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queers-gambit · 1 year ago

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What Goes Around, Comes Around

prompt: ( requested ) Billy's known for his temper and being obsessed with his pretty little girlfriend - which gets her severely injured by his past transgressions.

pairing: Billy Hargrove x female!cheerleader!reader reader and Billy are both 18+, seniors in high school

word count: 6.7k+

fandom masterlist: Stranger Things

note: you're a liar if you didn't immediately start singing Justin Timberlake's "What Goes Around... Comes Around".

warnings: remember there are different responses to trauma! some people shut down, stop talking; others jabber and chatter nervously. reader is the latter. we got angst, we got literal hurt and comfort, established relationship. term "going postal" is used, cursing, technically underage drinking, not edited, author mildly gave up at the end. triggering content: depictions of physical violence, depictions of injury and blood, depiction of abuse, violent plots, Billy's girl gets physically assaulted (but it's minimally detailed).

DO NOT read if this content can potentially trigger you. you are NOT missing anything, you will miss NOTHING by skipping this, but i do try to keep the details as neutral as possible. again, prioritize yourself, mental health, and emotional state - this ain't worth the read if it's gonna upset you, i promise. author loves you all

"That's fucking her, I swear to God."

"You sure?"

"100%. That's Billy's little bitch he's obsessed with."

The three guys smirked at one another, eyeing you across the living room as you giggled and drank with a few friends in adorable, fashion forward outfits. Someone started a game of beer pong, you on the sidelines to cheer, giving them a full-show of your form.

"She's hot," Jake mused. "I can see why he keeps her so close."

"Nah, not tonight," Lawrence frowned, "heard they got in some huge fight at school. Like, she walked home and he sped off in his car."

"Hm, heard he's ridiculously protective of her... She must've really pissed him off," the third boy, Steven, nodded. "So, he's not here tonight?"

"Doubt it," Jake nodded.

"Go find out," Steven advised. "There, the basketball bros - one of them would know. Or a cheerleader," he eyed the crowd. "Chrissy's over there, Brittany's beside her - they'd be the best bet in my mind."

"We seriously considering this?" Lawrence asked with a small, nervous chuckle. "I mean, it's kinda crazy, isn't it? We're gonna send Billy Hargrove a message by roughing up his girl? There's not some better way?"

"I'd love to hear it," Steven scoffed. "Billy's too comfortable at the top of the school, broke my fucking nose and deviated Jake's septum. Didn't he fuck your sister the first week he was here, Lawrence?"

"I mean - "

"Broke her fucking heart, didn't he?" Jake tacked on.

"Well, yeah," Lawrence sighed, shrugging.

"You tell me, dude, was that shit fair?"

"No," Lawrence looked down.

"So, yeah, I know, it's bad to hit a lady - but what about my boot? Huh?" Steven smirked, nodding. "Go find out what you can. Last thing we need is Billy walkin' in the party, right?"

Jake nodded with enthusiasm, leaving Lawrence behind. He hesistated but then did as Steven asked; asking the present basketball team members if Billy gave indication he was coming. The cheerleaders assured he wouldn't dare show up when you were there after a very public fight, and if he did, it would be to cause another scene.

So, after reporting back to Steven, a plan was formed. Lawrence didn't seem fully on board, but in an effort to save his own skin, he went along with what Jake and Steven were plotting - even if that meant roughing up a woman. Something his mama and grandmama vehemently taught him not to do...

Something churned in his stomach when he heard how the two lads were nearly foaming at the mouth to get their revenge. So, he casually went to grab another drink - pausing where a few of your friends were. "Oi," he whispered, earning their attention.

"Hey, Law," Chrissy smiled.

"Hey, Chris," he sniffled, glancing around. "Listen, uh, you seen Billy 'round?"

"No? Why?"

"Hmm, just, uh... Heard his girl was all upset, thought maybe her drinking all that much was a bad idea without him around."

"Oh," Chrissy blinked, looking up at her boyfriend, Jason, as he approached the group with two drinks in hand. "I didn't think about it like that, Law."

"What's wrong?" Jason asked.

"No, nothing, Lawrence just pointed out how shitty it is to drink without someone watching your back," she pouted.

He nodded, "You lose your friends, man?"

"No, just tryna look out," Lawrence shrugged. "Few girls here drinking a lot, not a lot of defenses 'round them."

Jason frowned, "That's kinda their man's job, isn't it?"

"What if their man isn't here?"

"I'm gonna be right back," Chrissy smiled, parting ways with her girlfriend in tow - and when Law looked, they were using the kitchen telephone. He prayed they were phoning the Hargrove residence.

Lawrence sighed in slight relief and nodded to Jason; the white boy just nodding back silently and letting the other athlete pass him by to head back for Jake and Steven. He grabbed an unopened beer on his way to maintain appearances.

"Hey, we got it," Jake smirked at the third boy, "she just went outside, we should move now."

"Huh?" Law mumbled.

"C'mon," Steven growled, pushing off the mantle and stalking for the backdoors to follow your retreating form.

"Wait, what're we doing?" Law asked, trying to keep up with the drunken, elongated strides of the two dickheads he called 'friends'. "Hey! Guys, c'mon - what's going on?"

"Just - shut up, pussy boy, let's go, fuckin' keep up," Steven sneered, shoving the glass door out of his way and nearly cracking it.

Outside, the in-ground pool was alight with multicolored lights. There were teenagers littered all around the pool deck; some lounging and some standing, all drinking. There was a kegstand in play, ping pong table hosting another game of Beer Pong, and the thick stench of cigarette smoke in the air.

"She's over there," Jake pointed, their sights turning to see you leaning over to huff on your cigarette while Tammy May Flipsen lit the end of it. Your smile was genuine as you thanked her, just stepping two feet away to gaze up at the stars - a perfect time to strike.

The alcohol in everyone's system made them slow, vulnerable, and downright stupid; leaving Steven and Jake the opportunity to seize either of your arms and literally rush you around the corner of the house without anyone intervening.

Once in the remote side yard, the sickening plan commenced.

Lawrence could barely approach, managing to watch with tears in his eyes as the noises of the party masked the noises of pain you emitted; two nearly full-grown men took out their anger towards your boyfriend on you. You cried, begged for reprieve, sounded so confused and broken that it shattered Lawrence's heart - briefly thinking what if someone did this to his sister...

That made him spring into action. "Hey! No! No, this ain't right! Get off her!" Lawrence barked, shoving the two away from your body on the ground. "That's enough - back off - fuck is wrong with you!?"

"What the fuck do you think you're doing!?" Steven demanded.

"Bitch has it coming!"

"What? You fuckin' her, too? Got you pussy whipped like Billy Boy?"

"Just fuck off, beating on a girl!" Lawrence snapped, but it was a huge mistake. Jake and Steven shared a single look before launching at the third boy, beating him as they had you - but much harder. He swore he earned a concussion, their heels stomping his neck, collarbones, wrists, ribs, ankles; exactly the same as they did to you.

"Tryna defend her now!?" Jake heaved, giving a swift kick to Lawrence's kidney. "Huh? You're so scared of Billy but you're gonna mess with his girl?" He laughed. "She must have a magic cunt or something!"

"You're so fucking pathetic, you have to beat up a girl!?" Law shot right back, earning a swift kick to the jaw from the lad that used to play soccer (or American fútbol). "Huh? Two on one? Such big men, aren't yah?" He sneered again, spitting blood to the side.

"Leave it," Steven halted Jake when he charged again, "they're both pretty fucked."

"Well, that dumbass should learn a lesson 'bout interfering!"

"Law's learned - he has, bro, and if he wants, he can learn again," Steven spat on Lawrence's form, Jake doing the same to you - both eventually stalking away like bored toddlers walking away from broken toys.

Slowly, Lawrence grunted as he pulled himself up to sit against the side of the house. "Fuck's sake," he whispered, wiping his eyes and wincing when he felt the sore skin - trailing a finger up, wincing again when he discovered split skin above his eyebrow. "Ohhhh, fuuuuck," Law drawled when you slowly peaked up from your fetal position on the ground. "Hey, hey, you all right? Stupid question," he hissed in pain when he moved to try and assist you.

You cried out when his grip laid on you, but powered through to let him help you sit against the house, too. "Holy shit," you whispered, blood dribbling from your mouth; teeth feeling loose, a headache already assaulting you, and cuts stinging in the bitter night.

"I'm so sorry."

"N-No, you - it would've been so much worse if you hadn't..." You trailed off, sniffling, "You didn't have t'jump in, you got hurt 'cause of me."

"You got hurt 'cause of Billy," Lawrence frowned.

"Huh?"

"That's why they're so pissed off," Lawrence explained, spitting more blood to the side; his jeans stained with mud, blood, and grass. "Billy got their asses few weeks ago, they're still pissed... I heard them," he deflected smoothly, "talkin' about teaching Billy a lesson through you. Didn't feel right, but I should've stopped them so much sooner. I-I'm sorry I didn't do more, Y/N."

"You did more than anyone else," you whimpered, drawing your knees into your chest to lock your arms around them. "I don't even know them, they go to our school?"

"We're all in AP History with Snyder."

You paused to nod absently, not even bothering to try and recall any interactions you might've had with Steven and Jake. Instead, you eyed your savior, mumbling, "You're Lawrence, right?"

"Yeah," he breathed.

"Your sister's... Cara? Sarah? No, no," you paused to think, his frown deepening as you seemed so nice and authentic. "Your sister's name is Natalie, right?"

"Yeah," he half-smiled. "You know her?"

"She's a sweetheart, has those cute glasses? Yeah, I like her; she just joined cheer, right?"

"Yeah, that's her."

You eyed him for a moment, ignoring the blood dripping off you both from the beat down; then whispered with a sniffle, "Is that why you helped? 'Cause your sister's on the cheer squad, too?"

"No," he replied instantly, sounding quiet (like you), "I'd like to believe if I saw something I know is wrong... I'd be the type of person to step in, try to stop it."

"You did tonight."

"I should've done more a lot sooner."

"You could've been really hurt, Law."

"Like you?"

"I'm just - look, two guys? Beatin' on me? Yeah," you scoffed, wiping blood from your split lip, "like I ever stood a chance. But you didn't have t'do all that, they wanted Billy, found me instead. You could've walked away, but instead, you jumped in, and you could've been really hurt. That wouldn't help anyone."

"I'm still sorry..."

You sniffled, but before you could respond, you heard footsteps thundering over the lawn; a voice shouting your name in frantic, panicked little outbursts. Looking up, you caught sight of a black leather jacket and unruly blonde curls, frowning deeper. "Oh, fuck," you whispered, withdrawing into yourself, "oh, no, no, not now. Not now, Goddamnit. Think I can make a run for it to the street before he sees me?" You asked Law quietly, nearly hissing your whisper.

"Ain't that Billy?" Law asked, finger pointed.

"He can't see me," you rushed in a panic, eyes wide and tears welling. "Lawrence, he can't!"

"Why?"

"He'll go on a fucking rampage, Lawrence! Ever heard going postal? Yeah, Bee gives that shit new meaning."

"They'd deserve whatever Billy wants t'do," Law frowned, tensing up when Billy had turned, caught sight of you two, and made an angry beeline for you in the grass. "U-Uh, Billy's approaching," he warned you as your boyfriend arrived, trying to pull back to give privacy, but wincing in pain that made him stop.

"The fuck is going - ? Oh, my fuckin' God," Billy trailed off, then whispered when he saw you huddled on the ground; your dress in tatters. Your head was bowed, knees drawn in, refusing to meet his eyes; making your leather-clad boyfriend lower himself to a knee. "Baby? Hey, look at me, sweet girl, lemme see... C'mon, baby, please, look at me."

You only sniffled.

"It was Jake and Steven," Lawrence told Billy, trying to find his feet; falling over and just giving up.

"Hell happened to you, man?"

Lawrence frowned, looking nervous, but your voice answered, "He saved me, Bee. Jumped in, took some of the beating."

Billy looked between you and Lawrence, but focused on you - seeing the injuries to your face and chest in full light. "Oh, my God," he breathed, looking you over in shock. Those pink, pillowy lips you adored licking and sucking on were parted in shock.

You half-smiled, "Think you pissed a few of the wrong guys off."

"Jesus Christ, sweet girl. What happened? Tell me, please, before I start making assumptions," he demanded, reaching for your cheek - making you recoil hard enough that your head banged on the house supporting your exhausted body. "Hey, hey," he whispered, looking physically wounded by your action, "'s just me, baby, it's just me, it's Bee, I'm not gonna hurt you. C'mon, sweetheart, lemme help you."

You sniffled, letting him reach for you again and caress your cheek so he could direct your head left and right; giving him a full view of your injuries that continued to weep. He stiffened as he took note of a new cut or bruise upon every new sweep of his eyes, his anger skyrocketing with every passing moment.

"It hurts," you whimpered. "Apparently, you beat the shit outta those guys weeks ago - guess they were waiting for an opening to strike back."

"You don't deserve this," he growled angrily. "Fuck - look at you! Goddamnit, I'm so sorry, princess, this is my fault. All my fucking fault, shit," he hissed, looking close to tears, "I put you here, I'm so sorry, baby."

"Got Lawrence his ass beat, too," you pouted.

"Sorry about this, man," Billy instantly offered the other boy, who was practically slumped over in the grass. He still managed to give a thumbs up. "But, uh, thank you for stepping in. You know, not a whole lotta people would."

"Nah, it was the right thing to do," Law frowned, waving him off.

"You said Jake and Steven did this?"

"Mhm," Law nodded. "Jake Chastain and Steven Barton."

"Yeah, I know 'em," Billy shook his head, "and I'll fuckin' kill 'em - "

"Can we get cleaned up first? Before we go murdering high school jocks?" You pouted in pain.

"Hey, man. You got a friend here or something? Someone to help us?" Billy asked Lawrence, still caressing your face with his thumb sweeping the apple of your cheek.

"My sister's 'round, yeah..."

"Want me to grab her?" Billy offered awkwardly.

"I'd actually appreciate it," Law whispered. "Gotta get home, yeah?"

"Yeah, man. Stay here, I'll grab her," Billy agreed. "What's her name?"

"Natalie, she's a cheerleader. Um... Y-You dated her beginning of the year?"

"I remember," he sighed, standing to his feet. He told you earnestly, almost sweetly, "I'll be fast."

But the thing is, you knew Billy all too well by now. "Wait, no," you gasped, trying to stand, "Bee, don't!" It was too late, he was already gone by the time you and Lawrence stumbled out from hiding; just in time to watch Billy point Natalie towards where you and her brother were. Then, he turned and surged up to an unsuspecting Jake and Steven; launching an all-out brawl against the two.

Neither of them stood a chance when Billy was THIS angry. Nobody did. In fact, if Jason, Tommy H., and two other guys hadn't pulled him back, surely, there'd be a lot more than a couple of broken bones. However, when Billy told the other basketball players in a spit-flying rage that these two cowards had attacked his girlfriend (a few turning back to get a look at you), it launched a new, mutual anger. Chrissy and a few other cheerleaders wanted to step in when the "fight" (more like attack) started again, but when they saw you, Lawrence, and Natalie, nobody said a single word. Nobody interfered. Nobody interrupted, and luckily, nobody else joined in...

Before Jake and Steven could lose their lives or sustain serious injury that would result in any arrests, Billy was pulled back by Lawrence - of all people. "Hey, hey," the beaten boy barked, "hey, man, chill - chill! These guys deserve it, yeah, I fucking know, but look, hey!" He grabbed Billy's shoulders to prevent him from turning back for the fray. "Hey! Your girl needs you, man. She needs you more than these bozos. C'mon, you can't go to jail over this shit, right? Right? How mad you gonna be if you get bagged 'cause of these jackasses?"

This seemed to force Billy back to reality and out of his homicidal rage. A few dudes who played football stepped in to hoist the unconscious jocks over their shoulders just to leave them on the curb a couple houses down the street.

Billy raced back to you.

Chrissy and Natalie were helping wipe blood from your skin and hair; clothes damaged, ripped, stained, beyond repair, and another cheerleader was holding a bag of frozen peas to your head as you leaned on her stomach. He slid his jacket from his shoulders, easing you off the girl's belly to leave it around your trembling form and then taking the girl's spot, supporting your body as you were tended to.

Eventually, Chrissy sighed, "I think that's the best we're gonna get you, honey. You want us to come over in the mornings? Help you get dressed and do your make-up?"

"No offense, but I don't think that's necessary... It's not like what happened is a secret," Natalie whispered, looking you over.

"Make-up might irritate the injuries," the other girl offered softly. "But it might cover some of those bruises, I just would avoid the cuts."

"I'm okay, girls, but thank you," you assured softly. "Bee's here t'help."

"Yeah, taking you straight to the hospital," he decided stiffly from behind you.

"What?"

"Think I'm not gonna get you checked out after this? Two men attacked you, I gotta make sure ain't shit's seriously wrong, baby. Don't fight me on this, please."

Billy's mind was warped with memories of sitting in ER's and other clinics with his mother nursing a broken wrist or damaged eye socket. His father's anger had always been a temperamental switch, something Billy felt he always had to outdo. Being in the hospital with you felt too similar, another bolt of rage zinging through his blood; hating the idea that you were the victim, and like his mother, he wasn't able to protect you.

Unlike his mother, this situation was directly his fault. He didn't even remember why he beat the shit outta Steven and Jake all those weeks ago, but whatever the reason, it cost him now. Cost you both.

The party continued inside the house, but Billy walked around the side yard, down to the front, then towards the street full of parked cars with you secure in his arms. After getting you settled safely in the passenger seat of his Camaro, Billy rightened and shut the door; seeing Lawrence and Natalie approaching their own car, the bag of peas now held to his jaw and cheek.

His sister was under his arm, helping him hobble. Billy gulped, realizing Lawrence was beat to hell, too, and if he hadn't jumped in, Lord only knew what state you'd be in now. When the two men caught one another's eye, Billy offered a nod of respect and thanks; the other lad returning it as if to say he was welcome. Billy raced for the driver's door, sliding in, and without turning any music on, drove off towards the hospital.

You were grumpy to be there, but one look at you had the medical staff moving at a quickened pace to help you; offering speedy aid. You were cleaned and cared for; questions regarding the level of assault making you nervous, but you answered honestly that two classmates had jumped you at a party. This meant the police were called; tears in your eyes and down your cheeks when you had to tell Chief Hopper (a close family friend) exactly what happened.

Billy provided their assailant’s full names and promised they wouldn't be in the best shape when (slash if) the two were found.

After hearing your story and writing the names down from Billy, Hopper sighed in empathy, "Kid... Don't admit t'anything."

"I'm not, I'm just making a casual note," Billy countered. "You know, people don't take too kindly to people hittin' a woman. Less so when she's drunk, alone, and they fuckin' stomp on her - "

"All right," Hopper tried to halt his built up anger. "Let's just take a breath here - "

"Uh, Chief?" His deputy interrupted. "Them boys? Uh, a... Jake Chastain and Steven Barton? They were just wheeled in from an ambulance."

"Interesting," Hopper noted, sparing Billy a small look. "From where?"

"A neighbor called them in, said there's a party few houses from her on Hawthorne."

Jim Hopper sighed and turned to you and Billy with his hands on his hips. His face was passively angry. "Sound familiar?" He asked, tongue sweeping over his teeth.

"Yes," you answered for you both, "that's where it happened, Chief."

His eyes softened when he looked back at you. "All right," he nodded, looking to his partner. "Go stand by their room, keep an eye - I'll be there in a second, but the victims made a positive ID. Doc's will treat 'em and we'll book 'em." When left alone, Hopper took a suspicious look around the hospital floor before sliding the curtains shut around your bed; moving to your other side, removing his hat, and kneeling. "Listen, kid," he whispered, taking your hand softly, "I got a daughter at home, too, and if anyone - and I mean, anyone - laid a hand on her the way you were tonight, I'd burn this town to the fucking ground."

Billy snorted in amusement, "Know the feeling."

Hopper nodded, "So believe me when I say, I need to know, off the record, what really happened tonight. Your father will need to know that I am doing everything to help - but I need to know the truth."

"I don't know what to tell you, Hopper," you frowned, matching his quiet tone, "I've told you what I know. I was a few drinks in, stepped outside t'smoke, and that's when they grabbed me, took me t'the side yard, and started wailing on me. I dropped, they kept goin', that's when this other boy stepped in. He got beat up pretty good, too, but he helped get them away. Billy showed up, we came here - "

"I hit them," Billy interrupted, making you squeak lightly. Hopper just laid his other hand over yours so he cocooned it; glancing around the under skirts of the curtains to make sure you remained alone.

Then he asked, "When?"

"After I made sure Y/N was okay," Billy explained, petting a hand over the back of your head; never looking away from Hopper. "I found her friend's sister, made sure someone knew where they were, and then I hit them... And I didn't stop hitting them."

"Kid - "

"Some teammates pulled me off, don't worry - it could've been so much worse. But when the others found out what they did to my girl?" He hissed quietly, "They took matters into their own hands by themselves, sir. My girl was attacked, I couldn't let that just slide, Chief, I hope you understand."

Hopper sighed, "Well, I can't condone the violence, but since it was a group effort, be a helluva lot more paperwork bringing you in versus those two who started it."

Billy nodded absently, your free hand laying over Hopper's to stack. "Did you call my dad?" You asked nervously.

"Not yet," he frowned. "I gotta check on the suspects, but I can after."

"Could you not? For me, please?" You sniffled. "He'll just worry and would get all pissy 'cause his trip has to be cut - "

"He's not home?" Hopper asked in earnest confusion with knitted brows.

Your head shook, "Chicago for the week."

"He left eight days ago," Billy snipped.

"Bee," you reprimanded sharply.

"Hey," Hopper squeezed your hand, "it's okay, you're over 18, I don't have to call him. But El and I are gonna drop by later with dinners and to check on you, her little friend, too, probably. You know, the, uh... The little red head?"

"Max?" You asked.

"Yeah, her. Nice girl."

"She's Billy's step-sister," you snickered, wincing when your broken ribs protested.

"You should rest," Hopper bid, "and thank you for being honest," he stood to his feet while nodding at Billy. "Tell you what, I won't report you starting the fight - technically... It'll be reported as a randomized group effort after they were caught assaulting Y/N."

Billy nodded, too shocked for words as Hopper patted your hand, placed his hat on, and exited the little curtained room. "Wow," your boyfriend breathed. "Since when are you friends with the Chief of Police?"

"He and my dad go way back," you eased.

"All cops like him?"

"Fuck no, you know that." After a beat, you reached for his hand to lace your fingers with him, "Hey," you bid, "I-I'm really sorry."

"Baby, just - don't even start - "

"No, for earlier, for our fight," you interrupted, "and for feeling petty enough to go to the party alone when I know you don't like that... For drinking, not being more aware like you taught me. I didn't use the buddy-system when I went t'smoke, it was a major fuck-up, I know, but I'm just sorry. I feel like I've disappointed you or something - "

"No, hey, sweet girl," he rushed, sitting on the edge of the gurney to stare at you directly, "don't you ever feel that way - you didn't do nothing wrong. Hear me? You didn't put yourself in this position, you didn't deserve what happened, you didn't - no, just," he sighed deeply, "you didn't do any of this, sweetheart. Okay? If anything... If anything, this is my fucking fault and I'm the one who is so sorry."

Your head shook, but Billy continued,

"They did this to you because of me." Tears filled those sweet baby blues. "Because I don't have a hold of my temper - I fucked them up, so, they fucked you up. This is my fault, I'm so sorry. But look, hey, I'll fix this, okay? I swear to God - I'm gonna fix this."

"The cops got 'em, we don't have t'do anything else," you mumbled. "You don't have to do anything else, Billy."

"Maybe not, but I can't let this go - look at you," a single tear dripped. "Fucking look at you, my sweet girl. In the fucking hospital 'cause of me - I can't - this ain't right. I gotta make it right."

You couldn't answer because a technician was arriving to take you for a CT, MRI, and X-Ray - all of those scans that would tell them what was going on internally. Hopper was seen outside the two boy's rooms - Billy following your bed closely as you where wheeled away. Every scan or test he could remain close for, he was; stepping back when needed, but being sucked right back to your side when able.

By the end of the night, you were released into Billy's care because all patients with head injuries had to have some kind of chaperone, and a few floors up, Steven and Jake were being handcuffed to their hospital beds by Hopper.

"Real lucky I wasn't there when you hit her," Jim Hopper seethed quietly, tightening the cuff on Jake to an uncomfortable grip. "Your parents would need money for your funerals - not bail," he offered one single more glare before leaving the next shift of deputies on duty. He sped all the way home and held Eleven in a suffocating hug.

Turns out, you sustained decent injuries from that night.

A (cleanly) broken ankle. Six different broken ribs. Split lip that required two stitches. Stitched earlobes from where piercings were ripped out. Severely bruised collarbones, bordering on broken. One blackened eye. Along with other generic bruises and cuts, more seemingly discovered as the days drug by slowly.

Billy was ready to mow down anyone in his way at any point, but his only ability to get through the school day was that he saw you everyday afterward. He dropped whatever sport and / or club that held his interest, collecting coursework you missed, then driving Max and "Jane" Hopper to your place. He would've lashed out if this was any other situation, but because you asked him to behave and bring you the materials you needed, he did. He played nice.

The two assailants, Steven and Jake, had been arrested by Jim Hopper. They apparently had a rough ride to the station, but that wasn't here or there. What they did to you was far worse that nobody batted a single lash when the two were brought in the station for booking, looking freshly beat up and bloodied. A judge also rejected their bail.

Billy brought you whatever work you missed during your recovery at home, most teachers shocked to see him so diligent in showing up and making the collections. He didn't understand whatever the teachers told him about the work, but you did - and it was fascinating to him, watching you work or study. He usually sat by your window to smoke, but on the occasion, you asked for a toke and wouldn't care about where the smoke blew. So, as weeks passed, he stopped specifically going over to your window; just leaving it open for ventilation so he could remain at your side.

Anything you needed, he got. He did. He gave you. Guilt was one helluva motivator and Billy was chalked-full; so, he did the only thing he knew he could, being acts of service.

You were laid up, it made sense. He could bring you into the shower, get naked himself and help you bathe. He could carry you downstairs, cook for you, help out around the house by keeping it clean because he knew it stressed you out. He would collect the mail, water plants, do dishes, just turned into a househusband that made your stomach and cheeks feel all warm and fuzzy. Never did you think Billy had the ability to be domestic, but here he was, in your great-grandmother's kitchen, wearing a stained apron while trying to bake cookies while you worked on a physics project.

"Hey, Bee?"

"What's wrong?" He asked instantly, setting the hot tray to the stove.

"No, hey, calm down," you smiled with a small laugh. "I was just wondering... You know, like... What's gotten into you?"

"Huh?"

"You know what I mean," you huffed, setting your pencil down. "You literally haven't let me out of your sight except when you're at school."

He shrugged, "You need help."

"You don't ask if I do."

"I don't need to ask when I can just see it."

"Billy."

He sighed and begrudgingly scraped cookies off the hot tray to rest on the cooling sheets. "Your dad asked me to stay close," he offered.

"Bullshit."

"No, really," Billy insisted. "He's in and out with work, so, he asked me to stick around, just in case."

"Okay, fine, but it's more than that. Billy, tell me the truth, baby, please. It's not a bad thing, I'm just curious what's really going on."

"I'm just... I'm just nervous, you know?"

Your head cocked, "Why's that?"

"Look what happened to you," he chuckled ruefully. "All fucked up, can't even go t'school until your ribs are healed - all 'cause of me. 'Cause I fucked up and went too far - "

"William," you snapped, making his wide, shocked eyes meet yours. "I'm not gonna listen to this anymore. Okay? I know you're sorry, you tell me everyday, andI know you're feeling guilty, but this isn't your fault, you're not the one who put hands on me - "

You flinched when he lobbed the cookie tray into the sink, causing a ruckus, his voice yelling over the noise, "FOR FUCK'S SAKE!"

"William!"

"I'm trying to protect you!" He yelled, tears swelling when he whipped around to face you. "I-I don't know what else to do! Look, okay, say what you fucking want, but the truth is, those two assholes came at you 'cause of me. Okay? 'Cause I had to be myself and beat the shit outta them 3 months ago, they never forgave - they didn't forget. I put you in this situation, that now? Now, yeah!" He laughed without humor. "Yeah! I'm fucking nervous leaving you alone! Fuck knows what could happen to you, and who's to say there aren't more people out there just waiting for this kinda opportunity! Baby!" He rushed for you at the kitchen table, your mouth sewn shut in shock as he found his knees in front of you and took both your hands in his. "Baby, listen to me. You're the only thing - no, I'm serious!" He insisted when you looked ready to protest this sentiment you've heard before. "You're the only thing I fucking care about, that I want to protect, and they all know it - I don't exactly hide it. I love you so fucking much, they'd do this again - they'd fucking hurt you to get to me and that idea just..." He sighed, looking lost.

You pulled a hand free to instantly caress his cheek, turning his attention upward until his eyes met yours. "Billy," you whispered, "baby, nobody's after us. This was just a freak accident, this was a fluke, okay? You're worried anyone else is gonna come at me, at us, but I know nobody else is that fucking stupid. They wouldn't test you, and Jake and Steven took advantage of an already bad situation. Okay? We had a fight - which was pretty public. So, people knew we were at odds, and when I showed up at that party alone, started drinking, it was their perfect opportunity to strike."

"You can't say that, we don't know if anyone else is gonna test us," he sniffled. "I've made a lot of mistakes... Pissed a lot of people off. One of them might've grown a pair."

"Okay," you relented, "then I guess we're gonna have to stick together, you know... So you can keep me safe, right?"

He chuckled dryly, "I'm trying, princess."

"Well, we can work out a better way - one that doesn't run you into the fucking ground, Billy, Jesus," you searched his face. "Are you sleeping? At all?"

"'Course I am - "

"Don't lie to me."

He sighed, deflating a little, "I sleep... Only when I stay here."

"Billy, you stay only a couple nights a week when Daddy's home."

"I know."

"So, you basically only sleep when Daddy's out of town and you stay here?" You squeaked, watching him nod; pouting and feeling your own guilt brew. "Baby... Look, can we just agree that this isn't either of our faults? Right? Yeah? If I'm not allowed to think this was my fault, you aren't either."

"I was the one they wanted t'hurt," he shook his head. "They did this 'cause of me, sweetheart, how can you be so - so - fuck! So fucking understanding a-and forgiving?"

"Because I love you," you answered like it was common knowledge, even giving a small giggle.

"That doesn't... But that doesn't even - "

"What? Mean anything? Bee, it means everything," you smiled at him. "I love you, so, when you make mistakes, I forgive you - even though there's nothing you've done. I mean," you winced slightly, "sure, maybe we could reduce the kids you bully or beat up, you know, limit the enemies we might make. And this is something that can be redeemed, can't it?"

He stared at you from the floor, slowly deflating, "Can it? I've fucked up so much, doll, I don't think I deserve whatever forgiveness you wanna give me."

"You can't keep beating yourself up," you snipped. "Hey? Hear me? Look, it happened - it fucking sucked, but it happened and it's fucking over. We both need one another to help move on, okay? So, I need you back, Bee, I need my man back because we need to get through this together. You don't get to sulk in your guilt, I don't get to stew in my regret, we need to help each other out of this."

Billy sniffled, "How? How do we move on when you've still got stitches in your lip?"

"They'll dissolve in a few days," you shrugged meekly. "We move on together, okay? Maybe you pick up basketball again, try to distract yourself. Billy, we need some normalcy again, right? You know?"

"Doll, being away from you makes me feel like my lungs are gonna pop," he shook his head. "I'm afraid something might happen if I'm not there, it's fucking scary after finding you in your own blood."

"Then I'll be at every practice," you eased. "You can drive me to and from school, then you know where I am - you'll know I'm safe."

Billy stared at you a moment, fully dropping to the floor as his energy finally drained. He ran a hand through his hair, rustling the curls, admitting in a soft voice, "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to not feel so guilty, how to move forward."

"There's no playbook," you agreed. "Guess it means we gotta figure it out ourselves, but again, we do it together. C'mere," you sighed, lowering yourself to the floor with your booted ankle held out.

"No, don't - "

"Fuck off, I'm not totally unable to do shit," you grunted, adjusting yourself and reaching for him. "Come here, please, I wanna hold you! Been cuddling me this whole time, lemme be the big spoon, please."

"Just told me to fuck off, sweetheart, kinda sending some mixed signals, aren't'cha?" He chuckled, turning so his back was to your chest; leaning so you supported him in his slump. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart," he muttered, holding the arm around his collarbones. "I really - if I knew this was gonna happen, I'd never of fought them."

"I know, and I forgive you," you whispered in his ear. "But we can't keep doing this back and forth, okay? I forgive you, Billy, no more apologies."

He sighed, "Yeah... All right..."

"Steven and Jake are arrested, we won't have t'see them again. Hopper will make sure of that," you smirked against the shell of his ear. "And the doctors said I should be good to return to school next week, but I'm out of cheer and everything."

He groaned, "Just something else I've fucked up for you."

"Oh, please, I love the time off," you teased. "Gives me all the time I need to watch my man on the court, huh?" He half-chuckled at your words. "You know I'm ahead in all my classes now, too? Teaching myself at home is far superior than the teacher's bitching at us for eight hours."

"You're gonna love college, baby," he chuckled, the two of you lulling into a comfortable silence. You held him tightly, nuzzled into his neck; both sitting in your emotions, trying to navigate a way out.

"We good?" You whispered.

"We're good," Billy agreed, just as soft. "No more apologies... Try to have less guilt. But you're gonna let me stay close, right?"

"I want you clinging to me so hard, I can't fucking breathe," you smirked. "And if Daddy really asked you to stick around, then you're welcome to stay here longer, even if he's here... Where I can have you close to me," you whispered, licking the skin under his ear. He stiffened.

"No - you better not," he squirmed when you licked again, adding a little teeth in a scrape.

"Billy," you pouted. "It's been weeks!"

"You're still hurt," he argued, turning on the floor to look at you. "I'm not gonna be responsible for breaking another of your ribs 'cause we were horny."

"I'm doing so much better, though!"

"Tell you what," he smirked. "Next business trip of your dad's, I'll fuck you all weekend - wherever you want, however you want."

"He has one in two weeks."

"Mhm, and you have a check up before he leaves."

You eyed him for a moment, "When did you become responsible?"

"I've always been."

"No, this is new. You're remembering dates and my doctor appointments and my dad's work schedule."

"Maybe I just like taking care of you," he whispered against your lips with a growing smirk. After pecking you lips, he quipped, "So, shut up and let me."

