Based off of this post about Logan being able to smell when you’re ovulating ❤️
The change is instant, perceptible only to him. There’s no way to put a word to it other than what it is, his nose pointing him towards the hallway where you emerge seconds later, flashing him a smile and a wave.
It’s you, he realizes. You smell different. You smell good.
Good isn’t even enough to describe it—you smell like heaven, like comfort and warmth and everything good in the world—it makes his body tingle, every nerve suddenly alive. You grab his attention tightly, eyes following you with each step as you prance across the kitchen without a care in the world, unaware of how badly you’re affecting him.
But instead of making his desire known, he simply coughs under his breath, hoping to get your attention. “You, uh, trying on a new perfume or something?”
You stop in your tracks, turning towards him again with that pretty little smile on your lips. “Nope,” you say, popping the p as you return to searching for a snack. “Why’d you ask?”
“Just askin’,” he says, making his way towards you and your enthralling scent. So caught up in his senses he doesn’t realize just how badly he’s encroached you, towering behind you while his palms burn with the need to touch you. You jump when you feel Logan against your back, the heat of him radiating against your shirt.
“Uh, Logan? Personal space?”
Your words go ignored, your body stiffening when he leans forward, nosing against your shoulder before taking a deep inhale. You don’t miss the shudder that runs through him, nor do you miss the rumble of excitement that vibrates against you.
“God, you smell good,” he mumbles, pressing himself further against you. His face fully buried into your neck, hands reaching forward to tilt your head how he sees fit before taking another inhale of you. “Better than normal.”
“You saying I usually smell bad?” You joke, a poor attempt to make this interaction any less awkward. It does little to deter him, only earning a warning in the form of his teeth grazing against your neck.
“Not in a joking mood princess,” he huffs. “If I were you, I’d start walking towards the bedroom before I get impatient.”
Your heart beats just that bit faster. “And what would happen if you got impatient?”
The laugh he lets out sends shiver up your spine, his large hand running down towards your hip, thumb rubbing small circles against it. “A bed is more comfortable than a countertop—but I’m not picky.”
warnings: it gets a lil spicy at the end but no smut
a/n: It's been 1000 years since I actually wrote something but I finally finished this stupid drabble bc my brain hates me and doesn't want to write and only wants to play pokopia and minecraft I'm so sorry forgive me sda;k'jf
wc: 1k
The first thing you feel when you open your eyes is a heavy weight on your waist. You let out a quiet groan as you reach down to try and push whatever it is that is pulling you out of your nice warm dreams off. Your half asleep self is confused as you feel a mix of warmth and hair.
Your eyes flutter open, a slight scowl on your face as you start to wake up. The heavy object turns out to be an arm, a very hairy strong arm that has seemed to lock you into place.
Logan.
The memories of last night come flooding back as you lean into his embrace.
A shared bottle of whiskey, a heartfelt exchanging of words, sexual tension that could be felt through the whole damn mansion, and a long hot messy make out session. You remember him picking you up and brining you to his bedroom. Clothes flying everywhere and your shirt did not survive his claws as he shredded it off you. It had actually happened, you hooked up with the man you'd been pining after for years.
You smile tiredly as you thank your past self for finally working up the courage to tell him. In truth you should probably thank the alcohol more but all that really did was give you a boost of confidence. You try and wiggle out but even in his sleep his grip is firm.
"Five more minutes." Logan grumbles in a low voice right in your ear.
It sends shivers right down your spine as you do manage to turn over to face him. His eyes are closed and half his face buried in the pillow. His chest rises and falls softly and the sheet has been kicked down just enough for you to see that he was not wearing much underneath.
You'd never really been this close to Logan before. Most of the time you'd get too nervous to be this close, your crush on the man making it impossible to even focus. He's quite hairy. His hands are softer than you thought too. From this close, the big bad Wolverine didn't seem too scary anymore.
"I know I'm handsome sweetheart but you don't have to stare." Logan says as he opens one eye, smirking when he sees the slightly embarrassed look on your face.
"Gotta admit, I got a pretty nice view too." He says as he shifts to lay on his back, his arm pulling you to lay on his chest.
"Do you have a book of one liners or something?" You ask. His chest rumbles from laughter as he shakes his head.
"Been around a long time, you learn a few things after the first hundred years." His hand gently moves up your back, moving until he can cup your face.
There's this look of pure content on his face. Usually Logan always has a concerned or angry look on his face, honestly you were convinced that was just his natural state. But this was a Logan that you feel honored to see.
"As much as I'd like to stay here, we have that team meeting in 30 minutes." You remind him as you gently pat his chest. His other hand comes to cover it, locking his fingers in yours. He rolls his eyes and grimaces. Logan hates those damn meetings.
"Think I can ditch this one?"
"I'd say yes but you ditched the last three and I think Scott might blow a fuse if you do it again." He smirks, you realize that isn't exactly the motivation for Logan to actually go. In fact you might have just sealed his decision not to go.
"Plus, I would really like some breakfast before." You add and he sighs.
"Fine. Hope you like eggs." He says as he kicks the covers off his bed letting them land in a messily on the ground.
You hate that the warmth leaves you as Logan sits up but you do like the view of his ass as he gets off the bed. Your eyes drifting up as you watch his back move as he reaches for a shirt. Then to his hair. You let out a laugh and Logan turns around with a confused look on his face.
"Something funny?" He asks as he crosses his arms, still standing naked in all his glory.
"No no it's just...you're hair just does that." You rest your head on his pillow and he just looks at you utterly bewildered.
"What?" He asks as he walks over to the mirror.
"The little like, cat ears. I always thought you did something to make it that way."
"Cat ears?" Logan turns his head to the side. He never really thought much about his hair. In fact the man usually runs his fingers through it and calls it a day. No one ever mentioned they think they look like fucking cat ears.
"It's cute." You say with giggle. Logan turns back to you and smirks.
"Oh it's funny to you hm? My cat ears." He purrs as he crawls back into bed.
Gently grabbing your wrists as he pins you to the bed. He grumbles as the sheet gets in his way from seeing and feeling all of you. He takes both your wrists with one hand and throws the sheet far away.
"Keep laughing sweetheart, see where that gets you." He mumbles as he kisses your neck.
"Logan!" You gasp as your eyes flutter shut.
"The meeting remember." You say but it falls on deaf ears.
"Fuck the meeting. If Summers wants me there he can drag me away from you himself." He growls as his hand slides under your back and pulls you to his chest.
"But breakfast." You whine as he lets go of your wrists, sliding down to rest his chin on your stomach. You prop yourself up on your elbows but the grin on his face makes you shiver.
Isn’t totally shitfaced but will feel it in the morning. Who would’ve known he’d be so clumsy in beer pong compared to Johnny and Kyle. He was red to his ears, terribly mumbling the lyrics to some song when he comes home.
“There you- hck- there you are, ‘s the love ‘f my liiife, yeah?” He hiccups, stumbling over to you and wrapping you in his arms with a big ‘oof’ “Bunny ‘nd our bun, yourrr- bloody cutest thing sitting your snack on your stomach.” Simon’ll coo, large hand gently going to the side of your growing belly. Only resting his face deeper into the crook of your neck, the slight weight of him makes you stumble back with a giggle, “Hi to you too.”
“You’re ‘avin your late night snack? Isn’t it time f’ bed yet dove? Need t’ sleep, youuuu,” he ‘boops’ your nose with his finger, “‘nd the baby.”
You laugh again, free fingers entangling themselves in his blonde hair, roots starting to grow a deep brown, “I think we should both get t’ bed, then, yeah? I’ll eat ‘nd you drink some water for me. Hm?”
He swoons at your words, ends of his eyes crinkling as he looks down at you, “I’d love tha dovie.”
And it’s— not easy, nearing the end of your pregnancy and helping a man over 6 feet and 250 pounds to bed. But you manage, listening to his inconsistent rambles as you both sit side by side set at the edge of the bed. Swinging both of your feet along the carpet underneath your toes, comfortably eating the half of bag of chips and skittles you’ve been craving so much lately.
You’ve finally got him sitting on the bed again, having blow dried his hair after he decided he needed to shower randomly, made you stand outside and hold his hand— a bigger and cuter than life, brat. His hands run up the back of your thighs, ear pressed into your belly, hearing the swishes inside. He lets out an incoherent sentence and you only hum as a question.
“ ‘M just- worried. ‘M soooo worried [+] I-I could pass out!” He murmurs, eyes slowly blinking.
“‘S That right?” You can’t help but listen in amusement, ends of your lips turning upward.
“All the time baby, all the time. You ‘nd bun- mean- hck- mean the world t’ me baby- you gotta know. Do you know?” Simon slurs.
You leave a soft peck on his lip, smiling against him, “Yes bubba, I know.”
“Thank you for listenin’. You’re- god you’re the love of my life!” He says again, shocked but all the more in loving. But his face swiftly contorts into a frown, sighing, “Next time- neeeext time I’ll carry the baby for you. Don’t want your body goin- goin through this much stress luv. Fuck me.”
You cock a brow, “And how are you gonna do that Si?”
It takes him a second to digest your words, eyebrows furrowing, gripping your perfect hips, a pout on his pink lips when he looks up at you from the bed, “you don’t believe in our love?”
You can’t help but let out the snort you tried to keep in, “I never said that—“
“—Our love i-is strong enough t’ move bloody mountains! ‘Nd it- it’ll- our love ‘ll give me a baby! I can- I can do it for you bunny. Please, lemme do it for ya. Please [+], then we can share.”
He looks at you with such pretty big eyes, low and red and clearly drunk out of his mind but he’s so sweet and caring for you. Can’t only think about you, you his darling girl.
“Sure man, what the hell.”
The big British man sighs in relief, gently tugging you inside bed ao you can lay on your side, “Think twins ‘d be nice.”
You can’t help the loud laughter you let out, legs tangling with his, “I-I’ll try my best!”
Simon wakes up in the morning, head pounding so loud he can just barely push himself out of bed, wondering why you’re suddenly looking up when male pregnancy will be available.
pairing: professor!james potter x professor!reader
summary: all the kids at hogwarts can tell that you and professor potter are close, but apparently they're not smart enough to deduct that you've been together for longer than some of them have been in school
wc: 2.5k
cw: fluff, nosy students, it's all pretty domestic, i made reader a greengrass because i didn't want to use 'l/n' but it's not relevant to the story at all lol
“Hold on Professor Potter!” The students standing outside your classroom all perk up at the sound of your voice as Professor Potter walks out of the classroom. He doesn’t pay any of the students attention, but they’re all staring as you walk out to join your fellow Professor, calling out “Can’t teach a defense class without a wand, can you?” Someone giggles as you hold James’s wand out for him, and he chuckles quietly as he takes it from you, spinning it in his fingers for a short moment. “You’d be surprised what I can do, Professor.” He responds, and you raise your eyebrows as he walks away.
Turning your gaze to your students, you easily dismiss their curious gazes as you step by your open door. “Come in.” You easily say, and all of a sudden 25 teenagers are running past you to claim their seats in your classroom. You stay outside for a second longer, watching as James crosses the hallway to enter his classroom. He glances back once, and you smile softly at him before turning towards your classroom, missing the beautiful grin he shoots you.
James smoothes down the front of his shirt before walking into his classroom, and his students turn towards him as he walks between the rows of desks towards his own desk and the blackboard. He takes a seat on his desk, looking at the dozens of eyes that stare at him.
“Why are you late Professor? Busy flirting with a certain transfigurations Professor?” Someone asks, and James promptly ignores the question, though he can’t help the laugh he lets out when someone retorts with “Why would he flirt with Professor McGonagall!?”
“Right, I’m going to let you use today’s lesson as practice for your assessment next week. Make sure you can cast all your spells, if you have any trouble, just come ask. Any questions before I let you loose?”
Five separate hands shoot up at the end of James’s sentence. He nods his head towards a student wearing thick rimmed glasses “Yeah, Thomas?”
Thomas giggles quietly, and James shuts his eyes softly, already predicting the nature of the question. “While we practice our spells, are you going to flirt with Professor Greengrass?”
“Lucas?” James calls out to another student with his hand up, pointedly ignoring Thomas’s question.
“If I’m confident in all my spells for this class but not for transfigurations, could I call Professor Greengrass to help?” Lucas’s desk mate fist bumps him as subtly as he can, but James catches the movement and rolls his eyes, turning around to sit at his chair so the students can’t see the way he smothers his smile when his back is turned to them.
Of course, James isn’t necessarily going to be upset about the students shipping you together. After all, he does like you. A lot. Maybe more than you even know. But this isn’t any of their business, and no matter how much he wants to leave his class to go and continue his conversation with you, he needs to be professional with his students. His students, who are much too young to know what flirting even means.
“Does anyone have a question unrelated to Professor Greengrass?” James asks his class of second years, running a hand down his face when he sees the last three hands drop. “Alright, up you go, let me move the desks.” The students scramble off their seats and James waves his hand to move all the desks aside at once, creating a large space for the students to work with.
James sighs to himself, opening a drawer to begin marking student essays that he had brought down from his office this morning. It’s a relatively slow class, and he’s happy to get the time to mark the last of his fourth years’ essays, who have class with him immediately after the younger ones. He’s not the one to tell his kids when class is over, but they call out to him, asking if they can leave. Someone even says they want to try to rush to the great hall for a snack because they woke up too late for breakfast.
James rushes out of his classroom with his kids, getting on his tiptoes to look for you across the crowd of students in the hallway. A tap on his shoulder startles him, and James laughs at himself when he turns to find you standing right by his side. He nods to his classroom, and the two of you sit on a pair of desks not too far into the room, but just enough to be out of earshot for anyone in the corridor.
“Want to get lunch in Hogsmeade today?” James asks, smiling as he pushes his glasses up his nose. You tilt your head to the side, smiling softly. “Lunch in Hogsmeade? Is there a special occasion I’m not aware of?”
“A lunch date with your husband isn’t special enough?” You grin, pushing yourself off the desk as you look back, taking a quick glimpse to see if James’s students are outside yet. “Just want to spoil my lovely wife.” He continues, and you reach towards him before letting your hand drop by your side. You could kiss him so hard right now. “Lunch in Hogsmeade sounds absolutely divine. Pick me up from my classroom?”
“Of course, darling.”
As you leave his room, a few students perk up, teasingly calling out “Hi Professor Greengrass.” You wonder if the teasing from the students wouldn’t have been so aggressive if they knew you were married to James, but you’re sure the sudden change of your last name would have brought just as many — if not more — questions.
But despite the delicious lunch you have with your husband, and despite getting to walk home with him at the end of the night before meeting your friends, you always end up back at Hogwarts. That’s not to say you don’t love the magical castle – after all, you returned after spending seven years here as kids — but the students always choose to fixate on a certain topic every couple of weeks or so. But it seems that since the beginning of the year, they’ve all been fixated on your relationship with Professor Potter.
Today, it’s two of your seventh years who enter your office too early in the morning, bringing you a warm pastry from the kitchen as an early apology for the assault they’re about to set on you.
“So we saw something really interesting yesterday.” One of your students begins, caressing her long brown hair in one hand as she looks over to her friend.
“Are you planning on elaborating, Freya, or should I guess?” Freya smiles widely, as though you’ve fallen for her bait, and she shrugs. “If you’re not, I’ll take the time to point out that you’re not in uniform.” Freya rolls her eyes and you grin widely as she groans “I don’t have class today though, and I have quidditch practice soon.”
“And the ravenclaw hoodie is technically uniform.” Pipes in Eli, bringing a hand up to play with the silver hoop that hands from his earlobe.
“Anyway, Eli and I were going down to Hogsmeade yesterday, and we saw you and Professor Potter walking together.”
You squint your eyes, leaning back into your chair and crossing one leg over the other as you detail “So you were at Hogsmeade past curfew last night is what I’m hearing?” Though you really don’t care, fully knowing you weren’t in the common room in time for curfew a single day in your last two years at Hogwards, both Freya and Eli have received a detention from you in the past. Yes, it was in third year, and yes it was because they got into a physical fight with each other, but they still aren’t sure how strict you are.
“No, no,” Eli begins, narrowing his eyes as he thinks deeply, finding words to save both him and Freya “It was definitely before curfew, because we were worried about making it back to the common room in time. Barely made it.” Eli and Freya both break into sheepish smiles when you raise your eyebrows, cheeks flexing with the amused smile that makes its way onto your face. “That’s interesting, because I definitely left the castle at 10 o’clock yesterday, starving and only having marked half your papers.”
Eli swallows thickly, shaking his head. “No, I don’t think that’s right.”
Your loud laugh relieves them or any stress they’re still harbouring. “Okay, you saw James and I at Hogsmeade. And?” Freya tilts her head to the side, the sharp lines of her face creating an intimidating picture for you if you weren’t her professor. “And you guys are definitely dating. Right?”
A shake of her head rejects her take. “No, we’re not dating.”
“Are you serious?” Eli asks, dragging a chair out from the closest desk and slumping down on it. “Then why were you guys walking together in Hogsmeade? It’s like you were walking home together or something.”
You smirk, shrugging lightly as you say “I don’t know what’s so odd about me walking home with my husband.” The two students in front of you gasp loudly, and Freya reaches over to put both hands flat on your desk as she stares into your face. “Are you serious!? Oh my god, I knew it - how long!?”
