It’s not just his pauses or the way he hesitates during fights. It’s the weight of all the small silences between you, the unspoken things you’ve both let slip, that now hang in the air.
A/N: Heyyyy, so... This update is beyond late. I am so so so very sorry. My life decided to be a pain in my ass, then I got sick, and then I didn't like how I wrote things, so I redid most of this entire chapter. Now some of this may seem like it's coming out of nowhere, but! Reader may not be the most reliable narrator; everything so far has been in her POV, and her hurt and people pleasing is a double-edged sword and not always as harmless for others as one may think :P. I hope we don't hate Roy too much by the end of this <3 This chapter is pretty conversation-heavy. I'm trying to make it realistic, so there is quite a bit of back and forth. And again, thank you @vee08 for beta reading. I am so sorry if this isn't what anyone was expecting, if this isn't how you guys wanted it.. it's her fault <3
Edit: I forgot to give it a fucking title omg
------------------------
The warm water ran over your hands, soap bubbles foaming around the bear-shaped sponge Lian had shoved into your cart last week. You pressed it against the plate you were washing, scrubbing absently as your mind replayed the day. For the first time in months, your home felt truly empty.
The post-party scene is depressing. You were left with the leftover scraps of sticky napkins, a few paper plates that, confusingly, had the occational bite taken out of them, and the unbearable weight of the mess that exploded in your face today.
Your eyes caught the light of the only ceramic plate used today. The one you and Roy had happily painted for all of Lian’s birthdays to come two years ago. His rough hands unevenly painted the base, while yours had traced the fine details, the final product was a blend of messy and neat.
You remembered the way he had reached for your hands just an hour ago, his voice trembling in a way you’ve never heard before. “Baby… please— please don’t shut me out.”
In that moment, you felt yourself begin to cave, but his pitiful look only reminded you of the way he looked at you out in the yard. So you stepped back, repeating that he should go.
The warm water and repetitive motions weren’t comforting, you don't even know why you decided to do the dishes of all things after he left. God, when did you become so… pathetic? You look around the kitchen, before your gaze falls on your reflection in the window.
You still wore the Queen Elinor dress, hair messy from the way you were pulling at it. If you squinted, you could even see your makeup smudged around your eyes.
Suddenly, Jade’s words rang in your head. She told you to be careful, didn’t she? That ‘Queens tend to lose their heads’.
You certainly felt headless.
You flinch when the water pressure suddenly causes a spray of water to come off the plate over the sink, half soaking you. You feel a flush of heat spread from your face— Roy had promised to take a look at the pipes. Even took out the toolbox and set up after sweeping you off your feet to sit on the counter to “watch his work ethic”.
He barely rolled up his sleeves before his phone... no, his comm?? Whatever the hell they called it went off. Of course it had. Some mission alert with some crisis that needed him. His head had snapped toward the sound instantly, a tight apology already forming on his lips before he even looked at you.
“Sweetheart,” his voice soft with guilt, “I’m so sorry. I’ll be quick, I promise.”
You could still see him leaning in to press a quick kiss to your forehead, lingering for a moment like he was trying to reassure both of you at once. His thumb had brushed your cheek in a way that made your chest ache now.
“I’ll be back before you even miss me— and I’ll fix this shit naked if you want,” he teased, giving you that lopsided smile that always made you forgive him too fast.
Because that was Roy. Not some evil partner ignoring your needs on purpose. No he was “Dad,” “Titan,” “Hero,” and “Boyfriend,” constantly trying to keep every version of himself going without dropping anything important.
But sometimes… Sometimes, you were the thing that slipped through his fingers without him realizing. You let out a small humourless laugh, scrubbing harder. Every time he apologized, he meant it. Every time he swore he’d fix it, he tried. Every time he promised he'd be there, he wanted to be.
You never doubted that. But wanting and doing were two very different things.
A stream of soapy water went down your arm into your sleeve, gradually soaking the velvet material. You swallow dryly, trying to breathe through the discomfort. You should try to stay reasonable, keep up being understanding and patient. You were always patient after all.
Your eyes flickered back to Lian’s plate, thumb brushing over the painted edge where your careful painting had blended with his sloppy strokes into something beautiful and, above all, meaningful. Something you both had been so stupidly proud of.
But now? All you could see were the messy parts, the uneven strokes, places where the colours turned a bit muddy. His mistakes that aren't noticeable unless you look closely, because you manage to hide them with your work.
God, you were tired of this, smoothing things over to make everyone's life easier but your own. Putting on a front when he returned sheepish and exhausted, looking to you with eyes that screamed he was sorry, and that he loved you.
“You’ll barely miss me.” He said it often, playfully teasing you to make the goodbye feel lighter.
Except you did miss him. Constantly, painfully even. You missed him when eating dinner, missed him when you fell asleep on the couch waiting for him, when Lian whined and refused to listen on rare occasions, wanting him.
Hell, you even missed him when he was standing right next to you, distracted by a call or when he had that faraway look in his eyes, lost in whatever horror of a memory had taken him from you.
You knew he never meant to hurt you, but today was too much, the final straw. He left you alone out there in a backyard filled with people. Standing under the sun, holding a chair, pathetically having to put on a smile that not a single adult there believed. You wished this could all be about that moment. But it was much more.
You’re so detached from his whole world. It doesn’t matter if he loves you, or if he’s the only man whos made you feel so happy. Your lives are too fucking different, and neither of you could change enough for the other to make you truly happy.
What’s the point in continuing this relationship? You slam the plate onto the drying rack a bit too hard, the noise only overstimulates you more as it makes the rest of the dishes rattle.
“Shit” You hiss, reaching to steady the rack before stepping away and dragging a hand through your hair, your fingers catching on a knot that makes you want to burst into tears all over again.
You yank your hand to free your fingers only to pull a few strands of hair with it. You stare at your hand as the faucet sputtered again— another sharp spray across your chest and the burst of cold water was the last push.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Your voice cracked, loud in the empty kitchen as you fumble to turn off the tap altogether. Anger blossomed, finally taking its rightful place in your chest.
You stood there breathing hard, fists clenched at your sides, heart pounding like it was trying to punch its way out. He didn’t mean to hurt you. He didn’t mean any of it.
But he did.
Over and over.
And now you were alone in the wreckage of it, shaking, soaked, wearing a stupid dress, wondering when exactly your life had turned into this shitshow.
-----
Another hour passes, and you find yourself tipsy as you manage to drag yourself up the stairs, beyond exhausted at this point. But in your journey to your bedroom, you pause noticing Lian’s door was cracked open. Your feet bring you forward before your mind even processes it, and you find yourself inside her room.
The room was dark and a bit messy from the excitement of the day. You sat on the edge of her tiny bed where you've sat and tucked her in, read her book after book and kissed her forehead when her eyes finally fluttered shut. You trace the hearts stitched onto her comforter, pulling at a loose thread, when it finally catches, so does your breath.
“God,” you whispered, voice trembling. “What am I even doing?”
You press your palm to your chest, feeling the rapid beating of your hear. The warmth of her little room, the faint smell of crayons and strawberry lotion, it all felt like home. Her home. If you left Roy… It would mean leaving her.
Leaving her drawings taped on the walls, the giggles in the morning, the tiny hand that always grabbed yours whenever it fell into her sight. Leaving the soft, sleepy “Love you,” she mumbled every night, even before she learned her letters.
Three years. Three years in her life. One full year with Roy and Lian living here in this house, where everything you owned and everything they had slowly blended together.
She was supposed to start kindergarten in a month. You had walked past the school together, holding hands that swung with each step. She’d pointed at the school with explosive excitement. “You’ll come pick me up, right Mama?”
How would you explain leaving to her? This was your home, given to you after your grandma passed. It's in your name. They would be the ones who had to pack up and leave.
Every instinct in you screams at you to protect her, to stay, to do whatever it takes to keep her safe and happy. And yet, you’re exhausted after having to put on a front for so long.
You press your forehead to her pillow, hands clutching the edges of the comforter as if holding on could somehow hold her in place. The idea of letting her go, even if it’s 'for the best,' fills your chest with a cold, twisting ache that makes you nauseous.
Your eyes burned. You wiped them with the back of your hand, but it didn’t stop the sting. This is your trap. A life that feels impossible to escape without breaking the heart of the man you loved and the little girl who has taken up your soul.
Your phone began to buzz in your pocket, and you fumbled to pull it out and stare blankly at it. Roy’s name lit up the screen.
Instinctively, your fingers moved to answer it, but you paused. You didn’t want to talk to him right now. You let the call run out, hoping he felt the wait of every second on the other end. Eventually, the phone fell silent, and you sighed.
You counted the seconds under your breath. You barely got to 5 before it buzzed again. This time before it completed a single ring, your thumb hit decline. You laugh to yourself, feeling a bit satisfied. That should show him, yeah.
You’re about to toss it aside when it buzzes again. You scowl, about to just power off your phone for the night, when you catch a glimpse at the name on the screen.
Dinah Lance: FaceTime Video
Your tipsy mind managed to put things together. It was probably Lian, she used Dinah’s ipad when she went over for sleepovers. She probably wanted to say goodnight.
You rubbed your hands over your face, fixing your hair and wiping the mascara smudges under your eyes. You take a second to breathe and clear your throat, prepping your face to have a happy expression.
You swipe the screen to accept the call and there she was.
Lian’s sleepy little face filled the camera, she was giggling eyes bright even with sleepiness. “MAMA!!!” she squealed. “I MISS YOU!”
Your heart squeezed painfully, youd lose this. She won’t look at you so happy if you leave would she? Would she hate you if you break up her home?
“Hi, sweetheart,” you managed, voice wobbling. “I miss you too.”
She wiggled, clearly lying on her grandparents’ guest bed. “We had cake AGAIN and they let me stay up REALLY REALLY late!” She held the camera too close, then too far, then spun it so fast you felt a bit dizzy. “AND! Daddy came for the sleepover!! Look!
The camera shifted just enough for you to see Roy sitting off to the side, pretending very very badly that he wasn’t listening. His face dropped the moment he saw you, taking in your puffy eyes and red blotchy skin.
“Daddy came said you said to surprise me,” Lian mumbled, rubbing her eyes. “Why didn’t you come with him?”
Your heart clenched.
“Oh, baby… I had to stay and clean up the mess.” You emphasized the word without thinking. “The big, big mess from the party.” The double meaning sailed right over her little head. But Roy’s jaw tightened. His eyes flicked to the side. He got it. Lian yawned dramatically. “Okay… but I wanted you here.”
“I know,” you whispered. “I wish I were there too.”
She smiled sleepily. “I called to say love you and goodnight. Daddy wanted to, too!”
Before you could protest, she turned the camera to Roy. His shoulders were tense but his face was soft with eyes filled with worry. “Hey,” he said carefully. “I… just wanted to check on you.”
You swallowed. You couldn’t do this while tipsy and angry. You forced a small smile. “Tuck the princess in. She needs sleep.”
He opened his mouth probably beg you to talk to him, but you cut him off. “And you should stay,” you added, voice firmer than you felt. “Stay for the whole weekend. She’ll love it.”
Roy’s brows pulled together. “Baby, I—”
“We can talk later,” you said. “Just… not tonight. I’m tired.” Tired from today, how you were treated, or your relationship? Hhe seemed like he didn’t know either. His shoulders dropped in defeat. “Okay,” he whispered. “I love you.”
You stared at the screen for a long second. Lian blinked sleepily between you both. “I… yeah, I love you both too, so much,” you sigh. “Goodnight.”
You ended the call before either of them could say anything more. The screen went black, your own faint reflection staring back at you, eyes red, makeup smeared, hair slipping out of its pins. You looked tired. By the time you crawled under your own covers, you don't even remember falling asleep.
-------
You woke up early, your body conditioned by years of being the first one up. Even with the bed cold beside you, and the house silent your brain turned on like it always did.
You wanted nothing more than to roll over and sink deeper into the mattress and rot away. Instead, you dragged yourself to the bathroom to wash away the previous night.
The shower hurt, the water was too hot (which was something you never thought you’d say), and your skin was already raw from last night’s crying. When you stepped out, wrapped in a robe, the house felt even emptier than last night.
Your phone sat on the bathroom counter where you’d left it. You picked it up, wiped the stray water droplets from the screen, and recorded a short voicememo for Lian.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” you said softly, forcing your voice into something bright. “I hope you have so much fun today! I’ll check in later. Listen to Grandpa Ollie and Daddy, okay? I love you!”
You sigh, ending the recording and sending it off. You don't bother checking the messages Roy sent you, and you certainly don't send him any sweet voice message.
You walked back into your bedroom that you shared with him and sat on the edge of your bed and scrolled through your phone without really seeing anything.
The dent where he usually slept was still there though faint. His pillow still held his familiar scent that even now you wanted to bury your face into. One of his socks stuck halfway out from under the bed. Signs of him everywhere. Of them. Of the life you were so absorbed in that you didn’t know which part was yours anymore.
Who were you outside of them?
Your thumb hovered over your iMessages app more than once. Over your mother’s name. Over your friends. Over the group chat you’d muted months ago because the constant texts made you feel guilty for not replying as much.
You didn’t talk to anyone anymore. Not really. Not about the important things. Not about things like this. Your friends, back when you still had people you actively called friends, had warned you.
“Dating a guy with a kid is… a lot. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”
“You’ll have to share him, you know.”
“What if the mom ends up hating you?”
“What if the kid does?”
You’d brushed all of it aside. You’d been so sure. So sure.
And besides… what did they know? Half of them had been dating disasters on legs. The one who was most vocal about it had a boyfriend who cheated on her, and she's gone back 3 times and counting and had the audacity to lecture you about stability.
You didn’t want their “I knew it” looks or the soft, pitying, “maybe it’s time to let go” speeches. You knew they’d support you. You also knew they’d tell you the truth you weren’t ready to hear. And god, the thought of anyone saying “I told you so,” even gently made something in your chest twist until it hurt.
Your phone buzzed. A message from Dinah.
She listened to your message 12 times. She keeps replaying it between bites of her cereal. Just thought you would want to know.
You closed your eyes, breathing through the sudden wave of emotion.
The trap is tightening.
You pressed your palms to your face. You loved them. God, you loved them both. Lian’s small hand in yours, her giggles, her trust, the way she’d curl against your chest without a second thought.
Roy, with his sweet smiles, his touch and words, his endless trying, the way he loved you and yet somehow never quite there when you needed him.
And yet… love wasn’t enough. Not anymore. You were tired of having to hide your feelings from everyone, from Roy especially. Angry that he never stepped up in the way you wanted him to. You remember how lost he looked yesterday and feel heat rush up your chest.
You thought of the mornings you made breakfast, packed lunches, reminded, nagged, and smiled through exhaustion. You thought of the evenings you cleaned up messes that weren’t yours alone. You were tired. Tired of it all. Yesterday, had finally made you realize it.
You reach for your phone, fingers trembling slightly as you type out the message:
“Come home. We need to talk.”
The screen lights up almost instantly with a response.
“On my way. I’ll be there in twenty.”
You stare at the words. Twenty minutes felt both too long and too short. You pace the room, phone clutched in your hand. Lian’s laughter from yesterday echoes in your head, and a pang of guilt twists in your stomach.
Twenty minutes.
------
You find yourself sitting on your bed when the door clicks softly, but the sound barely registers as your gaze snaps to him. Roy stood there, holding a bouquet of flowers that weren’t from some rushed grocery run. These were carefully chosen and exactly what you liked. The faint scent of them carried into the room, and it hit you in your heart.
He looked… worn. His hands shook slightly as he adjusted the stems of the bouquet as you opened your mouth to speak, but before you could, he began to apologize, his voice trembling with raw guilt.
“I… I hate that I left you alone,” he said, voice catching. “I… I didn’t want to be apart from you, not like that. I hated it. I hate that I made you feel like you were… invisible, like I forgot you. I just got caught up. I thought I was doing right by you, by Lian… but I failed, and I’m so, so sorry.”
His eyes flicked to the flowers for a brief second then back to you. “I wanted to bring these for you… because I don’t just want to apologize. I want to make things right. I… I have ideas. I need you to hear them, please. I need you to know I’m not just saying sorry— I’m ready to act, to change, to do whatever it takes.”
You couldn’t speak at first. Your eyes flicked from his tired face to the flowers, to the slight tremor in his fingers as he held them out toward you.
He barely takes a moment to breath as he continues “I’ve been thinking about everything. I didn’t want to hurt you, I swear. I was so caught up with… Jade just showing up. I wasn’t trying to… I just… I didn’t know either. I didn’t know, and I—”
He knelt down in front of you, bringing himself below you so you were looking down at him. “I promise I did talk to her like you asked. The conversation I had with her… it was me telling her to give a heads-up before she did anything. The only reason she even found out about the party was because I was explaining how much you had worked to make Lian’s day perfect. I was telling her how her random drop-ins threw things off.”
He places the flowers gently next to you, shifting in place as he looks up to you beyond apologetically, “I told her that if she was going to drop by that she had to let me know so I could tell you. And she just did that, shrugging things that she does, and I thought that meant she agreed to let me know in the future— not that she was saying she was going to come to the party.”
You blink, listening to him speak, the hurt from yesterday unravelling in your chest as he explains himself, “When she showed up, I panicked. I was trying to smooth it over, to make it less of a shit show. And then I… I got tunnel vision on the cake part. You asked me to do it, and I… I just wanted to do that right. I thought you were next to me, I saw a green dress next to me… but it wasn’t you. It was Artemis. I— I didn’t realize, I was so focused on everything else. God, I’m so sorry. I—”
His eyes gleamed the edges red and wet with tears threatening to spill as he swallowed hard, “I—” he chokes, shaking his head before looking back up at you, “I never wanted to make you feel less than. Not for a second. You’re my world, and I… I can’t stand the thought that I missed you in a moment that you wanted so badly. I’ll do whatever it takes. Please… please just let me try to make it right.”
He was nervous. stripped of the usual humour and cockiness. “I love you,” he whispered, “I love you, and I want to make things right. I want to do right by you. By us. By Lian. Please… just let me.”
You stare at the flowers, then at him— his apology landing far too late. He doesn’t know that. He thinks he’s here to fix one thing, one moment, one birthday wish. But the ache inside you is older than yesterday. When you finally force the words out, your voice is quiet.
“This isn’t just about the birthday,” you say, looking past him, but he catches your gaze anyway. “You think it’s just about a missed wish. But it’s not. It’s… It’s everything. I’m not even my own person anymore. I’m your partner. I’m Lian’s mom. Hell, I’m not even your wife. I’m just… your girlfriend.”
You see him flinch slightly, his eyes darting to the side, to a drawer, before looking back to you desperately.
You swallow, “When we’re together, the three of us… I’m happy. Life feels perfect when it’s just you, Lian, and me. But it’s not just us. You have a whole world outside of me— Titans, missions, heroes, all of it, and Lian’s a part of it too. But me? I could never be. Your friends, they’re polite, nice, and I… I try, but I’ll never fit in. I never will.”
His jaw tightens, and you notice his hands clench slightly. “I cleaned,” you continue, voice shaking, “before I sat down and cried. Who does that after getting their heart broken?”
You laugh humorlessly. “I had dreams, Roy. Friends, passions… family. I set them aside for this little world we built, not because you asked me to, but because I… I thought I wanted it. I thought I wanted to be here, for you and Lian. But…” Your voice falters, catching in your throat. “I can’t. I can’t keep doing this. It’s not good for me.”
He opens his mouth, about to protest but you shake your head. “I know you never made me give anything up. I know that. I… I wanted to. I chose to. I gave up pieces of myself willingly. But I— I was really just pushing my way into a world I didn’t belong in”
You rub your face, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “I love you,” you say. “God, I love both of you. But love isn’t enough. I can’t do this anymore—”
Roy makes a sound like he’s been stabbed. His voice broke through, urgent, almost pleading. “Wait— please, don’t— come on, I came here to fix this. Please, let me—”
You raise a hand, cutting him off before he can tumble into more desperate explanations. “No, Roy,” you say. “I know. I know you came here to fix this. But you have to understand— it’s not just about fixing one day. It’s about all the times before, all the ways I’ve felt like this, Roy.”
His hands freeze mid-gesture, “But I—” he starts again, and you shake your head, exhaling sharply.
“Stop,” you interrupt, “I know your heart is in the right place. I’ve never doubted that you love me. But, Roy… it hurts. It hurts that you needed me to spell things out for you to realize how I feel.”
He swallows hard, voice barely audible, “I didn’t know I—”
You shake your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “But you knew. You knew it was hard for me. You knew I felt like I was standing outside, and still, the people who mattered to me were never part of those moments. Why, Roy? Why couldn’t we have shared our big events with people I cared about, too?”
His jaw tightens, guilt and panic battling in his eyes. “I… I thought including them would complicate things. I didn’t want to—”
“But that’s just it,” you cut in, your voice tightening, gaining an edge he’s not used to hearing from you. “It’s complicated? Roy, everything with you is complicated. Your world, your job, your friends, your enemies, your history— every single piece of your life has layers on layers. But complicated doesn’t work for us. It doesn’t work for me. I can’t do it anymore.”
Roy flinches at your words. His mouth opens as if to defend himself, to explain, but you keep going, because if you stop now, you’ll never say what's been building up.
“My side couldn’t come,” you say, voice catching, sadness threading through the frustration. “Do you understand how sad that makes me? My friends, my family— they can’t just walk in here because half the guests are heroes or people with powers or people hunted by other powered freaks. You think that’s normal? That’s not a party for normal people, Roy."
You pause to take a breath, not noticing how his expressiuon changes. "And Lian’s friends? They’re all part of that world, too. Kids who grew up knowing secret bases and what to do if a villain shows up at school. Not kids my side knows how to talk to.”
You swallow hard, breath trembling. “We can’t mix. Never have, never will. And so every single time, it ends up being all you. Your team, your people, your everything.”
Your voice breaks, but you don’t stop. “And do you know what kills me the most? You looked surprised. Surprised, Roy, when I told you how I felt. As if I hadn’t been quietly drowning in this shit for months. As if it never even crossed your mind that I hate all of this!”
Roy blinks then swallows hard, the weight of your words settling on him before his eyes narrow. “Wait. Hold on,” he says sharply, “I… I get it, okay? The birthday— That’s on me. I 100% own that. But— this? This isn’t fair. You… you never told me it was this bad. You’ve shared things here and there, yeah, but this?”
His voice cracks, disbelief threading through the edges. “This is months, years of… what? You letting it build? You never said anything— now we’re here? You’re just jumping to breakup-level?”
You clench your jaw, glaring at him. “I just told you that I shouldn’t have to,” you spit. “I shouldn’t have to spell it out every single time and walk you through how to make it up to me. You think I enjoy hiding my hurt?”
Roy runs a hand over his face, a sharp, frustrated exhale. “But… you hid it regardless! Every time I tried to involve you in conversations, make you part of things you said you didn’t mind, you said it was okay. I thought we were—”
“I hated it!” you snap, cutting him off before he can finish. “I hated when you’d bring me into those conversations. You weren’t ‘involving me.’ You were covering your own ass. They'd always end up talking about something I had no idea about! It didn’t work, Roy. It never worked.”
Roy freezes for a second, his brows furrowing. “Covering my own ass? What are you even saying?” His voice rises with a mix of frustration and hurt. “I wanted you to feel more comfortable! I noticed you hovering, so I pulled you in! I… I—”
He swallows hard, his hands gesturing helplessly. “You know you wouldn’t get involved otherwise. My friends like you— they think you’re amazing! But I can’t force you to talk to them. When you just stand there and do nothing but nod and laugh, of course the conversation will turn to something they’re familiar with!”
You blink, stunned for a moment, your anger clashing with the truth in his words. And yet, the frustration doesn’t leave. Because yes, he tried. But what does it matter that he tried if it was never the outcome you wanted?
You take a shaky breath, hands balling into fists at your sides. “I know you tried, Roy. I know you meant well. But trying isn’t enough when it never made me happy! You should’ve noticed. You should’ve known better.”
Roy bites his lip, frustration flickering across his features, “I’m not perfect, okay? I can’t read your mind. I try— but you… You say you’re fine… and I take it at face value because that’s what you’ve shown me for months. That’s all I’ve got!”
Roy runs a hand through his hair, voice sharper now, teetering between frustration and desperation. “And that shit about it never being your family—” he pauses, exhaling hard, “I get that. I understand. But… we both literally had a sit-down conversation about this! You insisted you understood why you couldn’t have your side over with mine."
He looks back at you with a look he's never given you before. "You even mentioned that some of your family didn’t have the best opinion of metas. I trust you with my whole heart, but I can’t say the same about the rest of your family. You knew that. You acknowledged it. You said you understood. You said it was okay! You agreed to all of it!”
His hands clench at his sides, his jaw tight. “So yes, it does complicate things. But I never hid that from you. I never blindsided you. I made it clear how it could be hard, and you agreed. You insisted it was okay. And now… now you’re suddenly saying you never felt okay with it? That isn’t fair. You chose to say yes, and I took that as trust. I thought we were on the same page!”
He steps closer when you step back. His voice is desperate but still sharp. “I’m not trying to dismiss your feelings. I swear I’m not. But you have to see how this looks from my side. I tried. I’ve been trying. And suddenly, after all this time, it’s like… I don’t even know where we stand because you kept all of this bottled up. How am I supposed to fix something I didn’t know was this broken?”
You stare at him, your chest tight, trying to find words that won’t explode into more anger. You know he’s not wrong— you did agree. But that choice doesn’t erase the way it really felt so you just scowl in response, but that only seems to egg him on more.
His voice drops into a more hesitant tone. “And— and while we’re at it,” he continues, swallowing hard, “that thing you said about me being… fucking complicated. About my friends, my job, the heroes, the Titans, everything. You… you called them ‘powered freaks.’ I— I can’t even tell if that was a slip or if that’s how you really feel. Was how you think of them part of why this has been so hard for you?”
You snap your head up, eyes blazing. “No! I didn’t call your friends powered freaks. My mind’s a bit fuzzy, but I—” you pause, trying to remember, “I think I meant the bad guys… the ones who actually do bad shit. Not your friends, not you, not anyone you cared about. I—”
Roy shrugs, exasperation flashing across his face. “Doesn’t matter who you called that. You were referring to metas as freaks.”
Your jaw tightens, frustration bubbling over. “I wasn’t calling people you care about freaks! I was talking about the ones who hurt people, the ones who make life dangerous. That’s… that’s a completely different thing. My point wasn’t about you or your friends— it was about the danger. Maybe the word freaks was harsh, but that’s the truth of how I feel about the ones who actually cause harm. You… you’re twisting it.”
Roy blinks, hesitation flickering in his eyes, his posture stiff, unsure whether to push or take it back. You take a slow breath, letting the tension in your shoulders ease just a fraction.
“That’s… that’s not the point of this conversation anyway,” you say, voice steadier now, though exhausted. “It was a slip of the tongue. I didn’t mean for it to come across that way. I don’t… I don’t think that way about your friends or your life. That’s not what this is about.”
He exhales, a small, shaky sound, as if he’s been holding his breath. His jaw tightens, but the sharp edge in his gaze softens, replaced with uncertainty and a faint hope. “Okay,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Okay… I just— I needed to hear that. I needed to know you weren’t… thinking badly of them.”
A flash of anger spikes through you, hot and sharp. Why is he focusing on them right now? You just spent endless minutes trying to explain how suffocating this has all felt for you, and now he’s caught up worrying about whether you insulted his friends?
“What? Them?” you snap, voice trembling. “Do you seriously care more about what I said about your friends than… than everything I’ve been trying to tell you about me? About us?”
Roy flinches, swallowing hard, his own frustration flaring. “I— I’m not saying it’s more important than you! But I heard it! I’m allowed to react!”
“Oh, come on, Roy,” you snap, voice cracking with a mix of frustration and disbelief. “You know me better than that. You know I wouldn’t—”
“Do I?” he interrupts sharply, eyes narrowing, voice tight with both hurt and exasperation. “Because right now, you’re listing out all these issues you’ve had with me after pretending for months it was all fine. And then… then you go on about how you can’t deal with how complicated I am!”
He glares at you, jaw tight, hurt clear in the set of his shoulders. “I’ve been trying. I have been trying. And sure, the way I went about it wasn’t what you wanted. But I’m not a fucking mind reader! I can’t know every little thing you’re bottling up!”
You scoff, clenching your fists as your mind races for a response. He's not being fair! It's not about him—
He takes a shaky breath, “I screwed up the birthday. I know that. I can never take back that fuck-up. But all this other stuff? You— you lied. You said it was fine every single time. That’s not fair. It’s not fair to me… Hell, the only reason I found out you didn’t like Jade just dropping by was because I had to practically force it out of you! We always end up in these huge fucking fights because you never tell me anything. You expect me to just know— but I can’t do that!”
You can’t hold it in anymore. Your voice breaks, trembling with tears and frustration. “Oh, so that’s it! You think I was lying! That I was hiding everything just to dump it on you later? Do you even hear yourself? I wasn’t hiding it to hurt you— I was trying to… to avoid fights! To keep things from spiralling! That’s not lying, Roy! That’s… that’s me trying to make things easier for both of us!”
His eyes flash, jaw clenching, the hurt and exasperation giving way to sharp anger. “I never asked you to do that!” he snaps, voice raw. “I didn’t want you to keep it all to yourself. I wanted you to talk to me! To let me in! All this… all this pretending everything was fine— it only made it worse!”
