When I Read Your Fics It Genuinely Feels So Real That I Have To Wake Myself Up To Rejoin The Real World

I randomly started thinking about this fic again after like at least two years and I'm re-obsessed and couldn't find it in my reposts so I'm re blogging it again :)))))))

Just One Kiss Masterlist

(photos not mine, storyboard very much mine)

Series Summary: Bucky Barnes has been chasing after you since he was ten years old, but you’re determined not to give in. How long can you hold out when all he’s asking for is just one kiss? (40′s happy ending AU)

Series Warnings: Language, excessive amount of fluff, slow burn, mutual pining

Part One - The Beginning

Part Two - A Walk Home

Part Three - Moving Day

Part Four - A Dance

Part Five - Girls’ Night

Part Six - The Fight

Part Seven - Christmas

Part Eight - The Question

Part Nine - First Date

Part Ten - Afternoon in the Park

Part Eleven - Last Date

Part Twelve - The Goodbye

Part Thirteen - The First Letters

Part Fourteen - Broken Silence

Part Fifteen - Finale

Epilogue Pieces

Bonus Material Masterlist

Overview of My Writing ♡

My Ao3 ⛧ My Ko-Fi ⛧ Not Ghost ⛧ @ibikus (my main) This blog is 18+ only, MDNI

Recent Works

Bound by Lace (cardinal copia x f!reader, smut, 18+, MDNI)

No Games (tero x gn!reader, kiss ficlet)

One More (cardinal copia x gn!reader, kiss ficlet)

multichapter fics:

⛧ I Knew Nothing but Shadows (ongoing, 8/?) (only on Ao3, 18+ MDNI, f!reader, artist!reader slow-burn with horror/mystery elements) – Check out the amazing fanart to the story here, here and here ♡

one-shots:

⛧ Honey and Venom (on Ao3, 9.5k words, f!reader, 18+, MINORS DNI, Or: The four times you fell for your best friend without noticing and the one time you did.)

⛧ A Lesson In Patience (8k words, Ao3 only, f!reader, soft dom!copia smut, 18+, MINORS DNI)

ficlets, drabbles, headcanons:

⛧ Rough Day (on Ao3, 1k words, f!reader)

⛧ Let Me Help (on Ao3, 2k words, gn!reader, helping Papa do his make-up)

⛧ Don't Make Me Wait (on Ao3, 1.5k words, f!reader, dom!copia, 18+, MDNI)

⛧ Analogue Date Nights and Polaroids (short headcanon after chapter 16)

multichapter fics:

⛧ Dance Macabre (completed 4/4) (only on Ao3, 15k words, f!reader, 18+, MINORS DNI)

one-shots:

⛧ 5 Types of Christmas Kisses with Copia (+1) (on Ao3, 8k words, f!reader, festive fluff)

⛧ A Message from the Bulletin Board (on Ao3, 9k words, gn!reader, Copia posts a lonely hearts ad, sickening fluff ensues)

ficlets, drabbles, headcanons:

⛧ How it Feels (on Ao3, 2k words, hurt/comfort, tw: body issues, gn!reader)

⛧ Spring Walk (on Ao3, 1.4k words, anxiety comfort, gn!reader)

⛧ Ouch (on Ao3, 1.3k words, gn!reader, fluff)

⛧ One More (on Ao3, 750 words, gn!reader, lots of kissing)

⛧ Bound by Lace (on Ao3, 2.8k words, f!reader, dom pervy cardinal smut, 18+, MDNI)

⛧ Date Night Polaroids

ficlets, drabbles, headcanons:

⛧ No Games (on Ao3, 1.6k words, gn!reader, friends to lovers ficlet)

one-shots:

⛧ Unprecedented (on Ao3, 12.7k words, gn!reader, 18+, MDNI, Or: The four times you almost get Secondo to admit his feelings and the one time you succeed)

ficlets, drabbles, headcanons:

⛧ His Body and Blood (on Ao3, 2.6k words, gn!reader, ANGST, you try to resurrect secondo, contains gore/horror elements)

⛧ Starved (on Ao3, 1.6k words, afab!reader, 18+, MDNI, just smut)

⛧ Dough (a suggestive drabble + tasty-ribz's art)

one-shots:

⛧ Friday Nights at the Cinema Club (on Ao3, 14k words, vampire!primo, gn!reader, romance, horror, smut, 18+, MDNI) – See this amazing fanart to the fic ♡

ficlets, drabbles, headcanons:

⛧ The Devil's Ivy (on Ao3, 900 words, gn!reader, wholesome fluff)

any or multiple Papas:

⛧ Soft, Sleepy Sex with the Papas (on Ao3, 4.8k words in total, 1k-1.4k for each Papa, f!reader, 18+, MDNI)

⛧ Ghosting (on Ao3, 2.5k words, any Papa x gn!reader, sick care ficlet)

⛧ Coffee HCs for the Papas (+ tasty-ribz's art)

multichapter fics:

⛧ Ziplocked Love | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 (on Ao3, 20k words total, dew x f!reader, 18+, MINORS DNI, completed)

recommendations:

If you need any fic recs in the Ghost fandom you can click here to see all the ones I shared or click here to see my favorite Ao3 fics! Find some amazing fanart here!

If you want to support me, please consider reblogging my work, leaving comments or kudos :)

this made me laugh out loud i love it

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince I love this scene.

The Serpent's Paramour CH 22 - Sebastian Sallow x Female!Reader

Summary: In the wake of Nora and Joshua showing up at Natty's house battered beyond belief, a life altering decision looms on the horizon. What do you do next? None of the options presented are good ones, but the one thing you know with absolute clarity is that you can't stay in Uganda any longer.

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: 18+, aged up characters, graphic descriptions of blood/injury/torture, angst

New chapter is up on Ao3 as well

It felt like you were moving through quicksand over the course of the next hour. 

Natty had led Ominis and Devlin to another spare room on the opposite end of the second floor, the two men working together to cautiously transport Nora up the stairs. Paternal panic was emanating off of Devin in waves, so no one had said anything when he’d taken it upon himself to take charge of his daughter’s care. You and Sebastian had jumped into action to move Joshua onto the couch in the living room, the Ashwinder’s feet clamped firmly to your sides while Sebastian looped his arms under the man’s armpits. 

The second his back hit the cushions of the sofa, he groaned, eyes flashing with pain. “Gods. Your bedside manner… needs some improvement.”

Sebastian huffed dryly, shaking his head as he took to unbuttoning the redhead’s blood-stained vest and shirt. “I’m not exactly used to my underlings showing up half-dead in front of me like this. Where are you hurt?” 

“Don’t know,” the Ashwinder sighed. “Everywhere?”

“Unless you want to end up completely naked and make the lady blush, you’re going to have to be more specific than that.” 

Joshua tried to laugh, but the sound came out in the form of a wet, rattling wheeze. “Chest is torn up… hip hurts, too. Right arm is shredded to bits.” 

Without further commentary, Sebastian motioned for your assistance. You held Joshua upright as the brunet carefully peeled away the top half of the ruined clothing, his movements measured and gentle in his attempts to not worsen the existing damage. Without the vest and the shirt in the way, you were given a clear, unobscured view of the wounds, and the sight of them made nausea churn in your gut. 

It was awful. Violent, deep lesions decorated the front of Joshua’s chest– many of them criss-crossing over one another to form intentional ‘X’ shapes over his heart and abdomen. Bruises, burns, and cuts covered every inch of his torso. His arm was sliced badly too, but it looked to be the work of a botched apparition attempt– splinched nearly to the bone. Had he been the one to get himself and Nora here? It was near suicide to apparate if the witch or wizard casting the spell wasn’t one hundred percent focused. 

That was hardly important right now, though. Beneath the dried blood, you could make out a strange pattern that looked weirdly similar to lightning. The jagged lines were a dark red color and stretched outward from the center of his chest, wrapping around his entire upper body and delving beneath his sides. You wagered that if you turned him over to look, you would find the same marks all over his back. 

“Merlin– what is that?” 

Sebastian looked at you out of the corner of his eye, his jaw clenched so hard that a muscle there spasmed. “Evidence of the Cruciatus Curse. Victor did this to you?” 

“He gave the order,” Joshua muttered, squeezing his eyes shut against the gruesome pain you knew he had to be feeling. “Told the men when to start… and when to stop.” 

“And the cuts? The bruises?” 

You bristled when you heard his answer. “Henri– the fucking madman. Said it was more personal… using his hands.” 

You were unfortunately familiar with Henri’s methods. While you hadn’t experienced anything to this degree during your week long captivity in the Poacher’s castle, none of this was bringing back good memories. Sebastian looked at you again, his expression warring between concern and anger, but you weren’t the one that needed care right now. Steeling your nerves, you ignored his blatant worry and bolted into the kitchen, grabbing every available rag, towel, and napkin you could get your hands on. A bowl was swiftly filled with water– but Anne’s sudden appearance in front of you stopped you before you could return to the living room. 

She hugged a bottle of amber liquid to her chest, her gaunt face mirroring the panic you felt deep down. “I can help,” she said firmly. “I’ve been around doctors– I know what to do.” 

You were hardly of a mind to protest. With a curt nod, you and Anne made your way to the living room with your assortment of makeshift medical supplies. Sebastian’s face fell when he caught sight of his sister, and his body seemed to move on its own to block her view of the brutalized dark wizard on the couch. “You don’t need to see this, Anne–” 

“I’ve seen these exact sorts of things for the last five years,” she cut him off sternly. The younger twin barely spared her brother a glance as she got situated on her knees, helping herself to a rag before dipping it into the bowl of water. “I know how to help better than anyone. Go find Natty– ask her if she has any Wiggenweld potions. They won’t heal everything, but it can minimize the bleeding and fix that gods-awful rattling in his chest.” 

Sebastian’s hands curled defiantly, but he didn’t outright object to his sister’s instructions. Clearly he felt negatively about her exposing herself to the horror scene playing out in Natty’s house, and it was for that reason you found yourself saying, “I’ll go. I want to check on Nora, anyway.” 

A shadow of guilt flashed across Sebastian’s face at the mention of the female Ashwinder, but you were already walking out of the room by the time you considered consoling him. There would be time to check on his wellbeing after everyone had made sure neither Nora nor Joshua died. 

Things weren’t much better upstairs. Ominis, Devlin, and Natty were busy tending to Nora’s unconscious body with unwavering focus. The Auror ran his wand over her torso, the red tip pulsing quickly as he seemingly scanned her for internal damage. Natty had just finished unbuttoning her tattered blouse to reveal injuries identical to the ones that littered Joshua’s abdomen, but the bruising against her ribs couldn’t be fully concealed by the blood caked to her skin. It looked nasty– monstrous. Someone with a vendetta had definitely gone to work on her, and for the first time since knowing her, you found yourself fearing for Nora’s life. 

Devlin was hunched over his daughter– brushing matted strands of hair out of her face as he murmured reassurances that you weren’t even sure she could hear. “You’re going to be alright, baby. You’ll be fine– I’m right here with you. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” 

You had never seen the older man so terrified. Angry, bewildered, and shocked– yes. But the fear in his eyes shook you to your very core, your eyes stinging with the threat of tears. 

“Natty,” you called to her softly. “Anne was asking for Wiggenweld for Joshua. Have you got any left?” 

The woman’s eyes stayed trained on Nora’s body as she wordlessly and wandlessly summoned up the same types of things you had fetched downstairs. She nodded at the same time she grabbed for a rag, dunking it in the water before wringing the excess back into the bowl. “Yes, they are under the shelf in the dining room.” 

There were… a lot of shelves in the dining room. Furrowing your brow, you muttered, “Um… which one?” 

“The one next to the decorative vases–” her hand stilled against Nora’s bloodied shoulder, pursing her lips as she reevaluated what she was saying. “Nevermind, I will get them.” 

You felt bad for removing your host from her self-imposed duties, but you genuinely had no idea which shelves she was referring to. Time was not on anyone’s side right now, so wasting it in search of healing potions didn’t seem wise. As Natty passed you, she handed you the red-tinged rag, holding your stare for a few extra seconds with sorrow glimmering in her dark eyes. “Are they… do they work with…”

“They used to work for Rookwood before Sebastian took over,” you whispered. “Now, though… I’m not so sure. I can’t make heads or tails of this.” 

“This is…” she trailed off, shaking her head to herself as she glanced back at the jagged scars decorating Nora’s skin. “I have never seen marks of a curse so severe. Even the ones I got from Harlow were not–” her voice caught in her throat, but before you could offer any form of comfort, Natty shook the thought from her mind. “That she is alive at all is a miracle.” 

“I know. So let’s try to keep it that way.” 

There was nothing else either one of you could say. Natty hurried out into the hallway to make her way downstairs, and you swiftly strode over to her original position near the head of the bed. Nora’s injuries were… extensive, to put it mildly. Cuts and bruises, gashes and lesions, and that abhorrent scar left over from the Crutiatus Curse. All of it was stark against her fair skin, sickening you to your core and making you think that anyone capable of doing such a thing to another human being deserved the most painful of deaths. 

Echoing your thoughts, Devlin spoke up in a low, threatening voice. “I want to kill him myself for this.” 

You almost asked who before thinking better of it. Henri or Rookwood– it didn’t matter. If they were working together like Joshua had said, then they were both equally guilty. “I know. We need to focus on Nora for now, though. One thing at a time…” 

From the other end of the bed, Ominis sighed and let his wand bearing arm fall to his side. “The bruising is inside of her, too. I can’t tell where– maybe her lungs– but I don’t think we’ll be able to give her the kind of care she needs here. She needs professional help.” 

Devlin grimaced, his eyes never once wavering from his daughter’s mercifully serene face. “St. Mungo’s?” 

“Ordinarily I would say yes, but in her current state…” Ominis frowned and shook his head. “I wouldn’t recommend apparating with her back to London. I’ll ask Natty if there’s a hospital nearby we can bring her to.” 

Whatever words Devlin wanted to reply with got lodged in his throat. His brows pinched together, and he dipped his chin in understanding. Even though Ominis couldn’t see the motion, the palpable stillness within the room conveyed the older man’s feelings well enough. He would do whatever was best for his daughter– no questions asked. 

The Auror turned on his heel to exit the room, leaving you, the elder Ashwinder, and Nora alone in the bedroom. There wasn’t much you could say to quell Devlin’s worries, so you instead began methodically wiping away the blood that adorned his daughter’s chest. Her brassiere was the only thing Natty had left on her upper body, and you elected to leave it where it was and just clean around it the best you could. 

“How did Joshua know to come here?” You found yourself asking after a while. Devlin was slow to respond, and when he finally did, his words were strained. 

“Nora had been filling in for Sebastian and I while we were away. We were corresponding regularly after we ended up in France, and I sent word to her the day we came here. I didn’t tell her the specifics of where, but since your friend works for Uagadou, I assume she was able to find out the address…” he trailed off after that, his expression conveying well enough that he was grateful for his daughter’s sleuthing. Digging deeper for Natty’s personal information– however that might have come to pass– had probably saved her life. 

Minutes ticked by in silence. You were fully prepared for things to continue like that, but then Devlin’s hoarse, weathered voice reached your ears. “What do you want to do?” 

You stilled only briefly before dunking the rag in a bowl of water, wringing out the excess and resuming your efforts. “About what?” 

“This,” he jerked his chin towards Nora. “If Rookwood and Henri are at the manor, we can go after them. We can put an end to them before they get the chance to jump us at the ancient magic site. You and I both know that’s where they’ll end up, anyway– Victor already knows that’s Sebastian’s end goal.” 

It was a sensible question… but not an easy one for you to answer. “Shouldn’t you be asking Sebastian this? Why does my opinion matter?” 

“Its always mattered, kid. I’ll ask Sebastian too, make no mistake. But you’re the one Henri is after. I still don’t know what to think of your idea that Victor caused all of this just to kill you, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’ve been a part of this. So if it was up to you, what would you do?” 

You swiped away more blood as you chewed the inside of your cheek. He made a good point; bringing the fight to Rookwood did present an opportunity that was too tempting to pass up. It would remove the largest obstacle in Sebastian’s path to the relic, and it would all but guarantee that the plan to cure Anne could be executed without interruption. 

But it was almost too perfect. Too convenient. 

Nora and Joshua escaping was either the biggest stroke of luck the universe had ever dished out, or it was a calculated move on Rookwood’s part. He had to know they would make their way back to everyone if given the chance– that they would bring the news of his arrival straight to everyone here. Sebastian’s twin sister had been cursed by the very same man he had worked for, and Nora was Devlin’s daughter. Between the two of them having such personal motivations to seek Victor out, the likelihood of the manor being a trap was astronomical. 

Returning to where all of this had started was risky. It seemed foolish to charge head first through the front doors and risk being blindsided by what was more than likely an ambush. 

“I think Victor and Henri are pulling more strings than we realize,” you cautiously explained. “I think they planned all of this. Working together, going to the manor, Nora and Joshua escaping… if we go home, we’ll be bushwhacked.”

“Bush– what?” Devlin muttered, shaking his head in confusion. “You know what– nevermind. I get what you’re implying. So you would rather get the relic first, then?” 

“I don’t know. That could very well be a trap too since Victor knows its location. Maybe they can’t hide out inside since it’s sealed up with ancient magic, but he probably has eyes on it. I doubt he would leave it unguarded since he knows Sebastian will inevitably turn up there.” 

“Then what do you suggest? Because sitting around in Uganda isn’t exactly a solid plan in my mind. We’ve wasted enough time here as it is– and look what that got us.” He gestured to Nora, his voice harder and more impatient as he snapped at you. You tried not to take it personally, though. It was understandable that he felt stuck. “If we go to the manor expecting a trap, then that’s us staying one step ahead of Victor, right? We can still kill them.” 

It didn’t escape your notice that Devlin sounded uncertain. It was almost as though he was trying to convince himself more than you, and you fixed him with a knowing look that made him bristle. His eyes jumped away from yours to land back on Nora, and you sighed. “I don’t know, Devlin. To be completely honest, I think we’re screwed either way.” 

He didn’t say anything after that. There was nothing either one of you could offer up to make any of this better. Victor and Henri were conspiring with one another, Nora and Joshua had been tortured within an inch of their lives, and both plans before you were ripe with the potential to fail. 

It wasn’t just Devlin who felt stuck. Despite wracking your brain for answers or alternative possibilities, you were coming up empty handed every time. You really– wholly and truly– had no clue what to do. 

—

A vote had been cast in Natty’s living room. 

It could hardly be viewed as a democratic process. Ominis, Natty, and Anne weren’t participating, because they would be accompanying the wounded Ashwinders to the hospital once you left. Joshua and Nora weren’t giving their input for obvious reasons, so it had all boiled down to you, Devlin, and Sebastian. 

Were the three of you to return to the manor, or would you be traveling to the ancient magic site to claim the relic before squaring off with Victor and Henri? 

Devlin was still adamant about taking the fight to his former boss and the Frenchman. He wanted to inflict onto them what they had done to his daughter tenfold, and no amount of cautionary tales or warnings could sway him from that decision. Since you’d been forced to choose between the two options, you had voted in favor of obtaining the relic. Maybe having such an item in your possession would give you an edge against your enemies and grant everyone more time to come up with a plan of attack– one that was more cohesive than ‘show up and kill everyone’. 