The door to your office slams open and then immediately closed as another person enters the room, and you breathe out a laugh as James enters the room, not caring that two of your students are there. Perhaps he doesn’t care because it’s these particular students who have managed to steal both your hearts, but he walks right over to you as Freya and Eli stare at him with mouths agape.
“You’re married!?” Eli asks James, who waves a hand in dismissal, sitting on your desk and asking “Did you fill out that form- wait you told them?”
“Uh-huh, just now. What about that form?” James blinks quickly, trying to find his words again, but he shakes his head, still stuck onto this topic. “Does that mean you can start going as Professor Potter now? You don’t know how sad it makes me every time I hear someone call you Professor Greengrass.”
Behind James, Eli and Freya shoot each other a wide-eyed stare. Eli runs a hand over one side of his face in an attempt to wipe off the ridiculous smile he’s wearing, but he can’t when you and James are speaking more casually than he’s ever seen before. He’s honoured, because he knows if it were anyone else — if that door weren’t shut — neither you or James would be looking at each other the way you are right now.
Freya doesn’t care about the forms you’re discussing, but she does care about the way James’s eyes so carefully glide over your features, and the pet name he slips into the conversation, so happy to be able to use them. Fuck the professionalism you had chosen over students learning about your relationship because James has always been one to flaunt the fact that you were his.
James hops off your desk, mumbling “I’m gonna do something so crazy.” You don’t have time to furrow your eyebrows before he’s leaning over your desk and pressing his lips to yours and running out of your office, calling out “Good luck on the game, we’re supporting Ravenclaw tonight!” and leaving you to handle the consequences with your students. Freya doesn’t even thank James with how stunned at the news she is. You awkwardly purse your lips as both Eli and Freya’s faces break out into joyful grins.
“Look, I don’t care who in your year group learns about this, but the last thing I need are first years coming into class tomorrow asking questions.” Freya and Eli nod in unison, and you wave a hand in the air to move them on to the next topic.
“I have a thousand questions.” Freya tells you factually, and you laugh as you nod.
“Any chance you can save the questions for Professor Potter?”
“No, we like you more.” Eli says, and you laugh loudly, nodding okay.
“Okay, how long have you dated and how long have you been married for, and who was at your wedding and why weren’t we invited? And-”
“Let her answer those first.” Eli mumbles, eyes widening when you stand up suddenly, grabbing some papers.
“I have class now.” You announce, walking away from them and hoping they don’t realise it’s halfway through the hour. You beeline towards James’s office, breaking into a run when you’re out of your office so you can get as far from Freya and Eli as possible in the shortest amount of time. You don’t knock before entering James’s office, shutting the door behind you and locking it.
He looks up at you from his desk, smiling boyishly as you round his desk and take a seat in his lap. “Why would you do that to me?” You whine, and James places a hand on your thigh, squeezing you softly. “You’re the one who told them, and I didn’t want to deal with the conversation.”
You huff unhappily, but a big hand grips your jaw, pulling your face towards his. You make a small sound when James’s lips land on yours, but he pulls away quickly, muttering “Gosh, those two would have a stroke if they found out we’ve been together since their second year.”
“If you think that’ll give them a stroke, how do you think they’ll react when they find out I’m pregnant?”
James hums, the hand on your thigh trailing up to rest on your stomach. “It won’t be long ‘till you start showing, we’ll just wait and see.” You press your lips to James’s once more, licking your lips as you ask “Can we leave early today? No reason to stay here marking papers until late.”
“May I remind you that you’re the one who insisted on staying here late last night to mark papers?”
“So that’s a yes?” James chuckles, nodding his head, and you kiss his cheek in thank you. “Can I crash here until my next class?” James tightens his arm around your waist, muttering “You better stay here.”
“Okay nice, so I can ask for your opinion on Remus’s birthday gift?”
James nods, closing his bottle of ink and pushing his students’ essays aside to give you a hundred percent of his attention.
“Ask away. I already told Sirius I’d bake the cake.”
Ghost knows you are his soulmate in the sense he's aware the scars on your skin are the same as his, born of petals and vines in the way all soul injuries are.
It never really registers to him that you have always been his soulmate until you take your shirt off in front of him.
"Christ, love..." bare knuckles skim down your spine, and you pause so he can smooth rough palms along the raised surface. Like a topographic map of his trauma. ghost remembers them clearly, hands chained above his head, forced to count the lashes. "I'm sorry. I know it hurt."
You turn just enough to meet ghosts eye with a soft smile, that gentle sort of grief taking over when you reassure "it's okay. I hardly remember it, spent most of the time under anesthesia."
You don't mention all the other times your skin has split open with flowers and blood pouring out. You don't need to, when it's obvious ghost is running through every injury he's ever had.
Slow, ghost traces the injuries of simon further back, all the way to childhood. There's a scar under your left ear from the toy car Tommy threw at him while playing. Ghost kisses it instead of thinking about what it was like for you when his dad—
"Hey. Stop that." You pinch his cheek with a frown, and get a grumpy huff in response. "I can feel you tearing yourself up over there, stop it."
"I don't have any from you." Ghost frowns.
You smile, crawl into his lap, "keep moving the furniture on me and I'm sure you'll get a nice rose when I bust my knees open one night."
"Never said it was a bad thing," ghost kisses the corner of your mouth and settles you both into the soft duvet "you don't deserve anymore hurt."
Ghost keeps thinking about it late into the night while you sleep. He tries to imagine you in a hospital gown, surrounded by petals.
You never deserved simon as your soulmate.
Not when all he can do is spit up bloody clumps of roses and lavender while his team work to find you. Every new wound opening on his skin a reminder that those bastards still have you. All because you were cursed to be the soulmate of ghost.
You never deserved to have ghost as your soulmate. It is a death sentence.
thinking about frank castle with a girl who’s just so shy…
One of Franks favorite things in the whole world is your giggle. When you get all shy and embarrassed and giddy and bashful and he calls you out on it, every single time, you’ll hide your face and giggle your sweet little giggle.
You’d do it now if he were to wake you up, but that’s the last thing he’d ever think of doing. Your eyes blink open anyways, though, and he watches you rub them with a sleepy little groan. Your breath hitches and your head turns when his big fingers push your messy hair off your forehead.
“Mornin’ pretty girl,”
You smile, bashful and still half asleep, while you wrap around his bare chest. He’s always so warm and his heartbeat pumping in your ear has you lulling back to sleep.
“Tired?” His voice murmurs while he drags a paw over your cheek. You nod against him, snuggling closer. “Yeah, baby? I tire you out, huh?”
There it is.
You whine his name, covered by giggles, while stuffing your face into the crevice between his arm and stomach, embarrassed like he hasn’t had you worn out and out of breath, laying in bed with legs you didn’t know could shake that much.
“Oh,” He laughs, grinning down at you. “Ain’t gotta be embarrassed. Just me, just your man.”
His hands cup your head and pry you out of hiding.
“Just your Frankie.” Then, just to see you flush again, while his fingers hold your jaw and sweep over your face he adds, quiet and soft, “Look so pretty all flushed, no reason to hide fr’m me. Think I had you lookin’ a lot worse for wear last night, this ain’t nothin’ to be blushin’ ‘bout.”
“Frank!” You repeat, rolling over to the other side of the bed while your hands cover your face and the smile that you can’t force away.
“Baby,” He chases after you, chastising you with puppy-dog eyes and an ear-to-ear grin. “C’mon,”
“You’re dirty, Frank,” You let him push you back against his side anyways.
“Oh, am I? Am I, my dirty girl?” He’s murmuring down at you, holding you close and tight enough that there’s no where else to hide. “Gets so shy, like she ain’t just as nasty, my sweet, dirty baby.”
“Frank,” You whine once more, quieter, and maybe just a little bit needy. It’s his fault; he can’t talk like that and expect nothing! He grins again, delivering a swift and forceful kiss to your lips.
“There she is,” He pulls back, holding you against his chest. “My girl already wantin’ some more from me?”
“Frank!” His laughter bellows through the small bedroom. God, there isn’t anything that he loves more than this.
—your concussion causes moderate memory loss, and you forget some very important details about your relationship with Remus. fem, 1.3k
“This is nice.”
You toy with the ring on Remus’ finger, turning it around and around and around. With your weight bearing down on his right arm and your hand secured around his left to stop him from moving, there isn’t much he can do besides say, “Yeah?”
“I love when guys wear rings.”
“I had a suspicion.”
You wince as stars flash through your vision, pausing in your toying to press your face into his chest.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I can see black and white spots.”
“Oh, no,” he says sympathetically. “Close them, dovey. Take a breather.”
The chair under you is uncomfortable, your back aches, your head twinges, but Remus is comfortable to lean again. He’s wearing one of his big hoodies, old enough to feel like brushed cotton under your cheek and against your nose, decals washed away. He steals his hand back to pat your shoulder, an image of patience.
“Sorry. This isn’t a good second date.”
Remus leans down to talk near your ear. “Dove,” he whispers, “this isn’t our second date, remember?”
“It’s not?”
“No, sweetheart. But that’s okay.”
“You’re really handsome so I don’t want to mess it up.”
“Mess what up, the date?” he asks. “You didn’t mess it up, it went very well. It was a year ago, but.” He smiles, his breath warming your face, his arm hot around you and securing you to his chest.
“A year ago?”
“Yeah, a year ago. We went to winter wonderland and the bookshop by the train station and you wouldn’t let me buy you any books.” He laughs softly. “But I got you one eventually. A couple by now, at least.”
“That’s nice.”
“You’ve bought me a hundred more, it’s awful.”
You raise your head to squint at him. “I have?”
“So many,” he whispers, dipping his chin down to kiss your nose, to your wide-eyed delight. “But you let me look after you in other ways.”
“Let you?”
“Yes, let me. It’s part of…” He cups your cheek quickly. “Sickness and health and everything. I have to keep you happy.”
“Ah.” His ring is warm on your cheek. “Sickness and health, like we’re married.”
“Something like that.”
You straighten up as someone behind you coughs aggressively. A little further down a baby cries against a mother’s chest, and the TV plays a quiz show you’re starting to hate. Moving your head has black haunting the sides of your vision again, the light seeping in from the automatic doors too much to handle.
“I’ve asked Sirius to bring you some sunglasses.”
You turn around. “Sirius, that’s the one with the motorbike?”
“Yeah. He should be quick. But maybe they’ll have called you in again by then and we can go home.”
That’s right. You’ve been seen once by a doctor for triage, and sent back out again when they deemed you only mildly concussed, no bleeding on the brain, but an X-ray ordered for safety's sake anyways. That’s what you’re waiting for. Remus is waiting with you, because he’s a very nice man.
“Sorry if I’m ruining your Saturday.”
Remus’ hair falls from behind his ear as he lifts his head properly. “I think you might be having a worse day than me, so I’ll forgive you. I'm joking!” He tucks that stray strand behind his ear unsuccessfully. “You could never ruin my Saturday. I’d spend the entire bank holiday weekend in here with you, I only want them to look after you so I can finish the job.”
Heat like a kiss on each cheek. You bring your hand to your nose, overwhelmed. “Really?”
“We spend a lot of time together, sweetheart. I know you don’t remember right now, but I love you.”
“You do?”
“Don’t tell me you can’t feel that.”
You look at him with the sunshine caressing the side of his face, his three mean scars and his scattered beauty spots. He has thick eyebrows, light brown eyes in the sun like honeyed tea, and a playful smile. More frown lines than smile lines, but the beginnings of crows feet speaks to some joy, at least. You bring your thumb up to a small wrinkle and stroke it, before tucking his hair behind his ear. It’s too short to stay put for long.
“I love you,” you say surely. You do, even if you can’t remember more than your first date.
He’s a good kisser, you remember. He’d pulled you back from your door and kissed you like you’d stolen the breath straight from his lungs.
“I know.” He brings your hand from his ear to kiss. Gentle, he strokes your knuckles, his thumb turning a golden ring where it sits on your marriage finger.
“It’s really like we’re married, we have matching rings,” you laugh.
He holds his hand up between you. “We are married, lovely girl.”
You steal your hand back. He waits without hurry, though a line of concern marks his brow. “Are we? When did we get married?”
“Only a few days ago, but we’re married. This wasn’t on the honeymoon agenda.”
He takes your hand with care and shows you the gold ring on your marriage finger to match his own, aligning your hands. The colour hadn’t seemed important a moment ago, nor the placement, but now you’re seeing them you realise you’d made a small misjudgement. It’s not like you’re married at all, you simply are.
You frown. The way he’s holding your hand feels familiar, though the idea that you’re married is preposterous. You can’t remember any ceremony or reception, a proposal, nothing. There’s simply blank space there, which isn’t very nice. But…
You’re not scared. You haven’t been worried once all day.
“You have a concussion,” he says quietly, practised, like he’s said it to you before. “And it’s resulted in some amnesia, but it’s going to get better very soon.”
“We’re definitely married?”
“Unless you’ve changed your mind.”
“I don’t want to change my mind.” You fluster quickly with what you’ve said, looking down at the hospital’s linoleum flooring.
Remus takes your hand where it lays on your thigh and squeezes it. A thread of memory tugs at the touch; you remember this. His tender concern. His constant support.
“Then you don’t have to. Whether you remember me or not, I’m here to look after you, okay? I’m right here.”
You nod without looking up. His hand knows yours no matter what you remember, rubbing at all the best parts, holding with the perfect amount of pressure.
“You okay?”
“I guess our second date really did go well.”
“Better than I could ever explain.” He tugs at your hand until you look at him, his head already ducked to keep you pinned by his gaze. “You’re like my shy girl all over again. I forgot how nervous you used to get.”
You can see the Remus who became your husband and the one who scared butterflies into action every time he looked at you coalescing. “You’re really good-looking,” you explain.
“And what do you think you are?” He rubs your hand. “You’re beautiful. Can I have a kiss, dove? Is that okay?”
You squeeze your eyes closed. You’d been fighting stars in your eyes anyways.
When Remus kisses you, your body responds to his touch like it knows him. Your heart thuds against your ribs, your lips know exactly how to move and when he’s going to turn his head. Love for him shines through it. His love for you makes your chest hurt, his chaste kissing like a straight shot of oxytocin. All your worry saps away.
“Feel any better?” he asks knowingly.
You remember enough about his teasing to withhold an answer. He kisses your cheek, his smile unmissable on your skin.
“I need no ribbon bound about my lance to remember whom I fight for.” + maekar PUHLEASEEEEE
SAY NO MORE QUEEN
taken from this prompt list
It was a pointless argument in his eyes.
Pointless, and exhausting, and all Maekar longed for was his bed, preferably with you in it, and free of the infernal contraptions you deemed suitable clothing. Instead, you fluttered about, tidying his study, returning books to shelves, rerolling velum and parchment, in a concentrated effort to appear calm.
He snorted into his hand as he leaned back into his seat. Observed the velvet that hoisted your hair up elegantly, the edges stitched with gold.
"I need no ribbon bound about my lance to remember whom I fight for," he remarked drolly. "It's the foolery of knights and girls who mistake it for courtship."
"Does courtship end at marriage?”
“Is that not how it goes?” he remarked in feigned interest. “My noble brother had taught me otherwise."
“Then perhaps I will give it to someone with more interest in gaining my favour."
The crackle of the hearth stole the moment's pause it took for Maekar to understand what you had said. He pushed himself upright onto his seat as you perched yourself at the hearth, your back to him. An insolent display. His blood simmered when you made no move to comfort him.
It seemed their marriage had taught you well to suffer his hard lapses of silence too well.
When, at last, it nearly became unbearable, he said, "You shall do no such thing."
"Are you so ashamed of me you think no other man would want it?" You scooped up the poker from where it laid unused and flicked hair out of your eyes.
"Ashamed?" he repeated, setting down his goblet with a hard thunk. The water sloshed over the side and he rubbed the side of his hand against his jerkin distastefully. "You are my lady wife. Gods be damned, why would I ever be ashamed for it?”
“Perhaps my youth and naivety. Our lack of children. My dead husband, murdered at the Red Grass, so too must I be a traitor. It is a hundred thousand things the court has whispered of which you have closed your ears to but I cannot!" You simpered. Though he could not see your face, he knew. "Oh, how sad Prince Maekar must be married to this simple girl but her dowry is well worth his miserable wedded life. The Redwyne fleet now owes its allegiance to the crown.”
“All nonsense,” he dismissed as you tossed a branch into the fire.
"The gods know it is not a lie," you said. And then, your noble head tilted downwards as you stared into your lap. "But it is not them I wish you would show your devotion to."
A discomforting twinge came to him then. You let out a quiet exhale, then resolved yourself to your task once more, proud and stiff-lipped and horribly beautiful. The last was, perhaps, the one thing Maekar had consoled himself with when he had arrived to greet his new bride, no matter how shallow it seemed. You put the Maiden to shame every morning, without effort, no matter the gnarled mess of your hair or the puffiness you complained about in your jaw and cheeks.
Yet now, three years reacquainted with wedded life, he knew how truly terrible you could be: the cantankerousness when your moon's blood was about, the tight nip of your nails into his arms when you spotted cats strolling along the battlements, the curve of your lips as you coaxed him between your legs, and the sharp bite of your voice when you rose to argue with him with written arguments and researched defenses.
Never would you bow to a dragon, you had declared. But a husband should bow to his wife.