"Yes, sir."

requesting rules and masterlist

Stranger Things masterlist

#billy hargrove #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove x f!reader #billy hargrove x female!reader #billy hargrove x female reader #billy hargrove x fem!reader #billy hargrove x you #billy hargrove request #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove angst #billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove fanfiction #billy hargrove fanfic #billy hargrove stranger things #stranger things x reader #stranger things imagine #stranger things

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thewritetofreespeech · 3 months ago

Text

In the Dark

pairing: Aemond x Targaryen!reader [Rhaenyra & Daemon's daughter]

summary: one night, while coming back from the Street of Silk, Aemond runs into an all too familiar figure in the dark. request from @brideofcthulhu10

tags: married reader, targaryen incest, tw: knives, tw: mentions of potential SA

-------------------------------⚔️--------------------------------

The Street of Silk was never quiet, but they were usually a bit more subdued this time of night. Aemond had planned for it this way.

Leaving the comfort of the palace to find comfort somewhere else, the prince always snuck out under the cover of darkness and returned just the same. No one the wiser. No one able to catch him and mock that he would be out here with whores instead of in bed with his wife. No one able to know what he was really doing here….

The prince adjusted his cloak to pull around him to make his way back to the secret tunnels of the castle. He rounded the corner and paused as he caught a glimpse of another figure in the streets. Not unusual, but not the usual sort either. Aemond’s good eye scanned the potential witness and noticed that their cloak was made of much finer material than any other in Flea Bottom. Too nice for peasants, though it clearly made efforts to seem plain.

Aemond growled through his teeth as he realized who it was. Even with the cloak, those whisps of silver hair that snuck out of the hood are a dead giveaway. Although Aemond had already memorized the gait. “What are you doing out here?” He hissed at his wife as he appeared behind her like a shadow.

You spun around fast. Wide eyed in startled fear, which quickly faded when you realized it was him. An odd feeling for Aemond, as it was usually the other way round when people realized it was him. “Don’t scare me like that!”

“What are you doing out here?” He repeated, still hissing, but more from the whispering now. “What are you doing outside the castle, alone, at night, without an escort?!” His blood boiled with each new remark to his list. Aemond thought his wife clever for a time, but he would have to rethink that in this lunacy.

You glared at him. “I do not need an escort.” You insisted. “And what are you doing out here? Last you told me; you would be with Ser Cristion for the night.”

The apple of his throat bobbed, but Aemond refused to admit he gulped at the accusations of his wife. True, they were both at fault here. Sneaking out unbeknownst to their people and partner. The only difference was that Aemond’s transgression did not come with the inherited danger a young lady, alone, in the middle of the night had. Your life was not your own now, and Aemond was angry that you were being so careless with it.

“That is immaterial. You do need an escort. What if I had been a stranger in the dark?”

“I can handle myself, Aemond.” You continued to insist. Why did the Gods have to give him such an infuriating woman as a wife? “I’m not the soft petal that other women in the palace are. I’m a Targaryen.”

True, you were not as soft as the other ladies. Rhaenyra may bare bastards left & right, and Daemon may be an opportunistic lech, but they had done right by their daughter. Teaching you to not only be an adequate lady of court, but also a skilled rider, both of dragon & horse, and how to defend yourself. Targaryens were never short of enemies. It was best to be prepared. But their Targaryen jewel had not been trained in the same way Aemond had. More how to hold a knife and properly thrust when the moment came, but not actually overcome a group of attackers if swarmed.

“Targaryen’s bleed just as much as anyone, ābrazȳrys.” Aemond told her. Stepping close. You predictably take a step back away from his ire. “We are not immortal like our beasts. What would you have done if I had been another man? Two men? Twenty?”

Your back eventually hit a walk. Locked on with Aemond’s eye as you felt a swell of fear in your belly at his words. “I…I would run away.”

Aemond cruelly laughed at your answer. “You would outrun twenty men? You’re fast, byka ābrazȳrys,” he remembers the races they had when they were children, before he sprouted to his current height, “but not fast enough to outrun twenty.” He then used that impressive height of his to quell around you. His arm coming up to place his hand against the wall. Blocking one exit. “What would you do if I had been a stranger in the dark?”

There was a tense moment between you. You felt trapped. You have to force your body to stay still and not tremble. “Stop it Aemond.” You hiss as you try to push him away. He’d made his point. Perhaps this was a bad idea. But you would never admit it.

“Who's Aemond?" Your eyes flickered up to him as Aemond’s voice sounded different. Void of the subtle hints of affection he had for you, and stone cold. A blade was suddenly out from by his pocket and by your throat. “I'm just a faceless, masked man in the dark.”

Your back went straight against the wall as you tried to create as much space as possible between you, Aemond, and the knife. “S-Stop it…”

“Make me.” Was his reply. “You’re a strong, capable Targareyn, aren’t you? Make me stop.”

You realize you can’t. You’re too afraid. This was indeed Aemond, your husband who loved you, but your mind kept thinking on what if this wasn’t Aemond. What if this had been a strange man in the dark? What is this wasn’t a test but truly real? An enemy of your mother? An enemy of Aemond? Or just a man like so many in the city who pulled women into dark alleys and forced them to their needs? What if this had been real?

Aemond saw the fear welling up inside you as tears came to your eyes in panic. He put the knife away and leaned in to give you a kiss. His build softening around you as the point had been made and the ‘game’ was over. You cling to Aemond in relief. Like a life raft out to sea. Overcome with emotions you kiss your husband desperately in a manner unbecoming of commoners in an alley, much less royalty.

Aemond kissed you back with equal fervor. Never missing an opportunity to kiss you. Relief also washed over him as well, thinking on the what-ifs if he had not run into you and another man did. What could have happened to you. The prince growled possessively at the thought and ran his hands over your body to claim it from these imaginary brigands. You moaned against his lips. Breasts heaving as you pant against him while his knee slid up between your legs as he bucked against you. “Let us go home issa jorrāelagon.”

You nodded fervently. You just wanted to go home now. Be with your husband. Be in the palace walls. Be safe.

The prince released you and the two of you walked back through the cobblestone streets for the tunnels. “Why are you out here anyway, issa jorrāelagon?” He realized you had never answered him.

“Father told me once of a spot past the Iron Gate that, if you look out at it at sunrise, you can see Valyria.” Aemond resisted the urge to roll his eye. What a ridiculous story. Valryia was leagues away. He’d barely come close to it on Vhagar; though in truth he would never fly near the place after what happened to Princess Aerea. “I know it’s silly, but I wanted to see it.”

“Why now?” He asked. You had lived in King’s Landing on & off for most of your life. Had you wish to see ‘The Valyrian Sun’ (yes, he knew what she was talking about) you could have done so at any time before. Why now, alone, when such danger was about for them?

“In times of trouble, I look to the Old Gods more, like your mother looks to the Seven.” Daemon’s influence, no doubt. Or perhaps it was just her own. Aemond parroted the phrases and did the prayers when asked by his mother, but he would not truly say he was bound to one set or the other. “I thought it might bring me some clarity on things. Some answers.”

“Answers on what?” You don’t answer, which made Aemond suspicious, but he doesn’t pry further. “Why didn’t you just ask me to come with you?”

“I thought you wouldn’t go if I told you it was something my father taught me.”

He frowned. Did you really think him that petty of the man that he wouldn’t go just because Daemon Targaryen taught of it first. “Come. This way.”

You do not have time to react as Aemond took your hand and pulled you down a different alley. “Where are we going?”

“The proper way.” He told you. “You were headed for the Dragon’s Gate. Yet another reason why you need an escort.” You frown at Aemond’s slight but follow after him.

The two of you meet the ‘Valyrian Sun’ together. There is no cast of Old Valyrian in the sun beams, nor any of the answers you seek. But when you turn to look at Aemond amongst the sunrise, you feel some kind of peace. Some kind of answers. “Let’s go home.”

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punkshort · 4 months ago

Text

In Another Life | Part III

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x f!reader (time travel au)

Chapter Summary: It's your last day together with Marcus and you're going to make it count.

Chapter Warnings: language, SO much angst, fluff, smut (18+ MDNI), unprotected piv sex, food consumption, time travel?

WC: 6.3K

A/N: thank you @txtattoostark for beta'ing ❤️

Series Masterlist

Time stood still when you looked at your phone the following morning, you were certain of it.

The mighty General shall be out of your hair b4 you know it.

The words left a pit in your stomach, making you feel sick. How didn't you think this through? What happened between you was fast, sure, but not one time the night before did you pause to think how hurt you were going to be when Marcus left.

It wasn't like he was going to a different state or country. He would be gone for good. Never again would you know the feel of his lips or hear the deep rumble of his voice.

"Good morning," Marcus said from behind you, slipping his arms around your waist while you cooked eggs for breakfast. You flipped your phone over and turned around in his arms, pressing a firm kiss to his lips that lingered to the point where the eggs burned a little, but it was worth it.

You hadn't checked your phone until he went to the bathroom to wash up and you had breakfast underway, but you had already decided not to tell him. If you didn't speak it into existence, then maybe it wasn't real.

"Good morning," you said shyly, giving him one last quick peck on the lips before scooping eggs and sausage onto plates for you both.

"Was your superior quite angry with you?" he asked while he attempted to help you with the toast but ended up burning his fingertips.

You shook your head and picked up both plates to take to your small kitchen table.

"Nah, I never call in sick," you told him with a smile. "Besides the park, what did you want to see today?"

He settled next to you at the table, one hand dropping casually to rest on your leg while he picked up his fork with the other. "To me it does not matter, so long as it is with you."

You grinned and felt your cheeks warm. "You know, you said you didn't have much experience with romance in your life but you could have fooled me. Every word you say is romantic."

He chuckled and dropped his gaze to his plate, feeling a bit shy. "Does simply wishing to spend time with a lover make one a romantic?"

You shrugged and nodded. "Kind of. At least, in my experience."

Marcus hummed and leaned over to press a kiss against your temple. "We must change that, my lady."

"Oh, yeah?" you replied, turning to lock your lips with his. His grip on your thigh tightened when he heard the little noise escape from the back of your throat and you squirmed in your seat. "Well, you've changed a lot, already," you said breathlessly when you finally pulled away. He grinned and leaned forward to chase your lips, making you giggle and toss your arms around his neck.

Before you even had a chance to register the noise, the front door unlocked and swung open.

"Morning! Why are you still - oh, gross," Danny said when he turned from closing the door and saw the two of you intertwined.

Marcus withdrew his arms from around you and stood solemnly with his hands clasped in front of him.

"Daniel, I apologize," he said, his voice deep. "Courtesy demands I request permission from a lady's father, or in this case, closest living male relative, before pursuing her. I hope you can forgive me for my transgression." Marcus bowed his head and you quickly stood up, waving your hands in between them.

"No, no, no, you do not need my little brother's permission, Marcus," you told him. Danny folded his arms together and stifled a laugh.

"I don't know, Sis, I think he's onto something. Maybe if more guys went through me, you wouldn't be left on read so much."

"Shut up, Danny!" you seethed, fists clenched at your sides.

Marcus just looked back and forth between you, trying to keep up.

"I'm just kidding! Marcus, it's totally fine," Danny said, clapping him on the shoulder before slipping into the kitchen for your leftovers. "If you really want to spend your last day in the twentieth century with my sister, don't let me stop you. I mean, personally, I would have picked the girl who works at the Java Hut, or maybe the one at the comic book store..."

Both of you tuned him out when Marcus absorbed what he said.

"My... last day?" he questioned. You swallowed and nodded.

"He texted me last night but I didn't see it til you were in the shower," you said quietly, gaze dropping to the floor. "I'm sorry. I didn't know how to tell you."

"Oh," he said softly, eyebrows pinching together in thought. And just like that, the fun, playful mood between the two of you vanished only to be replaced with despair.

"We can still do exactly what we said we would do," you assured him while Danny kept talking to himself in the kitchen, adding to the long list of people he would rather spend his last day with other than you.

"Of course," Marcus replied, but you could see the distant look in his eye. It was probably the same one you had when you first read Danny's text.

"Let's just... enjoy what time we have left."

He nodded and inhaled sharply, avoiding your eye while he processed everything he had just learned, both of you too nervous to say what you really wanted to say.

"Why aren't you working?" Danny asked, emerging from the kitchen with a piece of buttered toast.

"I called in sick."

He nodded, not even questioning it before heading to his room. "I'm gonna get some shut eye and head back over to Lizard's later. Gotta run a few diagnostic tests before we send you home, General."

His words were like taking a bullet. Appetite suddenly gone, you sunk down into your chair and tried not to let your emotions show but he must have sensed it because Marcus was sitting down next to you with one arm around your shoulders and the other on your thigh.

"We still have today, cor mea."

You sniffled and leaned into his shoulder, hiding your face against his neck. "You said that yesterday, too. What does it mean?"

You felt his lips on the top of your head before he answered.

"It means, my heart."

Tears stung your eyes so you quickly closed them, doing your very best to remember everything about that moment. The way he smelled, all fresh from his shower, the roughness of his hand against your skin, the sound of his heart beating soundly in his broad chest.

Don't go, you wanted to beg. Please stay with me. But you couldn't bring yourself to do it. Was it ridiculous to want a man you just met to leave everything behind and stay with you? In a world he knew nothing about? Even if you did ask and by some miracle he agreed, would you be able to make him happy? Would this world make him happy?

No, you couldn't ask that of him. He had a whole life waiting for him in Ancient Rome.

You took a deep breath and reluctantly extracted yourself from his arms.

"Okay," you said, quickly swiping at your eye. "Let's go check out the park and once we're done, we'll see what else you want to do."

He nodded, helping you clean up from breakfast while pretending not to notice how red your eyes looked, but by the time you were both ready to leave your apartment, you had collected yourself. You refused to spend your last day together wallowing in misery.

You were going to make sure it was perfect.

"This place is magnificent," Marcus said breathlessly, unable to tear his eyes away from the rich greenery surrounding you while dodging tourists laughing and posing for pictures. Nearby, bicyclists and joggers zipped by and dogs barked, pulling at their leashes to get at one another while their owners struggled to rein them in but as far as the two of you were concerned, you were the only ones there.

"C'mon, this way," you said, looping your arm with his and leading him off a different path. The smile was permanently stretched across his face the entire time, especially when you had to come to an unexpected stop so a carriage led by a massive Clydesdale could pass by on the trail.

"That horse looks double the size of the horses back home," he remarked in awe when you resumed walking.

"There's all sorts of different breeds," you explained, "we'll probably see a few more before we leave."

You could hear water trickling and you grinned when you looked up at him. "Almost there."

When you finally emerged from your shaded trail to view the massive fountain, Marcus couldn't believe his eyes. He skid to a stop and just stared in wonder at the shallow water surrounded by people eating lunch, families taking pictures, couples sitting close together and children running and playing. Slowly, his gaze drifted around the wide open space, taking in every feature, every flower, every stunning piece of architecture until you finally tugged on his elbow.

"It's called the Bethesda Fountain," you said, pointing to the statue in the middle. "It's an angel, see?"

He nodded, eyes wide with wonder. "She is... beautiful," he whispered, looking like he was in complete awe of the stone statue of the angel draped in long robes with widespread wings behind her, looking over the entire park.

"I think she's holding her arm out as a symbol to bless the waters," you told him, pulling him closer so you could read some of the signage.

"This place is wonderful," he told you, twisting around so he didn't miss a thing. "I cannot believe a place like this exists in such a busy and thriving metropolis."

"Yeah, it is really amazing, isn't it?" you replied. You had lived in New York for so long that you realized you had grown numb to some of its wonder, but seeing it through Marcus's eyes felt like you were seeing it for the first time again.

"You are fortunate to live here," he said, finally looking down at you. "I have never seen a place so grand and spectacular in all my life."

You grinned and stretched up on your tiptoes to give him a kiss. "Looks a lot better with you here," you said with a wink, and you swore you saw his face flush a bit.

The pair of you found an empty bench and sat down for a while. You leaned your head on his shoulder and he hooked an arm around you as you quietly watched the city pass you by.

"Thank you for sharing this with me," he murmured as he nuzzled the top of your head. You titled your face up to give him a smile.

"I think this is the most fun I've ever had in this city."

He grinned, his eyes crinkling and his one cheek creating a dimple that you found too irresistible not to kiss, so you did.

"Would you like to just spend the day here or do you want to see something else?"

He looked around the park again with a deep sigh and you could feel his body relax against you. "I am content to do anything, so long as it is with you."

You thought about it for a moment before pulling out your phone and tapping away.

"There's a museum not too far from there that has an exhibition on Ancient Rome," you said. His interest was piqued and he squinted down at your phone. "Would you be interested in that? You could teach me something," you told him with a poke to his ribs. He chuckled and shrugged.

"I fear you are too brilliant for me to teach you anything, but I am intrigued."

You giggled and stood up, hauling him to his feet as you began to lead him back the way you came.

"We can grab something quick to eat along the way."

Marcus was very quiet the first ten minutes inside the museum. He silently read the informative plaques on the walls next to replicas of gladiator helmets and broken spears with his hands clasped behind his back and his expression unreadable. He studied maps and watched a video of a historian talking about the rise of the Roman Empire playing on a loop, and all the while you followed him from room to room, reading what he read and trying to see things through his eyes.

He had a proud smile on his face when you came to a room about the technological advancements of the Roman Empire and how it impacted present day. He had just finished reading about the ways Rome impacted the design of modern day roads and bridges when he saw the next display and his smile faltered.

"What is it?" you asked him softly. His eyes flickered back and forth between a photograph of the Colosseum and an NFL stadium with a little blurb underneath comparing the two.

"You still have..." he drifted off and pointed to the stadium. "Your people still fight to the death?"

Your eyes widened and you shook your head furiously, immediately picking up on the tension in his voice.

"Oh, no. No, Marcus. They don't fight, it's a sport. Nobody dies. The stadiums are just built to look like the Colosseum."

He nodded in understanding but you saw the look on his face. Something troubled him and it made your chest ache. You glanced around the room, noticing it was mostly empty, then stepped forward so you stood between him and the display. You wrapped your arms around his middle and rested your chin on his chest, drawing his attention down to you and off the photos.

"What is it?"

He gave you a sad smile and his arms circled your waist.

"There is something I have not told you."

Once again, your eyes flickered around to make sure nobody was close enough to hear before looking back up at him expectantly.

"Daniel and Victor found me because I was fleeing Rome," he said solemnly, and already you could see the shame in his face.

"Why were you fleeing?"

He pressed his lips together tightly before sighing. "I displeased the emperor. I refused to carry out his orders. Orders that would kill thousands of young men simply to make a statement. I could not do it, my love." His hands grew tighter around your middle and you swore you saw tears begin to form but he blinked them away. "As punishment, I was sentenced to become a gladiator. To fight for my life and their entertainment in the arena. So... I fled. I was a coward and I fled."

"You weren't a coward," you whispered, bringing a hand up to stroke his bearded cheek. "You would have died, Marcus. That's not cowardly."

"It was cowardly to not die an honorable death," he argued, but you shook your head.

"It's barbaric and wasteful," you told him. You felt him lean into your touch for comfort. "I'm glad you ran away. If you didn't, I never would have met you."

He couldn't resist. Marcus leaned down and captured your mouth with his, committing the feel of your lips to memory before he had to return home and face his destiny.

"C'mon," you said, stepping away from him and taking his hand in yours with a little smile. "Let's keep looking around."

He didn't let go of your hand after that. You walked together through the rest of the room, reading to yourselves about the architecture of Ancient Rome and how the buildings influenced the White House and the Lincoln Memorial when he stopped dead in his tracks and gawked at the very last photo.

"Is this..." he trailed off, reading the caption before looking at you in shock. "The arena still stands? This image looks to be present day." He pointed to the people standing around the outside of the Colosseum, specifically their clothes and how they looked similar to yours, and you nodded.

"Yeah, it's still there," you told him, wrapping a hand around his bicep as he continued to stare at the picture. "I'm sure it looks different and some of it collapsed with time but it's been maintained and well cared for. It's one of the seven wonders of the world."

He looked at you curiously and you smiled. "It's kind of a big deal," you explained simply.

His fingertips dragged over the glass like he couldn't believe his eyes.

"May we see it before I leave?"

Your face fell and sadness swelled deep in your chest. "No, Marcus, I'm sorry. It's too far away."

He nodded, catching the regret in your eye before dropping the subject and moving on. He would see it soon enough, anyway.

It seemed both of you were determined to keep the rest of your museum visit as light as possible. When you reached the area about art, he told you a story of an artist who created a beautiful portrait of him and presented it to him after winning a huge battle for Rome. With a smile, he told you how pompous he felt when he had it hung in his living space at home but he felt bad not honoring the artist's hard work.

When he excused himself to use the restroom, you sat on a bench and did something you refrained from doing since the moment you met.

You Googled his name.

The cell service was spotty and it took an extra minute, but sure enough his name pulled up some results. You picked the first one, quickly scanning down his multiple military accomplishments until you reached the end. You held your breath as you read the small paragraph, fearful of what you would find out but it was a question that had been plaguing your mind for the past two days and you needed to know.

General Marcus Acacius presumably died in 215 A.D. It was believed he met his demise in battle, however his body was never recovered.

Glancing up to make sure Marcus was still in the bathroom, you shot off a quick text to Danny.

You: What year did you set that time machine when you picked up Marcus?

You chewed on the inside of your cheek as you watched your text slowly go from delivered to read, then three little dots appeared.

Danny: 215 A.D.

You closed your eyes and sniffled before tucking your phone into your pocket.

How could you go through with this now that you knew you were sending him back to certain death?

You did your damndest to not let it bother you, but it was hard. Every time you looked at him you wondered what fate had in store when he returned and the pit in your stomach just got heavier and heavier.

You arrived home to a note from Danny reminding you he had to run diagnostic tests on the machine and he wouldn't be home until late, so you both decided to stay in for dinner on your last night together. Cooking wasn't your strongest skill but you could make a decent pasta. Marcus lingered and tried to help but it was evident he was used to others cooking for him, and that was okay. You didn't mind.

When you each sat down to eat, his left hand falling easily to your leg again as he picked up his fork, you had to bite your tongue from screaming stay, please stay. By the way he was glancing in your direction throughout the meal, you had a feeling he wanted to say something, too, but either didn't know how or was too afraid to pop the bubble you had found yourselves in.

After you ate, Marcus made a move to wash the dishes but you quickly stopped him. The time you had left now was too precious to waste on things like that. You didn't say that, of course, but instead you wrapped his arm around you so you could burrow into his chest. Neither of you said a word. You didn't need to. You could both feel each minute ticking away, bringing you closer and closer to morning. You closed your watery eyes and pressed your ear against his chest, listening to the steady thump, thump, thump of his heart, wishing you could somehow bottle it so you could listen to it when he was long gone and you were all alone.

You wished you knew what to say to make it easier, but you couldn't think of a single thing. You tried to put into words how he made you feel without sounding like a complete psychopath, but you came up empty. So you continued to stand quietly in your kitchen, holding one another close, breathing each other in and trying to savor every single second you had together.

He whispered your name so you forced your eyes open and looked up. His eyes were also shiny with unshed tears and that was all it took for your face to crumple and tears to flow freely down your cheeks. He quickly cupped the back of your head and feverishly pressed his lips against yours as his own tears began to fall. How would you be able to get up and make breakfast in that kitchen without thinking of him? How would you be able to ever wash your sheets for fear of losing his scent? Christ, how on earth would you be able to write that month's article without being institutionalized?

"Marcus," you sobbed before locking your lips together again. It was the desperation in your voice that made him bend his knees, grab the backs of your thighs and wrap your legs around his middle so he could walk you both to your bedroom without breaking the kiss.

With all the care in the world, he delicately removed your clothes until your naked bodies were tangled together in bed, hands roaming over each other's skin as if you were trying to draw a map.

"Do not cry, my sweet girl," he whispered while hooking one of your legs over his forearm. He tipped his head down for just a moment so he could line himself up with your center before focusing back on you. His thumb wiped the tears from your cheek and he gave you a sad smile. "It would be a waste to spend what time we have left crying."

You nodded and took a few deep breaths before wrapping your hand around the back of his neck and pulling him in for a deep kiss right as he sunk himself inside you. He groaned into your mouth and his grip around your leg tightened until his hips became flush with yours.

"Please, allow me to see you, cor mea," he murmured, and you hadn't even realized your eyes squeezed shut. You opened them and stared up at him looking at you like you were his only salvation. The words crawled up your throat and slid down to the tip of your tongue, begging to be said, but you swallowed them back down.

It was too fast. It was all too fast and you didn't have the luxury of time to figure it out. But what you did have was him, in that very moment, and you refused to waste it.

You bucked your hips up slightly, giving him the green light to move, so he did. He went slow. He took his time dragging the heavy length of him in and out while his mouth never left your skin. If he wasn't kissing your lips then he was kissing your jaw, your neck, your shoulders - anywhere he could reach, he left his mark. It was the type of mark that burned your skin and settled deep below the surface, flowing through your veins and directly into your soul. The kind of mark that made you want to say something your brain thought was incredibly foolish but your heart was screaming otherwise.

To distract yourself from your thoughts, you wrapped your arms and legs around him and tilted to your side. He understood what you wanted and rolled the both of you over so you were on top, gasping for air. The new position had him reaching a spot that made you see stars and you needed to take a moment to collect yourself before you began to move.

"Oh, fuck," you whimpered, tilting your head back towards the ceiling and shifting your hips ever so slightly. Marcus grinned up at you, his big hands sliding up your thighs to settle on your hips.

"You are so beautiful like this," he told you softly. You dropped your chin back down to look at him, your entire being vibrating with adoration. "You fit around me so perfectly, my love. Do you feel that?" he asked when his cock pulsed inside of you. Your jaw dropped and you nodded. "That is what you do to me. You make me harder than I ever thought imaginable, yet your beautiful body takes me so well."

The praise made your chest warm. You began to roll your hips slowly, savoring every inch of him inside you with your hands braced on his broad shoulders for support when Marcus groaned and leaned forward to catch your breast in his mouth. The feel of his prickly beard against your skin combined with the way he flicked his tongue over your nipple made your back arch and your face pinch with pleasure.

Without warning, Marcus sat up and wrapped one arm around your waist while the other braced himself on the mattress so he could rock his hips in rhythm with yours. Your mouths hovered over each other as you began to move a little faster, your gasps and pants mingling together in the otherwise quiet room.

You could feel the familiar crest building deep inside you and you tried to fight it. Marcus, ever attentive, quickly figured it out and frowned.

"Let go, my sweet," he ordered, but you shook your head.

"I don't want it to end," you whimpered, forehead falling to rest on his shoulder. His arm squeezed around you tighter and his jaw clenched, desperately trying to hold off until you found your release first.

"I plan on taking you as many times as you will allow tonight," he said, lips brushing against your ear and sending a shiver down your spine. "Please, let go," he urged, grinding his hips up against you. "My only wish is to take care of you."

Your heart rattled in its cage at his words, your body growing weak and melting into his hold, giving into his request far too easily. With a raspy moan that resembled his name, you reached your climax, body shuddering in his lap while he whispered words of encouragement in your ear.

When he felt you relax, he groaned and started to move faster, your slick coating his length more and more with each deep thrust. You tilted your face from your spot on his shoulder to find his lips, your tongue plunging languidly into his mouth while he continued to fuck up into you. You had never felt so at peace than in that moment with Marcus. His presence was everywhere; his arms were wrapped tightly around your middle, pressing your sweaty chests together so close, you could feel his heart beating in time with yours. His spend, thick and sticky, was leaking out of you and down his shaft after he came. He was so warm and strong and powerful that it had your head spinning and your heart aching for more. And that is exactly what he gave you.

Marcus spent the rest of the night worshipping you. He cleaned you in the shower only to make a mess of you half an hour later. He massaged your hips and legs when they grew too shaky and weak. He held you close, lovingly stroking your hair when you needed a break. And when you finally couldn't keep your eyes open any longer, he wrapped you up in his arms and let you fall asleep on his chest, perfectly calm and content for the last time.

But it wasn't enough.

"Are you alright?"

You kept your eyes squeezed shut and you shook your head. Marcus sighed from his place next to your bed and bent down to tilt your chin up, unearthing your face from your pillow.

"Please look at me," he pleaded. You couldn't deny him anything, but especially so given you only had a few hours left, so you opened your eyes and gazed at him mournfully. He gave you a small smile and lovingly stroked your cheek.

"I will never forget this for as long as I live. You have given me something I never felt worthy of," he said softly. Tears instantly stung your eyes and your lip began to quiver.

"Don't," you whispered thickly. His eyes flashed with something you couldn't identify and he eagerly leaned forward.

"What?" he whispered. "Do not what?"

Don't go, don't go, don't go.

You were going to say it. You were going to be selfish and beg him not to go, to stay with you because now that you've had him, you can't imagine a life without him. And you fucking swore by the way he was looking at you that he might actually stay.

With your heart pounding nervously in your chest, you reached out for his hand and opened your mouth just to be interrupted by a sharp knock on your bedroom door.

"You guys in there?" Danny called through the wood. "We're all ready to go here. Lizard's waiting in a tow away zone out front, we gotta jet."

You swallowed the lump in your throat and forced yourself to get up, not catching the disappointed look on Marcus's face. You probably looked like shit, your hair was a mess and you hardly got enough sleep, but you didn't care. You tugged on a sweatshirt and pulled the hood over your head before taking Marcus's hand and opening the door. Danny was waiting, leaning against the wall looking at his phone, when you emerged.

"Fun night?" he asked with a wink. You shoved his shoulder and pulled Marcus down the hallway towards your front door, only pausing to grab his weapons and the clothes he arrived in.

"Did you call into work again?" Danny asked just to cut the unbearable silence that filled Lizard's fifteen year old shitty sedan. You nodded and continued to solemnly stare out the window. Marcus took your hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze but you were finding it difficult to look at him because if you did, you were certain you would burst into tears.

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry, you repeated to yourself when you pulled up to the familiar split level, faded green home Lizard grew up in. You took Marcus's hand as you walked behind Danny and Lizard, each heavy step bringing you closer and closer to heartbreak.

"We'll distract his mom, you sneak Marcus down to the basement," Danny told you. You nodded and stared down at the ground, your unusual silence giving your brother pause before he awkwardly scratched the back of his neck and turned back around.

"Hey, Mrs. Delio! We're back!" Danny called extra loudly into the house. You quietly snuck in after them while they hurried to the kitchen to stop her from stepping out and seeing you before you could sneak downstairs.

"Are we in a dungeon?" Marcus asked when you turned on the light and he saw the concrete walls and floors with only one small window in the corner of the room. You were about to explain it to him when you spotted the time machine in all it's glory, sitting proudly next to the washer and dryer, and you froze. Marcus felt you stiffen next to him and he turned around only to sadly drop his gaze when he noticed what caught your attention. He twisted your body towards him and took you by both shoulders before taking a deep breath and looking you dead in the eye.

"My love-" he began softly, but then Danny and Lizard came rushing down the stairs. You sniffled and looked away so they wouldn't see how emotional you were, but Marcus pinched your chin and forced your eyes back to him.

"We're all set! She's heading out in a few to play bridge, she won't even notice we're gone til we're back," Lizard said as he began to power up the time machine, completely oblivious. You swallowed thickly, eyes still glued to Marcus and heart thumping so fast that you could hear the blood rushing in your ears.

"You ready, big guy?" Lizard asked excitedly as he opened the door and peeked inside the tiny vessel. Danny cleared his throat and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Give 'em a minute," he said quietly, and for the first time all week you felt thankful for your little brother. Lizard turned around, his eyes bouncing back and forth between you two until it dawned on him. He nodded before taking a few steps away to pretend to look at something on his computer with Danny in order to give you a little privacy.

"My love," Marcus began again, holding both your hands tightly in his. "It is difficult to put into words how I feel," he said, taking in a shaky breath. "I wish I were able to show you, but I do not have any talents. If I were a poet, I would write sonnets of your eyes. If I were a musician, I would write ballads of your laughter. If I could create art, I would sculpt and paint for hours to capture the essence of your beauty. But I am just a man, and my foolish words will have to suffice."

Fat, hot tears began to unabashedly roll down your cheeks and your eyebrows pinched together as you tried to memorize every single second before it was gone.

One tear fell from the corner of his eye and he gave you a sad smile. "I have never felt like this before-" he said, but you stopped him, unable to hold back any longer.

"I love you," you sobbed, not even noticing the way Danny's head snapped to look at you in surprise. "I know it's fast and stupid but I love you and I'm sorry but I couldn't let you go without telling you."

Marcus grabbed your face with both hands and pulled you in for a deep, breathtaking kiss. Both your lips were trembling and your tears were mixing together on your cheeks but it didn't matter. Nothing else mattered except the two of you in that moment.

He pulled back and pressed his forehead against yours before whispering, "And I love you, cor mea. You are my sanctuary. I wish to spend the rest of my days cherishing you and making you happy."

"Then stay," you begged, the words finally slipping past your lips with such earnest desperation, your voice cracked. "Please. Stay with me. Please-"

He pulled you in for another urgent kiss but this time, he wrapped both arms around you and pinned you tightly to his chest, pouring every ounce of emotion he had into it.

"Are- are you certain?" he stammered when he finally released your swollen lips. You gazed up at him with bleary eyes and nodded with a wide smile. You could feel his heart beating rapidly under your hand, which was pressed firmly against his chest, and he broke out in a huge grin.

"They couldn't have this conversation before I got a parking ticket this morning?" Lizard muttered to Danny under his breath, but Danny just elbowed him in the side, unable to look away from the two of you with a big smile of his own.

"I never thought I would feel happiness such as this," Marcus whispered in your ear, tears falling freely from both of you but for an entirely different reason now. You giggled into his neck, tugging him even closer, afraid to let him go even though he agreed to stay.

Danny clapped his hands, breaking the two of you up but Marcus still held you protectively against his side and you kept one arm wrapped around his waist when you turned to face your brother.

"So, no time travel today?" he asked, cocking his head to the side with a smirk.

"There is nothing left for me there," Marcus announced, the dread of being a disgraced man on the run or a gladiator becoming a distant memory. "Everything I ever wanted is right here. I apologize to you both for any additional work this has caused."

"No apology necessary," Danny said, squeezing Marcus on the shoulder good-naturedly. Lizard cleared his throat and took a few steps forward. You narrowed your eyes when you saw he was about to speak and quickly cut him off.

"I'll pay for the goddamn parking ticket, Lizard!"

He smiled at you sweetly, pleased he got exactly what he wanted. "So happy for you both, by the way."

You rolled your eyes and looked back up at Marcus.

"Do you want to go home?"

He smiled down at you warmly, his eyes dancing with adoration and happiness before bending forward to brush his lips tenderly over yours.

"Yes, my love. Let us go home."