Sebastian was the tie-breaker. You and Devlin had both tried to project your thoughts into his head in a bid to hear the answers you each respectively preferred, but you knew it was pointless. Neither one of you was a Leglimens, and Sebastian’s decision would ultimately be rooted in what he thought was best. 

Which is why you weren’t surprised in the slightest when he said, “I vote going back to the base. If we can take out Victor and Henri at the same time, it’ll make getting the relic to cure my sister that much easier.” 

The sinking feeling in your gut told you that nothing about this was going to be easy. 

Devlin’s shoulders sagged with relief, and Sebastian’s dark eyes swiveled towards you as a remorseful expression passed over his face. “I’m sorry, princess. The manor is familiar territory to fight in. Victor could bring the ancient magic site down on top of us if we go there with him still breathing.” 

The explanation was delivered in that ‘no-nonsense’ tone he reserved for his underlings. You were none too pleased with the sudden professionalism he displayed towards you– if it could even be called that. Pursing your lips, you nodded stiffly, then turned to peek at the silent trio you would be parting from shortly. 

Anne looked nervous. It was probably the most anxious you had ever seen her; her brows were furrowed, her hands were being wrung together incessantly, and she hadn’t stopped fidgeting since everyone had come together in the living room. To her left was Natty– a grave expression of her own shrouding her otherwise stern face. Was she upset that Sebastian’s drama had followed him to her home? Did she regret offering you sanctuary? It was hard to tell, but you knew apologies would be pointless. 

Ominis, on the other hand, looked to be the most put together of the three. His spine was ramrod straight, and his hands were clasped behind his back as his unseeing eyes darted around in front of him. Whatever he was thinking about was important enough that he hadn’t said anything to rebuff Sebastian’s comment about curing Anne. He had maintained an unwavering, serious demeanor ever since Nora had fallen into his arms hours earlier, and you couldn’t help but be grateful that he wasn’t coming with you. 

Despite his reservations about Sebastian, Devlin, and their work as a whole, you knew he would protect the people around him with everything in him. Nora would be in good hands here. You pitied the villains that dared to cross the seasoned Auror’s path. 

“It’s not too late for you to change your mind,” Sebastian said, drawing your attention away from your old friends. “You don’t have to go, princess. You can stay here– keep an eye on Nora and Joshua for us until we send word that Victor and Henri have been dealt with.” 

Yeah, not a chance. “I’m not letting you both gallivant into what is most certainly a trap without backup.” 

“The girl spends three days casting spells without a wand and thinks she qualifies as a one woman army,” Devlin muttered to himself with a smirk. “Pretty soon your head will be bigger than his.” 

Sebastian scowled when his second in command gestured loosely towards him, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge the snide comment. “While I appreciate your willingness to help, this isn’t going to be anything like what we’ve done these last few months. Living with Ashwinders, burning down dragon fighting rings, squaring off with Dementors– that was child’s play compared to this.”

“You don’t have to be so dramatic. I already know–” 

“Do you?” Sebastian interjected roughly, his features contorting until his face looked like it had when you’d first set eyes on him all those months ago. It was the glower of a dark wizard. The cold, unyielding way he stared at you might have scared you back then, but now? Now it just pissed you off. “This will be murder. A plain, calculated execution. Yeah, Victor and Henri are awful people, and they probably deserve worse than a quick death. But while killing is easy, it’s the guilt that comes afterwards that can be difficult to cope with. Are you prepared for that?” 

“I’ve killed people before, Sebastian.” Your voice was flat as you threw the reminder in his face, which seemed to snap him out of his domineering persona. “You know as well as I do that I’m perfectly capable of defending myself. Besides… I already told you back in Colmar, didn’t I?” 

The brunet looked puzzled, but judging by the minute narrowing of Devlin’s eyes, he remembered the solemn vow you had made within the abandoned inn. Sebastian shook his head, “Told me what?” 

“That I would be the one to kill Henri for what he did to me. The two of you can draw sticks over who gets to swing at Victor first, but Henri? He’s mine.” 

Of all the things for Sebastian to do in the wake of such a bold statement, laughing was well at the bottom of the list. Ominis muttered something– probably a comment having to do with the startling amount of casual killers he found himself surrounded by– but you hardly paid him any mind. Anne and Natty remained silent as they mirrored each other and sent twin looks of wariness at one another. They had to be so far out of their element in the midst of the conversation that you almost felt bad. But then Sebastian was wiping a nonexistent tear from the corner of his eye, sighing around a smile as he practically beamed at you. 

“Alright, princess. Far be it from me to stand in your way. With all of those new tricks up your sleeve, Henri won’t know what hit him.” 

Saying goodbye was never easy. Part of the reason you had left Hogwarts after graduation without a word to anyone was because you were terrible when it came to farewells. People would cry, hug, snivel, and promise to write even though it was inevitable that with the passage of time, they would eventually forget. Relationships came and went, friendships ran their course before naturally coming to a close. You had learned a long time ago not to cling to the bonds you forged with others in a bid to make life easier later down the line. 

But be that as it may, standing in the rain-soaked courtyard outside of Natty’s house wrapped tight in her bone-crushing embrace made you realize that the connections you had repaired here were crucial. They had healed something within you. They had fixed a jaded, cracked part of your soul that had only worsened in the years you’d spent alone. 

“Thank you for everything, Natty.” Your watery voice was muffled against her shoulder, but she still heard you. “Take care of everyone for me, okay? We’ll be back soon.” 

“It was my pleasure, my friend. I am only sorry it must end so soon… three days was not nearly enough time.” She pulled away and slid her palms up to your neck, gently resting her hands there so she could stare imploringly down at you. “Promise me you will be safe? I expect to see you back here soon. No more keeping to yourself– there are plenty of other holidays we can spend together.” 

Her dark eyes twinkled with emotion beneath the moonlight, and your reassuring smile seemed to help her relax. “I promise, Natty.” 

Anne was a blubbering, inconsolable wreck. The force of her hug had nearly choke-slammed you to the ground, but you’d caught yourself and returned the gesture with equal strength. She’d extended the same treatment to Devlin, and then eventually to her brother. In-between sobs, she had managed to croak out, “Please stay safe. Don’t do anything careless– I swear if you die, I’ll find some way to kill you myself.” 

Sebastian laughed breathlessly, his massive arms enveloping Anne so completely that she was almost entirely hidden from view. It was a heart wrenching sight, and the fact that Sebastian’s eyes were red-rimmed when he cracked them open to look at you from over Anne’s shoulder didn’t help matters. None of this was easy for anyone. 

Ominis was– unsurprisingly– more poised with his goodbyes. He shook Devlin’s hand firmly, promising the older gentleman that he would see to it that Nora was well taken care of. Despite the fact that both men had gotten off to a rocky start upon meeting one another, Devlin seemed to take solace in the promise. He nodded appreciatively and said, “You’re one of the good ones, Gaunt. Try not to die anytime soon.” 

“I could say the same to you.” 

Ominis gave you a firm but mindful hug, patting you on the back for good measure before making you swear that you wouldn’t do anything reckless. “I mean it,” he chided, his voice quiet enough that only you could hear it. “If things at that manor are as bad as I think they are, you leave. Get out and run as far from there as you can.” 

You wanted to jest– to make a comment pertaining to your affinity for getting into trouble despite your best efforts. But the Auror looked genuinely fearful as he fixed his milky blue eyes in your direction. Maybe Ominis wouldn’t outright say it, but you knew he was worried. He was holding it together the best he could for everyone’s sake, so you reconsidered your reply. “I will.”

After that, you, Devlin, and Sebastian congregated in the middle of the courtyard, the wet dirt squelching beneath your feet in the wake of the rain having finally stopped. Devlin put his hand on Sebastian’s shoulder, and before you could do the same, the dark wizard clasped your hand in his wandless one, giving it a telling squeeze for good measure. When you glanced up at him, his expression was remarkably soft– completely at odds with how you knew he must be feeling internally. 

“Are you ready?” 

No. 

“Yes.” 

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed as though he knew better than to believe you, but otherwise said nothing. The three of you took one last look at the trio standing before the front door, hoping against all odds that it wouldn’t be the last time any of you saw them. A crack sounded all around you, a weightlessness coming over you shortly thereafter, and the way your stomach lurched had absolutely nothing to do with the feeling of apparating. 

You were going home. For better or worse, when you opened your eyes next, you would find yourself back where all of this had begun.

An Education in Malice — Part Six

Pairing: Vanserra!Reader x Azriel

Summary: With the sharp tongue of your notorious family, you are Azriel's most tantalizing challenge yet. It only takes one small meeting before you both realize that the line between hate and desire is dangerously thin.

Warnings: mentions and descriptions of wounds, scars, and allusions to torture, canon-typical violence, fighting, killing, death— all the fun stuff really. reader being a lil badass, az being emotionally vulnerable, a turning point in their relationship!!!!

Word Count: 9.8k this was originally going to be like 2-3 diff parts, but i loved reading it all as one, so consider this my lil offering since i disappeared for like 2 weeks <3

Part Five | Series Masterlist | Part Seven

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You always hated the ornate mirror that had stood in your room — its gaudy, gilded and tarnished frame was far too large for your liking.  You hated how much space it took up, how much of yourself you could see as you passed it. 

On most days, the female staring back at you felt like a stranger— someone wearing your face yet existing in a distant world. She moved when you did, blinked when you did, too. But she wasn’t you. And you hated it. So you didn’t often linger on your reflection. 

Except for today. 

Your hair was damp from the bath and a faint smell of sage and patchouli clung to your skin from the residue of your bath soap. 

Your eyes traced the lines of your face, following the tired shadows beneath your eyes and scars that marred the skin of your stomach. Normally, when you stood there with a focused gaze and a troubled spirit, it was because you were examining new wounds, cataloging the fresh marks left behind from nights where your father was particularly angry. All of those wounds were hidden beneath clothing, concealed where no one but you would ever see— carefully, strategically, placed. 

You’d gotten used to the marks, comfortable with them, even. There were many things in your life that weren’t yours. But these— these scarred areas of skin, these were yours. Proof that your body had worked to protect you, to fix and heal itself despite what had been inflicted unto it. And in some strange way, it made you feel less lonely. 

If it was any other day, you wouldn’t have looked any longer than a second, a minute at most. You’d walk past the mirror, change into a dress fit for an audience, and leave. 

Today was different. Today, your eyes were drawn to the intricate tattoo etched just beneath your left breast, wrapping around your rib cage. It was the first time you’d really looked at it, the first time you’d allowed yourself to acknowledge its presence since its creation. 

The tattoo was a delicate masterpiece, a swirling pattern of dark ink that almost resembled Azriel’s shadows perfectly— so perfectly it made you nauseous, made you flinch at the first sighting because it seemed too real.  It was beautiful, haunting, and undeniably meaningful.

It made you feel sick.

You traced the pattern with your fingertips, thinking back to how Azriel’s hand felt in yours, to the warm feeling you felt in your chest. You’d never made a bargain before— not even in Autumn. Perhaps all bargains caused this feeling you now felt, a sense of residue that your body held of him, as if you had crumbs of his being stuck to you. 

A knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. 

You turned to see Laney's ears twitch as she registered the sound. Whenever you showered, whenever you were naked and vulnerable at all, really, she always guarded the door heavily, never moving. The knock was so gentle that she didn’t growl; instead, she sniffed under the door, her movements growing excited— happy. You could tell by her posture that the visitor was no threat. Not only that, but the knock was delicate— patient, almost. You knew who it was by that fact alone. 

Scrambling, you hastily pulled on your clothes, trying to regain some semblance of composure as you blinked away the last remaining images of Azriel from your mind. 

The tension in your body eased as you opened your door. 

"There’s my beautiful girl."

A small smile tugged at your lips as you embraced your mother, feeling the warmth of her body fold over you like a comforting cloak. You held her for another moment, savoring the softness of her touch and her heartbeat beneath you, and then you stepped aside to let her in. 

Your eyes flickered to the back of the hallway she’d come from. 

Your mother caught your gaze swiftly. "He’s with some of his men. Drunk. He’ll be busy for the night."

You swallowed, trying to suppress the unease that settled in your stomach. She placed a gentle hand on your arm.

"It’s alright," she said gently, “Too drunk to even function.”

You hated that you knew what she meant, that you and your mother had grown to develop your own language regarding the males in your home—regarding the one that owned you both. Her words meant that Beron had an enjoyable day, one that filled him with enough joy to celebrate— that such celebrations were going to tire him so deeply that he’d fall asleep straight after. No issues for you, no issues for your mother. You nodded slowly.

Your mother stepped closer, her fingers brushing through your still slightly damp hair. "Let me braid this mane of yours," she said softly, her touch light as she affectionately stroked your cheek. You casted a wary glance behind you, towards the darkened hallways, but nodded nonetheless, closing the door behind you with a soft click. 

Laney curled up comfortably on your bed, her relaxed posture easing some of the remaining tension in your shoulders.  The act alone was a sign of her trust, a reminder that she felt safe and saw no threats nearby. If Beron ever caught her on any furniture, she’d be punished. But in this moment, she was calm and content, and you let that calm you too.

And then you were back in front of the mirror again. 

Your mother pulled a small velvet stool in front, gesturing for you to take a spot. The large frame of the mirror seemed to laugh at you and as your mother stood behind you, delicate arms reaching for a hairbrush, you felt like a child again. The mirror seemed to grow even larger, even grander, and you fought to recognize the female that stared at you through it. 

You watched as your mother moved with the same gentle grace she had always possessed, bringing a hairbrush to your damp hair. Your mother was beautiful. She always had been. Even now, with the sadness in her eyes— a trait specific to Vanserras, you were certain—she was one of the most beautiful people you knew. Your thoughts drifted to what she must have been like when she was a bit younger, how she was when Helion first met her. You wanted to know it all, wanted to know your mother as a teenager, wanted to know how she fell in love. 

Her eyes caught yours in the mirror and her movements slowed. The expression on her face softened. 

"Where has that mind drifted off to?" 

You blinked, shrugging slightly. There was a lump in your throat as you responded, "Nothing real."

She frowned, and her eyes danced across your face before she continued brushing your hair. A thoughtful hum left her lips. "You've been gone a lot recently. Done a great job of stressing your poor brother out. Where is it you've been running off to?"

Her voice was soft and kind and just below a whisper—  as if you two were sharing a secret. It was her classic motherly way of interrogating you. The gentleness in her tone made it clear that she didn't mind, no matter the answer. She never did.

A soft laugh escaped you. "I have to visit all of my many admirers."

Her answering laugh was sweet and quiet, a sound so pure it almost felt out of place in this house. You resisted the urge to look back at your closed door, to wait in fear for heavy footsteps. But your mother didn’t seem worried about an intrusion. Instead, she looked at you with a glint in her eyes, a mischievous sparkle that reminded you so much of Eris—right down to the playful eyebrow raise.

"Joke as much as you'd like. We both know you have plenty of those," she teased.

You smiled to yourself.  

"How could you not when you're so beautiful?" she added, her voice filled with a sincerity that made your throat tighten.

You looked at her in the mirror again. Her eyes were so kind. They held the same warmth you’d see in Lucien’s— a warmth that you’d see even in Eris’s when he was at ease, comfortable. Those times were rare now, if not impossible. 

You looked at your own reflection.

You didn’t have kind eyes. You had your father’s eyes. Beron's eyes—hard, angry, simmering with rage. You had his temper, his unforgiving nature. You were every part of him that you hated, and you were reminded of it every day. Reminded of it when you struggled to control your powers, when you failed to harness the very essence of who you were. Reminded of it when you looked in the mirror for too long— when you thought about how you would never be soft like the females males often loved. That your pain didn’t lead you to be kinder, didn’t teach you to be gentle.

Your hand drifted to your heart instinctively, fingers brushing on the fabric just above your breast. You trailed down to the side of your ribs, to where a spiral of ink now adorned your skin. 

Your mother finished the large braid, bringing it around your shoulder. She caught your gaze in the mirror and smiled. "Do you like it?"

She had a freckle above her eyebrow, the same freckle your brothers each had in different places on their faces. Eris had the most freckles out of all of you. They painted the bridge of his nose and his arms the most—

"Honey?" 

You blinked. Your body felt fuzzy as you reached up to touch the braid. "Yeah,” you said, clearing your throat. “Thank you."

Her kind eyes softened at you— softened in a way you didn’t feel worthy for. There was a faint simmering in her eyes, a fire that she still held despite how her life had treated her. It had dimmed over the centuries, lessened to a small flicker. But the flame was still there. You saw it. 

You took a deep breath, maneuvering yourself to turn in the chair and face her. You made room for her to sit next to you, gesturing with a small smile and a lift of your chin. 

"I have to tell you something.”

She sat and frowned slightly, eyes scanning your face. But she said nothing, waiting for you to continue.

"Do you remember when I was little? And you used to love reading me that one poem?"

Her expression softened, and a gentle smile played on her lips as a distant look grew in her eyes. She knew, without you even saying the title, exactly what you were referring to— after countless nights spent curled around you, running her hands through your hair as she repeated the words she’d memorized so long ago, how could she not?

So she watched you, her gaze unwavering, as you began to recite your favorite stanza. "In life's cruel grasp we could not abide, so we made a pact with the Reaper's side."

Her voice joined yours. "And in death's embrace our freedom lies, where we'll find each other beneath somber skies."

You smiled to yourself, looking at her, scanning her face. "I know why you love it so much."

She furrowed her brows, yet even then she looked so patient, like she'd sit there and wait for hours until you were ready to speak again. This was someone who had been made kind by what they had gone through. You almost felt ashamed that you had turned out differently.

Finally, you said, "I found the book. In Helion's library."

A flash of recognition crossed her face, and she softened, her eyes taking on a distant, wistful look. "You did?"

You nodded again, watching her closely as a tender, almost nostalgic smile played on her lips. She tried to compose herself, her eyes growing distant and glazing over. "I've heard he loves to collect stories." She paused, then asked, "What were you doing all the way over there?"

You thought about her question, about answering, about maybe telling her everything. But there was only one thing you could pull yourself to say. "I know," you said softly. "About Helion. I know."

She understood what you were truly saying. A sigh left her lips and an echo of her younger self appeared in her eyes, a female who had fallen hopelessly and madly in love. A version much younger—much more innocent. More hopeful.

"I'm so sorry," you whispered, your voice breaking as she met your gaze. Her face seemed pained, shocked almost, and her eyes filled with confusion. She moved closer to you, grabbing your hands in her own.

"What could you possibly be sorry for?"

It was becoming increasingly difficult to draw a full breath. There was something constricting around your chest. Perhaps it was all of the recent stress, the worry of how much harder things had gotten, the image of a life your mother could have had— this suffocating tie to Azriel that you now had etched into your very flesh. 