Softly, and barely heard above the crackling fire: "Do you wish it? Truly."
"Have I ever wanted much from you?" You stabbed into the fire, and a log splintered beneath your iron tongs. "It's one silly little ribbon. I do not know why that is so hard."
He sighed and rose, striding silently across the study to your turned back. "It is not." He placed his hands upon your shoulders and bent to kiss your crown.
You reached up to touch his fingers, and he held onto you tighter. Twisting to look up at him, your face softened. He could not resist himself. He touched your chin, your lips. How perfectly sculpted. Too wonderful for a battle-hardened and bitter man such as him.
You never wanted for much, it was true. Only, something as simple as...
"I had thought," he said slowly, carefully, "that you had no reason to doubt my love for you. For that... I apologize."
"It is only sometimes," you whispered. "And almost never."
"Let it be never. I wish to be done with all this bother."
And to that, you laughed. "How unfortunate for you to be stuck with me, then."
If Maekar nuzzled deeper into your cheek at the thought, he would never admit it.
Of course, the morning came and saw Prince Maekar the Anvil mounted on his noble steed. The sun barely broke the horizon as he armed himself with his lance—pure and dark and obsidian black—before adjusting his shield along his forearm. He fixed his gauntlets, checked the visor of his helm.
Then, the horn sounded and he was off down the list, with a long ribbon fluttering in the wind.
“ici minou, minou…” remy called teasingly, padding down the hall leisurely. he passed by an ajar bedroom, barely catching a glimpse of a student sprawled under the sheets.
this was a game the two of you played often.
“i like to keep you guessin’,” you smiled, kissing his cheek before rushing off to hide. “remy’s a real good guesser,” he mused after finding you, carrying you to the kitchen so he could start on dinner for everyone.
he paused, those captivating eyes of his shifting to the common room. he stepped inside, sending a nod toward kurt, who was busy playing a round of pool with logan. “hello, remy!” he greeted, tail whisking around, “once again looking for your bride?”
“je suis,” he smirked, winking at the furry fellow before confirming you weren’t here, “she come through here?”
“that is a secret, my friend,” kurt pocketed the striped 10, earning a dead glare from logan. remy hummed, sending a casual wave as he left. he strolled down the halls, shuffling a deck of cards as he went. you hid in the common area two days ago, so he knew it would be a waste of time to check.
but, remy knew you would circle back if he did check.
he stepped into his room, a full loop from where the game had begun. he closed the door behind him, leaning against it with a playful grin. his arms crossed, biceps fully visible due to the black tank top he wore. his jeans hung low on his hips, crimson hair tousled with the top section messily tied back.
a barely visible line of skin peeked from under his tank top, revealing that happy trail he kept for your satisfaction.
“don’t need t’see ya t’know yer just ooglin’ at me, chère,” remy tilted his head, and you sunk further into his closet, “petit…”
you heard his footsteps near his wardrobe, hugging your knees when he knelt inside. crimson irises encased by black sclera landed on you, utterly sure and confident. remy feigned confusion, reaching a hand out.
you giggled when his hand playfully kept changing places on your invisible figure, reappearing before his eyes. “gardez donc,” he closed the gap between the two of you, lips pressing to yours, “remy wins.”
“you always win,” you groaned, letting him help you get out of the space. he simply thought for a moment, smiling as he shrugged, “gots me a sixth sense for ya, chère. ain’t possible for ya to hide from remy.”
“one day,” you pointed at him, eyes narrowed in a way that made him laugh, “one day you won’t find me.”
“sounds cruel,” remy’s hands slid along your waist, fingers dipping beneath your shirt and tracing shapes into your skin, “can’t say i want ‘dat day to come, darlin’.” you smiled shyly, and your adorably nervous demeanor elicited an utterly smitten chuckle from remy.
“oh!” you perked up, making him look at you patiently. you wiggled from his arms, running over to the dresser. he sat on the bed as you dug through the drawers, pulling out a small box and returning to him. you tried to sit next to him, but he simply tugged you to sit on his lap.
“like you close,” remy muttered, gently nudging you closer, “ça c’est bon.”
“went shopping with jeanie today, and i found this,” you offered him the box, “thought of you.”
he smiled warmly, scooting himself back so he could lean against the wall. you watched, biting your lip anxiously as his deft fingers lifted the chain. it was thin, thin enough that it wouldn’t be clunky or in the way.
the small charms made him pause.
a tiny silver ace of spades, your initial, and a little steel diamond.
“you ain’t just find ‘dis,” remy’s eyes flicked up to you, heart melting when he seen you deflate a little. “no…” you sheepishly looked away, “this is so embarrassing.”
“why’s ’dat?” he grinned, “mon douce femme, remy done got himself a winnin’ hand wit’you, huh?”
“don’t flatter yourself,” you muttered, leaning against his chest. he didn’t continue in his teasing, opting to admire the necklace you’d made for him. his thumb fondly pressed against your initial, chest warm at the thought of wearing it.
“will ya put it on me?”
you pulled back, carefully taking the chain from him. you fiddled with the clasp, the most secure one you could find, reaching around him. remy’s eyes were in line with your chest, and his lips curled up lazily:
“now ‘das a good view.”
“pervert,” you grumbled, arms leaving from the breadth of his shoulders. you couldn’t climb off him, the weight of his hands on your thighs keeping you pinned to his lap. “how does remy look, chère?” he loosely traced hearts along your thigh with his index finger, “does it compliment ‘dis mug?”
“compliments your ego.”
“ouch.”
he watched you as your fingers coiled around the chain, the charms clinking against each other. the corners of your lips quirked into a pleased, giddy little smile, one that made remy tilt his head forward and kiss you.
“you’re cute. feelin’ possessive?”
you nodded unconsciously, ignoring the way warmth pooled behind your cheeks and the heat that wafted off him. “remy ought t’get his belle somethin’ pretty,” he whispered mostly to himself. you shook your head, shifting your weight. he allowed it, adjusting when you moved to sit sideways on his lap. his thighs served as a comfortable frame, one pressed against your lower back and the other tucked under your legs.
he noted the way you’d sleepily curled into him, reaching over to grab a blanket he kept near his pillows. remy draped it over you, kissing your hairline.
“je t’aime,” he felt your hands weakly hold the front of his shirt, “in life and death.”
“i love you, too, remy—but you can’t love me when you’re dead,” you mumbled, feeling his grip on you tighten almost defensively. his eyes lifted to the mirror nearby, barely a glance before they returned to you. he gently tucked hair behind your hair, missing the way his reflection kept staring at him—the way his colors faded to gray, the way your barely visible hands grew bloody.
“regarde moi.”
remy’s room was cold.
an absence of everything he used to be.
it used to be warm, a candle beneath the lamp burning at all times, his coat draped on the closet hook. his staff near the bed, cards strewn everywhere—
your hand lifted, fingers curling around the thin chain around your neck. you felt the R, pressing your thumb into it long enough to leave an indentation in your skin.
now it was gone. empty. a void of a room that used to wear remy’s life as a skin.
you closed the door, hands trembling as you walked away. the wound was still fresh, raw near the center and tender around the edges. it had barely begun to heal, but your constant shifting and inability to keep going left it open.
you stopped near the common area, spotting rogue and xavier and the others around a table, cards and chips in front of them.
they’d began to heal.
they were healing, celebrating remy in the ways that were easy. involving him even when his body was so far away, even when the world still hated mutants and there was still work to do. your eyes fell to the ground.
you kept walking.
the elevator hummed softly as it ascended, hissing open and revealing the open skies. scott despised when you did this, and for a while you’d halfheartedly agreed to sit somewhere else—but right now, you really needed your favorite spot.
you sat on the edge, legs under the bar as your crossed arms held your head. your cheek smushed against your sleeves, legs swaying in the wind. you watched the sea roll, the waves dance beneath the moon’s embrace.
a barely noticeable clink made you glance down.
three industrial locks, all golden and worn with weather. you reached for them.
jean + scott
jubi! sun
then, your name and the scratched metal where remy’s name used to be, worn away by time and weather.
your hands coiled tightly around the lock, shields blooming in your palms. you watched the lock crumble, puffs of dust and metal blowing away. you dismissed the tears falling down your cheeks, staring at the moon.
soft footsteps made you tense, your figure disappearing in the blink of an eye.
“i didn’t mean t’scare ya, sugar,” rogue murmured, walking over and sitting with you. you stared at her, her bare arms draping over the railing and her eyes sparkling under the stars.
“will you do somethin’ for me?” she then asked, smiling softly when you reappeared next to her. you looked at her expectantly, and she opened her arms.
rogue adored you, just as you adored her.
she’d connected with you easily, grateful your shields could conceal your skin from her life-threatening mutation. she hugged you, chin propping atop your head. your arms circled her, weak and defeated.
“had t’stop scotty from comin’ up here ‘n givin’ you a hard time,” she mused, “knew you’d be sittin’ here.”
you thanked her quietly, and if she noticed the missing lock from the bar, she didn’t acknowledge it. you separated, resuming your earlier position of rest on the bar. rogue was silent, simply allowing her presence to comfort you. to let you know that she was there.
“remy used to sit here with me,” you muttered, his name heavy on your tongue, the syllables constricting your throat, “when it got too loud.”
“he still does, sugar.”
“he’s probably playin’ poker with the devil,” you laughed, a sad pitiful sound, “and winnin’, too.”
rogue nodded, a smile playing on her lips. her gloved hand lifted to rub your back. her brows knit together suddenly, her hand freezing in its place on your spine.
“we expectin’ someone?”
you lifted your head, eyes scanning the sky. you frowned at a large aircraft rapidly nearing the barrier, and alarms began to blare inside before you could reply. you covered your ears, letting rogue pull you from the bars. the rooftop elevator door hissed open, revealing the rest of the x-men.
“it’s the x-force,” scott said to you and rogue, barely able to catch a glimpse of your reddened eyes and frown before you disappeared. they waited for the aircraft to land, and your hands wrung together anxiously.
jubilee thumped down the runway, a solemn expression on her face.
“where’s null?” the girl asked rogue quietly, eyes shining with worry and dread. you approached, unmoving when jubilee flinched at your sudden presence. “i hate when you do that,” she grumbled, reaching in her pocket, “there’s…something you should see.” she held out her hand.
you stared.
queen of hearts.
your chest constricted, your mutation flickering wildly. rogue tried to reach for you, to stabilize you, but her fingers drifted into the air. her arm fell in defeat, faintly hearing your footsteps retreating and your quickened breathing.
you stumbled into the powder room of the rooftop, red eyes glaring into the mirror. you gasped when you seen him behind you, gray skin and pale hair, a horrifying reflection of the warm man who’d fed you gumbo from the pot a few weeks ago.
his cold hand gripped your jaw, lips peeling back into a grin so alive it made you sick:
“regarde moi.”
reflective shards crashed to the ground as you slid down the wall, hands over your ears and face buried in your knees. you sobbed and sobbed until the door burst open, panicked voices trying to get through to you.
“null, null—honey,” kurt’s hands pressed against your shield, a bubble of safety around your vulnerable form, “come on, my dear. it is alright.” he felt the shield throb beneath his palms, the surface weakening enough for him to push through. he swept you up swiftly, keeping you and himself safe from the shattered mirror.
you wept out apologies, embarrassed and mortified at how weak you were. kurt’s hand smoothed over your hair, sending scornful stares at anyone who looked too long.
you held onto him tighter at the sight of apocalypse’s corpse, mutilated in the way you had only seen in movies. rotted bones, scraps of flesh, an endoskeleton of a beast that once reigned dominantly.
“did remy do that?” you brokenly whispered.
“we do not know, sister,” kurt replied evenly, but you could hear the apprehension and the way he didn’t even believe his own words.
“we do not know.”
the tattered queen of hearts laid next to your glass of water, the burnt circles a perfect pattern of how remy dealt his cards. you pushed it away with a flick of your finger, ignoring the way scott worriedly examined you before redirecting his attention back to the scanner in front of him.
“gambit is our priority. he needs to be recovered quickly and quietly,” he said, firm and commandeering, “the last thing we want on our asses is x-factor and mech sentinels.” the water in your glass rippled, and you looked up.
the scanner began to beep rapidly.
kurt quickly grabbed you, apologetic eyes meeting yours. it was established earlier, the grand plan you had absolutely no faith in.
gambit wouldn’t come alone, that was a fact.
rogue was tasked with finding him, using her powers to purge the evil spirit within gambit, and the rest of you would buy her time.
except you.
you would not fight, you would defend. in a puff of purple and black, kurt deposited you in a prepared sanctuary. here, you would shield the aircraft and your comrades.
and you were content with that.
“good luck, dear,” kurt lovingly hugged you before disappearing. you placed your hands on the cold floor, the gentle thrum of your mutation coating the aircraft like a second skin. rogue could only briefly marvel at the rainbow sheen that clung to her skin, rushing off to locate gambit.
the end of the aircraft, a cargo space stuffed with boxes and plenty of nooks and crannies to hide in, was blown apart at the ramp. wind whipped wildly around her as she floated in, apprehensively looking around for him.
“remy?” she shouted, jerking around at the faint rush of sound, “it’s rogue…”
“i can help you,” she neared the open end, red hair blowing around, “apocalypse poisoned y’mind—just trust me. let me help.”
“where is she?”
rogue spun, panic laced in her expression. gambit stood there, colorless and haunting. a blast of kinetic energy made her leap back, bracing behind a box as she tore off a glove with her teeth.
“ain’t got time for ‘dem games, mon ami,” gambit spoke, tone void of its usual playfulness. rogue launched from a nearby crate, paling when her hand connected with his face. his back thudded against the cargo, eyes narrowing. her horrified expression made him crack a smirk, “what’s wrong?”
“that ain’t…possible,” she whispered. gambit caught her wrist before she could retreat, brows raising in arrogant fashion, “touch of ‘nother dame was never gon’ do anythin’ to me.”
his fingers dug into her wrist, crimson irises sparking with impatient rage, “tell me.”
rogue glared, and gambit rolled his eyes. his free hand lifted, kinetic energy collected at the tip of his index finger. she watched it nervously as it neared her skin, powerless in the face of death himself.
“call…or fold?”
she thought about you, alone in that bunker. eyes closed as your shields protected them, helping them with all you had even though it left you utterly vulnerable.
“i ain’t tellin’ you, swamp rat.”
gambit tsked, releasing the swarm of energy and watching as she fell to the ground. his eyes narrowed sharply, turning away from her and stepping inside the aircraft. a mere glance told him you weren’t in the main area fighting—no, he knew you would be somewhere else.
somewhere hidden.
ready for him to find.
you frowned worriedly when your shield for rogue dissipated, palms pressing firmer against the steel floor. a pressure at the back of your skull made you wince, the strained voice of jean ringing in your ears, “x-men, i’ve lost contact with rogue!”
your eyes opened in a flash, breathing quick and heart pounding. you could sense him, feel the destructive energy he always so casually carried about him.
“he’s getting close to—“
the room plummeted into darkness, just as jean’s voice flashed away. you slowly crawled backwards, tucking yourself into the furthest and darkest corner. a slow, drawn sound echoed down the halls.
remy.
his whistle, relaxed and leisurely, as if he wasn’t wreaking havoc on the people he shared a home with, “ici minou, minou…”
your body cloaked, a bubble surrounding you. his boots left heavy footsteps behind him, the faint whishing of a deck of cards between his palms, an imperceptible hum of kinetic energy.
“allons-y, mon chère,” remy crooned, and you could barely make out his shadow beneath the door. your body shook when the keypad outside hissed and exploded, the door crackling open.
“y’know,” he then started, and all you saw was his shadow and the terrifying crimson of his irises, “when we die, life does flash before our eyes.” you buried your face in your knees, hands clasping over your ears. your shield rattled violently, the thrum of it intensifying every second remy was near you.
“all i saw…” he murmured, and you felt him kneel in front of you. remy’s hand brushed against the barrier, shattering it like glass with one spark. you peeked, just barely, but it was enough to make tears fall from your eyes—
“…was you.”
remy reached for you, gray hands colliding with your knees. you didn’t uncloak, you didn’t move. he seemed to realize your terror, your confusion, lips curling into a fond little smile. “i told ya, mon coeur,” his grip tightening, “life and death.”
your form flickered, and his eyes softened at your tear stained cheeks and trembling hands.
“oh, petit,” he swept his thumbs gently over your knees, a small act of comfort, “come t’remy, hm?” you fell into his arms, crying as he cradled you. his touch was the same, his mannerisms the same. he let you cry in his arms, heart aching at the sight of you. he pushed some of your hair away from your face, leaning down to kiss your forehead. your brows knit at the weird fuzzy feeling that accompanied his kiss, unable to get anything out before darkness took over.
“sleep,” he whispered, feeling your body weaken against him, “good girl.”
remy swept you up, getting to his feet. he draped you over his shoulder, free hand blasting a hole in the wall of the room you were confined in. before he could depart, a puff of galaxies forced him to stop.