The air between you burns, your sobs catching in your throat as you struggle to get him to understand, and his chest heaves with the weight of his own frustration, the silence after his words deafening.
You shake your head violently, tears streaming down your face, voice cracking but fierce. “No! No, Roy! This… this clearly isn’t working for either of us! That’s why I called you back! I—” you choke on a sob, “...I needed to face this, to be honest about how suffocating everything’s been, and you… You’re missing the point! It’s not about your friends, or the birthday, or any of that! It’s about us, and it’s about how I can’t… I can’t keep doing this!”
Roy’s face hardens, jaw tight, a storm of hurt and anger flashing in his eyes. “So this is it?” he snaps, “You finally tell me all this shit that's been killing you just to quit right after? Really?>”
He draws in a shaky breath before continuing, words tumbling out faster than he can organize them.
“Yesterday… we could’ve talked about the whole Jade thing yesterday,” he says, “When you went in for the cake— God, I was right there. I came in after you because I thought maybe we could clear the air.”
His voice cracks, "but you jusy shot me down because you din;t want to mess things up for Lian and I get why you said that, I do. But Lian was outside. She was fully distracted. And my friends were all cautious and caught up with Jade.”
You try to interrupt, defensive "I— I needed space then! I was overwhelmed—"
Roy swallows hard, “But I could have explained everything right then,” he argues back, quieter now. “I could’ve told you about Jade, about what actually happened, about why it wasn’t what you think it was, and I was trying, but you kept— kept pulling away.”
You look at him baffled. What was he even saying? You didn't owe him your time after he blindsided you. Sure, he— explained now but you didn't know yesterday!
He lets out a breath before continuing. “And I didn’t want to push you, so I left. The whole time after…” He presses a hand to his stomach as if steadying himself. “All I could think about was how to fix it. Every second. When I was lining up the candles, straightening the stupid little holders for the tenth time, I was rehearsing what I should’ve said. What I should say. How to bring it up without ruining more shit.”
His eyes flick to the floor, jaw tight. “And then, later, when I tried to talk to you again, you… You just brought up the piñata like a shield to avoid the conversation—”
“You only tried to talk to me after Wally and Dick told you to!” you snap, you're angry now. He's just making excuses now. “You didn’t even come to me on your own— you needed them to push you!”
Roy flinches, then straightens back with his voice firmer. “No! They weren’t telling me to talk to you. They were telling me to calm the fuck down. They could see I was losing my mind right there in the middle of everything.”
His hands clench at his sides. “I know that moment wasnt about me, but come on! You could see why I’d be going crazy. I fucked up badly and you wouldn’t even meet my eye…and they… they just helped me breathe for a second. That’s it. That’s all. I didn’t need anyone to tell me to talk to you— I needed a moment to not completely lose it.”
You shake your head, voice rising despite yourself, words stumbling out in stammered bursts. “That— what you felt… that was just… a natural consequence of how you fucked up! You panicked, fine, but that doesn’t… that doesn’t excuse anything.”
Roy exhales sharply, voice steady but raw with desperation. “I know that. I know it. But I never meant to hurt you like that. I swear on my life, I didn’t. Every second of that, I was terrified of making it worse. I didn’t want to hurt you. I never do.”
You cross your arms, still trembling, the frustration spilling over. “Well, your ‘never meant to’ doesn’t mean shit when you barely have anything to say! You asked me how to fix it!”
Roy falters, blinking rapidly, the words catching in his throat. “I— I was just… I freaked the fuck out. I… I spent hours thinking, panicking, replaying everything, trying to figure out what I should do… and when it finally… finally came down to just us, my mind shut down. I was scared.”
He swallows hard, eyes glistening. “Yeah, I asked you how to fix it. And I knew I should already know how. But everything I already tried didn’t work. You shut me down every time. And now, with all this… all this shit you’re telling me that you kept to yourself all this time, can you really blame me for not knowing what to say in that moment? You didn’t even let me know it was this bad. I—”
He pauses, breath trembling, voice raw. “I wanted to fix it. I tried to fix it. I wanted to say the right thing. I just… I didn’t know.”
You shake your head, voice sharp, frustration cutting through the raw edges of your exhaustion. “Oh, so now you’re telling me that all your problem-solving skills are out the window? The same skills you use to save people, to stop disasters, to make life-or-death decisions as a hero… they vanish the second it’s just me?”
Roy flinches, a flicker of hurt crossing his face, “What? THis has nothing to do with— I was scared of losing you. I was terrified that one wrong word would make everything worse!”
He pauses swallowing hard, and then his frustration seeps in soaked in confusion. “Are you seriously bringing up me being a hero right now? Didn’t you call all that being too complicated for you? The 'hero life'— you said it was part of the problem and that it makes all this shit harder! And.. and now you’re trying to use it as some kind of proof I should automatically know how to handle this? That’s not fair!”
You open your mouth to defend yourself, but you falter because… yes that’s exactly what you’re saying and you don’t see why it’s so wrong to point out. But the look in his eyes stops you, they were filled with hurt and frustration, a raw kind of disbelief that makes your chest tighten.
His hands lift slightly exasperated “I’m not here thinking in terms of villians and strategy when it comes to you.” He says, “Your not a fucking mission I can force myself through and forget about after.”
He takes a shuddering breath, trying to steady himself, but the raw edge in his voice won’t go away. “I was thinking about you. About us. And I was scared shitless. Sometimes it's hard to talk to you when you're upset.”
He swallows, and his voice drops almost to a whisper, heavy with guilt and hurt. “Can you even see why I froze?”
You take a slow, shuddering breath, letting his words hang in the air. Part of you knows he’s right— you were angry at him for blindsiding you yesterday, but you technically blindsided him in your entire relationship.
Everything he’s saying makes sense. The logic, the reasoning, the desperate love… You can see it all. And yet, it doesn’t change all your hurt, the months of small cracks getting bigger. You can feel the resentment, sharp and bitter, crawling beneath your skin.
You look away, gaze dropping to the floor, and let out a long, quiet sigh. “I… I still think it’s best if we break up,” you finally say, voice small, you already got this far. You don’t meet his eyes, you can’t. “I… I just… I can’t keep doing this.”
There’s a pause. You feel your chest tighten as the words leave your lips. Part of you feels like you’re running, and in some ways you are, but this is the only way forward isn't it? Your voice softens, barely a whisper now. “I… I don’t want to hear more. I need… I need this to end.”
Roy blinks, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features. His mouth opens, then closes, as if he’s trying to force the right words out, but they won’t come. His hands twitch, unsure whether to reach for you or to stay frozen in place.
"You're serious?… I—” His voice cracks, raw and unsteady. “You… you can’t just… say that. I… I don’t understand. Come on, you just put it all out there, now I know! I can fix this. I just need a chance. Please. I’m begging you.”
He steps closer, hesitantly, his eyes searching yours for some flicker of softness, any sign that you might change your mind. “Lian… she needs you. I need you. We… we can make it work, I swear. We—”
He stops, the energy in his body draining, shoulders slumping slightly as though the weight of your words is physically pressing down on him.
His gaze falters for a brief second, then snaps back to yours, desperate, almost frantic. “I… I can’t just… I can’t imagine life without you, not like this. I can’t. Please… don’t do this. Don’t leave me.”
You just shake your head, covering your face with your hands, turning away. “Please— Roy just… just go. We’re done. Please don't make this harder than it has to be. I— we can talk later about how to bring this up to Lian, but just.. please go back to Oliver’s for now.”
Roy goes still, you don’t even hear his heavy breathing anymore. You hesitantly look back at him, and for a long moment, he doesn’t say anything but look at you.
But you see how tense his arms are, the way he forces himself not to reach for you. His jaw flexed once as he swallowed with force before nodding slowly.
“...Okay,” he says, barely above a whisper at first, before clearing his throat to repeat it. “Okay. If that’s what you want right now.”
He drags a hand over his face, fingers trembling as he tries to hide how close he is to breaking. When his hand drops again, his eyes are redder than when he first arrived. “I’ll go. I don’t want to make this harder for you. I don’t… I don’t ever want to be the reason you get hurt again.”
He steps back, but moving further away from you seems like it physically pains him. His eyes flicker to the door, then back to you as if he’s trying to memorize you, like would be the last time he’d ever see you. “
But listen,” he says as he backs away to the door, “We will talk again, I’m giving you space, a break, but this can’t be the end. Not for us. Please”
You don't say anything in response, just look away. The fact that you didn't shut it down seems to soothe him a bit. He hesitates at the doorway, bracing a hand against the frame.
“You can say we’re done for tonight,” he murmurs, “but I’m not giving up on us until you look me in the eye and tell me, really tell me that we're done. I don’t believe that. Not yet.”
Then, with a last pained look, he turns and walks out the bedroom door, but doesn’t close it fully behind him. You stay frozen for a moment, listening to the sound of his footsteps down the hallway.
You hear his pause just before the stairs, as if expecting, hoping that you might call out and ask him to stay and undo this conversation. But you hold your breath and stay silent until you think you hear his steps down the stairs ring out.
You slowly inch closer to open the door and peer out carefully. Yep, he already went down the stairs. You move out into the hallway to peer over the railing to watch him. You’re not sure why you do this, honestly.
Your eyes follow as he crouches to shove his foot into his shoe, hands shaking slightly as he wipes at his face. He hesitates again as he looks around your shared home. One you knew he came to see as his and Lian’s with you.
You feel your heart drop, as his gaze sweeps upwards to scan the upper floor and you duck out of sight instinctively, praying he didn't see you.
By the time you glance back out, the door clicks behind him, and the finality of it rings in your ears. Everything seems emptier now, hollow in a way that makes everything ache.
You press yourself against the wall and imagine that he was still there when you looked down again, that you were able to meet his gaze and take it all back.
[I am so sorry if I missed anyone! Please feel free to message me directly if you wanna be tagged in future fics, sometimes I get a lil lost in the comments. Sorry for the wait again!! I have rewritten this so many times I kinda hate it… I may rewrite it again if you guys aren’t feeling it too, so please don’t be shy and lmk (I don’t really like how long I made some of the dialogue but at the same time Vee and I were literally reading it out back and forth and it wasn’t like unrealistic to say aloud but it’s just an eyesore to read. If anyone has advice pleaaaaase tell me)
⟢ synopsis. joaquín convinced you to stay in new york as a chance to regroup... and maybe look into who the hell this bob guy is. and just when things could not get any worse, john walker finds you both under the ruse of wanting to talk.
⟢ contains. spoilers for thunderbolts*, sequel to this fic right here! a lot of plot. reader is described as female. reader and joaquín are sambucky children of divorce :( joaquín is sooo baby brother. a bit of stalking happens, walker is a punching bag (i love him tho), reader is crazy stubborn, #justiceforsamwilson.
⟢ wc: 21.2k+
⟢ author’s note. bob wears bunny slippers. that is all i had to say.
You should’ve been halfway back to Washington by now. Maybe already unpacking your bag in your bedroom, or sitting shoulder to shoulder with Joaquín on the couch while Sam paced in front of you both, jaw clenched, hands on his hips and brow furrowed like he was about to crack the floor with how hard he was pacing back and forth. He’d be muttering something about how disappointed he was, how you went behind his back and dragged yourself into this morning’s breaking news cycle.
Instead, you were still in New York, sitting across from Joaquín in a café that toed the line between ‘upscale diner’ and ‘hipster brunch spot.’ Somewhere in Mid-Manhattan, near enough to the buzz of the city, but tucked just far enough to feel like a secret. Still, it was too close to the watchtower for your liking, just down the street.
The café had all the trimmings of old New York: polished floors, and red leather booths, but filtered through the lens of reclaimed wood walls and Edison bulbs.
It was early enough that there were only a handful of people occupying the other booths. Old soul music hummed softly from the speakers overhead, and a couple of waitresses bustled between tables, laughing in Spanish. There was a white man across from you who was poking into his own breakfast with a strange mannerism only filthy rich people would have.
The mug of coffee in your hands had gone lukewarm. The latte art was so nice that it made you hesitate even to drink it, but you also wondered if you could force yourself to have an appetite after last night.
Joaquín had convinced you to stay just a little longer; said it might help you feel better. He sat in front of you in the booth, wearing an I LOVE NYC shirt, sipping from his cold brew as if he hadn’t dragged you out of bed at five in the morning for a run around Central Park that took an hour and then saw the sunrise. Which then became a detour to Times Square before it got crowded. Which then became breakfast out, because apparently, room service wasn’t “authentically New York enough.”
And now? Now you were here. Staring into a latte you didn’t ask for, stomach coiled too tight to even think about food, wishing you could leave the city already.
You hadn’t said much since leaving the gala. Not in the van, not in the elevator ride up to your hotel room, not even when Joaquín offered to stay. You’d nodded, locked the door behind him, and then downed whatever overpriced minibar bottle of tequila you could find. Maybe two.
You kept replaying it all. The way the crowd went quiet when the cameras caught you with Valentina. The fake smile politeness as she wrapped an arm around your shoulders and whispered poison in your ear.
The words still echoed: What’s loyalty really worth?
She wanted you to betray Sam, as if enough people hadn’t already done that.
And then there was Bob.
Fuck that guy.
Fuck Bob.
You went back to nursing your coffee, eyes glazed, ears barely catching the low hum of the voice of the lawyer Joaquín had hired as he explained your legal options. You weren’t sure what he was saying. Something about image rights, team misrepresentation, staying away from De Fontaine and possible lawsuits: you nodded because it was easier than arguing.
Joaquín said you would stay just until noon like this city hadn’t already taken enough energy from you. And you agreed because part of you still hadn’t figured out what to do next.
Besides, it was only eight-thirty in the morning by the time you both got your drinks.
“…And those are just a few steps I’d recommend moving forward,” the lawyer said smoothly, adjusting his glasses as he sat back. “I’ll be honest, this isn’t exactly my usual wheelhouse, but I think we’ve got a decent case if we frame the whole thing as a misunderstanding. Especially if De Fontaine keeps using ‘Avengers’ without clearance.”
His tone was calm. Unbothered. Confident, even. You couldn’t tell if that made you feel better or worse. You probably could have avoided this entire situation if you had stayed home and told Congressman Gary to suck it.
“Yeah, thanks,” Joaquín said brightly, finally glancing up from his laptop.
The man stood, reaching for the sleek red cane that rested against the booth. “Well, you’ve got my number,” he said. “Call if you need anything. I’m happy to keep looking into it.”
“Thanks, Matt,” Joaquín said again, giving him a grateful smile.
“Seriously,” you added, your voice a touch warmer now. Maybe it was the way Matt had actually made the whole mess sound… manageable. “Thank you.”
Matt turned in your direction, that easy smile not fading. “Don’t worry. If you want to push the misunderstanding narrative, you’ll be fine. And if Valentina keeps branding this team as Avengers, there’s a solid case for misrepresentation, especially if your likeness is being used to imply endorsement.”
You nodded. “Right. Yeah. Got it. Thanks.”
Matt paused, as if catching the hesitation in your voice. “You’ll be okay,” he said, then offered a small wave as he made his way toward the door.
Joaquín watched him leave, the bell above the café door giving a soft chime as it swung shut behind him. Then he turned back to you with a grin that was way too proud for someone who’d just hired a lawyer from a newspaper ad. “He seems nice.”
You narrowed your eyes over the rim of your coffee mug. “Where’d you find that guy?”
He pursed his lips, “You said we needed a lawyer. I got us a lawyer. He has really good reviews on Yelp. One of the best in Hell’s Kitchen.”
“Hell’s Kitchen? You made that pour man come all the way down here for us?”
“He offered,” Joaquín said defensively, “Matt said he preferred to meet in person anyway. Besides, we need someone who’s not scared of Valentina. The man literally sues billionaires in his spare time.”
You set your mug down a little too hard, making it clink against the saucer. “We have lawyers. Sam knows people. Actual governmental legal teams. With offices. Why didn’t you call one of them?”
“I didn’t realize we needed the god of lawyers to step in,” he muttered, exasperated as he rolled his eyes. “Relax. We’ve got more than enough to blow this thing wide open. The press photos alone are enough to raise suspicion, and the way Valentina keeps parading that ‘New Avengers’ name around? That’s grounds for a cease and desist.”
You leaned back in the booth, rubbing your temple as you exhaled. “We don’t have as much as you think.”
“But we will.”
You didn’t respond, you just turned your head and focused out the window again. Outside, the city moved on without you. Pedestrians marched by in layers of spring coats and scarves, dodging puddles and taxis like it was all muscle memory. There was something comforting about how oblivious they all were, how none of them had been at that gala last night or had their name blasted across every trending tag before noon.
Inside, the warm smell of eggs and expensive coffee lingered in the air, but you couldn’t shake the sourness sitting in your stomach.
Joaquín, thankfully, didn’t push. He went back to typing on his laptop, though you could tell the silence was killing him. His foot bounced under the table. Occasionally, he muttered something to himself, probably reviewing the security cam footage from the gala again, probably rewatching the exact moment Valentina draped an arm over your shoulders like she owned you.
The two of you were dressed down, in civilian clothes (if Joaquín’s tourist merch would count as such), and baseball caps pulled low. Your sunglasses sat folded beside the ketchup bottle and sugar packets, next to the fresh copy of this morning’s Daily Bugle. Your photo was front-page centre. The shot of you in the dress, frozen between Valentina and Yelena, half-turning like you weren’t sure if you wanted to be there or bolt.
At least you looked pretty.
You wondered if Bob had seen it.
The thought hit you suddenly, out of nowhere, and lodged itself in your chest like a splinter. You hadn’t even realized you were still thinking about him, not actively, anyway, but the memory of his face lingered stubbornly. The way he’d looked at you like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or let you go. The way he’d said your name, low and careful. Like it mattered. He felt like a scent on your jacket or a song stuck in your teeth. Something stupid and soft that wouldn’t let go.
You pressed a hand against your thigh under the table, grounding yourself. It wasn’t the time.
A waitress approached not long after, balancing two plates in her arms with the practiced grace of someone who’d been doing it since before either of you were born. Her hair was tied up in a neat bun, a pencil tucked behind her ear, and she gave your table a friendly smile.
“Three pancakes, three eggs, and three sausages?”
Joaquín perked up immediately, pulling down his headphones and sliding his laptop to the side like he hadn’t been glued to it for the past twenty minutes. “That’s me, thank you.”
“Berry waffles?”
You raised your hand, and she set the plate down gently in front of you before asking if there was anything else either of you wanted. You both politely declined, and she left.
Joaquín didn’t waste a second. He picked up his fork and immediately began cutting into his mountain of food. Syrup pooled fast over his eggs and sausages.
You just stared at your plate. The waffles were warm, the fruit arranged in neat little clusters, but your stomach still felt like it had been twisted into knots. You poked at a strawberry without much commitment.
“So,” Joaquín said between bites, reaching for his cold brew and sipping loudly from the straw just to get your attention like a child.
You didn’t look up, just stabbed a strawberry on your plate.
He tried again. “Do you… Do you wanna talk about it?”
That time, you met his eyes. His smile was soft and a little tentative, but he was holding himself like he expected you to throw your drink in his face. His shoulders were hunched, eyes flicking between you and his plate like he was bracing for impact.
“Talk about what?”
He blinked at you, then gave a pointed look. “Last night.”
You frowned, “We already debriefed.”
“I—I know that,” he said, fork mid-air. “I meant, like, talk about it to me. As friends. Just… me and you. Like we usually do.”
You didn’t answer right away. The quiet between you stretched long enough for the sounds of the diner to filter in again; the clatter of dishes, the sizzle from the kitchen, someone laughing faintly three booths over. Then you sighed, setting your fork down with a metallic clink against the ceramic.
“It’s just...” Joaquín tried again, not looking at you now, like the words would land better if he said them sideways. “You’ve been kinda like… a pain in the ass. To put it nicely.”
That drew a faint grin from you, brief, reluctant, but real. No one could needle you quite like him. Maybe that’s why you both worked. Maybe that’s why it always worked. You rolled your eyes, not quite ready to give in.
“I just don’t understand why you got us a lawyer off Yelp.”
Joaquín pulled a face, somewhere between defensive and done-with-you. “It’s not about the lawyer, man.”
“It kinda is, though.”
“No, it’s not. I’m talking about what Valentina said to you.” His voice dipped low, more careful now. “And… y’know. That Bob guy.”
“Can we not?” you muttered. The words left your mouth too quickly. “Not here, Quín.”
He didn’t say anything. Just watched you for a second longer, his fork hovering above his plate like he was debating whether to say more. Then he dipped his head, gave a short nod, and went back to his food.
You cut another piece of waffle and chewed slowly. It was good, golden and fluffy, the syrup pooling around the edges—but it didn’t warm you the way it should’ve. Didn’t ease the dull pressure blooming in your chest.
Across from you, Joaquín had only taken a few more bites before he set his fork down and wiped his hands on a napkin. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice a little quieter this time. More careful.
“We’ve done a lot of missions together, right?”
You glanced at him, wary. “Right.”
He nodded, like you’d confirmed something only he knew how to track. “And we’ve both done our fair share of flirting here and there. You know… for the job. Sometimes not for the job.”
You gave him a look, already spotting the slow grin building on his face. “Not this again.”
“I’m just saying, we do pretty well for ourselves. I do especially well.” He smiled. “Like, remember that Peruvian girl from last month—?”
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, spotting that dumb smile on his face he only has when he's about to say something stupid. “Uh-huh.”
“Well, remember how I—”
You didn’t even let him finish. “Oh my god,” you groaned, putting your fork down again. “Is there a point to this story? Because I really don’t think I can stomach hearing about that one again.”
He had the decency to look mildly sheepish—just a flush rising to the tips of his ears—but it didn’t stop him from doubling down.
“It was good sex.”
You snorted. “Mediocre at best.”
“You weren’t even there.”
“And yet, I know you need to get laid more. You talk about this girl like she changed your life, and then you follow it up with ‘she liked my jacket.’ That’s it. That’s the story. You slept with her, and she left the next morning.”
“She did like my jacket,” he muttered defensively, half under his breath.
“You need to get laid more.” You repeated into your coffee.
“I need to get laid more?” he scoffed, eyes narrowing. “You need to get laid more.”
You leaned forward just slightly, squinting at him like you dared him to double down. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He blinked at you, deadpan. “You know what it means.”
“Enlighten me.”
“It means,” he said, drawing the words out slowly for dramatic effect, “you need to get laid.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it physically hurt. “I get laid.”
“Not enough,” he shot back, mimicking your tone with a mockery of concern in his voice.
You jabbed your fork in his direction. “More than you.”
“Sure.” He waved his hand dismissively, like he’d already let you win for the sake of moving on. He tugged the brim of his cap lower over his forehead, leaning back into the booth. “Can we circle back to the actual point here?”
“Whatever,” you muttered, voice low, flat. You stabbed at your waffles again, syrup pooling under your fork.
He pointed at you then, vaguely, as if trying to name something intangible. “See, this is what I’m talking about.”
You didn’t look at him, but he kept going.
“You’re off. Last night, you took a few hits—I mean, emotionally. I’ve never seen you like that before. Not really.” He scratched at the side of his jaw. “Valentina was just trying to get in your head, you know that, right?”
You let out a bitter, breathy laugh and grabbed the newspaper from beside the salt shaker. “It’s working.” You held it up with both hands and shook it for emphasis. “‘Reformed or Recruited? Meet the New Face at The New Avengers’ Table.’” You slapped it down in front of him, the headline side up. “I could kill her.”
“Okay,” Joaquín said, glancing around the café, lifting both brows. “Maybe don’t say that so loudly in public?”
You ignored him, still staring at the article. “It’s just—she talks like she’s already won. Every word out of her mouth is loaded. Like no matter what you say, she’s already said it in her head and spun it into something smarter. It’s so fucking frustrating.”
Joaquín didn’t interrupt. You kept going.
“She knows things. Things she shouldn’t. About me. About you. About everyone. And the way she talked about Bucky—” Your voice dipped again. “She’s got him on a leash. She has to be blackmailing him. There’s no other reason he’d stick around a group like that. You remember how long it took for him to even trust us? How much work Sam put in for us? And now she’s got him sitting next to Walker and a bunch government rejects that should be facing lifetimes in jail.”
Joaquín was quiet for a second, stirring his drink with the tip of his straw. “I know. I’ve been thinking the same thing. Maybe she’s got something from his Winter Soldier days. Something buried.”
“Maybe,” you murmured. “But I don’t know. He made peace with all that. Or he was trying to.”
Joaquín nodded solemnly. Then, with perfect timing and a shit-eating grin, he added, “She probably found his butt pics or something.”
You recoiled, immediately groaning, “Ugh, gross, Joaquín. Come on—I’m eating.”
He laughed into his straw, biting it. “I’m just saying. It would explain a lot.”
You tried to keep your glare steady, but your mouth twitched, the corner threatening to pull upward. You hated that he could do that, break through the spiral with the dumbest thing imaginable. But maybe that’s why he was still your first call every time things went to shit.
Joaquín’s voice softened a little. “You know she doesn’t win just because she made the headlines first, right? She wants you rattled. She wants you to think she’s got it all figured out. But she doesn’t. You’re better than her.”
You looked down at your plate, the fruit now limp and soaked through with syrup, and slowly pushed it aside.
“I just hate not knowing,” you said quietly. “Not knowing what she’s playing at. Not knowing what Bucky’s really thinking. Not knowing if any of this is going to matter.”
“It matters,” Joaquín said without hesitation. “And if it doesn’t yet, we’ll make sure it does.”
That finally made you look at him.
He gave you a lopsided smile, stupid, warm, stubbornly sure of you in a way you weren’t even sure of yourself right now.
“You’re not alone in this,” he added. “You’ve got me. And Sam. And probably, like, three semi-legal encrypted files Matt just handed over.”
You huffed out a soft, reluctant laugh. “God, you’re annoying.”
“Yeah, but I’m right.”
You didn’t say it out loud—but maybe, just this once, you didn’t disagree.
Your phone buzzed against the table, and both you and Joaquín froze, mid-sentence, mid-chew. His fork hovered halfway to his mouth. Your eyes locked on the screen.
The display lit up, just enough for you both to see the name.
Captain Sammy!
Neither of you said anything at first.
You’d been waiting for this. Dreading it, really. That’s why your phone had been sitting so close to your plate all morning, screen facing up, volume on for messages only, buzz setting maxed out. Every scrape of cutlery, every breath between words had you waiting for this.
Joaquín leaned in slightly, eyes scanning your face. “Is it Sam?”
You nodded, slow. “Yeah.”
“What’s he saying?”
You didn’t move right away. Your hand hovered over the phone like it might burn you. “I don’t know. I’m… too scared to open it.”
His brows pulled together, and he leaned further across the booth, trying to read the message upside down. “Why hasn’t he messaged me yet?”
“I don’t know,” you repeated, this time quieter, and your thumb swiped across the screen like muscle memory. You tapped into your messages.
Your stomach twisted before your eyes could even process the text.
Call me soon. We need to talk.
You winced.
“Well?” Joaquín asked, watching you too closely. “What’d he say?”
You turned the phone toward him.
He read it, then leaned back slowly. “Woah.”
“I know.”
“No emojis?”
“No.”
“He used proper punctuation.”
“Yeah. Caps. Periods.”
Joaquín let out a long whistle and slouched deeper into the booth like the air had been sucked out of him too. “Shit. He’s so pissed.”
You exhaled hard and tossed the phone facedown onto the table like it might accuse you of something else if you looked at it any longer. Your shoulders slumped, and you dropped your head into your hands, the motion knocking your cap off in the process. It hit the seat with a soft thump.
“God, I’m so fucked,” you groaned into your palms.
“Hey…” Joaquín’s voice softened. No teasing now. Just warmth. He reached across the table, his fingers brushing your wrist. Gently, he coaxed your hands away from your face. “We’re fucked. We’re a team. We both get fucked together.”
You stared at him for a second.
Then winced. “...Dude.”
He blinked, mouth twitching, and then his expression crumpled into a wince of his own. “Yeah, yeah. I heard it as I said it.”
You shoved his hand away, and he laughed. It was the kind of laugh that let you breathe again, even if only for a second.
You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “Do you wanna book a plane home or should we just drive back?”
“Let’s drive,” he said without missing a beat, already pulling his laptop closer. “The longer it takes to get back, the better. We need time to stall.”
“I’ll rent a car.” You thumbed open the app, scrolling through the available options. “Any preferences?”
“I’m not picky.”
You nodded absently, letting the words pass between you like background noise. Your finger moved down the screen, but your mind wasn’t really following. Each name—Toyota, Chevy, Honda—blurred past you.
The pressure had started to settle beneath your ribs now, a slow-building ache that hadn’t let up since last night. It pulsed quietly with every breath. You tried to ignore it, tried to act like you were okay, like you weren’t picturing the message on your phone or imagining the conversation that would come when you finally called Sam.
But you weren’t okay. Not really. You hadn’t been okay since that tower. Since Valentina’s voice crawled into your skull and made a home there.
The sound of Joaquín tapping at his keyboard pulled you back to the present.
“Hey,” he said, his tone cautious, like he already expected you to roll your eyes again. “I know you said you didn’t want to talk about last night anymore, but that guy you were talking to—Bob? I managed to get a voice match, and I did some digging for you.”
You didn’t look up. Your thumb hovered over a rental listing. “I really don’t care. Do you want a Honda or—”
“Well,” he cut in, “his full name is Robert Reynolds.”
You froze, just for a second. Just long enough for Joaquín to notice.