"You were loved. And you deserve better,”  Your voice caught in your throat and a tear trickled down your cheek as you shook your head slightly. “And I can't do anything to help—"

“No, no,” She interrupted you, bringing her warm hands to cup your cheeks— pulling your eyes to her kind ones.  "I'm your mother. I'm supposed to help you."

Tears welled in your eyes as she continued. "I should be apologizing to you,” she murmured, “I could be better, stronger. I should apologize that I was selfish and brought you into this world."

"Selfish?" 

How could she ever consider herself selfish? You knew the pain she carried, the weight of responsibility that seemed to crush her at times. You saw it reflected in Eris— a specific pain that came from feeling like you could never do enough. But even with your older brothers, despite their cruelty and callousness, your mother loved them fiercely, passionately. Loved them with every fiber of her being, every part of her that she gave to them. 

"Yes," she replied softly, her touch gentle as she rubbed your cheek, her eyes full of emotion. "Oh, how excited I was to have a girl. You, my sweet, are one of my greatest blessings. My beautiful daughter. So strong, so loyal. I just couldn't imagine a life without you."

You wanted to reassure her, to alleviate her guilt, but words seemed inadequate in the face of such profound love. Instead, you leaned into her touch, covering her hand with yours, and held on tightly.

"One day, things will be different," she said, her voice soft but filled with conviction— enough of it that it eased the anger that bit at your gut. "You can be different. And you won't be like him."

She paused, her eyes locking onto yours with a depth of understanding that made your chest tighten. "You’ll know what love is. And you won’t have to resort to reciting poetry to know how powerful it can be."

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The dense canopy of trees above barely let any light through as you hurried along the forest path. Spring along the border was always odd, with dense forests giving way to large rolling hills. The difference in scenery, usually something you welcomed, felt nauseating today. All the sights, the smells, even the sunshine, seemed overwhelming.

You walked faster than usual, eyes fixed ahead, hands clenched at your sides. Azriel’s keen senses had already picked up on the subtle signs—your shallow breaths, the way your shoulders were stiff with tension. 

"Why are you walking through the woods and not even looking at me?"

You stopped as Azriel’s voice rang in your ears. 

You’d come to rely on these meetings with Azriel to exchange information, to strategize, to plan how to give your brother an edge. They’d eased your anxiety slightly, giving you a sense of support that you’d never thought would be found in Azriel of all people. But he was smart, as much as you hated to admit it, and had dedicated time to offering you aid. 

The truth was, you didn't quite trust your self-control right now. For some inexplicable reason, Azriel's scent was intoxicating, flooding your senses and causing your thoughts to swirl in a disorienting mix of attraction and confusion. Despite how hard you tried to fight it, you found yourself looking forward to these encounters. And that was a dangerous reality. 

"I like to stretch my legs," you finally responded, attempting to sound casual. "And maybe I just don't want to face you."

“Is that so? Nervous to stare at me too long?"

You could already picture the hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips— a bit of personality that you’d seen grow over your time together. You rolled your eyes, turning around and facing him with a blank look.

He stepped closer to you, eying you closely. “Worried that you’ll go crazy with desire?”

His smirk deepened, a rare, genuine smile breaking through his usual stoic mask. You bit the inside of your cheek in response.  "Don't flatter yourself,” you scowled. “Maybe I’m being kind and saving you from embarrassing yourself with how badly you’ll want me.”

This was dangerous— it was entirely too playful, too close to the brink of what you assumed friendship felt like. 

“Are you?” he asked, his voice dropping lower, more intimate. “Being kind?”

Azriel’s hazel eyes bore into yours and your chest tightened at the eye contact. You cleared your throat, turning away and resuming your brisk pace. “Shut up and let's just go.”

Behind you, Azriel chuckled softly, the sound rolling across your senses like an unwelcomed caress, making you shiver involuntarily. 

"Stop laughing," you gritted out, “I’ve never heard a worse sound.”

The chuckle faded and you heard him come to a stop. You turned around, meeting his gaze with a glare. He stood there, arms crossed, a faint smirk still playing on his lips. He seemed amused, at ease, even.

“What?” you snapped, your patience wearing thin.

He nodded towards you. “What’s your problem?”

“You standing there. That’s my problem.”

Azriel raised a brow, uncrossing his arms as he took a few steps forward to stand directly in front of you. He narrowed his eyes, studying you intently. “You’re bitchier than usual.”

“Careful,” you gritted out, staring at him with a heavy, burning gaze. 

“I’m here helping you,” he said evenly, his voice holding a hint of reproach. “You can drop the attitude.”

"You’re only helping me because you want to get rid of me and, sadly, you can’t kill me," you shot back, bitterness lacing your words.

Azriel's jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with something that almost seemed to resemble something like anger— like hurt. 

"I believe I've made it clear that your death is something I've purposely avoided."

Something about the way he was staring at you made you shiver. You fought the urge to run your hands over the area where your skin was now marked with the tattoo of a bargain. You met his gaze, steadying yourself. "Why didn't you tell me that Rhys presented my father with a proposition? That he requested an audience with him?"

Azriel blinked. "I wasn't aware that Rhysand had already done so."

"But you knew?" 

"Yes," he replied,  "I did."

"What good is this stupid bargain of ours if you don't even uphold it?" 

Azriel's expression hardened and he leaned down further. The scent of him filled your nostrils and you sucked in a tight breath, feeling your chest constrict with the motion. "I take my bargains very seriously. Our deal was that I would help you, that you would get what you wanted. Not that I would tell you everything."

Your nostrils flared.

"Do you realize how much danger Rhysand has put us in? Put me in?" Your voice trembled with barely restrained anger. "Beron is upset that Rhysand thinks of him as someone so conforming. He's convinced he has a traitor in his ranks. And if you haven’t noticed, Shadowsinger, he does!" 

You pointed to yourself and Azriel’s face seemed to darken with understanding. 

"Y/n—" he started, but he stopped abruptly, his gaze shooting to the trees beyond you.

Annoyance flared within you. "What?" you snapped, but he ignored you, his focus elsewhere.

"Can you just finish whatever the hell—"

Azriel moved with lightning speed, grabbing you and pushing you against a tree. His hand flew to your mouth, covering it as he brought his other hand to his face, a finger on own lips in a gesture of silence. Your eyes widened, watching as a muscle feathered in his cheek, his wings flaring slightly, shadows skittering around him.

Then you heard it too—a familiar laugh. 

"I know you're here, Shadowsinger. I can smell the bastard on you," Renard's voice echoed through the trees, taunting and cruel.

Desperation clawed at you. In a surge of panic, you bit down hard on Azriel's hand. He pulled back with a sharp intake of breath and you gave him one last look before you winnowed away. You could've sworn you saw a flicker of hurt, a sense of betrayal in the whites of his eyes. 

And then he was gone from your view. 

You didn’t get far, appearing in another thicket of trees within the same forest. Breathing heavily, you leaned against a sturdy oak.

Why hadn’t you winnowed farther? Straight to Autumn?

A tug in your chest nagged at you.

Faintly, the sounds of a struggle reached your ear—grunts and the clash of metal. You clenched your fists, chastising yourself. Do not go back, you thought. It's dangerous. You're putting yourself at risk—you and Eris, you and your mother. If they find you, if they manage to tell your father, you're dead. He'll kill you.

Azriel doesn’t matter, you tried to convince yourself. He can handle himself. And if not—

“Damnit.”

You made the decision before you could second-guess yourself, winnowing back immediately to where you had left him.

Disorientation clouded your vision the moment you landed. You blinked rapidly, taking in the chaotic scene before you. Azriel was engaged in a flurry of combat with three men— soldiers adorning the colors of your court. His gaze flicked to you for a split second, and his face softened with a brief, almost imperceptible relief.

You gave him what felt like a smile—an acknowledgment, a reassurance—before the reality of the situation snapped you back. Countless men surrounded you both, their eyes glinting with malice, with something that felt awfully like hunger. 

You had no weapon, but Eris had taught you ways to deflect attacks. 

One of the men lunged, and you dodged, feeling the blade cut through the air dangerously close to your side. With a swift kick, you sent him stumbling backward, then followed up with a sharp jab to his throat. He gasped, clutching at his neck, and you swiftly disarmed him.

Steel clashed against steel as you parried another strike, your movements agile and precise. A second attacker closed in, and you deflected his blade before stepping inside his guard, driving your elbow into his face. Blood sprayed as he staggered back, dazed. With a decisive motion, you brought his own weapon down through him, a sickening squelch filling your ears as he dropped to the ground.

Azriel was a blur beside you, his movements so swift and deadly it was almost poetic.

You managed to disarm another man, twisting his wrist until he dropped his weapon with a cry of pain. You kicked the sword away and followed up with a decisive strike to his chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. Your weapon found its way clean through his throat next.

Breathing heavily, you scanned the clearing, your eyes darting from one enemy to the next. There were countless bodies now, sprawled across the ground like fallen leaves— but none of their faces matched the one in your mind. You surveyed your surroundings once more. 

"Looking for me, princess?" The voice cut through the air, raspy and filled with disdain.

You spun around as Renard emerged from the trees, stalking closer with predatory grace, like an animal preparing for a kill. "Because I was looking for you."

He looked worse than the last time you’d seen him, barely alive, supporting swollen eyes and blackened marks around his neck. Beron had indeed tortured him, and the sight filled you with a grim satisfaction.

"Must be hard looking for anything with those eyes," you retorted, a grin on your lips.

"You did this to me, you traitorous whore," Renard spat, his face contorted with anger. He made a move towards you, eyes narrowing as he caught sight of the flames flickering against your hands, unsteady.

"Real cute," he mocked. You bit back the frustration boiling in your gut, gritting your teeth as you focused on the simmering underneath your skin. 

“Come closer,” you sneered, “Let’s see how cute they feel on your burning flesh.”

“You always had such a foul mouth on you. It’s like you’re begging to be killed.”

Without hesitation, Renard lunged at you with a speed fueled by rage and desperation. You both collided in a flurry of strikes and parries, the sound of clashing metal ringing through the clearing. The flames in your hands flickered erratically as you tried to maintain focus amid the chaos.

You had always observed your father's men so you could be one step ahead— just in case. Now, facing Renard, you could sense his frustration with every move you countered, every strike you parried.

"You think you can match me, girl?" His voice dripped with contempt as he circled you, "I'll make your father's punishments seem gentle compared to what I have in mind."

"You talk too much," you managed to rasp out between clenched teeth. 

Renard's face twisted into a cruel smile as he pressed on, his strikes growing more aggressive. "I wonder what Beron will do with your body," he taunted, "If your mother will even be allowed to mourn you."

The thought hit you like a physical blow, momentarily freezing your movements. In that moment of hesitation, Renard seized the advantage. With a swift and brutal maneuver, he knocked your weapon from your grasp and delivered a fierce blow that sent you sprawling to the ground. Before you could react, he was upon you, gripping your hair and wrenching your arms behind your back, a hold tightening around your throat.

Panic surged through you as you tried desperately to summon your fire, but it wouldn't respond. You tightened your jaw, focusing every ounce of concentration to call forth that spark of heat, cursing the world—the training that was never enough, your father's prevention of you perfecting the skill.

Renard's breath was hot against your ear as you writhed beneath him. He gripped your chin roughly, forcing you to watch as Azriel fought against overwhelming odds. Men surrounded him, their blows raining down on him relentlessly.

"Is this how he had you?" Renard's voice dripped with venom. "From behind?"

You closed your eyes, summoning images of Eris, your mother, Lucien— each face a steadying breath in your mind. When you opened your eyes, your gaze landed on Azriel, surrounded by a sapphire aura that blurred with his swift movements. 

With a surge of willpower, you summoned every ounce of strength, every flicker of fire you could muster. Flames erupted from your hands with a hot burst of energy, startling Renard and giving you a split-second window of opportunity.

You turned around and seized him, your grip iron against his throat as you backed him into a nearby tree. With cold intensity, you stared into Renard's eyes, the flames casting flickering shadows across his face. 

"Don't worry,” you growled, “I won't be gentle."

Within seconds, flames engulfed Renard's throat and face, the heat and light blinding in their intensity. He screamed in agony, thrashing under your grasp, but you held on, firmer and harder each time he flailed.

As the flames dwindled, leaving behind only smoldering ruins, you staggered back, hands trembling and covered in ash and the stench of burnt flesh. But before you could dwell on the burnt remains of Renard that lay at your feet, you spun around to focus on Azriel, still fighting off multiple men, surrounded by the shimmering sapphire light of his power.

Two men stood directly in front of him, while another pair prepared to strike from behind. You glanced down at your hands and screwed your eyes shut for a fleeting moment. When you opened them again, the fire was there—steady and trained. With a fierce determination, you summoned the flames into existence, shaping them swiftly into whips of fire that crackled and danced in the air.

You brought your hands out towards the two men, feeling the fire respond to your command, crackling and whispering with power as it morphed itself at your will. The flames transformed into fiery whips, extending from your outstretched arms like extensions of your fury, connecting with the two bodies threatening Azriel.

The fiery tendrils snaked around their necks like vengeful serpents, searing flesh and scorching hands as the men futilely tried to break free. With agonized screams, they collapsed to the ground. The flames dwindled down to mere embers. When you looked up, Azriel met your gaze, his face bloodied and his leathers splattered with crimson. Shadows writhed around him, dancing on the forest floor towards your feet.

He walked towards you, his eyes shifting to the fallen bodies at your feet. He took in the sight for a moment, gaze focusing on the marred flesh across their throats. Then he blinked and brought his focus to you. "Where's Renard?"

You glanced over to the disfigured body and pile of ash near a tree. Azriel followed your gaze and he blinked once more, his eyes widening as he took in the sight. His lips parted as if to speak, but before he could utter a word, his attention abruptly shifted.

He pulled your body into him, his wing extending protectively in front of you right as a sudden ripping sound tore through the air. You were pushed away from him just in time to witness a thick weapon—a sharp, wide blade welded to a spear—pierce through the membrane of his wing. 

He cried out in agony, falling forward slightly, enough for you to catch the gaze of a lone soldier peering over the apex of his wing. You grabbed a nearby weapon and hurled it with all your might. The blade found its mark, burying itself in the soldier's neck. He collapsed instantly, motionless on the forest floor.

Azriel let out a cry of pain as he ripped the weapon out from his wing, causing it to twitch involuntarily. "C'mon, we need to go," you urged, moving closer to him. With great effort, he tried to adjust himself as you lifted his arm over your shoulder, feeling his weight and warmth press into you.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The journey back to the cabin was a blur of frantic winnowing and determined dragging through the dense forest. Your muscles ached as Azriel’s weight dragged heavily against you, stumbling with every move as the pain in his body grew. He groaned in pain as you lowered him onto the couch, the sound raw and unsettling in the quiet home.

Kneeling beside him, you moved closer to get a better look at the injury on his wing, but Azriel scrambled away from your touch and further into the couch. Your gaze settled on his face— eyes screwed shut, jaw clenched so tightly that you could see the strain in every muscle. His siphons glowed with an intense, flickering light and his shadows seemed to respond to his distress, curling protectively around him. For a moment, you felt a pang of envy. Even in his delirium, he had something to shield him from the world. 

The sight of him like this—so vulnerable, so raw—made your stomach churn. His breathing was ragged, each exhale accompanied by a soft whimper that he seemed to be fighting to suppress. Sweat matted his hair to his forehead, and every so often, he would twitch. 

You always thought that seeing Azriel suffer would make you feel good, make you feel some sort of vindication. Often, you used to imagine it would be you bringing him to his knees in pain, him and the rest of Prythian—making them suffer as you and your family had for centuries. But now, as you watched him writhing in pain on the couch, your heart hurt in a way you had only ever felt for your family—and even worse. You felt like you were in pain too.

But you had no wounds comparable to Azriel. 

A knot tightened in your chest and an unexpected urge surged through you—to comfort him, to wipe the sweat-dampened hair away from his forehead, to ease his torment. You blinked the thought away— nauseating and entirely too heavy for you to acknowledge further. You brought your attention back to his wing.

The membrane was pierced clean through by the weapon, a gaping wound from which blood and darkened poison gushed. The sight made you nauseous and you pushed away the haunting images of your father's face, the sound of leather striking flesh, and the memory of Eris's scarred back.

"I need to burn it out.”

Azriel's eyes shot open. "No, no," he pleaded weakly, his voice strained heavily. "Please."

Your hands hovered uncertainly above him. The first time you’d felt this poison in your wounds, it had felt like your body was eating itself from the inside out. You’d gotten used to the pain after a while, but Azriel was new to it— and Illyrian wings were incredibly sensitive from what you’d learned. He was in blinding pain.

"It's the only way to stop it from spreading," you insisted. "It'll only get worse if I don’t. You won’t be able to heal otherwise."

"That's—that's not how faebane works," he stammered, shaking his head vehemently. 

You gritted your teeth, letting out an exasperated breath as he rambled. "Because it's not faebane–”

Something seemed to snap. Azriel flinched, his eyes snapping to you with a wild intensity. His pupils were blown wide with fear, like a trapped animal. "You set me up."

Your stomach dropped.

"What?" 

You pulled your hand away, feeling an unfamiliar sting of offense wrapping itself around your chest. Azriel’s jaw clenched and his gaze darkened into a dangerous, skeptical narrow. 

"You're not hurt," he continued. "Was this some setup?"

Azriel's shadows flickered and writhed around him, siphons glaring with an iridescent light. He clutched at his injured wing, muttering through gritted teeth, "I knew it. You— you Vanserras."

He spat your family's name with such venom that for a fleeting second you questioned whether poison had lined his mouth rather than the wound on his wing. 

You were a fool. Azriel’s pain shouldn’t have bothered you so deeply. You should have never went back to help him. The hurt boiling under your skin made you feel weak, made you feel small.

"I will never be trusted by you, will I?" you asked, the words weak on your tongue. You looked at him and fought to push that stupid empathy away. Azriel said nothing as he grimaced further in pain. You let out a humorless laugh.

 "Right,” you said, “Deal with it yourself then. Stay here and die for all I care.”

You turned to leave, but his hand shot out and grabbed yours. The grip was firm, but not hard enough to hurt you. He adjusted his fingers around yours. When you looked down, Azriel’s pleading gaze met yours, sweat clinging to his hair as he looked up at you through darkened lashes. "No, no, I'm sorry," he murmured, "Please."

You hesitated. 

A surge of conflicting emotions—anger, hurt, and an unsettling tenderness you didn't want to acknowledge—washed over you.

Pull away. Leave him.  

And then you swallowed down the hatred, the cruelty that had risen, and knelt back down in front of him. He let out a relieved sigh. Your eyes fell to his hands, taking in the scarred tissue covering his skin— deep marks etched by fire and flame. 

"Close your eyes and pretend I’m Morrigan.”

His eyes flickered to you. "What?"

“Azriel,” You took a deep breath, training your eyes on him. "I need you to trust me. And since you don’t—close your eyes and pretend that I’m not me."

Your voice was gentler than you’d ever heard it, softer than you ever thought yourself capable of.  Azriel swallowed hard, then gave a small nod. His eyes shuttered closed.