“let her down, remy,” nightcrawler demanded, sword poised, “you are not yourself.”
a card charged with kinetic energy zipped towards him. nightcrawler teleported, his hand barely grazing your sleeve before the card dashed back to him, embedding itself in his side. gambit watched, pleased as nightcrawler thrashed in agony, “neither are you, mon ami.”
gambit loaded kurt onto the back of his motorcycle, settling himself in the front before placing you on his lap. he held you against him with one arm, the other commandeering the bike as he and his brainwashed comrades blasted off into the night.
he didn’t turn as a slew of cards flew behind him, purple explosions in his wake.
it was warm when you woke up.
you stirred awake slow, sluggish as you pushed yourself up. you looked around, nerves on fire and senses hardly up to par. “remy?” you called, flinching when the door creaked open. you shuffled back to the headboard, cloaking purely out of habit.
remy stepped inside, red eyes scanning the bed. he smiled, a slight chuckle leaving him as the door clicked shut behind him, “hidin’ when y’called f’me is a little rude, chère.” he neared the edge of the bed, sitting on it.
god, you hated how he could read you.
“can’t read ya mind,” remy mused, “gotta tell me what’s goin’ through that pretty head o’yours.” he tilted his head when the mattress dipped, as if he could see you shifting closer to him. your fingers grazed his coat’s sleeve, the worn leather soothing your nerves. remy didn’t move, only wearing a small smile as he felt your hands confirm what you were seeing.
when you finally reappeared, his eyes fell on your face.
your eyes were tired, exhausted, a sparkle of disbelief and fear. but he saw the lingering swirls of hope, the flecks of joy and relief. your lips were raw, the skin around your fingernails bitten clean.
but you were still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“say somethin’, darlin’.”
“how?” your voice was sad, wavering in all the wrong ways.
“crawled out the grave t’get back to you,” he whispered, cautiously raising a hand to cup your face, “my girl.” you held his wrist, free hand reaching to drag over the stubble on his jaw. he looked so dead, so sickly—but so alive.
“what did you do to annie?” you lowered your hands, worry etched into your features. remy’s brows knit disapprovingly, lips pulling into a smile that clearly said not to ask anything else, “she tried to keep you from me. ‘dat ain’t important.”
he saw you wanted to press, pride coiling in his chest like a viper when you visibly opted not to. “c’mon, chère,” he coaxed gently, standing and holding out his hand, “made dinner. your favorite.” your hand slid into his, remnants of sleep still keeping you weak and not fully tuned in. the halls were quiet, the only source of light a few candles lining the walls.
you looked around while remy guided you downstairs, hand resting on the small of your back when you froze.
“kurt?”
the boy perked up from finishing setting the table, glowing red eyes boring holes into you, “good evening, sister. dinner is served.” he bowed at the waist, departing as quick as you’d seen him. you averted your gaze to the floor, tensing when remy stepped away from you. he grinned in amusement at your reaction, “just pullin’ your chair out, belle. remy ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
you sat where he’d went, staring at your reflection in the silver pot. remy sat at the head of the table next to you, pouring flutes of white wine. he lifted the lid, revealing a steaming, glorious gumbo. he spooned some out for you, carefully placing your bowl back in front of you.
he served himself, watching you wait to lift your spoon until after he was done, “eat, petit. made it with love.”
you ate slowly, ignoring the way he barely touched his own serving. he simply observed you, eyes soft with admiration. once you’d had your fill, you pushed the dish away.
“thank you,” you whispered, earning a nod in response. “need t’tell you somethin’ important, chère. can ya listen to me?” remy slid a hand over, offering it to you. you took it, unable to meet his intense gaze as you played with his fingers.
“apocalypse ain’t much different than us,” he started, noting the way your hands paused before resuming their ministrations, “he had a love of his own.” you lifted your eyes briefly, the initial around your neck suddenly feeling heavy.
“she betrayed him,” he moved from his chair, kneeling next to you. you turned to him, and he held your hands on your lap, “took a part’a his power, used it for her own good. done brought it down here to ‘de bayou.”
he squeezed your hands when they began to shake, feeling the way your shields started to emerge.
“locals know her as the x-ternal.”
you wanted to ask, wanted to ask why he was telling you any of this. why he was sympathetic for apocalypse. “her relic will make you immortal like me,” he breathed, reverent and adoring, “it’ll bind us together forever…husband and wife.”
he stood, bringing you up with him. remy slowly backed you into the wall after your glances towards the exit, hands landing on your waist, “then nothin’—not even death—ever keep us apart again.” your hands pressed against his chest, eyes still cast low.
“look a’me, chère,” he muttered, hand lifting to raise your face to him, “i’m offerin’ a second chance. believe in us, believe in me.”
“we’ve been dealt a whole new hand,” remy’s forehead pressed against yours, noses brushing, “remy dreamed of ‘dis right here—havin’ ya to myself f’the rest of our lives.” he kissed your cheek, tasting the salt of your tears. he brought his lips to your ear, voice a deep coax you could never turn away:
“trust me, mon coeur. remy’s got ya.”
the edges of your lips curled into a smile, arms wrapping around his neck. remy held you, breathing you in, grinning wide into your skin.
“not lettin’ you go again,” he whispered lowly, “ain’t nothin’ takin’ me from you.”
not even death.
riotrants: this variant and the original romy x reader will get their second parts when the finale comes out (unless i just genuinely can’t wait anymore…)
cram week hung over campus like an overcast of gloom.
students were mentally checked out, assignments piled high, hangouts postponed for study groups, and bank accounts drained on instant ramen from the local convenience store.
any minute that could be spared mattered.
your boyfriend, satoru gojo, was no exception to the annual week of despair. hunched over his desk, his slender fingers worked diligently on the quantum mechanics model. piecing together each miniature detail with the precision of a surgeon on caffeine.
he hadn't slept in the last fifteen hours; you were sure of it. the scattered empty cans were proof alone. and despite your continuous protest and efforts, he refused to sleep. not until he finished.
then, and only then, would he allow himself even a semblance of a break.
you, on the other hand, were bored. painfully so. not the phone-dead, reading ingredients on shampoo bottles bored, no. the kind that made his suffering look enjoyable. laid on his unkempt sheets like a starfish. no words exchanged, no eye contact, just the view of his beautiful back.
broad shoulders that dipped to his impossibly narrow waist, the muscles of his back toned like a mythical greek god and painted with beauty marks that you visualized into little constellations.
"toru..."
his hands continued to move uninterrupted; your lips formed a small frown.
"toru...?"
still nothing.
he was so intensely focused that nothing could distract his caffeinated state. it was obvious satoru was busy, so you decided to have some fun. the set of washable markers seemed to be calling your name, and you couldn’t resist the urge any longer.
"lean forward."
he didn't question it. with a mere adjustment of his glasses frames and a quiet exhale, he leaned forward, giving you free will.
access: granted
you wasted no time, jumping straight in with doodles, swirls that curled like cat tails, and lines that connected each beauty mark into different shapes. he barely noticed, or at least he was too exhausted and fixated to care.
offering you more of his back to work with and the occasional running of a hand through his hair or muttering extensive self-feedback whenever he slipped up.
he let you use his body like a canvas, no complaints. satoru trusted you completely, even with the foreknowledge that it could be something dumb like a dick. the only time he acknowledged the situation was when he reached back and stole your hand, pressing firm kisses to every finger.
almost reassuring you that he knew you still existed and he still wanted you there; he was just busy.
with a final stroke of the marker, you stepped back to admire the completed masterpiece.
well, it was definitely something alright…
he only got up from that damned project when he heard the doorbell. standing tall, he pulled you into his side without a second thought. he always loved how perfectly you fit there, as if you were mathematically aligned.
satoru opened the door; this was the third night he’d ordered pizza. handing over the cash in exchange for the steaming box. his movements were sluggish and stiff.
just as he was closing the door, he heard the sound of stifled laughter, the delivery man choking on his own spit.
"i'm sorry, man, but...what the hell is that on your back?"
satoru tensed up, almost dropping the warm box. your eyes widened as you glanced back and forth between them, stifling a giggle.
the delivery man couldn’t hold his laughter any longer, bursting into loud guffaws that made your boyfriend's ears heat. your reactions didn’t help the situation, to be fair.
“enjoy your night, ‘mommy’s puppy…’” he teased, turning on his heel as his laughter echoed through the dormitory halls.
satoru slammed the door, his face fully flushed now. the silence hung between you and the aroma of fresh pepperonis and cheese.
"you didn't--"
"no, i swear!"
"then how did he--"
"i-i don't know!"
he didn't buy your bullshit for one second, carelessly setting the pizza on the coffee table and heading toward you. "did you put 'mommy's puppy’ on my back?!" he whined.
"wha--why would i even do that..."
satoru didn’t miss the nervous lilt your voice took, your giggles turning into something more mischievous. he grabbed your wrist, hauling you closer with a gentle yet firm tug, causing your breath to hitch, which he chose to ignore. “you're such a bad liar,” he whispered teasingly, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.
you shivered. "i'm not lying!"
he was utterly unconvinced by the blatant lie and the way your eyes danced.
"uh-huh, sure." he pecked your temple gently, his strong arms wrapped around you, and your cheek pillowed against his abs.
"you're such an idiot," he groaned into your hair, planting another soft kiss there. "you just embarrassed me in front of that guy, and i think he's in my chem seminar..."
another kiss. this time, your cheek.
"and now he's gonna tell everyone, and as if my interests weren’t nerdy enough, my girlfriend has found a new hobby in drawing stupid shit on my back."
this time, two more soft kisses to your eyelids, making you squirm.
he found himself smiling. god, he loved you, even if you were completely ridiculous. you were his mess. the one equation he never wanted to solve. he squeezed you gently, covering your face in rapid kisses. "you're such an idiot, but you're my idiot."
your knees went weak, practically turning into mush.
"god, you're lucky i love you," he chuckled, lifting you by your thighs with his large, cool hands. "come on, i'll finally take a break..."
"maybe we could watch that new spider-man movie?" he suggested as your arms looped around his neck. “mhm…sounds good.”
"just don't drool over that tom holland guy again, lady.” he smirked playfully, giving your ass a light smack.
“no promises…” you grinned back.
mission "win back your boyfriend’s attention": successful
does brendon even like anything? enjoying this? like, comment, reblog!
❤︎
There is a reason they call him Park the Shark. Intimidating enough that residents still straighten up when they hear his footsteps coming down the hallway.
No one has ever seen him flustered.
No one has ever seen him smile for more than half a second.
Which is exactly why the conversation starts.
Robby leans against the nurses' station, watching Brendon disappear down the hall.
"Does he even like anything?"
Dana doesn't even look up from her chart.
"He likes orthopedic surgery."
"I meant besides work."
"Coffee."
"I meant as a person."
Jack glances over. "He's a person?"
Robby points at him. "See? This is what I'm saying."
"No, seriously. I've worked with him for so long and I've never heard him say he likes anything."
"He likes getting consults over with."
"That's still work."
"Maybe he just doesn't."
A tiny voice suddenly pipes up from beside the desk. "...My mommy."
The entire station goes quiet. Everyone turns.
Brendon's youngest son is standing there, backpack still on, swinging one foot absentmindedly.
Robby blinks. "...Sorry?"
The little boy looks at him like the answer should have been obvious.
"My daddy likes my mommy."
Another beat of silence.
"You asked if he likes anything."
"...I did."
"He likes my mommy."
Dana presses her lips together.
Jack looks suspiciously interested in his paperwork.
Robby crouches slightly.
"Buddy..."
"Yeah?"
"Where's your mom?"
The boy points down the hallway.
"Over there."
Every head turns at once.
"You came here by yourself?"
"I know where Daddy works."
"That's not what I asked."
Before anyone can panic further, they spot you.
You're standing near one of the quieter hallways, waiting where visitors usually do.
Brendon is in front of you.
Much too close to be considered professional.
One hand is resting against the wall beside your shoulder.
You're laughing about something, trying to say something back, but Brendon leans down just enough to murmur something into your ear.
You giggle. His mouth twitches.
Not quite a smile, definitely a smirk.
The same man who had berated a resident without blinking less than ten minutes ago is now looking at his wife like the rest of the hospital doesn't exist.
"Well," Robby says after a long silence.
"I stand corrected."
Dana nods once. "He does like something."
Jack, still watching the hallway, adds quietly,
"...Someone."
Almost as if he senses everyone staring, Brendon looks up. His eyes land on the entire emergency department openly watching him.
Then on his son standing beside Robby. Then back at you.
Without the slightest hint of embarrassment, he simply reaches over and brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
The little boy beams. "I told you so."
Robby lets out a laugh. "Kid wasn't even exaggerating."
The boy nods proudly. "My daddy likes my mommy the most."
From down the hall, Brendon hears him.
He glances toward the station, then back at you.
"He's right."
You cover your face, laughing.
"Brendon."
"What?"
"Everyone heard that."
"I know."
"And?"
He says it so simply that you can't even argue.
"I do like you."
"...A lot."
From the nurses' station, Robby throws both hands into the air.
"Okay! That's enough! We get it!"
Brendon doesn't even look at him.
He just takes your hand and starts walking over to collect your son.
"Show-offs," Robby mutters.
Dana smiles into her chart. "I think they're kind of cute."
"They're disgustingly cute," Robby corrects.
❤︎
surprise!! ＼(^^)／ this idea randomly popped into my head and i thought it was too cute not to write, so i ended up scribbling it in my notebook at work ⌒(ё)⌒
as much as i'd love to write and post more, we have to surrender our phones during work, so i can't even work on drafts during downtime. then by the time i get home, i usually just end up binge-watching something or resting (._.)
i'll probably keep popping in with random posts whenever inspiration strikes, and i hope you guys still enjoy reading them. thank you for sticking around (* ´ ▽ ` *)
Summary: Jake is ready for his Iknimaya, so you show him your ikran and end up taking a flight with him afterwards.
A/N: I’m so glad part 1 got so much love!! #newhobbyunlocked
So a part two as someone suggested ^^
gave yall an ikran! Hehe 😋 this kinda took forever to do idk why lol, hope you enjoy!
Jake had been here for a while now. More than a month.
He continued his training with Neytiri. He was actualy learning really fast
Like the other day, he came up to you and tried to speak to you in full Na’vi. It was still a bit broken but he knew what he was saying, and you could tell what he was saying and you couldn’t help but be proud.
One night, you were eating when Jake and Neytiri walked past. You watch them walk over to Mo’at ard Eytukan. You perked your ears, tying to easvedrop. You heard somethung about him being ready, ikrans and Iknimaya. You look over, watching Jake.
Iknimaya?
Jake seemed to sense you because he looked over at you. You look away, stuffing more food in your mouth.
A bit later, Jake sits in front of you. He smiles.
“Whatcha eating?”
“Tìhawnuwll and fish,” you say. Jake gasps softly.
“Ooh, can I have some?” He asks, pointing at the fruit. You nod and he takes some, biting into it.
“Mmm…” he wipes the juices off his chin, a little smile on his face.
“Is that your favorite?”
“Mhm. They’re so good,” he mumbles.
This was another thing. Every free moment Jake had he was with you. He’s moved on from simply staring and now he comes up and talks to you. You’ve never had this kind of attention before.
“So…Neytiri thinks you’re ready?”
He nods, tail swaying behind him.
“Yeah. I’m gonna get my own ikran,” he says with a smirk.
“Well, good luck,” you tell him, smiling.
“Good luck?”
You pause, looking up at him.
“Yeah?”
“They don’t just…line up and let me choose?”
You scoff, tilting your head in confusion.
“No! You gotta work for it! It’s hard, but I think you can do it. I believe in you.” You place your hand on his heart. He looks at your hand, then at you. He smiles softly.
“Yeah?” He tilts his head, looking at you directly. You nod, looking down, away from his gaze. He was so cute when he did that head tilt.
You take your hand off his chest, eating more fruit.
“Are you gonna come?”
You shake your head, swallowing.
“I can’t. But Neytiri will be there. She can help.”
He sighs softly, ears twitching down slightly.
“I know that…but…it’d be nice to have you there.”
You pause, huffing softly. You smile slightly.
“I’d love to go, but I already have my ikran,” you say.
“Can I see?”
You look up, scanning his face. You nod.
“Okay,” you quickly finish the last bites of your food before standing up.
“Cmon,” you say, taking his hand without thinking and dragging him up to the canopy of Hometree.
Your realize halfway there that you’re actually holding his hand. You get flustered, your heart beginning to pound. But you didn’t want to pull away suddenly. So you swallow your nerves and keep walking.
You get to the top of the tree, only then letting go of his hand. You wipe your palm on your thigh, as if you were wiping off the nerves. You already missed the warmth of his hand.
The sun is setting now, causing the bioluminescence to start to glow.
You look up, calling for your ikran, your yip echoing. Jake looks up as well, trying searching for your ikran.
You hear him screech, and he comes down, landing on the thick branch. You smile. You walk up to him, petting his hand.
“Hey, boy,” you say softly, greeting him. You turn to Jake, who walks closer to admire.
“This is Ìeyo,” you say, watching Jake come up to him. The ikran tilts his head, making small noises. Jake reaches out to pet his nose. Ìeyo pulls his head away, making you chuckle.
Jake smiles softly, tilting his head to admire the coloring. His eyes scan Ìeyo’s wings. He was a pretty teal with yellow spots and patterns.
“He’s pretty,” Jake mumbles.
“Yeah, I think so too,” you say, watching him. He touches Ìeyo’s wing, making him twitch. He chuckles, looking over at you. His eyes scan your face, and that’s when you look away. You let out a breathy chuckle, shifting so you were almost hiding behind Ìeyo. He nudge you, making you look up again. Jake is still staring. Your stomach flips.