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brokenmenswhore · 5 months ago

Text

tables & chairs | aemond targaryen

request from dms! thank you for this one because PHEW

pairing: aemond targaryen x fem!reader (sister!reader)

summary: there’s a chair… and a table… and you get it

warnings: s2 spoilers!!, smut (MDNI 18+), slight voyeurism

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While everyone assumed an angry Aemond should be isolated, lest he lash out at anyone, you knew better.

You had always looked up to him as a younger sister would an older brother, and as such, you knew him well enough to know when he needed space, and better yet, when he needed comfort. At least, you usually did.

Unfortunately, you found yourself confused when your brother stomped past you toward the council room. You figured that perhaps a council member committed some form of transgression, but it was much too late in the day for the usual meetings called by the Prince Regent, and you could spot at least two of the council members speaking with one another on the steps.

You followed behind Aemond, entering the council room slowly to find him seated alone, evidently frustrated and annoyed by something. He sat tall on the chair at the head of the table, only moving his head to turn toward you as you entered the room.

“Does something trouble you, brother?” you asked.

“It need not concern you,” Aemond responded, averting his gaze from you.

You sighed, “Talk to me, Aemond.”

“Truly, it is of no concern.”

You took a deep breath; sometimes it was difficult to get Aemond to break his walls down and allow your comfort in. You approached him, using your arms behind your back to hoist yourself up onto the table, shifting over slightly so that you were seated on the table directly in front of him. You made yourself unavoidable.

You reached out a hand and lifted his chin until his eye met your own. “Talk to me, Aemond.”

He took a deep breath. “The false queen has found more dragon riders.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion; that was the last thing you expected him to say. “That- that is impossible,” you replied.

“Evidently it is not,” Aemond said, “I thought the same, but I was behind Silverwing only moments ago. She had a rider, and her mate was awakened as well.”

“I-“ you were not sure what to say, or how to comfort him, “I do not understand how such a thing is possible.“

Aemond leaned forward and suddenly slammed a hand on the table directly next to your thigh. “She is raising an army. I must do the same,” he said, the volume of his voice slightly elevated, his frustration evident.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” you asked.

Aemond gave you a small smile, despite his current temperament. He began to toy with the hem of your dress. “I can think of a few things.”

“I meant something genuinely helpful, Aemond.”

Aemond looked up at you, his fingers never leaving the fabric of your dress, as he said, “I’m simply pleased to have you here, and so close to me, no less.”

“Aemond-“ your voice trailed off, losing itself as he began to slowly push your dress higher and higher up the tops of your thighs.

“Yes?”

“This is the small council room.”

“I am aware,” he responded.

Aemond tapped two fingers against the sides of your thighs, prompting you to lift your hips briefly so he could move the fabric of your dress from underneath you to behind you. The hard wood of the table was rough on your bare skin.

“So pretty,” Aemond whispered, kissing up one of your thighs, leaning forward more and more in his chair as his hands gripped your legs to keep them open.

“Aem-“

Before you could even get the full word out, Aemond moved your small clothes to the side and licked a strip from your hole all the way to your clit, causing a gasp to leave your lips at the sudden feeling.

He pulled away briefly. “Something to say, sweet sister?”

Your chest rapidly rose and fell in anticipation. “I came in here with intent to make you feel better, you know.”

“This makes me feel better than you could possibly know,” Aemond replied, diving back in as he sucked on your bud. You fell backwards, propping yourself up on your elbows as he grabbed your waist to pull you to the edge of the table and therefore even closer to him.

You whined, keeping quietness in mind, as Aemond gave small kitten licks to your pearl, causing your breathing to become erratic. The feeling of his mouth on you was heavenly, and the potential of getting caught only added to your arousal.

Aemond moved his tongue to your hole, gazing up at you as he began to taste within you, curling his tongue as much as he could as his grasp on your hips tightened to keep you in place, the pressure destined to leave marks.

His nose was buried in your clit, almost involuntarily at the mercy of his positioning, further stimulating you as it rubbed against your clit with every movement of his head.

You threw your head back, one of your hands moving to hold onto the back of his hair. You pulled lightly, giving him direction on how to move his head. He groaned in response, the vibration sending a shiver up your spine. His eye never left your face as he watched exactly what he was doing to you.

Aemond hit a particularly sweet spot within you and your arms grew weak, your back falling onto the wooden table with a small thud. You whimpered at the pain, but it only egged Aemond on more as he intentionally nodded his head up and down as his tongue fucked you, causing his nose to give your bud even more stimulation.

Your back arched off of the table, your hand still on Aemond’s head, fingers tangled in his hair. Holding his hair acted as an anchor for you to begin grinding your hips upward against his face, and he loosened his grip on your hips to allow for your movements.

Right when he felt you begin to clench around his tongue, he pulled away. You caught your breathing for a moment before shifting to look at him, his face still between your legs.

“Why’d you stop?” you breathed.

“Just giving you a break,” he shrugged, nonchalant, “it’s no fun if you come already.”

You pouted as your arousal calmed down and Aemond returned his mouth to your clit, flicking it with his tongue.

He tapped two fingers against your hip to catch your attention, so you looked down at him. He pulled away from you for a moment and held out two fingers.

You pulled his wrist toward you and put his fingers into your mouth, making a show of sucking on the digits before pulling them out of your mouth with a pop.

He quietly growled at the sight, retracting his hand away from your mouth and inserting his now-wet pointer and middle fingers into your hole, causing a loud whine to leave your lips.

He pushed his fingers in and out of you as he sucked your clit, watching you the best he could as you writhed beneath him. He draped his unoccupied arm across your stomach, holding you down as he moved his fingers faster and faster.

“Aem- Aem- fuck-“ you breathed out.

He only pulled away from you long enough to speak the words: “Say my name and I’ll let you come.”

You whimpered under his touch as he moved his tongue and fingers at a ruthless pace, working overtime to pull your orgasm.

Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging to keep his head where you needed it most as you squealed, “Ae- Aemond!”

Your high crashed over you, Aemond not letting up until he could no longer feel your spongy walls squeezing his fingers.

He gave a few gentle kisses to your hips, leaning backward and relaxing into his chair as you caught your breath, covering yourself with your dress and sitting back upward.

No words were exchanged between you two as you hopped off the table, standing dangerously close to Aemond as you locked eyes with him, your bodies nearly touching as you sank to your knees, ducking your head so you were fully underneath the table.

Aemond only watched, maintaining his relaxed position as you untied his breeches and pulled them, along with his small clothes, down just enough to free his cock.

You gazed up at him as you licked a stripe from the base of his cock to the tip, giving special attention to the very top before sinking your head down on the length. He was too big for you to keep him entirely in your mouth, but you were able to control the reflexes in your throat for a moment so that you could take all of him briefly, the head of his cock poking the back of your throat as your nose hit his pelvis.

You pulled back to just the tip, sinking back down to a comfortable length and setting a pace you could manage. Every so often, you stilled your head and swirled your tongue around the head of Aemond’s cock, and you could hear his breathing become heavier as you did so.

You bobbed your head at a steady pace and Aemond continued to watch you, groans leaving his lips each time you looked up at him, tears forming in your eyes from his size.

You heard the door to the council room swing open, and you instinctively tried to pull back, but Aemond grabbed the back of your head and kept you on him, forcefully inching the chair closer to the table so that you were fully covered by the wooden furniture above you. You shifted backwards on your knees to accommodate his actions. Aemond bunched up your hair, quickly moving you up and down once to prompt you to continue before removing his hand and placing both of his elbows on the table in front of him.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Alicent spoke, standing on the other end of the table with one hand resting on the back of the chair opposite Aemond.

Aemond cleared his throat. “What for, mother? I’m rather busy.”

“You do not look much busy to me,” Alicent patronized.

At that moment, you moved your hand to his cock, lightly grasping the base and helping yourself as you continued to move your head up and down, allowing for stimulation over his entire cock. He shifted in his seat at the feeling, fighting with all his might to maintain his composure.

“What do you want?” he asked, trying so hard to sound normal that he sounded even more strained.

“Whispers say you chased another dragon toward Dragonstone this morn,” Alicent said.

You ran your tongue along the slit at the top of his cock, causing his entire body to jolt. To cover up the reaction, Aemond slammed his hands on the table. “Silverwing has a rider.”

“Whispers also say you burned down an ent-“

“Mother,” he cut her off, and you took his slight pause as an opportunity to move your hand up and down even faster, and you could feel his cock twitch in your mouth, “I wish to be alone.”

Alicent sighed and stepped closer to him, and you could feel his body tense up beneath you.

“I truly hope you will one day allow yourself to forget this grudge you hold,” she spoke.

Aemond simply gave her a small nod, his self control slipping further and further away from him.

Alicent took a deep breath. “Have you seen your sister anywhere?”

You disconnected your mouth from his cock and instead ever so gently began to suck on his balls, your hand stroking his cock at a torturously slow pace.

Aemond’s breathing was becoming erratic as he cleared his throat to cover up a groan, “No, I have not.”

“Shame,” Alicent responded, “if you see her, inform her I need to speak with her, will you?”

Aemond was fighting with every cell of his being to remain stagnant as you began to suck his cock again, bobbing your head and moving your hand significantly faster. “I will,” was all he could get out.

Alicent gave him a nod, still gazing at him with confusion for his strange attitude, but she left the room regardless.

When the doors slammed shut, Aemond leaned back again and looked down at you. You met his gaze, the sight of you causing his cock to twitch and flex in your mouth, signaling he was near his climax.

“Fuck you,” Aemond quipped lightheartedly.

He gently pushed at the bottom of your jaw, prompting you to cease your actions. He held underneath your arms and began to pull you upward, his hands trailing further and further down your body as you stood, finally landing on your hips. He pulled you close to him, sitting tall as you moved to straddle him on the much-too-large chair.

“Hi,” you said.

Aemond smiled. “Hi.”

He stretched his neck up toward you and kissed you, starting off gentle before intensifying the kiss by tightening his grip on your hips, moving them back and forth to grind against his cock.

You moaned into the kiss, reaching down to move your dress out of the way and ensure there were no obstructions as Aemond slowly rocked his hips to allow for even more friction.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to his body.

His lips moved down your jawline to your throat, sucking a sweet spot just below your ear and eliciting a whine from your lips.

“Need you,” you sighed.

“Thought you came in here for my benefit?” Aemond teased, reaching down to move your small clothes to the side again and line his cock up with your entrance.

“At least when you’re under the table, there’s an equal chance we may not get caught,” he started, slowly gesturing your hips down onto his length, “but if anyone saw us now, I doubt they would question such a sight.”

“Aemond-“

You lost yourself in your pleasure, setting a steady pace, riding him as he watched you in awe, your hands bracing yourself on the chair behind his head.

“I think you like the idea of getting caught,” he teased.

You stuttered out, “and I think you q-uite like being r-regent, Your Grace.”

You put special emphasis and attention on the final two words, knowing it would send Aemond into a frenzy, and you were correct.

Aemond was holding your hips so tightly you were certain they would bruise as he began to fuck into you ruthlessly, watching your face contort in a mixture of pain and pleasure as his cock nearly split you open.

You were still moving up and down on top of him, but your rhythm was becoming less and less stable as Aemond moved faster and faster. His arms wrapped around you to hold you down and in place.

“Aemond, fuck,” you moaned, your spongy walls squeezing him in anticipation.

“Try again,” he demanded, referencing your words.

“Y-Your Grace,” you whimpered, the pressure becoming too much.

“Good girl,” he cooed, and his words sent you over the edge, your climax washing over you as you squeezed his cock in intense pleasure.

His thrusts didn’t stop or lessen in intensity at all. He was still chasing his own high, the feeling of yours only bringing him closer.

You were overstimulated from now two orgasms, nearly crying at Aemond’s final few sharp thrusts that allowed him to spill his seed inside of you, no urgency to pull out whatsoever.

Aemond left his arms wrapped around you as he caught his breath, and you did the same.

“I forgot what was plaguing my mind when you first came in here,” Aemond stated.

“Good,” you giggled, “that was the point.”

────── ☾ ──────

tags: @ellijg

#aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen oneshot #aemond targaryen imagines #aemond targaryen fanfiction #house of the dragon

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the-saltiest-saltine · 1 year ago

Text

Reservations and Repose

(Yan!Chrollo x Fem Reader)

@sukunasfavoritehole hopefully this is enough to tide you over until my ao3 finally gets an update hehe

Word count: ~7.3k

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You’re naïve enough to believe Chrollo’s asleep. He loves that about you.

Warnings: NOT SFW, non -con thigh fucking, somnophilia, drugging, imagined not sfw scenarios etc

a/n: SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG IT WAS 3/4 FINISHED THEN I FORGOT ABOUT IT my sincerest apologies.

Also this is my first time writing smut so please go easy on me 😥

Chrollo is very disappointed in you.

You let him kiss your cheek this morning following a deep sleep. You didn’t reciprocate, though he continues to see your progress and knows that an ever-hopeful yet can be added to the end of that statement. To some extent, the allowance of such an act could be chalked up to his acceptance of you, flaws and all, willing to appreciate the neutrality of it as opposed to ardent rejection. In a matter of weeks, you’ll be returning the gesture. And in a matter of months, you’ll be doing it gladly. Warmth, or perhaps weariness, has slowly but surely seeped its way into your actions recently, your shaky hands finding a place in his, fingers interlaced.

Is that to say he was under the impression that you’d completely given yourself to him? Absolutely not. There’s fear in your smiles, as much as they may have metamorphosed from obviously and mockingly forced to meek and endearing. Chrollo has shown you all that you know he can do. This has been enough to keep you relatively restrained over the months. If he showed you all that he knows he can do, you’d most likely curl up into a ball and sob until you dried out. That’s not necessary, though. It’ll never be.

Like many things, it wasn’t linear. It was a path that went upwards and downwards and forwards and backwards and in cycles, cycles that would always leave you curled up, sobbing in his arms, grasping onto him for whatever comfort it would give. But progress is progress, right?

Ignorantly, he began to believe the crumbs of affection, of acceptance, of acquiescence. Stupidly, he thought you were making progress. It’s been a significant amount of time since he was last this naïve. If he wasn’t so disgruntled by your transgression, he’d most likely bask in the nostalgic feeling. But he can’t, for the time being, because you’re trying to do something very rash.

As unfortunate as it is, you’re trying to leave him.

It’s audacious, having thought that the monumental power difference between you two had been thoroughly demonstrated on multiple occasions, a well established and silently acknowledged fact of your travels with him.

It’s irritating, although regarded with the same irritation as one would have with a pet goldfish trying to jump out of its tank. You silly thing, why do you want to abandon the place in which you are safe?

It doesn’t particularly make sense, though. He’s checked his cards - nothing suspicious has been bought in his name. No travel tickets or prepaid car hire. He’s even checked the jewellery collection - maybe you’d snatched up a nice necklace or bracelet or pair of diamond earrings to pawn off. But again, nothing. No suspicious bags have been packed. No loose tiles or floorboards or ceiling panels to hide supplies in. Your clothes are all neatly folded and hung in your wardrobe.

You’ve got something up your sleeve- something desperate and jittery and not fully thought out. Something that relies on luck and prayers far more than precision and blow-by-blow planning. He never particularly took you for a daredevil, but to see you get pushed to such a limit, to be forced against your own timid nature, is beyond satisfying. If he could pluck it out of you and analyse it under a microscope, he’d be elated. Or perhaps even, he supposes to himself, he’d be so fulfilled that he might abandon the current pathway of his life, aimless and bloody and cyclical, finally so consumed with his obsession over you that nothing else is valued in the slightest.

He can’t say he didn’t expect an ulterior motive for your apparent benevolence, at least initially, but for it to be kept up for this long? The stares felt almost too natural. The gradual lessening of your flinches when he placed a hand on your shoulder, the way your gaze would be drawn to him rather than away, even if only to flick away immediately - the subtleties were downright impressive. To be able to track everything simultaneously, to be able to remember to exhibit so many behaviours at once…Perhaps he should be taking acting lessons from you.

Chrollo had watched you, humming a pop tune this morning, cheekily shaking your hips from side to side as you fried some eggs, over easy, the notes sometimes interrupted with a sharp inhale between your teeth when the oil spat just a bit too high and would burn you ever-so-slightly. A domestic sight.

You’d let him give you another kiss on the cheek before he shrugged his coat on, giving you one last lingering glance before he’d walked out the door and into the hallway of the apartment, locking it with warm Nen made of comfort rather than capture. He gave you another cheek kiss (despite his ever-growing urge to dip lower) when he got home to the smell of spices and vegetables and the bubbling sound of a low simmer. You don’t fight them anymore, and barely even recoil now, a result of steady but slight crossing of boundaries - his record was eleven times in one day (at least, his record for when you were conscious) when he was feeling particularly affectionate, although you’d definitely soured up by the end.

The…fantasies he’d had of domesticity…they were just that, weren’t they? Fantasies, mere ideas that were appealing enough to fully flesh out in his mind. Whatever actions you’ve taken, whether it be pecks to the cheek or folding his shirts, staining them with the scent of you, they’ve all been a means to an end. That certainly wasn’t part of the fantasy.

You’ve been buttering him up like the thick slices of white bread next to his bowl. What a betrayal.

Tonight’s stew is spicy and chunky, served courteously by you. His palate is experienced from an adulthood of travel, wealth, and nights spent with gullible women who couldn’t tell the difference between a Prince Charming and a swindler. Truly, there is little he hasn’t at least tried. Including this.

So, if there’s no other signs of you wanting to leave the comfort of the apartment and the familiarity of his presence, then what could’ve possibly cued him into your motives?

It’s something tenuous, something that could’ve gone unnoticed to anyone else. It’s something subtle, buried under layers of rosemary and thyme and paprika. But diphenhydramine is such an acquired taste. And it’s one that’s made the past few weeks and months crumble to dust.

Oh, you sweet thing.

Acting as oblivious as ever, he spoons chunks of zucchini and carrot onto the bread, taking large bites, chewing and swallowing with purpose, the taste of the sedative lingering. He considers smacking his lips for good measure, to play around with you a bit, but eventually decides against it. That’ll come later.

You sit across from him, silence between you two. Normally, he’d fill it with tales from his busy day - but you’ve been so good lately, that he’s begun to refrain from doing that. Nowadays, he asks you what you’ve been up to, every painstaking detail from your dull days without him. But that’s only if you’ve been good, or at least if he’s under the impression that you’ve been good. As it turns out, you haven’t been good, you aren’t being compliant, and now he simply waits.

You stare into your bowl of stew, but he can tell you’re watching him in your periphery. It’s so very fascinating, the way you absorb each mouthful he takes, washed down with frequent sips of water (there’s no other substances in that, obviously). He takes another swill of the liquid, tilting his head slightly back, and in the corner of his eye, he can see the way you observe his Adam's apple bobbing with each gulp. Does it appease you, the sight? Does it intrigue you? Does it make you, even for a moment, reconsider what you’re about to do?

Chrollo pauses for a moment, before placing the half-empty glass back onto its coaster. He knows the smirk that comes onto his face is nothing short of wicked, but he truly can’t help himself.

“Are you not hungry, my love? You’ve barely touched your food.”

Barely is an understatement. You haven’t touched it at all, in fact. Stupid, really. He knows that you know that he’s observant - but that information is irrelevant in this situation, considering it doesn’t take an keen eye to figure out your pattern of stirring your spoon around, picking up some carrot - even blowing on it for good measure - and nodding along with what few words he spoke initially, before giving an mhm! of agreement and letting it drop back into the bowl. You spend extensive amounts of time apparently fishing for just the right piece of zucchini, sorting through copious amounts of lentils (and seemingly taking the time to individually count them all), dragging chunks up the side of your bowl only to push them back down into the fray of assorted vegetables.

There’s almost a sort of jump in response to the words, ringing clear and well projected. But it’s contained above the shoulders - your head snaps to look at him, your eyes widening momentarily, staring into his own, trapped.

He can feel the shaky breath you take to steady yourself from over here, air stagnant and mouth dry.

“No,” you reply, “not particularly.”

He cocks an eyebrow at that, mouthing an oh before returning to his meal. It doesn’t matter whether you take the bait or not, his suspicions have long since been confirmed. Confirmed, in the sternest sense of the word, syllables enunciated with force, the knowledge of your true intentions well recognised. Whether that displays on his face or within his interactions with you is inconsequential to the known ending of your silly stunt.

The sound of you chewing is enough to bring his attention back out of the bowl. That’s not fake.

So you’re eating it too? It’s certainly a bold move, but one he wouldn’t dare put past you anymore. You were always a clever one, one to be placed a mere few tiers below his own intellect.

He hasn’t caught you swapping the bowl out for a fresh one. Maybe you’ve mastered the art so quickly that even he can’t notice?

No, not likely. Not in just a few months. That’d be impossible.

Your bites of pumpkin are preceded with the slightest hesitation, a quick breath to presumably psych yourself up to the self-sabotage. He hates to see you so scared when you’re properly sharing a meal with him like this, deciding to return to normalcy as a reward for your cooperation.

“Tell me, darling, what did you get up to today?”

Your eyes flick to his, momentarily ensnared in the grey, before looking up at the ceiling to aid in the process of giving a verbal description of what you read, how you cleaned, how you entertained yourself with rearranging your meagre book collection (not his, that would be asking for trouble). The response is practically identical to every other time he’s asked the question, plain and unindulgent. It’s boring, he thinks, even with the unacknowledged omission of the hours you spend staring at the walls and pacing around the living area. He’s tempted to pry into how you decided on tonight’s dish, but decides against it. Not for lenience or mercy, but rather amusement. To give away what he knows now would simply be a waste of a situation you’ll never attempt to put yourself in again.

If you knew what Chrollo knew, would you still bother to indulge him?

You stare at him for a moment, allowing him to draw things out, before nodding at the I see he gives in response. He gives a forward nod to your bowl, giving you gracious permission to eat again after starving you for the length of your interrogation, merciful as ever. Your fear is better contained behind a split second’s confusion before you register the nonverbal instruction, picking up your spoon once more and eating with more confidence this time, taking exaggerated bites of zucchini that barely make it past your teeth, chewed excessively into grey paste before being swallowed. Maybe you reason that if you chew enough, you can break the drug down into something that won’t knock you out. A cute thought.

The spices stain your lips an enticing red, the chilli making them plump up so deliciously. If he kissed them, would they burn him? Would the capsaicin leave his lips tingling, a reminder of your soft touch?

He likes to think he’ll know the answer soon.

Chrollo feigns sleepiness, furrowing his brows in mock confusion as he tells you that he can’t quite keep his eyes open - perhaps he overdid it at work today.

Yes, work, as he loves to call it, like there’s the possibility of him spending his time away from you at a desk, punching in numbers on a computer, monotonous and repetitive and damn, couldn’t things just switch up for a day? Work, as in a beer-bellied husband whose idea of experimental fashion is changing which tie he wears with the same white button-up and black dress pants each day. Work, as in an assembly line employee who wakes up at three o’clock to be at the factory by four, ready and willing to make whatever sacrifices necessary to support his loved ones. Work, as in something at least vaguely respectable.

Work, as in literally anything other than stealing and slaughtering and scourging.

Chrollo relishes in the way your shoulders relax a little. It’s almost too adorable. Chrollo also relishes in the way they tense up again when he adds how it’s suspicious really. I don’t believe I’ve ever felt a tiredness such as this.

There’s an underlying anxiety in your pretty, pluckable, ever-so-slightly bloodshot eyes. Where others would be concerned for your health, he finds endearment, you precious thing. After admiring them silently for a moment, he announces that he’ll be off to bed now, darling. Remember to be there for me when I wake.

He leaves you alone in the kitchen to stew in your unease.

____________

Now he’s lying in bed, on the side closest to the door, limp as anything. It doesn’t matter whether his facade convinces you or not, he’ll have you in his arms by morning. The blinds aren’t fully down, leaving a pleasant blue hue that gives him a good visual of most of the room. Your side of the bed is still firmly tucked in from when he made it this morning, after running his hands up and down your arms until you’d given a great shudder and shoved him away - a pitiful attempt that he’d impishly gone along with.

Anticipation tickles his nose and prods at his heart. Childishly, he wants you to get over with it already, to sprint in, swinging a knife wildly, or cue him to start the chase with a slam of the front door so violent that the hinges threaten to crack. It’s unfortunate how your faux compliance conditioned him to be unable to accept a halt, or even slowing, of progress.

Ah, some solace - he can hear your footsteps come up to the door, attempting, albeit poorly, to be quiet. Or maybe they are quiet, to the average man, but someone well-versed in the art of stealth can practically see the way you tiptoe closer. The faint sounds paint a detailed visualisation of your movements - the balls of your feet lifting from the ground, the flexing of your toes, the dorsiflexion at your ankles, the soft thud of your heels hitting the ground.

The bedroom door creaks open, a thin streak of light hitting his eyelids, making him see an ever-so-slight orange behind them. He might be able to visualise your walk accurately, but the same cannot be said for your face. Are you fearful, lips downturned and eyes wide? Are you determined yet cautious, eyes narrowed and lips pressed into a thin line? Are you smug? Condescending? Grinning from ear-to-ear, excited to finally have what you believe to be freedom?

You’re not, he discerns.

Instead, you huff a sigh, a sweet note that makes his heart jump, a small flutter that could only be instigated by you. It’s a sigh of relief. The door is shut. He expects another door to be slammed, too - the front door, hinges quaking as you sprint to the stairs as far as you can, too scared to wait for the elevator (and for your sake, he hopes you’ve brought a pair of running shoes - you’re on the 35th floor, after all). But that doesn’t happen.

Instead, he can hear the clanking of bowls and dishes, the smooth schwip as you push breadcrumbs off the chopping board into the bin with the back of the serrated-edge knife, and how you place said knife into the block without taking another one out.

So you’ve decided against stabbing him tonight? How agreeable.

In fact there seems to be no malice in the way you’re stacking the bowls, no scraps of extra force in how you shut the fridge. Whilst the sounds of your cleanup are nothing short of a ruckus to his alert ears, there’s an intentional tenderness he can hear. A conscious effort to be as quiet as possible with somebody sleeping peacefully in the next room.

It’s a gesture he’ll interpret in the best way he can. Even if he knows he’s deluding himself that you want to be quiet for his own peace rather than so you can escape, he’ll be sure to bring up the former as reasoning for your actions over the next few days, regardless of how you’ll spit venom at him, hissing that he couldn’t be more wrong.

Next is a movement he didn’t expect in the slightest.

You come back to the bedroom, with a pile of fabric in your hands - clothes, maybe? He thought you’d be off and away as soon as possible, or you wouldn’t get close to him again at the very least, standing patiently by the door until whatever you’re waiting for had occurred.

The quiet-ish footsteps make their way past him this time, and straight into the ensuite.

There’s the soft sound of clothes falling, and then the tap is turned on.

You’re…showering before you leave?

You really are a good teacher of the quirks of humanity. Logical as ever, he’d most certainly take no time for hygiene practices if it reduced his chances of being able to go on a small, liberating adventure. But perhaps that’s part of the plan? Do you not want to have a speck of dirt on you so you don’t smell bad? Will you hide out at a fancy gala, and have to be as fresh as possible? Are you trying to wash off Nen, perhaps?

No, that would never work, and he’s certain you know this too. Still, the idea of a little hopeless fire in you, taking a precaution you know is futile, makes his lips twitch.

So many questions, few of them answerable at present. His mind is stimulated so wondrously, for once not finding boredom in the predictability of human behaviour. He’s truly chosen well.

And then there’s something else, rising above the sound of the rushing water, above the drain gurgling it down, greedily gulping it away.

You’re humming.

It’s relatively random, most likely improvised, and slightly off-tune, but endearing all the same. He can taste the notes, sweet and soothing, running down his throat smoothly and pooling warmth in his belly.

You heave a sigh, and the tune changes. And then he recognises it.

It’s something he heard as a boy, back in Meteor City. He’d hear it at night, walking back to whatever semblance of a refuge he had with Franklin and Shalnark, past the hamlets of the younger children. Letting himself get lost in it, he can feel himself crawling to shelter on scraped knees, walking on calloused heels, eating stale bread, all accompanied by the faint smell of garbage, a smell that years of exposure had waned to a neutral accompaniment of the setting, rather than an inconvenience or hazard.

Despite the unhygienic nature of it all, it’s sweet. It’s these memories - memories of grime and rot and infection - that are the most pure. The most uncorrupted. They’re full of innocence and hope - just like you.

These qualities make you think you’ll leave him.

Upon remembering this, he’s tempted to barge in and ruin your peace, eager to hear your inevitable yelp and nervous laugh as he quizzes you about tonight’s events. But he doesn’t. Your lullaby is too enjoyable, the tune far too agreeable to stomp out yet. Resisting sin by committing another, he decides he doesn’t want to kill this mockingbird, if only to selfishly continue to hear it sing.

Few moments have come like this since you came to be with him. They’re all short-lived in comparison to the cold life he’s had, a firecracker popping on his tongue, fleetingly filling his mouth with syrupy sweetness before quickly dying off, barely an aftertaste to be savoured. He’s scratched them all down in an old leather journal with a quill and ink, lest he forgets what it feels like, or how to get that feeling again, but thankfully they’re scratched even deeper into his psyche.

You’d been agreeable enough for a reward of a dinner somewhere several stories up, city lights shining behind you, framing your hair beautifully. You were reluctant at first, turning your nose up at him and the priceless food in front of you, opting for the bottle of red wine instead. It wasn’t supposed to be gulped down with such vulgarity like that, but that was part of your charm and by your second glass you were giggling and halfway through your third you looked at him right in the eye, cheeks tinged pink, and you smiled a smile that you’d forget by morning but he wouldn’t…

He’d returned to the villa after a long day to find the fans blasting, and you slumped over on the couch as credits rolled on the screen in front of you. He’d flicked the TV off, not before noting the rom-com’s name, and regarded you, with your deep, even breaths and singlet strap falling down. He picked you up and carried you to bed, laying you down on the thin blankets, fixing your strap despite the small voice that called to him to take off the thing entirely. Your head rested on the pillow, your face not scowling for once, and you’d huffed the sweetest of sighs…

That’s the kind of moment this is.

There’s no thought of what he’ll be doing with the troupe tomorrow, or in a week, or what move to make next depending on what you decide to do. Every nook and cranny of his mind, every convolution of his brain is filled with the thought of you. Tonight, it’s warm and viscous, slowing time and cutting both of you off from the rest of the world; the rest of its filth.

In this moment, he can see himself in the shower with you. He’s across from you, lathering body wash onto his shoulders, letting the foam run down his back. All the while, he keeps his gaze on you, watching how your hands run over your body, soap running along your sternum, between your breasts, along the curve of your hips, your ass, all whilst you hum that tune… shit, he can’t let himself get hard now. He manages to drag himself out of the daydream, barely, just managing to claw himself to the surface of reality.

Caps are popped open and the lathering of soaps can be heard over the course of your performance, with a finale of the tap being turned off. There’s a fumbling of fabrics before you come out, followed by yet another move he doesn’t expect.

You walk up to the bed, peel the sheets back, and lie down beside him. You then roll onto your side, facing him. After a few moments, you prop yourself up onto your elbow.

A moment of nothing. You’re frozen, as is he. Calm before the storm, he prepares himself to catch your wrist and hear you shriek.

You lean over.

And then there’s a featherlight sensation on his forehead, right in the middle of his tattoo.

Had it been a split second later, he would’ve opened his eyes and turned to face you with a smirk as you screamed. But it’s not a split second later, it’s now, and now you’re kissing him. There’s no real benefit for doing such a thing that he can identify right now - perhaps you know he’s awake, and would like to make amends? Surely you know that that wouldn’t be enough to satisfy him.

The contact sends an electric zap to every corner of his body, although he manages to not make himself jolt. Months of stifled desire bubble up from his insides, desire that’s spent so long smothered by rationale of better outcomes and forcing himself to think of his bloodied obstacles and late nights alone in the shower. As often as his lips find their way to your forehead, unfortunately the reverse doesn’t occur even half as much.

You pull away, like you’re hesitant about what you’ve done, like you’re waiting for him to snap his eyes open and sit up with inhuman speed, ready to pin you down or tie you up or even slap you for tonight’s inconveniences. But that doesn’t make sense, because hesitation is supposed to occur before such an intrepid act, not afterward.

After receiving apparent confirmation that you’re not about to be attacked, he can sense your head slowly but surely coming to rest on your pillow. You shouldn’t strain your neck like that, someone like you could get hurt over time.

The back of his shirt is peeled up, slowly, delicately, and he has to focus to keep his breathing even.

There you lie, staring at the twelve-legged spider etched into his skin, his number a pale contrast to the black ink, practically jumping out at you.

It’s your reminder, he supposes, of what he is. Theoretically and legally nonexistent, practically traceless. Zero evidence. Zero remorse. Zero morality.

Zero.

Then-

One, two, three.

Your lips mark a trail up his spine, at the bottom of the abdomen, right in the middle of the zero, on its head. Don’t shudder.

Once your deed is done, you pull back. There you lie, staring at the twelve-legged spider etched into his skin, so silent that you’re barely breathing.

The fabric of his nightshirt is guided back down. You roll over and proceed to go limp, succumbing to the drugs intended for him.

What was that?

You’re not touching him anymore. He can sense the gap between your bodies, one that he would close every night, pulling you close.

Was it a relief? To go to sleep without him touching you?

You’d always stirred up such a fuss about his arms being around you as you slept.

It had always been a cause for seething rage on your part, later argument, later whining, and more recently huffing. Even last night, the stiffness before you fell asleep was a cause of his own discomfort. But you didn’t have to deal with that tonight, and now you’ve fallen asleep in record time. He can’t say it was just from the pills.

Did you change your mind on leaving after you felt their effects? It doesn’t seem likely that you’d ditch all that to sleep. Rather, that you wanted to sleep on your own terms.

He’d spent so much time concerned with stopping a potential escape, that he didn’t stop to consider that maybe, just maybe, that was never the goal to begin with.

And now Chrollo rolls over to face you, gently tugging on your shoulder to pull you onto your back.

You’re serene as ever, a sight to behold.

He brushes the back of his knuckles along your hair, feeling its texture, so light that his calloused hands - hands that have seen many a bruise and burn and slice and hangnail caught and ripped on the job - almost can’t feel it. Your exhales come out more as huffs and sighs now compared to gentle breathing, and he allows a chuckle (one that he finds incredibly endearing, as much as you’ve let your disagreement to that sentiment be known, preferring to describe it with wounding words such as “condescending” and “grating”) to slip past his lips.

It reminds him of you when you’re awake, when you used to try so hard to be difficult for him, when you used to scream and scratch as he’d spoon you, grip ironclad, until all you could do was huff and puff and plead with him (and as much as he enjoyed your attempts to compromise, this was something he simply could not relinquish) and eventually, your cursing would die down, your muscles would go limp, and you’d fall asleep.