You gently placed your palm on his injured wing, feeling the delicate membrane beneath your touch. Your other fingers trembled slightly as you summoned Eris' voice into your mind, calling upon that familiar heat and flicker as the flame began to rise through your hands. You struggled to keep it steady, each breath becoming more labored as you bit back your frustration.

Slowly, soft tendrils of shadows began weaving around your hand– a soft, cooling touch that made you blink. They drifted over you, calming the flickering flame to a steady warmth.  You took a deep breath and cautiously brought your fingers to the wound.

As the fire met his skin, Azriel tensed, a strangled sound escaping his throat. You could feel the poison reacting to the heat, the black substance dissipating under your fingertips.

"I can do this," you murmured, more for your own benefit than his. "It’ll be alright."

You weren’t sure if he could hear you, but you kept talking, hoping that your voice might anchor him to something other than his pain. It always helped you when Eris told you it would be alright, when he talked to you as he tended to your wounds, gently, tenderly, lovingly. 

You focused solely on the task at hand, blocking out the rest of your thoughts and the tightness in your chest. Finally, when you felt the last remnants of poison retreat, you withdrew your hand, the flames extinguishing with a final flicker.

Azriel’s breathing, though still ragged, had eased from the strained gasps earlier. Encouraged by this small sign, you withdrew your hand, a quiet smile of satisfaction tugging at your lips.

Looking down at Azriel, who had slipped into unconsciousness, you took a deep breath. "Thank you," you whispered to the shadows that continued to hover around you. For a moment, you felt silly for speaking to something so intangible— to things that probably didn’t even understand. Yet, as if in response, they slithered back toward Azriel, settling near the crook of his neck.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Azriel’s eyelids felt heavy as he finally came to, his surroundings blurry and unfamiliar. 

It took him a few moments to orient himself, to remember where he was. He noticed three things first: it was nighttime, and a gentle moonlight bathed the space he was in; he was covered in a thin orange blanket, the fabric soft and worn, smelling faintly of pine and something sweet; and he was no longer in the agonizing pain he had succumbed to earlier.

Azriel shifted slightly, grimacing as a dull ache radiated from his wing. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to sit up, the blanket sliding off his shoulders. He glanced at his wing, noting the faint hole where the gaping wound had been. He extended it in a light stretch, feeling a slight sting, but it was bearable. Healable. His mind replayed the events leading up to this moment, your voice echoing in his thoughts—soft, concerned, saying his name. 

Pretend I’m Morrigan.

He had nodded, closed his eyes— but he hadn’t pretended. It was you kneeling beside him, not Mor.

Azriel's gaze wandered around the room. His shadows had left their original position, perched and curled around the apex of his wings, and now seemed to be leading him across the small living area. He frowned, his boots heavy against the aged floors as he followed them past the wooden table— he pushed away memories of you bent over the furniture, shaking his head as he approached a small bookshelf tucked in the corner. 

The shelves were adorned with an assortment of well-loved books, spines worn from what Azriel could only assume were countless readings. His shadows hovered near the middle shelf, where something caught his eye—a slight indentation in the wood, partially concealed by the darkness they casted.

As he drew closer, the shadows dissipated, revealing a carving etched into the wood—

L.V., Y/N. V. 

Azriel blinked, brows furrowing as he inspected the letters further. He traced the letters with his fingers, feeling the rough wood against his scarred, ridged skin. 

You had mentioned offhandedly that you kept in contact with Lucien, that you visited the Spring Court. But he hadn’t given the statement any further thought.

He glanced around the room. 

The space seemed to come alive around him, details he had previously overlooked now asserting their presence. He had never paid proper attention to the home, never questioned why it seemed to be so oddly clean, why you favored it so much. His fingers hovered over the initials once more.

Y/N. V. 

Glancing down at his shadows, they stilled momentarily before slithering across the floor, guiding his gaze towards the doorway. There, through the windowpane, he caught sight of you standing a short distance away from the house, beneath the starlit sky.

Azriel approached the door with cautious steps, ensuring every footfall was quiet– undetected. He reached out, his shadows wrapping around the door handle to muffle any noise it might make. With a gentle push, he swung the door open just wide enough to slip through, his shadows ensuring the hinges made no sound, either. Leaning against the sturdy frame, he allowed the darkness to envelop him further, becoming one with its comforting embrace as he observed you in the distance.

From this vantage point, he watched you, bathed in the soft light that painted the sky with a silvery hue. A gentle breeze stirred, ruffling a few strands of your hair and carrying your faint, familiar scent to him. Sweet with a hint of spice, a smell that he’d grown used to recently. There's an emotion woven into it that he can’t decipher, and for a brief moment, it frustrated him. You seemed at odds. Peaceful, in this night air, but stiff. 

There was a tightening in his chest. 

Seeing you now, basking in the moonlight as the cold air licked at him, Azriel wondered if you were the same Y/N he had so violently hated. Could someone so cruel enjoy the light of the moon? Did his other enemies also watch the stars?

“How long are you going to stand there and stare at me?”

Azriel stiffened and a heat rose to his cheeks. He looked down at his shadows in accusation. Maybe they had betrayed him, not covered his approach adequately. He glanced back up, meeting your gaze as you looked over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

Azriel waited for it— the expected glare, the indifference, or even a cruel smile. Something foreign, something that aligned with the adversarial image he held of you. But it didn't come. There was no hostility, no cruelty, no snark. Only a softness reminiscent of one that he had seen those in his family hold many times before. It caught him off guard.

You snickered softly. "I can feel your stare burning a hole into my dress."

Azriel swallowed and cleared his throat, willing himself to regain composure as he walked towards you. You turned to face him, arms crossed, eyes flicking to his wing.

"You don't look like death anymore," you remarked, a faint hint of amusement in your tone.

Azriel offered a wry smile. "I suppose I have you to thank for that." He paused, searching for the right words. He had too many questions in his mind— too many thoughts floating around, headless, bodiless. 

— You had called him by his name. You had been here with Lucien. You left and you came back. He shielded you with his wing. You healed him. You stayed. You watched the stars. 

Crickets chirped, and a soft breeze rustled the leaves overhead. Azriel's mind wandered to the initials carved into the wood.

"This was your home," he finally said, his voice quiet. "With Lucien."

Your head snapped towards him, eyes widened and lips parting in surprise. "What?"

Azriel simply looked at you, taking in the contours of your face, the way the moonlight painted soft shadows on your features. You had always been attractive, dangerously, irritatingly so. But you looked softer in this light. Someone more approachable, more real—someone he could dare to care for.

Someone he cared for enough to protect.

"Am I right?" he asked again, his voice steady.

You glanced back at the modest house. With a small sigh, you met his gaze briefly before your eyes looked down, unfocused. 

“It was Lucien’s.”

Azriel remained quiet, steading his breath as your eyes met his again. The normal simmering rage within them was replaced now with a distant sadness. 

"After Lucien fled Autumn, Tamlin had this made for him," you continued, gesturing subtly towards the house. "A place close enough to the border that Eris could sneak me to. A place for me to see Lucien, to stay with him when it was possible."

Azriel’s chest tightened further. This wasn't a Spring Court citizens home— it was yours. He thought back to the first time he’d found you here, how bitter you had seemed when you talked of its emptiness. To you, Feyre had taken away the only place you had to escape— when Lucien was forced to flee from another court, when Hybern took advantage of a weakened Spring.

"Why risk sneaking away constantly? Why not seek refuge like Lucien did?" 

Your face seemed to harden briefly at his question, a flicker of defensiveness crossing your features. "I could have," you replied, your tone tinged with a hint of regret as you offered a shrug. "Lucien begged me to."

"Yet you stayed. In Autumn.”

You tilted your chin to look at him properly, meeting his eyes with an intense, burrowing gaze. 

“Would you leave your family? Your court?" 

"My court is not known for its cruelty." 

The words slipped out almost automatically, like a response that had been trained in your presence. He cursed himself inwardly. Something flashed in your eyes and your jaw twitched imperceptibly.  For a brief moment, he braced himself for the anticipated flash of anger, the potential for conflict that could leave him stranded in this spot he now believed himself tethered to. 

But you only raised a brow. 

"Isn't it, though?" you retorted with a slight snicker.  "The all-powerful and brutal Rhysand, feared High Lord of the Night Court."

Azriel bit back the discomfort at the sound of Rhysands name, at the way you disregarded his title so flippantly. He took a deep inhale, and you recognized the action as the response that it was. 

"Autumn is my home.”

The freckles on your face seemed more visible in the moonlight. All the times he'd been with you, the weeks spent meeting you, fucking you, he couldn't remember a proper conversation, face to face, that had lasted this long without a cruel, vile insult. He found it hard to picture you in Autumn anymore, to see you alongside your other brothers, alongside Beron. The image of you among the autumn leaves, your fire-red hair blending with the fiery landscape, felt almost surreal now.

“It was Lucien's too."

“No.” You shook your head gently, a rueful smile touching your lips. “Lucien spent most of his life in other courts. He was always too kind for us. Him and his large heart were destined to leave. A bleeding heart in Autumn gets you nothing but a loss of blood."

You looked like Lucien now, more so than Azriel had seen before. The snark of Eris was still there, the same guarded, calculated movements— even the still, low cadence of your voice, like a practiced talent. Seemingly emotionless despite the topic of conversation.

Seemingly.

Gods, he hated how much you looked like Lucien now.

Because Lucien was fair. Just. Lucien had every reason, as Azriel was beginning to see like you had, to hate him. He'd gone after his mate, had rushed to prove himself in a battle to the death, hadn’t thought about Lucien as a life, as a person, beyond an adversary standing in front of a prize he wanted—that was what Elain had been. A prize. Something he wanted to deserve. Something to prove he was good.

But Lucien was kind. Lucien was diplomatic, good with people. Lucien had won Elain over with his patience, with that good heart you spoke of.

Azriel studied you, wondering how much of Lucien’s qualities you had in you that he had refused to acknowledge. That heart—it was there, beneath the layers of bitterness and guardedness. He had seen glimpses of it tonight, in the way you tended to his wounds, in the way your voice softened despite the hatred you held so deeply, so fiercely. 

He found himself wondering, not for the first time, what you could have been had you left with Lucien.

Azriel cleared his throat. “So you stayed.”

You held his gaze for a moment. He wondered if you were deciding whether to answer, waited anxiously to see whether this openness of yours would vanish. 

"I couldn't leave my mother. I couldn't leave Eris."

Azriel opened his mouth— to say what, he wasn’t sure. But you beat him to it.

"And besides that," you added, your tone shifting slightly, "I fit. You're the one who's talked about my cruelty. I belong in Autumn."

A familiar hardness began returning to your expression. He could see it building, a wall of cold resolve. Your arms tightened around yourself, nails digging into your biceps. You were cruel—this was a fact he knew well. Cruel, calculated, and dangerous for him. Yet, despite all this, an inexplicable urge to apologize welled up within him. 

He had always known getting involved with you was a bad idea. He had rationalized it as a way to fulfill his urges, telling himself that fucking you was the path of least resistance compared to killing you. One option provided a release, the other would only escalate into more chaos. But now, as he stood here, the realization hit him: perhaps it was more dangerous than he had thought. Perhaps he had been dipping into something more addictive than he realized, and now he couldn’t think straight.

Why had he protected you with his wing?

You glanced back at the house, your gaze softening, body relaxing. "I don't think Lucien ever truly got over that," you whispered, almost to yourself. "The hurt that came from his belief that I had chosen my cruel brother over my kind one."

It felt like an admission not meant for Azriel, like you hadn’t realized you’d confessed it out loud. You blinked and the flicker of vulnerability he had seen was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the guarded expression he had come to know.

"But that's not the truth,” Azriel said.

You met his gaze again. Years of sacrifice and loyalty that bound you to a life you never chose. A curved smile touched your lips, a mask slipping back into place— so easily, so swiftly, it almost made him sick. 

"People believe the stories that make the most sense to them. I'd say you're more than familiar with that habit, Shadowsinger."

Azriel's brows furrowed as he straightened, instinctively pulling his wings closer. A small ache radiated from his injured wing, and his mind drifted back to the wound. His shadows coiled protectively around him. Through their whisperings he felt an inexplicable urge to ask, "How did you know it wasn't faebane?"

You looked at him, your expression unreadable. With a nonchalant shrug, you replied, "Lucky guess."

He shook his head. "Do not lie to me."

“I don’t take orders from you.” Your jaw tightened, a flicker of defiance danced in your eyes. "And does it matter? You're healed. You’re welcome. Move on.”

"It matters," he insisted, his voice firm. "How did you know it wasn't faebane? That you needed to burn it out?"

You sighed in irritation. "You're supposed to be smart. Why do you think I knew?"

Azriel's heart pounded. He did know. Deep down, he knew the answer, but he needed to hear it from you. "How did you know?" he pressed.

You looked away, a dry laugh escaping your lips. Shaking your head, you said, "Faebane became useless to my father when an antidote was created for it."

Azriel's brows furrowed further, a sick feeling churning in his stomach. His fists curled at his sides as he asked, "What does that mean?"

A bitter smile twisted your lips as you met his gaze again. "He needed something else to make his punishments effective. So he created a new type of poison, similar to faebane. You can burn it out, which he loves. It's like a fun game for him—inflict the wound, heal it with even more pain, just to do it all over again."

Azriel's shadows seemed to still, softening in their movements. He fought the urge to keep them close, feeling them drift away towards the night air, towards you.

He scanned you with a burning gaze. He’d never noticed any scarring before, but then again, he'd only ever seen you from the back, your dress hitched up to your waist as he rutted into you from behind.  A tightness in his chest made him feel sick.

"I'm sorry," Azriel whispered before he even realized what he was saying, the honesty in his voice surprising even himself. Azriel didn’t apologize. He never did. Even when he should’ve.

You let out a wicked, cold snicker. "Don't go soft on me, Shadowsinger. We both know you're not really sorry. Just like your brute brother wasn't sorry when he figured out the same thing about Eris."

He shivered at the tone of your voice— a bite stronger than the night air that surrounded you both. His fists tightened at his sides as an image of Cassian came into his mind. He felt a rush of two things: blinding rage and blistering guilt. You had no right to call Cass a brute— Cass was a good brother, a loyal brother. And he and Azriel had talked about Eris, had talked about your brother, how little they cared about his punishments. The guilt bubbled up faster than the anger did, swallowing the rage entirely. 

The nighttime air felt suffocating now, pressing against his skin. As if you sensed it too, a cough escaped your lips, breaking the silence that had settled between you as Azriel observed you further. 

"That's enough sweet talk for me. I'll be leaving now," you declared, making a move to step away. Azriel intercepted your path, stepping in front of you with a determined stance.

You shot him a pointed glare. "I can just winnow away. You are aware of this, yes?"

Azriel ignored you, his gaze fixed on you as he searched your face for the answer to a question he didn’t know how to ask. 

"You left me earlier," he said.

You rolled your eyes, an incredulous scoff leaving your curved lips. “Gods, what is this, an exit interrogation? I just saved your ass and—”

He cut you off. “Earlier. When Renard ambushed us. You left.”

"Yes, Azriel, I did," you replied evenly.

The sound of his name seemed to cause a ripple, almost imperceptible, through the shadows around him. He flinched slightly and his stomach twisted into a small, tight knot. Azriel. 

Azriel's eyes darted between yours. “And then you came back.”

He could sense your growing annoyance, could see the simmering flame in your darkened eyes, the tightening of your hands.

"Are we summarizing the events of tonight?" 

He ignored you. “Why?”

"I'm not doing this with you," you shot back, frustration lacing your words as you attempted to push past him. But Azriel moved with a swiftness that caused a small sound of surprise to leave your lips. His strong grip closed around your arm, halting your movements and pulling you back into him.

Now, you were standing close, barely an inch separating your bodies. He could feel the heat of your body radiating against his and the faintest hint of a question lingered in his gaze. His shadows wrapped around your arm.

“Why?”

Your eyes locked with his and you sucked in a breath. "Because you're no use to me if you're dead.”

Azriel's thoughts raced. He hadn't meant those words when he said them, either. 

His shadows whispered things he couldn't quite focus on, their murmurs blending into the background as all he saw was you—so close to him. Someone who could have left him for dead. If Renard's men hadn't taken him so off guard, the poison would have. But you helped him, even after he insulted you, accused you of setting him up.

You looked like Lucien. You looked like Lady Autumn. You looked like Eris. But for the first time, you didn't look like someone he hated. 

"You are not Beron," Azriel said, his voice rough like gravel. He watched as your brows furrowed, your lips falling into a slight frown. "I should never have compared you to him. You are not your father.”

He could see the conflict in your eyes, darting across his face as you began to fall lax in his touch.

"And you're not your brother either," he added quietly.

The words felt like a confession from his lips, as if he was saying something besides the actual words he uttered. 

You blinked, staring at him as you pulled away slightly. Confusion flickered in his expression, his hand hovering where you had been in his hold. You took another step back.

"I am not my father," you affirmed, your voice steady. "I'm loyal. And I'm smart. And—" Your voice faltered. "And I get those things from Eris.”

Azriel stiffened, feeling his shadows tighten around him involuntarily as he watched you. He saw the softness fade from your face, replaced by a steely determination that caused a pang in his chest. You shook your head slightly, swallowed hard, and locked eyes with him.

"I am exactly like my brother. It's one of the things I'm most proud of.”

Before Azriel could respond, before he could even make a move toward you, you turned on your heel and were gone. The night swallowed you up, leaving him standing alone amidst the whispering shadows, grappling with the sickening vulnerability that washed over him like a wave. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

IM BACK BABIES AND IM WRITIN LIKE ITS A FULL TIME JOB

ill make parts shorter i swear (actually....will i???) but alas.... azzie baby has been hit in the face with the beginning of his FEELINGS!!!!

also, in case you wanna SEE our angsty hate-love birds, the super talented @micahssketchbook has sketched them not ONCE, but twice!!

The scene in part three where Azriel has reader in a chokehold and she pulls one on his ass by taking Truth-Teller

and what theyre about to be like in future parts with Az caressing readers face!!

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: 

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @panther-girl-124 @bubybubsters

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @feyretopia @ninthcircleofprythian @velariscalling @vansaddy

hi mae! i’ve recently become obsessed with herbal teas and i noticed you have mentioned chamomile and jasmine tea in your fics lol. i am wondering if you would be interested in writing a remus or poly!marauders fic with an american reader who loves herbal teas and they kinda tease her about it (in a loving way of course)? i love your fics and i hope you have a lovely day whenever you read this <3

I love herbal teas! I fully support this obsession honey. Thank you for requesting!

cw: british slander, i love y'all but i'm besmirching your brand <3 (based largely on my own experiences lol, so perhaps not fully accurate)

Remus Lupin x american!reader ♡ 614 words

“This is so disappointing,” you sigh at the sight of Remus’ cabinet. 

“What?” he asks from the couch. 

“You told me you had tea.” 

“I do have tea.” 

“No, you only have this.” You take the box of Yorkshire Tea out of the cabinet, brandishing it where Remus can see. “This shit is nasty. Rubbish, as your folk say.” 

“Oh,” he laughs, “so you sail all the way across the ocean, take our teas with you, denounce our government, and then come back here to criticize, is that it?” 