“You should get some rest,” you murmur, letting go of Ìeyo.
You step closer to Jake.
“You’ll need the energy.” You keep your gaze on the ground, only glancing at his face for a quick second before looking down again.
“If you say so,” he says, slowly making his way back inside Hometree. “I’ll make sure to eat a nice big breakfast too.”
─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───
The next day, you’re simply sitting around, carving some arrow heads when you hear the yipping of Neytiri and Tsu’tey.
You look up, seeing three other ikrans with them. You smile.
Jake did it. He got his ikran
You jump up, abandoning your stuff to run up to the canopy.
You get to the top, watching them land. Your smile gets wider when your eyes land on Jake.
Neytiri notices, smirking slightly and tapping Jake to get his attention.
Jake looks over, the biggest smile appearing on his face.
“You did it!” You exclaim, rushing over.
“I did!” He laughs, petting his ikran. “I almost died, but I did it!” You laugh as well, your eyes scanning Jake before looking at his ikran.
“So…what’s his name?”
“Name? Uh…Bob”
Your gaze snaps to his face, confusion painted all over it.
“Bob?” What kind of name is that?
“Yeah. It’s…an Earth name,” he says, chuckling awkwardly. You nod slowly, tilting your head.
“Okay…what does it mean?”
Jake scratches his head, laughing softly. “I…I don’t know,” you scoff playfully.
“Wow. You let him name him that?” You turn to Neytiri. She laughs.
“I couldn’t stop him. Though I would’ve chosen a better Earth name…”
“Hey! Stop with the hate now,” he says, putting his hands up, shaking his head. Both you and Neytiri laugh.
“So…are you gonna get off anytime soon?” You ask, noticing he’s still in the ikran, still binders
“I wanted to take a fly with you,” he says, tilting his head.
“Oh!” You gasp softly. “Oh, yeah, okay, hold on,” you say, forgetting how to act for a second before going to grab your visor. You rush back up, calling for Ìeyo. He comes immediately and you hop on, making the bond.
You take a deep breath, and Ìeyo shrieks, almost fidgeting in place, he can feel your nerves.
You look at Jake. He smirks softly.
“Ready, set, go!” He says quickly before flying off. You blink and he’s gone.
“Hey!” You exclaim, flying off as well. You catch up to him.
He smiles at you, pushing his ikran into your space. You move away, chuckling before pushing back. He laughs, going higher.
You follow him, going higher than him so you can fly over his ikran before diving under him, popping back up on his right side. Jake watches in awe, laughing. He turns, heading towards some mountains.
You knew exactly where he was going.
You fly next to him, occasionally twirling and weaving the ikrans with him.
You and him fly as high as you can, looking for that spot of flat mountain side.
Neytiri had taken you here when she went on flights with you. You assumed she must’ve shown Jake.
You and him fly over the top, turning downwards.
No matter how many times you did this, it still twisted your stomach all up. But it was fun. You laugh, feeling the wind rushing against your face. You look over at Jake, who also started to laughs.
Whenever you and Neytiri did this, it was like a race of some sort. You push your ikran to pass him, smirking. Jake looks over, returning your smirk as he tries to pass you as well.
The two of you go as far down as you can before jerking yourselves up.
You scream playfully, pulling yourself up so high that you do a flip. Jake tires to copy you, but he almost falls off.
“Woah—shit!” He shouts as he catches his balance, wobbling before straightening his ikran out.
You laugh, covering your mouth with one hand.
As you stare at him, you feel your heart ache. He was so pretty in the sunlight. His smile was the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. He was nice and playful. You just wanted to be next to him, wanted to feel his warmth. You could do this forever with him.
Your laugh lightens, feeling this overwhelming feeling in your chest that makes it want to burst.
“Are you okay?” You shout, trying to ignore it for now.
“Yeah, I’m fine!” He shouts back, smiling at you.
“Good! You skxawng!” You nudge your ikran into his space before rushing ahead of him, making him chase you.
─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───
You fly until the sun goes down, only then returning to Hometree.
You land on a branch, giggling, your body still jumpy with adrenaline.
“That was so much fun,” you say breathlessly, hopping off your ikran. Jake nods, stretching.
“Yeah,” he grunts, sliding off Bob.
He takes a deep breath, looking over your face. He pushes some hair off your face, putting it back into place with a soft smile.
“I’d love to fly again with you,” he says. You look up at him with wide eyes, your face flushing at the little touch he gave you. You take a deep breath, nodding.
You smile shyly.
“Yeah…yeah we should do that again soon,” you tell him, snapping out of your daze.
He chuckles.
“Good. Maybe tomorrow?”
You nod again. “Yeah.”
Jake smiles at you. For a moment, he just stands there, unsure what to do.
He nods again, “Yeah. Okay. See ya,” he says,ingesting for a moment before disappearing into Hometree.
You stand there for a while, taking in everything.
Summary: Jake is usually out learning how to be One of The People with Neytiri, but today he sneaks off to see you. However, you’re in the middle of making him a surprise when he comes over.
A/N: haiii okay first x reader fic gulp….hopefully this does good 😖 if this pops off and a lot of ppl like it I’d be happy to write more!
Jake Sully was odd to you.
He was an Avatar. Not real Na’vi. He had an uncanny look and features that belonged to the Sky People.
Yet you still found him kinda cute.
The tsakarem of the clan—Neytiri—was assigned by her mother to teach him how to be One of The People.
You’d see the two go off into the forest, and come back, and Jake would have the biggest smile on his face.
You saw him all throughout Hometree, often just following Neytiri around. But you noticed that his eyes always managed to find you whenever you were around.
You were friends with Neytiri, and she had come to say hi one day with Jake in tow. That’s when the feeling hit you. That you liked him. He sort of just stared at you the whole interaction, occasionally glancing at Neytiri.
And when she left, his eyes lingered before he followed her.
You couldn’t help but stare when you could. You were too nervous to talk to him, so you just admired from afar. He was always busy it seemed, so he never had the opportunity to do anything but glance, stare and wave.
You decided you’d be a bit bold though. You decided you were gonna make him a necklace. So you spent your whole day finding materials for him, weaving the materials together. You found yourself at the base of Hometree, working while humming to yourself.
Your ears twitch as you hear footsteps running in your direction. You glance up and you see Jake.
Your eyes widen for a second and you hide the necklace, not wanting him to see just yet. You weren’t finished with it.
“Hey,” he says, glancing behind him before back at you. That stupid big smile is on his face and it makes your stomach flutter.
“Hi,” you say, smiling slightly. He looks behind him again before kneeling down, getting to your level.
“What are you doing?” He asks, glancing over you and your materials.
“I was making something. It’s a surprise.”
“For who?”
“Uh,” you panic for a second. Do you tell him it’s for him? Say it’s for someone else?
“It’s—it’s a surprise,” you say again. He chuckles.
“Okay then,” he says, tail swaying softly.
“What are you doing?” You ask. Typically he’s out with Neytiri, and Neytiri is definitely out.
“I’m supposed to be with Neytiri. She wanted to do some…spiritual stuff today. No hate to…Eywa but I’d rather see you instead.” He says, eyes glued to your face.
Your ears twitch as you furrow your brows.
“M-me? You’d rather see me?”
“Yeah,” he says, his ears perking up as he smiles. His tail curls, flicking with what can only be some sort of happiness.
You feel your brain short circuit. He’d rather see you? You knew he had some sort of liking to you but…sneaking off to come see you? This is your first real interaction with him. You can’t help but smile, and you can’t help the flush that reaches your cheeks.
“You…you should learn about Eywa,” you say. Jake tilts his head, huffing.
“I can learn about her anytime. I know about 5 people who know all about her. I can skip a lesson.”
You can’t help but chuckle softly.
“Okay…what would you like to do?” You ask him.
He shrugs his shoulders. “I just wanted to hang out with you. You seem nice.” He says, glancing away for a second. When he looks back at you, his eyes seem bigger. Like he’s pleading. Your heart flutters and you look down at your lap. You chuckle again, looking back at him.
“Okay…uhm…” you thought about finishing the necklace, but it would ruin the surprise wouldn’t it? Well…not if you didn’t tell him…
“Here, you can watch me. I can teach you if you want,” you say, pulling the necklace out from behind your back. You show it to him and his eyes lock on it.
“Wow…it’s pretty,” he says, admiring it.
“Yeah. Here, let me show you the weave,” you tell him, setting it down. You show him how to cross the plant fibers, creating a criss cross pattern. He pays close attention, tail swaying softly behind him.
“And you just do that until you’ve made it the size you want.” You say. You hold the necklace up to your neck, glancing at Jake’s. His is thicker, so you knew you’d have to make it a bit bigger. You set it down, continuing to weave.
“What was that?” He asks.
You look up at him, a slight smirk on your face.
“I was measuring it,” you tell him.
“Oh. Right, yeah that makes sense,” he says, laughing softly. You giggle, pushing his shoulder softly.
“You skxawng,” you say, looking back down at the necklace. You finish the weave, adding the clasp.
“Okay…now I’m gonna add some beads.” You grab a handful, looking up at him.
“Why don’t you choose what colors for me,” you say, holding them out to him. He looks down at them, hand hovering uncertainly over yours.
“Okay. Uh…” he begins to grab some colors. Green, orange, blue, and yellow. You pull your hand away before he can grab anymore.
“Thanks,” you say. You grab some beads of the colors he chose before grabbing some string.
“Let me show you how to add the beads,” you tell him. You grab some string, putting the beads on them before tying it into the weave you made. You made sure they were spaced properly.
For a moment, you were scared you were boring him. But every time you glanced up at him he was intently watching. It’s like you were doing the most interesting thing on all of Pandora, when really you were just making a necklace.
Soon enough, you finished it, showing it off to him.
“It looks great…you did so good,” he says, his voice a murmur as he touches it gently. His tone of voice makes your stomach flip. You swallow, blushing softly.
“You wanna know something cool?”
“What?”
“It’s for you,” you say.
His brows shoot up, ears perking. He looks at you dumbfounded before smiling.
“For me?” He takes it out of your hand, admiring it again like he hasn’t been staring at it for the past 40 minutes.
“Thank you,” he says, genuine joy on his face. “Can you put it on?” He hands it back.
You nod, smiling as you walk behind him, putting the necklace on for him. When you turn to be in front again, you look at the necklace.
“It looks great on you,” you say, eyes flicking up to his face.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
He looks down at it again before up at you.
“Thanks. Again,” he says.
Before you can say anything again, Neytiri comes storming over.
“Jake!” She yells, hitting his head a bit. He chuckles, looking up at her. She looks mad, but he face softens a bit when she sees he’s with you. She glances at you before back at Jake.
“What are you doing? You can’t run off like that!” She exclaims, clearly frustrated still.
“I’m sorry! I wanted to hang out with them,” he says, gesturing towards you. She rolls her eyes, grabbing his arm and hoisting him up. You stand too.
“Sorry, Neytiri,” you say softly, an awkward smile on your face.
“It’s not your fault. Don’t worry,” she says, glancing at you. She looks back at Jake.
“It’s his. You skxawng.” She pushes his shoulder. She’s about to walk away before she notices the necklace on him.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a gift,” He said, nodding towards you. Neytiri looks over, smiling softly.
“It’s very nice,” She says. She blinks a few times before grabbing his wrist.
“Come on, we have more to do,” she says, beginning to drag him away.
“See you later!” He shouts to you, smiling.
Your heart flutters and you feel your chest tighten with giddiness.
summary: You accidentally learn on the night of Peter's birthday that it was his birthday, and now it's all you can think about.
word count: 2.8k+
pairing: peter parker x fem!reader
notes: i literally learned this last night that it was peter's canonical b-day and i felt so bad that i didn't have time to properly plan something since i've been busy with summer classes, so insomnia kept me up and i wrote basically a belated birthday fic. yes, i'm parasocial with a fictional character, and no i will not get a life
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, no spoilers for brand new day, just straight fluff, neighbor!reader
By the time you knocked on Peter’s door, you had already reconsidered the cake about six times.
Not because there was anything wrong with it—the cake itself had turned out pretty well, actually, which had been a pleasant surprise considering you hadn’t baked one from scratch in years. It was chocolate with vanilla frosting, slightly crooked around one side because you’d gotten impatient while smoothing it, with blue sprinkles scattered across the top and ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY’ written in icing that became noticeably smaller as you ran out of room.
The problem was that Peter was your neighbor, not your friend.
You knew him well enough to say hello in the hallway, borrow a screwdriver from him, and complain together whenever the elevator stopped working, which was often enough that both of you had developed a personal grudge against it. You knew he worked strange hours, usually came home late, and somehow managed to look exhausted at eight in the morning and eleven at night. You knew he lived alone because the walls in the building were thin, and you had never heard another person in his apartment for more than a few minutes.
You also knew, as of yesterday afternoon, that it had been his birthday.
That part had been an accident.
You’d been coming upstairs with two grocery bags when Peter appeared behind you, jogging up the last flight because, naturally, the elevator was broken again. He’d reached around you to grab the heavier bag before you could protest, then carried it down the hall while insisting it was no big deal. “You know, normal people complain when they have to take six flights of stairs,” you’d told him.
Peter had glanced at you while shifting the bag against his hip. “I complained on four.”
“You said, ‘wow, again.’”
“That was loaded with emotion.”
“It really wasn’t.”
“It was for me.”
You’d laughed, and while Peter was smiling back at you, his wallet had slipped out of his jacket pocket and hit the floor. You picked it up before he could bend down, mostly because his hands were full, and his driver’s license had slid halfway out of the plastic slot.
You hadn’t meant to read it, his birthday had simply been right there.
August 10.
You’d looked at the date, then at him and Peter had immediately noticed. “What?”
You held the wallet toward him. “Is today your birthday?”
His expression had changed so quickly that you almost wished you hadn’t asked. It wasn’t sadness exactly, and he didn’t look upset, but there had been a brief hesitation before he shrugged. “Oh. Yeah.”
“You forgot?”
“No, I knew.”
“You said that like I reminded you.”
Peter took the wallet, shoved it back into his pocket, then reached for your groceries again. “I’ve been busy.”
“That’s a terrible birthday answer.”
“It’s not really a big thing.”
You had stared at him for another moment. “What did you do?”
“For my birthday?”
“Yes, Peter. What did you do for the other thing we were talking about?”
He’d smiled a little at that. “Went to… work.”
“And?”
“Came home.”
“And?”
Peter had opened his mouth, apparently searching for an acceptable third activity, then eventually said, “I had cereal.” You’d stopped walking, he made it another step before realizing you weren’t beside him anymore. “What?”
“You had cereal for your birthday dinner?”
“I also had a sandwich earlier.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“It was a good sandwich.”
You’d taken your groceries back from him at your door and told him happy birthday before going inside. Peter thanked you, smiled, and disappeared into his apartment like the conversation hadn’t been particularly important.
Then you spent the rest of the evening thinking about it. Now it was the following night, and you were holding a cake outside his apartment, and beginning to wonder whether this was sweet or completely insane.
You knocked anyway.
There was movement inside almost immediately, followed by a strange metallic clatter, then several seconds of silence.
You knocked again. “Peter?”
Another sound came from inside before the lock finally turned. Peter opened the door wearing gray sweatpants and a faded T-shirt, his hair damp like he’d recently taken a shower. There was a bruise beginning to darken along his jaw that definitely hadn’t been there yesterday, although he’d angled his face slightly away from the hallway light as soon as he saw you. “Hey.”
“Hi.” Peter looked at you, then at the cake, then back to you. You lifted it a little higher. “Before you ask, yes, this is because I judged your birthday dinner.”
For several seconds, Peter said absolutely nothing. Then he looked at the cake again. “You made that?”
“I did.”
“For me?”
You frowned. “No, Peter, I regularly carry personalized cakes around the building hoping someone with the right name opens their door.”
A startled laugh escaped him, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. Sorry.”
“Happy late birthday.”
Peter stared down at the icing. You had expected awkwardness because Peter was awkward about almost everything, particularly when attention was directed at him, but you hadn’t expected him to look completely confused by the fact that someone had baked him a cake.
That made you tighten your grip on the plate. “If you hate chocolate, this is going to be embarrassing.”
“No, I love chocolate.”
“Okay, good.”
“I just—” Peter stopped, glanced into his apartment, then back at you. “You really baked me a cake?”
“You keep asking that like you think I stole it.”
“No, I know you didn’t steal it.”
“You don't know what I do in my free time.”
That got another laugh out of him, quieter than the last one, and some of the stiffness left his shoulders. Peter opened the door farther. “Do you want to come in?”
You looked past him. You’d never been inside Peter’s apartment before. It was about as small as you expected, with a kitchenette shoved against one wall and a little table near the window. There were books stacked beside a battered laptop, a sewing kit open on the counter, and what looked like several pieces of electronic equipment scattered across the desk.
Peter followed your gaze and immediately stepped sideways to block some of it. “Sorry, it’s kind of a mess.”
“It’s cleaner than mine.”
“That cannot possibly be true.”
“You haven’t seen mine.”
“I've seen you open your door.”
“That is not legally admissible evidence.”
Peter smiled and moved aside. You stepped inside and he shut the door behind you, and you carried the cake toward the table while Peter hurried ahead to clear several notebooks and loose pieces of paper out of the way.
“You don't have to clean because I’m here.”