“Jesus,” he added, grinning like he couldn’t help himself, “you were flirting with a guy named Robert.”
You lifted your gaze, flat but not without bite. “Shut the fuck up.”
He laughed, light and triumphant. “There’s not much on him. He’s kind of a nobody, to be honest. Valentina must have wiped him or something. He’s got an old Instagram account but hasn’t updated it since before the Blip. Mostly middle school, high school stuff. A couple of mirror selfies. Not much else.”
You didn’t mean to be interested. Not really. But your head perked up anyway.
“Let me see.”
He angled the laptop your way without a word, thankfully.
The screen showed a grid of filtered, slightly overexposed images, pictures that fit from the time they were taken and posted. Group shots at what looked like house parties. Underage drinking and smoking. A photo of a dog. One of the sunset, blurry and underwhelming, captioned ‘summer’ with a cute emoji of the sun. Most of the posts were book covers, titles you vaguely recognized; a few you’d read yourself. The kind of things people share, not for anyone else, but just to remind themselves they were still here.
He didn’t post himself often.
But one picture stopped you.
A younger version of him stood beside someone in a graduation gown. His hair was shorter, his face leaner, his body thinner. He wasn’t wearing a gown himself. Just a hand shoved awkwardly into a hoodie pocket, the other slung around the person beside him. Still, he was smiling—kind of half-hearted, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his face. It was the same mouth, same sharp features. But softer.
You stared at it a moment too long.
You weren’t sure what you were looking for. Maybe something to prove he wasn’t a threat. Or maybe something else entirely.
You could still hear the way he said family, like he believed it, like he needed to.
You hated how easily he’d gotten under your skin. How, even now, some part of him was curling its way around your thoughts, threading through your brain like smoke through a vent. He was weird, and there was something about him that felt too big to look at directly. Like if you focused too hard, he might burn a hole through you.
You tried to tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. You tried to tell yourself he didn’t matter.
But your hand was already resting on the corner of Joaquín’s laptop, scrolling gently through the next photo. And the one after that.
And you didn’t stop.
You didn’t realize how long you’d been staring until Joaquín cleared his throat.
“He never graduated,” he said, “Dropped out.”
You blinked, sitting up a little straighter, “What?”
Joaquín tilted the screen back toward himself. “I couldn’t find any school records past sophomore year. No GED either. He just kinda... worked odd jobs before disappearing.”
Your eyes scanned what was left of Bob’s social media feed. Just ten posts in total. Ten fragments of a person whose edges were too slippery to pin down. Still, that didn’t stop the strange kick in your chest, like your body knew something your brain hadn’t caught up with yet.
“Disappearing?”
“Yeah. And it gets weirder.”
He clicked over to another tab. The brightness of a mugshot hit you instantly.
“There’s a criminal record,” Joaquín said. “Not sealed, surprisingly. Valentina’s people probably missed it—or didn’t care enough to clean it up.”
You leaned closer as he continued.
“An assault charge from one of his part-time jobs years ago. He attacked a civilian.”
“At work?”
“Yeah,” he said grimly. He tapped the keyboard again, and up came a police scan. Bob, older than in the Instagram posts, but still younger than last night, sat facing the camera with a vacant expression. His cheeks looked hollow, his eyes rimmed with red and shiny with unshed tears. Sweat slicked his forehead, and his lips were split as if he’d been grinding his teeth on them.
“He was on drugs,” Joaquín said, his voice a little quieter. “Methamphetamine.”
You vaguely remember him mentioning he was sober.
“…Jesus.”
“And,” He continued, hesitating only slightly, “he was wearing a chicken costume when he got arrested. Like, full mascot getup. Worked at Alfredo’s Bail Bonds. I don’t even know what that is.”
You frowned. The ache in your chest curled tighter as if the image on the screen weighed something you couldn’t name. Bob didn’t look dangerous in that photo. He didn’t look angry or unhinged.
He looked lost. Like he’d already been falling long before anyone ever thought to arrest him.
“It’s not funny, Joaquín.”
“You’re right. It’s not.” Joaquín glanced at you. And even though the grin tugged at his lips, he raised one hand in surrender. But the humour was still there. You know he didn’t mean anything by it, not really. You could tell he was just trying to lift the mood. “But like… come on. A chicken costume? It’s objectively a little funny.”
You scoffed, reached across the table and closed his laptop with two fingers, giving him a flat look. “You’re the worst.”
“Shut up,” Joaquín said, flashing you that stupid grin again as he tugged the laptop back toward him. “You love me.”
The warm morning sun was finally starting to cast a glow through the window and onto your half-eaten plate of waffles.
Joaquín opened his laptop again and tapped a few keys, lips pressed together now. “I still don’t get what he was doing in that tower last night.”
“He knows Valentina to some extent. We know that much,” you murmured, watching him out of the corner of your eye. He nodded, gaze fixed on the screen, but your voice dropped with the weight of what you were about to say next.
“…He called Bucky family.”
That made him pause. He turned toward you fully, his brows lifted. “Family?”
“Yeah,” you said, quietly. “Like Walker. Starr. Belova. He said they saved him.”
You watched Joaquín’s expression shift, his usual spirit tempered by something more focused, sharper around the edges. He leaned forward a little, propping his elbow on the booth table again as if the change in posture could help him wrap his head around it.
“Saved him from what?” he asked. “When?”
You shook your head. “I don’t know.”
He frowned. “You didn’t ask?”
“I didn’t really get the chance,” you said, your voice catching for half a second. Then you exhaled. “Or—I don’t know. I just freaked out.”
“You freaked out? You?”
You gave a dry, humourless laugh, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your napkin. “You haven’t met him. He just… he threw me off.”
Your voice was quieter now, almost drowned out by the soft rumble of a waitress rolling a cart past your booth.
“I was already on edge after everything Valentina said. Then he shows up, out of nowhere... and he acts... he was really sweet, actually. And I know it’s stupid but I let my gaurd down. Then he said Bucky’s his family, and I—” You stopped yourself, shaking your head. “What the fuck was I supposed to say to that? ‘Cool, same’? I don’t even know if Bucky considers us family.”
Joaquín rested his chin in one hand, looking thoughtful. “I mean… I probably would’ve asked him more questions. Try to figure out who he is before jumping to conclusions.”
You shot him a look.
“I’m just saying,” he continued, hands up in defence. “The idea of them saving him could be legit. Like—it could go back to what happened in New York a few months ago. The whole Darkness or Void incident. That was a mess. Maybe he got caught in all that and they pulled him out or something.”
“Maybe,” you said, still not convinced. “Lot’s of people got caught up in that. What makes him so special?”
Joaquín exhaled through his nose. “Could’ve been one of those publicity saves. You know how they’ve been staging those lately.”
Your lips pressed into a thin line. You hated the thought of that being true. That Bob was just another pawn in Valentina’s carefully calculated optics campaign. But there was something else in your gut. That didn’t feel like the whole truth. Bob had looked at you like he knew something. Like he’d seen something you hadn’t yet.
You rubbed at your eyes. “Are there any records of that?”
“No,” Joaquín said, tapping his finger against the side of his laptop. “Not really.”
You sank back into the booth, staring at the streaks of syrup on your plate.
“It doesn’t matter now,” you said after a long breath. “We’ll probably never see him again. Or Bucky, for that matter.”
Joaquín shook his head, his expression tightening. “Don’t say that. He’ll come back.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah,” he said without missing a beat. “He can’t stay away from Sam for too long. Those two go into, like, withdrawals if they spend enough time apart. Sam starts getting all twitchy. It’s weird.”
You let out a soft laugh, “Yeah, right.”
Joaquín grinned, kicking you from under the table. “Hey. Fun fact. Bob’s from Florida.”
You raised a brow, skeptical. “What, you think he’s from Miami too?”
“Sarasota Springs.” He said, “Makes sense, I guess… with his criminal record, it kinda tracks. Rich, by the coast, drugged-up suburbia. Perfect place to arrest a meth-head chicken.”
You shot him another glare. “That’s not funny, Joaquín.”
“I’m sorry!” he shrieked when your foot connected with his shin under the table.
He was not sorry—his laugh betrayed him. He kicked you back with zero remorse. The table wobbled with the weight of your childish back-and-forth, your drink nearly toppling as Joaquín banged his knee into the edge, cursing. You stopped before either of you caused a spill.
But then, he froze.
Not the usual kind of still, either. He stopped laughing mid-breath, spine straightening with a jolt, and his eyes cut toward the window in a way that immediately froze your blood. The humour drained off him like a tide pulling back to sea.
Your own posture tightened. “What?” you whispered.
He didn’t answer; he just grabbed his sunglasses and slapped them on, even though you were indoors. That alone told you how bad it was.
“Get down,” he muttered, reaching across the table and sliding the newspaper to you. “Look casual.”
You snatched it without a word, unfolding the pages like you cared about the stock market. Your heart beat too loudly in your ears, and your eyes scanned the ink without registering a single word. Still, you followed his lead, the two of you falling into sync like clockwork.
You tried to guess what had set him off. Your brain jumped straight to Sam, storming through the front entrance, arms crossed like a disappointed dad at parent-teacher night. But no. He was still in Washington, right?
You glanced over the paper’s edge. “What is it?” you hissed.
Joaquín didn’t move much—just lowered his voice to a whisper through clenched teeth. “It’s Walker.”
You blinked, lips parting in disbelief. “What?”
“Shhh. Shut the fuck up.”
You straightened up ever so slightly, trying to look calm, normal, bored, but you angled your head toward the door.
“Where?” you whispered, barely moving your lips.
“By the entrance,” Joaquín murmured, adjusting his cap lower. “With the ghost girl.”
You squinted subtly. “Ghost gi—?”
Ava Starr. You caught sight of her instantly, despite Joaquín not needing to say her name. She stood like someone perpetually mid-departure, her hair pulled back and jaw set tight as she waited at the counter. Her arms were folded, and she was already halfway through her order. Beside her, unmistakable in his broad, self-assured posture, stood John Walker. He wore a sun-bleached military jacket and—God help you—that stupid beret. His eyes weren’t scanning the room yet, just the menu above the barista, but that could change at any moment.
You ducked back behind your newspaper like it might physically protect you. “We should just… lay low until they leave,” you said under your breath, acting like it was all casual. “The last thing we need is getting caught with them. Especially now. If anyone sees us here with them, it’s gonna look real convenient.”
“Okay,” Joaquín murmured, fingers tightening around his coffee cup. “But I’m telling you, if Walker starts walking this way, I’m crawling under this booth.”
You almost laughed, but it didn’t quite make it out. Instead, you focused your gaze on your plate, trying to pretend your nerves weren’t crawling all over your skin.
The seconds ticked by with unbearable slowness. Joaquín took a sip of his drink, eyes still hidden behind his glasses and the screen of his computer. For one full, glorious moment, it seemed like maybe—maybe—they’d leave without seeing you.
“Hey, guys,” came a voice behind you. Too familiar. Too smug.
Your stomach dropped.
“Funny seeing you here in New York.”
Your spine stiffened like a board. Across from you, Joaquín let out what had to be the quietest groan of his life, a barely audible sigh that still managed to scream you’ve got to be kidding me.
You didn’t look right away. You already knew who it was. But slowly, cautiously, you turned in your seat, past the half-finished plate of fruits and the folded newspaper still clutched in your hand, to find John Walker standing at the edge of your table.
Hands on his hips, back straight like a soldier reporting for duty. That signature smugness twisted his mouth into a grin that looked about ninety percent forced and ten percent calculated. A politician’s smile, one he’d probably been coached on.
Ava Starr stood just behind him, half-shielded by the oversized sweater and black trench coat she was wearing, and her baseball cap pulled low like you were. She sipped from a takeout cup like none of this had anything to do with her. Still, her eyes flicked over the two of you, sharp and curious. There was intrigue there, and something else. Something like suspicion.
“Walker,” Joaquín said, dragging his sunglasses off and trying on a smile that was just a little too wide to be natural. He leaned back against the booth like he wasn’t one second away from bolting. “Long time no see, man. When—when was the last time we saw each other?”
Walker didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t know, Torres.” He tilted his head, pretending to think about it with mock sincerity. “I think it was about two, three years ago? When you pled against me in court.”
Joaquín blinked, just once, then let out a breathy, “Right, right.” A stiff nod followed, and you caught the colour blooming in his cheeks before he turned back to Walker, trying to recover. “Wow. Time flies. How’s Olivia?”
Walker’s jaw flexed, the grin faltering just slightly. “She’s fine,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
“Happy wife, happy life, am I right?”
“Ex-wife, actually,” Ava said casually, her voice cool and clipped—and British, you noted, catching you a bit off guard. It was the first time you’d heard her speak. “She took the kid and left him.”
A sip. Deadpan. Not even a blink.
Joaquín flinched like she’d hit him. “Oh—uh. Sorry.”
Walker sighed, running a hand down his face, but he didn’t look particularly angry at her for saying it. If anything, he just looked annoyed, maybe even tired. Like someone who didn’t have the energy to defend himself anymore.
You cleared your throat, eyes narrowing just enough. “Who’s your friend?” You asked it knowing full well who she was. You had files on every single New Avenger. The question was less about gaining information and more about playing the game. Buying yourself time. Pretending this conversation was normal when every instinct in your body said otherwise.
“This is Ava,” Walker said, gesturing toward her with a lazy flick of his wrist.
Ava offered a faint smile, small, and polite, but with an unmistakable edge of sarcasm. It was a smile that said she knew exactly how uncomfortable you were, and she probably felt the same way.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hi.” You nodded once, tight-lipped.
Joaquín, ever the icebreaker, leaned forward in what was possibly the worst possible moment. “I gotta say—your powers are so cool. Like, if I could have powers, I’d want something like yours.”
You didn’t even have time to stop him.
Ava blinked, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Thanks. The cells inside my body are tearing themselves apart every second. Chronic pain. Constantly.”
He deflated like a balloon with a hole in it, sinking back into the booth. “Oh.”
“Sorry about him,” you said, giving Ava a small shrug. “He never knows when to speak or what to say.”
Ava gave a short, amused nod. “It’s alright. I’m better now, anyway. My cells only tear apart on my command.”
“That’s nice.” You tried not to show it, but the offhandedness of that statement—how someone could say something so gruesome with such ease—did something to your stomach.
Then Walker turned back to you.
“See, I thought I saw you last night,” he said, voice casual in the most deliberately uncasual way. He scratched at his beard.
Your jaw tightened.
Of course he saw you last night. You saw him too. He knew it. You knew it. And the fact that he was pretending like this was just now dawning on him made your teeth itch. Especially since your photos from that gala were currently trending on half the internet. The press had already decided what it meant. You didn’t need Walker playing coy.
“Yeah,” you said, smiling sweetly. “I saw you too. Then you turned and walked the other way before I could say hi.”
Ava snorted into her drink, reaching over to smack Walker’s arm. “You ran off?”
“No—” Walker started, but you cut him off with a tilt of your head and a raised brow.
“You did.”
“I didn’t run off,” he said, defensive now. “I just had business to attend to.”
You didn’t bother replying. He was still talking, but his words blurred into the background as your phone buzzed once again on the table beside you. Sam. Probably asking when you'd be ready to talk or when you were coming home.
You caught Joaquín glancing at the screen, and a silent understanding passed between you both. Time to wrap this up.
You turned back to Walker with a pleasant enough smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Did you need something, Walker? I mean, it’s great to see you—” (lie) “—but we were just trying to have some breakfast before we went home.”
“Home? You’re leaving so soon?”
“We’ve got things to do. It’s a long drive back.”
“Oh, come on,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “We can fly you back to Washington. No problem. You’d be home before sunset.”
You blinked once. “No thanks.”
Walker chuckled, a low, dry sound that barely passed for humour. “You should come by the tower anyway. We’ll show you around. It’ll be fun.”
You couldn’t think of anything that had to do with John Walker being described as ‘fun’.
Also, he wasn’t exactly subtle with the way he asked the two of you to go to the tower with them. You didn’t know what was up there waiting for you, and you didn’t want to find out. You just wanted to go home.
“Really,” you said, the word coming out like dead weight. “We’re good. We’ll just get the bill and go.”
Right on cue, the waitress showed up, sliding the receipt onto the table with a bright smile that faltered the second she noticed Walker and Ava still hovering beside your booth. She glanced between all four of you, sensing something off, the way people do when they walk into a conversation that’s gone a degree too cold. Without a word, she walked off, her shoes squeaking faintly against the linoleum.
The table went still for a beat. Then Ava finally spoke.
“We know you talked to Bob last night.”
That shut you up. Just like that, your posture went a little rigid, shoulders tensing into steel as the name settled like a stone in your gut. It landed like a trigger pull. You tried not to be too obvious but you were failing.
Joaquín was worse, he froze mid-bite, his fork hovering just an inch from his lips before he slowly set it down. His eyes darted to you, then back to Ava.
Ava shifted slightly, her voice calmer now, but precise. “We also know you asked about Barnes.”
That got you. You didn’t respond; you didn’t need to. The fact you were suddenly locked in, gaze narrowed, said enough. She had your attention. And she knew it.
Ava scanned the café. Her eyes didn’t linger too long on anything, but you recognized the sweep, measured, tactical. The way a person looks when they’ve been taught to watch for threats before they come through the door.
“We’re not with Val,” she said. “Not in the way you think. Just… give us a chance to talk. Somewhere private.”
You nearly laughed. Or maybe you wanted to. Or maybe you wanted to scream. Somewhere private? As if that didn’t set off every alarm in your body.
You didn’t know Ava Starr beyond what you and Joaquín had pulled from the files: taken by S.H.E.I.L.D. as a child, quantum instability, a near-lethal skill set. You didn’t know John Walker beyond the courtroom footage, the headlines, and everything you watched from the sidelines, a man who still believed he deserved redemption without ever earning it. You also knew he had taken a dangerous dose of the super soldier serum, making him violent and twitchy.
But you definitely didn’t know them well enough to follow them into a quiet place with no exits or no witnesses.
And you definitely did not want to be caught walking around New York City with them. The last thing you needed was another headline featuring your face beside the likes of John Walker. And Joaquín? You weren’t about to drag him deeper into a mess that wasn’t his.
But before you could say any of that, before you could even start lining up all the reasons this was a terrible idea, you heard: “Okay, sure.”
Your head snapped around. “Quín?”
Joaquín had turned his hat backward, that familiar nervous tell masked behind the casual flip. He was already sliding his laptop into his bag, fingers moving with a kind of focused ease that suggested he’d been waiting for this the whole time. Like part of him had been waiting for someone to finally offer an answer, any answer, and now that it was on the table, he couldn’t bring himself to hesitate.
“What?” he asked.
“You can’t just—”
“What?” he said again with a little more attitude, zipping the bag closed. “You’re always saying how much you hate being in the dark. They’re offering answers.”
“They could be lying,” you shot back, sharper than you meant. “This could be a trap, or another setup.”
You said it like they weren’t standing right there, and you didn’t care if they heard. They could take the hint or choke on it.
He shrugged, cool, easy, frustratingly calm. “Then we’ll find out.”
You stared at him, your chest tight all over again. He meant that. You could see it in the set of his jaw, in the way he shouldered his bag like it didn’t weigh a damn thing. That unbearable sincerity, that same stubborn belief in people that made you trust him, was now steering him straight into a situation you didn’t trust at all.
You wanted to snap. Wanted to grab his arm, drag him out of the café and into daylight, anywhere but here. A bitter remark rose in your throat, hot and ready to be thrown—about the last time he leapt before looking, the last time he decided to be a hero and ended up flatlined for two full minutes on a hospital table, blood-soaked and broken and somehow still apologizing for it afterward.
But the words caught in your chest.
You didn’t say it. You didn’t even whisper it.
You just looked at him. Tried to say it with your eyes, with the hard, silent glare you shot across the table—don’t do this.
He didn’t meet your gaze.
Instead, you turned, eyes locking onto Walker and Ava, your voice low and sharp. “How’d you find us?”
Walker raised both hands, a placating gesture you didn’t buy for a second. “We didn’t follow you or anything. Personally, I couldn’t care less about what you two are up to.”
You bristled at the you two, and you hated how they started to drag Joaquín into it.
“But,” Walker went on, “Yelena’s been tracking you since the gala.”
Your blood ran cold. “What?”
He said it casually like it was nothing.
You blinked, stomach lurching. There’d been no tag, no weight in your coat, no itch along your back where something might’ve been placed. You’d showered. Slept. Walked half the city this morning without even realizing it. And that was the point, wasn’t it? You never saw her. Never felt it. Never even noticed.
Because Yelena Belova didn’t need a tracker when she was one of the best Red Room assassins. You only couldn’t understand why she hadn’t killed you when she had the chance.
Unease coiled at the base of your spine. You felt exposed. Like someone had peeled back your skin and left it raw in the open air.
“Please,” Ava said again. Her voice was quiet, almost too calm, but there was something underneath it, something tense and taut like she hated begging for trust. “Just hear us out.”
Your stomach continued twisting, hard. Every instinct screamed don’t go. Don’t let them get you alone. Don’t let Joaquín near whatever this is. But you could already feel the decision slipping away from you.
The elevator couldn't have been any fucking slower.
You swore you could hear the grind of the gears behind the panelling, dragging each second out like a countdown to something awful. The small screen above the door blinked from floors 37 to 38 to 39 with glacial slowness.
You thought this building had state-of-the-art technology remodelled. Why the fuck was their elevator so damn slow?
Your chest was caving in on itself, a familiar panic clawing up your throat and settling behind your ribs like a second heartbeat. Every inch of this place felt too polished. You hadn’t forgotten how sharp the Watchtower felt—like walking into a wolf’s mouth made of steel and luxury.
Your brain spiralled—clawing through every possible worst-case scenario like it was trying to prepare you for all of them at once. You hadn’t even gotten to the part where Valentina might be standing on the other side of the doors. You could already see it: that smug, all-knowing smile she wore like lipstick, arms crossed, voice dripping with venomous delight. She’d say something like “Took you long enough,” and you’d want to punch her in the teeth, even as you walked willingly into the trap.
Matt would kill you.
Your lawyer had explicitly warned you to stay away from anything remotely connected to Valentina. Wait it out. Stay clean until the dust settles. This was the very opposite of that.
You rubbed a thumb across your phone screen, opening and closing your texts with Sam. The messages were still left unanswered. You had typed seven different versions of a reply: “I’m okay”, “Just give me a second”, “Long story, I’ll explain later” and deleted them all.
You couldn’t leave him in the dark. You didn’t want to be like Bucky. But how the fuck were you supposed to explain this?
‘Call you soon, busy talking to John fucking Walker’?
Joaquín shifted beside you, close enough that you could feel the low heat radiating off his arm. He wasn’t saying anything, but his tension mirrored yours—jaw clenched, eyes locked on the doors, hands flexing at his side. You could see it in the way his fingers curled and uncurled at his thigh like he was ready to move, run, or punch someone if needed.
If you were to die, at least you could blame it on him.
Behind you, Walker and Ava stood just a little too casually; coffee cups in hand, speaking in quiet tones you couldn’t catch. Not that you tried. Every nerve in your body was too loud already, the soft hum of the elevator music a scream in your ears.
They were calm. You weren’t. That alone was reason enough to worry.
You glanced at the elevator buttons. No emergency stop. No backup plan. You weren’t sure what you’d even do if you had to fight. You couldn’t land a hit on Ava unless she let you. She could phase her entire body into atoms and probably rip your spine out if she wanted to. Walker? He definitely had a gun. And he was superhuman. You’d go down in minutes. Joaquín too.
No. Fighting was not an option.
But running? That window was already gone. You’d known that the moment they cornered you at the diner. There hadn’t really been a choice. They would’ve followed you all the way back to D.C. if they had to.
So here you were. In a box of steel, crawling toward confrontation, heart slamming against your ribs like it wanted out. The air was too still. Too thick. Your reflection in the brushed metal doors looked sick. Unsteady. Tired.
Joaquín glanced at you from the side, like he could sense what was happening in your head without you saying a word. His hand hovered near yours, not touching, but there. Just in case.
You should’ve just gone home. Should’ve skipped breakfast, told Joaquín to let it go, and gotten on the first flight out of New York before any of this spiralled.
Your spine ached from tension as you shifted in place, uncomfortably aware that you were still wearing the same clothes you’d gone running in earlier that morning—damp with city sweat and stale adrenaline, clinging wrong to your skin. No time to change, no time to breathe. They hadn’t given you the chance.
The elevator slowed. You felt it before you saw it—an unnatural stillness as it glided to a halt on a floor you didn’t recognize. One that hadn’t been accessible during the party last night.
Your pulse ramped into overdrive. You braced yourself, watching the doors split open with agonizing slowness, and for a split second, you were sure something was about to go horribly wrong.
Because something was there.
A long, black cylinder slipped between the doors just before they finished opening. You didn’t wait. Instinct took over—you lunged back, grabbing Joaquín and yanking him behind you as your heart rocketed into your throat.
“What the hell—?” Ava started to say, already stepping forward, but you weren’t listening.
You were listening for an explosion.
And it came.
A loud pop! cracked through the elevator like a gunshot, sharp and close. Joaquín jumped, slamming into your shoulder, and your breath caught, chest tightening as you threw your arms up. You were ready for anything—smoke, gas, flashbang, worse.
The four of you stood frozen, fists clenched, muscles coiled, every instinct screaming fight.
Then… something fluttered.
Light. Soft. A delicate brush against your cheek.
You opened your eyes slowly, blinked once, twice, and saw colour drifting down around you. Red. Gold. Silver.
Confetti.
Tiny scraps of shimmering paper were falling in slow spirals over your head, clinging to your sleeves, catching in Joaquín’s curls. You glanced down and realized you were still gripping the front of his shirt like a lifeline, your knuckles tight in the fabric. He looked just as stunned as you did, eyes wide, jaw slack.
Behind you, Walker groaned loudly, swearing under his breath. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
You finally looked up. And there, standing just outside the elevator, was Alexei Shostakov grinning like a child with a confetti cannon in his hand.
“Surprise!” he boomed, shouting your name, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.
You blinked at him in disbelief. Your body hadn’t quite caught the memo that you weren’t about to be murdered (which could still happen), it was still locked in a battle stance, heart trying to punch its way out of your ribs.
Sunlight spilled through floor-to-ceiling windows lining the lounge beyond, bouncing off the glossy, marbled floors and catching in the confetti still drifting down like ashes from a very sparkly apocalypse. The room stretched wide and open—modern, luxurious.
Alexei took a triumphant step forward, tossing the cannon aside with a clatter and reaching for your hand like he hadn’t just given you a heart attack.
You didn’t take it, your fingers were still trembling, but he didn’t seem to notice as he tugged you into the room. He waved his arm grandly toward the entryway, where a crooked banner hung overhead: WELCOME TO THE AVENGERS! The lettering was large and smudged, still drying in places, and the fabric sagged slightly in the middle.
Paint-streaked fingerprints decorated the edges, and sure enough, Alexei’s hands were splotched in red and blue. He must’ve made it himself. That realization made your head spin harder than the confetti had.
Your mouth parted, trying to find words, but before anything could come out, Walker stormed forward and beat you to it.
“What the fuck is all this?”
Alexei dropped his hand, puffing out his chest with dramatic offence. “It is party!” he declared, gesturing at you with a broad, proud smile. “For our new member! Did you not read the news?”
He turned to you again and slapped a heavy hand against your back, nearly knocking the air from your lungs. “Congratulations, my friend. We are very happy to have you on our awesome team.”
“No. No, no, no,” Walker muttered, dragging a hand down his face like he was already exhausted. He stomped up beside Alexei and grabbed his arm, pulling him gently, but insistently, away from you. “No party.”
“What do you mean no party?” Alexei protested, wide-eyed. “This calls for… what is word? Celebration! She has joined the Avengers!”
“No. We do not need to celebrate, there’s nothing to celebrate.” Walker hissed, his voice strained as he pointed back at you. “This isn’t—she’s not joining the team.”
Alexei looked at you, expression falling. “You’re not?”
“No.”
“Oh,” he said.
Walker guided him off toward the far end of the lounge—a massive open-concept kitchen with gleaming appliances and a dining area you were certain had hosted at least one illegal meeting in the past month.
“Sorry about him,” Ava said, stepping beside you now. Her tone was breezy but fond like she was used to this. “I’d say he’s not usually like that, but I’d be lying.”
She reached over and gently plucked a curl of confetti from Joaquín’s hair. He blushed, mumbling something under his breath that made her grin wider when he tugged his cap back on again.
“I’m gonna go find Yelena,” she added, stepping away. “She’s around here somewhere. Make yourselves at home.”
“Wait—” Joaquín called after her, taking a cautious half-step forward. “Valentina’s not… here, right?”
Ava laughed without turning back. “God, no. She’s probably halfway across the country by now. Besides, she can’t hurt you if you’re with us.”
You weren’t sure if that was comforting or worse. You tried to make sense of what that even meant as she disappeared up a set of spiralling steel stairs toward the upper floor.
The silence that followed made you acutely aware of your surroundings for the first time. This wasn’t just another floor in the tower. This was where they lived.
The room you stood in opened into what looked like a shared lounge and rec space. Through the transparent panels of frosted glass, you could see a massive sunken living room just ahead—an enormous circular couch built into the floor like a pit, all pointed toward a huge flat-screen TV mounted on the wall.
Through the windows, the whole upper side of Manhattan was seen and Central Park stretched out in the distance, green and gold beneath the morning sun.