You look at him darkly. “This is what the Boston tea party was really about. I get it now.” 

Remus beckons you toward the couch. You go, abandoning the boiling kettle since apparently there’s no point in searching the kitchen for anything good to drink. It’s only once you sit down on the couch and he takes your hand into his lap that you realize your mistake. 

Remus has a mollifying effect on you. It’s tragic, really. All it takes is a look, a shift in his tone, a small touch like this, and you’re pliant and boneless for him. 

“What sort of teas do you prefer?” he asks you softly, tracing the lines of your palm.

“I usually keep a variety,” you tell him, matching his tone. “Like cinnamon, or passionflower, or rooibos…have you heard of any of those?” 

Remus smiles, slow and sweet. “I have. Would you like whipped cream and sprinkles on those as well?” 

You laugh, rolling your eyes. You try to take your hand back, but Remus holds fast (you don’t make it hard for him), grinning at you. 

“That is so not fair. Just because y’all like your tea bland—”

“Say that one more time for me? Who all?” 

“—doesn’t mean my tastes are somehow unrefined.” You fix him with a hard stare, though your smile is untamable. “You’re being posh.”

Remus looks amused. “Never been accused of that one before,” he says. 

“Have you ever tried jasmine tea with a little bit of sweet creamer in it?” You raise your eyebrows at him. “Remus, you’re really missing out.” 

“Alright.” He stands, taking your hand with him and giving it a tug when you don’t follow. “C’mon, up.” 

“Where are we going?”

“To make you a cuppa.” 

You giggle. “I can’t take you seriously when you call it that.” 

“Once you stop saying dude, we can talk about my diction.” 

“So mean,” you tsk, letting him pull you over in front of the kitchen counter. He pours the hot water from the kettle into a mug, placing a tea bag in it. 

“We’ll get this drinkable for you, love, don’t worry,” Remus murmurs, waiting until the tea is a deep brown before going to the fridge. He pours in heaps of milk and sugar, stirring with a look of mild distaste in his expression. “Alright, try.” 

You take the mug off the counter warily, blowing on it before putting it to your lips. 

You hum, and Remus lifts an eyebrow. 

“It’s…better.” 

“I’ve done my best,” he chuckles, taking it from you. “I’ve thrown all my principles and better sense out the window, and it’s still not up to your standards, hm?” 

“No, it’s not bad.” You steal the mug back, taking another sip and smacking your tongue against the roof of your mouth experimentally. “It’ll do.” 

Remus gives you an indulgent look. “I’m sure we can find you some jasmine tea if that’s what you want,” he offers. 

You shrug. “I was just at the grocery store, and I didn’t see any.” 

He tilts his head skyward, blowing out a long-suffering breath. “I think you mean the grocery, sweetheart.”

thanks for coming to my ted talk

this was just so lovely i don't even have the words

everything with you | james potter x reader

summary four times james almost kisses you and one time he does. [9k]

warnings fluff, mutual pining, getting together, first kiss, idiots in love, first date, fem!reader, she/her pronouns used for reader, suggestive language/theme, late 90s au, rugby player!james

<3

James Potter is a little obsessed with you. In a cool, extremely chill and normal way, he thinks. It's hard not to be, here, at some random party half drunk and pushed into your side with your perfect hand held protectively over his head to shield him from the hubbub of partygoers.

"Still feeling poorly?" you ask, pushing the hair from his eyes.

"I need a haircut," he says, distracted by your touch.

"No!" you protest in a whisper. "No, James. Your hair‘s lovely, please don't cut it. What would I run my hands through if you did?" You say all this with a lopsided smile, one corner pulled up higher than the other, and a conspiring tone.

He blinks rapidly. Maybe he doesn't need a haircut after all.

Your fingertips push into the thick tresses at his hairline and scrape back. He shivers in light pleasure and reaches out to grab your thigh where his head is resting, indulgently absorbing the warmth of your body.

You barely notice, pulled back into a conversation with a girl on the sofa opposite. James feels his phone pulse in his pocket and is reluctant to retrieve it, worried you'll pause your ministrations. He watches you take a sip of your drink and almost spit it out laughing and deems you distracted, struggling with his phone, just drunk enough that his motor skills are fucking with him as he snaps it open.

Sirius told me to tell you that you look pathetic. Love Remus.

James scowls at his phone and lifts his head from your leg to look towards where he thinks his friends are located. Sure enough, they haunt the kitchen doorway with equally humorous looks on their faces, Sirius smug to Remus' pitying. James flips Sirius off and finds it returned, a perfectly painted and manicured finger held aloft.

You giggle by James' ear. "I hope that's not for me."

"Definitely to me. You'll have to forgive him. He was dragged up," he says, groaning at his embarrassing mates.

"Don't be cruel," you admonish, nudging him with a naked elbow.

His phone chirps again.

I also think you look pathetic. It's cute. Do you want food? Love Remus.

Moons u rly don't need to sign off every txt. Not hngry. Luv u

OK. Love Remus.

James laughs at his friend's hopelessness and tucks his phone away.

"I'm never cruel," he tells you.

You neaten the rolled up hem of his short sleeve unthinkingly and he can't help how much he wants to kiss you. It's all in the little things, he knows. You put your fingers in his hair and he's happy to lie in your lap like a dog; you fix his clothes and he wants to kiss you stupid; you smile at him sweetly, asking if he still feels sick, and if he is does he want you to go sit with him outside for a bit? He's ashamed of the heat in his chest.

James finds himself at your side with an inch between your legs, a porch bench swinging underneath you.

"I don't want to hurt your feelings," you say tentatively. He feels an alarming rush of vertigo at your words, until you continue, "But I think you could benefit from some mild temperance."

He scrubs his face, nausea ebbing as you clarify. He thought for a moment you were going to reject him before he even confessed.

"Yeah, maybe. Wouldn't have any reason for you to take care of me then," he says, startled and sounding it. He winces before he's done. You make a humming sound.

"You hardly need to be drunk for me to take care of you."

He sits with this and looks out over the garden. It's a nice space, the home in a wealthy neighbourhood, twinkling fairy lights strung up over the porch and solar powered lamps peppered down a keenly landscaped stretch of green grass and flowerbeds. There's a pretty stone path leading down to the end of the garden where a grey-white fountain spurts water. It sounds calm if you can ignore the sound of the party, which he finds himself more and more able to do as your knee creeps closer to his.

He wishes, and hates himself for it, that he'd worn shorts. Craves that tiny skin on skin contact when your thigh touches him. You must be cold in your skirt, a midi slit up one side that shows the smooth stretch of your outer thigh, colder on your top half in a spaghetti strap shirt and a loose knit cardigan.

If he thought you'd accept it he would offer you his jacket, but you won't. He's tried before. I don't want you to get cold, Jamie.

"You really don't think I should get a haircut?" he asks self-consciously, tugging a hand through his unruly waves.

"No," you say seriously, turning your torso towards him.

"It's a little long," he complains.

"James, please." You lift your hand up to replace his, pushing his hair back.

"I'll look like Sirius soon enough."

You shift. The bench sways. You push your second hand in his hair and pull it all away from his face gently. He can feel the cool breeze on his bare, clammy forehead as you sit there with your hands in his hair

You run your hand through his dark mop one last time, then stop with your hands braced at the back of his head, a big smile on your face.

"Don't cut it," you implore him seriously, looking into his eyes.

He deserves a medal for not leaning into your arms right then and there.

"How do you keep it so soft even though it's this thick?"

He doesn't understand how you can continue a conversation like this without melting. He's melting. You're talking like everything is normal, fingers twined between ink dark strands and fingertips massaging his scalp.

"I… I oil my roots before I wash it." He doesn't share how his mum insists on doing it for him most of the time now he's back home from school.

"You can definitely tell," you murmur.

His eyes shut. He blames it on his drunkenness and not the feeling of your hands.

"James?" you ask quietly.

"Yeah?" he asks, though it sounds more like an unintelligible hum.

"Are you tired? D'you need to go home?"

"Maybe." He does feel suddenly like his limbs are made of stone.

"Who are you going home with?" you ask.

You stand. The bench wobbles. One hand falls out of his hair to rest on his shoulder and his skin warms where it lands, the other tucking stray pieces of hair behind his ears. He opens his bleary eyes and is met with a silver of your midriff, promptly closing them again to push evil thoughts from his mind in which he kisses stripes over that naked skin for hours.

"Sirius is driving me home," he admits reluctantly.

"Let's go look for him."

James reluctantly follows you with a little wobble. His inebriation has faded as the night progresses but a general tipsy dizziness prevails. You press a hand to his lower back and he narrowly avoids trodding on your strappy sandals.

"I don't see him anywhere. Can you text him?" you ask.

James grabs his phone. You both press your backs to the wall to make way for some passersbys. He doesn't bother with texting Sirius: Remus always answers.

Where r u??

Went to get food. Love Remus.

When will u b back?

Sirius wanted Molly's Kitchen. Love Remus.

Molly's kitchen in MILTON KENYES?

Sorry. He is very convincing. Love Remus.

I know he is… luv u see u never when i die here abandoned & cold

See you tomorrow. Love Remus.

It takes him so long to type this all out he's surprised when you're still by his side. You're looking at the picture frames hanging on the wall with the patience of a Saint.

"They ditched me."

"Oh," you say.

"Yep."

"Well, you'll just have to come home with me," you say breezily.

He gawks. You fish your keys out of your cardigan and brandish them like a lump of gold. "I have leftover pizza. Or we can order in. If you're hungry?"

He's not. "Sure. Whatever you want."

"We can walk. It's not that far. If you can walk?"

"I can walk."

Barely. He knows it would've been a lovely stroll with you in the lazy summer air, sun still ligphting the sky despite the time, gauzy pinks and blues skimming the white-gold horizon, if only he hadn't been half cut. Your skin is shiny as finest silk and a gentle breeze floats your perfume towards him and he's close to admitting maybe he's obsessed with you in a way that isn't cool at all by the time you make it to the front door.

It's a mostly silent journey until you're shutting your bedroom door behind you and he's wondering how he got here, sitting at the end of your bed. Your room is an extension of you that he can't take in fast enough. He doesn't know what to do with his hands.

You lean down and unstrap your sandals and he toes off his own shoes, trying not to look at how you're bent over, at the silhouette of your legs in your light skirt. Next is your cardigan. He feels like a bachelor in the 1800s, hungry and guilty at your naked skin.

Your silver anklets click together as you weave past him to your bedside table. You flick on the glass shade lamp and an array of multicolour sprays up the wall and your hands. He's mesmerised.

"Pizza," you mumble to yourself, and then looking up at him, "James, I don't have any pajamas for you. Um… oh, and your jeans are gonna be uncomfortable. Do you wear boxers?"

"I- I- yeah. Yes." When he tells this story later, much later, he will not recall stammering here.

"Well, if you wanna sleep in your boxers I don't mind. Better than those awful jeans. I'm gonna heat up the pizza. Bathrooms right there," you point at the door, "if you need it. Are you still feeling sick?"

"No," he says, a smidge overwhelmed.

You reach out and cup his cheek for a second as you pass. He sits in your aftermath and worries he may not make it through the night.

Watching you eat is a strange pleasure. To get to watch you eat is the first, and then the face you make trying to catch a string of cheese is a close second. Now, lying shoulder to shoulder with you, too hot for the duvet and in his boxers he can't get the image of you out of his head. He's too afraid to turn and see the real thing in case you think he's trying to cop a feel.

He'd insisted on sleeping on the floor and you'd laughed so much you went warm in the cheeks. "No, James, that's okay. You're with me."

You'd swapped your skirt for a pair of loose cotton pants. The fabric of which brushed against his calf as you squirmed restlessly.

"It's too warm," you complain.

He's so tired he can barely answer. "Yes."

"I'm gonna open the window," you declare. You climb over his legs and there's so many points of contact he thinks he might go blind.

Window opened, you stand at the sill and pick your vest away from your skin, looking over your shoulder at him, catching him mid-heady gaze. If you care you don't show it, smiling at him with your big hoop earrings still in, your necklace, your bracelets. He frowns to himself. Are you supposed to sleep with jewellery?

You climb back into bed, standing at the edge and flopping down much closer to him than you had been before. It wafts a ridiculous gust of your intoxicating smell over him.

"It's supposed to be this hot all week," you say morosely.

"The miraculous nature of British summer time," he murmurs.

You laugh breathily. "How awful. When it's cold I want the sun to come out and when the sun's out I miss the rain."

He turns his head to watch you talk.

"I like the sunshine." You tilt your head up, in a deep debate with yourself. "It's the humidity I can't deal with. It makes my hair so frizzy. I want soft hair like you, and-" you pause. "Watcha doing?"

"Do you sleep with these?" he asks, poking at the hoop hanging from your earlobe.

"Oh. Sometimes. You're not supposed to, 'cos they're big and all, but I forget."

"Can I?"

"Sure, yes. Please."

He nods and brings his other hand up, pulling the latch off your hoop and sliding it from your ear. He climbs up onto his elbow and presses his fingers to your jaw, turning your head into the pillow so he can reach the other. You're decidedly pliant and quiet under his touch as he pulls the second out. He puts them down by your shoulder and pulls on your necklace until the clasp is in sight.

He's holding his breath. You're looking up into his face with wide, soft eyes, and he catches the tremble you resist as he pulls the necklace free from your neck.

"Tickles," you say sheepishly. He's close enough to feel the warmth of your exhale on his skin.

He drapes the necklace next to your earrings but can't bring himself to move. Your eyelashes twitch. Your lips part and he can see the tiniest sneak of your tongue.

The way you're looking at him is dazzling, dizzying. He smooths down the hair closest to your neck that he'd disrupted while detangling your necklace, ignores the unsteadiness in his hands, presses his fingers to the side of your throat.

Your eyelashes kiss as your eyes drift shut, and he leans down just as you turn your face from his.

"You're drunk, Jamie," you whisper, covering his hand with your own.

He knows you're right. Though drunk seems dramatic at this point, admittedly there's alcohol in his system, and he lets himself fall back into your sheets.

"Sorry," he says.

You bring your arm across your front to grasp his shoulder in your palm. Time moves slow.

"James?"

"Yeah?"

You brush the tousled hair from his face, your touch featherlight and familiar now against his temple. His heart soars as you cuddle in closer, skips when you touch your lips to the muscle of his bicep. "Sleep well," you say warmly.

You break the kiss and stroke the skin there gently with your thumb before turning on your back.

-

so u didn't kiss her?

u r exacerbating my pain, Black

Good. Ur pain SHOULD be 'exacerbated' idiot.

i was tipsy. she didn't want me 2

and in the morning when u were sober ??? couldn't have kissed her in between waffles????

she acted like it didn't happen so I did 2

oh my god! U r so dumb !

James dropped his phone in his lap, feeling the humiliation of his defeat tenfold. Sirius was right, James should have kissed you at breakfast. Maybe. Or at least made his intentions with you clear. He wasn't trying to kiss you because he was drunk or because you were there, he was trying to kiss you because he was hopelessly endeared to you and hoped you might want to put up with him for a bit. Or years. Whatever, it's not like he was planning the wedding or anything. Yet.

He very much hadn't kissed you the next morning. You'd gotten up before him, an angel in your new fresh clothes and your hair out of your face, skin dewy and fucking hell was he lovelorn. He'd been sick as a dog at the table and you'd mistaken it for a hangover, pressing a cup of water into one hand and two ibuprofen in the other, smelling like sweetness behind him.

"Temperance," you'd said encouragingly, lips by his ear.

He relayed this all to Remus over the phone on the bus home, who had listened without judging for the most part up until that point.

"Oh, James."

"You think that's bad?" he'd asked.

"James."

"Just. Don't tell Sirius?"

"I won't." A lie, evidently. At least I can be mad at Remus' blather mouth rather than my own pussy footing, James thinks happily, pulling a throw cushion over his face.

"I'm an idiot," he says into the cushion. It doesn't say anything back.

-

James Potter isn't your boyfriend to your whimsy disappointment, but you think he might want to be.

You'll admit that his tipsy almost-kiss was a speed bump where you worried that awkwardness would wedge between you ruthlessly, but the next morning he'd made enough jokes to have you tearing up and looked at you so adoring you assumed that point moot.

You dress extra pretty tonight, a million different trinkets, silver thin bangles that jingle. Please, you think. Please, James, just ask me on a date.

You're sick of motives. These days you only go so you can see James, tired of party drugs and alcohol and sweaty guys looking at you in that way where you know exactly what they're thinking.

You spy him now, pressing through the doorway with his entourage behind him. You think this with love. His two tallest friends are always right by his side, and a smaller girl trails behind them that you think is called Emmeline.

The first half of his friends that you knew of had arrived earlier in the evening along with your only mutual friend, Mary. You give her a saccharine smile as you peel away, not bothering to hide where you're planning on going.

She smiles indulgently and turns to the short-haired girl, Dorcas. Guilt-free, you wheedle past people you don't know and some that you do, giving pause when one of your friends from school appears. By the time you've finished menial well wishes you can't see James anymore.

"Looking for someone?"

You jump and spin on your flat shoes.

A relieved smile works its way across your mouth.

"James, you startled me," you say, voice light, pressing your fingers to your sternum.

"Sorry, sweetheart. Here." He gestures his big hand to you.

A flower. You take its stem between your fingers gingerly.

"Where'd you get this?"

"Saw it on the way."

You twirl it around and watch its petals dance before passing it back to him.

You smile despite yourself at his crestfallen expression and take a step closer.

"Put it in my hair?" you ask.

His brown eyes lighten, hot amber tea steeped in his irises. He's careful as he sews the flower's delicate stalk into the hair closest to your ear, his mouth hovering just over your forehead. You half hope he's going to press a kiss to your skin before he steps back. He doesn't, though his fingertips give you almost the same pleasure as he flattens what are already well tamed baby hairs.

You want an excuse to stay close to him. He'd done it all by himself the last time by participating in a drinking game he had no chance of winning and needing somewhere to lie down. Your lap had been open. You'd prefer he stray from any recreation of this tonight, and are saved from thinking up a new excuse when he taps the toe of his shoe into yours.

You look down at the rubber toes and then up at his face.

"Want a drink?" he asks.

You pull your shoe back just enough to hit his again. "Depends. What kind?"

"We brought a keg, not that I think you're interested in that."

"Nope," you agree, wrinkling your nose with a grimace.

His answering smile is ridiculously contagious.

"You don't strike me as someone so picky."

"I know what I like," you say, demure. "But I'll try anything once."

His eyes darken, sticky sweet; a playfulness edged in something like I dare you.

"Let's hope I can get you something that sticks," he says back, twice as smooth.

An immeasurable pleasure eats up your spine as his hand comes between your shoulder blades, steering you into the kitchen. He exchanges hellos with guys you don't know huddled around the kitchen table playing cards. One of them lights a cigarette and James stands between you and the twisting smoke, opening his arm out to the countertops covered in drink.

"What do you want, baby?"

You cross your legs and lean forward, pretending to read labels.