“I’m not cleaning.”
“You just threw a sock behind the couch.”
Peter froze with one hand still extended. “That could’ve already been there.”
“I watched you throw it.”
“Okay.”
You set the cake down and turned toward him. “Do you have candles?”
Peter blinked. “Candles?”
“Birthday candles.”
“Oh. No…?”
“Of course you don’t.”
“I didn't know I was supposed to keep emergency birthday candles.”
“You’re supposed to have a junk drawer.”
“I have one.”
“Then there should be candles in it.”
Peter opened the drawer beside the sink and both of you stared into it. There were batteries, three screwdrivers, loose wire, duct tape, a roll of quarters, two takeout menus, a flashlight, several small metal components you didn’t recognize, and one packet of soy sauce.
You slowly looked at Peter. “That is the weirdest junk drawer I have ever seen.”
“It has junk in it.”
“It has electrical components and soy sauce.”
“Both useful.”
You reached inside, picked up the packet, and held it toward him. “What emergency requires one packet of soy sauce?”
“I don't know yet.”
“You’re preparing.”
“Exactly.” You laughed and put it back. Peter opened another cabinet. “I might have matches.”
“That doesn’t help unless you want me to set the cake on fire.”
“Probably not.”
“Probably?”
“I’m keeping an open mind.” He found two plates instead, and after a little searching, one fork. You stared at the single fork in his hand and Peter looked at it too. “Okay, I can explain this.”
“I’m listening.”
“I haven't bought more forks.”
“That isn't an explanation.”
“I had more.”
“Peter.”
“They disappeared.”
“How do forks disappear?”
He leaned against the counter. “I think I accidentally threw them away with takeout containers.”
“All of them?”
“Apparently.”
You pointed toward the drawer. “Yet the soy sauce survived.”
“It’s resilient.”
You laughed again, and Peter smiled as he looked down at the fork and there was something unexpectedly nice about seeing him like this. Usually, Peter seemed halfway out the door even when he was standing still. You’d pass him in the hallway and get a quick smile before he hurried downstairs, or you’d find him coming home long after midnight with his hood pulled up and his shoulders tight with exhaustion. Even when you talked, there always seemed to be another place he needed to be. Tonight he was barefoot in his apartment, arguing with you about missing silverware while a crooked birthday cake sat on his table.
You pulled two plastic forks from your pocket. Peter stared at them. “I came prepared.”
“You brought forks?”
“I had a feeling.”
“That’s actually kind of insulting.”
“You own one fork.”
“I didn't know you knew that before five seconds ago.”
“I know you, Peter.”
The words came out casually, but something about them made him quiet.
You hadn't meant anything serious by it; you knew Peter in the ordinary way neighbors knew each other, through little conversations and familiar routines, but his expression softened anyway. You cleared your throat and turned toward the cake. “Sit down.”
Peter obeyed, although he still looked a little overwhelmed when you put the cake in front of him. “You’re not singing, are you?”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“Good.”
“I could.”
“Please don't.”
“You seem scared.”
“I've heard you singing through the wall.”
Your mouth fell open. “Excuse me?” Peter grinned. “You can hear me?”
“The walls are thin.”
“Oh my God.”
“You really like that one Olivia Rodrigo song.”
You covered your face. “I hate you.”
“No, it’s good.”
You uncovered your face and pointed toward the cake. “Okay, then. Make a wish.”
“There aren't candles.”
“Well… pretend.”
“That feels like cheating.”
“Peter, you celebrated your birthday with cereal, so I think the birthday authorities will make an exception.”
He looked at you for a moment before turning his attention toward the cake.
You expected him to joke again, but he didn't, Peter closed his eyes, then he leaned forward and blew gently across the top of the cake, sending several blue sprinkles sliding over the frosting.
“There.”
“Good?”
“Yeah.”
“What'd you wish for?”
Peter gave you an incredulous look. “I can't tell you.”
“Why?”
“Then it won't come true.”
“So you believe in birthday wishes but didn't celebrate your birthday?”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain nonsense.”
“You made me a cake.”
“Don't change the subject.” Peter picked up the plastic knife you’d brought and hesitated over the frosting. “You can cut it.”
“I know.”
“You look nervous.”
“It has my name on it.”
“That's generally how birthday cakes work.”
He finally cut into it, although his slice was so narrow that you immediately reached over and made it wider.
Peter glanced at you. “I was going to eat that.”
“You were going to eat half an inch of cake.”
“I can get more later.”
“No, you're having a birthday-sized piece.”
“That isn't a measurement.”
“It is tonight.”
You transferred the slice onto his plate and handed him one of the forks.
Peter took a bite, then another while you waited. He noticed. “What?”
“Well?”
His eyebrows lifted. “It’s really good.”
“You don't have to lie.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You're very polite.”
Peter took another bite, much larger this time. “Would I be doing this if it was bad?”
“Yes. You're exactly the kind of person who would eat terrible cake because you were afraid of hurting someone’s feelings.”
“That is a very specific accusation.”
“And an accurate one.”
Peter pointed his fork at you. “It’s good.”
You smiled and cut yourself a piece.
For a while, the two of you sat at his little table and ate cake while talking about nothing particularly important. You complained about the landlord, Peter told you the washing machine downstairs had started making a noise that sounded expensive, and you informed him that apartment 3F had apparently gotten a cat despite the building’s pet policy.
Peter looked genuinely interested in that. “The orange one?”
“You've seen it?”
“It sits in the window.”
“His name is Dennis.”
“Dennis?”
“I didn't name him.”
“No, Dennis is good. I like Dennis.”
“You've never met Dennis.”
“I've seen enough.”
Eventually, your eyes drifted back toward the bruise on Peter’s jaw and he noticed immediately, but you didn't ask where it came from. Peter seemed prepared for the question anyway, his shoulders shifting slightly, but when you only took another bite of cake, he relaxed. “You work tomorrow?” you asked.
“Yeah.”
“What time?”
“Early.”
“Then I’m leaving you the cake.”
Peter looked at what remained. “You don't want any?”
“I've had some.”
“There’s almost a whole cake.”
“You’ll manage.”
“I live alone.”
“That was sort of the point.” His expression changed again, although this time you understood it a little better. You set your fork down. “I didn't mean that in a sad way.”
“No, I know.”
“I just figured birthdays probably suck when you're by yourself.”
Peter looked at the cake between you. “They're fine.”
You tilted your head. “Peter.”
He sighed. “Okay. They suck a little.”
“A little?”
“A medium amount.”
“Better.”
He smiled faintly and ran his thumb along the edge of the plastic fork.
You didn't know anything about Peter’s family. You'd heard him mention an aunt once, months ago, but never again, and you had never seen parents, siblings, cousins, or friends coming through the building. There were no photographs sitting around his apartment either, at least none you could see. You didn't ask about that. Instead, you reached across the table and tapped the cake plate. “Well, next year you're not having cereal.”
Peter looked up. “Next year?”
“Yes.”
“You're planning my birthday a year in advance?”
“Someone has to.”
His smile grew. “What if I move?”
“I'll find you.”
“That sounded threatening.”
“It was meant to.”
Peter laughed under his breath, then looked down at the cake again. “You didn't have to do this.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know, Peter.”
“No, I just…” He paused, and for once there wasn't an immediate joke waiting behind the hesitation. “Nobody's done something like this for me in a while.”
Your chest tightened, but you refused to make the moment heavier than he wanted it to be, so you nudged his plate toward him. “Then eat another piece.”
Peter looked at you. “You're very bossy.”
“You have one fork and no birthday candles so clearly you need supervision.”
“That feels unrelated.”
“It isn't.”
He smiled, picked up the knife, and cut himself another slice.
You stayed longer than you planned. By the time you finally stood, there were only a few pieces of cake left, Peter had somehow convinced you to help him investigate the mysterious missing-fork situation, and you had learned that his kitchen cabinets contained an alarming amount of instant coffee.
Peter walked you to the door even though your apartment was directly across the hall. You stepped outside, then turned around. “Happy birthday, Peter.”
His hand remained on the edge of the door. “Late birthday.”
“I'm extending it.”
“Can you do that?”
“I just did.”
Peter smiled, and this time it didn't look like the quick, automatic one he usually gave you in the hallway. “Thanks.”
“You're welcome.” You started toward your door before remembering something. “Oh, and Peter?”
“Yeah?”
“If I hear you eating cereal for dinner tonight, I’m coming back.”
He leaned against the doorway. “How are you going to hear that?”
“The walls are thin.”
Peter laughed.
You went inside before he could answer, closing your door behind you. Across the hall, Peter stayed where he was for another moment before returning to the table. The apartment looked the same as it had earlier. His backpack was still beside the couch, his suit was hidden where nobody would find it, and the police scanner on his desk would probably start pulling him back toward the city before the night was over.
But there was a mostly-eaten-cake sitting in the middle of his table with his name—previously—written across the top, a pair of plastic forks beside it, and blue sprinkles scattered over the cheap wood.
How would the AKOTSK men react when they meet/marry a very Stark reader. Like hunting, fighting, old gods, direwolf maybe, the look, maybe even not liking and trusting the south and game of thrones schemes
Why a Stark?
18+ MDNI
Summary: How do the men of akotsk feel about their lady Stark?
AN: Obsessed with the idea of Starks having wolf tendencies like Targs having dragon ones (I’ve spent entirely too much time thinking about Rhaenyra’s stare/head tilt combo). I tried to incorporate different Stark characteristics into each of the pairings, hope y’all enjoy <3
Warnings: Allusions to sex, mistrust, slight misogyny (not from any of them)
3.6k Words
Daeron:
Daeron finds his Stark wife kind of terrifying, at least at first. It’s no secret the wolves of the North don’t look fondly on the blood of the dragons, and he dreads the night where his dreams become known to you. You don’t seem like the type to tolerate nonsense; Winterfell does not have a place for simpering and whining, and the disdain written across your features at the sight of perfumed southern knights gives him the impression that you don’t appreciate foolishness.
But Northern magic runs deep, and Daeron is shocked when met with understanding instead of cruelty. He wakes one night with a shout, hair slick to his forehead with sweat and breath ragged. With dread, he turns slowly to see if he woke you, only to find you already sitting up; your eyes reflecting in the moonlight. You’re watching, not with annoyance or even fear, but curiosity. For several moments, you stare at one another. He knows how it looks: the crazed, bloodshot eyes of a drunken Prince, disturbing his wife’s slumber. He’s ready to make excuses, laugh it off halfheartedly and mourn the days you offer him a place in your bed. Instead, you reach for him. Fingertips brushing away the tears from his cheek.
“What did you see?”
Daeron is taken aback, to say the least. His face contorts in confusion at your question, how would you know he saw anything beyond the nightmares of a tortured mind? You seemingly sense his unease.
“In the North, there are people- some say they see things. Things that haven’t happened yet, or things that happened before.”
It all seems so simple, the way you say it. He doesn’t want to scare you, but the Starks are known to be honorable and he knows you won’t chastise him.
After his confession, he still wakes suddenly most nights. Sometimes he wakes you, accidentally, and he whispers stories of fire and castles and dragons. Other nights, just having you close is enough to calm him. The steady beat of your heart, the warmth of your skin; he presses himself up against your side and sighs deeply when you unconsciously wrap an arm around him.
Daeron would have no trouble with you participating in a hunt. In fact, he quite enjoys the look on his father’s face when he sees his heir reclined on the dais sipping wine. The young Prince just shrugs when he’s questioned, gesturing to where you’re readying your horse and stringing your bow. Maekar makes a pinched face, but Daeron only laughs.
“My wife will be taking my place in The hunt, father. She won’t disappoint you, she’s far more skilled than I am.”
Side note I think the idea of Lady Stark out-weirding Daeron is so silly like him very nervously telling you about how he sees these visions of the future and fearing you’ll deem him insane and working himself up about it and you say something like “Oh like how I can see through the eyes of my direwolf.” and he’s like “…..what.”
Maekar:
To me, this match makes the most sense. There is definitely a lot of disagreeing, butting heads, arguing back and forth loud enough to shake Summerhall, but in the end Maekar has a lot of the same ideologies the Starks do. I’m not the first person who’s said this, but the Anvil is the type of man who sticks out in the lush, relaxed sort of atmosphere of the southern houses, but slots perfectly into the harsh realities of the North. There's a no-nonsense sort of attitude that is imperative to the lord and lady of Winterfell, no room for prattle and frivolity. Life is hard in winter, they need someone who will help their lady Stark make difficult decisions, and defend her until his dying breath.
Maekar is fiercely loyal, willing to do almost anything for the people he cares for. It's a trait you share. Maekar doesn't really know what to say when you defend him, speaking out against a knight who made a snide comment about your match. Or when you go out of your way to take care of him; ordering him to stop training and rest, asking him to be careful for you on a hunt. He’s used to being the one who takes care of everybody. Six children, two brothers in need of defending, the other set on overexerting himself to an early grave. You cross your arms, square your shoulders, tilt your head back to look him in the eye, and tell him he will take a hot bath and eat something, otherwise he’ll have to answer to you. He grumbles about it, but is not in the business of denying his lady what she asks for.
Maekar is also very amused at your inability to handle the southerly heat when visiting his parents and brother in the capital. There are times where it snows in the summer back at Winterfell, and you look so crestfallen when you shed your wolfskin cloak, that Maekar almost agrees to leaving his family and returning to your home. Even your gowns are meant to fight the harsh winds and morning chills, sweltering in the sun of King’s Landing. The Prince is quietly charmed by your humidity-frizzed hair and crabby disposition; the glower you show him when he reaches to brush the thin glimmer of perspiration at your forehead before he presses a kiss there.
He loses his mind the first time you arrive at a feast dressed in the stylings of the south. He adores your traditional clothing, the grey fur and the black leather and the white cashmere, but seeing you dressed in so little has his head spinning. He’s on his feet in an instant, determined to intercept you before any knight or lordling has the gall to stand before his lady Stark. You’re no less regal in the shimmering gossamer, but he still feels like a green boy staring at your exposed décolletage.
“My love, has something distracted you?”
There’s a small smirk on your face, but he doesn’t return it. He wastes no time taking your hand and kissing your knuckles. You’re absolutely right: he was staring.
“You are- my wife, I-”
He can barely find the words, ears turning an adorable shade of pink, but you give him some grace.
“Do you like my gown? I had it made when I knew we’d be coming south.”
It's not the last time you must adjust your wardrobe for the weather. How delighted he is, upon reaching your chambers at the end of a long, hot day, forced into endless meetings with lords who wish to gain favor with the North- as if he was the one whose approval they needed- to find you sprawled out, atop the bedclothes, not a stitch of fabric on you.
“The heat, dearest, I cannot stand it.”
You reach for him, and he says a prayer to the old gods and the new before stomping to your bed. He’s no help in cooling you down, but you don’t complain, not when he’s following you into nakedness and climbing into your arms.
Aerion:
Aerion is obsessed.
A sort of one-way stalking that slowly takes control over his life. You’re busy; settling grain disputes, meeting with masons, attending to duties of Winterfell with strength and poise appropriate for a woman raised to warden the North. Aerion is your shadow, following behind and watching you with an intensity one can only describe as reptilian. It's enough to make most uncomfortable, and the Prince is no stranger to piercing the young ladies at court with his gaze, but you barely acknowledge the Targaryen. It drives him insane. What woman isn’t instantly drawn to his delicate, Valerian features?
He throws himself into trying to impress you; ears red and nose dripping from the cold, yet he still tugs his shirt over his head while training in the yard. Aerion knows you're watching from the battlements, looking down your nose with the careful expression that constantly paints your face. He can feel your eyes on him, and it makes him hot. Lithe and wiry, the young dragon impresses you when he knocks down strapping northern boys twice his size. You don’t mention you’re affected, nor do you compliment his swordsmanship, but he preens when you allow him moments of council.
Every time he moves to speak to you, to get close enough to catch the smell of your evergreen soap you bathe with (he’d spent more than enough time thinking about that), a deep, growling noise startles him. It's primal, the fear that creeps up his spine, and there's nothing he hates more than feeling unguarded. Your direwolf is never far from you, scenting the air and smelling the pampered Prince’s desperation for his lady. It's not that she dislikes him, she's never lunged or snapped at him, it's more that she is completely indifferent- and it's almost worse. Some girl’s silly dog doesn’t see Aerion as a threat? What he doesn’t understand is that the connection between the Starks and their wolves is far deeper than anything a southerner could understand. You thought a Targaryen, so long bound to their dragons, would see the soul-connection with your companion; the way she could sense what you needed, how you felt. She doesn’t read the Prince as a threat because you don’t see him that way. He’s far too busy stewing in his irritation over the Stark sigil still being around to bond with.
Aerion becomes someone you take to counsel, not because he’s particularly good at strategy, or navigating noble court, but you know he will stand up for what you believe wholeheartedly. You do not need to speak out of turn, to draw attention to the fact that you are a woman ruling Winterfell and there are more than a few lords who think you unqualified. Aerion will happily use that tone of his, the one that means “I don’t respect you and I want you to know it,” to back any claim you make. Misogynistic lords will argue with a lady they believe is playing at being the warden of the North, but who can argue with a Prince? Especially that Prince? Aerion knows he’ll get a kiss, and possibly even a smile, after; he’s ready to swing on any man who tries to discredit his lady Stark.