The marble floors gleamed beneath your shoes. A massive, shaggy rug near the couch looked warm and strangely lived-in. The entire space looked lived-in now that you got a better look at it, cluttered with mismatched mugs, throwing knives, forgotten jackets, guns, socks and someone’s boot kicked off to the side. It was the kind of mess that told you, yes—this was where they really stayed. A home, despite how cold and glossy it looked at first.
“Bet you’ve never been greeted into a home like that,” Joaquín said quietly, almost hopeful.
You turned on him so fast he barely had time to register it before your hand smacked the back of his head, knocking his hat off.
“Joaquín. What the fuck are you thinking?!” you hissed, voice low and sharp, even though you were sure no one was listening. “We shouldn’t be here. We can’t trust these people.”
He rubbed the spot you hit, wincing and bending down to pick up his cap from the floor. “I know. Okay? I know. I’m sorry. I just—I really think we should hear them out.”
“Hear them out?” You blinked at him, disbelief carving out your words like broken glass. “What?”
He stepped closer, voice dropping lower, more urgent. “Listen,” he said, eyes flicking around like he was afraid someone might actually be listening. “I don’t think John Walker would willingly try to talk to us if it didn’t mean something. Think about it—that guy fucking hates us. And Bucky doesn’t mess around. If he’s even entertaining working with Walker, it’s gotta be for a reason.”
You stared at him like he’d just lost his mind.
“Are you hearing yourself right now?” you snapped. “No, seriously, are you hearing the words coming out of your mouth? Did you not understand anything that happened last night? Bucky’s—he’s not doing this—Valentina said—we already know—he’s being blackmailed—” You struggled to find the words because you really weren’t sure if he even was. “This?” you waved your arms around frantically, “this is literally the one thing Matt told us not to do. He told us to stay clear of anything even remotely tied to Valentina and this fucking tower—”
“Okay, okay—”
“—And now we’re here. Willingly. Jesus Christ, Joaquín. We are putting ourselves in a worse situation by the minute. We need to leave. Now.”
Your fingers closed around his arm as you spun toward the elevator, dragging him with you before anyone could return. The urgency prickled along your spine like static.
Joaquín tried to pull free. “Wait—just wait a second—”
But then your phone started ringing. The sharp, sudden sound sliced through the moment. You flinched, instinctively reaching for it.
You didn’t need to check the screen to know. You already knew. Still, when you looked, your chest clenched anyway.
It was Sam.
His contact photo filled the display—an old picture from last summer’s cookout, blurry and sun-drenched. He had an arm around your shoulders, the both of you mid-laugh, framed by folding chairs, paper plates, and the golden glow of fireworks behind you. Bucky had taken the picture, you could see his thumb in the corner. You could also see Joaquín cut off on the side, the photo taken seconds before he tried to bomb it.
“Shit,” you muttered under your breath.
“You gotta answer that,” Joaquín said.
“I’ll answer it later.”
“I think you should answer it now.”
You turned your glare on him so fast that he almost took a step back. “I could kill you.”
He raised both hands in surrender. “I’m just saying.”
You flipped him off as you turned away, stalking into the nearest hallway. You didn’t want to go far, you didn’t trust this place enough for that, but you needed space. Air. Somewhere quieter to breathe.
The hallway stretched narrower than expected, cooler too. The light dimmed as you moved in, shadows creeping in like something alive. The apartment’s polished glamour fell away here, replaced with something colder. Raw concrete walls. Steel framing.
You slowed when you noticed what was displayed along the wall.
Glass cases lined the corridor like a gallery—each one holding weapons. Blades, a shield, and a blackened skull mask with a hollow stare. Scorch marks bloomed along the gear like they’d been found in a fire. The plaque caught your eye:
Antonia Dreykov.
You didn’t know who Antonia Dreykov was. But you knew how people treated the dead when they didn’t know how to let go. This seemed something like it.
Your hand drifted to the case before you could stop yourself. One of the smaller knives had been left slightly off-centre, the glass not fully locked. You slipped it free, weighing it in your palm. The metal was cold but familiar. Comforting in a way that made you hate yourself.
You tucked it into your pocket, then took another. Not because you planned on using them. Just... in case. You couldn’t afford to be the only unarmed person in the apartment.
You kept your back to the wall, thumb hovering over the green Accept Call button on Sam’s contact. You weren’t ready. Not for the sound of his voice. Not for the questions. Not for the disappointment he wouldn’t bother hiding.
Because no matter how reckless Joaquín had been to get you here—you still came.
You bit the bullet and answered, bringing the phone to your ear with a shaky breath. “Hey.”
“Don’t ‘hey’ me.”
His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. Not anger, but the obvious disappointment you expected. Concern, tight and braced behind his words like he was afraid of what you’d say next.
“Sam…”
“Do you wanna talk or should I?” he cut in firmly. “Because I need a very good explanation as to why your face is all over the damn news.”
You exhaled, slow and uneven, pressing the heel of your palm to your forehead.
You knew he wasn’t trying to berate you. Sam wasn’t like that. His voice didn’t carry malice, not even now, when he had every right to be furious. You knew it looked like you’d gone behind his back the same way Bucky had. And while your intentions had been good, that didn’t matter, not when Valentina had twisted it, splashing your name across every headline like you were some kind of defector.
“I’ll talk,” you said quickly. “I’ll talk. Just… let me talk, okay?”
A dozen excuses lined up behind your teeth. Every one of them was flimsy and easy to knock over. But lying to Sam? You couldn’t stomach it. Not after everything. Not after he’d trusted you.
“I fucked up,” you whispered. The admission stung worse than you expected. “I thought… maybe I could talk to Bucky.”
There was silence on the other end. A pause, heavy with surprise. “Talk to Bucky?” Sam echoed, more cautious than confused now.
“Yeah.” You rubbed at your face, suddenly cold despite the weight of your spring jacket. “I got invited to their black tie event. Congressman Gary sent the invite, and I was going to say no—I swear—but then I thought, maybe… maybe Bucky would be there. And if he was, maybe I could corner him. Ask him what the hell he was thinking. Why he left. Why would he join them after what Ross offered you? And he knew. Bucky knew and I just couldn’t understand why he would... leave.”
You leaned back against the cool wall of the hallway, careful to keep your voice steady. Just far enough from Joaquín’s line of sight. Just close enough to watch him, still poking curiously at things he definitely shouldn’t be touching.
“I just…” You shook your head. “Things haven’t felt right, Sam. None of it makes sense. One minute Bucky’s fighting to get Valentina impeached, the next he’s... working under her? The fuck? He shuts you out and I thought maybe... I could find out why. Maybe I could fix it.”
On the other end of the line, you heard him sigh. He murmured your name, and it made your chest ache.
“You were right, by the way. Valentina’s a total snake,” you said quietly, trying to fill the silence because it made you feel more uneasy. “I came in looking for Bucky and walked out with half the press calling me her newest toy.”
“She really played you, huh?”
“Like I’m her bitch on a leash.”
Sam let out a short, dry laugh that made you feel a little better. “Yeah. She does that.”
“We think she did the same thing to Bucky. Joaquín and I, I mean. Got in his head.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Sam murmured. “But listen… I don’t want you carrying my mess, alright? I’ll deal with Bucky. That’s on me.”
“I just wanted to help.”
“I know, kid. I know. And I know your heart was in the right place. But next time… just talk to me first. Please.”
There was no guilt in his voice. Just a quiet exhaustion. A gentleness that somehow made it worse.
You nodded even though he couldn’t see it. “Yeah. Okay.”
A pause stretched across the line. Then, softer: “Are you two okay?”
Your hand tightened around the phone, glancing down the hallway like the sound of his voice might give something away. You caught sight of the display again—the glass case, the weapons, the skull-like helmet and the burnt suit. You didn’t even know who it belonged to. But you’d still taken the knives.
That probably said something about where your head was at. Obviously not good.
You cleared your throat. “Yeah. We’re okay.”
“Good,” Sam said. “When do you think you’ll be back?”
You hesitated. “Tonight, for sure.”
There was another small beat. “Alright. We’ll talk more then. Maybe we can clean up this mess of yours, yeah?”
“Okay.”
“Stay out of any more trouble.”
You broke a smile, frankly a little panicked. “We’ll try.”
The call ended with a soft click, and you stood there for a second longer, your thumb still resting against your phone as if it might ring again.
You did feel better. Not safe, but... better. Like you’d finally caught your breath after running too long on adrenaline and guilt. The tightness in your chest had lessened, the weight of what you’d said to Sam lifting enough for you to think clearly again.
You slid your phone back into your jacket pocket, already piecing together an escape route in your head. Get Joaquín. Get out of this tower. Back to the hotel and then home, away from politicians and new-age Avengers and whatever the hell this place really was.
But when you turned around, someone was already waiting for you.
Yelena Belova stood by the mouth of the hallway you’d come in from, arms at her sides, not moving. Her blonde hair was loose now, falling messily around her face, not the slicked-back style from last night. She wore a worn grey hoodie and loose pants, a silver chain glinting at her collarbone, and faint smudges of yesterday’s eyeliner still clung stubbornly beneath her eyes. Her hands were tucked deep into the kangaroo pocket of her sweater, shoulders propped casually against the wall like she’d been there a while.
“Hey,” she said, nodding once.
You froze, your entire body tensing instinctively. “Uh… hi.”
You didn’t move toward her. The space between you was the only thing keeping your pulse from skyrocketing. It wasn’t fear, not really—not the kind you’d feel around someone like Walker. It was more like wariness. The same kind you’d feel staring down a loaded gun with the safety off.
She straightened slowly like she could sense your unease. Her hands slipped from her pocket, fingers spread slightly, palms open like a silent I’m-not-here-to-fight gesture.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt or anything,” she said carefully, her voice thick with a Russian accent, stepping forward just once. “Sorry.”
You didn’t reply. Didn’t flinch either, though your muscles stayed tight. There was something different about her, something calmer than the confusion of last night. Something that made you hesitate before writing her off completely. She was a lot shorter than you expected now that you had a better look.
She pointed vaguely to herself. “I’m Yelena.”
“I know,” you said.
“Oh.” She gave a slight nod. “I know you too, then.”
“You were spying on us.” The accusation left your mouth before you could stop it, sharp as a blade. She had been, her eyes on you the moment you’d stepped out of that gala, leading Walker and Ava right to your heels. You decided to leave out the part that you and Joaquín had been spying on them too, before the gala.
Yelena winced, visibly. “They told you about that?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry,” she said again, and this time she took another step forward. You didn’t move back. She noticed. “It wasn’t personal. Everything happened so fast…” she trailed off, not bothering to lie.
You remembered the brief, icy introduction last night. The short nod. The way she kept her distance but still watched. You remembered the moment she looked at you like she already knew what mistake you made by just being there.
“And sorry about my dad,” she added, nodding toward the lounge. Confetti still clung to the floor. “I tried to tell him. But he’s, you know… dense.”
You stared at her for a second, “It’s fine.”
Her shoulders dropped slightly, as though your words had released a little pressure she’d been holding in.
“I was hoping we could talk.”
You narrowed your eyes. “About what?”
She hesitated—just for a second. Then: “Valentina.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want your help,” she said, voice low now, the trace of her accent curling around each word. “To take her down.”
If someone had told you two hours ago that you’d willingly be sitting in the residential level of the New Avengers Tower—with John Walker of all people—you probably would’ve laughed, then punched them in the throat for saying something so profoundly stupid.
But here you were.
Your footsteps echoed on polished floors as you followed Yelena into the common space, sunlight spilling in through massive, floor-to-ceiling windows that made the entire room glow. The city stretched far below in every direction. The furniture was modern and the air smelled like lemon polish.
You didn’t sit right away. You stood behind the couch with your arms crossed as Yelena handed Joaquín a small USB stick like it was a grenade. You were halfway through convincing yourself to walk out when he plugged it in. And then… you stayed. Not because you trusted them. Not because they’d earned anything. But because if what they were saying about Valentina was true, if this was the crack in her foundation, you needed to see it for yourself.
So now you were seated stiffly on a sprawling U-shaped couch, the leather cool against your legs. Joaquín sat beside you, his knee brushing yours every now and then as the two of you leaned in toward his laptop screen, silent. He scrolled slowly, eyes narrowing at every pixelated image, every fragmented document. Your jaw ached from clenching it too long.
“Holy shit,” Joaquín muttered under his breath. “How did you get this?”
“Mel left her laptop open and I snooped,” Yelena said casually, shrugging.
There wasn’t much—a few blacked-out files with top-secret headers, jagged audio clips spliced together, blurry footage from surveillance drones and security cams—but it was enough. Enough to start mapping connections between government disappearances and political scandals, between untraceable funding and medical supply routes that didn’t quite add up. The FBI had been speculating De Fontaine’s place in the CIA for years.
“This confirms it,” Joaquín said quietly, glancing back at the others. “Valentina’s the chairwoman behind the O.X.E. Everything Bucky said… about human experimentation, black-site trials, illegal trafficking, missing personnel…”
Yelena stood a few feet away, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her posture was tense and Ava sat on the armrest beside her, fingers curled tightly into her knee, expression locked somewhere between guilt and resolve. Walker hovered by the window, pretending to be disinterested as he squished a stress ball, probably taken from a therapy office.
At least you hoped he was going to therapy. You hoped all of them were, actually. They peculiar group with a lot of... problems. You did not have to be a genius to know that.
The tension between them all was heavy, but not disorderly. Rehearsed, maybe. Like they’d already had this conversation among themselves a hundred times, and now they were looping you in it.
“Great,” Yelena said, straight to the point. “So you’ll give it to Sam Wilson? Say a friend slipped it to you?”
You and Joaquín exchanged a look. Just one. That was all it took. If you handed this over, if you made it official, if Sam went public, it would burn everything down, this false sense of security Valentina had built to the press, this twisted team parading as heroes. This was it. The key. The proof.
And even though part of you wanted to spit in every face in this room and walk away, you also wanted Valentina Allegra de Fontaine to fall. To rot for what she’d done and gotten away with.
“Sure,” you said slowly, “we could.”
“But,” Joaquín added, eyes narrowing, “if we turn this in, you’re all going down with her.”
Walker straightened from where he was loitering, his arms dropping to his sides. “How’s that?”
You glanced at him, your patience thinning. You figured he would understand the most since he was in the Army, a decorated officer at that. But then again, all he ever knew how to do was take orders from someone else, no questions asked.
“Because you didn’t just work under Valentina. You were her operatives. Whether you realized it or not, you were complicit. You consented to all of this. You willingly helped execute illegal missions. You helped bury all traces of O.X.E.. Mind you, an illegal corporatization.”
Walk huffed bitterly, “Thought I was doing the right thing.”
“By stealing? Hiding evidence? Killing people?”
Ava shifted uncomfortably, and Walker’s stress ball nearly popped.
“We were her clean-up crew,” Yelena said finally.
“Right,” you replied, the corner of your mouth lifting bitterly. “Clean-up crew. Wiping traces. Silencing threats. Tying off loose ends. If someone tried to go public with O.X.E., whistleblow, or even just poked their head into the wrong corridor—what then?”
Ava spoke up, quiet and dry. “We were sent in.”
“Exactly,” Joaquín said. “What you’re describing? That’s illegal black ops. Domestic and international interference. Unregistered kill orders. You were running operations that not even the Pentagon would dare put in writing.”
Walker frowned. “Okay, but—”
“You don’t understand,” you cut in, voice tightening. “You show up in these files, in this footage. As long as you're in it, you’re leverage.”
Joaquín leaned back slightly, arms crossed now. “We could have you arrested right now. Everything you just gave us is enough for a military tribunal. Long-term sentences. Treason, obstruction, conspiracy. Pick your flavour.”
Yelena didn’t flinch. “But you won’t.”
You couldn’t help but frown at such confidence. “Is that a threat?”
She let out a snort. “No. You would know if I was making a threat. I’m very clear. You also won’t arrest us.”
“You sure about that?”
She nodded once. “I’m willing to be. Because if you’re sitting here, reading this, it means you care about stopping Valentina... maybe helping new friends along the way. Because that is what you do. You help people, yes?”
You rolled your eyes, you could hardly consider them your friends.
“That’s what we’re trying to tell you, even if we help there isn’t much we can do to keep you out of trouble,” Joaquín said, “You think you’ve been using De Fontaine? This evidence goes both ways—and if she falls, she’s not going alone.”
“She probably knew you'd kill her if you could.” You said, “That’s why she gave you everything. The tower. The team. The illusion of purpose. Something that felt clean and heroic. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Across from you, the shift was subtle but telling.
For the first time since you stepped into the room, these guys looked… uncertain.
Ava glanced down, studying the tile beneath her boots like it might give her a way out. Walker crossed his arms and chewed at the inside of his cheek, jaw working, but saying nothing. Even Yelena, unmoving as a statue, had a muscle twitching along her jawline.
Silence settled in—tense and humming, like the room itself was holding its breath.
Then Walker broke it.
“If that’s the case,” he muttered, tone flat, “you might as well arrest Bucky too. Y’know—for his Winter Soldier days.”
You didn’t like that. Not just the deflection, but the name. It struck a nerve.
You hated that Walker brought Bucky into it now. Hated even more that the drive you’d been digging through for the last hour or so had nothing about him. No trail. Nothing to explain why he’d joined the team. No answer for why he was there the day everything went to hell—why he was helping them when the sky turned black and New York vanished into chaos for twenty agonizing minutes.
No one had explained a thing. No one had tried.
Joaquín’s mouth twitched. “Bucky was pardoned. Publicly.”
“So was I.”
“Yeah,” you said, “For killing a man in a public square three years ago. But we’re not talking about that. We’re talking about everything you’ve done since then. The black ops. The cover-ups. Evidence tampering. Political interference. Murder. Do you think a pardon protects you from three years of new crimes? Of acts of terrorism?”
Yelena scoffed, “Terrorism?”
“Did you or did you not bomb a building in Malaysia?”
“It was just one floor…” she muttered. “and Valentina owned it and the lab. Hardly an act of terror… or what you said.”
“Civilians were hurt.”
She didn’t say anything at that.
No one spoke.
Not because they didn’t have something to say, but because they weren’t sure how to say it anymore.
You could feel it now—how fragile the balance was. The way this whole thing had felt so certain when you walked in. Like the truth would be enough. Like justice could be clear-cut.
But now, it was murky.
You glanced back at the laptop, watching Joaquín continue to open new folders, skimming through them. One of the files showed grainy security footage from the vault they’d mentioned—one of Valentina’s archives. You could make out the three of them, half-lit in the shadows and red emergency lights, walking through sealed crates. Just behind them, in the back of the frame, was someone else. A body dressed in hospital scrubs.
You blinked. “Wait. What’s that?”
Ava followed your gaze, her expression unreadable. “It’s just a test dummy.”
“That looks like a man—”
“We need to focus,” Yelena interrupted, suddenly stepping forward, distracting your view of the screen. “If we waste time worrying about the wrong things, we’ll all lose.”
“You could try for a sympathy pardon,” Joaquín said eventually, eyes back on the drive.
Ava looked up, confused. “Sympathy pardon?”
You nodded. “If you turn yourselves in. Cooperate. Help take Valentina down, publicly and completely. There’s precedent for it. Limited sentencing in exchange for full debriefs. If you start working with the courts instead of hiding behind her money—”
Walker snorted. Loud and dismissive. “Turn ourselves in? For what—saving New York?”
“Congrats,” Joaquín said. “You’re heroes. You and every other vigilante in this city. The only thing that makes you different is that Valentina can market you. And you let her instead of coming clean right away.”
“You might see ten years,” you counted. “Maybe eight. Less with good behaviour. But keep hiding behind her... it’s just gonna get worse.”
Walker paced now, muttering something under his breath.
“Awesome,” he said louder. “Awesome. So this was a waste of time. Thanks a lot, Yelena. Now we’ve gotta worry about these two running off to Wilson with this. Then the press. Then all this?” he waved around the space surrounding you all, “All this is gone!”
Ava raised her voice carefully, almost hesitant, glancing at the short blonde. “What happens to… you know. If we do turn ourselves in? Where will he go?”
Yelena’s expression shifted for the first time.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, quiet now. Her hands drifted to her hips, fingertips twitching like she was resisting the urge to fold in on herself. Her head dipped low, eyes on the floor.
You weren’t sure who they meant. But it was clear from the way everyone avoided eye contact that whoever he was, he wasn’t just another asset.
Joaquín sat up straighter, eyebrows pinching. “What’s Project Sentry?”
Ava flinched. “Lena, I thought you cut that out.”
She moved fast, hand darting toward Joaquín’s laptop. He tried to pull it away, but she was faster—phasing into thin air and reappearing at his side, yanking the drive from the port and slipping it into her pocket like it hadn’t happened at all.
You never even got the chance to see what he was talking about.
You stood up, preparing for a fight. “You can’t pick and choose what gets turned in or not.”
“Are you serious right now?” Alexei’s voice boomed from the hallway as he stormed back in. He had disappeared a few minutes ago under the pretense of “getting snacks for the guests,” and now he returned with arms overflowing—half-crushed bags of potato chips, trail mix, something suspiciously resembling astronaut food.
He dumped the haul onto the coffee table and glared at Yelena.
“Lena, you said you wanted purpose. This—” He gestured around the room like it held meaning. “This is our purpose!”
But Yelena still wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“It’s built on lies, Dad.”
That made Alexei bark out a laugh, one with no humour in it—just tired frustration.
“Everything is. The whole country runs on lies. At least we did something good. We saved people. Because we’re the Avengers!”
The word Avengers didn’t sit right in your mouth anymore. It felt hollow coming from them like they’d tried to slap a fresh coat of paint over a burned-out house.
Joaquín’s tone was dry as he leaned forward again. “I mean, technically, there’s enough on the drive to bury De Fontaine for a long time without bringing you guys into it directly. But if any half-decent detective picks it apart, it’ll all start to unravel. Eventually, it’s going to lead back here.”
You saw the doubt flash behind Ava’s eyes.
“And even if Valentina is arrested,” Joaquín added, “then what? The funding still stands. The CIA owns the New Avengers. Someone else just like her will take her place. Same game, new face.”
You were just about to speak, something sharp about this group’s complete lack of accountability and morality, how their so-called heroism was held together by delusion and money when the elevator chimed.
A soft ding. Too soft to mean anything, and yet it sliced straight through the tension like a blade.
You stiffened on instinct.
Joaquín reacted just as fast, snapping his laptop shut with a harsh click that echoed louder than it should’ve. You didn’t move, couldn’t. Your breath caught in your throat as the rest of the room stilled. Not a sound. Not a single goddamn sound.
A slow, creeping dread tightened in your chest.
“Shit,” Yelena muttered under her breath, almost too quiet to catch.
And then chaos in silence: hands on your shoulders, your back, Ava’s voice in your ear, sharp and focused.
“Move. Now.”
The next second blurred. Joaquín was pulled off the couch beside you, your hands and knees hitting the expensive carpet before you fully processed what was happening. The couch loomed above you. Your back scraped along the base as you were shoved beneath it, knees pressed awkwardly into the floor, spine hunched to fit.
Your breath hitched as the space closed in, dim, and a little dusty, the underside of the furniture creaking against your weight. You could see the stretch of rug in front of you, Walker’s boots retreating as he kicked Joaquín’s bag under the coffee table. He shoved the laptop in after it with even less care.
Above you: Yelena’s fuzzy purple socks. Ava’s boots, planted like guards. Their stance wide. Ready.
The heels came first. A sharp, deliberate cadence—click-click-click—on the marble. The sound bounced through the space with the confidence of someone who had never once questioned their right to be heard.
And then the voice of the very woman you hated most at the moment. Familiar. Arrogant.
“Bob, what do you need a phone for?”
The name alone felt like a gut punch.
Bob?
Fucking Bob?
The shock didn’t register right away. It slid in sideways, a slow prickle along your spine before crashing into you all at once. You hadn’t even considered him—not since the whirlwind of last night, not in the scramble of digging through drives and false leads, not in the silent fear of what might still be buried. Bob Reynolds had slipped your mind entirely the moment Yelena showed you those files.
And now, here he was.
You twisted your head toward Joaquín, who was already looking at you. His jaw clenched tight. Eyes wide. Shoulders wound like a coiled spring. You could see the thought flash behind his stare—both of you thinking the same thing.
Holy shit.
Then you heard it. His voice confirmed that he was there, too. Low, quiet. Soft in that uncanny, almost youthful way. Still his.
“…to talk to people.” he said.
Your stomach sank. For a beat, you could only stare at the ground, your mind racing. An image flitters through your mind’s eye. A dark balcony. Warm fire light. Big suit. Dark, tussled hair. That nice smile of his.
Above you, the sharp click of stilettos came to a sudden halt at his words.
Through the sliver of space beneath the couch, you spotted the edge of Valentina’s pencil skirt. Sleek black, tailored to a blade-sharp silhouette. Her shoes were thin and spiked, gleaming slightly under the overhead lights. Beside her, a pair of soft bunny slippers, nearly swallowed by the cuffs of soft-looking, faded baby blue pyjama pants.
That was him.
Bob.
And someone else. A third pair of feet, neatly poised in polished flats. Pressed trousers. You couldn’t tell who, only that they stood slightly apart.
Valentina’s voice again, laced with sweet condescension. “To talk to people?”
Bob seemed to hesitate now, his voice smaller. “I just thought—”
“What’s all this?” she cut him off before he could finish. “Did someone give Alexei another confetti cannon? Seriously? You know the cleaners are going to start charging us combat pay. Just look at this place.”
A beat of silence.
Then the soft shuffling of someone stepping around the coffee table. You held your breath, instinctively pressing yourself flatter to the floor. Your shoulder brushed against Joaquín’s chest. You felt him suck in a quiet, sharp breath. You wondered what would happen if you were caught.
Above you, the room shifted.
Yelena’s voice came first, Russian-rough and stripped of patience. “What are you doing here?”
There was a pause. Just long enough to feel it.
“I’m sorry?”
“We thought you were en route to California,” Ava chimed in. Her tone was light, but the edges were too clean. She was trying too hard. That alone made your stomach twist.
“Oh. Right. California. Mel—?”
“The jet will be ready in one hour,” a smooth, polished voice cut in. Feminine. A little anxious. Definitely not one of theirs. It must be the third person.
You turned your head slightly toward Joaquín, careful not to make a sound. He didn’t move—only lifted his brows, then mouthed: the assistant.
Of course. Mel.
You nodded once, your heart hammering.
“See?” Valentina said breezily. “We’ve got time. So tell me… what’s this mess about?”
A clumsy chorus followed:
“Oh, it’s nothing.”
“Just messing around.”
“Nothing?” Valentina echoed, with just enough doubt in her voice to rattle the moment.
And then, soft again, Bob.
“Val…?”
“Yes, Bob, honey. What is it?”
“The phone.”
“You want a phone?”
“…yes, please.”
“Okay. Fine. Mel, get him a phone. We have plenty.”
“What kind?” Mel asked.
Valentina exhaled. You could practically feel the irritation coming off the woman in waves, even though you couldn’t see her. “What kind—? Any kind. I don’t care.” There was a pause, and then her voice dipped again into that overly sweet register that set your teeth on edge. “Bob, what colour do you want?”
“Oh. Any colour’s fine. Thanks, Mel.”
“Sure thing, Bob.”
You heard Mel’s shoes retreating. Then the doors dinged again, distant, followed by the mechanical swoosh of the elevator sliding shut.
“So…” Valentina said, dragging the word. “Who’s the banner for?”
Alexei jumped in too fast. “Banner? What banner?”
“The big one. By the elevator.”
More shuffling. A murmur of uncomfortable voices scrambling for footing.
“Oh, that banner,” Yelena said.
“The one by the elevator, yes,” Alexei added, awkwardly.
“Missed it earlier,” Walker threw in, humming with forced casualness.
Your breath caught. They were bad liars. Terrible liars that were going to have you and Joaquín caught. You felt your body instinctively press closer to his, every part of you suddenly aware of how fragile this moment was. If one of them slipped up... shit.
“What’s the deal with that?” Valentina pressed.
Silence.
You could feel the group faltering. And for a moment, you were sure someone would fold.
Then Yelena’s voice again. “We thought… with the headlines today...”
“There might be a new addition,” Ava said, cutting in with a cleaner tone.
“A new team member,” Walker followed, steady, trying to cover the tracks.
Valentina laughed. A quiet little thing, amused and bitter all at once. “Oh, well isn’t that sweet.”
A pause.
Then Yelena pushed: “What’s… what’s the deal with that?”
“Nothing’s confirmed yet. It’s still in the air,” Valentina said. The click of her nails against a screen followed. You imagined her scrolling through messages, “She’s a tough cookie, isn’t she, Walker?”
His answer was dry. “Right.”
“I just thought this team could use someone a little less…” She trailed off, teeth behind her voice.
“Less what?” Ava asked, carefully.
“…like you guys.”
“Like us?” Walker repeated.
“Melodramatic,” Valentina said, and you could hear the malice in her voice. “No offence.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ava asked.
The sound of Valentina shifting again, heels clicking softly against the marble, the dull swish of her skirt brushing behind her. “Well, it’s not a secret that all of you have done some pretty messed up shit. People don’t trust you. And trust is branding. It’s everything. If we bring in someone tied to Wilson—one of Captain America’s right hands—suddenly, we’re legit. We’re palatable.”
