Even as she teases and toys with his son, her eyes keep drifting back to Erik. And just as the young man takes her chin between his fingers, setting about to lower his mouth to hers, the jarl barks a brief command - enough to make her withdraw from the almost-kiss and turn to him. And now Hallveig is the one with fawning submission in her eyes.
Her obedience is rewarded by a satisfied smirk. And as Erik leans in, capturing her chin between his fingers, it looks as if he wants to kiss her. But just a second later, he closes his fingers around her face like a bear trap.
The woman gasps with shock and pain, and there’s no doubt he could crush her delicate cheekbones like the skull of a baby bird if he wanted. Then, he mutters something into her agape mouth, pressing his lips to hers as she hastily tries to nod in reply.
The kiss is brief and coarse, more of a punishment than a caress. Yet, Hallveig’s body reacts, and she seems to melt against him. Just as she reaches out to put her hand on his arm, he pushes her off with force, smirking as she staggers into his son’s arms with an entranced expression still lingering on her face.
Ingmar’s expression, however, is far from entranced. He has watched his father’s actions with clear disapproval, and now, he puts his arm around Hallveig’s waist to steady her. Possessive.
Erik’s barking laugh echoes through the hall despite all that noise, and the remark he utters next makes his son blush to the roots of his hair. The young man’s arm loosens its embrace. And as the jarl offers Hallveig his hand like a gallant, she steps toward him without so much as looking at Ingmar, accepting his father’s hand with a proud smile.
As soon as they step down the platform where the high table is placed, the noise in the room begins to die down until the whole hall is silent. It’s a tense kind of silence, full of expectations, as Erik leads Hallveig to the middle of the hall. And their steps on the wooden floor seem to echo from the walls.
“Warriors! We’ve come far in our fight to restore order and justice, and you deserve my thanks,” he declares with a powerful voice that carries his words to the farthest corner of the room. “Tonight, we will drink, and we will celebrate our victory over the traitor and those who held faith with him. And we will celebrate our brothers who have taken their seats next to our forefathers at Odin’s table in Valhalla. All hail to them!” he shouts, raising his fist in the air, and every man and every woman in the hall follows suit.
“All hail to them!” echoes from the walls.
Geralt and you, however, remain silent - two statues standing at the edge of the crowd. Just when your heart sinks at the thought of all the other souls no one pledges tonight, you feel Geralt’s hand on the small of your back and his warmth behind you. And you know that he, too, says a silent prayer for them to arrive safely.
“But new days will come, my brothers,” Erik continues, making the crowd fall silent again. “And the gods will have new trials for us to stand.”
Now, at the latest, it has become so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
“The jarls from the North seem to be scared of our power. They’re so scared they want to stop us from getting what is due to us. They’re so scared they teamed up like a band of little kids, and they’re on their way here.”
Once more, voices surge up, but they sound lower this time, and the murmur going through the room carries a touch of disapproval. Or fear?
“What?!” Erik bellows, and the murmur fades away in an instant. “Are you as scared as they are?” he adds with a wicked grin and challenge oozing from his every pore.
“How many of them are coming?” His son raises his voice. He has stayed in the background, but now he takes a step toward his father, returning his gaze with narrowed eyes and clenched teeth.
Erik remains silent for a moment, lazily looking his offspring up and down.
“All of them,” he says then. And whatever he wanted to say next is drowned out by the hubbub breaking out in the hall.
“Silence!” he yells. “Shut up!”
And the crowd as well as his son fall silent at the sight of their now-fuming leader.
His weatherbeaten face has taken a dark shade of red, and his eyes look daggers at the men he just called his brothers.
“Shut up before the gods hear your whining!” he growls, and then his voice rises until it’s already loud enough to lead his army onto the battlefield. “The gods are not the side of a bunch of wailing old women! They’re on the side of the brave! On the side of the dauntless! And they will be on our side when we greet the North the way they deserve to be greeted! We’re going to show them what they get from meddling in things that ought not to be meddled in! We’re going to show them with our axes! And with our swords, my brothers!”
This time, shouts of approval are raised, and fists punch the air.
“Above all, it is not for you to doubt the plans of the gods,” Hallveig rises to speak, slowly stepping to the jarl’s side. And even though her voice is quieter than Erik's, the crowd hangs on her every word.
“I consulted the gods, and they destined a great victory for us. However, it is up to all of us to fulfill their plans!”