Dunk:
A Stark would have more respect for Dunk than most of the southern lords do. Knighthood is intrinsically tied to the Seven, and so the idea of needing the gods to anoint you a knight doesn’t really mean anything to Northerners. It’s his character that determines your admiration for him. Brave, honorable, good-hearted; he’s the type of man you can depend on, and that’s a valued thing when the nights grow long and cold.
Dunk, like Daeron, falls victim to the intimidation of his Lady Stark. As a noble, there is an uncomfortability in the disparity of your standings. Dunk, while having no problem speaking to those of higher birth, does occasionally fall prey to the incongruence. There is also the notion of your Stark character; direct, clever, just, he’s not used to anyone really acting that way. He’s acutely aware of the horrors the world has to offer, and the cruelty that can come from those with power, seeing you wield your influence (and Ice) with strength and justice throws him for a loop. We see how quickly he idolizes Baelor after showing his character, Dunk just wants a kind, fair lady to follow.
Dunk is honest to a fault (except for the knight thing lol), and does not appreciate those who lie and scheme to get what they want. Starks of course are known for their honesty- whether it gets them into trouble or not. Treachery is not the true Northern way. When you comment on these attributes, praising his strength and fortitude, pleased with his need to help others, he doesn't really know what to do with himself. Ears red, shrugging his shoulders and fumbling with his words.
“‘Tis nothin’, m’lady. Only doin’ what's right.”
You’re not one to give approval when it's not warranted. Because of this, Dunk tucks each little thing you tell him close to his heart. He is utterly devoted to his lady; he acts like he’s your personal guard dog (or wolf), especially when in the south. In true Dunk fashion, he cannot help but confess to you the truth of his knightship. On his knees before you, big blue eyes wet and brows drawn, head hung low, he begs you to forgive him.
But there is nothing to forgive.
An oath sworn to faraway gods means nothing to those who know real winter. When the storms come, when houses clash, when there is no one to turn to but your own, what use is a man who has only his word to sustain him?
“You have proven yourself through your presence; I know the nature of your heart.”
He becomes your shadow- a big, hulking shadow, keeping close and surveying crowds with a watchful glance. It's not that you cannot handle yourself, but he finds himself needing to ease any burden he can assist you with. If that means standing between you and danger, so be it. He is especially fond of helping you stay warm. It's all for your safety- obviously. No other reason to peel back the layers of leather and chainmail, linen and fur, to tuck you against his bare chest in your bed. It's his job, really, sworn to protect you, even from the elements. On particularly cold nights, he’ll pull the blankets and furs into a great pile by the fire, wrapping you in his big arms and cradling you close. The winds howl, the snow blows hard against the windows, but you're safe and warm in your knight’s arms.
Baelor:
For a man so proper, so rule-abiding, so utterly fixed toward propriety, Baelor immediately takes a liking to the wild in your veins. It's not that you're carefree, there's a seriousness that comes from understanding the harsh reality of living in the North, but you have no love for the prim rules of court. For that, Baelor finds you endlessly captivating. You wear your hair loose, speak out when you disagree, and handle a bow better than any man in the yard. He’s quick to shut down any unkind word thrown toward you, the Prince’s “Wildling bride,” sent from the North to plead for alliances.
He can’t quite understand why the other southerners cannot see the beauty in the fierceness, and has little patience, or tolerance, for cruelty toward his betrothed.
You do not immediately return the gesture. It's no secret the Starks are suspicious of the Valyrian dynasty, and Baelor is the heir, set to inherit a crown and sit on the throne that forced your ancestors to kneel. Initially, you find him trying. Constantly striving for perfection, working long past any other council member, stuck up in the tower of the hand, doing whatever his father says- you imagine. What else would a spoiled, first-born son do but follow in the footsteps of those who came before him? But you watch him anyway, telling yourself it's protecting your people. It's important, of course, to know the man who will one day rule your kingdom; better to understand him now than to guess later down the line.
What you find is a man devoted to the realm, and it's hard to fault him for that. You also observe that he is not as well respected as you would have thought him to be. You roll your eyes at the lords of the Reach, who whisper nonsense about dark hair and Dornish dispositions. It helps you understand him, his need to be the best. To prove to those who doubt him that he’s worthy of the crown.
He feels your resentment toward him ease. Gone are the days of clipped responses, poor excuses, and snide looks. Baelor can sense you studying him; but instead of the uneasy feeling he’s felt all his life at other nobles watching, he finds himself warmed that you care to know him. You agree with him in a meeting discussing trade agreements, nodding your approval and dismissing the lordling who dared to insinuate Baelor favoring his mother’s kingdom. You ask him to share a meal with you one evening, just the two of you in your chambers, and he can’t quite believe it to be true. He pauses at the door before knocking, straightening his velvet doublet and hoping his hair lays flat. A blush catches on his cheeks when you open the door to find him preening himself. The embarrassment is worth getting to hear you speak unbound to the niceties of court. You can feel the bond forming between you, the northern outsider and the Valyrian Prince who doesn’t look the part, what a pair you make.
Baelor listens when you talk, so unlike the men who see you as a prize, a ticket to wardenhood- even if it’s in the North. It's not even just a curiosity for the woman who will be his wife, he genuinely wants to know you. The two of you find common ground most easily in nature. Riding out in the cool morning air, sword at his belt the only guard, and the wind whistling the only mindless chatter. He likes to see you in your element like this, a smile on your lips, eyes bright from the exertion, nothing to bind you into the confines of society. He can just be a man, in love with a woman, deep in the King’s Wood. often on your rides, you find yourselves off your horses; Baelor’s fine woolen cloak laid out in the grass, your hands in his hair and his mouth at your neck. He especially likes those mornings.
Lyonel:
Definition of he fell first AND harder. You’ve heard all about Lyonel Baratheon before you even see him. Whispers traveled up the King’s Road of a beast of a man; wild, lascivious, barbaric, each rumor cruder and more shocking than the next. You knew most of the gossip was just meant to frighten you, a young wolf traveling south to your betrothed. Surely a knight had more honor than what was spoken of him, but it did not stop your trepidation.
He finds you in the misty gardens of Storm’s End, bracing yourself on a low branch, attempting to hop the garden wall.
“My lady, are you in need of assistance?”
You spin, silver gown whipping around your feet, to see a handsome stranger leaning against the archway. His blue eyes watch you playfully, and there's an easy grin across his lips. You don’t return the gesture.
“I’m quite alright, thank you. No need to stare.”
Hastily, you turn back to your task at hand, so rarely does a man’s smile alone shake a woman of Winterfell. You hear a shout from behind:
“What is it you’re doing?”
Eyes roll, is it not obvious?
“Nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing.”
You huffed, your attempts at climbing the lattice proving futile. It did not help the penetrating stare of your gawker, boring into the back of your head.
“Are you afraid of him, then?”
His words made you pause.
“Afraid? No. It is only that I have no desire to marry a silly southern knight. No doubt he’s off drinking or whoring right now, what kind of a life for a lady is that?” You say, haughtily, struggling again to climb the rain-slick branches.
A glower paints your face when you hear him laugh. A deep, thunderous thing, rolling off his tongue in a way that makes your heart quicken. You turn, crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt to keep your upper hand. When he finally catches his breath, he manages to choke out a response.
“My dear lady, I can assure you that Ser Lyonel is, at least mostly, sober at the moment, and far from any brothel. Though I’m sure if the lady was willing, he would be happy to be of service.”
Like any Lyonel romance, he is the ultimate ragebaiter. He loves to push your buttons, seeing how far he can take a joke before you snap. Sometimes it's well thought out, playing into your serious tone and pretending to be on the same page until you see a tell-tale glint in his eye. Other days, he's immediately doing what comes to mind; a quick tug on a braid, scooping you up from behind while you're focused, taking something out of your hands and holding it above your head. He doesn't mind if you growl, if you slap his arm or bite, he is thrilled to have your attention on him. Gods help any southern courtiers who try to do the same, commenting on the strange northern customs or the stoic set of your face, Lyonel goes from his usual smile to needing to be restrained.
He is constantly at your elbow, ready to speak enough for the two of you. He adores it when you take his arm, not because you need it, but because you’re laying a claim on him. Lyonel loves too, to grab you up in his big arms and smother your face in kisses. There's a particular joy in you grumbling about distractions and decorum, but he can always feel you nuzzling closer.
(Of course inspired by the scene in Queen Charlotte.)
summary: you get a surprise wake up call in the middle of the night from your neighbor.
warnings: swearing, mentions of blood & injuries, mentions of guns (y'all it's frank), bnd spoilers if you squint
word count: 3.5k
a/n: I told y'all seeing frank in bnd was gonna spark something, and this actually came to me the day I saw the movie before I even stepped foot in the theatre, but I did shift gears a little bc we didn't get any claire and I have to do everything around here. this is my first time writing peter so talk to me NICE. i'm also a lil rusty with frank bc I haven't written for him in so long, but I missed his grumpy ass so much. as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!
Frank grunted as he slipped through the open fire escape window into the dark apartment. Every part of his aching body protested even the slightest movement, but the blood soaking his tactical pants couldn’t be ignored. The bullet hadn’t hit the femoral artery, or he would’ve been dead by now, but the way it was bleeding, he knew it had hit pretty fucking close. He’d barely taken three steps into the apartment before something hard hit his bruised shoulder with enough force to knock him into the wall to his right.
“Ow, motherfucker!”
A lamp in the living room was suddenly flipped on, and the abrupt shift from darkness to bright light had Frank squinting in discomfort. He swiftly pulled a gun from the holster on his hip and aimed in the direction the hit had come from, blinking twice and shaking his head to force his eyes to adjust. When his vision refocused, he saw a very pissed off looking woman standing just a foot away, wielding a baseball in a white knuckled grip.
“Who the fuck are you?!”
Before Frank could even say a word, a web shot across the room that trapped the gun against the wall, and his hand along with it. Peter suddenly leapt in front of Frank, stepping into the light to yank the Spider-Man mask off before holding his hands up in a show of surrender.
Glancing between the strange man in your apartment and your neighbor, your brows knit as your expression twisted into a concoction of confusion and annoyance.
“Peter?”
Letting out a quiet nervous laugh, Peter slowly lowered his hands with a tiny apologetic smile.
“Hi, sorry. We didn’t mean to scare you.”
“By breaking into my apartment in the middle of the fucking night?”
Still clutching the mask in his right hand, Peter gestured towards you helplessly.
“I thought you were working the night shift tonight!”
“I swapped shifts so I could-that’s not the point! Peter, you have a key.”
“Well, we couldn’t exactly walk through the front door like this.”
Seeing the way your lips pursed in irritation, Peter let out a heavy sigh and took a few steps closer.
“I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to freak you out. I just…I just needed to borrow your kit.”
Slowly loosening your grip on the bat, you let it drop to your side in one hand. Your eyes darted towards the bruised and bloodied stranger before settling on Peter again, lifting one of your brows in a silent question. Glancing behind himself, Peter looked at Frank and then turned to face you again. His lips parted and then closed, clearing his throat before loosely gesturing behind him with his thumb.
“This is Frank. He’s…a friend.”
“He’s bleeding all over my floor.”
Frank’s face scrunched up at your dry comment, not missing the vexation in the undertone. Peter lifted his hands once again in a placating gesture.
“And I will…clean it up, I promise.”
With a grunt, Frank tore his hand away from the wall, yanking the webbing off his gun and his hand, shaking it out to get the sticky substance off. Shoving the gun back into the holster, he looked at Peter in frustration and threw his hands up.
“What the hell, your little bug tingle didn’t tell you she was gonna come out swingin’ with a goddamn bat?”
Clenching his jaw, Peter closed his eyes for a moment before turning to face Frank again.
“It’s not a-it’s a spider sense.”
“It’s broken, is what it is. Christ, you red spandex wearin’ assholes and your goddamn senses.”
Peter let out a dry scoff as offense flashed across his features, pointing his gloved finger in Frank’s direction.
“Oh I'm sorry, I was a little more focused on saving your ass-”
“Savin’ my ass, you weren’t savin’ shit-”
“For a second time, by the way-”
“I had it under control ‘til you showed up with your hall monitor bullshit-”
“Oh, you ‘had it under control’ huh? Just like you ‘had it under control’ at Staten Island?”
“For Christ fuckin’ sake, don’t start-”
Dragging your palm down your face in exasperation at their bickering, and from your sleep being interrupted after a fourteen hour shift, your already thin strand of patience snapped with a sharp outburst.
“Will someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?”
The arguing instantly stopped as both men turned to look at you. Peter let out a deep exhale through his nose, shooting Frank an irritated look before softening his expression when he returned his attention to you.
“He got shot in the leg, and I can’t take him to a hospital.”
“What, is he wanted for murder or something?”
Peter shot you a look that was both questioning and tense. Clearing his throat, he silently reached out to grab the handle of the lamp, angling the light towards the corner Frank was standing in. Realization dawned on your features now that you could see the man clearly. The white skull on the black vest was unmistakable, even if it was covered in blood and grime and bullet holes. When you locked eyes with Frank, neither of you said a word, and Peter looked between the two of you nervously. A few uncomfortable seconds of silence passed before you blew out a heavy, resigned breath.
“Right.”
Peter approached you slowly, holding his hand out for the bat, an apology intermingled with a plea in his eyes. Pursing your lips, you finally handed it over reluctantly. A breath of relief escaped him, and he gave you a small smile.
“Thank you, Y/N. I owe you.”
“Yeah, you know your tab is getting pretty high for someone unemployed.”
Peter let out a quiet chuckle, nodding as he walked over towards the fire escape window.
“I thought that’s why we had a bartering system.”
Watching him swing his leg through the window, you took a few steps forward and placed your hands on your hips, a crease knitting between your brows.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Peter instantly froze at your tone, looking at you in wide eyed apprehension.
“Next door, to change.”
Pressing your lips together in a line, you brought your arms up to cross over your chest. Peter faltered for a moment, glancing over at Frank who was watching in mildly contained amusement. He met your stern look again hesitantly.
“I’ll come right back.”
Staying silent, you arched one of your brows. Letting out a defeated breath, Peter nodded.
“And…I’ll…take a day off.”
“You’ll take two. One to rest, one to clean up my apartment. Right back.”
With a mock salute, Peter disappeared through the window. Unfolding your arms, you brought your hands up to rub at your temples with your fingers. When you turned to look at Frank, he was still standing there in the corner you’d knocked him into, looking equal parts brooding and uncertain. Gesturing towards him with a sharp exhale through your nose, you turned to walk towards the kitchen.
“Alright, take your pants off.”
Frank’s features abruptly shifted into a look of shock, blinking a few times before his brows lifted up his forehead.
“Excuse me?”
Retrieving your medical kit from one of the bottom cabinets in your kitchen, you brought it over to set on top of your small dining table, unzipping it to reach in and pull out a pair of latex gloves. Looking over at him as you slipped them onto your hands, you lifted one of your brows inquisitively.
“He said you got shot in the leg.”
Frank’s lips parted, his eyes darting between your hands and your face. He looked at you in curiosity but also complete puzzlement.
“Uh…yeah.”
Gesturing towards him again impatiently, you placed one of your hands on your hip and leaned against the table.
“So, you wanna take your pants off, or should I turn them into daisy dukes?”
Frank’s brows furrowed, creating creases of annoyance in his forehead. He seemed to genuinely contemplate your question for a moment before finally letting a heavy exhale slip. He limped across the living room towards the dining table, leaving a trail of blood behind him. Unclipping the holster strapped to his thigh that wasn’t actively bleeding, he set that gun on the table with a thud before unbuckling his tactical belt, adding another gun and a few clips to the pile. He reached for the button on his pants and paused, looking down at himself before glancing over at you.
“Do I have to uh…all the way?”
Even though he was trying to hide it, you could see that every move he made caused him pain. Glancing down at his leg, you realized he’d have to bend down to take his boots off if he was going to undress fully, and given the amount of blood he’d already tracked through your apartment, you needed to stop the bleeding sooner rather than later.
“Just enough that I can get to the wound.”
He let out a subtle exhale of relief at that, nodding as he unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. He clenched his jaw as he gingerly pushed them down, inhaling sharply through his nose as the fabric rubbed against the wound on the way down. Once his pants were down to his knees, he slowly lowered himself down into the chair you’d pulled out and leaned back with a quiet hiss.
Grabbing a few things from your kit, you knelt down and started to inspect his thigh. There was a lot of blood, and a decent sized hole. Placing your hand on his knee, you pulled it towards you carefully so you could get a look at his inner thigh.
“Went straight through.”
Frank let out a grunt of acknowledgement. Reaching for the irrigation syringe, you placed the tip in a bottle of saline and pulled the plunger back to fill it before starting to clean both sides of the wound, wiping away the blood gently with sterile gauze.
“Castle.”
Hearing his name, Frank’s eyes flickered over your face with a guarded expression as his brows knit slightly.
“What?”
“You’re Frank Castle.”
You glanced up at him as you wiped some more blood around his wound on the outside of his thigh carefully. He regarded you silently for a moment before looking away.
“Yeah. I am.”
Shifting forward on your knees, you had to tug his pants further down past his knees to reach his inner thigh. He let out a faint grunt, looking anywhere but at you, his bloodied hands resting awkwardly on his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them. As you cleaned the wound on the inside of his thigh, a question suddenly crept into your head.