"How about you pick for me?" You turn your head to the side and enunciate each word through lips barely parted, eyes tracking his hands where they hang at his sides. His left hand twitches.

"And if you don't like what I choose?"

You straighten up slowly, "Then you'll make me another."

He laughs and you know he can see through all the aloof confidence you carry around you, can see you for who you are, but it doesn't read as cruelty so much as a kindness. You feel the layer of coolness you'd layered on slip away and smile at him with too much teeth, pleased when his hand claps your shoulder and he steps forward to make you a drink.

The concoction he makes is a little too sweet for you but you drink it without complaint, sitting up on the counter where there's room.

He leans with his hand braced behind him next to your thighs, face close to your own and beautiful as he talks to you, brown skin cooled by the white fluorescents and eyes shiny. You can see the smattering of dark stubble coming in if you look, which you aren't. Except that you are. Hungry, you soak in his little details. Tiniest scar by his mouth. Beauty spot not far from it under his nose, almost invisible against his skin. Wavy hair in tighter curls tonight and smelling of coconut or almond or something, fresh and fragrant and thick. His glasses, black wire frames, slide down his nose so often it drives you crazy to watch him push them back up.

Eventually, unable to resist the temptation, you straighten them on the bridge of his nose mid-sentence. He pauses to blow air out of the side of his mouth, warding off a curl dipping close to his eyebrows as you do, and the silence stretches even when your hands are safely returned to your lap.

"You look…" You press your lips together in an attempt to fight off a nervous giggle that slips out anyways as you continue, making the words less serious than they're meant to be, "Pretty. Or handsome. If you prefer."

He puts his drink down on the countertop. You knead your own fingers.

"You look pretty too. Handsome, if you prefer," he returns, creeping closer still. Your chest burns with the pleasure of being complimented. "So much jewellery tonight, you're a mirror ball."

"You don't like it?"

"Didn't say that."

You lift a hand, let all the bangles drop down your arm. "I may have bordered on excessive," you admit, abashed.

"Don't worry, I know all about excessive," he placates, picking his drink up pointedly. The image of him plastered and poorly pops up in your head.

"Yes, well, I was hoping you'd stay sober." You run your finger over the rim of your glass, unable to look at him. "In case I need some help."

His hand reaches out, a finger hooking under one chain bracelet and tugging gently. You can feel his gaze on your face, feel as he puts his drink down again with a final clink. His hand closes around your bracelet.

His fingers are gentle as his other hand slowly, slowly works up your face, fingertips pushing over the delicate, smooth skin of your cheek. His thumb finds a home at the bottom of your chin and he uses it to guide your face up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

It's intense because you want it, because he's handsome, because he's funny, because he's awfully, terribly kind. Because something between you both fits together like it's meant to, and you just know that if he kisses you everything is gonna work out like it should.

His eyes are on your lips. You follow his eyes with sick excitement and miss when he slips your bracelet off of your wrist.

You look between you both. He holds the silver links between his fingers. It's the only one he would've needed to unclasp, the rest are seamless bangles. This one, silver with small blue cut gems, is just his style.

You hold your palm out, mourn his hand as it falls from your face. You both look down between you as you wrap the tennis bracelet around his wrist and click it into place.

"There," you say, so quietly you're worried he might miss it. "Something for me to take off'a you."

His hand finds your face with purpose now, almost pulling you toward his own beaming face and he's opening his mouth, about to say something with a laugh already on his lips when a shattering crash echoes from the living room and into the kitchen. James stills, hand moving down to squeeze your shoulder protectively as he turns to the door.

A barking laugh. James turns back quickly, apologetic, murmuring a "Jump down?" and pushing his forearm under your armpit to help you down off of the counter.

As soon as your canvas shoes touch down, he takes a light hold on your wrist and pulls you along, following the guys who'd been playing cards. In the living room, Sirius sits at a coffee table with a knife in his hand. Sticking into his hand, blood already pooling around it in a black crimson horror that has half the room in morbid silence and the other half panicking.

Remus, at Sirius' left, is laughing with tears running down his cheeks, sounding like he's one guttural guffaw from throwing up. Sirius looks pretty cool about the whole thing, cooler when he spots James in the doorway.

"Prongs! Come and pull this out, would you? I'd do it, but I can't seem to make myself grab it."

Remus let's out another sobbing laugh. You can't help but giggle from behind James' shoulder, and Sirius zeroes in on this.

James drops your hand, walking forward and bending at the waist.

"Hey, don't think because you're his girl now that means you-fuck! Oh fuck, what the fuck-" Sirius presses the open sleeve of his dress shirt hurriedly into the wound, freshly opened. James holds the knife he'd just pulled free in his hand distastefully.

"Alright, hotshot, run your mouth in the car. You need stitches."

"Fuck's sake."

James drops the knife on the table and shoves the wounded boy's head with the flat of his palm, earning another curse. Remus, finally extending some friendly generosity, pulls the dark shirt he's layered over a t-shirt off and encourages Sirius to wrap it around his hand.

Sirius protests. "This'll give me an infection."

"Fuck off and die, then," Remus suggests lightly, wiping at his eyelashes with the side of his pinky finger.

Sirius wrinkles his nose. James tries to shepherd them both from the room, which has once again grown loud with laughing, most of it at the absurdity of Sirius injury.

"What did I tell you about pinfinger?" James asks scornfully.

"Not to play it," Remus supplies, stepping over people's feet with little apology.

You watch the sorry threesome make their way to the door, a disheartened feeling creeping in.

James opens the front door and pushes Sirius through it, torn looking back at you.

"Remus can't drive, so I'll have to take him," he explains.

"You still have my bracelet."

A weak argument. He can hear your disappointment. He smiles, eyebrows pulling up in… sympathy? Empathy? Apology? You can't tell what, only that he looks soft as butter as he says, "I'll call you? We can arrange a time for you to take it back."

"Okay," you agree, much too happy, just as he's pulled out the door by a bloody hand.

-

James doesn't have your number. He realises this in A&E, close to midnight with Remus asleep on one shoulder and Sirius slouched in the other, waiting for the plastics to come and assess if Sirius has done any permanent damage to his finger.

"I don't understand how you can stab yourself in the hand and fuck up your finger," James mutters for what's likely the fifth time.

Sirius sighs unhappily. "It's ligaments or tendons or something. I might very well have cut through a cord that needs to remain uncut."

"You're an idiot."

"Thanks, James."

"Yeah, you're welcome." James slouches a little lower in his chair to take the strain off of his best friend's neck in a show of genuineness. He does love him, after all, even after shocking displays of public stupidity.

"Sorry for cockblocking you," Sirius says.

"Vile. Wasn't gonna turn out that way. Though I was hoping I might actually make a real move tonight. I did make a real move," James shakes his head, disgruntled. "I was seconds away from kissing her. Your idiocy couldn't wait 30 seconds?"

"Wasn't exactly timing it, mate."

"Yeah."

James digs through his pocket for his phone. He never knows where the damn thing is. Your bracelet is tight to his skin and he looks at it with keen longing, imagining your nicely shaped nails running under it.

He shakes it off, goes to unlock his phone, and this is where he realises he doesn't have your number.

"Do you have Y/N's number?" he asks Sirius.

"No." It sounds like why would I?

"Fuck."

"She's Mary's friend, isn't she? Ask Mary."

He sighs and does as he's told, scrolling through contacts until he finds Mary MacDonald's.

Hi mary was wondering if u have Y/N's phone #

And why should I give it to you, Pots? :3 :D <3

pls mary I am not above begging u

While that would be a sight, I meant why do you want it? But please tell me more about the begging part!!! <33

mary

What are your intentions with my Y/N? She's much too sweet for you to manhandle <33

James blushes at her wording and groans aloud. "Girls are impossible."

"Yep," Sirius says tiredly.

James doesn't want his or your business passed around, and if he tells Mary, Mary will tell Dorcas and Dorcas will tell Marlene and Marlene will tell everybody she knows and will find it very, very entertaining as she does. He doesn't plan on awarding her the pleasure. He tells a white lie.

I found her bracelet and want to give it back :]

I'll give it back for you ;) <3

not that I don't trust u M but its super nice, id prefer to give it in person myself

OK OK I'll stop yanking your chain now Jamesie dearest hahaha. Her number is +44 XXXX XXXXXX. I trust the bracelet gets back to her in one piece. btdub, how's siri? <3

crying and shaking like a lamb, thanks m xoxo

He adds your number to his contacts and then stares at it until the nurse calls for Sirius and they get up to meet her, leaving Remus to blink awake confused at their departure.

-

hi Y/N, this is James

You look down at your rarely used phone and feel a warmth like sunshine unfold in your tummy. You don't use any emoticons, though you want to.

Hi James, how are you? How is your friend?

im amazing how r u? doctors are hopeful that he'll live, but it's up to him now :,(

James

kidding. he is fine. R u busy right now?

no I'm not busy why?

can I call u?

You call him rather than answer. He picks up straight away.

"James," you say quietly.

"Sweetheart," he says back. "Hey, hi. I had to get your number from Mary Magdalene."

"Wow, what was she like?"

"Uh… bloody? Which one was she?"

"I don't know, James," you say, laughing behind your hand.

"What are you doing today?" he asks.

You preen though he can't see. "Nuthin," you say, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth. "Why'd you ask?"

"Trapped you there, baby. Don't you know you're supposed to wait until after I tell you what I'm planning before you say you're not busy?"

"Oh, weird. Something just came up."

"Uh-huh. Anyways, busy or not, if you want to: I've got a match later. If you want to come." He sounds nervous. It's a new look on him.

"Do I get to sit pretty on the sidelines with the other girls?"

"You can stand, if you like. But yeah, otherwise. Oh, unless you have some kicks. I doubt it would take much convincing to get you on the team."

"How's that?"

"Well, you know. They aren't blind. Dumb, sure, but we play rugby. Not exactly a honeypot of intelligence, all it would take for half those guys is your pretty smile-"

"You're plenty smart," you cut off his compliments.

James gags. "Keep it to yourself. It starts at six, but come whenever. Oh- do you need me to pick you up?"

"No, that's okay. I'll walk. It's warm out."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. It'll be nice. I'll wear team colours." You're almost afraid to suggest it until he makes a very happy noise that he coughs to hide two seconds too late.

"See you at six, then?"

"Definitely. You owe me a bracelet."

"It's a date." He hangs up before you can say goodbye. Good thing, because you spend the next ten minutes with your face in your hands, smiling so wide your cheeks ache.

It doesn't quite feel like a date on the sidelines but you're too busy walking on sunshine to care. You watch as James throws the ball behind him, torso twisting, bulky arms flexing. His shorts and socks are stained green and his shirt grips tight to his chest.

You can see why he wanted a haircut; ink dark hair falls in his eyes as he sprints after the team and he has no hands to tuck it back.

You'd been a little late, trying too hard to look effortlessly radiant at home and forgetting the time. As soon as you'd arrived, out of breath and half-dressed, you stood at the side of the pitch close to watchers but maintaining a small gap trying desperately to catch his eye. It was obvious when he saw you - he smiled beatifically and raised a wide palm in greeting before getting into position for a scrum.

After a while there's a halftime break where he comes bouncing off the field to your side. He goes straight in for a hug, brave, warm, exactly what you wanted, arms around your waist and lifting you off the ground half an inch with the force of it.

You wrap your arms around his neck and pretend it's all an inconvenience, wobbling on tiptoes. "You're getting grass all over me."

"Oh no," he says, faux worried.

He smells like so many things. Deodorant and sweat, grass and dirt and salt. You press your nose into his hair and smell the almond oil there with a lopsided smile.

He lets you down, holding you at arms length.

"You're so fucking pretty."

You try not to burst into tears, turning your face so he can see the heart on your cheek made up of glitter in his team colours. "It's the team rep."

"No, it isn't," he says, running his hand down your face to straighten your head, pausing with his fingers under your chin.

Your bracelet is still on his wrist. You can't find it in yourself to be embarrassed at the lovesickness you're feeling.

You push his hair from his face. He, reminded of this affliction, levels you with a squinting glare. "This is all your fault."

"Sorry, Jamie," you say, biting back a guilty smile.

"It's fine," he concedes immediately. You're suddenly overwhelmed by the power you have over this poor boy.

"How long is the break?"

"Halftime? About ten minutes left."

You nod, thinking to yourself. "Well, um. You can say no, but. I can plait your hair back, if you want. Out of your eyes."

"You can?" he asks, brightening.

"Yeah, I can."

James sits on the bottom bench of the stand and you stand behind him, your fingers raking through his windblown curls in lieu of a comb. He sits strangely still, more controlled than you thought possible of him as you braid back the longest strands at the front of his scalp, sliding your fingers through his hair as kindly as you can. The small intimacy of it all has your heart racing.

Securing the dark braid with a bobble, you take in the back of his head. His soft shiny hair is oil black in the sun, his skin painted with gold. His neck begs to be kissed.

You rub your hands down the back of his neck, across the curves of his trap muscles and then down his chest, leaning on him so you can press your lips to the highest point of his cheek in a shy kiss. He tilts his head to catch your eye as you pull back.

"Done?" he asks, something indistinguishable in his voice.

"Done," you confirm.

His face is close enough to spot the beauty mark adjacent to his cupid's bow. You resist the urge to kiss that, too, and stand at full height. He copies you. You find that the stands underneath you makes you taller, his eyes are level with yours.

"How's it look?"

"I did alright," you say modestly. "Though maybe a haircut isn't the worst idea."

He laughs and looks down, reaching for your hands. He's different without his glasses, not more or less handsome, but different. The focus of his face changes, and you find yourself distracted by his eyes, his nose, his mouth.

He holds your hands like a prince, brushing his thumb over your fingernails. Then, in true royal fashion, he brings your hand to his mouth. A kiss pressed to your knuckles. One kiss becomes two, two to three, a peppering of pecks up your hand and over your pulse and up your arm. He reaches your sleeve. His hand follows his mouth until he's holding your elbow in his hand like you're a sacred being, pulling you in.

You drift together. His hands cup your upper arms and guide you slowly to the left as he ducks in.

A piercing whistle leaps through the air. You flinch apart like guilty kids, his hands a searing heat through your shirt sleeves as the call for halftime's end rings. Loudly.

He grimaces bitterly. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I don't know why this keeps happening to us, I'm-"

"Going to get in trouble," you finish, peeling his hands off of your body. "Go on, before they get mad."

"Your bracelet-"

"Keep it. It looks good on you, anyways."

He leans in and holds you by the neck. Your heart is a hammering racket for no reason - all he does is peck your forehead, quick and firm. Then he pulls back all sorry looking and scrambles over the bench and the kit to get back into position.

You sit down heavily on the cold metal seat behind you and cover your chest with your hands, taking deep breaths through your nose.

He catches your eye from the pitch and winks.

-

"Be thankful it was your mouth and not your nose."

"Explain what you mean," James demands, wincing at his split lip.

You match his stride. James, having been hit in the face with the rugby ball hard enough to bruise and cut his top lip, had refused to let you look at him, despite the horror it had provoked, and then had refused to let you walk home alone. I'm not getting in your car until you see a doctor, James, I mean it.

Fine, then we'll walk.

So you walk. The sun is setting, the sky a mix of white-pink and light blue, a bleeding yellow light throwing big shadows every which way. You step out of the shade of a towering, green leafed tree where the main road began. Before James can stop you, you jump up onto the small metal barrier that stops cars from driving on the pavement and walk across it like a balance beam.

"Please don't," James says.

You ignore him, using your arms to stop yourself from toppling into the road. A small revenge considering he had ignored your medical advice. James lets you do this for around 10 seconds before he grabs your hand in his. You wobble along the last meter of barrier with your joined hands held aloft and tight before you finally let him pull you back down onto the pavement, giggling breathlessly. Cars careen past, each one wafting a breeze of petrol and fallen leaves towards your legs.

Fingers interlocked, you walk. You take in the relative beauty of your town in its approaching dusk, meandering past roundabouts and roads, back gardens and a corner shop.

You persuade James inside the shop and beeline for the cold drinks at the back. The open fridges cool your clammy skin.

"What one do you want?" you ask him.

"Anything. Whatever you're having."

You grab three identical cans and ignore his raised eyebrows as you bring them to the front of the store, the cashier hidden behind lollipop stands, magazines, a plastic shield plastered in leaflets for upcoming events. There's a small TV in the corner blaring summer music that you can't help but hum as you emerge from the shop, swaying your hips in time.

"Who's the third for?" James asks, accepting his can. You tuck your own in your bag and grin.

"You! For your lip," you say. "It's swollen."

"Doesn't hurt."

"Don't believe you."

He reluctantly takes the can from you and complains loudly, exasperated at having two full hands, one pressed to his face. You wiggle your empty one at him in bad sportsmanship. Before long you're standing outside your home and James is hesitating.

"Do you want to come in?" you ask, half-hopeful.

He shakes his head. "I can't, I have to take Sirius to get his hand looked at again by plastics."

"Too bad," you murmur, looking at his chest and then his face. "Thank you for walking me. I know it's out of the way."

"You're never out of the way," he says seriously.

You slide your fingers into the loose hair behind his neck, rub your thumb across the line of his jaw.

"Get home safe," you murmur as you lift up on your toes, shoes creasing. You press a half-open kiss to his jaw where your thumb had been moments before and close your lips over his skin slowly. You linger, pressing a second on top.

There's an unspoken acknowledgement between you both when you pull away. A promise.

He looks a picture of defeat walking down your front path. Covered in dirt and grass and sweat and blood, hair messy and chased by the last rays of sun. You watch until he's at the end of your street, butterflies thrashing in your tummy as he presses his index and middle finger to where you'd laid your kisses, as though checking his pulse.

-

James' parents own a restaurant. He knows, in his right mind, that this is a lame place to take you on a proper first date, only it's the hottest week of the year and everywhere else with outdoor seating is fully booked.

"I don't mind, James. Actually, I'm excited. I've never seen Sirius in a uniform," you say.

He scowls and scoffs melodramatically over the phone until you apologise to him for your terrible, awful, sick joke.

Technically, the Potter's restaurant is fully booked too, and he watches the books like a hawk for a week while his lip heals until he catches a cancellation. He instantly jots down his name. He's caught in the act by Euphemia.

"James," his mum had said, words drawn out. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

So really, he isn't sure why he thinks this date will go well. Everybody who works here knows him, and even as he waits outside for you under the dark wood porch a server comes up to him and nudges him with his elbow emphatically.

You turn the corner and he stops breathing, a vision in your sundress and sandals. He watches your anklets dance as you approach, eyes roving up your body devotedly until he finds a smile that matches his own in tenacity playing on your glossy lips.

He wants to kiss you then but wants more to foster a perfect, romantic evening first, so he's careful as he brings his hands up to your face appreciatively. Your hands hook around his elbows, an excited glaze in your eyes.

"Hi, pretty girl."

"Hi," you say, hushed by shyness.

He caresses your cheeks lightly, worried about smudging your makeup. Your eyes close when his hands move up, sliding over your hair to rest behind your ears. Sparkly earrings hang from each earlobe.

"You look beautiful," he says, because fuck it if James hasn't got game.