Geralt’s snort is barely audible. Yet, it is loud enough for Hallveig to hear and she wheels around almost at the exact moment.
The whirl of her dress creates a blast of air, louder and more violent than it should be possible, making you and everyone else gasp with shock as a gust of icy wind hits you in the face. That is, everyone but Geralt.
Your White Wolf remains settled back in his chair, the familiar hint of a mocking smile playing on his lips, and even if he is surprised, he doesn’t let it show.
“Do you have anything to say, Witcher?” Hallveig snarls at him, and her rage in the light of Geralt’s unimpressed demeanor elicits another snort from your husband.
“It’s up to you, huh?” he raises his voice, letting his gaze wander through the hall, over the crowd of unfamiliar and stock-still faces. “And if you don’t win, it’s because you doubted too much? How convenient! Well, at least for those who get to keep their heads. Not for you poor fools, that’s for sure!”
“You should rephrase that,” Erik interposes himself before anyone can react. “If we don’t win, we didn’t try hard enough. And we includes you, too. Witcher.”
His relaxed pose resembles Geralt’s in an almost odd way, and his words make your face grow cold. Still Geralt, however, remains calm.
“Is that so?” he simply asks.
“Of course. Why else do you think you’re still alive?” Erik smiles.
“And you think you can make me fight for you?”
“Oh, you will fight for me,” the jarl declares with confidence.
“If you’re not mistaken, that is,” Geralt smirks and the atmosphere between the two men would be cold enough to make fern frost bloom on glasses and drinking horns.
“Don’t worry, Witcher. I’m never mistaken. Also, it’s not up to you to decide,” Erik shrugs, and as he sets about to turn away, signaling that this conversation is over, Geralt slowly gets up from his chair.
“Do not!” Hallveig growls instantly, almost shielding Erik with her body. “Your poor signs have no power here. Not here, not anywhere, not anytime soon, unless you fulfill your duty.”
Her voice is dark. Dark and gravelly. It seems to reverberate in the room, and it presages how powerful she really is.
However, so is Geralt.
For the length of two or three breaths, the witch and the witcher look daggers at each other.
Their postures are tense. Vigilant. Ready to fight.
And then, things happen very fast. You see them move almost at the same time, and as Hallveig raises her hand ever-so-slightly, an invisible force comes hurtling in Geralt’s direction.
However, it wasn’t aimed at him.
It was aimed at you.
Before you know it, it hits you like an avalanche. Overruns you. Digs into your eyes and into your skull. Creeps along your spine. Leaves nothing but searing, unprecedented pain that seems to tear you to shreds, burning you alive.
Your mouth falls agape as if to let out an agonized cry, but not a sound leaves your lips. Your vision is blurred and you can’t move a single finger. You wonder how you can burn and freeze at the same time. And all you can hear is Geralt shouting your name. His strained growl. As if he tried to push something away. Something heavy. Too heavy. And yet, he tries and tries and tries.
At some point, you feel the force raging inside you shift. Back and forth. Agonizingly slow. Until it loses its chokehold on you, suddenly slipping away, and the pain stops as if it was cut off with an ax. Finally!
Your knees buckle, and you would have hit the floor if Geralt hadn’t wrapped his arms around you. Although he instantly spins you around, shielding you from Hallveig with his broad form, he briefly crushes you against his chest before. And you feel his heartbeat against your skin so fast it’s almost human.
“Little Bird,” he whispers breathlessly, and you clutch the fabric of his shirt with both hands.
“I’m okay,” you croak out, “I’m okay.”
Blood still rushes in your ears and in your every limb, flowing through your body like a rapid stream in springtime when snow and ice melt. At first, you don’t trust your gut feeling, but with every breath you take, you realize more clearly that the pain is gone and that you are okay indeed. In contrast to the warrior on the ground a few steps away from you.
He doesn’t seem to feel the same pain you felt, but apparently, something sent him flying, and he’s still on the ground. His head is bleeding, his eyes are wide with shock, and he clutches his wrist. However, no one in the knot of people around him makes a move to help him.
As the man whimpers with pain, you set about to withdraw from your husband’s embrace.
“No!” Geralt hisses, grabbing you tighter because, of course, he knows what you’re up to.
“Please,” you just whisper, searching his gaze as you reassuringly squeeze his hand. And after a brief nod, he lets go of you.