You’d already suspected that was her idea, that selling you out had been nothing more than strategy. Calculated. Self-serving. You hadn’t believed a single word of the bullshit she fed you last night, not the part about being “special,” or the vague promises of a bigger purpose. It had all been smoke.
Still, something about hearing it confirmed, hearing her say it so plainly, like she was already pulling your strings, lit a fire low in your chest.
You weren’t her puppet.
You weren’t anyone’s.
And the fact that she thought you were that easy to bend, that she saw you as just another tool to wield when convenient, made your skin crawl.
“And how do you plan on pulling that off?” Yelena asked, her voice a notch sharper now. Less curious, more hostile. Defensive.
“Aren’t you full of questions today?” Valentina didn’t even try to mask the irritation in her tone. “That’s for me to worry about, hun. Not you. Why don’t you all relax? Enjoy yourselves. Kick your feet up. Make the most of it until the next villain of the week shows up.”
Her words lingered like a smirk in the air, condescending, smug, and venomous.
It was only then you realized how cold the floor had become beneath you. The chill was creeping into your skin, seeping through your clothes, biting at your joints. Your hands had curled into fists without meaning to, nails digging into your palms, the tension wound so tight in your chest it hurt to breathe. Beside you, Joaquín was breathing fast and shallow, barely audible, but enough that you could feel it.
You released your fist and your fingers started to move on instinct, brushing against the knife you’d taken from the display case earlier. You hadn’t even realized you’d been reaching for it. The cool metal kissed your fingertips, grounding you. You closed your hand around the hilt, the weight of it settling in your palm like muscle memory.
Across the room, Valentina’s heels clicked softly on the marble as she began to walk away, casual, unhurried. “Where are you guys keeping the liquor now?” she asked airily. “I can’t fly sober, and there hasn’t been a restock in the kitchen since last night…”
Her voice trailed off as she disappeared around the corner.
Then you heard the soft shuffle of slippers on tile, a nervous fidget. “W-wait. Who’s joining our team?”
Walker answered, bone-dry. “That girlfriend of yours from last night. You know, the one you scared off?”
There was a pause.
“Oh. No. It’s not—” Bob stammered, his voice flustered, uncertain. “We’re not… You think I scared her off?”
You hated that something about the way he asked that fluttered against your ribs, like a moth against a windowpane. Ridiculous, considering the circumstances. You bit down on the feeling.
He didn’t get an answer before Valentina returned, heels striking the floor like punctuation. “Found it,” she announced. You heard the clink of glass. “Alright, Mel and I will be gone for a few days. Don’t do anything stupid. And Bob, your phone will be downstairs.”
And just like that, she was heading back toward the elevator. You watched her feet vanish from view. Then the soft ding of the lift. The whisper of the doors sliding shut. Gone.
You exhaled for the first time in minutes. The pressure in your chest finally let go, but you still didn’t release the knife. Even when Joaquín began shifting beside you, his legs uncoiling. Yelena’s voice came from above, low but audible: “It’s clear.”
Joaquín started crawling out from under the couch, but you reached for his sleeve, grabbing him without thinking. Just for a second. He glanced back at you.
Then you nodded. He moved. You followed.
Your hand stayed in your pocket, curled tight around the blade.
“Were—were you there this whole time?” Bob asked, his voice cracking on the question. He stepped closer to the centre of the room, joining the others.
You finally looked at him.
Gone was the suit. Instead: a grey sweatshirt, soft and clean, and thrown over a pair of baby-blue pyjama pants. And on his feet, bunny slippers. Actual bunny slippers. You had thought maybe you made it up in your head. But no. You blinked. Then you looked back up at his face.
“Hey,” you said.
“Hi,” That same, dopey grin split his face and you almost felt your own lips move to return it. But you stopped yourself and pushed the feeling back down, “What are you doing here?” He had that same bemusement from yesterday as if he was just happy to be here. Wherever here is.
“We were just leaving,” you said, crouching to grab Joaquín’s bag and laptop from under the coffee table. You shoved them at him.
This time, he didn’t argue.
Maybe the brush with Valentina had knocked the fight out of him, or maybe he finally saw the writing on the wall. Either way, Joaquín was already jamming the laptop into the bag and pulling the strap over his shoulder.
“Leaving?” Yelena echoed, surprised.
“But I just woke up.” Bob frowned.
You didn’t answer.
You had heard enough.
Valentina was still a manipulative bitch, and now you had proof sitting on an old drive tucked into Ava Starr’s pocket. But this team? These people? They weren’t exactly running to stop her. Didn’t seem nearly as willing to hand over that evidence now that they knew it’d be trading their own freedom and newfound fame and luxury. You also knew they weren’t being entirely honest with most of it, so what was the point?
And Bucky?
He could eat shit for all you cared.
“You said you’d help us,” Yelena said, voice quieter now, tight, trembling at the edges like a thread pulled too taut.
“No,” you shot back, sharper than intended. “We said we’d listen.”
Joaquín stepped up beside you, his voice steadier. “Unless you hand over that drive, there’s nothing we can do for you.”
Ava’s stance hardened. Her hand flexed at her side. “You can leave,” she said. “But the drive stays here.”
That made Walker flinch. “Wait—what?” he barked, stepping forward. “You’re just gonna let them walk? After what they know? They’ll have us on The Raft by tomorrow.”
Alexei groaned, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I can’t go back to prison.”
“Prison? Wait—what are we talking about?” Bob interjected, blinking between everyone.
“God forbid you ever take responsibility for anything, Walker,” you said coolly, your eyes on the blonde man. “That there are consqueneces for your actions.”
His jaw twitched. You could see the pressure building in him like steam behind glass, his shoulders shaking. “Don’t get smart with me. You think I don’t know about consequences?”
Your fingers curled tighter around the handle of the knife in your coat. Cold steel kissed your palm, grounding you. You didn’t flinch as Walker loomed over you, not even when the heat of his breath hit your face.
“I’m sure you were starting to get it once your wife left,” you murmured bitterly.
Walker squared his shoulders like he was about to make good on the threat behind his scowl, or maybe hit you hard enough to knock your teeth out.
“Woah, woah—no fights here!” Yelena suddenly launched herself over the couch, landing between you with a firm thud. Her socks scuffed slightly on the rug as she extended both arms, placing one hand on your chest,.
It was oddly gentle—so soft you almost forgot that those same hands had likely killed thousands. Her palm rested right over your heart. You wondered if she could feel how fast it was beating.
“No fights,” she said again, a note of pleading curling into her voice. “We can’t get blood on the carpet. It’s new.”
Her words were light, but her eyes weren’t. They were serious—tired, even. Like someone who’d already bled for too many causes and was still waiting to find one worth it.
“I don’t want this,” she said firmly, now addressing the whole room. “None of us do. We’re on the same side. We’re just… on different pages.”
“That’s generous,” Ava muttered.
“No. It’s the truth,” Yelena shot back. “Valentina wins when we fight. That’s how she does it—she divides, she confuses, she corrupts.”
You met her gaze. And there it was: the flicker of desperation she was too proud to hide. Not fear, just a weariness, like she was sick of surviving in a world built on grey lines and crossed wires.
“…She’s right,” Joaquín said reluctantly. There was a tightness to his jaw as if it pained him to agree with any of this.
A heavy pause settled. Dust hung in the sunlight pouring through the tall windows, undisturbed.
Then Yelena turned back to you, her voice softer this time, almost hollow. “Is there really no other way to stop her?”
You hesitated, your mouth opening before the words were fully formed. You wanted to have an answer, something solid, something certain. But all you could offer was the truth.
“I don’t know,” you said quietly.
Because you didn’t. You weren’t a strategist. You didn’t sit in war rooms or comb through legal loopholes. Your background was in the Navy—flying jets, executing orders, staying alive. Similar to the work of every other person in this room. The closest you’d ever come to investigative work was chasing the Flag Smashers, or trying to clear Isaiah’s name when the system nearly buried him for something he didn’t do.
Your grip on the knife loosened. You hadn’t realized how hard you’d been holding it until your fingers started to throb, blood returning like a warning. You let it fall back into your jacket pocket.
“We’re not lawyers,” you added.
Walker took a step back—not far, but enough. Just enough to mark the shift. His breathing was loud in the quiet, uneven. His fists were still balled tight at his sides, like tension waiting for an excuse to spark again.
But he didn’t come closer. You almost felt bad for bringing up his wife.
Yelena nodded slowly, “Do you think Sam Wilson could help?”
That question hung in the room. It was different from the others. More personal.
You caught it in her voice first, a crack in her composure. Distress, raw and unpolished. Her eyes searched yours, not for strategy, but for hope. She was asking you to believe in something, even if she couldn’t anymore.
And the others were watching too—Ava, still guarded but listening; Alexei, wringing his hands; even Bob, with wide, unknowing eyes.
You looked at Joaquín. He met your gaze and nodded once.
“He could,” he said.
“But will he?” Yelena pressed. She needed an answer that sounded like a promise.
You hesitated, shoulders sinking under the weight of everything unsaid. The silence stretched, heavy with reluctant hope, weak trust and a dozen unspoken things. Then finally, with a sigh that felt like it pulled from the base of your spine:
“…Yeah,” you murmured. “He’s pretty understanding.”
Yelena nodded once, slowly, like that alone was enough to make something shift. Then she extended her arm behind her, her fingers flicking in silent command.
“Ava.”
“What?” came the flat reply, bristling with suspicion.
“Give them the drive,” Yelena said, jerking her chin toward you and Joaquín.
Ava blinked, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”
“Give it.” Yelena didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. The words landed sharp and sure, heavy with a quiet authority. Whether it was her posture, the chill in her accent, or the way she stared Ava down without blinking, it worked.
Ava rolled her eyes hard enough that you were sure she saw her own brain. But still, she stomped over, pulling the small drive from her pocket and shoving it into Joaquín’s hand.
He took it wordlessly, slipping it into his jacket without fanfare.
Yelena turned back to you. “I trust you’ll do what’s right.” Her voice softened, “I just… I want to do good. Be good. Like my sister.”
You blinked. The honesty in her tone caught you off guard. You stared at her for a beat, the brows on your face knitting together. There hadn’t been a moment yet where you felt like you couldn’t trust Yelena—if anything, she was the only one in this dysfunctional little collective who seemed a little more grounded in reality than the others. Steady in her beliefs.
You nodded slowly. Not just to acknowledge her, but because you understood. You wanted to be good too. Like Sam.
“Sure,” you said.
“Unbelievable,” Walker muttered. He threw his hands up and stormed toward the spiral staircase, his boots thudding too loudly for the steps.
You met Yelena’s eyes one last time. She raised her brows at you funnily, a silent ignore him written across her face. That earned the smallest smile from you, which she returned, not quite warmly, but not unkindly either.
“Bye, guys,” Joaquín called, already moving past you toward the elevator with an urge to get the fuck out of this place.
“Bye,” Ava called back with a lazy wave.
Alexei flopped onto the couch like a man ready for retirement. “We will see you later, new friends,” he announced, already unlocking an iPad and flicking through apps with surprising focus. Only then did you notice the ridiculous shirt stretched across his chest—his own face beaming up at you.
Of course he owned a shirt like that.
Yelena gave you one final nod as if to say I’ll handle things here. You held her gaze a moment longer before turning toward the elevator.
And there was Bob.
Still standing there quietly by the steps of the sunken living room like he didn’t quite know where to go next. His hands hung awkwardly at his sides, and when your eyes met, he gave you a shy little wave.
You raised your hand and waved back.
What a strange turn of events, you thought, stepping into the elevator beside Joaquín.
It felt like your world had been flipped upside down, spun sideways, and then set back upright—all before noon. Great. So much for Walker flying you back to D.C. Not that you were exactly heartbroken about it. At least you were finally getting out, and better yet, leaving with more than you'd hoped for. Thanks to Yelena.
Joaquín pressed the button to the lobby, his movements brisk but silent, like he was still trying to catch up to the emotional weight of the last hour or so.
You both stood in silence as the doors began to slide shut.
And then suddenly they didn’t.
Another body slipped through the narrowing space.
“Jesus!” Joaquín hissed, jerking half a step to the side. “What the hell—?”
“Sorry!” came the quick, sheepish yelp.
It was Bob.
His eyes were wide, hands lifted like he’d just stumbled into a hostage situation instead of an elevator. “Val said my phone’s downstairs…” he offered lamely, voice trailing as he glanced between the two of you. “Hey.”
“Hey, man, ”Joaquín huffed out a breathless sigh, “Scared the shit out of us.”
That made Bob crack a grin. He gestured toward himself like he was still catching up to the social rhythm. “I’m Bob.”
“Joaquín,” came the reply, quick and warm.
You couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. The three of you must’ve looked like the beginning of a joke: two randos and a guy in bunny slippers walk into an elevator. Bob’s pyjamas looked like they hadn’t seen the outside of a laundry basket in days, wrinkled in all places, but you thought the slippers were undeniably cute.
“Yeah, you’re the Falcon, right?” Bob asked, turning to Joaquín with a genuine light in his eyes.
Joaquín puffed up slightly, the pride flickering across his face before he nodded. “Yeah, I am.”
You rolled your eyes, but the fondness came easy.
“That’s cool,” Bob said, his grin stretching even wider—until it didn’t. Until it faltered just enough for you to catch the flicker of something behind it. He glanced at you again, eyes darting nervously before he dropped his gaze to the floor. “So um… I guess you know about me now.”
The elevator hummed beneath your feet, descending gradually.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he continued, voice quieter. “I wasn’t sure if… I was allowed. Or if I should. Are you… afraid of me now?”
Your heart thudded once, harder than expected.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Joaquín shift slightly, his body tense, watching, waiting to see what you’d say.
You drew in a breath, trying to steady yourself before you looked at Bob again. His posture had crumpled slightly under his own words. Shoulders curled in. Smile gone.
“Why would I be afraid of you, Bob?”
His gaze lifted, hopeful, but guarded.
“Because of what I did.”
That brought you up short.
You’d thought you’d had enough surprises for one day. Apparently not. Apparently Bob Reynolds had more where that came from, like some twisted magic trick where he kept pulling the rug out from under you, over and over again.
The elevator hummed. The floor numbers kept ticking down, steady and oblivious.
You swallowed. Almost afraid to ask.
“…What’d you do?”
He winced, rolling his shoulder like it physically pained him to answer. “That thing… in New York.”
You blinked, trying to process. When you didn’t respond, he looked at you, hesitant. “You read my file, right?”
“We didn’t… get that far,” you muttered.
But your brain was already scrambling to fill in the blanks. Every major incident in New York flashed behind your eyes—there were too many to count. Alien invasions. Robot uprisings. Sorcerer nonsense. But then you narrowed in. The one that had involved the New Avengers. The one the news had dubbed The Darkest Day. The terrifying grainy footage you’d seen during the hearings. The impossible collapse of light, sound, and structure. The city submerged in absolute darkness.
You stared at him.
“I’m sorry,” Joaquín said slowly, “You’re telling me you’re the one who turned New York into a black hole? You?”
Bob scratched the back of his neck, visibly squirming under the weight of it. Another awkward move, nervous, even. “…I didn’t mean to. I swear.”
And that was the kicker. That was when the full weight of who he was finally settled on your chest.
Bob. The Bob who tripped over your dress last night. The Bob who sat by a fireplace and made you smile until your face hurt. The Bob with an Instagram account full of second-hand paperbacks and soft, orange-pink Florida sunsets. That Bob—was the same man who apparently swallowed half of Manhattan into a void.
And now he was standing in the elevator, right between you and Joaquín, in bunny slippers.
It took all your effort not to show how much that messed you up. It set your heart racing, made it pound a tattoo against the underside of your ribs hard enough that you can feel it all the way up in your throat like it was trying to get your attention: this isn’t normal. This isn’t safe.
But then Bob gave you the exact same, uneasy, shy smile as before. Only this time, it’s much harder to meet it with one of your own. You forced a tiny twitch of your mouth upward, barely there, because Joaquín was right beside him too, and you were almost certain he was freaking out enough for the both of you.
You’d seen the footage. You’d read the transcripts. Sat in on court hearings. Heard survivors speak. The sheer level of devastation. The fear. The unanswerable questions.
And that was him. This man in the elevator. The man who smiled at you like he still hoped you didn’t hate him.
The elevator dinged, and the doors parted to reveal the glossy, open expanse of the lobby. Joaquín stepped out first, more hurried than usual. You followed on autopilot, your head still spinning.
The three of you drifted toward the grand lounge area, hovering near the secretary’s desk, not quite ready to separate. Like no one knew what to say next.
“So,” You begin awkwardly, “Bob. That’s... that’s pretty... uh, how’d that happen?”
He winced again, more out of embarrassment than pain. “Um. I don’t really know. My memory’s been foggy since I went through the experimental program,” he admitted slowly. “It… it comes back in pieces sometimes.”
Your brows rose. “Experimental program?”
“Project Sentry,” Joaquín muttered, eyes narrowing as if the puzzle was finally clicking together in his head.
You blinked. You’d known of De Fontaine’s side projects. Rumours of off-the-books enhancements and reconditioning efforts. Human experimentation. Yelena’s files had confirmed them, but you never knew the name of it. You never knew it was called Project Sentry.
You looked at Bob again. Jesus. Bob was one of Valentina’s experiments. That realization settled cold and sharp in your gut.
“Yeah, that one.” Bob nodded sheepishly. “But I don’t remember all of it. I get flashes. I remember getting injected with stuff... being blonde… getting killed.”
You stared, concerned, “You… remember dying?”
He blinked hard like he was trying to shake the static off his brain, or maybe trying to forget it. Then he looked at you—really looked—and something softened again in his expression.
The corners of his mouth twitched up and a blush grew on his cheeks.
“…Don’t worry, though,” he added, voice softer now, more tentative. “I remember you. Don’t think I’ll be able to forget you, actually.”
This time, you did manage a smile.
God. That line shouldn’t have hit the way it did, but it did. Somehow, it fractured the version of him you were just starting to piece together again. Mysterious World Ending Shadow Guy and Sweet Bob From Party were the same fucking person. And you weren’t sure if that was comforting or horrifying because you were growing flustered at his comment.
From the side, Joaquín snorted. “Smooth.”
You caught the way Bob’s blush deepened, the colour rising visibly along his cheekbones. He ducked his head, clearly flustered.
You shook yours gently. “Don’t listen to him.”
“…Okay,” he said earnestly. Then, after a beat: “So… you never got to the part about the experiments?”
You inhaled, slow and careful, trying to find the right words, trying not to sound like someone who’d had the wind knocked out of them several times over in the span of an hour.
“I don’t think your friends wanted us to know,” you admitted.
“Oh.”
Just that. One word. But it carried something heavy, something almost brittle underneath. A quiet, hollow kind of disappointment.
It stopped you cold.
Part of it was guilt. Upsetting Bob felt like kicking a puppy that didn’t even know what it had done wrong. But the other part, the more rational, still-on-edge part of your brain, reminded you of who you were talking to. Of what he’d done. And maybe it wasn’t a great idea to make someone who once tore a city in half feel unwanted.
“Bob?”
The sudden voice snapped you out of your thoughts. You flinched. Joaquín immediately straightened beside you—his hand half-rising on instinct. Both of you spun, the tension surging through your limbs once more.
A woman dressed in black was already walking toward you, shoes clicking lightly across the lobby floor. She faltered slightly when she took in the three of you together, but her smile held firm. Calm. Polite. Her hands extended a small box toward Bob.
“Um, here’s your new phone,” she said.
You recognized the voice. Mel. Valentina’s assistant. Which meant someone—likely everyone—was about to find out that you and Joaquín were here.
You returned her smile with one of your own, both of you sharing the kind of strained politeness that only came from being on opposite sides of a very expensive, very fragile chessboard.
“Thanks,” Bob said, taking the box carefully. Mel nodded once and turned, gliding away as quickly as she’d arrived.
Bob looked at the box like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Then his gaze drifted to Joaquín—just a glance—but when his eyes found yours again, he was flushed and fidgeting, all over again.
“Phone,” he chuckled nervously, rubbing this thumb over the side of the box, “yeah, um… I asked for a phone because I—Walker said I should just ask you—uh,” he huffed, blinking hard as if to gather his thoughts. “I know you’re leaving and all, but… it was really nice to see you.”
He gave a kind of half-shrug like he wasn’t sure what he meant by that until it was already out.
“I honestly thought I wouldn’t—see you again, I mean,” he went on. “I thought I’d messed it up. Back when I brought up… uh. Bucky.”
Yeah. That moment had soured everything fast. You hadn’t thought you’d see Bob again either, not after that mess. For a while, you’d convinced yourself you didn’t want to. But you also knew that no matter how many hours the drive back to Washington took, you’d probably spend all of them scrolling through his old Instagram posts—those quiet book reviews, those blurry sunset photos, that one stupid post about jelly beans you think he posted when he was high.
You didn’t crush on people easily. Even less so on people tied to your work. But with Bob, it had happened fast, softly, then all at once.
His honesty caught you off guard again, and you felt a flush rise to your own cheeks. Joaquín’s head turned toward you, a little too quickly, a little too hopeful, and you could practically hear the gears in his nosy little brain turning. That bastard.
You ignored him.
“Yeah,” you said quietly, eyes on Bob. “It was nice to see you too.”
And God, wasn’t that the understatement of the year?
“Can I—um…” he shifted on his feet, thumb brushing over the edge of the box in his hands. “Do you think I could have your number? For when I finish setting up my phone. In case you… still want to talk.” His voice softened, almost hopeful. “I really did like talking to you yesterday. You can say no, that’s alright.”
You weren’t going to say no. And honestly? You doubted Joaquín would let you. He’d been silently rooting for this since he stepped on your dress—he was a hopeless romantic under all that tactical gear.
Still, that didn’t stop the soft, fluttery weight building in your chest. Like your stomach had filled with butterflies in mid-takeoff. It made you feel… like a teenager. God, when was the last time something had made you feel like that?
“Sure, Bob.”
You must’ve caught him off guard. His eyes widened a little. “Really?”
“Yeah.” You smiled. “Do you have a pen?”
His whole face lit up in panic. “Uh—no. Wait, hold on—” He spun, glancing around frantically.
Joaquín, bless him, was already halfway to the secretary’s desk, digging through an Avengers-themed mug filled with pens. He came back triumphantly, tossing one to Bob, who fumbled it slightly before returning to you, grinning like an idiot.
“Here,” he said, holding it out.
You reached for it. Your fingers brushed his—warm, solid, and really soft—and the moment was small, fleeting, but it sent a pulse through your wrist all the same.
“Where can I write—?”
Bob didn’t hesitate. He rolled up the sleeve of his sweater, tugging it past his elbow in one smooth motion before offering his bare arm to you.
You stared.
Not because you were trying to be weird. But holy shit.
He was built like a statue someone forgot to put on a pedestal. Long forearms, defined muscle, a vein trailing up the centre of his arm like it’d been drawn there on purpose. His skin was golden and warm and very, very nice to look at.
“My arm’s fine,” he offered casually, but his voice cracked just enough to betray him.
You blinked, pulling your gaze back up to his face. He looked away, sheepish. Maybe he caught you staring. Okay, he definitely caught you staring. But then again, he was also sneaking glances of his own. His eyes lingered on your mouth for a second too long. A tiny flick down your neck, then away.
He had more shame about it than you did.
“Alright,” you said, trying not to grin like a fool. “Don’t move.”
You stepped in, gently taking his wrist in one hand and steadying the pen with the other. The contact sent another flutter up your arm, but you focused, carefully writing your number across the warm stretch of skin.
One, two, three digits at a time.
By the time you finished, you felt a little breathless.
You let go, reluctantly, and stepped back.
Bob was red. Visibly, unapologetically flushed from his cheeks down to the base of his neck. Still, he gave a quick, grateful nod and tugged the sleeve back down, much to your disappointment.
He took the pen from you, fingers brushing again, and gave you a soft, “Thanks.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll, uh… I’ll text you. Once I figure this out.” He lifted the phone box with an amused smile. You realized you could have written your number on the box instead, but you refused to say anything about it. His voice was still quiet, but it held a kind of warmth you hadn’t expected to hear again so soon.
“I’ll be waiting,” you said.
He laughed under his breath. Then, almost like he didn’t trust himself to say anything else, he gave a short nod and turned away. You watched him cross the floor toward the elevators.
Halfway there, he paused. Turned slightly. You thought he was going to say something, another goodbye, maybe a joke, something. But he just gave you a little wave. Kind. A little bashful.
You waved back, lips still curved in a smile.
“And they say romance is dead,” Joaquín snorted into your ear, slinging an arm dramatically around your shoulders as soon as the elevator doors shut.
You groaned, but it came out more like a laugh. “Oh my God, shut up.”
He leaned all his weight onto you like an overgrown, smug barnacle. “You were totally about to kiss him. Don’t lie. I saw the look on your face. So did he. I’m kinda disappointed, actually. Was fully expecting a public display of—you know, soul-consuming makeout rage.”
“Shut. Up.”
“You’re smiling,” he said in a sing-song voice. “You like him.”
“I will kill you.”
“You like him.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it actually hurt. But your cheeks were warm, and the flutter in your chest hadn’t totally calmed down. You weren’t even that mad. Not like you had been this morning when your entire life felt like it was fracturing under the weight of secrets, lies, and political backstabbing.
Now? You were still exhausted. Still confused. But something about Bob—awkward, charming, possibly world-ending Bob—had given you a moment of quiet in the middle of all of it.
“I bet you’re glad we stayed longer.”
“I lost a few years of my life from stress,” you muttered. “But yeah. Sure. I’m glad.”
Joaquín finally stopped leaning on you, but he kept his arm there, resting it across your shoulders like a shield. You fell into step with him, the two of you weaving through the flow of people on the sidewalk, the city alive around you in a way that felt almost… normal again.
Then, softer, “So what now?”
You glanced sideways. His joking edge had slipped off somewhere between steps, and now you could see the fatigue settling over his face. He looked as drained as you felt—eyes tired, jaw clenched slightly like he was holding something unspoken just behind his teeth.
You didn’t blame him. You were both running on fumes.
“We get the fuck out of here,” you said simply.
He let out a hum of agreement, nodding once as if the idea itself was a balm. But then he hesitated, giving you a sidelong glance.
“We’re not telling Sam about any of this, right?” he asked. “Like, the whole… following Walker into the tower part.”
“God, no,” you said immediately. “We’ll tell him I found the drive last night.”
“Perfect.” He grinned, satisfied. “He doesn’t need to know you almost got swept off your feet by a guy in a chicken costume.”
“Joaquín.”
He laughed and pulled you a little closer, and the two of you kept walking, two specks swallowed by the sprawl of Manhattan at noon, leaving behind the kind of chaos you weren’t sure you could ever fully explain. But for now, you had your answer, and you’d get the hell out of here.
Summary: Lifeless eyes were what haunted your all life, manu people say that death was lurking around your eyes, Maybe it's true. Maybe you just see things that other people don't.
Pairing: Azriel x Archeron! reader fem.
A/n: I... Well, hello. So, Merry Christmas? I didn't fix this properly...
*English is NOT my native language, this fanfic was translated with a little help. So, let me know if there are any grammatical errors*
Word count: 3k
Warnings: None that I can remember, some humor, tension , Azriel being a dumb mother hen
previous x next
Cassian, Azriel, and Rhysand had already left when you came downstairs for breakfast. Nesta grumbled that they hadn't even eaten before spreading their wings to the sky, making everything around them flutter – including the newly planted rose saplings of Elain, to her great displeasure.
Feyre often returned home in hopes that the queens had already responded. The delay was noticeable given how long ago the letter had been sent, and it was a shot in the dark trying to guess what might have happened, though you doubted the letter had gotten lost in transit, and, mind you, you weren't foolish enough to think it was their indecision.
They were making the High Lord wait for pure amusement, and maybe a little bit of sadism. The human queens were in control of the situation, and that made everything even more delicious. A power struggle where, for the first time, the weaker ones were in charge. It must have been painful to even consider discarding this succulent opportunity that had been handed to them on a golden platter—one in a million, truly.
Bringing the steaming cup of tea to your lips, you sipped cautiously to avoid burning yourself; there was no pain worse than burning your tongue – well, maybe stubbing your toe, you mused with a hum. A gust of wind passed through your hair, signaling that someone was passing by in a hurry.
“Don’t run around the house, Elain,” Nesta grumbled from her spot at the table, clearly not a morning person. Your second eldest sister slipped on the floor and turned back to stop by your side, placing one of her delicate hands on your shoulder to alert you of her presence.
Taking a deep breath, Elain spoke breathlessly, “A new batch of letters is arriving today!”
Now, this was interesting. You placed your hand on hers, squeezing her hand on your shoulder, turning your head slightly to show your interest in the topic. Not because of the letters, obviously.
“Why don’t you come with me, sister? We can stop by that little craft shop too,” Elain suggested. She certainly knew how to brighten your day, and even though you were avoiding crowds, especially those zealots who called themselves the enlightened ones – and that made your skin crawl – it was hard to resist the opportunity to get out of the house. God knows this place could be suffocating.
Nesta was irritated with anyone who breathed in her direction, Elain would shudder at the mere mention of meetings and queens, and you missed Merina and her pies. No matter how hard you tried, it was difficult to connect with your sisters as well as with Feyre, who no longer lived a human life filled with nuances like yours.
Taking a deep breath, you pushed yourself off the chair and blindly grabbed your beautiful cane, intending to head for the door alone, but Elain was quicker and grabbed your wrist, guiding you somewhat hurriedly toward the exit without saying goodbye to a very grumpy Nesta.