Your smile turns pouting at his words. He wants to record your voice and play it back when you say, "Thank you, James," in the softest tone he's ever heard from you.

He wants to stay like this. He swears he could happily stand in this bubble of the world with you and count your eyelashes, memorise the flecks of colour that surround your pupil, but you shimmy out of his hands and prompt him inside.

"Come on, handsome, I'm hungry." And then, inside the restaurant. "Oh my god. It smells amazing. What smells amazing?"

He has no clue. He's reluctant to go to the bar with you only because he knows exactly who stands behind it - Sirius, in his neat uniform, a towel thrown over his shoulder and a bandage wrapped around his hand.

He's well-behaved when he sees you, though a few things he says has James reaching to wring his neck.

"How's your hand?" you ask.

Sirius sets down James' pint and grabs for another glass, shovelling ice and pouring juice. "It's alright. The bandage is for health and safety, not because it's actually injured anymore."

"Plastics said he's fine," James interjects, raising the dark ale to his lips.

"Perfect," Sirius amends cooly, "is what they said. Head to toe."

James corrals you out onto the mezzanine before you can fall in love with the uppity bartender.

It gets worse from there. A server who's known James since he was in nappies takes your orders, an extremely handsome server with a deep dusky voice and black skin so smooth he's practically carved from stone.

"And what's for you, babygirl?" he asks after airing out every embarrassing thing James has ever done on restaurant grounds.

You're still laughing, but you turn to James with all the confidence in the world as you ask, "What do I get, James?"

He feels a little better after that.

The patio is perfect. The sun's out, the breeze is light. Every now and then he has a hint of your smell, sunscreen and perfume. Your leg bounces under the table, a tinkling sound of silver, and you lean forward. He doesn't look at your chest where the necklace hanging over your collar bones disappears, thank you very much, but you're so obviously perfect and he's attracted to everything - your body and your gorgeous face, yes, undeniably, but your voice! Your laugh, your smell, the way your hands move. The way your every word about him drips adoration. The pride in your tone as you recall what should've been his perfect match (if he hadn't been hit in the face).

After a lazy dinner and a second round of drinks he's buzzing and you're lovely, like a flower, bloomed and prettier than anything he's ever seen.

You leave the table and walk along the woodchip path and kids play area to look out over the lake, a dark shimmering sheet split in half by twisting white light, the sun falling from the sky.

The evening grows marginally colder, especially at the lakefront. At the first sign of discomfort he works his arm over your back, hand pressed to the dip of your shoulder

He's waiting for you to look at him before he kisses you.

"It's so pretty," you sigh happily.

Across the lake is a backdrop of green trees and a small, rustic boathouse. A family of ducks swim past, shepherded by a squawking swan.

"Bully," he mutters.

You hum. "Why is there only ever one nasty swan per lake?"

"Gotta fill their quota."

"The poor duckies," you sympathise. "Look, there's one of the fancy ones with a green head over there."

He follows your finger but gets distracted by the bracelets adorning your wrist, can't help but think about how you'd asked him to take them off.

"James, this is… it's really perfect. It's amazing."

He pulls you in a little closer. "I'm glad," he says, though he's finding it hard to respond - he can barely open his mouth. "I wanted it to be."

You finally turn to face him. He guesses his change in tone is what does it, because you sound similarly low and love-sticky when you murmur back, "Everything. It's all been so perfect. Everything with you."

He can't take it. He darts forward, so close to kissing you that the air between you is charged with it. When his nose grazes yours he gives pause, tries to work out what you're thinking as your tongue wets your lips.

Your eyes are closed. He shuts his own and-

"James! James Fleamont Potter! You come up here and help your mam!" his father's voice calls.

He drops his forehead against yours and lets out a pained exhale.

"Dad," he calls back, refusing to move. "I'm a little preoccupied."

"What? James, look, I don't have my glasses and your mother needs someone to write tomorrow's daily special!"

He pulls away from you and sends a heated look over his shoulder, one he's sure could melt metal and that his father can't even see. "And tomorrow's daily special, this couldn't wait until TOMORROW?"

"James, I've no clue what's turned you into such a sour puss tonight and I don't have time to work it out. All I'm asking is that you do this chalkboard for us and then you can get back to-"

"Dad! Dad! Alright, I'm coming!" he hollers back, cutting his father off before he can blow a gasket. "Jesus Christ," he says under his breath, defeated. You frown sympathetically at his embarrassment.

"You should probably go help your parents," you say, sounding similarly disappointed. He nods, unwilling.

"Just, don't move," he pleads.

You smile, total understanding on your face, and he's only taken a few steps from you when you turn back to the lake and your shoulders fall.

Fuck it, he thinks.

He turns your body with his palm on your shoulder and soothes your surprised flinch with a hand on your neck, your eyes meeting for a startled, excited handful of seconds before he's finally, finally, surging forward. You gasp into his mouth and his fingers tighten on your neck, lips aligned with your lips and searching deeper, parting to invite you in. You follow, a dance, a hand pulling you out of the road, a tether, and you taste like everything he's ever thought you might all at once.

You press your spread fingers over the fine material of his dress shirt and moan when he catches your top lip between his. He kisses, again and again, feels you slip through his hands like water. He hooks his arm around your head to keep you in place as he wades into you, slowing, softening, pulling away to plant one, two, three gentle kisses over it all like a balm. You respond to each one amorously. His chest rears to explode at your dizzy, pretty panting when it's over.

He loosens his arm to pull back and take in your entire face. Your eyes are shimmering, lips wet. He wipes his thumb over your bottom lip, finds it burning hot.

"Oh," you whisper.

"Oh?" he asks, endeared and amused and insanely happy.

"I didn't think it would feel so different to all the little kisses from before."

"Good different?" he asks, the damp pad of his thumb smoothing over the warm hill of your cheek, stolen bracelet scraping your skin.

Any anxiety he has unfurls and dissipates into nothing when you smile and lean in for a second kiss. "Good different," you confirm against his open mouth, "everything with you…"

He pulls you as close as any person can be to another person. He has a pretty good picture of what you were going to say, anyways.

<3

my masterlist

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LMFAO BRO

If texting were a thing in the 1890s pt 5

Sebastian: do you love me Ominis: ????? Ominis: was that meant for MC Sebastian: no it was meant for you Sebastian: MC and Poppy say they love each other all of the time and you NEVER say you love me Sebastian: aren't we best friends? Sebastian: haven't i known you for years? Sebastian: why don't you love me Ominis: why does it matter Sebastian: wow so that's how much i mean to you Sebastian: i'll remember this

Sebastian: MC do you love me MC: uhhh like in what way Sebastian: as a friend Sebastian: the way you love Poppy MC: oh then no. not like that. Sebastian: wtf do you all hate me???

Sebastian: we're settling this rn Sebastian: so neither of you love me huh Ominis: did i say i don't love you??? i don't think those words came out of my mouth Sebastian: YOU BASICALLY DID YES MC: i never said i didn't love you. i just said i don't love you the way that i love Poppy. big difference there I think Sebastian: so you DO love me? MC: can we talk about this outside of the group chat with Ominis pls Sebastian: ?????? do you hate him MC: no wtf Sebastian: then why can't he be here MC: ugh seb pls Ominis: i'm not saying it sorry Ominis: i hate verbalizing love Ominis: makes my stomach hurt Ominis: makes my body cringe Ominis: makes me wanna throw up MC: you weren't hugged enough as a child Ominis: lol ur right Sebastian: so that's it???? you won't say it and MC won't say it in a group with you either. because she hates you. thanks a lot Ominis. MC: that's actually not true MC: he's my best friend. i love you Ominis. Ominis: love you too Sebastian: WTF???????

V. "I Trusted You!"

"Trust" Series Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x WAC!Female Reader

The unthinkable happens on Bucky's next mission, leaving both of you to deal with the aftermath of your idyllic day in London, and his harsh parting words to you during that final phone call.

Warnings: ANGST, Language, Grief, Death, Imprisonment, Interrogation, Near-Death Experiences, Despair, Self-Loathing, Pregnancy, Era-Typical Sexism, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: I cannot believe we have reached the penultimate installment! As always, letters/notes have image descriptions that can be accessed by clicking the 'ALT' button. Special thanks to Marina @precious-little-scoundrel for helping me untangle numerous plot points in this and the final part of the series. I could not have done this without you. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 7477

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

Your eyes were burning as you struggled to decipher the last few lines of scribbles on the page of notes you were attempting to transcribe. Two nights of little-to-no sleep after weeks of fourteen-hour days had done you no favors, and the addition of the heavy weight of dread you had been lugging around in your lower abdomen since your disastrous phone call with Bucky yesterday afternoon was not helping. Your eyes lifted to the clock on the wall for the fifth time in as many minutes, once again hoping that no news was good news. It was nearly 1930, surely one of your dependable trio of friends would have delivered word to you by now if there was bad news.

The shrill ring of the telephone on the corner of your desk physically jarred you, your right hand nearly colliding with the cup of coffee you had brought up from the mess in a desperate attempt to make it to the meeting at 2200. Under Myrtle’s expectant glare, you lunged forward to answer it, providing your last name in greeting.

“Darling…” Vi’s drawl crackled over the line, dripping with sympathy, and you were convinced your dinner of army noodles and watery tomato sauce might make a reappearance right there on your desk.

“Vi I don’t…” You blurted out and then snapped your mouth shut because you did want to know, you were just not sure you could take it.

You clenched your eyes shut as your heart began to race, palms sweaty as your stomach continued to churn.

“He didn’t come back…” Her voice trembled and the world tilted completely off its axis, a wail clawing at your throat, desperate to be released.

“Thank you for telling me.” You gritted out before clumsily hanging up the phone, fairly dropping the handset into the cradle, before leaping to your feet and wrenching the office door open to dash down the hall to the washroom.

It was a miracle you made it in time, collapsing into the first stall to empty your stomach, tears streaming down your cheeks as your knees stung from their impact with the tile. When the urge to retch finally subsided, you hit the handle to flush and slumped back against the metal dividing wall between the next cubicle, sniffling pathetically.

‘He didn’t come back…’ Echoed through your mind and your hand rose to clamp over your mouth, desperate to smother the noise of pain that ripped through you.

Before you could fully surrender to the shuddering sobs that were about to wrack your body, however, the sound of the faucet running had you forcing your emotions down with brutal efficiency, snapping your head to the side to see who was bearing witness to your second public breakdown since your posting in England.

The sight of stoic, icy Myrtle holding out a dampened handkerchief to you had your watery eyes widening in shock. After a moment of your bewildered staring, she heaved a great sigh and crouched down to begin blotting at your cheeks and brow, dewy with the effort of losing your dinner. The handkerchief was blessedly cool, even if her touch was less than gentle, and brought a modicum of relief.

“What’s his name?” She asked quietly, tone not at all softened, but the tenderness of her actions and the words themselves had your eyes brimming with fresh tears.

“John…John Egan” You rasped.

“It’s heartless how the entirety of a man’s existence is boiled down to three letters. Just focus on the M for now. Doris in personnel is always willing to keep an eye out for a familiar name, I’ll ask her to add your man’s name to her list. Let’s get you up.”

You thanked her softly as she grabbed your elbows and pulled you to your feet. Beginning to tug your uniform back into place, you shuffled toward the mirror to tidy your hair.

“What’s your fellow’s name?” You asked her quietly once you felt confident in your ability to speak properly.

“Bobby Vendetti. Flew with LeMay and the 3rd Division to Regensburg. KIA.” She replied in her clipped, stoic voice and slipped out of the washroom leaving you to wonder if she was a grim glimpse into your own future.

Bracing your hands against the sides of the wall-mounted sink, you leaned against it heavily as a cruel wave of weakness overtook you, your body feeling an awful lot like a bowl of Jello in someone’s unsteady hand. Screwing your eyes shut, you locked your knees against the desire to crumple to the ground and forced slow, steady breaths into your trembling body until some semblance of control was restored.

Frowning deeply, you lifted your eyes to the mirror to re-adjust a few pins with sharp, self-chastising movements – using the pain as a point of grounding and focus – before you looked acceptable enough to return to your desk. Myrtle glanced up as your chair creaked slightly upon your return and nodded once. You barely managed to return it before glancing at the cup of coffee in disgust. Pushing it further away, you took a deep lungful of air and turned back to the task at hand.

Every time your fingers struck the M key you took a moment to send a silent plea up to every power above that might possibly hear you.

‘Please keep him safe.’

‘Please don’t let it change to a K.’

‘Please let him be alive.’

‘Please bring him back.’

‘Please.’

‘Please.’

‘Please.’

Reaching the end of the report, you swallowed roughly to see that it was just after 2100, time to set up for the last meeting of the day. Punching a pair of holes in the stack of sheets, you secured the report in its dated folder before dropping it off at the filing office and then made your rounds to collect the final weather and supply reports to be reviewed by the senior operations officers. Stepping into the darkened conference room, you laid your burden of files down on the large table before hurrying over to pull the blackout curtains closed. Clipping your hip on the sharp wooden corner as you made your way over to the light switch, you had to furiously blink back the tears that had been threatening to fall since you had emerged from the washroom.

‘Just a few more hours, then we can lose it completely in the sanctity of our attic closet-turned-bedroom.’ You mentally promised yourself with a shuddering breath.

Working your way around the table, you set out targeting information at each place for the Generals and their subordinates to review.

‘To send the next group of boys to the slaughter.’

Shaking your head with enough physical ferocity to send yourself slightly off balance, you succeeded in momentarily knocking such petty thoughts from your head as you confirmed the list of slides with those in the projector. With preparations complete, you settled into your out-of-the-way seat in the corner of the room. WACs did not sit at the decision-making table – your presence in this room was not for the purpose of being seen nor to be heard. It was simply to ensure things ran smoothly and were recorded for posterity.

Would that you could have done something yesterday, after Bucky announced his intentions to fly, as the target of Münster became ever more likely. Bucky sure seemed to think you could affect things – perhaps he would have come back if you had done something. Gulping roughly, you robotically slid to your feet as the jovial voices of several of the operations officers sounded just outside the door, warning of their imminent arrival.

They filed into the room in clusters and bunches, chatting and sipping at cups of coffee they had brought as they flipped through the latest reports. Once everyone was assembled, the meeting began more or less at 2200 and you set to your diligent notetaking, pushing aside the snarling voice in your head that wanted to question their every decision.

It seemed, in their packets, were the loses that had been accumulated in that day’s mission, Bomber Command 114 to Münster – thirty planes and their crews. A horrifying thirteen of these from the 100th. With their determination to mount another assault on Schweinfurt, the lack of operational aircraft and men would mean several days’ delay, but this would certainly afford the Divisions and Wings extra time in the planning. With a tentative date set as October 14, 1943, the meeting was adjourned, the junior officers hurrying to deliver the news via teletype as you cleaned up the room.

You had very little recollection of completing the last report of the day or the journey up to your room, only fully returning your body as you shed your uniform to collapse onto your cot in a flood of tears no longer willing to be kept at bay.

But loosening your hold on your emotions did not provide much relief. In fact you found yourself fading day by day to no more than a hollow shell of yourself, an empty ache replacing all that used to fulfill you. The world grew grey and cold around you, even if the sun dared to show its callous face, and food was barely tasted or tolerated. If you had possessed the mental capacity to notice, the other girls began to call you ‘mouse’ behind your back for the way you would idly nibble at crackers or toast while staring vacantly at things unseen before giving up on the idea of a meal altogether. The majority of your breaks were spent rambling outside, warm or cold, rainy or fair, circling the grounds as you gnawed at the worn ends of your nails and silently repeated your threadbare pleas for Bucky’s welfare.

Nearly two weeks of such dismal behavior seemed to be Myrtle’s limit as she turned to you sharply one afternoon and declared, “We need to get you a hobby. Do you know how to knit?”

Your head whipped up from your typewriter to look at her in startled silence for a few moments before you shook your head pathetically.

“I will show you how tomorrow at lunch so you can stop haunting the grounds like the Hound of the Baskervilles.”

Your lips may have even twitched slightly at her literary admonishment, and you nodded meekly in agreement. Though when she handed you a pair of long wooden needles and a skein of midnight blue wool as soon as you returned to the office after a lunch of cold toast and a few sips of soup, you certainly felt out of your league.

“Watch.” She said sharply and leaned back in her chair to demonstrate. “Stab it, strangle it, scoop out the guts, toss it off the cliff.” Myrtle rattled off as she slowly moved her needles through each step.

To the surprise of you both, a soft snort escape your nose and she gave you the tiniest of smirks.

“It is rather memorable. I’ll show you again.” She repeated the process several times, accumulating numerous stitches along one needle before looking to you expectantly.

Tucking your lower lip under your teeth in concentration, you did your best to follow her example. Your fingers found the motions foreign and awkward, the needles slippery, and the yarn uncooperative. But you were not one to surrender easily in any aspect of your life. Narrowing your eyes at the challenge set before you, you poured more of your concentration into the effort and slowly but surely cast twenty stitches onto your needle.

“Good. They will get tidier as you go. I think your first project should be a scarf – something useful and a no more than a large rectangle. Add another sixteen stitches to that and then I’ll teach you how to cast off.”

Glancing at her nervously, the idea of a new step and attempting to create a garment both intimidating, you took a steadying breath before turning back to look at the needles in your hands.

‘One step at a time. Sixteen more stitches.’

It turned out casting off was not nearly as terrifying as it initially sounded. And the hobby of knitting? Remarkably forgiving, unlike the rest of life. When a stitch was dropped or poorly executed, it was a simple matter of unravelling the error-filled portion of the scarf and remaking it. Knitting filled the empty times when you could not sleep, could barely eat as your stomach seemed hopelessly snarled in worried knots. You were still by no means living a healthy lifestyle, but somehow everything was a little less abysmal. Your nerves a little less frayed, your tongue a little less sharp.

The resulting scarf was in no way a work of art, but it was entirely serviceable and would certainly be a welcome donation to the Red Cross to keep some poor soul warm. It was upon the completion of that project, within one week, that Myrtle decided you ought to try and follow a pattern. A knit cap to match perhaps?

Patterns were an entirely different beast and certainly slowed your progress, though your slightly aching hands did not begrudge the slackening in pace as you worked and reworked, knit and unravelled and reknit your way through it. The weather turned genuinely cold by the second week of November, dropping to the single digits during the day and below zero at night. There was still no word on Bucky. No change to his three letters, still holding as MIA.

‘Please. Please. Please.’ You repeated silently with each wooden clack of your needles as you sat cross-legged on your cot, knitting by the light of your bedside lamp until your eyes refused to focus.

Three envelopes with writing as distinct as their personalities were tucked into the small dresser beside your cot – letters from Vi, Ruth, and Mary that you simply could not bear to open. The threat of their sympathy was too frightening to contemplate. Would surely shatter the fragile semblance of normalcy you had cobbled together. Holding equilibrium and hyper vigilance seemed to only way forward. If you were to upset the balance, something catastrophic might befall Bucky and you could not risk such an outcome by changing your well-worn habits now.