He has never stopped you from doing what you want, at least not as long as he’s there to protect you. And now, too, he doesn’t leave your side as you step toward the man and crouch down next to him with shaky legs like a newborn foal.
The warriors standing around the casualty back away, and you don’t even have to raise your gaze to know that it’s because Geralt looks like the wrath of the gods themselves. A berserk rage radiates from him, ready to crush anyone who dares to lay hands upon you - first and foremost Hallveig, who watches the scene with a dreamy smile.
She takes a tiny step forward, making Geralt instantly bare his teeth as he readies himself. The smile on her face is now downright cheerful - a weird contrast to the warriors involuntarily backing off further.
You force yourself to keep your attention on the floor where the warrior winces and clenches his teeth as you carefully examine his head and his wrist, trying to move it in different directions.
However, you see from the corner of your eye how Hallveig shifts her weight. You hear Geralt’s growl.
And then, Erik laughs - a somehow odd sound at that moment - turning to the crowd in the hall.
“Brothers,” he declares with a booming voice. “We’re going to set off in two days. Be ready at dawn overmorrow. But enjoy the feast tonight! Enjoy the feast tomorrow! And be confident! For you have just witnessed the powers on our side. To our victory!” he roars, and the warriors follow suit.
Ingmar signals the musicians to start playing again, and shortly afterward, people begin to scatter, returning to drinking and dancing as if nothing ever happened.
As you raise your gaze, you only catch a glimpse of Hallveig’s back as Ingmar ushers her back to the high table.
The jarl, however, remains standing next to you, watching you continue your examination of the warrior’s wrist.
“It’s dislocated, but probably not broken,” you finally say to no one in particular after taking your time to be sure, just like your foster mother had taught you to. “But I have to bring the bones back into their proper position and bandage the wrist afterward. The procedure will be quite painful, and I need two, or better three men to hold him down. And I need water, soap, bandages, and a few branches, as straight as possible.”
“The fuck you will!” the warrior on the ground growls at you, and the sharp smell of honey beer in his breath makes your stomach churn. “Go tinker with someone else!”
“Fine,” you just shrug and get up. “You should start to practice how to wield your sword with your other hand. Because you won’t be able to use this one anymore.” And you couldn’t have cared less about the gasp falling from the man’s lips.
“So, you’re a healer, huh?” Erik speaks up, blocking your way as you’re about to turn away.
“Correct,” you confirm.
His cold gaze holds yours for a moment. “Get him out of here,” he commands the two men who remained standing next to the casualty, apparently his friends.
“You’re going to fix his wrist,” he continues, directed at you. “Just knock his brains out if he refuses. And tomorrow you’re going to pack your stuff. Both of you,” he smirks at Geralt and you. “You’re going to join us as our new healer. The old one managed to lose his head recently. Spare your backtalk, Witcher! It’s a done deal, anyway. And rest assured that I won’t hesitate to clap her in iron and tie her up on her horse if you raise trouble. I just guess you’re not keen on seeing your pretty little wife like that.”
Geralt’s look speaks of blood and thunder. He remains silent, yet unyieldingly returns the jarl’s gaze, which demands an answer or some other kind of consent.
As more moments tick away, Erik realizes that he’ll get neither out of your stubborn husband.
“Well, it’s settled then,” he smirks - a last attempt to dare Geralt.
And it’s only when Erik turns to you, locking his piercing gaze with yours in a silent threat, that Geralt stirs, protectively positioning himself closer to you.
Erik’s smirk widens, and you can’t help but think that his eyes downright flash up, and the manic grin creeps back upon his face.
“Healer,” he drawls with a mock bow. “Witcher.” And then, he turns away, strolling back to the high table. To carry on with the feast, without doubt.
Geralt and you, however, have barely enough time to exchange a gaze before you follow the servant who guides you to the injured warrior. He was brought to a chamber by his comrades, who have meanwhile done their best to get him as drunk as possible.
Telling by the grim look on his face, you suspect that Geralt wouldn't have minded knocking the man out. But the warrior is full to the gills, and Geralt’s service isn’t necessary while you reduce the bones in a long and exhausting procedure.
As you’re finally back in your chamber, your White Wolf begins to pace up and down the room. Restlessly. Like a wild animal looking for a way out of a pitfall.
Both of you know it is a pitfall. One that might end deadly. And both of you know there is no way out. Not right now. And still…
“I’m going to talk to him tomorrow,” Geralt mutters at some point without interrupting his wandering.