The morning wind hit your face as you crossed the threshold, and the birds’ song pierced your ears like a sweet melody. However, as beautiful as it was, your brow furrowed at the hurry in your sister's movements. Surely, the letters couldn’t be that interesting, not to Elain, at least. She could barely stand still when the topic was on the table. Ah, the gossip you'd have today, sweet sister.
“Is there anything else you want from the city besides the letters?” Your tone was dismissive, but even the dullest of men would see the curiosity behind the question.
Elain tripped over something on the ground and almost pulled you down with her, making you question who the blind sister really was here.
She cleared her throat and finally slowed her pace. The hesitation was palpable, and the arm linked to yours grew tense as she nervously began fiddling with the sleeve of her dress.
“I... I was thinking about looking at some prettier engagement rings, maybe gold...” It came out like a croak, and that left you a little more confused. There was no doubt that Elain had good taste and could spot something beautiful from afar, so it was strange that she wanted to see new rings when she loved hers so much.
“I thought you were crazy about that one,” the sounds of people talking grew louder, and your nose wrinkled from the variety of smells; sweets, savory foods, pig dung, and, beneath it all, the fresh scent of pine and whiskey filled your lungs with a warm, inviting sensation.
“Steel” and “Feyre” and “shame” were the only words you managed to catch through the intoxicating fog of the delicious perfume you inhaled. But that was enough for no question to leave your lips.
Turning your focus back to the surroundings as your sister and cane guided you through the streets, bodies occasionally brushed past you, nearly knocking you down; shouts proclaiming devotion to the divine; more frantic cries from merchants trying to sell their goods to eat at the end of the day, and other sounds that were impossible to decipher.
As you walked, Elain stopped abruptly in her tracks. Confused, you turned your head to look at her but got no answer. Without saying a word, your sister started walking again, leaving the noise of the city behind. You quickened your steps to keep up with her, the wind certainly making your hair a tangled mess. At least you wouldn’t have to see it.
Elain slid a bit in the mud, and with a squeak, you stopped by her side. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and her lungs struggled to keep up with her breathing. Gods, your sister was trying to kill you just so she wouldn’t have to share the inheritance.
“What in the hell-” you began but didn’t finish. The breeze had risen up your legs, making the hem of your dress flutter and leaving a coolness on your skin, only to disappear faster than it came.
“Azriel?” Azriel? He was the cause of your little sprint? Damn him, what was he doing in such an obvious place?
“Elain,” he greeted your sister, and as he turned to you, he spoke your name in a deep purr, sending a chill down your spine with the tone. You nodded in acknowledgment; your voice no longer belonged to you. “The letter. It’s here.”
Ah, he knew. He already knew the queens' letter had arrived today. How? You didn’t know.
“We were going to see it now,” Elain’s voice was syrupy, soft and sweet, almost like she didn’t know how to speak anymore.
A hum left Azriel’s throat. His trained eyes watched your shy form beside Elain, the corners of his lips tugged upwards but quickly disappeared as he turned his attention back to the eldest Archeron sister.
“Could you fetch it for me, Elain?” Azriel asked gently, and your sister nodded quickly, like a soldier. Not letting go of your hand, she motioned for you to go with her to fetch the letter. “Only you, please.”
Your feet stayed firmly planted, and now the air felt thin. Whatever the Shadowsinger had to say to you was making your nerves bubble.
Elain muttered in discomfort, clearly not wanting to leave you alone with someone she barely knew. Her hand squeezed yours lightly, and you pulled your hand free from her grip, distancing yourself from your sister. With your body facing the man, you encouraged Elain to go. He certainly wouldn’t kill you.
Still, your treacherous mind whispered.
With lips set in a line, Elain quickly made her way to her destination, disappearing into the crowd. The faster she went, the faster she’d be back.
Without your sister nearby, the silence was deafening and uncomfortable, and despite your brief interaction with Azriel, you still found the way his presence surrounded you intimidating.
“Do you have something to say? Or did you just make me stay here for your company?” The words came out sharper than you intended, and perhaps challenging such a powerful fae like him in broad daylight wasn’t the best idea. Shifting your weight, you crossed your arms like a shield. Not that you expected it to stop him.
Your ears perked up when you heard a rough chuckle leave Azriel. His lips pressed together; it wasn’t the response you were expecting.
“I didn’t,” he paused and licked his lips, thinking carefully about his next words. “But I feel like I do now.”
Ah, so much for being mysterious. If this non-human man wanted to make you squirm with anxiety, he was succeeding beautifully.
“And…” your voice carried impatience.
“And I don’t think you should be part of the meeting with the queens.”
Your mind stopped. It felt completely empty, focused only on trying to process Azriel’s words. Letting your arms fall to your sides, you lifted your chin, hoping you were looking at his face as you spoke. “Why? Is there a reason for this?
Simple and shyer than you intended.
Azriel was no longer amused. His face darkened into a scowl as he studied you from your structure to your features – sculpted nose, mouth pulled down, and then, eyes. His eyes were windows to his soul, so sweet that, even if not fully functional, could bring legions to their knees.
And that was the problem.
“The queens aren’t trustworthy, and I don’t want you to be a target. They’re bitter and vile with people…” His words rushed out, his wings tightening behind him, letting the weight of what he had to say burn his tongue. “...weaker ones.”
You bit your cheek until you tasted the faint copper of your blood. Indignation wasn’t the right word to describe what you were feeling, but the disbelief on your flushed face certainly expressed it.
Fragile. The Illyrian who barely knew you for more than a week was insulting you so openly, without a shred of shame. You might not see things like other people, but this made you grow a pair of balls like nothing else, and it wasn’t this male who was going to put you down now.
With clenched fists, you took a step toward him, closing the distance to a breath’s length. The smell of whiskey that had been so enticing returned, but now that you knew who it belonged to, it didn’t seem so intoxicating. Or maybe it was, a little, your mind whispered.
“I don’t think I gave you any right to make assumptions about me, fairy.” You spat the words, especially the scornful nickname you secretly used for him and his brothers.
Azriel growled low, and ah, it wasn’t because of your words.
The rustling of leaves made you step back from the winged male, and quickly, his features softened. Elain stopped next to you, breathless, handing the letter to Azriel, as if it were burning her.
“Here, it arrived last night,” she said before taking your arm and walking away as quickly as possible.
“Thank you,” Azriel acknowledged with a nod. Elain smiled tightly, already guiding you away. His voice came again, but this time as a warning, making your shoulders tense. “Don’t forget what I said.” And then he was gone, swallowed by his shadows as if he had never been there.
Elain furrowed her brow and turned to you, questioning what Azriel had meant.
“Nothing, he didn’t say anything.” Nothing you cared about, at least.
“Hold your breath,” Nesta reprimanded you, her fingers pulling tighter on your corset strings, her delicate fingers and the crushing leather threatening to break your ribs.
“Tighten it any more, and watch me turn purple on this floor, sister.” You gasped out the words with difficulty. Nesta clearly wanted to kill you. You knew she was against you exposing yourself at the meeting, but you never thought she'd deliberately try to kill you.
“Stop whining, it's ready.” Nesta grumbled, and then her presence pulled away from you, her footsteps echoing as she walked to the vanity in front of you. Your head tilted to the side at the sound of objects clinking. She was making a mess, no doubt.
Nesta's heat returned as she stopped in front of you. Her warm hand held your chin firmly but gently, and the bristles of a brush tickled your lips. It was soft, sticky, with a faint scent of roses. Lipstick.
Nesta was dressing you up like a doll. Your chest warmed at the feeling. Having your sister care for and pamper you like this was a delight. It was fleeting, but so appreciated when it happened.
Pulling the brush from your lips, Nesta glanced at you. Long, trembling lashes, cheeks rosy with powder, angelic features. You were beautiful. A slight tug appeared on her lips, satisfied with her work.
“If you keep staring at me, I’m going to start thinking you like me.” Your playful voice earned an eye roll from Nesta, who, with a huff, stepped away from you, already missing the warmth of her presence.
"Don't be fooled," Nesta retorted playfully, you expected it to be a joke as she took your arm in hers and began guiding you out of your room and into the living room. The shrill creak of the door alerted you that you were passing through the main hall, just a few steps away from the comfortable armchairs that Elain had arranged for you. "Sit down, they should be arriving soon."
Groping for the armchair, you slowly lowered yourself until you were seated. Your sister settled beside you, and barely half a second later, a knock echoed on the door. Nesta took a deep breath beside you, and abruptly stood up, walking toward the door. As much for a brief break, a laugh escaped you. Hopefully, she wouldn't hear it.
The sound of what seemed like a crowd of footsteps approached where you were, low, nervous murmurs could be heard, and a melodic voice, different from those you already knew, made your eyebrow raise in curiosity.
"Sister, you look beautiful," Feyre greeted you warmly, her hands on your shoulder for a hug. A little awkwardly, you stood to hug her better. Nestling your face into her neck, you squeezed her tighter. It felt like you hadn't seen her in a decade. The sound of someone clearing their throat made your sister pull away from the hug, to your disappointment. "Sorry. Mor, this is my younger sister."
Mor? Another fae? You turned to where you thought she was. Mor smiled and approached, taking your hand in hers. Her sudden action made you jump slightly.
"It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Feyre has told me so much about you." Her voice was gentle, her shoulders relaxed, and you let yourself return her smile. She seemed like a woman with a strong spirit. Perhaps Nesta could find a friend in her.
"I'm happy to meet another one of my sister’s friends." You greeted her properly with a nod.
"That's enough, Mor. You're suffocating her." A cold shiver ran down your spine when Azriel's rough voice reached you. The memory of your last encounter still vivid in your mind. Your face twisted into a grimace. Mor huffed and pulled away, muttering about how Azriel was a joy-killer. You could agree with that.
Feyre, beside you, looked at the two of you with suspicion. Since you entered, Azriel hadn't taken his eyes off you, following every movement like a hawk. Your reaction to him only seemed to intrigue her more. With a kiss on your forehead, she guided you to sit again.
It seemed everyone was settling into their places, Elain arriving elegantly late and sitting to your right, Nesta a little farther to your left. You couldn’t tell exactly where everyone else was, but someone was behind you. You could feel the warmth of their presence.
"Stubborn artisan." Damn fae.
Azriel teased you with the nickname. If you could give him nicknames, why not? He took a step closer, leaning against your chair, ignoring the sharp look you shot at him. He bent down slightly, just enough for you to hear, his velvety tone making your hairs stand on end.
"You seemed more inclined to listen that night." Your face heated with the memory. With a small grin, Azriel stood up and turned his gaze away, completely satisfied with himself.
Before you could think of a witty retort, a loud bang echoed through the house, making everyone tense. They’ve arrived. The human queens were finally here. It was time to begin the meeting that would put everything at stake.
*Obviously it's incomplete, this is just a preview and Azriel is not 100% endgame*
When Azriel rescued you, it was as if a shadow-cloaked angel of death, full of hatred, had appeared before your eyes. Never in your immortal life had you witnessed a male so fierce and determined to save someone, especially an Illyrian female. Even bound head to toe, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the scene. His disfigured yet skilled hands unleashed blow after blow on every male who dared approach you. It was a spectacle, and you were in the front row, watching an uncontrollable beast tear his enemies to pieces.
Azriel—his name was familiar, often spat with disdain by the men in the camp. But now, Azriel was the name that would be whispered with fear and reverence by the lips of every Illyrian woman. Azriel, the protective beast.
Oiii Adoro a sua escrita!!! Você é muito talentoso 🤌🏽I'm obsessed with YDE it's literally the only fic I care about atm can't wait to see more 
Hi sweet, I'm very honored to receive such a cute comment! Chapter 3 of YDE is in my drafts but so far I haven't found the strength to finish it 🥺YDE is all finished in drafts but sometimes it is difficult to put it into practice.
(I have some reservations with my writing but I hope I can finish it so I can publish the fanfic for you guys ❤️☺️
YDE is genuinely my roman empire i think about it once a day at LEAST the concept is so amazing and your writing is just perfection! please tell me you’ll continue
I'm still aliveeeee (for a short time) but! I have no intention of abandoning YDE I'm just a little discouraged. You are so kind to me 🥺 thank you for the words!
Here 👇🏻 a little piece. In chapter 3 we will have MANY things... Prepare your hearts 😌
The morning wind hit your face as you crossed the threshold, and the birds' singing passed through your ears like a sweet melody. However, as beautiful as it was, your eyebrow couldn't help but arch at your sister's haste; surely the letters couldn't be that interesting, at least not for Elain. She could barely contain herself when the matter was brought to the table. Oh, what gossip would you have today, dear sister?
"Do you desire something more from the city beyond the letters?" Her tone was nonchalant, but even the most foolish of men could see the curiosity behind her question.
Elain stumbled over something on the ground, almost taking you with her, and you were no longer so sure who the blind sister was here.
Summary: A reimagining of how things would have gone if Reader had decided she wanted Fin — despite him being her friend’s father.
Word Count: 7.2k
Warnings: Heavy on the smut. 18+, minors dni. Some jealous and possessiveness. Mentions of forbidden relationships/affairs. If the choices Reader makes in this are something you’re against, I urge you not to read! 🫶🏻
Rita’s is like no other place you’ve been — or seen — before.
Is this what you’ve missed out on, trapped within the frozen maw of Windhaven? There is no place like this there, of such vibrancy and euphoria. The music, the coloured faelights, the energy — it all makes you feel…on top of the world.
Like there’s life outside the misery you’ve known.
Mor knocks a shot back, grimacing as she slams the empty glass onto the bar. A sudden burst of giggles leaves her as she says, “My father would have my head if he could see me right now. Literally.”
You don’t doubt that for a second, because Mor looks resplendent, not just in her natural beauty, but her joy. She has danced and drank and kissed and danced some more. And seeing her like this…it makes you glad that she convinced you to come out with her tonight.
“My father would have my head, too,” you tell her over the music. “I’m surprised he hasn’t already.”
At that, she rolls her eyes, and she reaches for two more shots. “Here’s to saying fuck the males,” she knocks her glass against yours. “May they all perish.”
You’ll happily drink to that. With the alcohol that has you in its grip, you’re buzzed on thoughts of storming back to Windhaven and confronting all your demons. Confronting anyone and everyone who has ever hurt you and made you feel less than you are. Your father. Lord Devlon. Azriel—
You banish that thought as the liquid slides down your throat with a satisfying burn. You are in Velaris, not Windhaven. A new place with new people, where anything feels possible. The thought is heady and dizzying.
Someone calls Mor’s name, and she glances over her shoulder, her beautiful eyes lighting up again. You truly don’t know how often she’s able to escape the Hewn City and get away to Velaris, but judging by the amount of friends she’s introduced you to tonight, she’s certainly made her mark here.
“Let’s go dance with them!” Mor yells over the music, grabbing your hand.
You think that dancing might be the answer to everything you’ve never known, and so you gladly follow; gladly throw yourself into the thrall of the busy floor.
But that’s when you see him.
Something…some deep power…compels you to look up. Coaxes your eyes to that area a level above, where the city’s VIP guests spend copious amounts of money on copious amounts of alcohol and drink it from their cushy velvet booths. They’re reserved for associates of the High Lord, a not-so-formal place to meet to discuss not-so-casual things.
But none of that matters. There could be an entire circus up there right now, and still all you would notice is — him.
He notices you, too.
The High Lord’s eyes zero in on you from up above. You watch, rooted to the spot, as he takes in the sight of you, from your braided back hair, to your painted face, your dress and the legs exposed by them. He looks like…like he’s finally setting his sights upon an image that was merely fantasy up until now.
He braces his arms on the balustrade. And he just stares.
You want to know what he’s doing here. Whether he’s at Rita’s for business or…or for pleasure. You’ve heard that there are rooms upstairs for people willing to pay the price. Perhaps there’s a lover up there with him somewhere, waiting to explore every last inch of that glorious, sculpted body—
The bleating jealousy that makes your heart twist is…unexpected. And not ideal; not one bit.
He is Rhysand’s father. Things may have been fucked up royally with Azriel, and you may have been burned by the experience — but Fin is Rhysand’s father.
Your friend’s father.
Your friend’s father who has just so happened to help keep you feeling alive these past weeks. With his layers-deep allure, the sweet, sweet words that roll off his tongue. His hospitality, his generosity. His kindness. All of it, you’d attributed to him being a natural charmer, a High Lord who knows precisely what to say, what to do.
It strikes you in that moment — just how much it’s all sunk its way into your bones and made you feel…dangerous.
He watches you like a cat with a mouse. Watches as somebody grabs your hand and yanks you into the tightly knit dancing bodies. The music pulses through you from head to toe, a frenzied tune of strings and keys that somehow come together to create the feeling of being borne aloft. Being on top of the world.
As you become lost to the sensation of dance, you’re glad to forget all your thoughts about Fin. You don’t want to wonder what he’s doing here. You don’t want to imagine what those strong, rough hands might get up to, where they might venture.
You become sandwiched between two males who dance with you in a way that makes you forget your wings were ever stolen. They touch you and touch each other, and you welcome it all, happy to be someone, somewhere, else. At least for a while.
But there’s suddenly a foreign touch to your shoulder. That of a cold, meaty hand that stills your movements and draws your attention. The two males happily slink away and begin grinding on each other, and you spin on the spot to find a tall, stocky male who looks like he punches people in the face for the hell of it.
“Y/N?” He checks, and you nod. “The High Lord wishes to speak with you. Upstairs.”
You glance over your shoulder, eyes searching for Mor and finding her just as she’s following a male and female to a cloaked-off area at the back. That’ll be her occupied for the remainder of the night. You’re officially going solo.
But not for long. Not as the bouncer juts his chin in the direction of the staircase and begins to lead you there. Perhaps it makes you a fool, but you follow without a word.
He pulls back a rope and gestures for you to go on up, and then he’s refastening it behind you and turning back to train a keen eye on the dance floor. It’s purely the alcohol that hits you with enough of an ego to climb those stairs like you belong amongst the chandeliers and velvet booths.
But you look good — amazing, even. You know you do. And looking like this, things like scars and other insecurities seem so trivial. You’ve taken back the right to feel as beautiful as you are. You wear your Illyrian features proudly, and you’re pretty and lithe and graceful—
And your heel catches on the top step of the staircase, almost sending you sprawling to the floor — if not for the warm hand that catches your elbow.
“Easy.” Fin rasps into your ear, setting you steady on your feet.
Your numbed, inebriated senses are not immune to the effect of his voice, it would seem. The deep baritone, rough as jagged rock, pushes its way into your skin, your veins, and spreads far faster than any alcohol could.
“Pardon me, my Lord,” you answer, and you’re unable to shove down the hysterical giggle that claws up your throat. “Fuck, you’re the High Lord.”
He cocks a dark eyebrow. “And you are drunk.”
“The whiskey they serve here is immense.”
“I’ll be sure to extend your compliments to Rita herself.”
Is that, you wonder, who he’s up here meeting? Perhaps the elusive Rita is a close associate of his. Perhaps they do deals in both business and pleasure.
And taking in your fill of the High Lord right now, in a dark button-up shirt and fitted breeches of a slate grey, you would not blame Rita one little bit.
Gods, he’s exquisite. Rhysand may resemble Roza more than he does Fin, but…with two parents of such stunning beauty, it’s no wonder your friend is as handsome as he is.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” you make no secret of the way your eyes linger on him. Tonight is dangerous, and you’re enjoying it.
“Nor I, you,” he narrows his gaze down at you. “Imagine my surprise, considering that when I left the palace earlier this evening, you were curled up in the library with a book. And yet, here you are. Wearing…” mahogany eyes take in the short cut of your dress, “…that.”
“Mor surprised me with a visit.”
“My niece ought to be more careful not to press her father’s buttons too much,” a muscle in his chiselled jaw ticks. “And I think you ought to be more careful not to push mine.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” Bold. So foolishly bold of you. You’ll regret it once sober, you’re sure. “Was there a particular reason you summoned me up here, my Lord? I was rather enjoying dancing.”
“I noticed. And I’m taking you home.”
“What—”
Before you can even finish the word, Fin’s gripping your elbow again, and darkness sweeps you away.
Being winnowed while drunk is not a fun experience.
You feel the cosmic, air-light step from one place to another. Your stomach lurches, your head spinning. You can barely get a hold of yourself as you cling to Fin and prepare your feet to touch solid ground.
And then the darkness is gone, and you’re back in the toasty, warm glow of the palace’s library. Your knees buckle, trying to drag you to the floor, but Fin keeps you upright.
“What the…” you gawp up at him. “Why did you bring me home?”
He ensures you’re able to stand on your feet before pushing away from you. Doesn’t even look at you as he commands, “Get to bed.”
“I was enjoying myself.”
“Just as those males were enjoying you, too. You’re drunk and you need to sleep it off. Get to bed.”
He strides towards the door, his knuckles white from how hard he grips the hilt of the sword sheathed at his side. But sword or no, you refuse to give up so easily.
“No,” you say simply. “I will not.”
Fin stops. Goes still. And then he turns back to you.
His temper is clear on his face, but he doesn’t storm back over like you’re half expecting him to. Instead, his eyes shutter, and he seems to take a deep, soothing breath. When he’s looking at you once more, he flicks his wrist in your direction.
And immediately, gone is the haze of the alcohol.
Immediately, you’re completely lucid, completely steady on your feet. Not a lick of inebriation remains, as if you had, indeed, slept it off.
“Did you just sober me up?” you’re outraged by the mere idea.
“Yes.” Fin admits shamelessly. “Now you won’t fall victim to a hangover in the morning — a favour from me, to you, and I ask you in return to get to bed. And don’t even think about trying to venture back out. I’ll know.”
Your blood boils. And the anger isn’t simply because of your ruined fun, but because…because it stings, the way Fin is treating you with such contempt. Scolding you like you’re little more than a petulant child. He’s been nothing but wonderful since you came to Velaris, and yet now, he speaks to you like…like most of the males back in Windhaven do.
It makes you see red.
“What right have you to dictate how I spend my evening?” you snap. “I was under the impression that my free time is my own, and if I wish to go and get drunk and dance like a fool, that is up to me.”
Cold, beautiful anger hardens Fin’s face. He stalks closer, squeezing the hilt of that sword so, so tightly. “What right have I? This is my home. My city. My court. I am your High Lord, and you choose to behave in such a way when I’ve opened my home to you and offered you refuge? When I’ve given you a place to run to and left my resources at your disposal?”
You rock back on the heels of your feet, staring at him. Every word lands a hit — as good as if he’d nocked them in a bow and fired them right at your heart. It stings. Gods, it stings. You want the careless oblivion of the alcohol back.
Because you grapple daily with the pain, the anxiety, of feeling unwanted. And you…you had begun to think that Fin actually cared for you. Actually enjoyed your company as much as you enjoyed his.
You’d begun to care about his thoughts and feelings where you were concerned. And begun to believe that it wasn’t just the hospitality and courtesy that he would dole out to any runt on the street.
His eyes seem to track the way your expression changes, your shoulders slump. You swallow. The anger is replaced, simply, by hurt.
“If I am a burden, my Lord, I apologise,” you rasp. “I don’t intend to be one. I appreciate your generosity, and I…I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused.”
You hope you can keep your tears at bay long enough to escape to your room. You’re pelted with shame, embarrassment, hurt. You step forward and hurry past the High Lord, desperate to book it out of there, to get to bed.
But his hand encloses around your wrist, tugging you to a stop. And he says, quietly, “wait.”
That hand on your wrist holds the weight of a thousand unspoken words.
You pin your gaze to the ground, unable to look at Fin. You hear him swallow.
“That isn’t—” his voice is gravelly. “I didn’t mean that.”
You don’t think you can speak. You remain a statue beneath his touch.
But so gently — such a contrast to the whirlwind of his actions before — he’s walking you backwards. Slow and careful. You feel your back hit the wall, and he lets go of your wrist and seems to curl his fists at his sides. There’s a desperation to the action that only then coaxes you to look up at him.
His expression is…pleading. For what, you’re not sure.
“You are the furthest thing from a burden,” he says, quietly, on an exhale. “Your presence here is very much welcomed, I assure you.”
You don’t dare breathe a word. Every last bit of your very sober courage is being thrown into maintaining eye contact. There’s none to spare for speaking.
But your lack of response seems to trouble Fin. His eyes rake over your face, searching for something. He swallows again.
And then his eyes shutter, and he whispers, “Mother above, what are you doing to me?”
You don’t know how to answer him — whether he’s even talking to you at all. He takes in a very slow, very deep breath, as though it’s the only thing that’s stopping him from…doing something. What, you’re not sure.
But you can feel it, sense it — the ferocity with which he’s swallowing down words and holding himself back. Like he wants so badly to say something, but can’t.
His eyes open, clearer than they were seconds before, and he says in a far gentler tone, “Get to bed, Y/N,” he inclines his head. “Sleep well.”
With tense, squared shoulders, he turns — and it’s you, this time, that stops him. You halt him with a hand on his arm, and you could swear you feel the muscles flex under his touch.
“Wait,” you say, not ready to let him go, not prepared to leave things between you like this. “Stay and talk with me for a while.”
His jaw clenches like he’s gritting his teeth. “That isn’t a good idea.”
“Why? We talk all the time, you and I. And there are clearly things you’re holding back from saying—”
Your words are cut short as he suddenly meets your gaze with the intensity of a blazing fire. You think it might burn you. You hope it will.
“It’s a bad idea,” he grounds out, gutturally, “not because of what I want to say. But because of what I want to do.”
“What—”
“You are my son’s close friend. You are Roza’s guest,” he tugs his arm out from under your hand. “You are far younger than I am. I am trying my hardest — I have been trying my hardest — to be a good male. And right now, a good male would take his leave and go to bed, so I bid you goodnight, Y/N.”
“Fin—”
“I hope you sleep well.”
“Fin,” you grab for him again. “What if I don’t want you to be a good male?”
Beneath your touch, he stops. Goes preternaturally still.
Words punch out of you with terrifying gall — and truth. “What if I want you to do those things—”
Quick as a flash, he’s pivoting, and he has the upper hand. Has you pressed so tightly up against the wall, his body boxing you in.
And gods, the feel of it might set you on fire. A brush of your hands, a kiss on the backs of your fingers — they’re nothing compared to the weight and press of his muscles against your body. You want your clothes to melt away, and his, too. You want your hands on his bare, hot skin.
“I don’t think you realise what you’re saying,” he growls.
“I do,” you breathe. “I am completely sober. Completely clear of mind. And I am telling you, Fin, I want you—”
A strangled noise is the only warning you get before the High Lord’s mouth is on yours.
The kiss is pure power. It passes from him, into you, roils through your veins and makes you feel like somebody remarkable. It’s the cloak of darkness and the kiss of sin. Of somebody capable of very, very bad things.
And it’s immediately addicting. You’re not sure you’ll ever be able to get enough.
You claw at his shirt, tugging him closer, closer, and his broad hands cup your face as his mouth devours yours.
This kiss…it’s been building. The need for it has been working its way beneath your skin for a while. All the heated glances, the late-night conversations. All the thoughts, in the dead of night, of what Fin might be doing in his own bed. Wondering whether he was thinking of you.
It’s so, so forbidden. So wrong. But it feels so godsdamn right.
And the way Fin’s tongue slides between your lips and strokes into your mouth — it tells you that he feels it, too.
Your hands glide from his waist, round to his back, and you yank him harder against you. So desperate are you to feel him. Feel what you think you do to him.
He makes another low noise. And then he’s tearing his mouth from yours. But he lingers close, your foreheads touching.
“Better than I’ve been imagining,” he pants, his hands still clutching your face. “Much better.”
“You’ve imagined kissing me?” You know he has.
“I have imagined,” his thumbs sweep your cheeks, “doing all sorts of things with you, Y/N. Things that would make even the most salacious of a person blush.”
Such a relief — to know that it’s not all just some wild fantasy you’ve cooked up in your mind. That you’re not just some wayward, longing young female who craves the affections of an older male to patch her deep wounds.
No, it’s not that. It’s desire. It’s need. And it burns inside your veins until you think you might erupt into flames.
“I’ve imagined them, too,” you say, without a lick of shame.
Once again, his eyes are shuttering. Once again, he takes that slow, steadying breath. And as you watch him do so, you can’t bear the thought of him still grappling with right and wrong. You can’t bear the thought of him squaring his shoulders and walking out of here, leaving your lips bruised, your body aching, your heart hurting. You can’t bear it—
“I want you to do those things,” you lift your chin, gaze unflinching. “I want you to touch me.”
Fin’s eyes reopen.
He stares at you.
His throat bobs.
You have never seen somebody look so wild, so ravenous. There is heat everywhere, in his stare and in his taut body. His eyes flick down to your lips.
That mere glance at them is the deciding factor, it would seem.
He growls, the sound not at all one you’ve ever heard from a person, and he yanks you up into his arms and kisses you again.
So naturally, your arms twine around his neck, your legs locking around his waist. You can feel the strength of him against you, in the way he holds you. You can taste his crackling power.
He doesn’t falter in the kiss nor his steps as he carries you away from the wall, and you’re suddenly being placed down on the library’s desk, sending books and parchment and pens and ink pots flying. They all clatter loudly to the floor, and neither of you care.
But Fin does pull away to look at you, and there’s wicked, boyish charm in his eyes as the corners of his mouth twitch up. He merely says, “Oops.”
You surge up and kiss him again.