Sometimes the sun would be up by the time you relented, and your breaths would be the heaviest then. It was amusing, how quickly you’d switch. One second, you were cussing him and his troupe out, the next, you were a paragon of tranquillity, the visage of an angel before him. He’d pray you love him.

He wants to grab your jaw, hold it firm, and kiss your lips as hard as he can. He wants to tilt his head and take and take and take. He wants to keep taking even if your breathing lightens. He wants to keep taking even if your eyelids flutter open, hazy doe-eyes looking at him with dozy confusion.

Well, he’d never deny his own indulgence.

Leaning in, he presses a kiss to your forehead, just as you did to him.

The touch is as gentle as he can make it, as gentle as he can permit himself to be. There’s a split second of what he could almost call fear, an image of accidentally squeezing you too hard and hearing your bones snap flashing in his mind.

He rubs his thumb over where his lips previously were, feeling an unanticipated wetness left behind.

It’s then that Chrollo realises his mouth is full of his own saliva - whether that was because he was so entranced by your actions that nothing else mattered, body as limp as he could allow, or because, like some sort of filthy animal, he couldn’t help but drool at the contact from you, starved for it like a hyena, he doesn’t know. He swallows. That’s better.

And now for the main event.

He dips down to your lips, and lightly presses his own against them. The feeling is so heavenly, he wonders if you really are an angel. If you were one, would you bless him? Would you destroy him?

If you were to know what he’s doing, would you hate him more?

He pulls away.

The journey to get here was sizable. Memories of tonight flash by; your cooking, your conversation, your shower. Your humming.

Ah. The tune he heard as a boy. Innocent, naïve, hopeful.

Well, he’s a man now. And far less innocent.

He lets out a hum of his own, deep and rumbling.

Chrollo moves to straddle you, peeling the duvet and sheets back, layer by layer, unveiling the best present he’s ever gifted himself. Just moving into such an intimate position is enough to send pangs of heat downwards, the hardness he fought against earlier returning with an urgency.

For a moment, he tries to fight against it.

Is it to save himself from your hatred? Is it to save you from what he’s planning?

It’s neither, he discerns, as the attempt was doomed to fail before it even started. He knows it was never meant to succeed.

His groin only throbs harder, aching for friction. It’s a spur-of-the-moment thing, the way he presses it against your clothed crotch, rocking back and forth, the slight relief just momentary as his desire only grows.

He regards your unsuspecting face. Stunning.

Restraint is draining faster now, but still is present just enough to stop him from grinding any harder despite the urge. But if he’s to stop his movements, he’ll need a different kind of stimulation.

He bunches your shirt up, pulling, sliding a hand under your back so he can slip it off your arms and neck.

Now your chest is bare. How ravishing.

His fingers hook under the band of your sleep pants, dragging them off in a clean motion.

And now your legs are bare. How alluring.

He doesn’t take your underwear off - that would simply be crude, and he doesn’t need to tempt himself anymore. If he got the privilege (or right, considering your standings) of seeing you fully nude, as opposed to having a single layer covering the most tantalising part of you, he’d be oh-so-inclined to do something regrettable. His logic fights to win space within his buzzing thoughts, fingers daring to twitch as his imagination fills in the gaps of what the thin black layer forces to be left to it.

Chrollo parts your thighs for good measure, the maximum he can allow himself at this moment. It’d be impossible to not let his hands and gaze trail up them, observing how as he roams upwards, your flesh gets softer, warmer; how the flimsy fabric can’t hide all of your darker flesh; how your lower lips are pressing against the cloth, visible despite the darkness…

God, you’re so fuckable.

There’s a pretentious voice in his head, albeit muffled, that cries protests at the use of such a word to describe you. You’re something far more than that - beautiful, exemplary, one-in-a-million, ethereal. Surely your mouth would be better put to use having a fulfilling conversation with him, a conversation he can dissect and steer and puppeteer, as opposed to just opening as wide as it can to accommodate his cock, taking it as deep as your gag reflex will allow, barely able to breathe, much less talk. Although, he thinks with a faint, deep groan, twitching in his pants, that’s certainly a hypothesis I’ll have to test.

With the sight of your breasts, nipples hard and skin goosebumped from the chill of the room, it’s decided. Just because making his cheeks warm and his cock rock hard isn’t your most prominent trait, doesn’t mean that you aren’t absolutely exceptional at it.

Temptation isn’t something he’s inclined to resist, brushing a thumb over your nipples before leaning down to take one into his mouth. He swears he can hear your breath hitch as his tongue swirls around, breathing getting slightly lighter. An eager hand reaches for the other one, kneading as gently as he thinks he can.

Soft is the first thing he thinks. Your flesh is so soft, so delicate, so tender. If you were awake, he’d vocalise his compliments - and do so loudly, unrestrained.

Your breathing changes as he points his tongue to lightly flick at your nipple repeatedly. Chances are you’re being taken out of REM sleep, but your consciousness doesn’t matter at this stage. And some part of him hopes for it, brief images flashing in his mind of barely-open teary eyes slowly rolling to the back of your head. They’re obscene, so utterly immoral to even fantasise about, yet even the split-second thought makes his stomach jump, shivering a bit as he feels himself be almost overcome by them.

He can’t help but slightly wet his lips in anticipation, relishing in the knowledge that his instincts are being held back with the slightest thread. If he moves even slightly faster than his rational, calculating, non-carnal mind intends, then it’ll snap. He’ll snap.

Almost trembling, he reaches across to his bedside table. The movements are imprecise, but he’s sure this practice will allow him to execute them with much more grace for the inevitable time you’ll be awake. Yes, you’ll be awake and whining and he’ll wet his lips in anticipation and be met with your lingering taste and you’ll want him as much as he wants you-

He almost falls forward as his own lust threatens to overtake him. Focus on the necessary steps.

Taking a shuddering breath, he leans down to pull open the drawer, to find a bottle hidden at the back, purposefully concealed behind an upright copy of Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Quickly shifting his weight back, he pops the cap open, spreading some of the slick contents onto his fingertips. With his free hand, he pulls down the loose elastic of his pyjama pants, shucking them off, the cold air making him quiver slightly.

Time’s running out.

The movements are trembling, sloppy as he pours lube onto his length, and then onto your spread thighs. There’s a frantic inertia of sorts, a mad momentum - the more he does, the faster he has to go, the anticipation making his stomach swell and dip. He’s really going to do this. It’s really going to happen, and it’ll be amazing.

There. Done. Everything’s ready.

Chrollo takes a shaky breath, gripping just above your knees, and squeezes your thighs around his dick.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Your thighs are warm from the duvet, perfectly cosy and wet from the lube for his cock.

Little time is wasted as he begins to thrust his hips, trying not to give himself too much too soon. The steady pace is slowly increased, little by little, a fragile incline so he can drag this out for as long as possible.

Can you feel it? Can you feel the warmth radiating from him? Is there some part of your mind that’s awake, but can’t do anything to stop him? Or better yet, is eager to please him?

He strains out a hiss through gritted teeth, peppering kisses over your exposed neck, trying his best not to bite. The pace increases yet again. His eyes are fixated on the mound in your underwear, a more sinister form of curiosity burning within.

What does your pussy look like?

He won’t use En, that’s just cheating. He wonders and ponders and conjures up the most filthy images his mind can muster. A warm, tight hole that clenches for him as he slips in and out, teasing you. A pretty clit for him to tease with his fingers as you whine, for him to suckle on as you choke on sobs of pleasure. Folds for him to run his tongue through as you rut your hips against his face; for him to run his tip along, collecting your slick.

He imagines how his cock would look disappearing inside of your cunt, how your grip would be so suffocating, how your tits would bounce as he fucks it (because shit, they’re already moving so vigorously now, as he holds his strength, and he can’t even begin to picture what they’d look like if he loses control buried deep inside you, repeatedly stuffing you to the hilt as you cry out). He imagines how you’d tighten around him, babbling something incoherent as you wrap your arms and legs around him, and oh fuck, he can’t pull out now. He imagines the tension snapping, giving a rumbling groan as he shoves himself into you as deeply as possible, eyes screwing shut and burying his face in the junction between your neck and shoulder, riding out his high with a few shallow thrusts.

And finally, he imagines how his cum would look leaking out of your pussy, twitching and swollen from a nice good fuck. The afterglow. The squeak you’d give if he fingered it back into you, growling at you to not waste a drop, keep it all inside for me.

The thought makes his hips stutter a little, threatening to slip out of the plushness between your thighs. Once he regains his rhythm, though, they’re speeding up, relentlessly fucking himself into your thighs over and over, kneading the flesh as he squeezes them tighter and closer.

Chrollo cups your face with a single hand, and leans in.

It’s the second time he’s properly kissed you tonight, and it feels fucking amazing. Your soft lips, your soft thighs, they’re all working together to make his head swim in bliss. You’re working to make him feel good. Yes, him. Nobody else. You’re his.

The thoughts run wild. He has as little control over them as he does his hips.

How would it feel to fuck you in some other position? How would it feel to flip you onto your stomach, pulling your hips back to meet his, as he stuffs himself into your sopping cunt over and over, watching your ass bounce? How would you cry out at the way his balls slap against your swollen clit, building up the pressure inside you until you just can’t take any more?

How would you grind on top of him? How would you moan as you bounce, tilting your head back as you stretch yourself on his length, panting? How many times could you do it until your legs trembled uncontrollably, forcing yourself to impale yourself on his cock just one more time? When he’d plant his feet on the bed firmly and thrust his hips up, grabbing yours and bouncing you in time, would you wail, or simply slump over, completely unable to form a thought as you cum around him for the nth time?

You’re flexible enough to fold into a mating press, right? How deep could he go? How fast could he go? How would your beautiful skin look covered in love bites?

The coil of pressure within him grows even tighter even faster, balls slapping against your thighs, hips pistoning rhythmlessly.

If he asked, oh-so-nicely, for you to get on your knees and please him with your mouth, would you oh-so-sweetly do it? Would you suckle his swollen tip? Would you tease him with a glint of mischief in your eyes? Would you find his most sensitive spots and exploit them? Would you trace your tongue along the veins? Would you massage his balls? Would you let him control the pace, a hand intertwined in your hair? Would you look up at him as you tear up, doe-eyes wide and eager to please? Would you rub your pretty pussy while he shoots thick ropes of cum down your throat, pressing your nose against his pelvis?

Yes, he decides as the coil begins to snap, you would.

Chrollo comes to a sudden halt, choking out a rich groan in a low timbre. The noise becomes more strained as he rides out the high, the overwhelming euphoria becoming just a bit too intense as it begins to morph into overstimulation. Once he’s sure the moment’s over, he lets go of your legs, pulling back to catch his breath and admire his work.

Ropes of cum paint your chest, some making it as far as your neck, your chin. It’s beautiful, the unruly mess he’s made - no, the mess you’ve made of him.

You’re a real beauty, you know that?

The bathroom tiles are cold against his feet as he grabs a washcloth to clean you up. It’s sad to see it go, to a primal extent, but it’s probably for the best to ensure he doesn’t get any ideas for a second round tonight.

For future nights, though? The chest he’s covering up will soon be exposed soon enough.

He’ll have to get more sleeping pills. You simply must try this again soon.

Next time, he’ll taste you. The time after that, you’ll taste him. He can hardly wait, nor can he stop the dull throbbing starting up in his groin again.

He sates himself for the time being with the knowledge that the time after that, you’ll be awake.

#chrollo #chrollo lucilfer #chrollo lucifer #chrollo x reader #yandere chrollo #yandere chrollo lucilfer #yandere chrollo x reader #yandere hxh #hxh #hxh x reader #yandere hxh x reader #tw yandere

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wttcsms · 1 year ago

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baby, oh baby ; satoru gojo

pairing satoru gojo x f!reader word count 1.2k synopsis gojo is surprisingly good at caring. (or: he comforts you while you get morning sickness and start spiraling). content contains thr*wing up (morning sickness), pregnancy, pregnant!reader, domestic fluff, soft!gojo, reassurance

Satoru Gojo knows he’s a dead man from the minute he swings open the bathroom door and finds you curled up by the toilet.

Even in his shirt and a pair of sweatpants that have clearly seen better days, with your hair all messed up and your lips chapped, Gojo thinks you are absolutely adorable. Beautiful, even.

He tells you this, thinking it’ll cheer you up, but all you do is narrow your pretty little eyes at him.

“You,” you practically snarl at him. “You did this to me!”

He raises his hands in mock surrender. “Now, honey, I know it’s been a while since you took a biology class, but it takes two of us to, you know—” He gestures to your stomach, which still isn’t showing much of a bump since it’s only the first trimester, but you get the message. He decides he should have just shut up whenever you send him an absolutely scathing glare.

“It’s all my fault.” He immediately changes his tune. “You’re right, honey, I am an awful person for getting you pregnant. You should kill me for my transgressions.”

“You want to make me a single mother now?” You snap at him.

“Okay, I see that that was the wrong thing to say.” Gojo tries to give you a soothing smile to calm you down, but it comes off as more of a nervous grimace. “I would never die early and let you raise our wonderful child alone. As a matter of fact, I refuse to die only until you tell me it’s okay to do so!”

“Satoru.” You close your eyes, opening the toilet lid, anticipating another bout of morning sickness to come spilling out your mouth. “Get out.”

“Nah. That’s the one thing I can’t do.” He dares to take another step into the bathroom, frowning at how cold the marble tiles are. It can’t possibly be comfortable for you to be kneeling on the floor like this, especially since you’re throwing up last night’s dinner.

“Satoru, I’m not being funny right now. I’m seriously about to vomit, and you won’t want to be here.”

He kneels down by your side, gathering your hair in his hand and pulling it all behind your shoulders. “I’m not being funny, either. I’ll stay by your side no matter what.”

You don’t reply to his sweet comment, even though you really want to. Instead, you actually do make good on your word, and only after you flush the toilet does he bother saying anything else.

“Do you feel a bit better now?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know!” You shut your eyes, leaning against him, your back pressed against the warmth of his chest. Being pregnant sounded hot during the heat of the moment when the baby was being made, but now reality is hitting, and you’re already crying about how ugly maternity clothes are. You look like a wreck right now, and you’re barely nine weeks in with the pregnancy. Meanwhile, Satoru looks fan-fucking-tastic, as he always does.

His hand finds yours easily, and he intertwines your fingers together. He starts to absentmindedly fiddle with your wedding ring as he talks.

“What’s bothering you?”

You know that while Satoru was pursuing you, there was a long line of women all excited and ready to be the one by his side. You know that Satoru sometimes is a certified flight risk, running away from intimacy when the feeling gets too overwhelming for him. You know that Satoru is the only man capable of breaking your heart, and he’s subsequently the only man who would be able to piece it back together. Even with a ring and a legal certificate binding you two together, there are still annoying little doubts running in the back of your mind that has only worsened through your anxiety of life literally being grown inside of you and unbalanced hormones.

“Everything.” You tell him, and it’s not even a joke or an exaggeration.

“Well, tell me something that’s bothering you now. Something I can solve.” He adds on this last sentence, already knowing that you would most likely ask him for the impossible just to be funny. As conceited as he acts to the outside world, Satoru is surprisingly caring and observant towards others.

“What if our baby is ugly?” You look up at him, gauging his reaction.

At first, his eyes widen, and then he laughs. You can tell it’s genuine because you can feel the way it comes from his chest.

“It has us as its parents. With both our genes combined, it won’t have much to worry about.”

“No! I’m serious! Haven’t you heard the saying that two pretty people make an ugly baby?”

“Well, we’ll be the exception.”

“I’m being serious, Satoru! Your eyes are kinda scary to look at sometimes. Our baby will need brown contacts if it inherits your eyes.”

Oh, so because you’re emotionally fragile, you’re allowed to make comments about his eyes? Satoru snorts. You better be lucky he loves you so much.

“Why does it matter if our baby is ugly? Why is our baby being ugly even a thought in your mind?”

“This world sucks. Looking good is key to having an enjoyable experience on earth. You should start worrying about our child’s future, too, you know!”

“I would fight the entire world if it mistreated our baby.” Satoru presses a reassuring kiss to the top of your head. “And I know you would, too. So who cares if our baby is ugly?”

“That’s not the point, Satoru!” You frown, knowing that you’re being ridiculous right now, but who else could handle you in this state if not him? There’s a reason why he’s the one you call your husband, and he’s the one who put the aforementioned potentially-ugly baby inside of you.

“Fine. If our baby is ugly, let’s leave it on Kento’s doorsteps and let it be his problem for the next eighteen years. Then, we can get started on the next and hope the second time’s the charm. Sounds like a solid plan?” He doesn’t mean it, but he knows it’s best to just try and nip these hypotheticals in the bud.

You’re silent for a moment. Then, “You’re awful! I would love our baby, even if it had your eyes and crazy ass hair.”

“I would love our baby, too. Ugly or not. You know why?”

“You’re going to say something corny.”

“I was going to say that I would love our baby because it came from you. Nothing ugly is coming out of your body, babe. And anyway, I love you so much, how could I hate anything that’s literally half you?”

Even if you’re in the mood to be annoying and insecure, and your brain is telling you to argue some more with your husband, you can’t help but relax after hearing this.

(Nine months later, all your worries seem to be all for naught; your son is the cutest thing to be born.)

#satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #dad!gojo #domestic fluff #fluff #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk one shot #drabble #gojo fluff #gojo x reader

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2-dsimp · 9 months ago

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if it’s no trouble could we get another part to DILF/ nanny reader? Maybe like a willing reader? Bc I know of a hot dad wanted to date me who am I to say no? Lol great work!!!!

Cw: fem reader! jealousy, possessive/obsessive tendencies, Quio and Miki butting heads, the plot thickens

Synopsis no.2: 【featuring you being caught in the middle between your coworker and employer literally and figuratively. Miki obviously hates your employer and makes it well known meanwhile Quio does the same vice versa. The Dilf tried his best to put his and Peina’s plan of seducing you into action. But he’s constantly getting interrupted. And He’s honestly so close to snapping at this point.】

☆*:.｡..｡.:*☆ ☆*:.｡..｡.:*☆ ☆*:.｡..｡.:

“I wish you’d stop by here more often after all you’re already part of the family."

The Dilf sighs melodramatically, electing a small giggle from your lips. Seeing how he acted so distraught due to your absence. While he led you and your coworker to the living room, gesturing for you to take a seat on the couch.

“Oh that’s kind of you to say Mr. Evinis but I can’t possibly impose on you guys. Plus I’ve still gotta work my boring office job”

You replied with a mirthful tone at his sweet comment truly feeling as if you’ve made a second home within your employers household. You’ve already grown accustomed to his friendly work staff and of course his darling daughter who was l always clinging onto you like a baby kitten. And the fact that her father was so chivalrous and kind didn’t help your own little crush from forming on the single dad.

“Oh perish the thought sugarling~ we’re lucky enough to even be blessed by your radiant grace. In this boring household.”

Quio reassures with a charming smile, as he makes sure to fluff up some fancy decor pillows for his lovely lady. After placing the plush pillows down where you’d sit, He then put a hand on your shoulder giving a comforting squeeze.

“In fact me and the little squirt have always gotten excited at seeing you pull up and we’d be more than happy to keep you hostage here if possible”

The Dilf admits in a cheesy manner, which made you feel at ease. From how sweet his insistence at you dropping by often to hang out was. Being none the wiser to how he was being 100% serious. About the part where him and his daughter briefly molled over the idea of keeping their lovely nanny hostage at their mansion. Since they honestly couldn’t get enough of how addicting your sunshine liken presence.

Lit up every dark lonesome corner of the estate and they’d be damned if they every let you get a chance to escape from their sights. brandishes a pearly grin at the thought of being able to cater personally to his future missus.

“Also if your boring office job is what’s holding you back from spending quality time with us then I can think of a couple solutions to—“

“Um, let me stop you right there man. Whatever you’re pitching would be nice and all but I need my work wife.”

Once again you missed the small micro transgression within the Dilf’s facial features as his eye twitched at the irksome interruption done by that worthless dickbag.

“Aha work wife? With someone like you? I see you’re the type to joke around huh?”

He replied in an tone of condescension giving Miki a mean spirited smile. And an idle glance over full of scorn at the self assured confidence in this boy, who was proclaiming that his darling was his work wife.

“Well I am quite the jokester—wait what the hell do you mean by someone like me??”

You nearly busted out laughing at how Miki got a miffed expression on his face from the subtle dig done by the famous actor. You didn’t necessarily claim to be Miki’s work wife as nice as his company was. He was an utter shitty coworker to have when you’re trying to get shit done. Whenever you two were paired it’d be him cracking jokes while you were working like an effective machine.

“Well If anything they’re my work wife, no my wife, since yknow she’s looking after my kid like the little darling angel she is”

Quio nearly purred with a sharp edge to his voice as he blatantly rubbed it in Miki’s face the sheer difference. Between the two of them and how he was ultimately more important in your standings.

“Anit that right sweetness?”

The single dad hummed with a sickening sweet expression that resembled a hopeful doe eyed buck. His shouldering eyes never failed to make your heart do kick flips from how they always seemed to focus on purely you. Almost as if you were his world, his missing half. You got extremely flustered that you could barely even respond to his words. Until Miki let out a sneer and fixed his apparent love rival a shrewd scowl.

“Oh please as if! She’s your Nanny, not your substitute wife. Plus I already called dibs on her first, my guy.”

The sight of that damned flea mansplaining on the couch with the slinging over his arm right behind your head. Made Quio imagine ripping that same offending arm from our his socket and bitch slapping him with it.

“Dibs? Are you insinuating that she’s an object to be possessed by the likes of a peasant like you?”

He taunts snarkily, dropping his nice guy facade as makes his way to sit right in between you and Miki. Squeezing his bulky frame in the middle of the couch he gracefully crosses his legs as he swats off the offending arm behind your head and replaces it with his own.

“Tch! Now you know that’s not what I meant. It’s always you actors spinning fabricated lies. And the fuck did you just—“

“Miki don’t you think that it’s time for you to go soon? You’re gonna be late for work”

You interjected seeing how things were getting out of hand between the two offending men. Quio merely gave a smug smile as he saw Miki begrudgingly get up with an scowl on his face. You were right he had to go soon since he couldn’t be late for his promotion into higher management. He didn’t tell you that yet because he wanted to surprise you on the day you both worked the same shift.

“Ah fuck your right, thanks for the reminder what would I do without my precious work wife?”

Miki emphasized loudly, Shooting a glare towards the A-listed actor as he then gave you an abrupt hug goodbye whilst still glowering at the Dilf. The two seemed to be exchanging a clash of mixed silent threats behind your back.

Quio “gently” nudged Miki away from his darling with a hard shove with the pointy tip of his shoe upon his midriff. Making your coworker stumble back with a sharp exhaled grunt escaping his lips. Good, he hoped that fucker gets sore down there. The single dad was always about getting his get back by being petty whenever someone blatantly tried to piss him off.

“Alright that’s enough Casanova wouldn’t wanna keep your bosses waiting yeah?”

The Dilf chirped in a sweet noncommittal manner as he briefly pulled you into a side hug. As if to cleanse you from the poor touch Miki had given you. Miki had to bite back his tongue since he really couldn’t afford to waste time with the man’s shenanigans. And rolled his eyes he could only afford to shoot you a word of warning with concern shining in his eyes before he made his way outside of the million dollar manor.

“Be careful… You know how actors are, always so full of shit. Call me when you’re done I’ll come to pick you up okay?”

“Yeah yeah, don’t let the door hit cha on ya on the way out Miki”

Quio sassed as he couldn’t wait to have that cocky fucker out of sight and out of mind. There were so many times where the actor came close to acting out. One of his many aspiring roles which consisted of him being a deranged serial killer. It would’ve gave him peace of mind to choke out that lanky shithead and watch the life leave his eyes.

But he had better things to do at the moment rather than drone in about how he’d murder Miki in cold blood. Like wooing you over for instance which was unfortunately put on pause due to a pest intent on getting in the way between you and him. So he feels a sense of relief wash over him as Miki leaves, knowing that he can finally have you all to himself.

“It seems like you two get along well enough already”

You caught the Dilf off guard with your off handed comment as he gave you a raised brow and an apprehensive smile. He shook his head slightly and gave a dark chuckle at how naive you were to perceive their little spat to be that of a friendly origin. When they clearly wanted to go at each others necks.

“It would seem so… But hey I was wondering if you’d be interested in—“

His phone decided to go off in the most headache inducing way. He could hear the annoying ringtone which indicated that his manager was calling and he bit back a snarl from being interrupted once again. Collecting himself he excused himself from the couch not being fore taking your hand in his and giving it a small chaste kiss as he gave you an apologetic gaze.

“Sorry about this sugarling I’ve gotta take this call I’ll be right back”

With his servants taking leave at his behest today was the day he planned on tying the metaphorical knot with the cute Nanny that stole both his and his little girl’s heart. So his manager had better got a pretty damn good reason for bugging him on his day of vacation leave. Or else they’ll get added to the hitlist alongside that damned coworker of yours.

。

I’m thinking of making this into a mini series, let me know if I should continue!o(≧v≦)o

#yandere drabble #yandere oc #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere male #yandere male x reader #yanderecore #yandere concept #yandere content #yandere scenarios #yandere headcanons #yandere x y/n #yandere x you #yandere x darling #dilf x reader #Quio the dilf #yandere dad

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skzdarlings · 3 months ago

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the kingsguard ; jisung x reader ; part v

pairing: han jisung/reader summary: You are a queen. He is a kingsguard - a member of a holy order that vows to defend the king in the name of the gods. They forsake all earthly goods and swear a vow of chastity to avoid all worldly temptation. When he stands in as proxy for the royal wedding, all those vows are tested.

content info: reader described with curly hair.

content warnings: the previously established story dynamics are prevalent in this chapter, please proceed at own discretion. the king threatens sexual violence again. there is explicit consensual sexual content in this chapter with reader and jisung. first times, breaking of vows, lots of mental work packed in there lol.

chapter word count: 11500 words.

enjoy <3

Despite the delay, you reach the intended campsite before nightfall. The king finds his own entertainment while everyone else works at erecting tents and constructing fire pits.

Chan assigns Seungmin to watch the king while he occupies himself elsewhere. The tension between the king and the kingsguard captain ripples through the camp, though no one – not even the king – is audacious enough to remark on it.

The kingsguard has a sanctified power, burdened with the responsibility of protecting the crown above all else. This manifests as protecting the king so long as oaths are kept and holy accords obeyed. The king is abundantly aware he is not in the leader’s good graces right now. Even that petulant fool of a man is smart enough to recognize that antagonism from an ancient religious order is a perilous position for a holy king.

Because he cannot harass Chan, the king directs his ire towards Hyunjin, so Chan sends Hyunjin across the camp to help there. Jisung accompanies him. As the lowest ranked kingsguard, his absence will not be minded.

You are irate, watching Hyunjin limp away with Jisung following behind him. You think of their skill and bravery in protecting you from the assassins. You think of their loyalty and good hearts. They both deserve better.

Stewing in irritation, you opt to stay out of the way. It is better to remain unobtrusive rather than instigate more dramatics after the events of today.

You kneel down in the grass, out of the way of the tents. You are organizing a bag of personal effects when an unfamiliar pair of painted boots appear in your line of your vision. You look up, startled to find one of the king’s courtiers looming over you. He is one of the few who has been riding in the carriage and you are surprised he is so far from the inner circle now.

“Your Holy Majesty,” he says, surprising you with the appropriately respectful title. He surprises you further by offering his hand and helping you to your feet. The final surprise is a bow so deep he bends his knees. “I ask for your grace and forgiveness,” he says. “And I ask for you to pray on my behalf that the gods may also forgive me for my petty transgressions. I would never speak ill of the gods-chosen king but—” He looks over his shoulder briefly, spots the king far across the camp with the remainder of his inner circle. Satisfied with the distance, he looks at you, expression solemn. “But I believe human error may have conquered the holy senses,” he says. In a lower voice, tinged with resentment, he says, “To raise hands to the queen in public, especially after the events of the other day…”

You are still too surprised to respond. You remain silent, hands folded in front of you.

He says with some finality, “I know I am not alone in feeling this way. Your Holiness, please ensure that you have support in some noble factions here – particularly after today. And please do recall, this is not all the court, merely the king’s personal selection, and there are those at home in the capital who will also support you.”

The sincerity of his oath leaves you stunned. You stare at his footprints long after he has departed.

The courtier does not return to the inner circle but joins a different cluster of palace residents. Their attention turns to you, followed by dips and bows.

Your bewildered mind finally catches up to your racing heart. You sweep into a quick return bow. When you turn away, you let out a breath. Your eyes trace the treeline around the clearing. The smoky orange mist of sunset winds through the branches. You look but do not see, mentally replaying the whole exchange.

It seems even the most devout courtiers have a restricted capacity of tolerance for royal misconduct. Their motivations may be selfish in seeing a flagrant disrespect of the gods’ will and worrying what ramifications will manifest for them, but it is still a significant loyalty shift.

You allow yourself a little smile. Knowing the camp is no longer brimming with hostiles lightens your heavy heart.

You are barely at ease when you turn around, startled again by yet another visitor. This time is the kingsguard Minho. He stands as still and patient as marble, hand on the hilt of his sword. He lists slightly to that side, his other hand dangling in a fist.

“Your Majesty,” he says. His bow is more of a nod as he seems lost in contemplation – or maybe that is scrutiny, studying your face like it holds the answer to some profound question.

You are open as ever, as patiently marble in waiting for him.

He exhales. It sounds like a surrendering. It makes you nervous, especially with the way he darts a glances over his shoulder. The king and other kingsguards are busy, the courtiers turned to their own affairs, and the servants are busy with meal preparation.

You cannot imagine what Minho has to say or do that cannot be witnessed.

Your answer comes without a word but a gesture, his closed first opening between you. You jump at what he reveals.

The phial of sleeping draft. You assumed it was lost in the ocean tide. Last you touched it, it went into your dress pocket and that dress is now underwater. You thought the draft was lost too. You lamented the only protection you had in prolonging the king’s advances.

It must have fallen out of your pocket earlier than that, when you threw yourself to the forest floor in sickness. Minho helped you through it. Somewhere in your distraction, he must have grabbed the bottle.

A hot flash of terror spreads through you, looking at the dark liquid sloshing around in that little phial. When you look up, his brow is furrowed, face pinched with intense scrutiny.

You are not sure what to expect. Minho is decent and he seems close with Jisung, which naturally lends your trust to him, but your interactions have been minimal. He could grab you by the wrist and drag you to Chan to accuse you of harbouring poison. It would no doubt instigate the king’s wrath and everything would spiral before you could catch your breath.

Minho sighs.

“Will it kill him?” he asks.

“Oh.” It is not the question you are expecting. With sincerity and pleading eyes, you reply, “No. I swear. It’s just a sleeping draft. For – for myself. To help me – at night.”

He has clever eyes. You suspect he can deduce what that really means.

“Mm,” is all he says. He takes your hand and puts the phial in your palm, then he closes your fingers around it. He gives you a look, something stern that demands secrecy without a word.

You nod, clutching the bottle tightly.

“Be careful,” he says.

“Of course,” you reply.

He walks away while you gather yourself, the adrenaline of two unpredictable encounters simmering. It has not yet settled when the king barks an order, his voice making you jump, particularly when your name is included in his angry tone.

It draws Hyunjin from the outskirts. He is still teeming, looking as though he wants any excuse to swing at the king again, punishments be damned. Jisung is a step behind him, looking with worried eyes while the king seeks you out.

The king stops a distance from you, speaking across a fire pit, like he cannot be bothered to cross that space. You think he is also a little intimidated because Hyunjin is fuming in his periphery.

The king does not look at the kingsguards, not even Chan who approaches on his other side. He glares at you, enunciating every word with a snarling upturn of his lip as he says, “Go to the river. Bathe yourself. You will see me tonight.”

This gives you another flash of terror, wide-eyed as you stare at his retreating form. The implications are not subtle. They are also not surprising. He has spent the day being belittled and tested and he blames the brunt of it on you. Of course a cruel and violent man would steal back his supposed dignity in the only hateful way he can, putting you in whatever perceived place he believes you belong.

You know he will make it awful. He would have been unkind on your initial wedding night but now you are certain he will be brutal. He does not just want to use you; he wants to hurt you.

You wish you could be stronger in the face of this reality, uncaring and brash and mouthy, snarking at him behind his back. Your heart is not built that way. You are frightened and very sad, fist curled so tightly at your side that it shakes.

You almost forget what that fist is holding until you glance at Minho. He is leaning against a tree, out of sight of the king. He quirks an eyebrow then mimes taking a drink.

Unfortunately, this makes you laugh, your nerves melting into the outburst of sound.

The king looks at you over his shoulder, his eyes furious. You feel the sparkle in your own as you stare back at him.

Before the king speaks again, Chan steps forward. His displeasure is obvious, his concern more so. He looks at you with that despondency, helpless to do anything insofar as the marriage bed. That is not the realm of the kingsguard, to say the least, though Chan looks like he wishes he could command otherwise.

“The queen should not be left unaccompanied,” Chan says. Looking at the king, he says bitingly, “Especially considering recent attempts on her life, Your Holiness.”

Holiness sounds like an accusation in that tone.

The king straightens, glaring back at Chan.

Hyunjin, seemingly determined to escalate the mounting tension, walks towards you with an easy gait. He smiles a very charming smile.

“I can escort the queen,” he says, in a very different voice than usual, almost sultry in its depth. It makes you blink in confusion.

The king forgets Chan entirely as he reels around, pointing a finger at Hyunjin.

“You will burn for eternity first, kingsguard,” the king snaps.

Hyunjin just smiles prettily, hands folded neatly behind his back. The lack of response agitates the already exasperated king who huffs and shakes his head. His eyes dart around and inevitably land on Han Jisung. It startles Jisung who swings into an instinctive bow. He stares wide-eyed at the ground.

“Bard boy,” the king says. “Take the queen.”

You look at Jisung as he straightens. His blinking gaze moves from the king to you.

That laughter is still caught in your throat, its bubbling delight only intensifying as you look at each other. You think of that kiss on the riverbank, the softness of his every glance since then. You do not even think it is especially subtle, or maybe you are just supremely aware of it, holding his gaze as he approaches you. You feel like it gives everything away.

The king is arrogant and he thinks Jisung is nobody important. He does not even glance at at the unassuming bard, his eyes following Hyunjin as he waltzes away.

“Are you going to take me then, bard boy?” you whisper.

Jisung chokes on a laugh, a blush darkening the tips of his ears. He looks over his shoulder but everyone else is ambling back to their posts.

He looks at your innocently fluttering eyelashes.