“Don’t,” you say quietly. “It will lead to nothing.” And you continue to carefully spread out your borrowed dress on the divan so the fabric won’t crease too much.
“I know,” Geralt replies in a hoarse voice, and as you turn around, you see him watching you with pain writ large on his face. “I know, but I have to try. It’s too dangerous for you; you've experienced it firsthand tonight. I need you to be safe!”
“I can take care of myself and my safety,” you want to reassure him, but both of you hear the revolt resonating in your words. Revolt and determination.
“I know,” he sighs, exhaling a long breath. “I know you can. It’s just…” And then, he falls silent, plunking down into an armchair covered in velvet - a piece of furniture that had probably belonged to a castle in a land far away and that had found its way here in one of Erik’s raids.
He stares into the flames, and whatever he sees in his inner eye seems to feel like torture. And his teeth dig into the insides of his cheeks.
You stop fussing around with the dress to step to his side. As you stand in front of him, you extend your hand, carefully running it over his head.
“You weren’t supposed to live in times like these,” he says slowly, pensively shaking his head. “You were supposed to live a calm and peaceful life. A beautiful hut. A garden with plants and flowers. A man who reads every wish from your eyes and who can give you children.”
You can feel it, the pain in his words. The old pain.
As you cradle his cheek in your hand, feeling stubble rub against your palm, his torpor melts away from him.
He wraps his arms around you. And you feel the warmth of his breath through your chemise as he presses his face against your belly.
“But I chose you,” you say quietly, stroking his silky white hair. “I love you, and I chose you. And I would love and choose you and this life again and again. Until Ragnarök and beyond, remember?”
He raises his head, and his golden gaze finds yours. Interlocks with yours. Telling you things you can’t put into words. Things that don’t have to be put into words. And a gentle smile tugs at his lips.
“Maybe this battle will be the end of it all. Who knows…,” you continue.” But maybe it won’t. I just know I want to be where you are. No matter what.”
“That you will, Little Bird,” he mumbles, nuzzling his cheek into your palm before he tightens his embrace around your smaller form.
His forehead sinks against your belly while your fingers play gently with his longs strands.
You stay like that for a whole long while. And despite all the uncertainty about what this path will bring you, you feel nothing but relief that you will walk it together.
Warnings: 18+ ONLY - language, PTSD, manipulation, mentions of stalking/tracking, mentions of past drugging, brief mention of a pregnancy test but that's about it. I've dropped quite a few Easter eggs in here to lead up to the next chapter.
Word Count: 3.2K
Soft Dark Nomad! Steve Rogers x Reader
Summary | Separating from your husband is harder than you realize, despite warnings from your therapist that you need to give yourself closure and keep your distance.
The paper cup filled with coffee warms your hands, hovering near the assortment of cookies, finger sandwiches and chips.
Your rain boots squeak lightly under the linoleum, watching others come in and embrace, some heading straight for the table as they load up their plates with food. You know that for some, this is the most food they’ll have today – maybe even this week – and you feel a twinge of guilt for even helping yourself to a cup of coffee.
“Hey.”
Sam Wilson stands behind you, cautiously looking at your face. It’s an embrace that you’ve needed, fighting back the tears as he holds you close. You’d had your line drawn in the sand once Steve had retired, no more Christmas cards mailed by Tony Stark or Rhodey. An invisible upheld law that you swore your allegiance to Steve, even if you had wanted to bring them back together to talk, to smooth over the past.
They’d done that for you.
Sam has been your only lifeline to that world that you barely saw, shielded from it much from Steve, who didn’t want to talk about work, especially when he would repeatedly tell you that you were the only place he would call home.
Home, he would tell you, meant that he didn’t want to scar you with the things he had seen and done. Shutting you out intentionally from that world meant that you had to talk with Sam to understand how to bridge that gap.
At your sigh of relief at his handsome face, he opens his arms to you, hugging you tight as he knew that was exactly what you needed.
“I know,” he affirms, so simple and yet poignant that it makes you squeeze your eyes shut to keep from crying.
When he pulls away, he looks around at the people milling behind you.
“This was a drive for you, right?”
He’s right.
Usually his VA meetings are in the city but you’ve been able to track down when he goes to the more rural areas, places where veterans are forgotten and assistance has faded away over time. Sam doesn’t speak about the Sokovia Accords, nor does he grant any interviews now that he’s firmly told reporters that he wants to be left alone. Rumors of Steve giving him the shield were true, one hanging up in his home that he sometime looked on with pride when you and Steve would visit.