“Why didn’t you let him cover the holes?”
Frank’s face twisted up in perplexity when he looked down at you again.
“What, with his web shit? Is that sanitary?”
“Would’ve stopped the bleeding.”
Frank let out a scoff, shaking his head as his face scrunched up in barely concealed disgust.
“And let him plant some fuckin’ spider eggs in my goddamn leg? No thank you.”
That drew an amused laugh out of you. Setting the empty irrigation syringe aside, you looked up at him with a faint smirk.
“It doesn’t work like that. He creates the web fluid, it doesn’t come out of him-”
“It does now.”
Your hand stilled when you reached for your suture kit, all your previous humor quickly transitioning into surprise before snapping straight into bewilderment.
“What?”
Frank held out his forearm and tapped two of his fingers against his wrist.
“Straight from the tap. It’s fuckin’ weird. And gross.”
“What-wait, hold on. When the hell did that start happening?”
Frank shrugged his shoulders, his voice dripping with mild annoyance.
“How the hell should I know?”
“He said you were friends-”
Letting out a scoff, Frank shook his head and looked away again to glance around your kitchen.
“Friend’s a strong word. Kid’s more of a pain in the ass than anything.”
Irritation simmered within you at his rough dismissal. You knew Peter faced trouble head on every single day to protect the city, and that he’d encountered a variety of dangers and villains as Spider-Man. The low level criminals in New York he’d been dealing with lately were certainly a better alternative than galactic threats. But the Punisher wasn’t just a danger himself, he was a magnet for it. Anywhere he went in the city became a war zone, and every one in his path became collateral damage. Tonight, that collateral damage could’ve been Peter, and Frank’s careless attitude towards his safety hit a raw nerve.
“Yeah, well if anything happens to that ‘pain in the ass kid’ and I find out it’s your fault, I'm not gonna be stitching up bullet holes. I'm gonna be making them.”
Frank quickly turned his attention back to you, meeting your heated gaze without flinching. He wasn’t sure if you were just pissed because you’d been woken up in the middle of the night thinking someone was breaking into your apartment, or if you were actually threatening him. His eyes flickered over your face slowly, trying to figure you out, before they settled into a faint squint.
“You know he’s got like…powers, right?”
“I do. And I also know that cute little vest you got only protects your chest.”
Frank’s brows lifted considerably up his forehead, visibly taken aback by that blunt remark. That was definitely a real threat. He could tell by the look in your eyes that you weren’t joking, and he realized swiftly that you weren’t just Peter’s nurse neighbor who patched him up from time to time. You cared about the kid. Deeply. Something that could’ve been construed as respect or admiration flashed in Frank’s eyes, and he gave you a firm nod.
“Understood.”
He watched how you looped the thread through the suture needle with effortless precision, and for some reason, he felt the need to ease the tension in your shoulders and make that frustrated furrow between your brows disappear.
“He can hold his own.”
“He’s still young. And he’s not invincible.”
“Didn’t say he was.”
“Then don’t act like he is when you drag him into your shit-”
“Hey, I didn’t drag him into nothin’, alright? He showed up on his own. I told him to leave, he didn’t. Shit went sideways. He knows the risks when he puts on that goddamn suit.”
You didn’t realize how roughly you’d begun to handle the thread in the midst of arguing until you pulled it so taut that it snapped. The second it did, Frank backed off at seeing how visibly agitated you were. The stress radiating off of you was palpable, and he recognized it. The feeling of wanting to protect someone you love but knowing there’s only so much you can do. He softened his demeanor into something less combative and dipped his head to catch your eye.
“Hey, I’m the one who got shot, yeah? Kid’s fine. He was talkin’ shit the whole way over.”
“But it could’ve been him.”
You tried to conceal it, but he could hear the worry in your voice, see it clear as day on your face. Keeping his eyes on you, Frank spoke in a quieter voice, but it was firm with conviction.
“Not on my watch. I wouldn’t let that happen.”
A moment passed where you two just looked at each other, Frank’s sacred vow hanging in the silence between you. Letting out a deep exhale, you nodded as you reached for another piece of thread.
“Good. Because if you do-”
“You’ll cap my ass, yeah. I got it.”
You worked quickly and efficiently while you sutured up the wounds. You didn’t have any anesthetic, so you tried to be fast while remaining gentle. Frank grit his teeth, closing his eyes and breathing through the pain with faint grunts intermittently as the needle pierced his jagged flesh repeatedly, weaving it back together with each stitch. When he heard you start to laugh, his eyes flew open, and he looked down to see you smirking to yourself. He frowned as his brows knit together.
“The hell’s so funny?”
“Nothing.”
If the faux look of innocence didn’t give you away, the way your voice rose in pitch certainly did.
“Then why you laughin’?”
Unable to fight the grin spreading across your lips, you finally looked up at him as you tied off another stitch.
“Because the big bad Punisher is sitting here in a bulletproof vest and his underwear with his pants around his ankles. Kind of a goofy look for someone so scary.”
Frank narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips together in annoyance. That look only seemed to draw another laugh from you, and it made you grin even wider. Shaking his head, he looked away with a dry scoff. His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, and he fought to not see the humor in the ridiculous image you’d just pointed out, or let amusement spread across his own mouth because of it. Looking down at you again, he cocked his head to the side.
“You always got this good of a bedside manner?”
“I’m off the clock.”
A flash suddenly went off, accompanied by the sound of a camera shutter clicking, and both of you turned to see Peter standing in the kitchen holding up his phone with a shit eating grin. Frank immediately sat up straighter, his momentary levity shifting into full blown aggravation.
“Oh you fuckin’ shithead. Delete that, right now.”
Peter put his hands behind his back, pretending to look innocent even though he was still grinning.
“Delete what?”
“The picture, asshole.”
“I don't know what you're talking about, Frank.”
As soon as Frank went to get up, you reached out to put your hand against his vest to push him back.
“Easy big guy, I'm not done.”
Peter snickered as Frank shot him a death glare. When you finished up the last stitch on Frank’s thigh, you slowly turned your head to look at Peter, and his mirth quickly faded into an expression of someone who knew they were in trouble for something.
“When were you going to tell me?”
Looking at you in slight panic, Peter eyed you cautiously.
“What do you mean?”
“You have organic webs now?”
Confusion bloomed across his face at how you knew that. He looked from you to a still irritated Frank, who simply flipped him off. Peter’s lips parted as he started to speak, fumbling over his words.
“I…well…it's you know…new.”
“And?”
“I don't really know how to explain it. It just…started happening, along with some other weird stuff.”
“And you didn't think to tell me that?”
Peter let out a sigh as he ran one of his hands through his messy hair.
“I didn't think you'd understand. And I mean it's not really a nurse thing, it's a…spider thing.”
Standing up from the floor, you calmly pulled off your bloodied gloves and tossed them on the table with the rest of your used supplies, and Frank’s pile of guns and ammo, before placing one of your hands on your hip.
“Peter, what you're going through is completely normal.”
At your simple statement, Peter’s features quickly morphed into a display of perplexity.
“It is?”
“Of course. At some point during every young spider's life, they all go through a transitionary phase. Your body will start to change, you may find you have these urges-”
“Oh my God, stop, stop.”
Peter covered his face with his hands in embarrassment as he groaned, and you struggled to contain your smirk. Behind you, Frank started snickering, and Peter shot him a glare of annoyance. The tips of his ears were burning red when he looked at you again, and with a shake of his head, he held his hands up in resignation.
“Alright, fine. Next time something weird happens, I'll tell you.”
“Good. Now sit. You're next.”
Peter's face contorted in confusion at your command.
“Next? I’m fine.”
“Those bruises and cuts say otherwise.”
“They're just bruises and cuts, they'll heal. I'm fine, I swear.”
Reaching for a fresh pair of gloves from your kit, you pulled them on nonchalantly.
“You know, with these urges you're gonna start having Peter, it's important to be safe. Are you using protection?”
Frank busted out laughing, and Peter looked absolutely mortified, covering his ears with his hands and squeezing his eyes shut.
“Oh my God, I’m sitting alright, I'm sitting. Jesus.”
As Peter turned around to pull out a chair to sit, another flash went off along with the click of a camera shutter. Peter abruptly turned in puzzlement, only to see Frank with his own phone out, his mouth split in a big toothy grin.
“Nice pants, kid.”
Frank looked him up and down with a taunting smug smirk.
𝚂𝙰𝚃𝙾𝚁𝚄 tries dating someone new to distract himself. It lasts less than two days. 𖹭
𝑭𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇. ꒰ 𝒇𝒆𝒎!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 ⋮⋮ canon jjk ꒱
It’s Shoko who calls you first.
The phone buzzes against the kitchen counter while you’re staring at a half-eaten bowl of cereal gone soggy. You almost ignore it. Almost, but habit wins, and you do pick up.
"He's being weird,” she says, biting off a yawn, cigarette smoke curling lazily from her lips. “Weirder than usual. He brought some girl to dinner last night.”
You blink. “Oh.”
The word comes out small. Flat. Like it doesn’t belong in your mouth.
“She laughed like a goose and called him ‘Toru-bear’ and wore a shirt that said ‘Boss Babe.’” Shoko pauses. “You, understandably, weren’t there. So I had to suffer alone.”
“Sorry.” You almost sounded sincere.
“Don’t apologize. He should be apologizing. It was pitiful.”
You try not to let it get to you. You try not to think about how it felt, because just three nights ago, when he kissed you so soft and said, “You make everything quiet,” like it was a confession, like it hurt to say it, when the words left his lips...
And, now he’s… dating?
Trying?
Moving on?
Your chest aches, but you smile through it. “Maybe he just needs to figure some stuff out.”
Shoko exhales. “You’ve ruined him. You know that, right?”
You laugh. It sounds brittle and slightly amused. “I don’t think I’m that powerful.”
“You are,” she says dryly. “I watched this man— this man who used to brag about how hot girls lined up for him after missions— literally panic when his dinner date tried to kiss him.”
Your heart flips. “What?”
“He flinched,” she confirms. “Like, full-body jolted. Said, and I quote, ‘Sorry, I’m just not used to someone else’s face being that close. It feels wrong.’”
You’re stunned into silence.
Then: “He said it felt wrong?”
“Mhm.” A long pause fills the space for a moment. “And then he left. Mid-date. Suguru watched him walk outside and immediately call your number. You didn’t answer, did you?”
You hadn’t.
You’d seen his name light up your screen and tucked your phone under your pillow, heart hammering, unsure what you were even to him now.
That night, he left you a voicemail.
You hadn’t listened to it.
Not until now.
You pull it up after exchanging goodbyes with Shoko. Hands trembling, and you press play.
“Hey,” his voice murmurs. There’s a sharp exhale. “I know you probably don’t wanna talk to me. That’s fair.”
Theres a second of silence...
“I thought… maybe I needed to know what it would be like. To be with someone who isn’t you. To see if I could want something else. And I can’t.”
He laughs, soft and its self-deprecating.
“I couldn’t even hold her hand without thinking about the way you tuck yours under mine like it’s automatic. Couldn’t sit across from her without hearing your voice in my head telling me to chew slower because I eat like a gremlin.”
You close your eyes, breath shallow.
“You’ve ruined me, sweetheart,” he whispers .“And I think I’d let you do it a thousand times over.”
The message fizzles out to an abrupt end.
You stand there in the quiet kitchen, phone still pressed to your ear like the sound of him might come back if you just wait long enough.
Your pulse is loud in your throat.
You don’t think— you just go.
Keys. Shoes. The door slamming behind you hard enough that the frame rattles.
The night air hits your face. Cool and sharp because it's 10pm and you're running. You don’t remember deciding to run but your feet are already moving, pavement blurring under you, streetlights smearing gold across your vision.
Every step feels like it’s carving something open in your chest.
Three nights ago his mouth had been so careful against yours. Three nights ago he’d breathed against your temple like the whole world had gone soft just for the two of you. Three nights ago he’d looked at you like you were the only solid thing left.
And then he’d tried to date someone else.
Tried.
Failed so completely that Shoko called it pitiful.
You don’t slow down until you’re outside his building. The code for the gate is still muscle memory. The stairs take forever and no time at all.
You reach his door.
Knock once.
Twice.
The lock clicks.
He opens the door looking like a kicked puppy— eyes wide, hoodie sleeves too long, heart cracked open.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Then you don’t say a word— just throw your arms around him and bury your face in his chest.
He holds you like he never wants to let go again.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m so— sorry.”
“I’m not,” you whisper back.
You lean up.
Kiss him like he’s the only person in the world worth knowing.
Like he belongs to you.
Because he does.
His mouth is warm and a little desperate under yours. One of his hands slides up into your hair, the other locking around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip even a fraction.
You feel the way his chest rises and falls too fast against yours. You feel the tiny tremor in his fingers.
When you finally pull back just enough to breathe, his forehead rests against yours.
“I hated it,” he says, voice low and rough. “Every second of it. She kept talking and all I could hear was you. She touched my arm and it felt like static. Wrong frequency. Wrong everything.”
You don’t answer with words. You just kiss him again, slower this time, tasting the apology still sitting on his tongue.
He walks you backward into the apartment without breaking the kiss. The door clicks shut behind you. Somewhere a lamp is on, casting soft gold across the floor. His place smells like the laundry detergent he always uses and the faint citrus of the cleaner he pretends he doesn’t buy just because you once said you liked it.
He presses you gently against the wall by the entryway. Not hard. Just enough that you can feel how solid he is, how carefully he’s holding himself back.
“I kept thinking about the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Like I’m something worth keeping. She looked at me like I was a prize she’d already won. I couldn’t stand it.”
Your hands fist in the front of his hoodie. The fabric is soft from too many washes. You know every loose thread.
“I shouldn’t have gone,” he says. “I knew the second I sat down across from her that I’d made a mistake. But I stayed. Like an idiot. Like maybe if I just forced it hard enough it would start feeling right.”
You tip your head so your lips brush the corner of his jaw. “Did it?”
“Not even close.”
He kisses you again, deeper, and you let him. Let the heat of it pull everything else out of focus until there’s only the two of you and the quiet apartment and the way his body fits against yours like it was designed for exactly this.
When he finally draws back there’s a flush high on his cheeks. His eyes are bright in a way that has nothing to do with residual cursed energy and everything to do with you.
“Stay,” he says. Not a question.
You nod.
He takes your hand the way he always does, fingers sliding between yours like they belong there and leads you further inside.
The couch is still a mess of throw pillows from the last time you were here. One of your hair ties sits on the coffee table. Evidence of a life that never quite stopped belonging to both of you even when you tried to pretend otherwise.
He sits first and pulls you into his lap without ceremony. You go willingly, knees bracketing his hips, arms looping around his neck.
For a long moment you just look at each other.
Then he starts talking again, quieter, like the words have been waiting behind his teeth for days.
“She ordered something with cilantro and I almost told her you hate cilantro. Almost said it out loud. Like my mouth forgot who I was sitting with.”
You brush a strand of white hair off his forehead. “You left mid-date.”
“Yeah.” A short, self-conscious laugh. “Suguru gave me the look. You know the one. The ‘you’re an idiot and I love you but also please stop’ look. I walked outside and called you before I even thought about it. Needed to hear your voice. Needed to know you still existed in the same world as me.”
You remember the way your phone had lit up. The way you’d shoved it under the pillow like that could protect either of you from whatever this was becoming.
“I listened to the voicemail,” you tell him.
His arms tighten around you. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Silence settles for a few heartbeats. Comfortable. Heavy with everything neither of you has said yet.
Then he leans in and presses a kiss to the side of your neck, soft and lingering.
“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say it properly,” he murmurs against your skin. “That you’re it for me. That nothing else even comes close. That I tried to prove myself wrong and only proved the opposite.”
You tilt your head to give him more room. His mouth follows the line of your throat with careful, deliberate attention.
“You don’t have to figure it out,” you say. “Just keep showing up.”
He pulls back enough to meet your eyes. There’s something open and a little raw in his expression.
“I will. Every time. Even when I’m being an idiot about it.”
You kiss him for that. Slow. Thorough. The kind of kiss that says you already knew and you’re still choosing him anyway.
His hands slide under the hem of your shirt, palms warm against your waist. Not demanding. Just anchoring you to the present.
You feel the way his breathing changes when your fingers find the nape of his neck and scratch lightly the way he likes.
“Stay the night,” he says again, quieter this time. Almost a plea.
“I’m already here.”
He smiles against your mouth. The real one. The one that softens everything about him until he looks almost young again.
“Good.”
Later, when the apartment has gone fully dark except for the city glow through the windows, you end up tangled together on the couch under a blanket that smells like both of you. His heartbeat is steady under your ear. One of his hands keeps tracing idle patterns along your spine like he can’t quite stop touching you now that you’re close again.
“Shoko’s going to give me so much shit for this,” he says eventually, voice drowsy.
You huff a quiet laugh. “She already did. Called the whole thing pitiful.”
“She’s not wrong.”
You press a kiss to the center of his chest through the soft fabric of his hoodie.
“I don’t care if it was pitiful,” you tell him. “I’m glad you figured it out.”
His arms tighten around you one more time.
“Me too,” he whispers. “God. Me too.”
Outside, the city keeps moving. Inside, everything is quiet the way it only ever is when it’s the two of you.
And for the first time in days, it feels like enough.