“Don’t tease,” he says with a nervous giggle. “I think it might kill me.”

He means it in a playfully hyperbolic way, but you grant there is a sobering truth to that statement. It succeeds in quieting you, your fingers now clammy where they grip the phial. You let your mind wander to that, preoccupied with the thought of tonight while you fetch some necessities. Jisung is dutifully quiet the entire trek, following at an appropriate length all the way down to the riverside.

You think he has similarly sobered, so quiet behind you as you step through the trees to the water. The grass turns to sand and pebbles beneath your feet, crunching with every step.

Your mind is far away, thinking of your very precarious position, how you can slip the king sleeping draft tonight, if it is even worth it to prolong the inevitable. You doubt he will ever change his feelings for you. You cannot be so demure and loving that a man with no respect for humanity will somehow see special humanity in you.

Your gaze rests on the flowing river and the setting sun. Streak of of orange and lavender flow over the water. The breeze is laced with an evening chill, brushing a curl off your shoulder.

You realize the gentle touch is actually Jisung. You shiver as his fingertips follow the tumbling curl down your back, until he is not even touching you but you still feel the proximity. It moves through you with an intensity far more powerful than the king’s threatening glower.

This warmth is not terror, a different heat that rushes and burns with startling efficiency.

“What can I do?” he asks in that careful, low voice.

You remember him behind you just like this, supporting your body, the look on his face and the feel of him as you discovered more pleasure than you ever knew existed. You are amazed that it is not the most preached phenomenon of them all, that the gods would bestow such a gift on humanity. You cannot imagine what you would have done without the revelation. The immensity of it all has you shivering.

“You’ve already done so much,” you say.

“I’ll come to you after,” he says, words flowing in a nervous rush. “I’ll help you. Whatever you need – if you’re – if something happens – I can come. The king won’t care if it’s just me. I’m just bard boy, ha-ha, I don’t – it won’t matter, at least—”

You turn around. His breath catches as your eyes meet. His hand is trembling but he drops it to his side. His eyes dart to the empty treeline and back.

“Bard boy,” you whisper with a smile, teasing. “The king may believe otherwise, but you are most assuredly admired by your queen.”

“You—” He looks at the still-empty treeline then you again. He is so clearly flustered. On a startled, nervous laugh, he says, “You can’t say things like that to me.”

“Why not?”

He kisses you, a reply made with no hesitation.

He cups a hand around your jaw, fingers firm on your neck with a guiding pull. The kiss is more than a touch. If kisses can be whispers, this is a song, rhythmic and grand.

Your knees nearly buckle beneath you. This is your third kiss but it feels like first and the thousandth, the natural way you move together, gasps of breath and pressing lips. His hand moves under your hair, cupping the back of your neck. Your own hand raises, fingertips stroking his jaw then resting between his neck and shoulder.

He makes a noise into the kiss, tilting his head, kissing you with so much intensity that you both stumble. His eyes widen at his own actions, a hand covering his mouth as he looks at the treeline. His startled expression makes you burst into giggles.

“That was my fault,” he says, throwing his hands into a surrender, then raking them through his hair until it is a dishevelled mess. “My fault, my fault, it’s fine, it’s fine.” He makes a series of faces while muttering to himself, giggling nervously at you, then walking away to stand guard.

You turn your back to him, hiding your smile as you touch your lips. Somehow a kiss provided all the courage you needed to decide, yes, it will be worth prolonging the king’s advances. You and Jisung are already outsmarting him, his arrogant eye turned to the wrong kingsguard, and you will continue to find ways to do so. The sleeping draft was made by a friend and you know you will develop more. Perhaps alone you cannot combat a king, but you are not alone.

For now, you will play his game. A quick wash will feel good after the long day in the summer sun regardless of intention.

You strip down to your shift as is appropriate for a queen bathing out-of-doors. It is about the only appropriate protocol, as you should have more company than solitary male guard, even a kingsguard. It is not surprising the king has you left you bereft of any ladies, forgoing introductions, actively discouraging his nobles. That is something you will remedy yourself in the capital.

For now, you are not mad it is just you and Jisung. You glance at him while disrobing, catching his eye, smiling at his flustered blush as he looks away again.

You pile your curls as high as you can, then step to the water. Even though there is a chill in the air, the water is warm because the hot sun has been pouring down all day. You suspect it will be colder to emerge than to enter. For now, it is comfortable as it laps at the foot of your shift, darkening the hem as you walk.

You find a smooth boulder to perch on, grateful to use one of your own soaps from home as you scrub your skin. The breeze is sharp against your wet skin so you sink into the water up to your shoulders, paddling around for a little bit as you let the day wash off you.

The sunset has lost its golden traces, the sky melting from orange to pink, and you let yourself admire the colours as they swirl overhead.

When you look at Jisung, he is already staring at you. He is sitting on a rock, fiddling with the hilt of his sword in an absent-minded distraction. He exhales heavily when you look at him.

“What is it?” you ask.

“I—” He laughs then thuds the heel of his palm against his forehead in a punishing little smack. “Nothing,” he says. He looks at the ground then slowly at you, his gaze moving across the shimmering water before tracing up your shoulders, neck, and face. “I just hope no one tries to attack us right now. Because honestly?” He lets go of the hilt to show his hand, revealing the slight tremble. He immediately crosses his arms, tucking his hands under them. “I don’t think I’d be much help,” he finishes with a laugh.

“Don’t worry,” you say, matching his smile. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“Oh,” he says. “Good.”

You smile at each other for another moment. It is disturbed when you hear the king shouting about food, far into the distance. A couple of birds fly out of the trees and away. You spread your arms in the water and watch them go, wishing it was that easy.

“We should go back,” Jisung says, though he sounds as uneasy as he looks, biting his bottom lip, his big eyes as shiny and concerned as ever.

The water is not very deep. When you stand, it comes below your hips. You squeak, a mousey and unqueenly sound, as the evening chill swarms you.

“Oh goodness,” you say, too distracted with the cold to think of much else. “Robe, please.”

Jisung is a very capable soldier. You have witnessed it firsthand. Where most of the kingsguards appear to specialize in certain skills, he has so far proven to be a master of everything.

He trips over his own feet now. He slides clumsily across the gravel, drawing a sharp line in the sand. He manages to remain upright, only just, muttering to himself as he picks up the robe you requested.

He steps to the water’s edge, the robe under his arm. He holds out a hand to help guide you forward, but he is very distracted with looking at the rest of you, so he keeps accidentally moving it out of reach.

You finally clasp his wandering hand. Only then does he lift his frantic gaze to your eyes.

This is your second time emerging from water in nothing but a shift, the light material leaving nothing to the imagination. Last time, you were shy and embarrassed, but it seems a bit silly to be modest now considering what he has seen. Furthermore, you do not feel embarrassed, not with the way he looks at you. The shift clings to every curve, nearly translucent, more so with the chill as the sensitive peaks of your breasts pebble against the wet white fabric.

His eyes dart there again, his mouth open. He doesn’t say anything. With a bit of struggle, he manages to say, “Ahhhh…?”

“Robe, please,” you say again, amused. Truthfully, you are not as cold under his gaze, flushed with a tingling warmth that conquers the other senses.

“Fuck,” Jisung says, shaking his head as he wraps the robe around your shoulders. “Sorry for cursing, pretend you didn’t hear it.”

Now that he is speaking, the words come in a breathless stream. It comes from an honest, human subconscious that a kingsguard should have under control, but which he has evidently relinquished from mental bondage.

“I can hit him on the head,” Jisung says. “I mean – fuck. I can’t do that, obviously. He’s the king. I wouldn’t do that – but also I would, if you asked. If you ask then it’s fine because I’d do anything for the queen. I should obey the queen. I must protect her. Then again, if I hit him on the head, It could go wrong, and he could die, then I didn’t just hit the king but killed him, and kingsguards aren’t supposed to do that. Well, sometimes they do, but that’s very rare and definitely not the bard’s call. I shouldn’t kill the king, even if you ask, right? Right. Fuck. Sorry for cursing. You wouldn’t ask that anyway, even if he deserves it – ah! I didn’t say that. Maybe if I get him drunk instead then he won’t be able to – you know–”

He lifts his finger, a rather impolite mime of a rising erection, which he realizes is a very rude gesture to make in front of the queen. He throws his hands together in a prayer position instead.

“By which I mean,” he says, “Nothing. I meant none of that at all. Unless you say otherwise, my queen. Then I meant it all.”

It is silent save the sound of the river lapping at the shore. His hands are still clasped for prayer and you are holding the robe closed. He blinks at you. You are already smiling.

“Right,” he says. “Umm… Fuck.”

You pat him on the arm, stepping around him. You go to your possessions and kneel down to find the phial.

“I wasn’t going to ask for help,” you say. “I fear I have already put you in a precarious enough position as is—”

“You haven’t done anything,” he says, quick and sharp. His black robes swish with the swiftness of his spin. He marches to where you are knelt down.

You look up at him, your hand closed around the phial, but he does not see it. His eyes are on your face.

“My queen,” Jisung says. He crouches down so you can look at each other. “I’m a lot better with words when I’m singing, especially a story about someone else. That’s easy. But I—” He stares into your eyes. His shoulders fall with an exhale, his expression softening just as surely. “I wouldn’t go back to the easy I knew days ago. I know I’m a mess now. I don’t know what’s happening anymore, or what’s going to happen soon, but—”

He looks at the treeline. It is still empty, of course. The king does not see the pretty bard boy as a threat to his dignity. He is probably brooding and glaring at Hyunjin and Chan while it is Jisung who lays a hand on your cheek. Jisung captures you more completely than the king could do with iron.

“It’s probably wrong to say,” Jisung speaks in a low voice, his face close to yours. A tuft of dark hair falls near his brown eyes. “It’s too selfish for a kingsguard or any mortal to say, but… You said it first, that you feel the gods when we’re together.” His thumb strokes your cheek and it might as well be a lightning bolt launched from the heavens, wracking your whole body with a shiver. “I feel it too,” he says. “I think I’m supposed to be here. My life, the war, becoming a kingsguard, a – a – a queensguard – it was supposed to happen. The gods led us here and we made it happen, and the gods allowed us, so we must – it must – it can’t be completely wrong, right? When the king is like that, and you are like this.”

You are everything I ever dreamed of worshipping, he told you two nights ago, before you ever kissed, before you even really touched.

“You’re worth a thousand kings, Han Jisung,” you say.

It is confident amidst his stammering and it makes his eyes go wide. You brush the hair away from those eyes.

“I don’t know what will happen either,” you say. “I know the king will try something untoward sooner than later, whether I am faithful and obedient or not. I believe it is thus appropriate to reserve my faith and loyalty to that which I pray directly.”

You turn your face and kiss his palm. You look at him from the corner of your eye, watching his breath catch as his eyes are bound to where your lips touch his skin.

You wonder if he is so flushed because he is remembering how you said physical love was like prayer. Hearing your words now, seeing and feeling your kiss, he seems to stop breathing entirely.

“And in such a case as that,” you say, “I believe I would like at least once more night to pray for answers.”

You open your hand and reveal the phial. His gaze drops. His eyebrows leap comically high as he looks between you and the bottle.

He snatches it, looking at the treeline, then whispering so frantically that his voice breaks again, “Is that poison? Where in the name of all the gods did you get poison?”

You cup his face with both hands, laughing helplessly at his expression. You stroke your thumbs across his cheeks and it lessens his panic.

“It’s not poison,” you whisper. “It’s just a sleeping draft.”

“A sleeping draft,” he says, words a little slurred as his cheeks are squished in your hands. He looks down at the phial again, then at you. “Well,” he says and gets to his feet. He adjusts his sword belt, swishes the length of his robe and clears his throat. “You could have started with that,” he says.

You are laughing as he helps you to your feet.

Thanks to your friend’s sleeping draft and Jisung’s help, you escape the king unscathed for another night.

Jisung completes his task in the only way Han Jisung would and could: with a great deal of theatricality.

The sun is nearly set and everyone is gathered around the fire pits. The king is with his inner circle, guarded by Changbin. After changing into a clean dress, you sit with the remaining kingsguards. The meal is simple, meat cooked in a spicy broth. Apparently, esteemed kingsguard leader Bang Chan is tragically intolerant towards heavy spice, a fact you learn because the others relentlessly tease him.

It makes him crack a smile, the first one all day. He has charmingly deep dimples when he lets himself go. You are sitting beside him and the sight delights you.

In the midst of comforting food and friendly laughter, Chan looks at you. While the others are rowdy and distracted, he takes a moment to say, “I’ll guard the king’s tent tonight,” he says. “Find me, yeah? If you need… anything.”

“Thank you,” you say, genuinely touched.

His chivalry will not be required, however. Moments after he says that, the king starts screaming.

“You incompetent mongrel!” he shouts, clear across the campsite, scaring another pair of birds.

The kingsguards are quickly on their feet, food and jibes forgotten.

You stay sitting, slurping your soup.

“Your Holy Majesty, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, a thousand times sorry,” Jisung says to the king.

You glance over there, watching as Jisung alternates between bowing and scooping up the bits of meat that splattered on the ground when he knocked over the king’s bowl of soup.

When Jisung told you he would take care of administering the sleeping draft, he did not tell you his plan, maybe assuming you would not like it. You cannot honestly say you are happy to see him intentionally drawing the king’s anger, but it is certainly a fair strategy. The king is too surrounded to truly sneak up on him. He is, however, very easy to antagonize.

Jisung tries to hold out a dirty piece of meat as offering. The king slaps it out of his hand. Jisung looks at it with dramatically wide eyes.

“I swear to the gods, kingsguard—” the king says, raising his hand as if to strike Jisung.

Jisung bows again, holding up his hands in supplication.

“I apologize, your Holiness,” he says, bowing some more as he grabs the king’s empty bowl. He remains bent over while scampering around. “It was an accident. I’ll get you more food. Forgive me, sire, I’m a worthless dog, I’m a flea on a dog, I’m a flea on a flea on a dog—”

The king kicks at him as Jisung scampers off to get more soup. The other kingsguards sit back down, either laughing at the nonsense of shaking their heads, chalking it up to Jisung being a little clumsy and silly.

You slurp some more soup.

The king only makes it halfway through his meal before he falls asleep. The remainder of his soup splashes onto the ground when the bowl falls out of his lap, so fortunately no one else ingests it.

No one seems bothered by the peculiarity of his sudden slumber. This seems to a combination of the exhausting day and simple relief that there is no more yelling.

Chan, Changbin, and Minho carry the king back to his tent where he will sleep alone and where you will not be visiting any time soon.

Seungmin is assigned the first shift to guard your tent but Jisung escorts you while Seungmin is still finishing his meal. You and Jisung walk side by side, saying nothing suspicious or untoward. Nothing beyond his wink and your smile, at least.

“Was the king this bad on the journey over?” you ask while Jisung unties the clasps of your tent.

“Almost worse,” Jisung admits. “He doesn’t like travelling. And you already know he wasn’t, um, happy with the wedding, heh. Now everything with Felix—”

“Right,” you say, watching as the last clasp comes undone. “I suppose an affair can change a man.”

“So I’ve heard,” he says.

The tent opens. There is a lit lantern inside, brightening the night with golden warmth. The interior is simple, though marginally more comfortable than the average tent. It is tall enough you can walk around without ducking. The ground is neatly covered, a thick bedroll unfurled in the middle of the space. It looks as inviting as it can be, blankets draped across the long cushion, a pillow at the head. One of your smaller trunks is in the room. There is a low table and a cushion beneath it, a tea pot and cup in wait. The lantern sits on the ground, near the bed.

You look at each other.

It would require only a step out of the darkness and into the light, then he could kiss you again. Only a step, yet a serious one with real ramifications.

Despite all that, you want him as you have never wanted anything before. You want him so much that you learned how to want. Before him, you were numb but content. Now you feel every prickling tingle of a hair standing on edge, the anticipation twisting inside you, and the flush of heat that moves through you when his eyes move to your lips.

“I—” he starts and never finishes.

You can see the complicated gears and cogs spinning in his head. You think of him on his knees before you, kissing your hands, shaking with desperation. Every kiss is both a gift and a surrendering, the forging of a serious vow in the breaking of another. You want him but not in the way a king wants his kingdom, not with a selfish and possessive cruelty, and not with a command.

“I enjoy your company,” you say. “When Seungmin takes his post, would you play some music for me? It would make me happy.”

He releases a breath.

“Yes,” he says, smiling at you. “Yes, that would make me happy too.”

Jisung stands guard until Seungmin arrives, then he leaves to fetch his guitar. You dress down for the evening, removing your layers and letting your curls loose. You sit on the bedroll in nothing but your shift. It goes without saying that it does a better job of modesty when it is dry. The recollection of Jisung’s staring makes your cheeks feel hot.

You are smiling down at your embroidery when he returns. There is only a brief conversation between him and Seungmin, the latter somewhat perplexed by his presence. It is not inappropriate for a kingsguard to guard the royal personage from inside the tent, but it has not been deemed necessary, nor has Jisung been posted.

Jisung lets the guitar does most of the talking. It is very persuasive.

Moments later, Jisung is inside the tent, lacing it closed again, the guitar on his back. Somehow, the lacing of the tent ties feel even sturdier than a lock. It would take a long time for someone to undo it, making it nearly impossible to sneak up on you.

You suspect it would also take you a long time to become conscious of the real world. Jisung is not kissing you, not even touching you, just moving inside the same small space as you, and you are already distractingly rivetted.

So distracted, you poke your finger on a needle. You put your finger in your mouth to catch and wipe the tiny pinprick of blood. You look at Jisung as he sits. He does not sit on the bedroll, just beside it on the ground.

His eyes flick to your mouth, his face a little flushed.

“Ha-ha,” he speaks it more than laughs it. “Right. Music. Um.”

The first strum of the guitar feels very loud in this small space, making your heart jump. The alarm slows to a gradual stop as you let the gentle plucking of each string soothe you. He hums softly until you are visibly comfortable with the sound, then he starts to sing too.

He starts with a familiar ballad, famous enough it reached your land at the borders. The next song you do not know but he has hummed snippets here and there over the past couple days. The third song is about you, though it takes a second to realize it. Your eyes are on your embroidery, knotting little loops of cherry blossom petals, when you realize the ‘mermaid in white with curly hair’ who has ‘wanting eyes for the soldier on the shore’ is maybe not so distant or fantastical as the lyrics might imply.

You look at him, flicking your gaze to the sealed tent flap as if to remind him that others can hear. He grins innocently and keeps singing, your story hidden in the details of some fictional recreation.

Hearing his interpretation of your supposed thoughts makes you laugh. He is often doing everything to make you laugh. Hearing the thoughts of the soldier on the shore stirs rather differently, your heart palpitating as he sings about longing and terror. Both those feelings seem to torment the soldier, a man equal parts integrity, desire, and fear.

The lyrics trail off though he keeps strumming the guitar. You suppose the story is not yet finished.

The melody changes a little. He hums to chase it, perhaps crafting another song in his mind.

You look at your cherry blossoms, listening to him, remembering the first time he sang to you. He had never even spoken to you. You did not know him at all. You were alone and miserable, sulking in the dark, and he jumped into the light and touched you with his music.

It feels like so much has changed even while technically nothing has. You are still married to the king. You have both sworn oaths.

His music still touches you.

Your vision blurs, then the first teardrop plunks onto a cherry blossom. He notices immediately, just like he was the only one to see your tears at the ceremony. The music comes to an abrupt stop, a suspended note awkwardly fractured. He puts the guitar aside and gets on his knees, leaning over your embroidery to lift your face.

You sniffle, smiling at him through your tears.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I’m not even crying because of the sad things.”

“That’s okay,” he says, his face as morose. He tries to smile softly, though his brow is still pinched with concern. “You can cry,” he says. “If it will make you feel better.”

Yes, you think it will. You have too long repressed feeling. You are allowed to be angry and passionate and sad. Crying will not necessarily solve all your problems, but it will empty the clutter of your mind and soul.

You let it wash away, then you let him wipe your eyes.

“Thank you,” you say, wiping the last teardrop as he sits back.

He picks up his guitar, though he just looks at it, running his hand along the neck while you tidy up your embroidery tools. He looks from his art to yours, blinking at the cherry blossoms.

“What are you making?” he asks.

“Just bits and pieces, really,” you say. “Spring is my favourite season. It’s beautiful back home, with the blossoms and warm rain showers. Everything sparkles all the time.”

If you had not already cried, thinking of home might have done it. You just sniffle and lay the fabric down. You smile at him.

“What’s your favourite season?” you ask.

“Mine?” His eyebrows lift. His mouth is open as he looks for an answer, then he glances at your embroidery and laughs. “Spring,” he says.

You swat his arm and he playfully howls, clutching it.

“You can’t just say that because it’s mine,” you say.

“Why not?” he asks, still laughing.

“Because!”

“All right, all right,” he says. He taps his chin with great contemplation. “Autumn? No, no, it’s gross in the capital then. The rain doesn’t sparkle there, not in the fall. It sort of just – pings.” He makes a high-pitched sound on the word, miming each droplet as it tumbles. “Let’s see then – it’s not autumn and spring is forbidden to me. Ah, winter? No. No. Guard duty in the winter is the worst. Oops, I’m not supposed to say that – of course being a kingsguard is a blessing, and I can’t wait to experience the next winter, Amen.” He opens his palms and pretends to pray, then bows his head before continuing. “So it’s not those. Then, ah, let me think. What’s left? Hmmm…”

You are already giggling when he leans towards you, grinning.

“Remind me,” he says. “What’s left?”

“Summer, of course,” you say.

“Ah, of course. Let’s think. It’s hot, muggy, and the rain doesn’t help either of those things. Everything feels a bit like soup. But…”

“But…?” You lean towards him as well, playfully eager like this is the most important secret he could reveal.

“But…” His eyes drop momentarily to your smile. “That’s when we met.”

You look from his mouth to his eyes. The joining of your gazes makes everything feel very quiet, slow, and warm. Nothing exists past the golden light beside you.

“Yes,” he says. “Summer. I think I used to hate it. I think I’ll never hate it again.”

“That’s funny,” you say. “I feel the same way.”

“Well, you can’t,” he says, abruptly teasing again. “Because that’s my favourite, and you can’t just pick it because I did.”

Your laughs turns into a snort and you quickly cover your mouth. He laughs at the sound though he tries to stifle it.

You swat each other, trying and failing to keep the laughter down. A kingsguard keeping watch or a bard playing music is one thing, but giggling with the queen is a little different.

Your embroidery is between you and he accidentally puts his hand on it. He hisses like he was run through with a sword rather than pinpricked with a sewing needle.

“Oh my goodness,” you say, shaking your head with playful irritation. You gather your embroidery things and place them out of reach so there are no more accidents. “Silly,” you say. “Big strong guard, you are. It couldn’t have hurt that much.”

“It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt,” he says with dramatically sad eyes and a spectacular pout.

“Oh, I’m sure,” you say, taking his hand. It is not even bleeding. Still, you bring it to your mouth.

You do not intend to be seductive. You are truly just playing, intending to wet his finger against your lips and tease him some more. The moment your lips touch his skin, however, the whole energy inside the tent changes. If you did not know better, you would say the earth itself tilted.

You look at him while taking the tip of his finger in your mouth. His smile vanishes too, those dark eyes suddenly smouldering in the lamplight. Your heart is pounding so hard that it wakes up the rest of your body. When you kiss that fingertip again, moving your mouth, making no mistake of its deliberateness, your heart seems to plummet as well. It drops right between your legs where it continues to pound, sending heat in every direction, so stark and sure that it makes you want to double over.

“Jisung,” you say, your lips a little wet.

He does not have far to go, cupping your face and pulling you in for a kiss. You clasp his shoulders, closing your eyes and kissing him back. You would not notice an intruder, nor even a fire, not even a god walking the earth. You lose yourself completely, even more than those precious kisses from before. Maybe it is knowing you are truly alone, that the king is out cold, that it is nighttime and you are in your shift and he is right here, and it would be so easy to lay down and—

“I—” He abruptly breaks the kiss. He still looks lost in it, eyes half-open, face tinged with a blush. He pushes his fingers through his hair and shakes his head like that will pull him out of it.

He looks at you then at your mouth, then he falls right back in. His eyes close and he moans when he kisses you, like it is rearranging him. He cups your face with both hands and guides the kiss, opening his mouth, inexpertly but hungrily. You follow just as inexpertly but just as passionately. You make a sound of your own, higher and lighter, sweet in the kiss as he licks into your open mouth.

He is affected, either by the sound or your taste or your tongue against his. He pulls back with a shuddering gasp, like he forgot to breathe the whole time. You think you forgot too, breathing much harder than before.

“I—I’m so—” he says, forcing himself to look away. He stares down at the lantern. His eyes look a little wet, verging on tears as well. He pushes his hand into his hair and keeps it there, the dark locks messy around his fingers.

“Jisung,” you whisper his name, touching his shoulder, then his face. “Jisung, I know. This is – this is all crazy.” He looks at you, eyes still sad, hand still shoved in his hair. “I know,” you say. “You’re not alone. I know this is complicated.” You stammer, tripping over your racing heart. You cup his face and stroke his cheek. “I’m not asking for anything but what you want to give me.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of me. Of what I want to give. It would be—” He finally lets go of his hair. It takes a second to fall back into place after being pushed for so long, falling messily across his forehead. “It would be easier,” he says again, “if I didn’t want to, at all. But I—”

It is certainly easier for him to speak in song. He conveyed so much as a soldier on the shore, longing and terror in equal parts. Yes, that is all over his face as he looks at you, even if he cannot articulate it like this. He just breathes. He tilts his head and looks at you. He is right, that this would all be easier if that expression was not so tender and loving.

“What about you?” he asks. “What do – what do you want to – give?”

“Jisung,” you say, almost laughing, because isn’t it obvious? “I want to give you everything.”

You thought that was so obvious but his look says otherwise, that he is surprised and taken back and overcome.

“I believe,” you say, “that even though we are surrounded by danger, my heart and my body would be truly safe with you.”

“Oh,” he says. He gazes back at you for a time, then he looks down. He takes your hand. His eyes closed, he brings it to his mouth and kisses your palm. He holds it to his face after, eyes still closed, clearly thinking very hard. When he straightens, he says, “It is. But when it comes to me, I—” He laughs without much humour, his expression rather withering and his tone self-deprecating. “I think I’m broken beyond help. I think I always have been. I don’t even have a good reason why. I just know I feel worthless if I don’t cling to the only vow that has ever meant anything and you – and I – and—”

“You’re safe with me too,” you say gently. “Whatever that looks like, Jisung. Whether you think it’s broken or not, I’ll take care of it all.”

He nods, sharp and quick. He rests his forehead against yours. You close your eyes and stay there, just breathing until your racing hearts are under control again. He kisses your forehead before standing. You stand as well, mostly to see that your legs still work, everything fuzzy after all that.

He picks up his guitar and goes to the tent entrance. He unlaces it carefully, then looks at you before parting it. His expression is fond, his mouth open with some parting words, but his eyes widen and he swallows whatever gentle words were on his lips. You look over your shoulder, wondering what surprised him, but there is nothing there.

“What is it?” you ask, smiling when he does.

“Ah, uh, you—” He points behind you with the guitar. There is still nothing there. When you lift an eyebrow at him, he giggles. “Um, the light,” he says. “Behind you – it, um.”

Oh. The lantern is shining right through your thin white shift. Perhaps it is not reliable for modesty even when dry, turning almost invisible as it reveals the shape of everything beneath the fabric.

“Well,” you say, brushing the material out. “I suppose it’s nothing you haven’t seen.”

“Yes,” he says, breathlessly. His eyes move down your body and up again. It is such a thorough, thinking regard, that you think he might be changing his mind. Then he swallows, closes his eyes, and bows his head. He departs without another word.

You do not listen if he and Seungmin speak some more. You douse the lantern and climb under your blankets. You thought you had tempered yourself, but that last look was hungrier and more powerful than a kiss. With the image of him so fresh and clear in your mind, and with the tent securely laced shut again, you slide a hand beneath the covers and whisper his name again and again.

You wake in the middle of the night. You do not know what time but it is nowhere near daylight, the world in darkness all around the tent. You went to sleep to some bustling noise in the camp but now it is silent so you believe it hours have passed.

Your eyes adjust to the midnight blue, making out the shape of your table and trunk, the unlit lantern. The only light is outside the tent, the guard posted with a lantern of his own. He is holding it in the air so you can see his silhouette.

Two silhouettes.

It takes a moment for your groggy mind to catch up but it does. You realize there is a hushed argument happening on the other side of the tent. You realize you are also correct about the hour, because it is late enough that there was a guard change. That is not Seungmin’s voice or silhouette outside the tent, but Minho.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Minho whispers, in obvious agitation. “She’s sleeping. Why would I let you into the queen’s tent?”

“I just want to see her.” That voice is unmistakably Jisung. You would recognize his voice anywhere. Your heart wakes faster than your mind.

“In the middle of the night?” Minho asks. “Are you crazy?”

“Yes!” Jisung whispers back, with a high-pitched strain. “I am! Now let me see her!”

“What kind of argument is that?” Minho asks.

“I just—” Jisung sighs. You watch his silhouette, his hands moving through the air as he gestures at nothing. “I’ve been thinking—”

“I get that’s new for you,” Minho says dryly, “But the queen can be alerted to this miracle tomorrow.”

“And I just need to see her,” Jisung finishes. “Because – because I only have half my thoughts when I’m not with her. Like the world is only half full and I’m only—” He jabs his chest, exhales heavily. “Only half whole.”

The lantern lowers slightly, Minho seemingly losing power as his arm lowers.

“Please,” Jisung says. “I’m just going to talk to her. I’ll be fast. She won’t mind. The king will be passed out until noon at least. This is just – I need to see her.”

“I hate you,” Minho says. “If I hear even one disgruntled squeak from her, I’m considering it permission to kill you for being a nuisance.”

“I can’t wait to haunt you forever,” Jisung says, clapping him on the shoulder with a friendly pat.

Minho shrugs him off. The lantern swings away as Minho stalks back to his post. He plunks the light on the ground.

You can no longer see his silhouette but you can hear as the tent unlaces. Each slip of a tie has your heartbeat skipping. You prop yourself up your elbows, watching slivers of moonlight slip into the tent. Eventually the tent is undone enough that Jisung can step inside, then he grumbles and swears to himself as he laces it back up again.

You sit all the way upright but he does not see you. At first, he is preoccupied with the laces. Then, once the tent is secure, he turns around. Your eyes are adjusted to the darkness so you see him perfectly, but his are not adjusted and he evidently has no idea you are awake and upright and staring at him.

He seems to go through a myriad of emotions, his face an entire theatrical spectacle in the span of thirty seconds. Then he curses and turns around and reaches for the laces, having seemingly lost all his nerves, intent on departing again.

“Jisung?” you say.

It makes him jump, shoulders leaping. He slowly turns around to face you. He still does not see you properly, squinting through the dark, but you think your general shape is taking form. He faces the correct angle, at least.

“Um, yes?” he asks.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

“Oh, that,” he says. “Right. Um. You see. I was thinking about everything you said. And everything I said. And did. And we did. And the king said and did. And I was just – I was thinking – what I mean is.” He clasps his hands together and punctuates his words with a pointed gesture. “The. reason. I. am. here.”

He lets his arms fall to his side. You think he can see you because his eyes finally find yours.

He should be a terrifying figure in the dark, all long dark robes with a shiny sword at his hip. You are not scared. His hands are the ones shaking, his eyes wide.

“Yes?” you say softly, encouraging.

He takes a step forward. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword out of habit, no doubt a consolation to his nerves. He looks down at it, seems to contemplate it like it has answers, or maybe just more questions. Eventually, he reaches into his robes and undoes the sword belt. You watch with baited breath as the sword falls into his hand.

He crouches, laying the sword on the ground. On one knee, looking at the sword, then looking at you, he unclasps the top layer of his robes.

“I think,” he says, “I’m here to pray.”

You are quickly out of the covers, crawling down the bedroll towards him. He drops his other knee so he is kneeling upright at the foot of your bed, his robes open to the dark layer underneath, his chest rising and falling as quickly as his heart must be racing.

You get up on your knees too, hands floating between you as you take a second to just look at each other. His mouth is open like he has more to say but he never finds the words. You think they have all been said and they are better encapsulated in a kiss.

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in. His hands find your waist, at first with the chivalrous touch of a guard, the same way he has been holding your waist when he helps you from here to there. Then the kiss deepens and your eyes close. His tongue pushes against yours and his hands are searching, squeezing, feeling the shape of every curve under his palm.

He says your name, not your title. Your shift is messily gathered in his fists. He kisses you softly, just a peck, then another, then those kisses move across your face and down your neck. You sink your fingers into his hair, holding him there as he kisses a long, hot kiss against your throat. You feel it all the way down between your thighs, liquid heat and a pounding need. You scratch at his scalp as his open mouth moves across your skin and he moans.

“Shh,” you say gently, his voice softening against your neck, just a light sound as he licks the place he kissed.

You want to tear the robe off his body but you don’t want to startle him, his hands already shaking where they move over your clothed body. You decide to go first, already more comfortable with it.

You always thought disrobing for a lover would be petrifying, aghast at the thought of ever baring yourself to a husband. Well, perhaps that last part is still true. It is not difficult to share yourself with Jisung. You like the way he looks at you, like he is writing songs of worship in his head.

You lean back and smile at him. He looks flushed and messy, his lips wet. He blinks at you, though his gaze lowers when you gather the hem of your shift and lift. His mouth is hanging open when you toss it to the side.

“It’s not like you haven’t seen me before,” you whisper, laughing lightly.

“That was different,” he says. “I couldn’t really look. I tried not to look. I knew if I did, I’d want to touch you. I tried to pray instead. But I can’t hear the gods when you’re not near me. Now—” His hand moves up your naked side, skimming your curves, his eyes following the trail. He swipes his thumb across your breast and your back arches into him. “Now,” he says again, dipping his head, “I know where I was made to be.”

His mouth closes around the tip of your breast, already pert from stimulation, hardening further between his lips. He sweeps his tongue across your skin, moves to the other side. His hands move everywhere, up and down.

He slowly lays you on your back. He tears off his outer robe and leaves it on the ground, following you down. You will not push him for more, knowing already how much he is giving you, though one day you want to feel every inch of him, skin to skin. It will happen, you decide. One day, you will be in a bed, and there will be time, and you will never be done exploring.

He lets your put your hand under his shirt, scratching down his spine. His arms are bare so you squeeze those too. Your legs part to make room for his hips. You are kissing and you make a sound in each other’s mouths when he lowers his hips against you. You can feel him through the material of his trousers, like you could feel him that other night. Where he ran away that night, this time he lets your hand wander down. When you cup the hard shape of him in your palm, it makes your breath catch in an uneven stutter.