For now, he seems at peace.
“A little bit of a drive,” you admit. “I guess I just… needed to see a friendly face.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“Not for a week.”
Sam gives a low whistle, nodding his head. He had been the first person to approach Steve about his issues. For a time, Steve had been attending the meetings – sometime with you and sometimes without you – or so he told you.
“He stopped coming,” Sam informs you. “I guess I thought you’d been able to get him some more professional help.”
“He didn’t like the doctors,” you answer quickly, your brow furrowing at his first comment. “When did he stop coming?”
“About a month ago. He stuck around after a meeting, told me he felt like you and him were in a better place and that he felt that he could move on. I just assumed that you were both figuring things out.”
“I moved out.”
“I know. He told me. Last time I saw him, he mentioned that he was going to remodel the house. Something about keeping himself busy.”
You frown at the news.
“He didn’t mention that to me.”
Sam shoots you a careful look, eyebrow raising as he asks his next question.
“Are you okay?” he asks carefully.
“That’s a loaded question.”
“It may need a loaded answer. Steve isn’t okay. I know that,” Sam confides in you quietly. “He hasn’t been himself since all of this went down. I know he takes his hits and he moves on but this isn’t like anything I’ve seen. It’s obsessive behavior. That’s not healthy. Do you have people who are looking out for you?”
“My family. Friends.”
“You know you’re always welcome here. I mean that,” Sam emphasizes. “But I want you to be careful, okay?”
“Do you know something I don’t?”
“He’s always been obsessed with you. He loves you. More than anything else in this world. But obsession is never a good thing.”
“That’s why we took a break,” you admit, looking down at your cup. “I… I can’t help him in the way he needs.”
“It’s like those airplane safety videos. Put your own mask on before you help others. I know you love him but right now, you need to love him at a safe distance. I’m not trying to scare you, I just know that you two have been together for a while and Steve can be a charming bastard. But I didn’t like what I saw that last month and I didn’t like the idea of him remodeling a house for both of you to live in. He didn’t even mention it to you.”
A chill takes over slightly, making you sip your coffee before you nod.
“I promise. I’ll take care of myself first.”
-
Mona turns up the volume on the TV, the news reporter standing in a wooded area.
“The man has zero recollection of how he found himself in the forest, let alone the last two days. Authorities are still investigating but it is believed the man had been drugged but he is expected to make a full recovery. More to come on this breaking story.”
Mona turns the TV off, making a face as she hands you a glass of wine.
“This world is shitty. I hope he’s turns out okay. Can’t even go have a drink anymore,” Mona sighs. “No more news for me, that shit was depressing. How about we order take out for dinner? What are you in the mood for?”
“I don’t know. My brain is all over the place.
“I can look. But I’m glad you’re here.”
Mona places her glass of wine down, her expression changing for a moment when she clears her throat.
“Look, I need to ask this and I know it’s going to sound crazy but I need you to hear me out, okay?” she warns gently. “It’s been bothering me for a while.”
“What?”
You’re confused, unsure of why this conversation has shifted so suddenly.
“The other night I tried to call you and it kept going to voicemail. I know you told me you were tired but you haven’t been sleeping lately.”
“When?”
“A week or so ago. You told me Steve had been trying to see you and then you didn’t answer your phone and I got worried. I know I saw your text that you were going to bed but…” Mona sighs, shaking her head. “I know it seems weird but the text didn’t even seem like you. You usually call me when you’re awake to let me know you’re alright.”
“I was just tired.”
You repeat the words mentally in your head, trying to remember the night that Steve had shown up at your apartment. You remember eating, Steve talking to you about trying to get back together. You don’t remember texting her, Mona’s hand reaching out to touch yours as your memories get fuzzy from that night.
“Was he with you that night?” Mona asks, a lump forming in your throat.
“For a little,” you confirm, Mona’s mouth tightening at your words.
“Do you remember anything from that night? Texting me back to say you were tired? You didn’t sound like yourself”
“I was tired, Mona, I -”
Mona grips your hand tight.
“I know your texting style. That wasn’t you. And the fact you can’t remember anything else about that night?”
“I told you, I was really tired.”
Mona doesn’t let go of your hand when you try to reach for your phone, to try to get some confirmation that you aren’t blacking out at your memory.
“I need you to listen to me. I think he drugged you.”