He sighs into it, like your mouth is the answer to all his questions. And when heated hands land on your thighs, you part them, allow him to slot his body in between. The mere feel of it has you pushing up against him, finding him hard—
But again, he pulls away. He scans your face and rasps, “Tell me you’re sure.”
You do not balk from his intensity. From the fact that this is the fucking High Lord of your court, who was changing this world and building a reputation long before you were a mere thought in your parents’ minds. You do not balk from the fact that there are a million different reasons that this is wrong.
You think only about the fact that it feels right.
And that translates into your voice as you say, firmly, “I’m sure.”
You think you see the words course through his body. They change something — forever.
“This isn’t about Roza,” he breathes — breathes heavily, like it’s taking everything to tamp down on the desire to devour you then and there. To say what needs to be said.
You shake your head, “No.”
“Nor is it about Rhysand.”
“No.”
“It’s about me and you.” He destroys what little gap exists between your bodies, his hardness pushing through his breeches, right up against your centre. His hands brace on the desk, either side of you. “And gods, I want you, Y/N. I want you so much, I can scarcely bear it.”
“Have me,” is all you manage — before he strikes.
You think, hope, that his mouth might find yours again — but he’s barely brushing it before his lips settle on your jaw. His hands travel up your legs, fingers biting into the flesh. They find your hips, thumbs delivering explorative sweeps. They tug your dress up as they climb, exposing more of you to the warmth of the room. Exposing more skin that you know he wants to lay claim to.
And when the hem of your dress is ruched around your waist, you smile — at your little wildcard exposed. That he finds no underwear hiding what sits between your legs.
Your choice to forgo a pair seems almost foretelling, now — like some part of you knew the night would end like this, and you wanted to be ready.
Fin’s eyes dip to your slick, exposed cunt. The hunger in them is almost intimidating. You open your legs just a little wider—
But his rough hand is gripping your chin, almost hard enough to hurt. And he snarls deeply, “It drove me to madness — seeing those two males dancing with you. Touching you.”
Pleasure bolts down your spine, and from the way his nostrils flare, you know the scent of your arousal is consuming him.
“Did it?” you stare back at him, welcoming the discomfort of his brutal grip.
“I wanted them dead. I wanted to draw my sword and gut them for even looking your way. For touching what I want to be mine.”
That pleasure again — skittering over your skin. His words do something to you. You bite down on a moan.
“It is yours,” you tilt your chin up to him, smiling when he immediately glances to your lips. “Take it.”
“I warn you,” he lowers his face to yours, “I don’t like to share.”
“And I warn you, High Lord,” you watch as your words land, drawing a deep, raw scent from him. “Neither do I.”
With a growl, he snaps. The kiss he gives you is not slow or sweet. His hand continues to grip your face, and his mouth attacks yours, his tongue sliding between your lips. You can’t help your moan, this time, as his taste overpowers you — a taste that you can only describe as pure thunder.
But it ends too soon, as he begins to leave a trail of heated kisses and bites and sucks along your jaw, down your neck, your collarbones. Your head falls back, and the touches are like little zips of lightning — lightning cleaving through the night sky.
“Pretty dress,” he hums against your skin — and that’s all the warning you get before that dress is ripped apart. Torn to ribbons.
No part of you is left to Fin’s imagination.
He tears his mouth from you and steps back to drink you in.
Instinct roars at you to curl in on yourself and hide. To remember that you are scarred, and flawed, and not to the liking of many — including yourself, a lot of the time.
But something about Fin’s weighty, scorching stare stops you from moving a muscle.
You lift your chin and hide nothing as he takes his fill. His eyes travel a journey from the top of your head and down — down your face, your neck, your breasts. Down your stomach, your waist, your hips. Down to that fine dusting of hair on your pelvis that tracks a thin path to—
Fin drops to his knees with a low noise. His hands wrap around your legs and prise them further apart.
“You’re fucking perfect,” he levels his face with the very centre of you, and your breath hitches in your throat at the sight.
The sight of the High Lord on his knees before you — on his knees for you.
As though he senses the direction of your thoughts, his eyes flick up, and he smiles.
And then he dives in.
His tongue wastes no time in sinking between your folds, licking a broad stripe right up the centre of you. At the first stroke, your head falls back, your arms wobbling where they’re braced on the desk.
“Look at me,” Fin growls. “Only me.”
His voice of pure High Lord power drags your eyes back to him. And thank the fucking Mother it does.
You see everything in the way he feasts on you. His tongue laps at your wetness, and it coats his lips, his chin, coats him in you. The damp heat of his tongue is liquid fire. It promises to scorch you, end you, and rise you anew like a phoenix from the ashes.
Your fingers sink into the strands of Fin’s hair and tug. Judging by the noise he makes, the way his pace picks up, you think he likes it.
He utterly fucking devours you, like he’s fought a centuries-long wait to do so. And whatever magic commands his mouth — you know you cannot possibly last against it.
“Oh, gods,” your moan breaks from you, hips bucking up. You think your voice might be loud, but you don’t care. “Fuck—Fin.”
It all happens at once — his name falling from your lips, the growl rumbling in his throat, the flicking of his tongue against your clit and the finger he plunges into you, curls inside you. Every part of it is lightning strikes to your veins, and you come apart, utterly break.
Your climax slams into you and steals your breath. You’re nothing but a gasping, panting, trembling shell. Your mind is somewhere else entirely.
With your head falling back, eyes pinned to the ceiling, chest heaving, you don’t catch the swiftness with which Fin stands, licking your wetness from his lips. With which his clothes are gone in a blink of an eye.
But then he commands, “Look at me.”
It’s the second time he’s said it. Your head lolls forward once more.
You swallow the breaths you’re still trying to get down. Try to stop your body fucking shaking.
But it’s no wonder it does, as you look at him.
Your High Lord is nothing short of exquisite. He is art. Your fantasies have done him no justice.
That golden skin of his seems to attract the glowing light of the room. It bathes him, but it does not steal the attention. It outlines every fine plane of his body, the sculpted muscles on show, the nicks of injuries that have scarred and silvered over time.
There is not a single part of him that isn’t pure, refined power. And when your gaze drops to below his waist…a shudder wracks through you.
His cock stands hard and leaking at the head. You watch, your mouth watering, as he wraps a hand around its length and gives a long stroke.
“Fin—”
“When you look at me like that,” he prowls closer, “there is no way I can consider this forbidden.”
He’s within reach. Your fingers inch towards him. You want to touch him, taste him—
But he curls a hand around yours and stops you in your tracks.
“Not tonight,” he says. Pure promise is laced within the words. “No playing tonight.”
As if he hadn’t just played with you. You want to protest, to get your fucking mouth around that considerable length, but his hand tightens around yours.
And then he’s flipping you over, so fast that you don’t have time to even register it. You land on your front, your belly and breasts pressed against the desk. Fin lays his palm against your back and drags it slowly down. And in the wake of his touch, he leaves kisses. Kisses to your shoulder, your back. They’re…soft. Tender.
“Have I disappointed you?” he murmurs against your shoulder, folding his body over yours. You don’t think it’s an accident that the head of his cock nudges that sweet area between your legs.
It’s all you can do to breathe, “I wanted to taste you.”
“And you will,” he drops the brush of a kiss to your skin. “But now is not time for that.”
You don’t need him to tell you what now is the time for. Not as his hands find the flesh of your hips, and he yanks you to the very edge of the desk, moving with you. The feel of him so close to where you want him is downright cruel.
“Have you thought about me fucking you?” he asks, those hands travelling to rove your ass.
Your nails bite into the desk as you answer, “Yes.”
“Did I make you scream?”
You bite down on your lip at the feeling of him spreading you apart, opening you up to him. “Yes.”
You feel it — his cock sliding between your folds. Not pushing in, but dragging torturously against your sex. From your entrance, up to your clit. The head of his cock pushes against it.
And the moan that rips from you is downright filth, as he rolls his hips and allows your wetness to slicken his length. It feels so fucking good. To you, and to him.
A breath shudders out of him, and he purrs, “Are you going to scream for me now?”
“Fuck yes,” the words tumble from your lips. “I want you, Fin.”
Just like that, his restraint snaps. The High Lord strikes.
He drags his length through your folds and enters you with a single, powerful thrust.
A shout leaves you, and you’re clawing at the desk, trying to keep your grip against the pleasure that courses through you. Fin fills you and stretches you. He pulls out and slams back in to the hilt.
“Fuck me, you’re tight,” he growls, his hands sinking back into your hips. He begins a steady thrusting, sliding in and out of you with a drag that makes you feel every glorious inch of him. “Gods.”
“So good,” you pant. “Want you harder.”
The plea seems to make him groan, and he wastes no time in picking up the pace. His hands bite into your skin as he fucks you faster, harder, your moans and pleas and curses falling from your lips without any nudging from you. The pleasure is all-consuming. In seconds, it’s buried within your veins.
“You like that?” The grit in his voice has you clenching around him. He’s so fucking filthy, so fucking sultry, as he snarls, “you going to be a good girl and come for me?”
Gods, yes, you are. Already, release is coiling tightly within you, and it’s a force entirely of its own right, inching closer and cresting the hill, ready to sink its claws into you. Fin’s cock hits deep, and out of nowhere, his palm is flying through the air and making contact with your ass cheek. That is all it takes.
The pleasure of it all is too much — the sting of the slap, the depth and thrall of his thrusts, the way he growls and grunts as he lays claim to your body, your pleasure.
You cry out, your orgasm blasting through you with unstoppable force. The long strokes of Fin’s cock fuck you through it, through earth-shattering pleasure, through what feels like a mind-altering experience.
“My filthy girl,” he pulls out of you suddenly, and though your cunt still clenches and twitches, desperate for more, more, more, he flips your trembling body onto its back once more and tugs you up, slipping back between your legs. “Fuck, I can’t tell you how relentlessly I’ve thought about making you scream for me like that.”
Past words, you can only reach up and pull his head down to yours to capture him in a kiss. Your taste still coats the tongue that he slides between your lips. It spurs you on to deepen it, luxuriate in the feel of it. And you become so lost in it that you tug hard at the strands of his hair when he enters you again in one great, sweeping thrust.
His arm folds around your back, hand grasping at your shoulder, and it seems to afford him perfect purchase to pound into you. Sounds fill the air of his skin slapping against yours, of the breaths and moans you huff into each other’s mouths. You think the two of you, together, might be loud enough, forceful enough, to bring the City of Starlight to rubble around you.
Fin’s lips tear away from yours, and he buries his face into the crook of your neck. His thrusts are growing quicker, sloppier, reaching a feverous pinnacle that will surely break.
“Fuck, you’re going to make me come, Y/N,” his sweat-slick brow presses against your neck. “Taking me so well like this. Squeezing me like this. You’re going to make me fucking blow.”
You want that — more than anything. To feel the power of him spilling into you.
You squeeze your thighs against his, dragging your free hand — the one not sunken in his hair — down the muscles of his shoulders, his back, his waist — to his ass, where you dig your nails into the tight, toned flesh and encourage him to pump into you harder, faster. The feel of it makes Fin shout.
“Come for me,” you choke around your pleasure. “Please, Fin…want you to come.”
An animalistic growl rips from him, and he slams into you one, two, three more times, and then stills, throwing his head back with a roar that shakes the library. Hot, thick ropes of his seed seem endless as they’re unleashed inside you.
The force of it shatters you both, you think. With his trembling as thorough as yours, your nails are still raking over his skin as his brow presses to the crook of your neck. Strands of hair stick to the back of his. Your fingertips smooth over them tenderly.
It feels like eons that you stay there like that, holding each other up from collapsing under the weight of your mutual release. You want to hold him like this, always. You don’t care what others may have to say about it, what they may deem to be wrong about it. You want him.
He pulls back, as though sensing the thought. Meets your eyes. For a beat or two, he simply studies your face, something like clarity on his own.
And then he dips down and drops a kiss to your brow. Such a tender act, in the wake of such passion.
No words are needed. Not as he scoops you up into his arms, leaving behind the mess the two of you have created. There’s a flash, and he’s winnowed you to your bedroom. A fire roars to life immediately. Fin places you down on the bed.
You watch through hooded eyes as he makes his way into the bathroom. Moments later, he’s returning with a warm, damp washcloth, and he perches beside you.
“Open your legs for me,” he whispers, and you do.
The High Lord of the Night Court is gentle as air as he takes care of you, wiping between your thighs and delivering soft, soothing strokes to your skin. A pleasant soreness sits in your lower belly. He leans down and presses a kiss there like he knows just that.
And then he’s sitting up, and it frightens you — the thought of him walking away, of this ending here and now.
So you lay a hand on his arm, breathing, “Stay with me.”
He pauses, eyes roaming your face like he’s assuring himself you mean it. And then he dips his chin.
“I would be honoured,” he rasps.
And thus, the affair begins.
✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ
The need you and Fin have for each other is…insatiable.
Every moment he’s away, you’re thinking of him, longing for the moment he’ll appear in your room and rip your clothes off. If anyone else in the palace — staff, servants, associates — are aware of what’s going on, they don’t give it away. And that suits you just fine.
You can’t get enough. You’re giddy with it. Giddy from the multiple, interesting circumstances you’ve landed yourself in.
Like when you lured him out of a meeting and dropped to your knees in a fucking broom closet, taking his cock into your mouth until he was canting his hips forward and spilling down your throat. Or when he fucked you on the balcony of his personal quarters, your body pressed up against the balustrade, the two of you open to the elements and your moans loud enough to reach the stars above you and the city below you. Or when he took you to watch the ballet, and up in the cushy surrounds of your private viewing box, you watched the performance with him deep inside you, his fingers indolently playing with your clit, his low voice in your ear reminding you to keep quiet.
It’s…exciting. Enthralling. It changes everything.
And as he pulls out of you now, sweaty and panting, and collapses beside you in his bed, you’re not sure you could ever tire of this feeling.
He wants you. He wants you so ferociously, like nobody has ever wanted you before.
As you catch your breaths, he props his head up with his hand and stares at you through hooded eyes, glazed with lust. He leans down and grazes a kiss to your mouth.
“I don’t know how to make it stop,” he ponders as he pulls back, moving a hand to brush his fingers over your breast. “All this need — wanting you constantly.”
You lean up on your elbows, tilting your head, “Do you want it to stop?”
“No,” he shakes his head. “Never.”
Never. Never is a very long time. It makes your stomach flip — the enormity of it.
Fin circles the tip of his forefinger around your pebbled nipple, watching with predatory fascination as he adds, “But this will, inevitably, blow up in our faces at some point. We haven’t exactly been secretive — not that I want to be. But people will talk.”
You lean up to brush your mouth over his. “Let them talk,” you say, and kiss him.
Immediately, he melts into the kiss. Your mouth seems to have an effect on him that you never thought yourself capable of. Always draws a long, pleasured sigh from him as he sinks into it, welcomes it.
He kisses you and kisses you, so greedily, so desperately. His hand snakes up to cup your cheek. He’s already hardening against your leg.
But he pulls away, dropping his forehead against yours. And he breathes, “Make a bargain with me.”
You trace a thumb over his bottom lip. You’ve never made a Night Court bargain before; never had reason to. “What bargain?”
“When this blows up in our faces,” he grips your hand, folding his own over it, “we face it together. You and I.”
“You and I?”
“You and I” he kisses your hand. “I don’t claim to be perfect. I don’t try to be. I can be brutal and callous, and I can lie and play games,” another kiss. “But not with you. Never with you. I will look after you. Take care of you. I’ll be whatever you need me to be.”
Words that you’ve always longed for someone to say to you. Words that should not be taken lightly, should not be said without meaning.
But you know he means them. You can tell he does.
You watch closely as your fingers interlace with his. And you whisper, “Together?”
Fin’s thumb sweeps over yours. “Together. We’ll face it together.”
“Then it’s a bargain.”
A flash of splintering pain zips around your midriff. You glance down to find the tattoo now inked there. The black line that draws a perfect circle around your waist, like a trail of night-kissed lightning.
You look up at Fin to find a roguish smile playing on his lips.
“Oh, I like that,” he hums.
And then he’s leaning down and pressing kisses to that circlet signifying your promise to one another. Kisses the entirety of it, flipping you on your front in the process.
And kisses lower, until you’re screaming for him again.
hiiii!!! I love your story “Your Dead Eyes” I was wondering when the next chapter would be out? (obviously no pressure I was just curious, you can totally ignore this if you want) ❤️
hey sweetie! I'm halfway through the chapter buuut the dreaded creative block got me. I'll try my best to finish writing this weekend 😫🙏🏻
I love that Sukuna finally voiced what I've been saying all this time. Yuuji has the strongest soul in JJK, no one compares. It was clear that Yuuji bothers Sukuna a lot and finally Sukuna explained why.
I really like how Gege is stressing that only Yuuji has a true connection to Sukuna, none of these other people matter to him.
People who don't care about anything but themselves or their immediate social group, really can't stand those who care, those who believe in something. Yuuji is the first true mirror Sukuna has ever encountered, one that reflects to Sukuna the hollowness of his soul.
Sukuna felt nothing when he killed Gojou because Gojou was as hollow as him. Gojou's ideals were only words, not followed through with anything and he abandoned them for the thrill of the fight with Sukuna. Kashimo never pretended to stand for anything and thus they also meant nothing to Sukuna.
Higuruma stood for something, Sukuna was there when he talked to Yuuji. Higuruma did get lost but in the end he remembered that he stood for something.
And Higuruma, like Yuuji, used to be a normie not so long ago. His progress is indeed impressive.
And look who Sukuna recalls when he feels sad about Higuruma dying (he's not there yet to acknowledge that he's sad he killed someone XD), he recalls Jougo. The last person he'd killed who actually stood for something.
I wish the fandom understood that the way that the themes of JJK go, Gojou could've never killed Sukuna. He was of the same ilk as Sukuna, equally hollow living only seeking his own entertainment, probably even more arrogant than Sukuna, but less talented and extremely reckless. And Gojou was partially in denial, he pretended that his ideals mattered to him, that they weren't a band-aid put on the gaping hole that was his soul.
Sukuna actually cares about killing Yuuji, he cares about getting rid of that mirror that exposes him to himself. Makes him see how lacking he is. None of the others showed him any of that. Gojou and Kashim fought him for the title of the strongest, Yorozu for a prestigious marriage. They all wanted the status associated with Sukuna.
And Yuuji never cared about that, he talked back to Sukuna, called him out on his bull shit. And to Yuuji strength is worthless in itself, it matters if it can be used to help someone.
There's a lot of people like Sukuna nowadays, you see them everywhere online. People who will go out of their way to mock others for caring about anything because they are unsettled by the mere motion that someone can be invested in something. And because it makes them feel bad. If they were truly fully content in their hedonistic and/or nihilistic existence they wouldn't care how others feel or what others do. Like them, Sukuna suspects that maybe the lives of those who care about something are more satisfying.
It took Yuuji for Sukuna to even realise that he could grow as a person.
I love how they mutually ruin each other's lives. Gege really intertwined them nicely.
🫠🔫 I haven't forgotten about YDE, but I have less time to write because of my studies. If everything goes smoothly, there will be a new chapter this week.
By the way, any guesses why Azriel got so interested in our Reader? It's not what most people imagine 💀
Hi! Could I request Azriel who’s mated to the youngest Archeron sister who loves their human traditions. Az finds her celebrating alone despite a whole party being set up, and learns she feels forced to attend solstice or starfall, maybe Rhys even scares her into it a bit, but when she worked hard to set up parties on human holidays, but her sisters always choose starfall? And she feels they force her to adapt to fae traditions while not even her sisters, let alone the others, even acknowledge human holidays, even though feyre said she considers both worlds her home. One that ends in a confrontation with angst would be nice, but happy ending or not is up to you, thanks.
I could have made a small series out of this ask and I really and truly enjoyed writing it. I had intended on a happy ending but this is pushing 5k words and would have taken a lot more for it. I hope it was along the lines of what you wanted!
---
Cause and Effect
From the moment that you were shoved in the cauldron, your life had changed to the point that you weren’t sure what to do. It had hurt that your own sister hadn’t bothered to stop what had happened to you, Nesta, and Elain but you understood since her friend was injured. Being the youngest of all of the Archeron sisters meant that you were always looked over. Nesta had always been worried about Elain and even though you were only a year younger than Feyre, it never made any difference.
You had always felt horrible that Feyre was the one responsible for keeping all of you fed but your sister refused to let you go with her when she hunted. There had always been an urge to help and try to make things better but as always, you were shoved to the back burner. Most human holidays were forgotten but for some reason, you remembered one in particular. No matter the fact that you tried each year to celebrate it, you were either scoffed at or told that it didn’t matter.
It was something that you held close to your heart because it brought you joy and you wanted it to do the same for your father and sisters. You were different from them in the sense that you wanted to do nothing but spread love and joy but everyone around you was too miserable to care.
The fae had their own traditions in separate courts you had learned but that piece of you that loved your holiday felt as if it were slowly dying. It had hurt your heart to see Feyre go back to the original court that she had once wanted to go to but you stayed silent and a few feet away from your other two older sisters. Mor had all three of you in an instant as soon as she was able to and took the three of you to a home that you were unfamiliar with.
Your thoughts would linger on the injured males that had been bleeding out in Hybern’s castle as you moved between Nesta and Elain so that you weren’t alone for the three hours that passed. Neither paid you any attention which only added to the hurt. It had been a traumatizing situation for the three of you and you were all trying to cope in your own ways. It didn’t stop the fact that you wished someone would pay you some attention for once in your life.
Mor had come back to check on all of you after a few hours and she had been the first one in years to show you some genuine kindness. She led you to a room that you would be able to call your own so that you could find your own way to cope. Once she left, giving you a small smile before she did so, you took a moment to admire where you were. The room was huge considering what you had been used to with the bed being just as big. The balcony was what caught your attention the most and you knew that you would spend the most of your time there.
You found yourself enamored with the house that you learned was called the House of Wind. Mor had been the only one that had visited over the course of two days and you reveled in the attention that you were getting, even if it wasn’t a lot. On the third day, one of the males that had been injured returned to the House to see how the three of you were doing. You were instantly entranced with how handsome that he was, especially when he gave you a gentle smile. His eyes went wide when you smiled brightly at him and he stumbled a step as if he were in shock.
**
Azriel had been concerned about the three of his High Lady’s sisters so as soon as he was healed, he made his way up to the House. Only the youngest of the sisters could be seen since she had just finished eating. As soon as their eyes met, he was unable to resist the small smile that he had given you. It wasn’t until you gave him a genuine smile that shock overtook him. The warmth of a golden thread spread through him and it was all that he could do to regain his composure.
“How are you doing?” he asked in a gentle voice as he restrained himself from touching you.
“I’m still trying to adjust and learn what all of this means,” you answered honestly as you looked around the dining room. “It’s sort of disorienting.”
“I can only imagine.” You gave him another bright smile at his words when your attention turned back to him. “I have faith in you though.”
A small smile replaced your bright, genuine one and he wanted nothing more than to make it return even though he wasn’t sure how. The only thing that he knew was that you were his mate and he wanted to follow you around like a love-sick puppy. Throughout his eleven years of living in a cell, all that he dreamed about was having someone that loved him unconditionally and to love them in return. Even though he knew that mating bonds didn’t always work out, your smile that seemed to show a genuine kind heart had him hoping that it wouldn’t be the case. When a slight frown formed on his face was when your entire mood visibly shifted and it was all that he could feel in the air around the two of you.
“I never saw you when we went to visit your sisters,” he mused quietly, realizing also that you had never been mentioned.
“I was in my room. I didn’t- ” you sighed, your eyes glossing over in the process. “Nevermind. It’s not important.”
“I think it is.” He did his best to keep the curiosity and the hint of anger from his tone. “You shouldn’t have been excluded.”
“It was my choice.” You gave him a sad smile while his heart hurt at your tear lined eyes. “I wasn't.. It’s not really worth sharing.”
“I think-”
“What are you doing?”
Nesta’s voice from the doorway had the both of you turning to look at her, her face etched into pure anger. It had you stiffening up in front of him and it had him rising to his full height while his wings tried to flare in his protective state for you. Your older sister did nothing but continue to glare at the both of you before you sighed quietly while hanging your head and shaking it slightly.
“We were just tal-”
“You don’t need to talk to her,” Nesta snapped. “She has us. Stay away from her.”
You glanced back at him with apologetic eyes before walking away from him but he noticed that you went in a completely different direction than your sister did. He almost followed you but decided against it in hopes that it would help you cope a bit better.
**
“Good morning,” you mumbled sleepily, still in your pajamas, when you entered the dining room with the male from the day before and Mor sitting at the table.
“Good morning,” Mor replied with a small smile. “We weren’t expecting you to be up so early.”
“I do rise early sometimes,” you chuckled as you took a seat beside her with the male sitting across from you. “But everything.. It’s hard to sleep now.”
“That’s completely understandable.” Mor rubbed your arm for a moment in a comforting manner. “We’re glad that you are out here with us.”
You gave her a small but sad smile, unsure of what to say. It was obvious that none of them knew about you and even though it hurt, you did your best not to show it. Feyre had mentioned to you once that the food here was delicious and now that you had a taste, you weren’t sure if you could ever go back to normal human food. The thought had you returning to the day that you had been forced into the cauldron and realized that you didn’t know anyone’s name and most importantly, how they all were doing after injuries.
“You were hurt.” You locked eyes with the hazel ones across from you. “And your friend-”
“We’re alright,” he assured, causing you to slump in relief into your seat. “Cassian’s wings are healing as we speak.”
“I’m so glad.” You gave him a bright smile before gazing at his wings momentarily. “I can’t imagine how much pain that you were in. I feel horrible that I didn’t even think to ask you last night.”
“It’s okay.” He gave you another genuine, small smile that earned a near silent gasp from the female beside her. “You have been through more than any of us can imagine.”
“I don’t even know your names,” you mumbled, choosing to ignore his reassurance since you were trying to avoid the thoughts of your own.
“You’ve met Mor.” He gestured towards the female beside you who simply rolled her eyes. “Cassian, as I said, was the one that was injured as well and Rhysand is our High Lord of the Night Court.”
“Oh.” It was hard to keep your mind from the horrible memories, the thoughts making your heart hurt even more now that you knew their names. “Have you heard from Feyre?”
“She will be alright and will be back as soon as she can,” Mor answered confidently.
Your sister had obviously thrived since she had become High Fae and you couldn’t help but wonder if you or your other sisters would be able to do it as well even though you didn’t have much of a choice. A part of you wanted to adjust but at the same time, you were terrified of the life that you had been forced into. You were at least trying to be friendly even though Elain still refused to speak and Nesta was being her usual angry self.
You weren’t sure how to feel with everything that was going on around you but your mind began to drift back to your human life. Your favorite holiday would be arriving in a few months and you hoped that it would be something that would be accepted for the first time. Remembering that you didn’t know the male’s name, you raised an eyebrow at him.
“Are you stingy with your name?”
“No,” he chuckled, amusement dancing in his eyes. “I’m Azriel.”
“Azriel,” you repeated, finding that you liked how it rolled so simply off of your tongue.
He seemed to like it as well due to the smile tugging at his lips but you chose to ignore it, opting to eat what you could. You could feel his gaze on you and noticed it for yourself when you glanced from your peripheral as Mor began to tell you what Velaris had to offer.
“It sounds beautiful,” you sighed in awe.
“I could take you.” Your eyes met Azriel’s, noting that his expression was neutral even though you felt like he deeply wanted you to agree. “The city is meant to be seen at night.”
“I would expect nothing less from The City of Starlight,” you laughed, noting an emotion in his eyes that you couldn’t place.
With a nod in a silent goodbye, you went to find your sisters who were where you thought they would be. Elain was still staring out of the window with a blank stare and Nesta was in a chair in the room with her reading a book. Your oldest sister’s blank stare fell on you and since it made you feel unwelcome, you quickly left and opted to spend your day in your room. The feeling of loneliness was nothing new but it hurt even worse with the circumstances that were beginning to feel impossible to sort through.
As the day came to a close, you searched through the new wardrobe in hopes of finding something suitable. It was as if Mor knew of your struggle because she was flitting into the room as the afternoon was coming to a close. Her help was more than welcomed since you didn’t know how to dress up for anything at all. She chose a gorgeous blue dress and fixed your hair into loose curls. It was the prettiest that you had ever felt. Azriel’s face softened when you entered the dining room where he was waiting and he guided you to the balcony.
“The House is warded against winnowing so we will have to fly,” he started gently, watching you with nearly invisible caution. “There is always the option of the ten thousand steps to the city but that would ruin your beautiful dress.”
“I’ve never flown before.” It was hard to speak and keep the shock from the simple word from your tone before eyeing his wings. “It sounds scary.”
“I promise not to drop you,” he chuckled, the noise almost inaudible.
You nodded your head and nearly gasped when he picked you up gently, the feeling contradicting his size and obvious muscles. The flight down wasn’t as scary as you expected and you knew that Azriel was doing his best to keep you comfortable. He landed you both down next to what he called the Sidra and you couldn’t help but admire the sight. Azriel followed suit when you leaned against the railing and it was then that you noticed the blue stone on the top of his hand. Your attention turned to the scars and your heart immediately ached for him.
“They are siphons,” he explained to your silent question but stiffened when you placed your hand over his and ran a thumb over his scars.
“It’s beautiful,” you whispered, admiring how the kind male beside you had turned out that way despite the obvious trauma that he went through before giving him a soft smile. “Oh, your siphons are too.”