“Jisung,” you whisper, arching against him when he says your name back.

“Yes,” he says, pushing himself upright with shaking arms. He kneels between your open legs. He pushes his hair back and swallows as he looks down. His mouth moves but he doesn’t speak, though he does make a garbled noise while running his hands along the soft skin of your inner thighs.

That skin is very sensitive. You are already arching by the time his hand is on you. You have to cover your mouth. No amount of touching yourself could prepare you for his touch, his fingers rougher and calloused both from his sword and his guitar.

You are so wet for him. He makes a face like he can feel the pleasure of it even though it his fingers rubbing through all that wetness. He finds that place he showed you, as adept with the instrument of your body as he is with any other tool he puts in his hands. Just as he is always determined to make you laugh, he is now determined to give you pleasure. He grips your thigh in one strong hand and deftly moves his other thumb around and around that small centre of pleasure.

You twitch in his grip, still gasping with those short, stunted breaths. You can keep your voice down on your own but it requires more concentration now, swallowing those sounds as that pleasure breaks apart inside you. Your hips lift, chasing his touch, before you drop in shy retreat, oversensitive.

He grips both thighs, squeezing the soft flesh, then runs his fingertips back to their centre, then up, up the curve of your chest, touching your open mouth. You take his fingers in your mouth, nothing like before which was playful then uncertain and demure. You take them like you want to take everything, deep and wet and needy, moving your head, sucking them hard between your lips until he has to cover his own mouth to stop himself from being loud.

He takes his hand back. The other drops from his mouth. You look at each other, hearts racing. His hands are shaking again as he reaches for the ties of his trousers, fumbling more than a little.

You sit up to help. With him kneeling upright, it puts your face at a rather advantageous position. His fingers get even more clumsy until he is no help at all, leaving it to you to unlace.

You look up at him, holding his gaze. This is certainly not the wedding night you were ever prepared to participate in. You were instructed to lay back and wait, then it would happen and be over. That could not be more different than your searching hands, eager to feel him, your eyes on any sliver of skin he shows you.

Once the trousers are unlaced, there is little hiding, the fabric falling open and everything inside lifting up. Truthfully, you are nervous but also emboldened with passionate wanting. You are aware you are about to do something that cannot be reversed in the eyes of the law.

I’m the queen, you think. I make my own law.

You touch him as he lays you back down. When you are on your back, you rest your hands at your sides, your legs open around him, hair spread out underneath you.

He pushes his trousers down his hips. He looks into your face for as long as he can but eventually he needs to look down. He curses to himself as he is a little clumsy again, trying to guide himself to your entrance. He finds it but your body is resistant even though you are so wet. You wince a little but shake your head when he stops, telling him to keep going, please, please, please.

You can only imagine how painful this would have been with the king. Well, that man will never be your first, no matter what he tries in future. It will always be Han Jisung, slowly pushing inside you, his face buried in your neck, murmuring your name as he fills you to utter completion.

You almost cry when he is all the way inside you, not even from the tenderness but just the rightness. You cling to him, sliding a hand down the back of his shirt. He rocks his hips a little, kissing your neck when you whimper.

“It’s okay,” he says, lifting his face to look at you. He kisses your lips, a few short pecks that leave you wanting more. He stares down into your face like he can hardly believe you are real. “I have you,” he says. “I have you.”

He knows how to listen beyond words, hearing every cry and request of your body, even if you cannot articulate it. He is careful until that tender burn lessens, careful for his own sake too, muttering the occasional oath when you squeeze around him. it soon really does sound like praying with how often he calls the gods and you.

You kiss him, moaning into his mouth, probably clawing up his shoulders as he starts to understand how to roll his hips. Those scratches won’t matter because he’s a kingsguard and he will be completely covered tomorrow. Only you will know his back is a canvas of your pleasure, fingers bruising and nails raking desperately as he takes you, deeply, thoroughly.

“I’m – I can’t – inside,” he says between breaths, face scrunched up as he nears his pleasure.

“I know,” you say, but whimper helplessly. “One day.”

That makes him moan deeply, a sharp thrust into you, then he is quickly pulling out. It just takes a single stroke from his hand before he finishes too. It is more than you knew it would be, a white streak that falls across the soft skin of your belly. It takes a second for the sight to register for him, then he squeaks and grabs his robe again.

Cleaning that off the queen is almost certainly not the intended use of the kingsguard robes, but it makes the most sense, as he is more likely to be able to clean it without any questions. Still, he seems to realize just how sacrilegious it is, looking at the black fabric, then at you.

He smiles. It turns to a short laugh, a sound of disbelief.

“We…” he says.

“Yes,” you say, giggling too.

You are not sure if he is more amazed with you or himself. It certainly takes him a moment to stop looking so shocked, even though he was the one who walked in here.

He comes to his senses, at least enough to lay down in your arms for a time.

He can’t sleep here but you hold him for a while and he is happy to let you, his head pillowed on the softness of your breasts, his arms around your middle. He turns his face and kisses your skin, just a chaste kiss, but there is a fire simmering beneath your skin now and you fear it will never be doused.

You sit up together. You kiss his bare arm, right up to where the shoulder of his shirt gets in the way. He looks at you, appreciative, fond, and a little less scared.

“We need to be careful,” he says.

“Of course,” you say.

“I can’t let anything happen to you,” he says, cupping your face. He brings it close to his, your noses touching.

“I know you won’t,” you say. “I’m safe in your hands, bard boy.”

He laughs then steals one final kiss. He doesn’t put the outer robe back on, giving you a chagrined smile while you giggle. You shuffle back into your shift while he stands up and re-ties his trousers. He smooths his hair as best he can. He hooks his swordbelt into place.

He looks somewhat more composed but not entirely untouched. You wonder if you look like that, if the change is all over your face and in the lines of your body. You can certainly feel it inside, both literally with the ache between your thighs, and also emotionally.

He unlaces the tent and looks at you again. He gives you one last departing smile before he steps out.

He has barely laced the tent shut before the lantern re-appears. You catch Minho’s silhouette, his hand swinging down to swat Jisung hard on the backside.

“Ouch!” Jisung jumps.

“That was not talking, you asshole,” Minho hisses.

Jisung, in much better spirits than his friend, simply plants a kiss on the other guard’s cheek and ruffles his hair. Even in silhouette form, Minho is clearly shocked by this. It takes him too long to retaliate, left standing there as Jisung skips away.

Minho shakes his head.

Smiling, you lay down to sleep, safe for tonight. With your growing allies, you are confident will you find a way to remain so.

#han jisung x reader #jisung x reader #han jisung smut #jisung smut #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #stray kids smut #skz smut #han jisung x you #stray kids x you #skz x you

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loki-cees-all · 1 year ago

Note

Hello and hi, my lovely!

I have this scenario for you that I sometimes think about.

How would Loki react if you (the mortal he might have feelings for but he’s not quite certain yet) were the only one to acknowledge his birthday? Maybe you put up a few balloons and even buy him a little cupcake with a candle on it? How would he react?

Happiest of birthdays to you! You’re a joy to know!! I love you!! 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

Cupcake For a God {Avengers!Loki x Avengers!Reader}

Cee's Loki Fic Masterlist / AO3 Link

Pairing : Avengers!Loki x Avengers!Reader

Summary : Loki’s birthday is approaching, and it forces himself to reconcile who he wants to be versus who he actually is, and to reflect on his almost certainly unrequited feelings for you.

But what if the feelings weren’t unrequited?

W/c : 1.9k words

Content/Warnings : Angst, a bit of fluff

Author's Note : I swear I tried so hard to make this not so angsty! Please forgive me, Saz! 😭😭😭

⊱ ── ༓ ── ⋅•⋅⊰ ── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ∙ ⋅ ── ⊱⋅•⋅ ── ༓ ── ⊰

There were a lot of things for Loki to dislike about living on Midgard.

For starters, he was being forced to live there, inside Stark Tower with the other Avengers as penance for his crimes. It was only fitting, they’d told him, that he should assist in their efforts to keep the mortals safe because he was the reason they needed protecting in the first place.

Loki didn’t bother telling them what Thanos had done to him after he fell from the Bifrost; truthfully, he still didn’t quite understand it himself. That entire year was a blur to him - a painful concoction of lies and manipulations and tears and blood that left him unable to tell the difference between fact and fiction, even almost two years after the torture had began.

He didn’t want anyone to know how weak he was, about how much he’d lost himself. If they knew how vulnerable he was, they might decide he wasn’t worth the trouble and send him to the dungeons of Asgard instead.

Another thing he disliked was the forced pleasantries and unnecessary rituals humans had developed with each other, and by extension, him. The humans would smile as they past him by on the street, but it was a falsity every time; the sentiment never reached their eyes, and Loki could smell their fear from several blocks away.

Loki knew they didn’t actually care how his day was going, that their concern only went as far as making sure he wasn’t on the verge of invading with another alien force under his command. He wasn’t, but honestly, if it meant everyone kept their distance, then he wasn’t going to argue with it.

It wasn’t fair to say that Loki preferred being alone, but he was certainly used to it, and that was in direct contradiction of the forced socialization he had to endure on Midgard - press conferences, team building exercises (which Loki believed was just an excuse to consume copious amounts of food and drink), training sessions, something called “movie nights”, and missions across the world to dismantle S.H.I.E.L.D.’s various bunkers and bases.

It was so much talking, and even more listening. So much lying and pretending that everything was fine, that Loki didn’t feel like a caged monster, and that everyone else wasn’t waiting for the littlest thing to completely set him off.

But Loki was trying as hard as he could to ignore the dull ache that haunted his dreams and every waking moment. He knew he had hurt people, he knew he needed to make up for his grievous transgressions, but he didn’t know how else to make up for it all. So he pressed on, through the discomfort and awkwardness, in the hope that one day everything might become a little easier.

The one bright side to all of this, the one shimmering ray of light amidst the sea of gray, was you. Loki didn’t quite know what to make of his attraction to you - was it real, or was it just your absence of fear in his presence? Had it just been too long since he’d felt the touch of another, or were you actually everything he’d ever wanted?

Loki almost didn’t want to find out, in case it wasn’t real. Because your smile reached your eyes every time you looked at him, and your laughter was like sparks blowing across the embers of a dying fire…but he couldn’t shake the fear that it could just be another trick.

Perhaps his mind still hadn’t fully recovered from Thanos’ torture. Maybe Thor had put you up to this, as a way of making assimilation easier for him.

Because why else would you look at him like that? Why would you go out of your way to sit next to him during the team’s movie nights? Why else would you lean towards him on the couch and fall asleep against the shoulder of a villain, of a monster, of a fool?

It was stupid, and pointless, and illogical, and just like him to irrationally want something he couldn’t ever have. He was a God, and you were a mortal, and it would ultimately end in heartache either way. So while he had the chance, Loki forced himself to remain content and to just linger in the question of what if you could want him too.

The final thing about Midgard, and the one he despised the most, was the mortal obsession with birthdays. Loki was grateful the Asgardians never paid any attention to such silly and exhausting traditions - which was surprising, considering how much Asgardians loved frivolity.

So he really shouldn’t have been shocked when Thor discovered, and subsequently fell in love with, the concept of birthdays. His brother immediately requested his mortal companion Jane to perform the necessary calculations to determine the Midgardian equivalent of Thor’s birthdate - and Loki’s as well, which his brother gleefully announced to the entire team and embarrassed him to the deepest pits of his soul.

A massive celebration was planned for Thor, with enough food and drink to sustain a small country, and on the special night, flashing lights and loud music bathed the massive common room of Stark Tower in merriment and laughter. Everyone was invited, and it would have been rude for Loki to not make an appearance - but it wasn’t because he wanted to admire you in your party dress, although that was a very lovely bonus.

But as gorgeous as you looked - the longer the party went on, the sadder Loki became. Everyone was talking, smiling, and dancing, congratulating Thor on his many accomplishments and swapping happy stories of all the good times they’d had together. It was painful to witness, to know for a fact that no such party would be happening for himself when his birthday rolled around.

Loki tried telling himself that he didn’t want it, and that he’d be miserable during it. He tried convincing himself that it would be too loud, and too bawdy, and vain, and that he didn’t need other people’s reassurances that they were happy he was there with them. He told himself he didn’t need it at all, that he was completely fine without it. But it was a lie, so of course it didn’t work.

As the days approached to Loki’s birthday, he became even more withdrawn than usual. With the exceptions of necessary missions or training, he stopped leaving his room. He was silent during travel on the Quinjet, and refused your invitations to further movie nights, even though the disappointment on your face ripped him apart in ways he’d never experienced before.

He felt like he deserved to suffer, to collapse in on himself like a dying star because he knew he’d never be worthy of the love and attention his older brother seemed to collect so effortlessly. It wasn’t Thor’s fault; it was just Loki’s lot in life. And the further he receded, the more likely his heartache would be justified, and he couldn’t be surprised if he was already disappointed.

The evening of his birthday was the worst night he’d experienced in a long time, not since the day he let go of the Bifrost. Loki didn’t even come out of his room for dinner that night, choosing instead to feast on pain, and anguish, and regret, and all the feelings he hadn’t ever had the time to process over his thousand years of existence.

Thor tried several times to lure him out of his room, to no avail. Loki wouldn’t leave - no, he couldn’t leave. He couldn’t bring himself to witness the fact that they’d done nothing special for him, even though he’d be furiously uncomfortable if they did.

As the hours passed, he tried to distract himself with sleep, and then reading, but neither did the trick. Eventually, he curled up on the window seat of his private quarters, wrapped himself in furs and pressed his forehead against the glass, watching the tiny little mortals going about their nights in blissful ignorance of the god suffering fifty floors above them.

And Loki was so lost that he could barely respond to the cautious knock on his door, the one that threatened to pull him away from his misery. But his heart leapt in his throat when he heard your voice calling his name, and he wanted so much to let you in, to feel you next to him.

But the urge to say something cruel, to push you away and continue on alone, was just as strong. Loki didn’t know which to concede to, even as his feet slowly carried him to the door. He didn’t know what he was going to say, even while his fingers raked through his messy curls and rubbed the pain from his eyes.

He felt ridiculous as he hesitated to open the door; he was a God, and once the most fearsome villain this entire planet had ever seen - but here he was, nervous and split open and too raw to simply open a door and look upon a beautiful woman while he was hiding away from his birthday.

There was a soft rustling sound on the other side of the door, and Loki’s forehead rested against the wood as he heard your footsteps quietly retreating down the hallway. He’d waited too long, paralyzed by his self-indulgent indecision, and it had pushed you away.

He thought about yanking the door open and calling after you. He considered begging for you to come back. He desperately wanted to wrap his arms around you and to pull you closer, but all he could manage was to gently pull the door open after he was sure you were gone.

On the floor of the hallway, waiting patiently and comfortably for him, was a beautifully-decorated cupcake and a note resting on a small paper plate. A single candle rose out of the emerald and sapphire swirls of frosting, and the pink paper was folded in half, with his name written in the loveliest cursive on the outside.

Loki fought back tears as he retrieved the gift from the floor, and he cautiously balanced the plate in one hand while holding the note in the other.

Hey Loki,

I know birthdays are hard; they’re hard for me too. But hopefully this treat makes you smile, even just for a second.

I’ll be awake for a little while longer - stop by my room if you need to talk. I promise I won’t find it weird :)

XOXO

P.S. I’m really glad you’re here, even if you’re not ready to accept that yet.

He swallowed hard as he stared at the most generous gift he’d ever received. He didn’t know if you even fully understood what you’d just done for him. He fervently wanted to go after you, and he desperately wanted to continue hiding.

But you’d extended an invitation, one he could feasibly take you up on. No one would argue it wasn’t in his right to do so. And Gods above, he wanted to, more than anything else he’d ever wanted. But would it be worth it, or would it just make everything worse?

Loki tore his damp and heavy eyes away from the note and glanced up and down the hallway. He shut his door, just as quietly as he’d opened it, wondering if it would be a mistake to allow his heart guide him to where he’d rather be.

⊱ ── ༓ ── ⋅•⋅⊰ ── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ∙ ⋅ ── ⊱⋅•⋅ ── ༓ ── ⊰

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queers-gambit · 9 months ago

Text

Damage Done

prompt: The Winter Soldier is activated and Bucky's lover is unlucky enough to be in proximity.

pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!Widow!reader

fandom masterlist: Marvel

word count: 5.4k+

note: oh, wow, Cherry wrote Bucky NOT in a Mafia AU?

warnings: takes place during Civil War, absolutely no plot - author just doesn't know how to shut the fuck up. cursing, violence, established relationship, small angst, injury, blood, hurt and comfort, Winter Soldier antics, choking, abrupt ending, maybe domestic violence? it's the WS.

it's really not that bad, it's not terribly descriptive but still tread carefully if triggered by these topics.

"Keep them together," Agent Everett Ross commanded, a little man with a raging Napoleon Complex, gesturing at you and Bucky; the latter held in mobile, restrictive captivity. "He doesn't play nice if he doesn't see her, or so it's said," his eyes rolled.

"You're making a huge mistake!" You barked, struggling in the restraints they had you wrapped in.

"No, I don't think so," he sneered, approaching you as Bucky's unit kept moving. "I think the mistake was letting you out of anyone's sight. Tell me, how long have you been in cahoots with the Winter Soldier?"

"He's not the Winter Soldier anymore, you jackass, he's a person! A real, live human being! His name's James but he prefers Bucky! He likes plums," you were yanked away, still snarling, "his favorite color is blue, likes motorcycles, he has real guilt over his past transgressions, and you've got the wrong guy!"

"Oh, right, like you're the best judge of character," Ross laughed.

"Natasha! Nat! Fucking tell him!" You pleaded, struggling in the hold of the men who kept iron clad restraint on you and were starting to drag you away. "You've got the wrong guy! Bucky didn't do this! I wouldn't lie - not to you, Natasha! Tell him!"

"That's touching, really sweet," Ross mocked, rolling his eyes as you were finally overpowered and lead away.

"Hang on a second," Nat muttered, sharing a look with Tony. "Was her DNA or facial recognition anywhere at the UN? Anywhere near where the bomb was set off?"

"What's that matter - "

"Since they met, they've not parted ways," Nat spelled out. "He won't go anywhere without her - you, yourself, are keeping them together for interrogation - "

"It's just easier," Ross scoffed.

"No, you know..." She blinked in confusion, "You know, Bucky won't talk unless she's there - you know he'll be ten times as difficult if she's not in the room."

"So?"

"So, in the past two years, have you heard about him without her? Have you seen her without him?"

"Nobody's seen or heard from either of them," Ross shook his head.

"Exactly," she nodded, lungs tightening with nerves. "If you can't find evidence of her being in Vienna... Bucky might not be your guy... Besides, they're both trained to avoid cameras - "

"Mistakes are made," Ross waved off.

"Not by two highly trained assassins like them," she snapped. "Check the files, go back - look! Actually look, run her scans through facial recognition - if you don't find her, it wasn't Bucky."

"You're so sure?" Tony asked skeptically.

"I know her," Natasha nodded, "better than anyone. She's as good as my sister, she's as good as blood. I know her. I know she wouldn't run this risk - "

"Then you also know she wouldn't get caught," Ross laughed.

"Neither would Bucky."

The silence stretched, but Ross was stubborn; sneering at the Avengers and taking his leave with his own plan of action in mind. He left Tony and Natasha to deal with Sam and Steve as he went to observe the interrogation. When he got before the monitors, he watched as it took four different men to restrain you enough to hoist your locks up the wall until they were clicked in place by ultra-strength magnets.

You jostled, feeling the full extent of your containment, grunting when the pipe you were connected to shocked your entire system into submission. Everett Ross smirked at your pain; watching your tongue swipe over your teeth, arms high above your head, readjusting your weight in your feet, but otherwise, not moving.

Ross heard Bucky ask quietly, his eyes watching you carefully from inside the reinforced cell, "You okay, doll?"

"Looks like they learned from last time," you grit, the cuffs around your wrists electrified; charring your skin, making you grimace slightly in a veiled attempt to hide your pain from your lover.

"Don't fight, you'll make it worse," he advised softly, frowning, eyes glassy from restrained emotion.

"They could've at least put me in a bit more comfortable position," you sneered, glaring up at one of the cameras, shaking your head as if in disappointment.

"I don't think they want to play nice, sweetheart."

"Yeah, could've guessed that from when they arrested us," you shook your head, puckering your lips to gather the blood in your mouth; spitting it to the floor. "You good, baby?" You asked as the men who restrained you moved to plug in the power cell caging Bucky.

He nodded silently at you, bowing his head and letting his long locks curtain his face. You frowned, shifting again as you blindly felt your cuffs and designed a way to get free; watching the men stoically as they exited the room to make way for the psychologist. Your jaw clenched, the air smelling foul - alerting you that something wasn't quite right.

"Hello, Mr. Barnes," the accented man greeted casually, standing at a single table in front of Bucky, you off to the side; chains rattling as your defenses flared. The psychologist smirked and greeted you, too, assuring your real identity was known - something that Natasha released to the world about two years ago when HYDRA sent Bucky after Cap in DC. You didn't fault her, in fact, you respected her move, and after getting out of the blown-to-shit base, you had run into the Winter Soldier... Beginning your epic love story, both of you on the run from authorities and higher powers.

You smuggled Bucky out of the country, using fake aliases that had yet to see the light of day and therefor, wasn't released in the files Nat published during her takedown of the compromised S.H.I.E.L.D. agency. He was appreciative, pondering how he was meant to go forward in a world he didn't know; so, you agreed to stick around for a bit to help settle him, and that bit turned into a couple of years - the two of you inseparable.

There was an incident in London that almost exposed you, but instead, it just shined a light on your new partnership. Captain American, Nat, Sam, shit - even Tony Stark himself was unable to catch up; your trail going cold, Nat knowing your Widow training was running the show and keeping you safe. Granted, she probably could've unraveled the web you had weaved - but the truth was, she didn't want to. So, she kept quiet. Leading you all here...

"I've been sent by the United Nations to evaluate you both," the man you'd come to know as Helmut Zemo continued; playing his part very well, but not well enough to convince you of his innocence. Something about the man rubbed you the wrong way. "Do you mind if I sit?" He asked politely, feigning like you two had a choice. When he did, Zemo continued, "Your first name is James?"

He noted the way Bucky and you shared a look, both remaining silent. Zemo tried to assure, "I'm not here to judge you - either of you. I just want to ask you a few questions. Do you know where you are, James?" Continued silence, your head subtly shaking - an act only Bucky clocked. "I can't help you if you don't talk to me, James."

"My name is Bucky," he croaked, your sigh echoing around the room.

"Hm," Zemo nodded, "I take it, she doesn't want you to talk?"

"She wants me safe," Bucky answered stiffly.

"That is admirable," the psychologist offered kindly, "a great display of love, is it not?"

"Jesus Christ," you shook your head, offering a glare, "you went through all that schooling to ask stupid fucking questions? Might wanna get your money back."

Zemo chuckled after humming, "I am merely trying to establish the connection you two share. I hear it is rare to find one without the other, that you two have become, uh, joined at the hip?"

"I protect her," Bucky offered, sharing a long look with you, "and she protects me."

"An equal partnership, would you say?"

"Yes."

"Buck," you warned, wrists twisting to hold the cuffs; being zapped, making your jaw clench and the veins in your neck to bulge.

"It's all right," his voice sounded like it was being put through a grater. "We're caught, doll, it's all right."

You huffed, eyeing Zemo as his eyes flickered between you two. He nodded, making a note in his little book, "I was warned that you would be unwilling to cooperate without her present. Why is that?"

"She keeps me safe."

Zemo hummed, "So you've said, and yet... Here you both are..." You were ready to lash out, but the doctor changed course, "Tell me, Bucky. You've seen a great deal, haven't you?"

"I don't wanna talk about it." Your restraints zapped you again when you jolted forward as if to physically silence Zemo, Bucky's head snapping over and his eyes drooping in sympathy. "Told you not to move, it'll only get worse," he told you softly.

"He's asking questions that will get him killed," you snarled, gritting your teeth as the electric currents seized most of your energy. But it was worth it, finding a little weak spot and letting your mind devise a specific plan.

"You fear," Zemo continued, "that if you open your mouth, the horrors might never stop. I feel it is safe to assume, uh, your lady is privy to your past experiences? Perhaps, you two have shared a couple?"

"Just leave her out of this," Bucky pleaded.

"Don't worry," he assured you both, tapping something on his tablet before looking back at Bucky with a sick recognition. "We only have to talk about one. One mission... That I know you," he nodded at you, "were not present for."

"Kinda game you playin', Doc?" You sneered. "Think anything he says will change my opinion about him?"

"No, no, I know your relationship is too strong for that," Zemo smiled. "So, it's not so much what he will say... But what he will do..."

"The fuck does that - "

But then, the lights went out; darkening the room save for the lights individual to Bucky's holding cell. You perked up, the electric currents halting as the cuffs died with the power and gave you an opportunity to begin working on your escape. As red panic lights flickered, Bucky questioned, "What the hell is this?"

"Why don't we discuss your home?" Zemo offered. "Not Romania. Certainly not Brooklyn, no," he reached into his satchel, revealing a red notebook the world thought long lost... Buried in snow... Forgotten in time. "I mean, your real home," Zemo removed his glasses as you frantically started working.

"No, no, no, no, no, hey, hey, hey, don't - fuck!" You grit, trying harder to free yourself. "Bucky - Bucky, don't listen - ah, Goddamnit!"

The man you now understood to be a fake psychologist stood with a little flashlight, opening the red notebook, and began repeating words in Russian that would activate the decommissioned Winter Soldier. Bucky had told you all about these words, begging you to provide a shield against them should they ever be uttered again; but you had prior knowledge, the Winter Soldier someone you had been debriefed on during your time with other secret agencies.

"Longing."

"No," Bucky whispered, head tilting back in panic as he felt his stomach curl in a familiar pattern.

"Bucky - don't fucking listen, please!" You begged, still working to free yourself.

"Rusted."

"Stop," Bucky pleaded, sounding in pain.

"Don't do this!" You pleaded to Zemo. "You're fucking hurting him, please, stop!"

"Seventeen."

"Stop!" Bucky barked, his vibranium hand clenching in anger and pain; the entire arm whirring from the flex of his muscle. He began to pant, a deep growl emitting above your panicked whimpers.

"Daybreak!"

"You have no idea what you're doing!" You raged, Bucky screaming in pain as his mind was forcibly sunk back into dark recesses of his past. "Don't - Bucky, baby, listen to me - don't fucking listen to him, please, please, baby, don't do this!"

He screamed, breaking free of the iron restraints that kept him seated in the reinforced, mobile cell. "Furnace!" Zemo continued, ignoring the pain and panic you and Bucky were both thrown into.

"Fucking stop, please! You don't understand!" You begged, freeing one hand and working in vain to unlatch the other. Bucky was out of his seat, anger coursing like a palpable rain over you all - him screaming as his metal arm worked to pound into the strengthened glass surrounding him.

"Nine!"

"Bucky, please, baby, please, don't do this!" You tried a new tactic, hoping you were enough to cut through the brainwashing - but how silly to imagine. Decades of trauma was washing over Bucky again and your little words couldn't cut through the barricades of his mind.

"Benign!"

"You stupid fucking little man!"

Zemo rounded around the cell, Bucky still pounding away at the glass. "Homecoming! One!"

"DON'T!"

"Freight car!"

You whimpered in fear when Bucky punched the entire door off the hinges, freeing him at last; but the words were spoken, the damage done. He crouched on the floor, Zemo pausing to take in the sight, slowly approaching Bucky as he stood upright; the jangling of your chains louder and more frantic as you tried to free your last wrist.

"Jesus Christ," you whispered, trying to divide focus between the two tasks of freeing yourself and protecting Bucky - but being terribly unsuccessful as you watched Zemo stand in front of your dead-eyed boyfriend.

What a ridiculous, mundane label to assign someone like Bucky.

In Russian, Zemo questioned, "Soldier?"

And in Russian, the man you loved answered, "Ready to comply."

Zemo demanded in English, "Mission report. December 16, 1991."

You whimpered in fear, listening to Bucky give the report that would haunt you for years to come. Just as he finished, you managed to get out of the cuffs, but the clanging of your freed restraints caught Zemo's attention - who smirked with abundant cruelty. "Don't," you warned, backing out of the room just as officers began to flood it.

It was a brutal fight, trying to stave off Bucky once in his Winter Soldier mindset. You grunted as he engaged you, men dead at your feet - the lucky ones just knocked out. You grit your teeth, trying to defend yourself as Bucky operated mechanically; doing what you could to protect yourself, but it wasn't enough.

Blows landed, punching and kicking one another in an equal match of strength and stamina.

"Seize her," Zemo demanded, and in the next moment, Bucky had you by the neck; an effort that made you wheeze and claw at his bionic hand.

"Bucky," you begged. "Baby - baby - it's me, it's me, please, don't, it's me! Don't do this, baby, please, come back to me. Come back!" You struggled in his grip, trying to pry his hand open, "Baby, please, please, come back to me," spit drooled from your lips as he squeezed tighter. "This isn't you!" You managed to squeeze out, tears surfacing. "Not anymore, don't let them win!"

"Shut her up, Solider," Zemo commanded in Russian, your eyes widening and trying to beg Bucky again before he was sending you into a wall. He marched up to you, grabbing your hair, and surging his balled up metal fist directly into the bridge of your nose, breaking it, head jolting backwards, and effectively knocking you out.

When you came back into consciousness, it was to Steve's worried face; his hands caressing your cheeks and begging, "You all right?"

"Fucking hell," you winced, reaching up to prod the tender spot on your head; revealing blood.

"Got your ass kicked, huh?" He frowned.

"Watch your language, Cap," you smirked, wincing when your face throbbed. "Shit, how bad is it?"

He looked you over, offering, "Definitely a broken nose."

"Goddamnit - where is he? Where's Bucky?"

"Help me," a voice pleaded from the next room, Zemo playing his part by splaying out on the floor like bait.

"Don't trust him, something ain't right about him, Steve," you whispered, waving him on as you sluggishly hoisted yourself up the wall to lean against it. "Kept asking about Siberia, asking about shit nobody should actually know."

"Get yourself safe," Steve told you swiftly, nodding at Sam; who was checking on the status of the other bodies around you.

"Just find him, Steve, he's lost in his own mind - a threat to himself," you panted, slowly standing.

"I know - "

"You don't know," you shook your head, wiping a trickle of blood from your temple, "but you're gonna have to do more than understand him right now, Steve."

"I've got this," he promised, watching you nod and limp away. You had just missed the action, Bucky overpowering both Sam and Steve; getting to a safety landing and running into Natasha, Tony, and Agent Sharon Carter.

"We'll hash our bullshit out later," you panted, "but for now - "

You heard a commotion behind you, flinching out of sight when Bucky made himself known and began taking down rogue agents unlucky enough to stand before the Winter Soldier.

"He have an off switch?" Nat asked.

"Not that I've found," you frowned. "Split up."

Tony tried to engage Bucky first, using a mobile Iron Man device he wore on his wrist that used sonics to disorient Bucky. It only worked to a small extent, the two exchanging a few blows, Bucky firing a bullet at Tony's face at pointblank range that was saved by his technologically advanced glasses. Bucky got the upper hand, sending Tony flying back, letting Sharon and Nat attack.

He disposed of them both easily, stumbling when you caught him off guard and wrapped your legs around him. Normally, you'd do anything to have your legs around him - but this wasn't one of those times. You exchanged several punches, blocking one another, going for disarming hits but being of equal challenge; leaving small cuts and blooming bruises on each other as if to prove the engagement. Natasha rejoined the fight, two Widows showing Bucky up on a few instances, but he was heaving her across the room as you swung onto his shoulders in an impressive acrobatic move.

You heaved your fists down in a repeated fashion on the top of his head, Bucky charging at one of the cafe tables; slamming you down and choking you again with his metal hand. Both your hands held his, legs up around his neck to try to keep him at a distance for relief on your windpipe.

Through a strangled breath, you managed, "You could at least recognize me!"

"Who said I don't?" He growled, reaching out to snap a piece of wood from a chair.

You tried to regain normal breath, wheezing, "This isn't you, baby, you are not this person anymore - you're not a psychotic, robot killer! You're a man - please!"

"You don't know a damn thing about me," he seethed.

"I know everything about you," you strangled, "and I know this isn't you. Come back to me, baby, please! Y-You can't let the demons win, Buck, please - fucking listen to me!" But he only raised the wooden shaft above his head. "BUCKY, DON'T!"

"Who the hell is Bucky?"

You cried out shrilly when he jabbed the sharp wood into your shoulder, staking you to the table just as King T'Challa rushed onto the scene and stole your brainwashed boyfriend's attention. You hissed in pain, trying to yank the wood free but being unsuccessful; resulting in blood to splatter onto the tiled floor.

Hearing someone pant your name, you caught a glimpse of red and knew it was Nat, her face worried over yours a moment later. "Where's Bucky?" You coughed and winced in pain.

"Goin' up by the looks of it," she informed, "now hang on, this is gonna hurt. Want a belt to bite?"

"No, just do it, get it done, please," you panted, bracing yourself, and suddenly, without warning, your companion heaved the piercing shaft free from your flesh. Naturally, you cried out, groaning and clenching your jaw so tight, it nearly crushed your teeth into dust.

"Hey, you seen..." Sam arrived on scene, taking in your injury, "Holy shit, you good?"

"Yeah," you grunted, stumbling to your feet as blood bloomed into a bigger, brighter blemish on your tactical shirt. "We gotta go, Sam, we should get outta here."

"Hang on," Nat paused you two, your opposite hand holding your wound; her hands occupied by a smart device, "looks like Bucky tried to highjack a helicopter. Steve stopped him, but it resulted in them all crashing in the river."

"Shit," Sam breathed. "We gotta go find them."

"We need to get outta here, you know, away from the cops and agents," your head shook. "Get somewhere safe, away from this catastrophe. We'll regroup with Steve."

"Go," Nat permitted, "I won't say a word."

"You're one of a kind, Nat," you praised, pecking her cheek. "Let's go, Sam. And grab that First Aid kit," you pointed to the wall where the white box was mounted. He agreed and you lead the way out of the facility.

Bucky groaned as he woke up, head lulling back before realizing he couldn't move his metal arm; finding it clamped in industrial weights. Sam called you both to attention, but while Steve jogged over, you remained in your place out of sheer distress.

You only vaguely listened to the conversation, hands trembling as your shoulder was bandaged to prevent further injury or infection. You did what you could to patch up any injury, and when you heard your name, you dialed in; Bucky asking, "Where is she? Is she okay?"

"You don't remember?" Sam sneered.

"No..."

"You stabbed her," the Falcon growled.

"What? N-No, I-I-I couldn't've - I wouldn't!"