-
Your boss doesn’t bat an eye when she grants you a two-week personal leave. She’s been engrossed in the news, a recipient of a Stark grant and she’s been waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop. The personal leave, she had told you with a sympathetic nod, is the first step in getting a divorce once you have a clear head.
You don’t have the strength to talk to Mona, to tell her that the test she had pressed you to take is negative.
You’ve cancelled your session with Doctor Maren, rescheduling for next week so that you don’t get a phone call. As it turns out, it isn’t just your friends who are worried about you. Court appointed therapy is a precaution, as you were told when you’d filed. Monitored to make sure you complied.
Dialing Sam’s number, you wait for him to pick up, which he does on the second ring.
“Hey, everything okay?”
“I don’t know,” you respond, tears filling your eyes almost too quickly at his question. “I think… I don’t know… I -”
“Are you home? I can come to you or we can meet somewhere.”
“I’m not home,” you rush out. “I’m… I’m a hotel. I just… I can’t be there.”
“Where do you want to meet?”
“I can meet you at the VA.”
“Sounds good, I’ll make sure you’re on the list.”
“Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
-
Steve pulls down his baseball cap, ignoring the woman standing next to him in the aisle, her overt bending making him look in the other direction. His cart is nearly full, stopping to look at the various colors of paint. The new room he is working on needs a lighter color of paint than he first thought, picking up two swatches as the woman clears her throat.
“That’s a pretty color.”
“It is,” Steve agrees, looking between both of them.
Your favorite colors have always been green or blue, various shades in between. The woman looks over, giving him a smile.
“I like the green,” she announces. “Very earthy.”
He notices her eyes settle on his wedding ring, her smile fading for a moment.
“Lucky woman,” she says with a nod in his direction. “Does she have a favorite color?”
“She does. It’s blue.”
“I’d go with blue then.”
He stops for a moment, grabbing the bucket of paint and placing it into his cart. The woman watches him carefully, as if trying to figure out where she’s seen him from before.
For a moment, he entertains the thought of her possibly being at the club that you had visited, wondering if she could place his face. Steve knows this is out of the question. He’d been the only one there to take him out.
He’s seen the news. It’s a pity that the man survived but Steve knows it was by pure luck.
Still, the idea makes him wonder what she’s thinking. He thought he would have gotten tired of the beard but it affords him the anonymity that he didn’t know he needed. It had taken some getting used to, especially the way you had first looked at him when you’d seen him when he’d landed from Wakanda. Clean shaven was now a thing of the past, gone with the hopes and dreams that he would be back to the man he used to be.
“Well, you have a nice day,” she calls out, admittedly defeated that he isn’t going to be baited.
“You too.”
He notices how short her skirt is, watching her turn toward another aisle. A woman on the prowl, looking for her next paramour. He knows you would never be like, stalking down the aisles of home improvement stores, batting your eyelashes at random men. Your loyalty is one of the reasons he was drawn to you, how trusting you were and devoted.
He looks down at the supplies in his cart, eyeing the various rolls of masking tape, zip ties and other things inside, including the thick pieces of lumber that he still has to pick up.
By the time he gets to the registers, he’s already mapped out his plans for the next few days. He’s been back on a cleaner routine, working out in the early hours of the morning and late at a night when he isn’t working tediously on the house.
He smiles to the cashier, paying in cash as she returns it.
“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Captain America?” she asks, handing him his receipt.
“You’re the first one. You have a good day.”
-
“What happened to Bucky?”
“Deprogramming in Wakanda. Steve took him there himself and when he came back… he was a different person. Made sense. You thought your best friend was dead for decades and he’s brainwashed. That would mess anyone up.”
“And Tony?”
“I wasn’t there,” Sam sighs, straightening up in his chair. “I just know the fight was brutal. I saw videos.”
“I know,” you respond quietly. “I saw them. He doesn’t know that.”
In Sam’s office, it’s a safe space, his degrees and certificates hanging on the walls, pictures in glass frames of his travels around the world.
Him, Bucky and Steve at your wedding.
“Do you ever reach out to Tony?”
“No,” you deny quickly. “Pepper sent me a letter once. Handwritten. She said she missed him. Missed us.”
“Did you ever answer?”
“No,” you swallow. “Steve found it. He wasn’t ready to respond.”
“But it was addressed to you,” Sam points out. “Did he tell you he didn’t want you to answer?”