He smiled brightly, the sight taking your breath away in the process. You couldn’t help but return it before he placed a hand on your lower back and guided you further into the city. Amazement of the sights sent your heart fluttering and then it warmed when Azriel let you slip your hand into his.
**
Azriel couldn’t keep his disbelief hidden from himself when it was obvious to see that you deeply enjoyed his company. It seemed that you always found a way to gravitate towards him and a piece of him wondered if it was the unknown mating bond or if you were truly that attention starved. He always silently observed every interaction possible between you and your sisters but each one was short lived. It hurt his own heart for you since he knew what it was like to be shunned by your own family.
He had a day planned in the city with you when Rhys called him away to help Cassian retrieve Feyre. Even though you knew nothing, you were genuinely understanding and it only made him love you more for it. His heart only hurt worse when they returned with Feyre and you were barely acknowledged. He bristled when you glanced at his High Lord with a hint of fear radiating off of you. When tears lined your eyes, he couldn’t stop himself from pulling you into an empty hallway to pull you into his arms.
You melted in his embrace and silently cried for less than a handful of minutes before pulling away and wiping your eyes. If he hadn’t needed to watch Lucien, he would have taken you right then and there out to the city in hopes of lightening your mood and bringing the smile back to your face that he desperately wanted to see.
“My favorite human holiday is coming up next week,” you muttered before leaning against the wall behind you. “I wonder if they’ll celebrate it with me.”
“I would be more than happy to help with anything that you need,” he replied quietly before his heart clenched at the sight of your small smile.
The day before the holiday, he had followed you into the city to get all of the decorations that you needed. Between the shopping that he usually didn’t enjoy doing and helping you set everything up the next morning, he was happier than he had been in a long time. Any amount of time that he got with you was highly cherished and it always seemed that you felt the same. His heart dropped at your frown when his brothers and Feyre returned. The slight scent of your fear again had him bristling but forced himself to keep his face unreadable as he watched.
“I thought that we could actually celebrate now,” you said hopefully to the High Lady. “Maybe make things feel a little more like home in a way.”
“We didn’t want to do your holiday back then and we really don’t now.”
Nesta’s words when she entered the dining room had him glaring at her when tears filled your eyes. He nearly growled in his protective nature at the sight of your oldest sister who wasn’t phased by the sight that always had his stomach turning. She left with a scoff and roll of her eyes before disappearing again. It wasn’t until Feyre gave you a half hearted apologetic smile and disappeared after Nesta did you finally run to your room.
A glare at his High Lord who knew about the bond only had him seeing red when Rhysand simply shrugged and followed after his own mate.
**
Your time with Azriel became less and less the closer that the war came. Despite taking Cassian up on his offer to train, you weren’t anywhere near close to trying to go up against the simplest of opponents. Azriel always appeared proud that you had agreed to learn to defend yourself if need be. There was always an emotion in his eyes that you could never place when your eyes met but what you did know was that you were falling in love with him.
Even though you were worried about Elain when she was kidnapped, you couldn’t stop the hurt that hit you when you saw her in his arms. Your relief for your sister’s safety quickly changed into horror when you saw the injuries that he had received. You followed behind him quietly and stayed out of the way while he was tended to by Thesan. He would lock eyes with you every so often and give you a reassuring smile that had a tug in your heart pulling towards him.
Azriel stayed with you in your tent that night but even him holding you close against him did nothing to help you sleep. Your worry and fear ate at you about the war that would be taking place kept your heart and mind racing. Standing at the edge of the battlefield with Feyre’s new family and your sisters did nothing but refuel your terror. Hurt coursed through you to see the male that you had fallen in love with hand his dagger to Elain. You knew that you wouldn’t be anywhere near the fight as instructed.
“We will get through this,” Azriel whispered in a low voice that only you could hear when he returned to your side.
You gave a short hum in agreement but stepped away from him as heartbreak continued to swirl within you. With the shortest glance at the shadowsinger, you saw confusion and something akin to hurt on his face before he faced the battle beginning ahead of them. All that you could do was watch with tears streaming down your face and your own sobs escaping you when Feyre's pained screaming met you when it was all over.
You already knew what had happened and since you were all alone, you let yourself fall apart in the place that you had been left at and let yourself grieve for your sister. There was absolutely nothing that you could do to help anyone or anything but you had become used to it at this point in your life. Since there weren’t any other options for you, you disappeared into your tent, continuing to cry. You weren’t sure how much time had gone by before you heard the tent flaps move to find Feyre looking at you with tear-filled eyes.
“I’m so, so sorry,” she whispered as she began to cry and the pain in her eyes and on her face had your heart dropping. “Father- He-”
You already knew what she meant since you had seen his ships and you simply turned your back to her. A soft, pained sigh left your sister before she reluctantly left and your heart hurt even more at the fact that you didn’t know anything at all. You had truly been forgotten by everyone. All that you wanted was to be alone to try to sort through your emotions. It was already hard enough with the struggle that you were having with adjusting to your new life as High Fae but this added pain was too much.
Once you were finally able to return home, you secluded yourself into a room in the townhouse while everyone else gathered around. You wanted nothing to do with any of them but you were stuck in the court that you didn’t want to be in. Time passed in a blur and you even refused to be around Azriel despite his pained features when you told him to go away. The comfort that you had once felt around him had dissipated when you noticed his visible worry for Elain. You couldn’t blame him because your sister had always been the most beautiful and you would choose her over you any day.
“You’re doing what now?” you asked one afternoon when Feyre cornered you when you were finished eating, silent as you always were.
“Starfall is tomorrow and we need to get you a dress,” Feyre answered, speaking as if it was obvious.
“What is ‘Starfall?’”
“A Fae tradi-”
“So you’ll celebrate the things that the Fae do but you never bothered when I planned anything?” you snapped hatefully.
Feyre simply frowned before sighing and leaving your room. You sat brooding on your balcony, enjoying the light breeze blowing past you, wondering how things had turned out how it had. Being in Fae territory became even more unbearable by the day and you were beginning to not care if humans didn’t like your kind, half heartedly planning a return to the human lands. Before you could get into your thoughts much further, someone landed on the balcony beside you. Not just anyone, but the one in the group that truly scared you.
“I hear you’re opposed to Fae holidays,” Rhys began nonchalantly. “Why-”
“I’m not participating in your stupid traditions,” you snapped, taking steps back when he took enough steps forward and had you cornered with nowhere to go.
“And why, Y/N, do you refuse?”
“Because I don’t want to!” you yelled despite the fear that you knew he could sense.
“This is what you’re going to do.” He placed a hand on the railing on each side of you, hovering too close for comfort with a stern but angry expression. “You will be there tomorrow whether you like it or not. I will not have you ruining this night for Feyre. You will not like the repercussions if you upset her on her favorite holiday.”
With that, he left you there while you shook from the fear that you had just been left in.
**
Azriel had never imagined how much it would hurt to be pushed away by his own mate. You wouldn’t talk to him or even make eye contact. It was very obvious to everyone that you were miserable and he noted that depression had fully taken over you even and you always failed to conceal it when you tried. Every attempt that he made was always quickly shut down or simply ignored.
The night of Starfall, he barely saw you. You stood by yourself, refusing to speak to anyone that tried to engage in conversation with you by a half hearted smile. When he noticed that you disappeared, he followed your scent down the hall towards your room where he knew that you would be. His knock went unanswered but he let himself in anyway since the door wasn’t locked. He noted that your room was half decorated with the human holiday that you loved while you stood against the balcony in a simple dress that replaced your previous one.
“Are you alright?” he asked hesitantly, bracing himself to be told to leave.
“No.” Your answer was short and clipped but you didn’t bother to look at him as you continued to watch the sight of Starfall. “No, I’m not.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Why am I being forced to participate in something that I don’t want to be a part of?” you asked and he heard the anger beginning to fill your tone. “They were never a part of the one simple holiday that I tried to get them to enjoy. All that I wanted was to spread some joy in the crappy situation that we were in and even now, they still refuse to acknowledge it.”
“You didn’t have to join if you didn’t want to,” he assured gently, placing a hand over yours.
“Yes, I did,” you scoffed, causing him to raise an eyebrow in silent question. “Your oh so wonderful High Lord insisted. As a matter of fact, he threatened repercussions if I messed up wonderful Feyre’s favorite Fae tradition. I was forced to become a High Fae and now I’m being forced into traditions that I now want no part of.”
“Rhys did what?” he asked, his voice low with anger that was directed towards his brother.
“It doesn’t even matter anymore.” You went silent for only a moment before anger began to roll off of you. “You know what? It does matter. I will not allow them to walk all over me anymore.”
Azriel followed you in a hurry, hoping to do damage control when it was needed. All eyes fell on you when you stormed directly into the party. As if sensing your anger, Feyre’s eyes immediately locked onto yours. When you got too close, Rhysand gave him a stern glare in silent warning so he caught you around the waist to keep you in one spot.
“You are a shitty sister!” you snapped loudly, turning all eyes on you.
“What-”
“Oh, no. You don’t get to talk or ask questions.” He kept you in place despite your struggling as Elain moved beside the High Lady. “Both you have done nothing but shove me to the very back of your minds! Left me on the back burner! You didn’t even bother telling me that our father was dead until everyone was settled comfortably back in the camp!”
“We’re really sorry, Y/N-”
“You’re just as bad!” His arm tightened around you, pulling your back to his front when you began shaking in anger. “All that all of you have done was forget about me! None of your little ‘family’ even knew I existed! And even though you always disregarded my holiday that was always meant to lighten our troubles, your precious High Lord threatened me to participate in your stupid Fae traditions!”
Azriel’s eyes went wide with all of the information that you had just unleashed for everyone to hear. Even though everyone was staring at the confrontation with gaping mouths, he kept his attention on Rhysand who was trying to keep his power in check from his anger due to his own mate’s tears.
“Get your mate out of my city, Azriel,” Rhys ordered, the secret now revealed causing you to stiffen.
“What the hell is he talking about?” you asked, jerking out of his grip and shoving him harshly in the chest.
“I wanted to tell you but with everythi-”
“Oh no,” you chuckled darkly, tears now flowing freely down your face. “Yet another Fae tradition that I just have to deal with.”
“You don’t have to,” Azriel tried, desperation filling him just as much as his anger at his High Lord. “You-”
“Get away from me,” you snapped, backing away from him towards the door to the steps. “I’ll take care of myself just like I always have.”
With that, you darted for the door while he was left standing there in shock before the heartache took over him.
Summary: Lifeless eyes were what haunted your all life, manu people say that death was lurking around your eyes, Maybe it's true. Maybe you just see things that other people don't.
Pairing: Azriel x Archeron! reader fem.
A/n: Damn, I don't know what to think about this chapter but I didn't like it 100% I hope to improve next time. Cassian 🤝 Nesta: Azriel's biggest blockers
*English is NOT my native language, this fanfic was translated with a little help from a So, let me know if there are any grammatical errors*
Word count: 4k
Warnings: Fear of abandonment, distorted sense of humor and LOTS of tension.
previous x next
The sensation was as if you were in the middle of the ocean at night, the furious and icy sea pounding against your body, sending adrenaline shocks through it as your mind desperately pleaded for you to swim and stay above the waves.
It felt like you were sinking upon hearing her voice. As if water flooded your ears with the gentle melody that were Feyre's words, and at the same time, it was like the huge waves of despair were pulling your body down.
"Elain," she spoke with a husky voice. It was so different from the usual roughness, as if honey had been poured onto her vocal cords.
Your ears perked up at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, firm and delicate steps. Nesta halted halfway down, looking towards the door. "Mrs. Laurent, prepare some tea and take it to the office," Nesta paused and glanced at you; her trembling figure with wide eyes made her heart skip a beat, and then her eyes returned to the housekeeper, "and take my sister to Merina."
You turned your head to where Nesta's voice came from and vaguely searched for her, silently thanking her for the act. You weren't ready to face Feyre now; your sister was the specter of a ghost that now haunted your mind.
Mrs. Laurent's wrinkled hands gently grabbed your shoulders, lifting you from the sofa and guiding you towards the hallway. "Come, dear, Merina is preparing your favorite."
"Wait!"
Your head lifted at Feyre's request, and your hands clutched the dress you were wearing, crumpling the fabric. Shaking your head, you continued walking with Mrs. Laurent. She didn't wait for you. You wouldn't wait for her.
While your heart held no resentment, it harbored resentment, heavy with hurt towards Feyre. You didn't mind that she went to look for the beast to live by his side, of course not; you minded the indifference she showed towards you. Feyre wasn't obliged to anything, and if you weren't worth a goodbye from her, she wasn't worth a bit of your time either.
The creaking of the door being opened drew your attention away from your thoughts, and undoubtedly, the sweet smell of melted sugar with a touch of cinnamon caught your attention even more. Molasses pie.
With your hand stretched, you leaned on the counter, and Mrs. Laurent let go of you to pull a stool for you; after sitting down, you mumbled a thank you, dismissing Mrs. Laurent for the task Nesta asked.
With a fist on your cheek, you let your eyes close; they weighed more than the pounds of clay you carried. The tinkling of a plate being placed in front of you made your eyebrow arch, and Merina's huff was heard right after.
"You're usually excited about this pie," Merina said, and as the pie was one of her specialties, she may or may not have been upset with your lack of interest, "now, care to tell me why you look like you've sucked a lemon?"
Chuffing a humorless laugh, you rolled your eyes and groped the counter to find the fork next to the plate. With unnecessary force, you stabbed the poor pie and brought a piece to your mouth. Merina, who watched that small act against dessert, tilted her head even more curious.
"Feyre is here." Your voice came out muffled by the sweet you were chewing; who cared about good manners in a situation like this? Judging by Merina's choking sound, she cared.
"Ah..." Merina sounded distant, analyzing your face for something more. With drooping shoulders, you sighed to her, "thought you'd be happy to see her again?"
Sucking the sweetness from the fork, you raised your lips in a playful smile, "hardly ever happy to see anyone, Merina."
The cook reached out to pat your head, "Enough of blind puns; they don't work with me anymore, and stop dodging the question."
Sticking out your tongue at her, you gave up and decided to really say what was going on inside your little head.
"I guess I'm afraid she'll leave again," you said, shrugging, the fork's tip was now deforming the poor pie, "once is fine, twice is hard, but three times? I don't think I can forgive on the third."
Merina hummed in agreement and discreetly took the pie and fork from you, grabbing a piece for herself.
"I'm not saying leaving without saying goodbye was right, or that she won't leave again, but maybe—" Mrs. Laurent passed by, giving her a penetrating look that made her drop the pie, "maybe you should listen, don't need to speak, just listen, and if the explanation doesn't please you, turn your back and leave."
Your eyes trembled, and a slight headache began to spread from your neck towards your temples. To listen, you could hear her, and maybe later, grab her by the hair to explain your point of view.
Your mouth opened to verbalize your response to Merina.
"Let's go to the office."
It wasn't you who spoke. Nesta stood in the doorframe, looking at you, then at the cook, and back at you. Merina jumped from where she was sitting and quickly took your arm to lead you to your sister. Nesta is terrifyingly terrifying.
Your hand fit into Nesta's arm, and she began walking towards the office. Her other hand rested on top of yours and gave a warm squeeze; a simple touch from her meant so much. This was her wordless way of saying she was there for you.
You felt her stopping, and you stopped with her. Nesta glanced at the door separating Feyre from you, and she was sure Feyre could sense both of you through the crack in the door. Looking at you, she blinked and parted her dry lips.
"She's different. Not the same person who left here that night." She said with a stern voice.
You nodded, not really understanding what she meant by that. Different? You were almost certain everyone becomes different after spending so much time in that place.
Nesta pushed the door and entered the office with you in tow. Feyre, who was facing away from the door, turned her head to you so quickly that, for a moment, she had flashbacks from under the mountain.
With teary eyes, she took a step towards you, but a warning look from Nesta froze her in place. She waited for you to come to her, but you didn't, even after leaving your sister's embrace, you didn't move a muscle anymore; perhaps Feyre was foolish to think you would.
Ignoring Nesta's watchful eyes, she approached you slowly, but she stepped heavily so that you could hear. Just like the other time, you felt her breath on your face, a breath so cold that it gave you shivers.
"Sister..." Feyre raised her fingers to your face but hesitated, her hands were no longer human, and you would undoubtedly feel how her fingers were thinner and longer than before.
Impatiently, you lifted your head to her and furrowed your brow, expecting something better than just a "sister." Taking a deep breath, Feyre looked into your lifeless eyes and began to speak.
"I was dead," even though Elain had already heard the story, she couldn't help but hold her breath, "I was dead, and then I was reborn, remade."
Feyre told everything, not omitting any details of what happened with Amarantha, with Tamlin, with Rhysand, the bat-winged men, and you listened; listened to every word attentively, feeling nauseous hearing that the damn beast ignored Feyre's suffering, turning pale when she recounted her death and rebirth experience, and dangerously trembling when she said she was no longer human. She was one of them now.
You didn't know what to say; your mouth was dry, and your hands trembled. What Feyre said wasn't an apology, but it was so much that you could barely assimilate it. She was a fairy—fae? What did that imply? She eat babies?
A hand grabbed yours, making you pull away frightened by the sudden contact. Feyre looked at you hurt by the reaction but continued firm, raising her hand to touch her cheek, and then she let you go. What you would do from now on was your choice; she knew there was much more to say, but time was pressing.
Hesitant, you ran your fingertips along her face, feeling the jaw sharper, your fingers traced the nose, the mouth, the forehead, and the eyes, and with each new change you felt, a sob broke from your chest, and tears overflowed from your eyes. Your hand opened on her face, and Feyre nestled her face in your caress, taking a deep breath, you brought your hand towards the place you were avoiding. The ears.
It was undeniably longer than a human ear, and at the end, there was a point. As you ran your finger along the edge, you felt the patterns of a fae ear; Feyre's ear twitched, and you quickly withdrew your hand.
With a choked voice, you finally found the strength to speak: "do you have bat friends now?"
Laughing, she squinted her eyes to push back the tears and grabbed your face in her hands.
"Would you like to meet them?"
Feyre went to fetch the fae after Elain managed to dismiss all the household staff, something that wasn't difficult with her charm.
While you waited in the living room, Nesta gave some blunt instructions on how to behave in front of those creatures.
"Don't smile; it shows weakness."
"No unnecessary kindness; they need us."
"Don't you dare take off the iron ring."
Three simple rules that, even if unintentionally, revealed the fear she felt of the unknown. Not that you were any braver; Feyre said they had bat wings for goodness sake, that scared anyone.
You sensed their presence before your sisters did; your heightened senses allowed you to hear three different types of footsteps. A delicate and precise one , Feyre; a lazy and imposing one, and another rough and arrogant. Funny, Feyre mentioned there were three of them.
Your steps halted, enveloping the room in an uneasy silence. Beside you, you could hear Elain gasping; could they be so grotesque as to cause such a reaction?
"My sisters, Nesta, Elain, and..." Feyre paused for a moment and with a more affectionate tone, she said your name, "S/n Archeron."
There were no greetings from them or you; Nesta's fingers tightly wrapped around your wrist discouraged politeness to the unexpected guests.
"Cassian," Feyre continued, introducing the bat- fairies, "Azriel," her shoes made a sound as she turned, "and Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court."
Again, a suffocating silence. Pulling your arm from Nesta, you raised your hand to twist a strand of your hair. What a stressful situation.
When an elegant voice cut through the silence, you jumped; it was as if he filled the entire room with his powerful timbre.
"Thank you for the hospitality... and the generosity." It was warm but seemed so fake.
Without hesitation, Nesta turned her back, announcing that dinner was on the table, and they should hurry. Elain mumbled a greeting and rushed after Nesta.
You stood awkwardly in the middle of the dining room until Feyre walked towards you with a smile on her face, "Want to get to know them better?"
"We promise not to bite," a deep voice said playfully. Feyre turned to the male and silenced him with a noise. She then turned back to you, taking your hand to encourage you to walk with her.
Nesta would be furious.
With hesitant steps, you went to them; the air around the bat-fairies was so warm and dominating, almost oppressive. Undoubtedly, they could see your hands trembling, and small beads of sweat ran down your collar and disappeared into the square neckline of your dress. Unbeknownst to you, a pair of sharp eyes followed the bold path of these drops.
"Rhysand," Feyre called, and he came to stand in front of you, extending his hand. Your sister brought the hand she held for him to take. Your hand tightened in his delicate grip. Without a doubt, this fae's hands were soft.
"You are more enchanting in person." She spoke playfully. Nodding in acknowledgment, you gave a faint smile. When pulling your hand away, you discreetly ran your fingers along the length of his palm, trying to memorize some feature. A callus on the middle finger.
Another bat took his place and shook your hand firmly. Oh, this hand was full of calluses and thick, "Cassian, General Cassian," your face paled; General? You were already starting to hyperventilate.
"Stop scaring her, bastard," a husky and seductive voice spoke, the silent fairy. Cassian laughed and stepped away from you, barely having time to breathe, the other bat took his place in front of you.
If you thought the presence of the other two was oppressive, this male's was overwhelming. Much closer than his brothers, Azriel towered over you and let his eyes roam over your body, absorbing every detail you had to offer.
He started with your eyes, a blue so light it could be mistaken for white, your lashes covering his gaze, your lips red from the cruel bites you gave. A chill ran down his spine, and Azriel didn't allow himself to wander more.
Why not? A sly shadow whispered to him.
Rhys cleared his throat, mocking Azriel. Frowning at his brother, Azriel snapped out of his stupor and took your hand in his, noticeably smaller.
Your nose twisted with the texture of his hand; did the bat have leather hands? No... as you ran your finger over his wrist, you felt the edge of what seemed – and you prayed it was – a glove. There was no way to memorize anything about this man.
"Azriel." He introduced himself, simple and with no need to add anything else. Azriel, the name weighed on your tongue. When pulling your hand away, you felt a final squeeze from him, causing your lips to stretch into a half-smile. Don't smile, the first rule of the night was broken.
A bell was rung with stress. Nesta was impatient.
Laughing softly, Feyre took your hand and led you towards the table, away from the three bats. What a peculiar situation this introduction was.
"What do you think?" She asked eagerly, seating you next to Elain, who nervously watched the males taking their seats at the table.
"Exciting, I suppose." You spoke in a tone so that only she could hear, hopefully. Feyre closed her eyes and laughed; the relief she felt at knowing that at least one of her sisters was willing to acknowledge those who were part of her new life was evident.
"Let's start this dinner quickly." Nesta cut you and Feyre off with a stern voice.
The dinner was unsettling; the silence was so profound that the buzzing of crickets became audible, and the lack of conversation made you think they might have left you alone and dined somewhere else. It would have been a good theory if the unpleasant noise of the anxious bat's chewing hadn't cut through the silence left by your sisters.
"Is there something wrong with our food?" Nesta asked plainly. But to whom the question was directed remained a mystery.
"No." Feyre. You rolled your eyes while swallowing another bite of roast. Of course, she would pick on Feyre. You slouched further under the table as if it were a barrier for the impending clash.
"So, can you not eat normal food anymore, or is it too good for you?"
With a start, you straightened your back, and like an eagle, your head turned to Nesta, grunting in disapproval. The clinking of cutlery was heard in the background.
"I can eat, drink, fuck, and fight just as well as before. Even better," Feyre proudly replied.
What a dinner spectacle. With a choke, you returned to your plate while controlling your laughter. The fascination and astonishment for your sister's words struggled against each other to see which would prevail.
"Don't torture me like this, I still have a blessed imagination," you addressed Feyre, who hid a smile in her water glass.
"I wonder why…" she teased, and a blush spread across your face like flames. It was a disastrous story, and just the mere memory made you want to open the window on the second floor to check if you really didn't fly and knowing you didn't have wings would be satisfactory.
But let's say that some people have no qualms about their intimacy in a private place; undoubtedly, any random alley in a market is not a private place. Someone should warn that couple.
"Hush," a embarrassed murmur escaped your lips. Gripping the fork, you brought a piece of meat to your mouth, desperately wanting to occupy yourself with something else; the other hand held a cloth under the table in case any food decided to change its destination and go away from your mouth.
Focused on the task, you dismissed Nesta grunting at someone. Just another normal day. Nevertheless, your shoulders tensed with Cassian's enraged speech about the living conditions Feyre endured. It was undeniable that he was right; you might not physically help, but it was your duty to fight for your sister, even being younger. Perhaps you could have persuaded your father to get up from that damn chair.
Elain argued some words of resentment, but you didn't listen. Frustration filled your body like an overflowing bucket, closing your hands into a fist on the table, you dropped the fork and let yourself be carried away by the guilt of not being enough to protect Feyre.
A chair scraped closer to the table. Your feet began to tingle, and a cold breeze passed through your legs in a gentle and tender caress. Relaxing your hands, you looked down in foolish hope of seeing something. All the windows were closed.
It tickled, chuckling to yourself, you kicked your feet, and the breeze followed you like a servant, tendrils wrapping around your calf and descending to your ankle with delicacy. A husky laugh was heard, and you quickly looked forward, not sure which of Feyre's friends was sitting in front of you.
"Can you really fly?" Elain beside you asked. The comforting breeze dissipated as if it had never been there. A fleeting pout crossed your lips but soon disappeared because your curiosity with Elain's question got the better of you.
"Yes. Cassian and I are from a fae race called Illyrians. We were born hearing the song of the wind," Azriel, the silent one, responded warmly.
Biting your lower lip, you intruded into the conversation:
"When Feyre said she was going to fetch the bat boys, I imagined claws and sharp teeth, not wings."
Azriel playfully smiled at you, startling Cassian; he didn't know his brother had enough teeth to smile. Cassian turned to you and looked at the side of your face since you were looking at Azriel's chest, who was he to judge.
"Don't rule out that possibility, Y/n, we might look horrifying to the eyes," Cassian joked, making you open a wider smile and turn vaguely toward him. Well, you hoped he was joking.
"Speak for yourself, brother, I'm hardly seen as hideous," Rhys sneered at his brother's words and turned to Feyre, "right, darling?"
Your sister choked, and a muffled slap sound covered by a layer of fabric was heard.
You rolled your eyes and returned to your original position. Azriel cleared his throat to regain your attention, something that wasn't difficult since you were alert to any noise this man made.
"Maybe one day—"
Nesta dragged the chair rudely, cutting Azriel's sentence, and spoke with a sharp voice:
"If we're done eating, this meal is over."
Before leaving, Elain explained to her guests and her sister where the rooms they would be using were located.
With a pounding heart and a head full of thoughts, you couldn't sleep, and for restless nights, the calm of your studio was what soothed you.
That's why you were sitting in front of your spinning table with the sleeves of your nightgown rolled up to avoid getting clay on them. Your fingers skillfully opened the stretched mass to soon pull out a cone shape. Humming, you grabbed the wet sponge and gently ran it over the sculpture's edges.
"Can't sleep?"
You jumped at the sudden question and accidentally lost control of the clay, causing it to lose its shape; some splatters of clay flew onto your face and clothes. What a mess.
"I'm sorry, it wasn't my intention to startle you," Azriel said apologetically and walked quickly from the doorway to you. He picked up a clean cloth lying on a countertop and pressed it into your hands.
"It's nothing," you laughed embarrassed and stood up, taking the cloth from his hands and feeling the hindrance of the glove. Moving slightly to the other side of the room, you could breathe better.
Azriel followed you with his eyes, watching you lightly clean your face and discard the cloth on some surface. He lowered his gaze and saw your sculpture undone; if it was something before, it isn't anymore. Azriel frowned, frustrated with himself, it wasn't his intention to disturb you.
"I'm sorry about the piece," his voice resonated in the room, curious; he couldn't help but ask, "what was it?"
Sighing defeated, you let your shoulders slump, and you spoke timidly:
"Wings. Your wings." Just like that, it was like ripping a band-aid off a wound. A grotesque wound and a cloth band-aid.
Wings. Azriel thought somberly; you were sculpting his wings. Swallowing hard, Azriel took a small step toward you but stopped when he heard your soft and delightful voice:
"But I'm sure it doesn't do justice to the real thing; my hands are my eyes, and as I've never touched a wing before..." you stopped before finishing; your eyelashes trembled in the flickering light of the candles.
Azriel held his breath, suffocated by the warm air that lingered in the room. With heavy eyes, he imagined being your guinea pig, your delicate fingers brushing against each tip of his wings. Azriel partially opened his wings as if he could feel your touches passing through them.
The sculpture you were running your fingertips over captured his attention; a small bird resting on a branch. Simple but extraordinary. Not knowing how to behave in a situation like this, you did the first thing that came to your mind.
"You have skillful hands," your hoarse voice was just a whisper in the night's vastness. Azriel looked intensely at your nape; his amber eyes followed your body with devotion as you proudly showed – accidentally – your sculpture.
Your chest warmed with the compliment; at the same time, you felt your hands getting sticky. Your ears caught the heavy sound of his steps, so different from the silent walk before. The heat of his body behind yours sent a shiver up your spine; turning your face to the side, you felt his warm breath reach your cheek.
"Maybe–" he stopped and reorganized his thoughts, clearing his throat; he spoke in a lower voice, "maybe I can help you with the sculpture."
You perked up at the prospect of feeling him without any barrier, turning slightly to him, feeling the weight of his gaze on your face. You opened your lips to speak.
"Am I interrupting something?" Azriel closed his eyes tightly upon hearing Cassian's mocking voice, damn opportunistic bastard.