"You did," Steve confirmed, pity coloring his words. "Punched her out pretty well, choked her, too. Broke her nose..."

"Please - Steve, please, tell me I didn't."

"I'm sorry, Buck."

"That why she's not here? She's in a hospital?"

"Actually, no," Sam trailed, "she's just in the other room."

"She didn't want to come here?"

Steve sighed as Sam informed, "Don't think she wants to see you right now, man."

"I didn't mean to hurt her."

"We know," Steve swiftly promised, nodding his head. "She knows it, too, you just have to give her some time."

Bucky looked utterly defeated, murmuring, "I scared her. Oh, my God, I scared her..."

"Gotta agree with you there."

"Sam," Steve reprimanded. "Look, Buck, she'll come around."

You waited until the two men left Bucky alone to regroup and stratify a new course of action. Slowly and almost sheepishly, you entered where Bucky was being kept, steps silent but he heard you anyways. His blue eyes flashed in concern as he met your gaze, mouth opening and closing as if words failed him.

"Doll," he finally breathed, "a-are you all right?"

"I'm okay."

"Don't bullshit me, how hard did I hit you? Steve said I broke your nose, I-I'm so sorry, doll, please believe me. What'd I do to your shoulder? Is that where I stabbed you?"

"Buck," you sighed, slowly squatting in front of him, "I need you to take a breath and know that I understand you were not in your right state of mind. You were forcibly triggered and sent back into that way of thinking, I know it wasn't you."

"I still hurt you, I still did it."

"Did you, though?" Your head cocked, eyes narrowing slightly, "Because I know my Bucky wouldn't hurt me, would never dare lay a hand on me - but the Winter Solider is a different story. You didn't do this, Buck, you weren't you."

"I can smell the fear on you."

"Well, yeah, it fuckin' scared me. I tried to stop that fake doctor, I tried to help, tried to save you and keep your safe. I'm sorry I was too slow, that I failed."

"You didn't fail anything, sweetheart... I-I failed you, I broke my promise to never hurt you."

"No, you didn't. The Winter Solider did all that, not my Bucky."

He frowned, repeating to ask softly, "Your Bucky?"

"My Bucky - the kind, charismatic, impossibly stubborn, kind hearted man I've loved the past couple of years who always gives me the crispiest fries, who has nightmares, who loves me unconditionally despite what I, too, have done in my past. And you know what I was doing out there while Sam and Steve talked to you?"

"What's that, doll?"

"Understanding that loving someone means loving their flaws, accepting them exactly as they are. So, while, yes, the Winter Solider scares the fuck outta me, he's still part of you and I can't authentically love you if I reject the Soldier."

His head shook "Your kindness is wasted on me."

"I think you should let me decide what's a waste and what's not when it comes to my own energy and emotion."

"I'm just gonna end up hurting you again. You're better off without me, baby, you and I both know you're better off keeping your distance. You should get out now while you still can."

"Not gonna happen. 'Cause you know what else I realized?" You reached up to caress his cheek, "I trust you beyond reasonable doubt, I trust you even if I'm afraid of the Winter Solider. I should've been faster, I should've helped you more, but I was powerless against that red notebook."

"You and I, both..."

You pet the cheek you were holding. "Buck, I know it was scary, I know how it must've felt being forced back into that mindset, but I want you to know that I'm in this for the long haul - you're not gonna scare me off. Because I love you, Bucky, and every single part of you - whether choking me out or not. Whether I earn a broken nose or not."

"I'm so sorry. I-I can't believe I did that, I'm so sorry, I hate that I hurt you. I'm so sorry, baby, I can't - I can't even put it in words how much I regret putting you in that position."

You smirked, "See? The Winter Soldier has no remorse, but my Bucky does." You gingerly reached out to curl his hair behind his ear. "My Bucky apologizes and takes accountability. There's no reason to not love that man - especially when he deserves it so much. Hey? Hear me? You deserve to be loved, too, Buck."

"And you deserve a man who doesn't run the risk of being turned into a psycho killing machine over a few measly words."

"I deserve to love my best friend, so let me do that. Say whatever you want, try to push me away - but I'm like a boomerang, baby, I'll just come right back."

"What kinda man puts his best girl in that kinda position? Who hurts the most important person in his life?"

"A man who endured decades of abuse," you laid your hands on either of his thighs, "a man who wasn't allowed control of his own mind. I can't - no, no, I won't fault you for that, Buck. Today wasn't your fault and I'll remind you of that as often as it takes. Don't you dare feel guilty because you didn't do this to me, okay? You didn't put me in any position - that fake fucking doctor did this, Agent Ross did this, special ops put us here. You, my sweet boy, didn't do anything to be at fault. You were trapped, but look at you now - freed, level headed, talking to me."

His eyes gleamed with a sheen of emotion, staring at the bloodied bandage wrapping your shoulder wound before his eyes danced over the bruising and other aftermath of your injuries. "I could've killed you," he muttered, tears filling his eyes.

"But you didn't - and surprisingly, neither did the Winter Soldier. Maybe there was a part of you still alive, wanting to refuse orders and not actually hurt me."

"Perhaps," he frowned. "I'm still so sorry, doll, I hate that I did this to you. It never should've happened."

Your head nodded, "I know, baby, and listen - I forgive you. Yeah? Hear me? I forgive you, this is in the past."

"Are you sure about me? You sure you wanna do this? Knowing I could flip a switch and hurt you - maybe even worse than today?"

"I'm sure about you, Buck," you agreed. "I don't wanna be without you, so, sign me up for whatever's to come."

"You might regret that."

"The only thing I could ever regret is abandoning you. I don't want to do this without you - I love our life together. In any world, in any lifetime, I'd still choose you. There's nothing that would make me regret you - regret being with you."

"You sure? I don't want to make you do anything out of your comfort."

"I love you, Bucky, yes, I'm sure. No matter what damage you think you might've caused, whatever damage has been done, I promise, that's not the truth. There's nothing about you that I could regret."

"Well, all that's left now is to get to Siberia, stop the other Winter Soldiers."

"And figure out a way to free your mind once and for all... It's what you deserve," you told him softly, rocking to your knees to meet his forehead with yours and caressing his cheek again. When you heard approaching footsteps, you sighed and pulled away from him to stand and turn, spying Sam and Steve. "C'mon, Cap, get him outta this. He's not gonna attack anyone," you requested, gesturing where your boyfriend was trapped.

"You sure?" Sam asked stiffly. "He did a real number on you alone. Not to mention all the other agents and cops he took out back there."

"He's good," you snapped, perking your brows at Steve, "and you two would do well not to throw what happened in his face, it wasn't his fault. So c'mon, free him, he's not a wild animal."

Steve agreed and lifted the machinery from Bucky's prosthetic, him instantly snatching it back and massaging where the joint met metal. Bucky stood with a set stare at Sam and Steve, as if anticipating them to lunge at him. His throat constricted, swelled with emotion when you stepped in front of him - posing barrier between the two Avengers and himself.

"You still got that phone on you?" Steve asked you softly.

"I do."

"Is it still unregistered?"

"You know it is. Who're we calling?"

"Reinforcements. We're gonna need help now that the Avengers will be looking for us. We gotta get to Siberia."

"Here," you agreed, unlocking the device and handing it over. "Who's first on your list?"

"Any Avenger who didn't sign the Sokovia Accords."

When he walked away with Sam again, you turned to face your lover directly; staring into swirling storms of baby blues. "You still with me?" You asked softly, reaching up to caress his hair again to push it behind his ear.

"Always. Got my six?"

"You know I do, baby," you smirked, stepping into his chest and wrapping your arms around his waist. "We'll figure this out, together."

"Together," he agreed, sighing deeply and returning your embrace tightly. His flesh hand rose to hold the back of your head, bringing his lips down to lay a chaste kiss on the top of your head. His voice rattled quietly, "Thank you..."

"Hmm? For what, handsome?"

"Believing in me. It's nice to think we can end this torment."

You smiled up at him, "You deserve freedom, Bucky, and to live without this haunting fear."

"I don't know about 'deserving' it, sweetheart. Done a lot of things that would argue against that."

"Maybe against the Winter Soldier, but Bucky deserves the world. Deserves kindness, accommodation, love and understanding. Now," you smirked and sniffled, giving his waist another squeeze before releasing and pulling back, "get your head outta this pit and focus, we've got a long day ahead of us."

He agreed, letting you take his hand and lace fleshy fingers together in a tether. Sam's face remained stoic and passive, but when Steve saw you two, he couldn't help but smile. Two years he hunted for Bucky and just today, he's learned his best friend's been shacked up with you - a warmth blooming in his chest over the idea of you two finding one another and loving each other.

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jjungkooksthighs · 8 months ago

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Claws of Carnality | jjk (m) (16)

Pairing: alpha jungkook x omega reader

Genre: (fluff, angst, and smut) abo/werewolf, fantasy

Rating: 18+/nsfw

Word Count: 14.3k (We really said it's been almost a year so we're going to write thirty plus pages)

Summary:

At the bathhouse, you discover your alpha is much worse is off than you originally anticipated. You tend to him, but some scars never fade.

Warnings: MAJOR CHARACTER INJURY, LOTS OF BLOOD MENTIONS, GORE, MENTIONS OF BROKEN BONES, MENTIONS OF LOSS OF BODY PARTS, dom!jungkook, alpha!jungkook, sub!reader, omega!reader, cursing, praising, possessive!jungkook, teasing, marking, manhandling

Author's Note:

It's been awhile since I updated. Honestly, the grown-up life is rough. That's all I really have to say to answer for the extended hiatus with this story and my other one. Mental health has been going up and down periodically and it really was so hard to write through it all. I spent about two weeks going back and forth with the chapter. I wondered if it would ever make it to a post several times because things kept getting deleted. I finally decided to just sit down and write and not stop. This is the final result. Thirty-one pages. I hope you enjoy. I'm sorry that this isn't the long-awaited mating chapter that I know you guys all really want to see, but it is important to me that the characters are nuanced and that their connection is not one built purely on the basis of desire. Sure, that is part of it, but there's much more to it. So much more depth and meaning when we build relationships with people. Especially romantic ones. Enjoy!

To read more, click here for the masterlist.

“O-over there, alpha,” you quietly suggest, “It would be easier for me to-“ you flounder in flusterment when the strong arm circled around your front curls possessively around you- “I-It would be easier for m-me to tend to you if you sat down on the bench.”

The male makes a deep, rumbling sound as he draws in another heavy breath of your intoxicating pheromones, “As you wish. But it will cost you for being so irresistible.”

The sound goes straight to your cunt, and you have to bite into your cheek to keep from making the sound of need that your wolf begs you to release. You shift where you stand, hoping that the quaint press of your thighs together will somehow trap the slick from where it is secreted from your sex.

“What…what is the price I must pay for my transgression?” You ask, hoping that balms, ointments, and medicinal solutions splayed on the tray you hold in your hands don’t fall from how much your heart pounds in your chest.

It’s hard enough as it is not to look down, for he is completely, utterly, and mouth-wateringly naked.

“Two things,” his uninjured arm tightens even more around your front, his hand bunching itself in your skirt as he groans at the fresh scent of desire that drifts from you. “The first is you will not leave my sight. I want you as near to me as you can be.” He noses at the side of your throat, your lashes fluttering in the warm sensation of his breath as he utters, “It was a second hell to leave you after that duel and be without you, but I wanted to respect the tradition–and your decision– had you chosen to prepare yourself for me.”

His words have affection swirling in your chest.

This male really was something special. Even after battling three other wolves and being severely injured on your behalf, he still put your needs before his own.

And really, how could you deny him his request when that was all that you wanted, deep down? To just be by his side. Forever his loyal, loving, doting mate.

“You needn’t ask me that, alpha, for it was already in my mind.” You faintly confess.

He likes that answer.

You know based on the way he presses his mouth to the oily gland along your throat. It is gentle and soft, and it is so different from what you’d seen on the glen not too long ago during his duel.

So much violence and so much pain he was capable of bringing, but with you, he would never harm a hair on your head. So great was his love for you that he would protect you from that even if it meant taking those scars onto his body.

He’d given his oath to you that he would do exactly that, and gods, he had kept to it.

It is why you let him maneuver you forward away from the watery basin you’d found him in and toward the long ebony wood bench that almost stretches from one end of the chamber to the other. A tall pillar of white wax holds a flickering wick that is set in brass lanterns hanging from the ceiling on each side of the bench, and in front of its legs are caged candles guarded by glass that have high, bright flames.

“How agreeable you are being. If you can so easily agree to that, then the second of my terms is this.” He turns you both before the front of your knee can make contact with the wood, the arm he has encircled around your waist spinning you so that you face him.

His hand never leaves your side, his fingers remaining entrenched in the sea of your skirts. Somehow, none of the vials fall from the tray you clutch onto.

Golden irises that burn with more intensity than the fire beside him have you utterly struck by their luminousness as he demands, “You will promise me that if this,” he jerks his chin toward his mangled form, “is too much for you, you will tell me. I said before that I only wanted you to tend to me, and I meant it. But if you are uncomfortable, you must say so.”

Again, he was putting you first. Despite the fact that he was hurting, he was still choosing your comfort over his own.

Just how much more could your heart swell for this male?

You shake your head, finding your voice full of doubtlessness and confidence that surge into you as you say, “I want to do this, alpha. I spent years studying the art of medicine and herbal treatments so that I could one day use it to help others.” You rise on your tiptoes to osculate your lips against his. “I would be lying if I told you I hadn’t secretly wanted to learn it mostly for situations like this.”

He smirks against you, his mouth lingering near yours as he teasingly prods, “Situations like this? Are you saying that you thought about getting me shirtless and all alone so you could touch me under the guise of that excuse?”

Heat races to your cheeks and that confidence you’d had before vanishes with it. Soon, you’re blushing as you blurt, “No! I mean, yes! I mean….alpha!”

Years ago, you had never entertained the idea that this male before you would ever become yours. That you would ever be able to have a moment like this with him. He had been a constant thought in your mind from the moment you’d first laid eyes on him when you’d been but children, and as you both grew older, his presence in your mind and thoughts had only grown stronger.

But apart from your dreams and musings, he’d been so far for you to reach with all the duties and responsibilities that had been thrust on you from such a young age. So many other omegas had vied for his attentions, and with all of them clamoring for one look in their direction whenever he had returned to the compound from his exploits deep in the forest or in the forge where he had been stationed, you had never been able to get close enough with a constant herd of wolves –female and male alike– around him.

His rank had drawn many to him, each of them hoping that the next in line to be the ruler of the pack would select them to be part of his inner circle. Any selected by him would instantly rise in rank upon his ascendance to becoming Pack Alpha, and so naturally he had had to be guarded in his interactions and limited in his contact with others beyond his work in the forge as the pack’s only blacksmith beside his father.

Rumors had spread fast in his unannounced absences that he would take with his father for increasing increments of time the older he became, because when he returned to work at the forge, there were bags under his eyes that had become more mature, had become hardened with the calluses on his hands as he worked them day after day.

Sometimes he would return with a new wound on his body that he tried to hide under the various furs he draped over his body. You knew because of the chitter of the omegas that would inevitably gossip about in front of the fire in the omegean den on your way back to your chambers after a long night in the archives that you went to after you left the schoolhouse for the day.

Those were the nights that you found your paws bearing down on the grassy ground as you ran through the hills deep in the woodland in your journey toward your favorite creek that was tucked away behind a wall of vines, deep into the forest, that no one but you knew about.

Or so you had thought.

He’d been there, too. From a distance, of course. From the moment you stepped out of your chambers, he’d been able to smell you. The wind had a cunning way of carrying that to him no matter where he was, and he was helpless to the wolf in him he had been learning to control that bayed and bayed until he listened and tracked that captivating scent that made everything else in the world fade away.

You wonder, as he urges you between his legs that he opens for you in invitation to stand between, just how much he had to sacrifice to be sitting before you now.

Your alpha observes your expressions change from embarrassment to concentrated concern, and he tugs on the invisible cord tying you both together that is the bond you now share. You let him in without hesitation, your thoughts becoming known to him as he draws on the connection.

He can hear your thoughts, can feel your emotions, can see your memories if he taps into it. In the developing stage of the bond, you wish you knew how to show him all of your dreams of him, all of your memories of him, and all your thoughts that you’ve ever had of him.

There’s something that you want him to see, but gods, your voice just won’t work the way you want it to under the emotion that cracks and breaks it. So, you let him see a memory you’d kept buried deep in the trenches of your mind for many, many moons. One that no one but he would ever carry.

It had been a rainy, stormy night. So heavy was the rain that it pelted your skin even through the thick coat of your white fur as you’d torn through the earth with paws too eager to rush you away from the center of your stresses and away to the woodland where it all melted away with the streaks of color that passed by you in your inhuman speed as you ran, ran, and then ran some more.

Thunder had rumbled through the sky on this particular night so loud that even your eardrums rang after the deafening strikes of sound that cut through the sky as lightning flashed before your eyes from under the canopy of trees.

The forest was vast, but that night, it had seemed all too small for you.

You hadn’t stopped until your lungs screamed for air, your haunches burning from how hard you’d pushed them, the bolt of white light in the sky similar to the color of the flame that had burned in the stone fireplace set in the middle of the wall on one end of your chambers while you’d carefully, attentively read the letter left to you on your windowsill.

Such a beautiful poem about a boy who had come to love the girl he admired from afar. And so meticulous had each letter been etched onto the parchment. You knew whoever had written it had taken much time to compose it with each swirl and curve of each syllable.

You had left it on your bed while you had gone to find another book to hide yet another letter from your secret admirer with no name, but had not noticed the shadow that had swept under your door to reveal your father, who had taken one look at the letter on your duvet before anger had turned him cruel at the prospect of his perfect little girl being corrupted by some hormonal male.

He'd cast the parchment into the fire despite your ardent pleas not to, the tears falling quickly when he’d let that fury burn you with pokers of curses and chastisements for your lack of purity.

He had always been adamant that you were to study the ways of the pack and devote yourself to teach its art to the youth. Those letters, to him, were nothing but distractions. Distractions that made you no better than the common whore in the fantasies they would ineluctably fill your head with.

Or so he had said.

That was why you had found yourself bounding through the forest that night with tears in your eyes not even the rain could wash away. But that night, fate had had other ideas.

You’d intended to go to the cave by the creek. You had never made it inside.

You’d stopped behind one of the oak trees on the edge of the forest floor before the soil turned to rock by the stream, the wide-mouthed cave beyond occupied by two figures.

Just by the smell of them, you knew they were of the same blood. One was older with their more muted, aged smell and one was younger.

You knew the scent of the younger one. That scent of blooming gardenia, pear and black vanilla. The same one that lingered on the letters left to you on your windowsill.

Each time the lightning pierced the black sky, their figures flashed. And each time, the two were locked in combat. Each held only a small iron dagger, their fighting leathers more than enough protection for them both lest either were struck by the other.

Unable to look away, you found yourself moving closer until you hid safely behind a thick, bountiful bush and could discern voices. Their voices. Only bits and pieces could be made out through the rainstorm, but it was enough.

“…too slow, son….can’t keep putting your arm up like that…too open and easy for me to…”

The next split of white light through the black sky illuminated them both, and the slightly shorter male with hair the color of ebony had a knife at his throat. It was held there by his father, who shook his head in disapproval as he gripped the younger male’s forearm in a vice-like hold.

“…cannot protect her if you cannot protect yourself. You are not ready.” The older male had decided. “Until you are, you will not see her. Even from afar.”

Another lightning bolt ruptures the clouds covering the moon, and a younger Jungkook had let his dogma guide his blade as he had voiced:

“Eventually I will be. And when I am, she’ll be mine. Not even her father will stand in my way.”

The next time the streak of lightning found its way through the atmosphere, the older male had been twisted around, his arm held behind his back while the younger alpha had pressed his blade to his father’s throat.

A self-satisfied grin with pointed canines protruding from under his upper lip had made your beating muscle in your chest stutter as he had released his father from the binding hold he’d had on him.

You could have sworn he looked right at you from behind the mess of leaves and brambles.

When the white fulmination cleaved through the clouds once more, your heart stopped when his father had quickly captured his son’s wrist to the hand that held the dagger by his neck only to bend forward and rotate forward, effectively flipping Jungkook onto his back. Jungkook, who had been unprepared for such a technique, had been brought to the craggy ground with a grunt, his other hand shooting out to grab for something, anything, to find purchase in as his knife fell from his fingers. Jungkook was fast, but his father had simply been faster.

The older male had easily used the momentum of move to step around and over Jungkook’s now prone form. Jungkook, who had been propped up on one elbow with a sharp looking rock held in his now bleeding hand from the blade of the dagger that had cut into his palm in the fall. It laid too far for him to reach, the essence of his defeat staining it.

White electricity strikes yet again, the deep rumble of thunder loud under the pounding of blood in your ears.

“Distracted. She occupies your mind even now. That…is dangerous, son.” The older male with gray streaking the black hairs stuck over his eyes had said. “Too dangerous for you to be allowed near her until….oncoming rut is over...”

That was the last thing you heard before there had been a flare of heat on your right, the rift of lightning arcing along the old oak’s stump beside you as the clouds clashed and loud sound pierced the earth.

You hadn’t even flinched. That didn’t matter. The only thing that did was the alpha on the ground who’s scent clung to the parchments that made you blush, smile, and kick your feet while you coveted them close to your chest as you wished to the gods that whatever force was keeping him from your side would release him.

The fascination that had turned every letter of his had tilled the very hard edge with which he spoke as he growled, “No. I cannot go through that again. You cannot make me.”

“Won’t I?” His father flipped the dagger in hand. “You’re on the ground right now because you cannot keep your mind off her. What is to stop you from venturing into her chambers tonight when you inevitably begin thinking of how good she smells? Of how pretty she looks when-“

Jungkook had pushed up on his hand, the other holding the rock slicing the air close to his father’s thigh. Each side of the older male’s mouth pulled downward, the metal of his dagger gleaming as sparks had flown upon impact of the pointed edge of the rock hitting the blade with such force.

“Don’t.” Jungkook’s jaw tensed. “Do not dare to say the things I mutter in my sleep when you have me chained to the fucking trees.”

His father had shrugged. “Then become stronger for her. Until you can, you’ll stay here, deep in the woods. Far away from her.”

The cords in the younger alpha’s neck went rigid as he scowled. “I will find my way to her. One way or another.”

With that, he’d pulled his knees toward his chest before punting his father in the chest with his feet. Such energy he’d used to push himself back from the older male as he’d used the force of the action to drive his feet over his head in a backward roll, his bleeding hand reaching around the hilt of the curved dagger on the ground. When he’d gotten to his feet once more, he had bared his teeth with determination set into those expressive features of his.

His father had nodded in approval, “That’s the spirit, son. Never accept defeat. That’s how you win.”

The clash of metal had soon become drowned out by the outpour of rain, but not even the water could snuff out the iotas of light that came at each powerful strike of their blades against each other.

Hours must have passed, but you swore it felt like it had only been minutes as your eyes followed the younger male everywhere he went, his wild dark locks sticking to his forehead and sides of his face as he moved with purpose and confidence.

There was an art to his movements as he continuously, mercilessly brought down his blade on his father’s. Time and time again.

Whether he held a quill or a blade in his hand, he was filled with purpose. Purpose that was entirely carved by you.

It had taken his father being backed into the stream for you to realize that you were too close. And that the air had become too thick to push air through your lungs as the organs in your chest contracted too deeply?

Why had it suddenly become so difficult to breathe?

Jungkook wades into the stream up to his calves, not willing to let up on his father despite the water urging him with its flow against him.

The closer he got, the more labored your breaths became.

You needed to shift. You needed to shed your heavy furs that had been drenched by the rain.

But to do that, you had to leave him.

So, you did. Quietly, you slipped into the night, careful not to make any sound lest you drew any attention to yourself. You hadn’t known you’d been holding your breath until you found your way back to your chambers, your footfalls light as your furs had begun to fall away from you. After you’d collected the rainwater you’d left in a barrel outside your window in several smaller bowls and emptied them into the cauldron hung over the metal hook above your fireplace to heat what would be your bathwater, your hands had sought the comfort of the thickest bound book that you kept on your bookshelf.

You had been too hasty to get to the dog-eared page you’d marked in the book, accidentally tearing the page before finding what you’d come to your book for. Inside it was tucked your favorite letter left to you on your windowsill. One that you found yourself rereading night after night.

It read:

The moon pales in comparison to the light that twinkles in your eyes,

The stars tremble in awe of your brilliance,

The night must blanket them and still, you offer more warmth,

Warmth that not even the sun can make as pleasant,

Warmth that the clouds could not even shade,

Warmth that no rain could fall with,

The flowers around us bloom, but none blossom with the beauty and grace of you,

The seedlings take root, but gods, none do so like the one you’ve planted in me,

The water they draw into themselves is life-giving, but yours is so much nourishing,

Still I sit here, hoping that you will allow me to bask in your radiance,

Still I sit here, promising that I will grow stronger in body, soul, and mind to be at your side,

Still I sit here, thinking of you when I cannot see, hear, or touch you as I do in my dreams.

Wait for me, my beautiful flower who only becomes more alluring under each moon.

Wait for me, and I will be your loving attendant,

Wait for me, and I will be yours.

You are forbidden to me now, but soon, you will not be. Soon, I will make you mine.

You will never have to look longingly at the wolves who hold and dote on each other while your only partner is the books you keep in your library. I will be everything you want me to be if that is what pleases you.

You will always have a shoulder to lean on, an ear that will listen, a hand that will caress you.

You will always have me.

You will never have to spend your nights crying into your pillow alone because of your father. I will be there to hold you close. I will be the fists that pummel him to the ground for daring to hurt you. Or anyone else that meddles your happiness.

All I can do for you now is watch over you from afar. Guard and protect you from the males I know you do not desire. From the females that have become venomous in jealousy of your unmatched intelligence, spirit, and beauty. From the threats that loom deep in the forest.

I hope you can forgive me for keeping my name and a face a secret from you. I suspect by now you have figured out who I am. And if you have, you will then understand why I commune with you this way.

The elders, nor your father, would allow it since you have not yet presented. Besides…it looks like I have some developments myself that I need to make. You have so consumed my mind and body that I can no longer make sense of certain things.

You are everywhere and yet, you elude me. It is the most tragic of ironies.

Until we meet again, my fair flower. I will see you long before you see me, but you can always find me in our dreams.

Always.

-Your Alpha

The air here had been clammy, too, so when you had let your thumb brush at the corner, the oils from it smudged the ink. Panic stole your breath and you not wanting to blemish the beautiful lettering, you’d slipped the parchment under your pillow and gone to the window to open it in hopes of letting some crisp, fresh air in.

Even here, you could still hear the clang of metal from the forest under lightly falling raindrops. You had let your body move on its own when you’d leaned out from the ledge of your windowsill that was only a few feet from the ground, the baser part of you subconsciously trying to be near to him despite the space between you.

That muggy draft that had clung to your ribs still did not dispel as the cold drops trickled down your body, the tears of the sky slow in their consolation as they dribbled along your arm as you lifted it up and stuck it out of the window.

It still wasn’t enough.

You needed to be able to breathe. And thankfully, you knew just what to do from all the books you read.

Hot water could provide relief to respiratory issues.

Your eyes landed on the largest of the wooden bowls you’d used to collect water from the barrel of rainwater outside, each of your hands holding it as you’d dipped it into the cauldron over boiling water, careful not to let it burn your fingers as you brought it to the tub, the sloshing of it causing you to stare down at it to see your reflection.

Your mouth was ajar with partially sharpened teeth that had not fully shifted back yet, your face flushed with redness and your eyes… your dilated pupils, now the color of the sun where they were usually silver like the moon, glowed back at you.

You blinked rapidly, surprise lighting up your face as you gaped.

Your wolf had been scratching at your psyche to do something about the irremovable weight that felt like it was pushing against your organs.

Another bout of thunder rolled through the sky from outside the semi-circular opening in the wall along the far end of the small, square room. The accompanying flash of lightning brought with it the deadly gleam of daggers behind your eyes, the image of Jungkook’s blood staining it in your mind’s eye as the suffocating pressure in your chest worsened.

You’d had to sit on the edge of the tub, unable to get air between your lips and before you could think, you raised the steaming bowl over your head and let it pour over you.

Its cascade down your flesh had immediately silenced your wolf, who preened at the hot sensation of the liquid all over your flesh. Everywhere the water touched, it washed away the uncomfortable weight that had smothered you so.

When you looked into the mirror across the room, the gold in your irises had been swept away with the last drop of water to leave only silver.

Your surprise had been doused until its remnants became distress as you looked up at the moon, your hands coming together before your bosom as you bowed your head in deference to ask, “Please, gods, do not let him suffer for me. Wherever he is, please, protect him from harm. Keep him safe.”

You’d gone to bed that night without bothering to dry off, the lightest of layers heavy on your skin as hushed prayers and pleas for his safety left your lips while you held the letter he’d left you against your thudding heart.

Words have a way of failing you when he’s around, but that? It was so much easier. So much better when you couldn’t find language sufficient to let him know what you wanted to say.

He seems to understand, because then he’s releasing your skirts and grabbing the wooden tray of salves, gauze, and other medicinal solutions with his uninjured hand and, lost in his eyes, you don’t even realize he’s put it beside him until his voice finds you through it all.

You need not worry for me, my love. I have everything I need right here. I may have had to grow up faster than everyone else around us, but I would do it all over again if it meant that you would be mine.

You only notice your hands are empty when you go to brush your forehead against his, your unoccupied hands lifting to cradle each side of his face as your eyes burn with the tears that threaten to fall.

“You are too good to me, alpha. I promise you that you will never have to be alone again. Not now, and not ever.” You pledge as you kneel between his legs, reaching for the thick roll of white translucent fabric with a loose, open weave. You take it between both hands, your mouth setting in a thin line as you rip it so that you have two moderately sized pieces while your alpha takes in the image of you on your knees before him.

“Nor do you, my love. I am officially yours now, just as you are entirely mine. No one can deny us from each other anymore.” He professes, lifting his unharmed arm so he can sweep your hair out of your face while you work.

It was no small thing to allow an omega to do this. The action was something of a rite that went back to the earliest of their ancestors. When an alpha was harmed in battle or in the hunt for prey, the omega that he let dress his wounds, by doing so, accepted the bond between them. To allow an omega to see an alpha at their most vulnerable…it was a very special, intimate moment.

And you knew of that. He knows because the thought surfaces in your mind the moment you daub the dry fabric against the top of each pectoral where four dark and furiously red lines curve diagonally downward and end on each side of his pelvis. Blood beads the incisions that Yoongi’s serrated claws had left, and the tears that had threatened to fall before fight against the entrapment of your eyelids as you try to blink them away.

“It hurts, doesn’t it, alpha?” You ask with the guilt weighing at your words as you uncork one of the small ovular vials containing a yellow liquid, the woody-sweet scent pungent in your nostrils as you use the oil left by crushed eucalyptus to clean your hands before you pour it onto the strips of fabric you’d just torn and after, you push the cork into the vial and set it down before you.

You let guilt drag each of your hands containing the gauze downward very lightly as you follow the large virgules of red. Where you normally would admire the strong, defined contours of his chest, now, the sight of it has woe whispering in your ear.

His skin is hot to the touch. As if fire burns under his flesh. So fuming and inflamed in the redness that surrounds the gaping, curling lacerations. Both sides of his sternum have been raked– no, ripped–through by sharp claws. Yoongi had cut into your mate’s skin eight blood red half-moons; four on either side of his chest that were turned away from each other, their ends incurving from the base of his neck all the way down his torso and even along his hip bones. Layers of crimson ooze and leak down his body like water, and the sight has something in your bosom tightening in on itself as your vision becomes cloudy.

Somewhere down between the middle of his pectorals, the cloths become too saturated and heavy with blood to soak up any more.

Perhaps the tangibility of his suffering is what finally has the tears falling down your cheeks, the burning in your eyes unavoidable no matter how many times you try to blink it away.

Despite that it feels as if fire sears him everywhere Yoongi’s claws had been, there is worse pain to be felt. Like the gut-wrenching punch that is delivered to his belly when he sees the first of your tears slide down your face.

With the hand he has on your chin, he tilts your chin up as he answers honestly, “Nothing harms me more than watching the light of my life weep for me.”

“I…I can’t help it, alpha.” You respond dolefully, your own stomach dropping to the bowels of your body at the high volume of blood he’s losing so quickly. He’d already turned the entire tub of water he’d been in red, and still he bled. If this kept on…

You don’t let that thought continue. You can’t.

You drop the sopping cloths into an empty glass container you’d put next to the roll of gauze only to take the roll between your hands once again. This time, you do not stop unraveling it until you have much thicker stretches of cloth folded into squares. You do not forget to grab the vial of yellow fluid once more, the viscous oil slow to make its journey to the cloths. You lightly press them against the spots you had had the other ones placed against. The second you put them to his mutilated flesh, they slowly turn crimson. The more they are stained with his lifeblood, the more you are soused with leaden compunction.

It burns, yes, but your sadness smolders him more.

“You are blaming yourself for this.”

It is not a question. It’s a statement.

You draggle each of the gauzes down along the underside of his pectorals, letting them rest there as you watch them turn completely red with his blood.

Momentarily, you wonder if the silvers he’d put on you before would be able to numb the contrition that pulls your spirits away from you.

Your mate will not have any of that.

He runs the pad of his thumb along your chin as he coaxes, “Peer into my eyes, Y/N.”

Unquestioningly, you do. He’s more than earned your obedience. What you see in the depths of those orbs is unending and bottomless in the plunge to the part of him that he would never show anyone else. The part of him that he had kept buried and sunken in wait for the right creature to unearth it. So many masks he had had to wear when so many had ulterior motives and designs around him, but this creature before him? He would break them all to pieces so she could see him for what he really was.

Once, he had asked his father how he would really know if anyone wanted him for him and not his power or his rank. His father had simply laughed and told him: You won’t. All you can do is watch and wait to see someone’s true colors when they think no one else is watching.

This creature before him who cried in the face of his pain and suffering did so out of pure, genuine sorrow. He could feel it sinking your spirits, your very thoughts through the bond. He could see it deep in the valley of your eyes that are, even in the guilt that tries to make them cloudy, drizzling with love for him.