“I called her. She didn’t answer and then texted me that Tony was around.”
Sam swears under his breath, a look of disgust on his face.
“You’re collateral damage.”
You try to shrug, the loneliness creeping up again. Chewing on a slice of pizza, your thoughts go to Mona and how you had promised that you would tell someone. You still haven’t told Sam why you’re there, the need to admit why you’re occupying a seat in his office rising like bile in your throat.
“When I saw Steve last week, I let him inside my apartment to talk.”
Sam’s head tilts at your admission.
“Go on.”
“He was still trying to get me to change my mind on the separation but.” Pausing, you aren’t sure if you can form the words. It doesn’t feel right, like you’re about to drown.
“What happened?”
“We were eating and I woke up the next morning. I don’t… I don’t remember what happened after we talked.”
Sam goes still, knowing he’s trying to process what you’ve just told him.
“He drugged you.”
“I don’t know,” you reply, Sam shaking his head. “Sam, I -”
“Did you report it?”
“No,” you answer quickly. “I can’t report him, are you kidding, he -”
“Drugged you. Did you get checked out?”
“Sam, nothing happened. I took a pregnancy test, it was negative. I was in the clothes I had gone to work in, no sign of a condom, no sign of anything. I just… slept.”
“As far as you know.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“Wouldn’t what? Not get consent while you’re asleep? You’re right, that doesn’t sound like Steve. But the drugging doesn’t sound like him either and here we are, talking about it.”
Silence falls, Sam muttering to himself before he stands.
“Obsessive behavior,” he says to you. “Is that why you didn’t want to stay in your apartment? Does he come there often?”
“I haven’t seen him since I told you. Sam, I just need guidance. He’s hurt and he won’t listen to me. If he did… drug me… I can’t be alone with him.”
“He needs to be taken in.”
You shake your head sadly.
“He wouldn’t spend but a few hours there. And he doesn’t need to be thrown into a jail cell, he needs help.”
“That help can’t come from you.”
“I know.”
“Let me talk to him,” Sam offers. “I can get him into treatment, we can plan this out.”
“He won’t listen.”
“It’s that or jail,” Sam reminds you. “Do you understand the severity of what you just told me?”
“It was to help me sleep.”
“You can’t keep making excuses for his behavior. So, let’s say he was trying to help you out. Did you ask to be drugged? To be placed into bed?”
At your silence, Sam shakes his head.
“I’ll make sure you have an escort back to your hotel. But you have to promise me, and I mean promise me, that you won’t contact him or entertain the thought of contacting him until he gets help.”
You nod in response.
“I promise.”
-
It’s late when you get back, Sam’s right hand, Joaquin walking you to your hotel room, waiting for you to get inside.
Overly tired, you head into the bathroom to take a shower, stripping off your clothes and stepping inside, the hot water beating against your skin.
Stepping out and wrapping towel around your body and one around your hair, examining your face in the mirror gives you pause, noticing your sad expression. You force yourself to smile, touching the apples of your cheeks before you sigh, brushing your teeth in defeat. For that minuscule moment, you almost felt like yourself, finishing up your bedtime routine and slipping into a pair of leggings and an oversized shirt.
Stopping in your tracks, a bouquet catches your attention on the table. It’s red roses, beautifully tied together with a blue bow.
You hadn’t heard anyone come in, let alone the open and close of the door. Inching closer, you pick up the card, reading what it says in a typed font.
I miss you.
Swallowing hard, you’re unsure of what to say or do, taking a step back to look around the room. It’s comfortably quiet, even as you open the closets and look under the bed.
Calling the front desk, you hope that it was a mistake, getting ready to give them a piece of your mind about a flower delivery that was not authorized. For a moment, you relax. It’s probably for the wrong room and a mistake can still be fixed. You’ll double bolt your door tonight and check out and get another hotel.
“Hello?” you greet the front desk when a friendly voice comes on the line. “I’m in Room 476. I was in the shower when flowers were delivered and I had the do not disturb sign on.”
“Oh no,” the voice says, dismayed. “I am so sorry, let me look it up. I apologize, that is unacceptable.”
You can hear the sound of keys on the keyboard being punched, the line going quiet.
“I’m so sorry but it doesn’t appear that there were any flower deliveries in our system today. I’m going to send up our manager and security to address this with you if that is alright.”
“Yes. Please.”
When you hang up, you go back to the flowers, noticing the blue ribbon.
It’s in your favorite color.
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