The third week of November brought the arrival of a familiar and, frankly, unwelcome face. It appeared you had not seen the last of Captain Miller yet, for she transferred to Pinetree as the replacement for the WAC commanding officer Captain Burns who had suffered a rather severe fall down those treacherous attic stairs a couple days prior. Your greeting was professional, if a bit on the frosty side, and you could feel her beady eyes boring into your back as you left her office along with the other WAC officers to inform the enlisted women of the personnel change.

Despite being a Lieutenant, you had yet to be placed in direct charge of any personnel yourself, a fact that you might have mused further upon if you had the energy to spare on useless pursuits. As it was you were barely getting through the day-to-day struggle of survival while awaiting news of Bucky.

It came not two days later, in the form of a note dropped on your desk as Myrtle shuffled past with a stack of folders. Eyeing it with trepidation, you slowly reached out for it before unfolding the torn scrap of paper to reveal three entirely new letters.

POW

An exhaled sound of elation escaped you before you could stop it, quickly clamping your mouth shut against further outbursts in respect for Myrtle’s lost loved one. Setting your elbows on the wooden top of your desk, you lay your hands over your face and rambled off a silent litany of gratitude to the powers of the universe for this outcome. It was by no means the best – Bucky would most certainly be furious to have been apprehended by the enemy, to be kept behind fences and barbed wire. But it was absolutely not the worst, and for that you could feel nothing but relief.

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

Every time he closed his eyes, all Bucky could hear was your shaky inhale, laced with pain, which had seeped through the phone after his careless statements on October 9. Even as he had slammed down the receiver, it had already begun to echo in his ears as he wrenched open the door of the telephone booth and stormed back to the hotel room. The only anger he felt about the entire affair was at himself. He had not been there for Buck, and then he had hurt you.

Each piece of flak, each bullet that struck his plane, felt like divine retribution for his personal failings. And while he was utterly furious when that third engine died, forcing the crew to bail out, he was also convinced on at least some level he deserved it. Deserved to be caught by those snivelling kids and their fathers. Deserved the beating in that godforsaken town that the RAF had failed to flatten. Deserved to have died on that wagon, but the sunlight still pricked at his eyes stubbornly.

Your agonized sound ricocheted through his throbbing skull and his eyes shot wide with the realization that if he were to give up now, he would only be hurting you more. Failing you and everyone else he cared about. His stomach lurched in horror and, seizing upon the distraction of the two repellent grave diggers, he rolled himself off the cart, making for the woods with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. Everything hurt, most especially his head, and he could barely see out of his right eye, yet somehow, he managed to evade them. Before everything went black.

By the time he arrived at the interrogation centre he knew he had missed his chance to escape. But there was a bed, and a blanket. Some questionable food, but it was better than wormy cabbage. His interrogator, for all his claims of insider knowledge, knew nothing about Buck – the famed sports hater, nor you. Everyone around Thorpe Abbotts was more than acquainted with the fact that he was utterly devoted to you and yet the slimy blond tried to insinuate he was still up to his good time ways. It did not make the barbs and intimations of Buck’s death any less painful, however. But it failed to make him crack.

When at last he arrived at the prison camp, first spotting Crank and to his unspeakable relief, Buck, he was convinced his legs might give out right there on the spot. Refusing to give those sneering guards the satisfaction, he forced himself to continue putting one foot in front of the other, remaining curt yet polite through registration and combine assignment until he was delivered to his quarters. Barely able to summon the energy to embrace Buck, he asked him to point in the direction of an open bunk before crawling in and passing out for hours.

Bucky’s memory of the next few days was spotty, consisting of vignettes and flashes rather than full days. Brady and Buck had seen to it that he had made the twice-daily roll call, forcing watery broth down his throat, and Bucky had even managed to wash the last of that soldier’s brains from his hair with shockingly cold water. All the while he felt the need to mutter the apologies to you that he should have spoken. He should have called you that night when he reached base, or even right after he had hung up in London. He vaguely recalled Buck soothing him, uttering platitudes like ‘your girl isn’t stupid she’ll understand’ ‘just hang on you’ll tell her yourself.’ It was around his fourth day in camp when things began to clear, and he felt more like himself. Then the monotony set in.

The weather was already cold, even for late October, and he was sorely missing the sheepskin coat he had swapped with Kidd for his plain leather jacket. It only grew colder as the days grew shorter, darkness coming to dominate the time they spent huddled together around the small table eating their meagre rations. Apparently, the Red Cross packages, though frequently delayed, had their captors feeling entitled to provide them less than their full allotment. The atmosphere was grim among all the prisoners there, particularly the Brits and Canadians who had been POWs since ’41. Bucky was not sure if he had the fortitude to last that long.

The first mail call did not come until December and Bucky did not even bother raising his eyes as the enlisted man tasked with the duty called out everyone’s name.

“Cleven, DeMarco, Brady, Egan…”

Bucky’s eyes lifted slowly, and he looked to the young man, who’s name was just on the tip of his tongue but seemed determined to escape him, to see him holding out an envelope expectantly. Bucky reached out to take it, swallowing roughly as he recognized your writing immediately.

“…Cruikshank, Murphy…oh and this is for you too, Egan.”

Bucky’s eyes tore from your delicate cursive to look at the small box he was holding out, taking it with a mumbled ‘thanks’ before setting it on his lap. The box bore your writing too, his fingers idly tracing the loops and whirls before he heard a soft laugh.

“Go on then, Bucky.” Buck smirked at him, already well into his letter from Marge, eyes alight with pure excitement.

Bucky exhaled slowly before tearing at the paper covering the box, a broad smile forcing its way onto his tired face as he was struck by the scent of you. Pulling the first woolen object from inside he turned it in his hands a few times before recognizing it as a hat, misshapen though it was, and quickly pulled it onto his head. Several of the guys laughed and he was certain he looked a fool, but he also felt immediately warmer for it. In pulling out the much longer garment, clearly a scarf, a small note fluttered to the ground. Wrapping the scarf around his neck he scooped it up to read.

There was a total of thirty-one words on that small piece of paper, with your name included, but he only cared about the last three, just above your signature. Taking a slow breath, Bucky was thankful for whatever divine entity existed that had prevented him from ruining his relationship with you. He turned back to look at Cruikshank as he mocked his new winter fashions.

“I’m sorry Crank, what did your girl send you?” He smirked good naturedly, picking up your letter from the tabletop, feeling the thickness of it, hoping there were a lot more than thirty words to lose himself in.

“My mom sent me this fine number.” Crank cracked back, pulling on a comparatively well-knit cowl scarf which he seemed more than a little proud of, but Bucky would take your questionable textiles any day.

First and foremost being he was currently wrapped in a cloud of wool that smelled so distinctly of you he had to be careful not to let his thoughts wander. He shook his head, laughing along with the rest of the guys, each of them basking in the glow of their first contact with home, as he carefully tore into your envelope. He was very obviously not the first to open it, probably not even the second, which sent a flash of annoyance through him, but he was learning to conserve his energy for things he actually had control over.

He closed his eyes tightly as his mind was flooded with the memory of you falling apart in his arms all those weeks ago. It seemed like another lifetime now, but it was heartily reassuring that you too seemed to have such memories on your mind in writing this. Slowly opening his eyes once more to return to his grim reality, his eyes drifted below your signature to your post-script.

The grin that split his face was near-painful and if he had not already reached the conclusion, the words would have surely been the final piece of evidence required to confirm that you were the perfect woman.

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

January brought with a continuation of daytime temperatures below zero, the return of your appetite, and your first letter from Bucky.

How something so small and thin as paper could both wound and soothe at the same time was perhaps the greatest of all mysteries to you. Elation at seeing his writing, hearing his voice in your head, was mottled with grief and pain at knowing what and who kept him from you. It was almost too horrid to think what he must have endured to date – what he could very well be enduring in this very moment for his letter was dated over a month ago.

‘Please keep him alive.’

Using your next Friday off you, made a special visit to the shops, collecting things like dried soup, nuts, and other things from Bucky’s list. Chocolate was harder to come by, but managed by accumulating your own rations of it, despite how you could not seem to get enough of it lately. That and apples. The staff in the mess line seemed to always have one on hand for you now, at every meal, after your constant requests, and the first crisp bite brought almost as much pleasure as a kiss from Bucky.

Adding a pair of hideous, in your opinion, mittens to the box of provisions, you sent it off via the Red Cross hoping he would not have to wait too long before the items reached him. A short note was all you added.

As you were making your way up to your room to begin a more detailed letter, you were startled to see Myrtle and Captain Miller walking down the hallway together, heads bent close, the sight giving you more than a little unease. They had not noticed you, several steps short of the landing, and you happily remained hidden behind a stone pillar as they stepped into Miller’s office together.

With a frown, you continued on your way, hoping that nothing was amiss, but struggling to shake the sense of foreboding that had settled around you like an unwelcome, smothering blanket. It was an odd sensation, considering the way that you had been desperately fighting off the deep chill of the English winter that seemed to have snuck its way into the very marrow of your bones. You were constantly burrowing beneath blankets and coats and scarves, even going so far as to squirrel a lap blanket into the bottom drawer of your desk for use during your long motionless periods of typing.

Your suspicions were confirmed when Captain Miller asked to have a word with you in her office the following Monday. Nothing had ever gone well when you spoke to this woman alone and this time proved no exception to the rule.

“How have you been feeling lately, Lieutenant?” She sunk her teeth right into the meat of the issue not two seconds after gesturing for you to take a seat across from where she sat, perched behind a rather ornate desk in her remarkably well-appointed office.

“A…alright I suppose, Ma’am, no complaints.” You did your best to answer lightly, very much desiring to keep your exhaustion, born of the constant worry combined with the demands of your position, from reaching her untrustworthy ears.

“Hm.” Captain Miller replied, tone conveying that she remained utterly unconvinced. “I must say you seem rather changed since your time at Thorpe Abbotts. You look less than well to me, and some of your colleagues have brought such concerns directly to me. I’ve scheduled an appointment for you to see the surgeon tomorrow at 0800, just to be sure you’re right as rain.”

“Ma’am I assure you, I am–” You began to protest, wondering just whom considered you unfit for duty.

“That will be all, Lieutenant. You’re dismissed.” She replied brusquely and you rose to your feet to salute her quickly before slipping out of her office, mind racing.

Certainly, your lack of sleep was less than desirable, but your work or various knitting projects were safe haven from the darker thoughts that seemed prone to find you during periods of rest. Aside from that, though you were fine. Improved, even, since communication had been somewhat restored with Bucky, though you could not seem to shake this annoying sniffle. But everything else was just…

Your eyes flew wide as your steps abruptly halted in the middle of the busy hallway, hardly registering the sharp bark of the man behind you as he narrowly avoided slamming into your back. In all your desperation to lose yourself by blindly trudging forward through life, just trying to get through it, it seemed you had lost track of something rather important. Springing back into motion, you hustled to your desk, digging out last year’s calendar, flipping back through the dates, racking your brain for the last time you’d had your monthlies. Your fingertips grew colder with each turn of the page until you reached September. That was the last time you could confidently say that you had bled.

And then there had been the ‘idyllic day’ in London with Bucky. Or more specifically the night.

Looking down at your abdomen as though it were some separate entity; having acted entirely on its own agenda, you felt your lower lip wobble. The door to the office opened, the sound of the pane of glass rattling lightly in its wooden frame startling you into an upright posture as you slammed the calendar closed. The look Myrtle gave you was one of confusion laced with guilt and had you bristling defensively as you vividly recalled her chummy conversation with Captain Miller a few days ago.

Colleagues.

“I trusted you!” You snapped under your breath, the waspish cruelty of your outburst stinging your own ears and flooding your eyes with tears. “How could you go to her…”

“I was worried about you.” She replied guardedly, retreating to her desk as a place of safety. “You are clearly not well.”

You sniffed indignantly but it was beginning to register just how true that statement might be. Because you most certainly had not been taking excellent care of yourself and if…Who were you kidding, four months with no bleeding. The exhaustion, the nausea, the susceptibility to cold. The signs had been there all along, you had simply chalked them up to the emotional turmoil you had been experiencing related to Bucky’s disappearance, capture, and internment as a POW. A strangled sob escaped you before you could stop it, quickly burying your face in your hands as you gasped for air, struggling to get a grip on your rapidly fracturing composure.

The soft ‘snick’ of the lock on the door had you peeking through your fingers as you watched Myrtle approach you not unlike one would a wounded animal.

“I thought as much…How far along do you think you are?”

“I don’t. I’m not.” Every attempt at denial turn rotten in your mouth and though you knew that your words could very well travel from her lips to Captain Miller’s ears, who else did you have to unburden yourself to here in this former girl’s school where women were nothing but replaceable the moment they became an inconvenience. “Three months probably. No, definitely. If I am. Which I’m sure is what I am.”

Myrtle set her hand on your shoulder, offering a short sharp squeeze, fairly rending your heart in two at the realization that it had been far too long since you had received any form of comfort from another human being. “You’ll get to see your family soon.”

It was meant to be soothing, surely, but all you could think of was the ocean that was about to open up between you and Bucky. The statement wrung a fresh sob from you before you scrambled with the lock to get out of that room and down the hall to the now too-familiar sanctuary of the washroom.

The remainder of the day passed in a fog, the looming morning appointment dangling over your head like the executioner’s axe poised to fall. You even felt encouraged to begin tidying and sorting through your belongings that night, starting to assemble them into your suitcases. The puzzle pieces simply fit too well for you to ignore. The faint knocking on your door just after midnight had you tilting your head in confusion, and cracking the door open cautiously.

A rather tentative Myrtle stood on the other side, a small envelope in hand.

“This might help when you get back. Here.”

Take it slowly, your fingers traced over the lump in the middle, opening the flap to reveal a gold ring with a small diamond.

“Myrtle I couldn’t–” You blurted out quickly, certain it was from the man she had lost over Regensburg.

“Oh it’s costume jewelry, and I want you to have it. It’ll make things easier.” She replied firmly and turned to head back to her room before you could reply.

Swallowing roughly, you shut the door and moved to sit heavily on your cot, sliding the ring onto your left ring finger experimentally. It was a bit loose and felt like a lie. Tugging it off roughly, you returned it to its envelope, tucking it into a pocket of your suitcase before turning in to try and get some rest.

The surgeon, as sympathetic as he portrayed himself to be, was utterly convinced you were ‘in the family way.’ However, before he could have you discharged from the Women’s Army Corps, he ordered a Hogben test. Your urine was collected and sent to a local pharmacist to be injected into a frog, or so you were told. If this frog produced eggs by tomorrow morning, you would be confirmed as pregnant and immediately evacuated by to the United States. Until then, he ordered you to rest.

Captain Miller delivered the news personally the following morning, tone more than slightly patronizing. You sat quietly in the chair in front of her desk, trying to take slow, even breaths and remind yourself she would have to eventually run out of things to say. The next words out of her mouth, however, had your spine straightening sharply.

“You know, Lieutenant, this was precisely the situation I was trying to avoid when I recommended you for this promotion back in September.”

“You did this?!” You snapped, feeling somewhat blindsided.

For all her coldness you had never seen her for a schemer. Never once suspected her hand in your sudden removable from Thorpe Abbotts and Bucky’s side.

Captain Miller looked down her nose at you and exhaled impatiently. “You may dislike me, Lieutenant, but all three more weeks at Thorpe Abbotts would have done is hasten your due date.” She narrowed her eyes as she twisted the verbal knife.

“Dislike you?” You repeated incredulously, that icy rage which you had first become acquainted with back in August once more flooding your veins. “No Ma’am. I do not dislike you. I pity you. I pity whatever lack of love you have in your life that you could so easily brush off three weeks with someone you care about.”

The woman was taken aback for a moment. Most likely for the first time in her life, before she cleared her throat. “Please proceed to your quarters and pack your things at once. You will be transported to Prestwick for transport by air back to the United States for immediate discharge due to the medical inability to serve. You are dismissed, Lieutenant.”

“Ma’am.” You muttered and gave a half-hearted salute before making your way upstairs.

Your belongings mostly packed, you instead pulled out a fresh piece of paper to write to Bucky to provide him your new return address. The question that hung in the air, however, was whether or not to inform him of your…condition…

Knowing the fragility of such things, and given that his daily life was already such a struggle, it seemed prudent not to burden him with anything unnecessary until this baby was born. Besides, it had been your choice, your initiation – that last, final, reckless, unprotected coupling. You had been a greedy thing and look what it had gotten you.

Your hand found its way to rest on your lower abdomen unconsciously and you let your gaze follow the motion absently. You had never reached the stage in your relationship where you had been able to exchange gifts and yet…here you were carrying what some might call quite a gift.

Most of all, bleak as he found life as a POW you were unwilling to force him into the position of putting that life in jeopardy. He did not need to become reckless as you had been. Inhaling a shaky breath, you put pen to paper to keep it brief and vague.

Sealing the envelope with a kiss from lips coated with fresh lipstick, you made a trip down to the post box before visiting the mess for an early lunch.

Within twenty-four hours, you were enduring your first plane ride, clinging to the seat inside a C-54 on the first leg of your journey from Scotland to Iceland. It was uncomfortable, unfamiliar, and on a plane filled with seriously wounded men, you stuck out like a sore thumb. The flight nurse had the grace not to comment, but the slightly oversized engagement ring you had ultimately decided to wear felt like a piece of armor on your left finger when her eyes fell onto it.

Bless Myrtle and her foresight. Whatever her motivations in bending Captain Miller’s ear had been, she had provided you with some of the best defence against judgement you could possibly have been afforded in your complicated situation. A wedding ring would have been too easy to disprove with no marriage licence. An engagement? Well it was still a bit fast of you to have spread your legs before the wedding, but at least he had bought you a ring first. Or so it appeared.

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

The ongoing mail issues finally resolved in a flood of mail in early March. Two letters and a large package arrived from you, bringing a broad smile to Bucky’s face after a barren, cold set of months. The food was quickly stashed to be meted out, but the mittens were not to be shared. There was some kind of magic in the yarn you used that trapped your perfume and held it for several weeks. He supposed it was because you had to cradle and hold it close for some time in your crafting of the garments you sent him.

He had never been jealous of clothing before, but life was full of new experiences these days.

Turning to the pair of letters next, he was immediately drawn to the impression of your lips on the slimmer of the two envelopes, tearing into it with utmost care to preserve the mark for later use in the darker, more private hours. The letter inside, however, was the most confusing and vague piece of correspondence he had ever received. And it was not due to some obvious attempt to skirt censors or other prying eyes. You were being evasive.

Tearing into the thicker envelope with less concern, he noted an earlier date, though only by a few days, but no trace, not even a hint of an explanation, for the second, odd letter.

As he and Buck went on their daily walk about the camp – a necessity to keep fit and stave on the stir-craziness that came from spending too many hours indoors – he exhaled slowly before breaking the silence.

“Hey Buck?”

“Hm?” His friend lifted his head from where his eyes traced their boots through the endless, frozen mud that had become their landscape.

“What do you think the odds are on a WAC getting a discharge to care for a grieving mother?”

Bucky did not need to hear his answer. Buck’s doubtful facial expression said it all.

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Read Part Six - "Trust Me, Doll..."

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