There was no doubt in his mind that you were true and that you were absolutely, unequivocally his. That is why he allows the walls of his reservedness to crumble as he confides:

“Hear my words, my love. This is a result of my own weakness. I teased you before about you wanting to do this. But know that you are only in this situation because I wasn’t strong enough to do what I needed to do.” He doesn’t let go of your chin. With his other hand, he places it between your breasts. The action has him sucking his lip between his teeth as excruciating pain shoots through his upper bicep where the flesh has been torn from limb. A river of red gushes from the open wound, but it matters little to him when pangs of your heart are slower even than his as if it, too, was sulking itself in blame. Despite the way his split blood vessels cry more tears of blood in the movement, he goes on with a grimace, “I know what you’re thinking, my sweet, beautiful girl. You are not to blame for this. Do not pity me. Do not feel guilty for me. If anything, I should be the one pitying you for having to tend to me for such serious injuries.” He leans forward, his lips meeting the flesh between your brows, “I’m sorry you had to see that. And I’m sorry I didn’t come back to you with only a scratch. But I meant every word of what I said when I made that oath to you that I would protect you with my body. My body can be mended. My soul, if it lost you, could not.”

The male before you shouldn’t even be able to move in his condition.

And yet, he does.

For you.

Your own emotions crack and fracture under the seriousness of his words and unhesitant ministrations. Each is packed with the mass of his candor and you can’t stop yourself from pouring your heart out to him.

“You ask me to simply accept this…this agony that you must be feeling, alpha, and I,” you cry out,” I cannot! I care too much for you to simply turn off my emotions. I cannot do it!”

You lift the strips of soddened fabric away from his chest through eyes full of tears, your sight descending to where you hold them in your now shaking hands as you place those, too, in the same glass bowl as the others. “You ask me not to blame myself, but your wounds…they are there because of me. And they are serious. Serious enough that if this keeps on, you-“ Your sniffle, shaking your head in unwillingness to finish the unbearable thought. You take the gauzy roll in your hands once more and unwind it, you have to rely on muscle memory because at this point, the constant slew of tears is too much for you to see through.

Your alpha’s eyes soften as you try to rub at your own, your tear-streaked cheeks sullied by the tracks the salty water had left, the fresh blood that now covers your hands a stark contrast to the darker, dried blood he’d painted on you earlier during the Smearing.

Why did that make you look even more beautiful to him?

“I’m not asking you to simply turn a blind eye to your feelings, sweetheart. Such a task would be difficult for anyone with a heart to attain.” He brings his lips under one of your eyes, the tang of salt and iron left on his lips as he does. “What I ask is that you try not to blame yourself for my errors. It is my misjudgment that earned me more scars. These are not the first, and they likely will not be the last.” He turns his head so he can leave a soft, featherlight kiss under your other eye. “These scars shall be proof of the trial I had to face to earn you. And I would take hundreds of thousands more of these for you. If I had lost an arm or leg tonight, I would have been alright with it. Your smile and your happiness are worth that much to me.”

The sound of the white fabric shredding between your fingers is muffled under his voice. It’s as if your senses have been dulled to all but him. Even the firelight fails to crackle in your ears amidst the steady beat of his own heart while you tremblingly let the lip of the vial teem with the oil that smells of honey, mint, and citrus.

“My happiness should never come at the expense of pain or suffering, alpha,” you murmur mournfully as you eye the bawling gashes of scarlet.

You crimp the gauze into two thick squares once they have been wetted with the oil before holding them down over the underside of each of his pectorals. You wait until the part in contact with his frayed skin is steeped in scarlet before you flip each of them over and depress them along the arched curvatures going in opposite directions toward each side of his pelvis.

His lips tighten, wrinkles forming where none existed before when you tenderly wipe away at the jagged ends of each of the four lines on either hemisphere of his torso where Yoongi’s claw had pierced the deepest, not bothering to hide his expression from you now at his most vulnerable. There was nothing to hide now. No reason to keep his pain from you when he knew that doing so would just upset you more.

It pains you to see him like this. You wish there was a way for you to make it all disappear, but unfortunately, there were no medicinal or herbal remedies that had the power to do that.

“Such is our way, omega. It is my duty to protect you. I will never neglect that obligation if it ensures your safety." He hisses when you gingerly drag the gauze along the same path upward to collect the stray rivulets of crimson that had dripped from the top of his wounds.

The incinerating flare of flames feels like it is scorching him from the inside out under each slash and tear in his flesh left by Yoongi’s claws, and each time you attempt wiping away the bloody tears his body weeps, more of his life essence is there to replace it.

The oil offers a mild cooling sensation, but it is similar to throwing a block of frozen ice into a roaring bonfire.

You note the lack of stoppage of blood flow from those wounds, concern turning your lips down even more. What you had been reluctant to think about before was becoming all the more possible now. Even if you did keep trying to refuse it.

Worry soon lugs you asunder with the guilt that swims densely about you, and your brows furrow as you instruct, “Alpha, I need you to lie down now. You aren’t having any changes in the blood loss and I fear that something bad may happen if you lose too much more.”

He nods, but the action has a dot spotting his vision and no matter how many times he blinks, it remains. Soon, there are more. And as he holds your watery gaze, more tears trek down the contours of your cheeks.

Something in his chest twinges that has nothing to do with the wounds Yoongi had left.

“As you say, my love.” He brings one knee carefully up toward his chest, his foot resting on the edge of the wood as he asks “What will you have me to do with this arm of mine? It’s in bad shape.”

You grab the now near-empty vial of eucalyptus oil that you’d set on the ground between your knees and return it to its place on the tray, your mind easily supplying you with the answer to his question after having spent so many nights hunched over tomes about medicinal treatments and herbal remedies as you rise, one of your hands wrapping around his nape and the other laying itself over the palm he has pressed between your breasts. The arm that palm is connected to is the one that Yoongi had mangled such that you can see bone between the split mess of muscles bordering it.

You can only imagine how much agony he must be in. If you could take it into yourself, you would.

Not that he would let you, though.

His promise to you had been made not only out of love for you, but out of pride as an alpha. An alpha that could not protect their mate was not deserving or worthy of her. It was an alpha’s responsibility by right to be the source of security and protection for his omega. An alpha who could not guarantee that for his omega had failed her.

Or so the tradition had held.

“You need to relax this arm and let me maneuver it so that it rests by your side. What I’m about to do will require a certain position,” you urge him down by the back of his neck, and while you know your measly strength could never compete against his, the fact that he allows you to move him so readily is an obvious display of trust. His back is laid atop the bench first, and you are delicate in the way you guide his head down until it, too, comes to a rest on the wood. “And it…it will hurt. I’m going to have to move your arm so we do not risk further injuring it. After that, I will need to clean it before applying pressure where the worst of the damage is.”

With conviction clearer than any concoction you could give him, he asserts, “Do what you have to do. You know what needs to be done. You have trained and studied well. It goes without saying that you have my trust. All of it.” He adds.

Gods, you couldn’t have asked for a more perfect mate.

“Let me be the voice of reassurance this time, alpha,” you express while you curl your fingers around the hand of his that is placed along your sternum. Your other cups the underside of his forearm and, scrupulously, you usher it to his side before slowly and surely straightening it. He grimaces, and to distract him, you assure, “I’ll do everything I can to fix you. I promise, alpha.”

You monitor the bone in his arm that shifts in the movement, the middle of his humerus exposed and clearly fractured. From the dark line running perpendicular to the bone along the end closest to his elbow, you know instantly that he’s suffered from a transverse fracture to the bone. Honestly, you had expected worse with the way Yoongi had thrashed his head with Jungkook’s poor arm trapped between his teeth. Those teeth had managed to pierce halfway through the vessels and muscles lining his upper arm, the punctures still gushing blood.

It should have been impossible for him to have moved it. And yet…

“How did you move this arm when your bone has been broken, alpha?” You ask, swallowing the emotion that wants to be let out as you assess him.

His brows scrunch together and he answers like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The pain was inconsequential next to the sadness that pooled in those pretty eyes.”

You fight the burning at the edges of your vision as you silently take your skirt between your fingers, the soft material pliable under your fingers. You don’t say anything. All you can do is let your hands work as you find the slit cut into it and tear along the line.

“What are you doing, my love?”

It is a question not asked out of doubt, but genuine curiosity.

The sound of ripping fabric ceases as you pull a sizable amount of the organza away from you and turn it inside out before placing it onto the tray beside his head and grabbing for the rectangular glass canister next to the eucalyptus oil.

I have to clean it. It’s infected already, and if I don’t get the bacteria out, your condition will worsen. Once I clean it, I will have to mobilize and brace it. A piece of my skirt should be the outer layer so as not to discomfort you.

You don’t trust your voice not to rupture, so you gently push the words to him through the bond as you grab the roll of cotton wool beside the gauze and unwind it before pressing it to your lips, closing your eyes, and silently begging for the mercy of the gods to take pity on him. To save him.

You knew what to do, but there was only so much that herbs and medicinal solutions could do.

You discard the thought like one of the blood-stained gauzes before you. You couldn’t afford to think like that. Especially not when you’d promised to put him at ease as he had always done for you.

When you bring the wool away from your mouth, you lift the lid from the container and the musky, earthy smell of the ginger poultice you’d prepared weeks ago joins the scent of muted iron in the air as you dip the wool into it several times to ensure its transfer onto the material.

The ginger will not hurt you, alpha. The pressure I will have to put on you will, however.

“I meant what I said, omega. Do what you need to do. I can take it.” He confides, opening his mouth so he can bite onto it.

I know, alpha. I know. More than anyone.

You pick up the considerably long, thick strip of wool from where you’d left it in a heap atop of the open poultice, bending over him before straightening it out so that it ran the length of his upper arm. Thankfully, it was just wide and long enough to completely cover his arm.

With one hand holding one end and your other hand on the other, you bring it down over the split skin from just under his shoulder to just above his elbow.

Just as you’d told him, there is no burning sensation as the gelatinous, thick solution is applied and spread across his sheared muscles, blood vessels, and bone. The blood spurting from the ruptures in his flesh is quick to permeate into the cotton, but you’d expected as much.

The ginger and eucalyptus have antioxidants, antibacterial, antiseptic, and disinfecting properties good for fighting infections. That’s why I chose to have Namjoon collect them from my personal store that I made.

Have I ever told you how attractive I find your intelligence?

Yes, alpha. You have.

You smile through the tears as you untwist more cotton wool from its spool, careful to lay it flat over the existing layer you’d just put over him. It, too, becomes saturated with his life’s essence within seconds.

He needed something else. Something to help boost the efficacy of the poultice. And you knew just the thing.

You scan the tray, evaluating the vials and containers left on it as you note the last addition you had yet to make. There, in the middle, was the small wooden box no longer than your hand and no taller than your pinky. You flip open the latch, the powder inside a brilliant yellow with the hint of orange tang under your nose.

His irises follow your every movement as you peel the layers of cotton wool up and off of him, disposing of them both in the same bowl as the other discolored fabrics.

When you unravel the dressings this time and steep them in the poultice, your other grabs a considerably sized clump of the crushed turmeric powder and sprinkles it all over his slashed open arm.

Three handfuls of that later, you are satisfied with the way the powder has been packed over the gash and surround it with several strips of the material lathered in the ginger solution.

The turmeric has curcumin in it, which can enhance granulation tissue formation and wound contraction. It also decreases inflammation and oxidation and can increase antioxidant capacity of the body, which means it helps fight compounds that could damage you.

The words are recited just as you had written them in one of your journals, and you busy yourself remembering that in lieu of your mind wandering to darker, scarier thoughts as his life’s essence clings to your hands while you rip apart more strips of cotton and run them all through the container of poultice.

Keep going, my love. Tell me more.

He feels the quiver of your hands as you lay each rectangular cloth down over his raw, chafed abrasions lining his chest, his uninjured arm wrapping around your thigh to steady you as his temples begin to ache.

The ginger root that this poultice was made from speeds along the healing process for cuts and abrasions among the other qualities it possesses. You won’t have to worry about these dressings falling off.

Underneath each dressing you affix to his front, his very cells feel as if they are being engulfed in an inferno. One that only blazes hotter every second that passes.

The gingerols and shogaols are compounds in it that will work as a natural adhesive to the cotton and to your skin without sticking or gluing it to you.

His second lack of response has you tilting your head in confusion.

You had said before that the poultice was not meant to feel like that, so whatever was happening, he was certain that you were not the cause. Perhaps it was just some strange side effect of blood loss? How odd that this sensation did not spread to his arm. He really should have studied more.

I’m fine, love. I think. My chest… it feels like I’m burning up from the inside. Have you any idea what that could be?

You’d read many books on herbology and medicine practices. None had ever described that as a symptom of blood loss.

With worry making your mouth go drier than cotton, you examine the way he blinks rapidly as if trying to get something out of his eyes.

W-what else ails you, alpha?

More dots have begun to occupy his sight, and no matter how many times he tries to close and open his eyes, they will not dissipate.

I cannot see properly. It is like there are dark circles blotting parts of my vision.

That was definitely a symptom of blood loss. But the burning sensations? That wasn’t characteristic of the lesions that had been cut into his skin. Nor was the ceaseless gush of scarlet from his chest injuries.

You recall the events that had brought you both here, identifying that it had only been Yoongi that had managed to harm your alpha. He’d been bitten on his arm and struck by claws on his chest. Two different points of contact with two different mediums.

You compare the two areas where he’d been mutilated, spotting the angered, puffed up flesh just that became more raised the closer it got to his now covered traumatisms on his torso. Like something was agitating it from the inside. His arm, however, mangled as it is, is not as badly puckered up around the gash despite the blood he’s losing. Which brings you to your next observation: His blood drips slowly and languidly from his chest wounds where it wells and spurts from his arm. With as deeply as Yoongi had pierced through him, he should have been losing more.

What is going on in that pretty head of yours, my love? Have you…have you discovered something?

There’s a slight pause between each of his unhurried words through your bond. As if it took effort to pull them forth.

You push through the distress that wants to drag you down, forcing yourself to focus and do everything that you could to aid him as you turn your attention to his arm now that you had taken care of his chest wounds.

You needed to stop the river of red that streamed down his arm. Without removing the cloth you’d set over it, you use your teeth to shear the white open-weaved fabric from the now nearly depleted roll it had once been spun around.

I will have to apply pressure as I said before to make sure the medicines set on the punctures in your arm. It…it’s going to hurt, alpha. If you want, you can bite onto my skirts. I don’t mind.

The offer earns you a nod, and so you rise to stand by his side and a wad of your skirt in your hands, hoping that he doesn’t mention the way that they shake as you do.

Forgive me, alpha.

It’s all the warning he gets before you place the dressings over the first layer covering his arm and push into the afflicted area, mindful of where his bone has been broken and avoiding that as you squeeze. Unlike the ruptures along his chest, this area does not nearly scald you.

He curses, his teeth grating into the fabric of your skirt as you apologize over and over again, guilt leaving tangible evidence of itself on your face while you cry for him.

Anyone else would have flinched, but not your alpha. No, he simply screws his eyes shut as he hisses through the material between his lips.

I’m sorry, alpha. I’m so, so sorry. But you have to stay like this for five minutes. I have to try to make the bleeding stop.

The dots that had been impairing his vision increase and the ache in his temples he’d felt before turns into a fierce throbbing as the world begins to dim around him while the claw marks along his chest ripple forth with black blood.

You perceive the way his eyes begin to flutter closed, the arm he’s wrapped around your thigh beginning to loosen. A tremble overcomes his body in the way that it suddenly is as if it’s gone down many degrees, and at that, a lump of dread drops into your stomach.

Not wanting him to slip into unconsciousness, you squeal. “N-no! Stay with me, a-alpha!”

Your voice cleaves through the barren desert that has set upon your throat.

I’m sorry, my love…I’m trying, but…it’s cold, yet my body feels like it’s on fire.

There are longer standstills between his words now. Like each one has to be dug up from the recesses of his mind.

Why has it suddenly become a….a blizzard in here? Why does…does my head feel…feel like someone is…is pounding… into it?

The dread in your belly is joined by another chunked mass of fear as his responsiveness slows with the unseen ice that encases and numbs him. When his good arm falls limply to his side from where it had been encircled around your thigh, you snivel, shaking your head vigorously back and forth as you whisper through a cracked voice, “No, no, no, no, no. This can’t be.”

As his eyelids tiredly droop, that’s when the panic grips your organs and wrings them out.

You had to stay strong. And you could not panic. Doing so would only stress him further.

But that thought is difficult to keep under the fleeting consciousness of your mate before you, who squeezes his eyes shut before opening them wide in effort to keep awake as you had instructed as he shivers.

You swallow around a brittle, sandy throat, wiping your hands on your bodice before your attention sifts around the room in search of something, anything, to help you. You start with the tray. The bowl of blood-soaked, soiled gauze and wrappings sits on its edge, the rolls of gauze and cotton wool in front of it. Next to them, the rectangular wooden box of turmeric powder remains beside the canister of ginger extract. Around them, the vial of eucalyptus lays on its side where the other glass containers of assorted colors and contents are placed. Three had been unused.

The first was a smaller brown bottle of oil secreted from crushed neem kernels you’d plucked from the seeds yourself. The second was a moderately sized canister of milk-colored paste you’d boiled and ground from coconuts. The last was a large flask of honey.

All would work to stop the bleeding. Five minutes had felt an eternity with his continually shallow breaths in your ear, his heart rate weakening under the lack of blood to push through his body. You hadn’t understood why your vocal cords felt so sore, but when you release him and the mewling coming from your mouth dies out, that answers the question.

You waste no time emptying the bottle of neem oil over each of his wounds as you sniffle, “Keep looking at me, alpha. Don’t go to sleep. I-I need you awake for me.”

Despite the gnawing pain in his temples and the ever increasing temperature that boils the parts of him under the skin of his thorax, he battles the darkness that wants to swallow him as he tries to stay in the light of your eyes that shine glassily down on him while you pour the honey, with unsteady hands, along each striation channeling his chest and arm before adding another lining of gauze over his crimson turned bandages.

“One more, alpha. One more, and then I can make a splint for your arm.” You don’t care anymore about the snot that runs down your nose with the tears trailing it as his skin begins to lose its color.

He nictates through bleary, dimmed orbs, and the sight twists your heartstrings.

You keep your hands busy, because you know the moment you stop is the moment he could slip through your fingers.

You cover both hands in the creamy mixture and with the first pass of your fingers against his sternum, you wrench your hand back in the overwhelming heat that scorches you like a blazing sun.

“You’re burning up, alpha.” The words are choked out. “It’s gotten worse.”

He says nothing. Doing so would cause it to sear him even more.

His pained expression is answer enough. And the discomfort of the sensation it had brought was nothing compared to what you knew he faced. For him, you would cross any sea of fire. For him, you would do this. No matter the cost.

So, you gently trail your fingers around the reddened, plowed planes of his chest to surround all sides of the new contours there in the substance.

You shake the canister over his arm so that thick dollops land over the flesh there so you can spread them around, too.

Once you’re certain no part of him is bereft of your attention, you straighten and scour the room for anything you could use as a splint. There alone atop the cabinet by the door, was a clipboard with paper. No doubt a visitor’s log.

It was the perfect length for his arm.

Before you leave his side, you check his vitals for any unseen changes. Still he attempts to combat the throes of sleep that wish to pull him asunder, but the most serious of his wounds have now been disinfected and dressed.

“Alpha,” you prod, “I’ll be right back, okay? I need to get something to stabilize your arm.”

You wait for him to give a slow incline of his head, the action causing him to wince as explosive pain fires through his temples.

You turn, but the watchful glance you keep on him remains as you make your way across the room. You do not miss the way his fingers along his good arm twitch as if searching for you.

Your fingers close around the edge of the board of wood, your own chest splintering at the sight.

You return to him within seconds, but gods, it had felt like hours.

This time, you walk over to the side of him where his bad arm now rests, one of your hands wrapping around the underside of his arm to coax it only an inch upward. He lets you so you can slip the board underneath it as you observe him for any fluctuations in symptoms. His pupils are stagnant and idle, but they do not stray from you even as his breathing begins to slow and his heart beats become fainter and fainter.

Worry sets in your veins as you take the piece of your skirts that you’d torn earlier and tie it around the board of wood and the bandages you’d put there.

When you press your index and middle finger to the pulsating vein along his neck, it beats feebly.

He needed to replenish the blood he’d lost before it was too late. And you knew, right then, exactly what you needed to do to fix that.

However, no matter how much you flipped through the pages of the books you’d read in your mind, the answer to his inquiries and asymptomatic conditions he’d alerted you to did not match what you knew of blood loss. Whatever he had described was clearly something else. Something that Yoongi must have done since he’d been the only one to successfully injure your mate.

Yoongi, who had bitten him on the arm and his claws on Jungkook’s torso where, surprisingly, Jungkook had explained the worst of his pain to be. Where you yourself had felt it to be in the irate ire of the wounds there so hot to the touch.

It is with that identification that you scrap the books you’d read about common ailments in lieu of one you’d been hunched over for many weeks trying to memorize in its abundance of knowledge. One that had detailed poisons and toxins. There was one that matched what you had seen and heard from him. One that, if introduced into the body, was capable of corrosive necrosis in cells and had sensations and symptoms that matched what he’d described. One that was odorless, colorless, and impossible to cure.

It must have been dappled on Yoongi’s claws. He must have known about the deadly poison carried by a large fungus that even necromancers hesitated to harvest. It was capable of causing the entire bodily organs and tissues to break down and feel as if they were burning in their degradation when the toxins turned the cells against each other.

Jungkook’s eyes close, and horror clods your ribs and bowels of your body.

You had to keep him awake. For fear of losing his life, you had to keep him from sinking into the darkness.

Stay with me, my mate. My alpha. My love. Please, don’t leave me.

The words course like a ravine through the bond, the waters of your affections evident in the tracks they leave down your cheeks as you lift your leg up and over so you can sit astride him, desperation making you move before your mind can. The raindrops of your sadness fall over him like a fall downpour, and soon, his entire chest is wet with the salve of your handmade solutions and sadness.

The longer his eyes stay shut, the closer he dangles to that dangerous idea you’d kept rejecting and denying. That idea became more real by the moment.

You promised me, alpha. You promised me that you wouldn’t leave me! I can’t do this without you!

Distress takes control as the rush of thoughts spill from you and you bring your hand to your teeth that you had subconsciously sharpened in the iron that now falls across your tongue.

I can’t do this without you, alpha. Life without you was life without meaning. Life without you was like having silver thrust on me every day from the moment I woke to the moment I fell asleep: gray, senseless and deadening.

Something warm trickles from the sides of your lips when all of your now edged, serrated upper teeth easily prick and slice through your palm and you suck a mouthful between your lips.

The taughtened muscles around his eyes and mouth slacken, the movement of his irises behind his lids moving this way and that. As if he was still trying to search for you in the darkness. The gentle thud of his heart is all that you hear in your ears anymore. No other sounds matter.

You speak to him through it, hoping with everything in you that doing so will give him something to hold onto.

I love you, alpha. I love you more than anything in this world. So please, come back to me. Come back to me so I can express it to you, show it to you, and make more wonderful, beautiful, colorful memories with you.

You take his chin between the fingers of your other hand, lifting it before using your thumb to part his lips.

With the hand you’d just bitten, you hold it over his mouth only to turn your palm to the side before curling your digits in, your nails sinking into the fragile flesh to cut into it so that more streaks of crimson dribble down, the dark drops of your blood falling between his lips.

Adam's apple bobs as he tries to swallow it, but it’s not enough.

As you watch your blood spread across his tongue, you can’t help but notice how his skin has gone whiter than sleet, his usual golden glow drained with his life’s essence as he continues to shudder beneath you.

The faint presence of him dwindles in the bond like candlelight that the cold darkness schemes to snuff out, but still he is kindled in yours as you lean forward, your mouth seeking him.

Take my blood, alpha. Drink and replenish what you have lost. It is the only way.

The last sound of you is tucked in his mind just as your mouth slots itself over his, the mouthful of your blood that you had drawn forth from your hand soon emptied into his as he swallows it weakly. You mindfully set your bleeding hand between the middle of his sternum, the thick redness sobbing for him, too, as it spreads down his torso and seeps into the coverings draped across his chest.

With the first swill of you down his throat, the throbbing in his temples begins to dull and the air around him starts to warm.

It’s as if your blood had passed life into him, for his tongue eventually sweeps at the excesses of your mouth for the remnants that percolate from the small scrapes your teeth had left in your cheeks. You let him lick it, and with each pass of his tongue over each one, the muscle beating under your hand on his chest beats steadier. Stronger. Louder.

He required more. Way more after all that he had lost. And you? You intended to give it to him.

When he’s lapped all of your quintessence up, you pull away only to bring the hand you’d bitten to his lips in offering.

With his eyes still closed, he can’t see it, but he can smell it.

The tang of iron is powerful enough to summon his mouth to it, his baser being taking over as he closes his mouth around your open palm.

His teeth pierce through you easily and when your blood bursts forth from the punctures and he sups it without hesitation.

The violent, searing pain stemming from the claw marks along his torso where your blood had permeated through his bandages starts to lessen amid the ache that is dispelled in his skull. The quavering of his body soon ceases in the absence of the chill he’d felt before.

He wraps his lips tighter around you, and when he extracts your essence this time, it is with more urgency.

You run your other hand through his dark, ebony hair, the color slowly returning to his cheeks as he drinks from you.

“Take as much as you need, my love. You will require quite a few mouthfuls to, ah-“

You pause when he detaches from your hand, licking at the stray droplets of your blood before gripping your forearm to bring your wrist to his nose so he can inhale and run his lips longingly along it. His head falls back as he does, the pink muscle slipping between his lips to taste the remnants of you there, too.

“Want to…bite you…right here. Can I?” He asks hoarsely yet huskily.

You’re already answering before he’s even finished. “I’m all yours, alpha.”

The implications of this are not lost on you. By puncturing your scent glands where they produce the oils and scent of you the most–seconded only by your neck–his bite will forever leave his trace where he’d enter you. No other wolf would be able to take in your succulent smell without his lingering odor behind it.

From where you are seated on his lap, you swear you see his eyes roll back behind his lids.

When his canines elongate such that they protrude from his upper lip and he penetrates your flesh along the middle of your wrist, your blood eagerly teems into his mouth. Just like the first time he’d bitten you, there is no pain in the sharpness of those teeth. What was urgency before becomes hunger now as he feeds on you, his cheeks hollowing as he quaffs the life-giving nectar you have produced just for him.

You shudder as he draws deep, gulping mouthful after mouthful and all the worry you’d had before is sapped away as he does.

Your flavor is so fucking saccharine on his tongue, and each time your essence washes down his throat, his body surges with vitality and energy.

He can’t get enough of it. It’s too good. You’re too good.

More he takes and more he swallows like a crazed male, and you allow it as your own lids lower while you ogle him as the released endorphins stored in the glands along your wrist flood you in pleasure as you mindlessly–instinctively– rut your hips into his.

“Do I taste good, alpha?” You moan softly, your body growing limp as the fingers you’d twisted and twined around his locks loosen.

You taste sweeter than sweet.

His good arm shoots out so his fingers can splay around your hip to steady you as he indulges in the pulses and pangs of strength that return to him with each consuming swig of your lifeblood, your hips helped back and forth by the hand he has on one of them as your moans turn to whimpers.

You taste something like pineapple, grapes, strawberries, and everything good in this world.

When his eyes open, he looks at you like you’re a fucking goddess. Like you’re some kind of deity, and he is some servant beneath you.

He revels in the revelation that graces him as he takes in the sight of you atop him.

Your crimson-stained lips have slightly fallen ajar to reveal still jagged, pointed canines, remnants of red still flecking the sides of your mouth. Your silver irises have been glazed by desire, the daubing of crimson along your lids creating a deprived picture.

The dried, dark paint of his own blood that he’d smeared all over you was still there, but the new addition of his scarlet handprint between your breasts and streaks the same color all along your skirt and bodice are all the more depicting of a debased creature.

You straddle him, your gown ripped unevenly along one of your legs to reveal one bare calf and thigh.

How he had fucking ruined you.

His once pure, innocent goddess that must have been a fallen, divine being sent to him to save him.

“J-Jungkook,” you whine when your vision begins to darken at the edges as his teeth bury themselves deeper into your flesh so he can cravingly command more of you down, “I…I-“

The strong hand on waist pulls you down over his hardening member, your breath hitching when you remember he’s entirely naked beneath you.

“Even goddesses have their limit. I can see it,” he groans around your wrist as he savors the way you sag forward, your thighs loosening from where you’d been squeezing him between them. “I can feel it.”

He takes one more mouthful of your rich, piquant ichor, your front slumping forward until your head rests in the crook of his neck.

With your jugular vein so close to his ears, the rhythm set by the tune of your heart beats far too slow. The sound snaps him out of his craze instantly as the hand on your waist clutches you tighter as if you might slip away if he doesn’t hold you close enough.

“Goddess? Do you mean…me?” You drawl out the words through the tingling sensation in your head.

Despite the loss of your blood, affection courses through you when he attentively dislodges his teeth from you and makes sure to catch the bright red drops that run forth from the two new dark blots along the underside of your smaller wrist. As he does, he affirms, “You saved me.”

The hand at your waist gives you another comforting squeeze before it journeys up along your side, your shoulder, and then down your arm until his digits close around your wrist so he can rub soothing circles into it. “I was so lost in the darkness, omega, but your voice…I followed it back to you.”

“Me?” It’s all you can say. The rush of endorphins fades with the extraction of his teeth, and your hips slow to still as his words sober you.

One side of his lips turn up at that. “Yes, my love. You.” He coaxes your wrist upwards so he can kiss you where his teeth and yours had been. “You, the light of my life. The reason for my being, The purpose of my existence.” His head falls to the side as he shepherds your hand toward the palpitating muscle along his chest. “I once thought of you as my queen, but I see now that you’re so much more than that.” He places your hand right above his heart, and you’re so mesmerized by those beaming irises of gold that you don’t even realize what he’s done when those warm, calloused fingers brush along the side of your cheek until they rest in your hair and his palm holds the edge of your jaw to coax it upward as he brings his mouth near to yours. “Your voice is a song that even the muses envy. Your body is the drink of the gods that even they would fight wars for. Your mind and soul are so perfect and good that even demons would wish they could bottle them.”

His eyes twinkle with sincerity as he goes on, both fondness and affection for him taking turns to cleanse you of the desire you’d felt before so that something much deeper can fill your entire being.

“Shhh, alpha… you need to rest now. This can all wait until later.” Your words are throaty and full, for your heart has somehow found its way there, too. “You lost a lot of blood and-“

He seals your mouth with his, and like wax under a newborn wick, you melt into it. He’s warm and gentle in the warmness that he emanates that no candle ever could. The quiet intimacy of it has your lids falling to a close, the air around you making way for you both as you share each other’s breath.

There was nothing quite like this. Nothing like the way that your fingers sought any part of him that they could as they both encircled his uninjured wrist, unwilling to let him go. Nothing like the way your body was perfectly molded against his, the kiss akin to a butterfly’s wing in its softness that could take your breath away. It was the water that quenched after a drought. It was the furs that gave such comfort on a winter’s night. It was the rain and a flame all at once.

And gods, he couldn’t bear even a second’s separation from her. Truly, he’d never been so blessed with the gift of life until now. Until you. Hell would surely have frozen over before he would relinquish this: your mesmerizing, mellow eyes; your pliant, pretty lips; your stuttered, stammered breaths whenever he looked at you; your smaller, tinier hands that loosed and tightened around his wrist as he held you.

But his damned lungs just had to get some air, and so he had been forced into breaking the kiss.

When his mouth parts from yours, he breathes heavily. “I do not need rest when I have you. Imaginings and visions leave little to be desired when their source is on top of me like this. And,” the other side of his lips lift up and you’re sure that thudding in your ears gets louder as he does, “It would be rather impolite not to pay my respects to you, my divine little deity. You were–are–magnificent.”

You try to hide your face in his neck, your cheeks heating up at his praise. He won’t have any of that, and so he urges it back up.

Looking into those eyes is like looking into two orbs spun by the sun. That warmth that emanates over your skin like warm rays makes everything else lackluster, and even his voice carries that vivid color of emotion as he voices, “Do not hide from the truth, my love.”

You make a sound of questioning, not understanding what he’s just said. It’s as if there’s a fuzzy blanket around your body and mind, your disoriented thoughts too sluggish to formulate for you to say much more.

He chuckles lightly, his chest moving up and down gentle enough to not jostle you.

“You do not know it, but I shall help you see.” He offers, nosing at your jawline as he does. “Allow me to show you what you did to me, my love. I think you’ll find the evidence of your miracles when you do.”

He releases you, a quiet whine leaving your lips at the absence of his touch. Soft lips are there to soothe you when his mouth brushes where his hand had been at the edge of your jaw. There he presses his lips as he tells you, “Look down, my love.”

You’d been expecting to see more blood spilling from the open wounds arcing down both sides of his chest, his bandages completely soaked through with his life’s essence.

You did not expect to see one of the lines of gauze you’d laid down over the lacerations lifted in the air by your alpha to reveal a deep gash completely closed, the angry red slash now only a faint line of pink.

As if it were nothing but an old war scar.

At first, you think you might be seeing things.

You blink owlishly at him, and he grins only to pull back another strip of fabric that you’d used to pack another wound.

It, too, is only a faded, paled remnant of what it had been minutes ago.

Your fingers lethargically draw down his torso where the flesh that had been raised and furious is now smooth and normal.

There is no pain that festers there with the poison that had been set upon him by Yoongi’s claw. Its dissipation had had nothing to do with your medicines. He knows that now. It had been you.

Your lids have begun to grow heavy as sleep begins to beckon, and all you can do through the drowsiness that has set as you rest one of your temples against his shoulder so you can still stare at him as you manage the only word you can summon in your dumbfounded state. “How?”

“My mother used to tell me stories about our ancestors. It was said that the first rulers of our kind, who were chosen by the gods, were given abilities no others possessed.” Your mate tosses the soiled dressings into the bowl before he reaches for his splinted arm wrapped in bandages. “Abilities that made the rest of our kind lower their heads in awe.” He unties the knot you’d made out of the ripped fragment of your gown you’d affixed the wooden board to, and while he does, he tells you, “She told me that the king and queen of our kind were fated by their souls. That the first omega’s songs of mourning had so moved the gods when he’d been killed trying to protect her that they gave her the power to heal him through her kiss.”

Slumber drags you away from him, his voice fading the more it tugs and tugs you as he goes on. “So powerful was she that the other wolves revered her as a goddess in her capacity to mend and restore not only the physical body, but the soul and mind as well. And her king? He was vested by the gods who took pity on him with strength, speed, size, and stamina that no other could match.”

Distantly, you think you see a glimpse of the linens you’d put around his arm being peeled back to uncover what you had thought had been a mangled mess of bone and flesh. But no longer. Now, just like his chest, there are only small grazes and punctures that have since been pulled together with slightly darker cicatrix marring him.

When your lids fall closed and sleep takes you from him, he uses that arm to secure you close as he attentively watches over you. In your ear, he confides, “Rest up now, beautiful deity. You shall need it for what is to come, my love.”

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